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Part 16 : Red Tide
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He couldn't tell if she was smiling or cringing. She was quieter today, waking him 20 minutes late for work with breakfast laid out on the table and a freshly-ironed suit (black, she insisted; navy clashed with his hair) hanging on the hook on the bathroom door.

"You had a concussion," she explained shortly. "You needed the sleep."

She was weary. She was up to something. She'd burnt the waffles and it was still the best damn thing he'd ever tasted.

"You're late," Dixon accused when they slid into the conference room, as inconspicuously as a hyena raiding party.

While Eric was in the process of swallowing his necktie, Sydney gave the boss a hard look. A look she hadn't given him since the old days back at SD-6. Shut up and deal with it.

Dixon laughed. He'd missed her desperately.

There was an empty seat by Lauren. She looked tired, and terrified. Sydney gave her shoulder an unexpected squeeze as she passed.

"As we all know, last night was a set-back for us. Sark got away with the disk, and Vaughn was put back in the hospital," Dixon said briskly. "Though the elimination of Allison Doren was a major relief to the NSC as well as everyone in this office,"

She looked down at the crisp report arranged in front of her. No one but Eric noticed when she picked up her pen and began scribing meaningless doodles.

"We have very few leads as to Sark's whereabouts. We're basically just shooting the dark. We're sending teams out everywhere, Berlin, Dublin, Cairns - all the likely suspects," Dixon explained, and Marshall nudged a teetering stack of files toward Sydney. "I figured we'd let you pick this time. The odds are just as good anywhere. Might as well go someplace scenic for once."

Nodding wordlessly, Sydney reached for the nearest file and glanced through it almost absently.

Soon it became impossible to ignore. Jack picked up on it first, watched his daughter with worried scrutiny, and alerted Dixon with a short cough. Something was wrong. Sydney was nervous.

They observed her in silent bewilderment, Eric included, until she dropped the files with a snap.

"I can't do this," she announced, eyes fixed solidly on the tabletop.

"You don't have to go on an op this soon," Jack consoled instantly. Parental instincts on red alert.

"No," she contradicted. "Not the ops. This job. I can't do this anymore. I have to get away."

She'd woken up that morning and Sark's echoing words had been there to greet her. It was her life. She was taking it back. "I'm requesting extended leave."

"Now is not a good time, Sydney," Dixon said quietly.

"It's never a good time."

"But especially so now," he insisted. Marshall, Lauren and Eric kept quiet. Jack stood by like a panther in the grass. Neutral, though he'd take his daughter's side by faculty.

"Sark will only run farther the longer we wait. We have to find him before he can decrypt the disk," Dixon said firmly. "The man tortured you for two months, Sydney. I won't let him escape this time. He must be brought to justice."

She choked out a bitter laugh. "Bringing justice to everyone who ever hurt me would entail going to war with half of western civilization. But thanks."

"You can't leave now! You're our top field agent; You were gone for two years and we still hadn't found a suitable replacement."

"Hey, now!" Eric said indignantly.

Dixon slapped the glass tabletop with frustration. "Damnit, two years, Sydney! What about your memories? What about that scar on your stomach? What about revenge?"

"Don't talk to me about revenge," Sydney interrupted. Her voice was calm, level, smooth as shattered glass. She got it now. "Blood won't cure my wounds, Dixon. Revenge won't ever make me whole again. I want out."

Words failed. Beliefs crumbled. Shit happens. He'd do anything to make her stay. "Jack?"

At the end of the table, Jack looked up. He'd been memorizing the floor, it seemed, and now he chose his side carefully. "Kidnapped, tortured, and with no memory of the last two years of her life," he observed. "Yes, Marcus, I believe my daughter deserves a break."

Nothing to add. Lauren unsure, Eric hopeful, Marshall worried. Jack proud and saddened. Dixon full of remorse. Sydney just looking for a lifeline.

"Sydney, you can't give up," Dixon pleaded.

Eric felt Sydney compulsively grab hold of his hand.

"I'm not," she murmured. "I'm cutting my losses."

Reality came crashing against Dixon like a slap to the face. For five years he'd treated her like the 19-year-old sandstorm he'd met so long ago, bright and smiling and untainted. He'd failed to see the savage damage wracked upon her by those closest to her. He had loved, worried over and was unfair to her, expecting nothing less than immortality. She'd given more than she could spare and he never could repay her.

"Permission granted," he said heavily, and scratched his signature on the permission form hardly glancing at it. It felt like signing a death sentence, though he couldn't tell whose.

