Title: Between the Memory and the Moment
Author: UConn Fan (Michele)
E-Mail: LoveUConnBasketball@yahoo.com
Story Summary: They were inevitable, weren't they? AU Post-The Telling
Dedication: To everyone who's already read this at SD-1 - hopefully chapter four will be posted here & there soon!
There was a house in a comfortable suburb of Los Angeles, a house that Sydney couldn't recall seeing since she was eighteen and left for UCLA. On a bookcase in the family room of that home was a shelf she knew well. In her memories she remembered spending endless days at home alone with the nanny, sneaking away to look at her mother's cherished books while her caretaker searched for where the precocious child had disappeared. She had treasured looking at those books, and for years had been terrified to touch them. When her father had sent them to her after graduation, she'd been thrilled to receive them, surprised that such an apparently detached man would remember something so sentimental.
In her mind's eye, she could still see those same books tear apart her world. Francie's carelessness, a tipped over glass of lemonade, led to bitter revelations - codes she recognized to be from the KGB. For a brief time Sydney had been certain that the codes would prove that her father had not only been working for the Russians, but had killed William Vaughn. Instead they'd torn apart her life in another way, opening the door for a myriad of self-doubts that Sydney had yet to fully recover from.
Except now those codes were gone. The books remained, the house nearly unchanged, except for a few new pieces of furniture here and there. Alone for the first time since her arrival, Sydney had done nearly everything but spill her glass of iced tea onto the aged text to insure that the books were in fact legitimate. The collection had grown since what she recalled, something that could be accounted for by the extra years of book buying that this Jack Bristow had.
"You've loved those books since you were a little girl," a soft voice fondly recalled. Sydney turned around and met her mother's eyes, still uncertain of the words necessary for such moments. The comfort of this house, the relationship the family that inhabited it shared, was foreign to her.
"I remember," she answered honestly. Laura smiled softly, her eyes still in awe of the young woman in front of her. Jack had struggled to explain everything in the car, his wife listening with a quiet, analytical approach, one similar to the mother she remembered as a child. After a short drive from the UCLA campus, they'd arrived there, to the home that had been hers in childhood, complete with the tree she used to climb on and the flowerbeds that had died shortly after Laura did.
"Please Sydney, sit," Laura gently implored, taking a seat across from her daughter in the comfortable living room. For a moment, the older woman studied her daughter, remembering the tiny lines and freckles that she had memorized since Sydney's birth. As the silence grew in length, she sat back briefly and smiled, "I'm sorry Sydney. We tried not to give up hope . . . Two years is a long time though."
"I know mom," Sydney nodded and looked down at her glass.
"Your father's on the phone with Ben. He was just telling us how they found you . . . or actually, how you found them," she explained as her daughter's eyes met hers. "None of it seems to make sense, does it?"
"No," she sighed. "None of it makes sense at all," she agreed, feeling the weight of her own words more than the woman across from her knew.
"You met Agent Vaughn once," Laura recalled as the younger woman's quickly snapped through a well-hidden shock. "Of course, this was back when he was still Michael Vaughn . . . Years before he likely even considered becoming an agent," she fondly remembered. "You were just a baby Sydney . . . perhaps two at the most, and I believe Michael was seven or eight . . . His father worked with yours . . . Most little boys don't like girls, nevermind toddlers, but when he thought no one else was looking . . . He was very doting, it was quite sweet," she smiled briefly. "The two of you only met a handful of times, and it was years ago. I couldn't help but think of him when Ben told your father that Agent Vaughn was the man you called."
"I don't remember how I got his number," she lied effortlessly before her mother could even pose the obvious question.
"Yes," Laura patiently nodded, "I know."
Sydney glanced down at her glass, feeling the sincerity slip into her heart as she spoke, "I wish I remembered."