"But you can't leave." Quiet, squeaking, Marshall's voice from across the table. "You just came back."

Lauren, her two cents said in a soothing monotone. "At least wait until Michael is out of the hospital. He can help take on your workload. Besides, he - he'd want to say goodbye."

She shook her head firmly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to all of you. You'll never know how much you mean to me." A slight pause. "I don't expect you to understand," she added, then snatched the permission form off the table. Sydney walked out before another word could be said.

-

Hands that could disable a security mainframe in 12.9 seconds fumbled to move pens, two picture frames and a novelty mug into the standard-issue filing box. She could feel them watching, circling, tag-teaming coffee runs so as not to miss the heart-wrenching goodbye speech.

There wasn't going to be any speech, no goodbye, no return. For once, she'd play the coward.

"So, where to? Vegas? New Jersey? Ooh, the Vatican?"

She lifted her eyes, surprised, and found Eric leaning against her emptied desk, smiling like the sun was coming for tea. Sydney had locked that part out of her mind. Missing him would be too severe to foresee.

So she shrugged, and placed her miniature snow globe into the box. "I don't know. England, maybe. Figure I'd try out my literature degree."

"Why would I want to go to England? Rain, scones, and something called Bangers and Mash, but without any kind of irony? I'm more of a waffle man, anyway." He said it lightly, hands in his pockets, perhaps hoping to slide it past her.

She froze. "Eric - you can't come with me."

"Sure I can."

"But you belong here! This is your life, Eric. You - I mean, what about Vaughn, your job, everything? I have to get away from all this, spying and stealing and running for my life. It's too hard."

"Hey, I deserve a break, too. Seriously, without you this office is like a graveyard minus the humorous tomb-robbing possibilities."

"You've worked so hard to get where you are now. I can't let you drop it all because of me." She watched him incredulously. After years of experience, Sydney had naturally assumed she would lose everything.

Without warning he sobered, looked her in the eye and spoke with crystal clarity. "Syd, I may not know you as well as I'd like, but I still need you in my life."

That settled it. After a wavering moment, she clamped the lid down onto the box and shoved it against his chest. Grinning, he tucked it to his side. It was light, the cardboard heavier than anything inside.

Letting out a shuddering breath, she took hold of his free arm and allowed a brilliant smile. "So what's this about a beach house in Maui?" she asked.

From across the floor, Jack watched as his daughter headed to the elevator for the final time, arm-in-arm with Eric Weiss, laughing with infectious hope. There would be no speech, no goodbye. She was brave enough to take the cowardly way out.

-

Fitting, that they chose to meet at the mute warehouse that had so often hid their daughter and her handler those ancient years ago. She, of course, was late. Like daughter, like mother.

"Traffic," she explained, and it sounded false in the air. Nothing so innocent should ever come from her mouth.

"I know we were scheduled to meet tomorrow, but it was urgent," Jack said flatly. Love or hate her, he kept his tone emotionless.

"Has she remembered something?"

Hook, line, and sinker.

"No. She's moving on."

Together they stepped into the yellow-washed light. She looked tired, beautiful, dangerous and soothing. A quick kiss but she had no patience for him now. Sydney came before all else.

"How so? And with whom?" Irina demanded, suspicious. Jack almost laughed.

"She's leaving the CIA. Eric Weiss."

"Weiss? Vaughn's friend Weiss?"

"Not yet. But soon," he assured.

A processing, panicked look came to her eyes. Irina sat carefully on one of the unpolished folding chairs placed and forgotten by Michael Vaughn.

"Moving on... how?" she said precisely.

"She's walking away. She's getting out." He was smiling, relieved. A rarity.

"What about the Covenant? How can she just walk away without a fight?" Irina argued.

"I don't know, but I am beyond relieved that she is. Sydney's getting a second chance at what she always wanted."

Irina let out a short, scoffing laugh. "A house in the suburbs? A teacher's salary? Do you really think she'll be happy living that life? You've read the Notebook, Jack. You know she's destined for so much more than that."

Choosing his words carefully, Jack took a seat beside her. "It doesn't matter, Laura. It doesn't matter what she's destined to be, or what she's capable of. She wants normalcy."

"But she isn't normal, Jack! Even without Rambaldi, you knew that! Sydney wasn't born to raise kids in New Jersey with a teddy bear like Eric Weiss!"