"You will," her mother urged. "It's just going to take time Sydney," she determined with a tone eerily similar to the Irina Derevko in Sydney's mind. "It will take time . . . But I think it's best of you begin to assimilate," she explained. "You've only been back a day sweetheart, and there's so much you've missed . . . So much you must be curious about. Your father and I discussed it, and we thought it might be easier if you had more people from your life before around you . . . "
"And?" she prodded with a less than calm edge to her voice.
"I called your friends, Will and Francie . . . Obviously, you have more friends than that, but we thought it would be best to start with the people closest to you."
"Will and Francie?" Sydney spoke, blinking away her tears.
"Yes, Sweetheart, are you alright?" Laura leaned over, resting her hand on her daughter's arm as she took a moment to compose herself.
"Will and Francie . . . They're alright?"
"I believe so. . . Sydney, if it's too much, I'll cancel -"
"No!" she quickly stopped her mother's train of thought. "No. Don't do that," she calmly added, wiping away her tears. "Did you . . . Did you tell them what happened?"
"Not yet. I didn't know how to explain over the phone . . . They should be here in a little while. We haven't seen them in quite some time, so I know they must wonder why we called them so suddenly," she explained. As the silence dripped into unnaturally long lengths, she softly broke it, "Sydney?"
Raising her eyes, she met her mother's confusion. Quietly she confessed, "I just wish I remembered something . . . Who did this to me . . . Or why . . . " she admitted, although her mind had already formed it's own conclusion. Something about this inevitably led back to Arvin Sloane, an avenue of possibility she'd have to investigate on her own, at least until she knew more about the people who now surrounded her.
"Sydney, have you considered the possibility that no one else was involved?" Laura gently suggested as her daughter's eyes flashed. "The accident . . . We were nearly certain you were dead sweetheart," she struggled to explain. "Perhaps . . . Perhaps you had amnesia, or entered a fugue state . . . I haven't done much reading into it, but it is a possibility."
"Maybe," she sighed, her heart unable to wrap around the all too simple theory that it was amnesia. The differences in her life were too radical, the memories she knew were too painful to have been fabricated by her mind, for it to be a common case of amnesia or a less common fugue.
"Dinner should be ready soon," Jack announced as he walked into the room, taking a moment to study the simple sight of his daughter and wife in the same room again. The past twenty-two and a half months had been agony, believing that their daughter was dead, with little or no evidence to support otherwise. Then to have her suddenly arrive out of the blue, seemingly without a scar on her body, left him pondering the possibility of miracles. Cautiously he sat down on the sofa and looked over at his daughter, the pain and questions etched on every inch of her still flawless face. "How are you feeling Sydney?"
"What did Director Devlin say?" Sydney asked. For a moment a silent question passed between the married couple before Laura stood.
"I'm going to go set the table," she explained, dropping a gentle kiss on her daughter's head as she seemed to glide effortlessly out of the room.
"When you're ready, the CIA would like you to come speak to them. There are some . . . techniques that can be used to help recover lost memories. They'd like you to try hypno regression therapy . . . But given the apparent magnitude of all you've forgotten, there is a legitimate possibility it will not work. The only alternatives after that are . . . rather invasive and dangerous. Right now our best course of action is to hope that regression therapy works but to pursue less evasive alternatives for the possibility that it doesn't."
"When can I start?"
"Sydney -" Jack started, the disapproval wrapped up clearly in the two syllables she allowed him to release.
"No dad. The only real chance I have of finding out what happened to me, where I've been . . . Why this happened to me, is with the CIA," she adamantly spoke. "Mom suggested that I had amnesia, that it was all a fugue state, that no one else was involved, but you can't possibly believe that dad. You wouldn't have left the agency if you had."
"Your mother has her own way of coping with what happened . . . We all do," he explained.
Sydney began to speak rapidly, leaning in slightly towards her father as her voice lowered an octave, "Then let me finish my orientation dad. Whatever the CIA needs me to do so I can figure out what happened to me."
"Concluding your orientation is just a mere formality Sydney," Jack told her, leaving her to momentarily wonder just how close to beginning the agency she'd apparently been. "What concerns me is that the CIA had leads immediately after your death that perhaps a newly formed terrorist organization was involved for reasons I cannot even begin to explain to you -"
"Rambaldi," Sydney effortlessly connected the dots. For a world in such desperate ruins at the hands of terrorists and psychopaths, she found that massive intelligence agencies spent an alarming amount of time on an insane prophet and architect from the sixteenth century.
"How did you know about him?"
"Dad, I need to start at the agency. The leads . . . It's been two years, there might a chance that not all of them are dead . . . "
"You are a wonderful teacher Sydney," Jack insisted, the first person to confirm any suspicions she'd had regarding her occupation. "I'm certain once you go back to the school, visit with your students -"
"I need to know what happened to me dad. I need to know what happened to me, who kept me from my life for two years . . . I need to know *why*."
"Sydney, while your persistence is admirable, and while I have no doubt that you'd be an exceptional asset to the CIA, there is little doubt in my mind that an *international terrorist organization* has already stepped in and participated in you losing two years of your life. Tell me Sydney, what part of *not* joining the CIA *doesn't* appeal rational to you?"
"I think I might have lost my ability to rationalize around the same time I lost two years!" she harshly pointed out.
"I understand this is difficult for you Sydney, it's difficult for all of us, but we *must* proceed rationally and with caution. Your decision to enter the agency would be foolish at best and deadly at worst."
"But it's my decision!" she reminded him. "Rational or not, it's my decision to work with the agency," she pressed on, her ears hardly believing that she sat there fighting for a job that she spent years trying to escape. Yet she still sat there, engaged in a heated battle of wills with her father, fighting for her spot with the agency, for no other reason then she had nothing else left.
"This discussion is closed," Jack sat back, the mask of indifference slipping effortlessly into place. "Right now your primary concern, your *only* concern, is getting readjusted with your life."
Before Sydney could strategize a more fruitful protest, the doorbell rang and her mother slipped back into the room. "I think your friends are here," she smiled as her daughter and husband stood. The two remaining Bristow's silently regarded one another as Sydney listened carefully, hearing her mother open the front door and the long awaited sound of Francie and Will's confused voices - a sound she never thought she'd hear again.
"I know it's out of the blue, but I thought dinner would be a nice idea. Besides, there's someone here I want you to see," Laura explained, her voice carrying into the room as Sydney heard her friend's laugh.
"Oh no. I'm sorry Mrs. Bristow, but I'm not letting you set me up again. The last time was disastrous!" Will protested as she heard Francie laugh.
"Why would I want to set you up William? I'm no longer as young as I used to be, but do you think I didn't notice you holding Francie's hand until I opened the door?" Laura easily teased, leading them towards the living room.
Will and Francie's laughter immediately stopped, Will's steps ending so abruptly that Francie collided into him. Sydney slowly smiled, fighting back her tears as images of the last time she recalled seeing them - Will half dead in the tub and Francie's body being controlled by Allison Doren - and watched the reaction play out over their faces. "Syd?" Will croaked.
Francie's eyes turned to Laura, "How?"
"I don't know," Sydney answered before anyone else could, cautiously taking a step towards them. "I don't know . . . I just woke up in Hong Kong. I don't remember anything," she began to concede. Before she could consider how to explain any further, they were by her side, each hugging her so fiercely she wasn't certain she could breathe.
"We thought you were dead," Francie confessed as Sydney felt her friend's tears drip down onto her own skin.
"I know . . . I'm so sorry."
"How?" Will asked, pulling back to examine her. "You look . . ."
"You look fine," Francie finished.
"Physically . . . Physically I am fine," she assured them. That much was true, she reassured herself as she took a moment to hug each of them individually.
"We missed you," Will promised, each holding one of her hands.