"Do you really think she'd be happier with your little bloodhound? As the scourge of espionage, the queen of deception? Do you think she'll be any happier following your footsteps?" Jack growled. "Yes, Laura, I've read the Notebook. Rambaldi always said there was a choice. At least this way she'll be safe."

"She'll never be safe, Jack."

Momentarily they lapsed into silence, both contemplating the fate of their daughter. Sydney was all they had, the both of them, and both had separate views on her destiny. Jack was desperate for her to escape, and Irina would stop at nothing to ensure she didn't. There was deception in the room, heavy in the air. They both held secrets close to their heart.

"When she returned," Jack said slowly, "from her time in the custody of Sark - her nails were painted black." Irina's eyes darted up to meet his, temporary apprehension masked instantly. "It's not Sydney's normal color," he observed. "She wasn't being tortured, was she? She was running a mission. But for who, I wonder?"

After a slight, gathering hesitation, Irina said calmly, "Why don't you ask her?"

"There's no need. You already know," he said steadily. "Tell me what you're hiding, Laura."

"I don't know where Sydney was. I haven't seen her in almost 3 years now."

"I'll believe that," Jack admitted. "But you are hiding something. After Sydney's safely settled somewhere far away, I fully intend to find out what."

Irina leaned back in her chair, her expression a confusing mixture of smugness, heartbreak, and ultimately resignation. "I'm getting old, Jack," she explained. "I've spent my entire life working to ensure Rambaldi's prophesy plays out to the end." A quiet, wistful tone. "I've given up everything. My child. My husband." She smiled painfully. "It's difficult, you know, being the villain. You have the hurt the people you love most, and they must hate you for it."

Jack barely had time to jerk backwards as she stood. She fluidly drew a straight blade from her sleeve and sunk it between his ribcage.

"Sydney is everything to me, Jack. Just as you were everything to me. I cannot let her walk away from her destiny. I'm her mother." She kissed him through the blood surging up his throat. "I'm willing to sacrifice everything for her."

Irina didn't bother to remove the knife from his chest. Her tears fell freely as she stepped over his body on her way out of the warehouse.

-

Her laughter rang through the house, light, shining laughter that hadn't sounded in years. There were thousands of odd little knick-knacks, hidden in closets and beneath beds, everywhere around the rented house, Eric observed, that fell into the category of "Sentimental Crap That Sydney Can't Live Without". She was giggling so hard, and for so long, and Eric was so contented to be watching her happiness, that nearly nothing got packed in the entire afternoon's work.

They decided on furniture first, lamps and vases and pillows, filling padded boxes and marking them unintelligibly, because they were content for the first time in eternity and they didn't know shit about moving. They pushed the question of their ultimate destination into the back of their minds. It didn't matter, so long as it was far, far away from Los Angeles.

"How about New Zealand? I like sheep!" Eric called out, and down the hallway Sydney snorted with laughter.

"I don't think you'd cut it as a Kiwi," she answered, unplugging a ceramic lamp from an end table and carrying it into the living room.

"Rio? I hear they make great tacos."

The phone rang, loud and shrill and demanding. Switching the lamp to one arm, Sydney answered it while fighting giggles.

Eric was in the living room, covering cardboard boxes in superfluous masking tape. He heard the crash first, the antique lamp tumbling to the wooden floor. He came running when she let out a shrieking sob.

-

Clear water ran through his colorless, blunt hair, down his face and along his shoulders, dripping onto the speckled white sand. Early morning and he was awake, alert, watching and waiting. He walked aimlessly along the rain-washed beach, the grey haze stark against his habitual black clothing. He looked and he saw nothing.

That, he guessed, was exactly what Sydney had instructed.

A spiritual sight, to be sure, raging and peaceful at the same time. Sark watched the lonely sunrise, kicking at the sopping sand as he wandered. There the world was grey, a humid, misting rain with failing morning sunshine piercing through the thin rain clouds. He was soaked to the bone, his obscenely expensive overcoat drenched and unbearably heavy.

Sark held out his hand, catching raindrops in his palm, appraising the landscape with a sense of discovery. Past the shore and out to sea, the white sun was rising, hidden by clouds the color of concrete, and somewhere in the distance a seagull gave an errant screech. It wasn't beautiful, or breathtaking, or anything that gave him false hope for humanity. It was a simple truth that the rain would continue for the rest of the morning, but eventually the sun would always win out. Eventually the clouds would fade.

He stared at the rippling water pooling in his cupped hand. He wouldn't change for her, she couldn't make him a better man, but he could catch her when she fell.

That made them even.