"I wish I could say I missed you . . . But I just don't remember," she explained, feeling her tears pool with a new fury.
"Hey, it's okay, what matters is you're back," Francie softly soothed her. "It's okay Syd. You're home now, that's all that matters. You're home and safe," she sighed in relief. Sydney pulled back and smiled at her friend, more grateful than ever for her soothing presence but unable to stop worrying about how safe she truly was.
"How are you? What have I missed?" Sydney asked, smiling honestly as she took in the two of them.
"We have plenty of time for that," Laura explained. "Dinner is almost ready, so go sit down," she urged as her daughter nodded and led her friends to the dining room.
"Your father hasn't said much," Will mumbled as the three took their seats.
"Will," Francie softly warned.
Sydney chuckled and looked up at them, her heart still swelling with the mere sight of them, healthy and safe. "Does he ever say much?" she pointed out before she took a sip of her wine and continued. "I'm so happy you two are here. Everything is a mess right now," she explained, her thoughts briefly clouded with images of Vaughn and his wedding band. "The two of you are my best friends though . . . my oldest friends in the entire world. I'm so glad you're here."
"Hey," Will reached out to take her hand again, gently squeezing it. "We're here Syd. Whatever you need."
"Thank you," she smiled at them, feeling a tinge of relief that she had their support. At least in this world, a world without Vaughn and without the job that had seemingly been her life for so long, she had them. Somewhere along the way she decided it must be an even trade and perhaps she even got the better end of the deal. "Now what about you two? I overheard my mother say something about the two of you holding hands?" she teased.
Francie and Will both looked away, a reaction similar to their confession at the restaurant what felt like a lifetime ago. "We didn't plan it Syd . . . " Will started, his skin quickly burning red.
"We were celebrating the restaurant's second year, once I'd realized that we'd actually made an even bigger profit than we'd anticipated . . . Will was trying to convince me to let him go to his editor about doing a piece on the restaurant -"
"Hey, I was just trying to help a friend get some free publicity!" he insisted as both women laughed.
"I just wasn't comfortable with using your connections to further my business!" Francie insisted. Only a moment later she looked at her best and longest friend and sobered, "It was probably a year and a half after we thought we'd lost you . . . We'd spent most of our time together, obviously, since we always did . . . Syd, I swear, we never forgot about you and some times it was so hard not to have you around -" Francie struggled to explain, the tears becoming noticeable in her eyes.
"I know," Sydney reached over for her hand. "I know. I know you didn't forget about me . . . But I am so happy for you."
"This is so weird," Will muttered as they all laughed.
"I think it's wonderful," she sincerely commented. "I think it might even be the best news I've heard since I got back," she added with a smile. "The restaurant's doing well . . . You two are together . . . The newspaper?" she turned to Will, silently relieved that he still worked as a reporter, although she was uncertain of all the consequences that entailed.
"It's going okay," he shrugged. "I mean, after that whole Jenny fiasco, the big joke is that I don't get another assistant until I'm married or dead, whatever happens first," he humorously added. "I've covered some interesting things . . . "
"And he still has a terrible 'His Girl Friday' complex," Francie added.
"No! Still?" Sydney laughed as her best friends nodded. She took a moment to collect herself, allowing for another languid sip of wine, enjoying the opportunity to just look at them, healthy and glowing.
"Have you seen a doctor?" Will asked softly as the mood of the room shifted.
"Yes," she replied, setting her glass carefully down. "I spent an overnight at the hospital. I'm fine," she emphasized, seeing the concern on their faces.
"Physically, medically . . . I'm not sick, I don't have any scars or bruises . . . "
"That's good, isn't it?" Francie inquired.
"Yeah, it's great that no one did anything to Syd, but it sucks that there's nothing to help figure out where she's been," Will reasoned.
"I have no idea where I've been . . . or how I survived . . . " she softly added, unsure of how she survived the fate she remembered or the fate that they had pushed upon her.
"I don't care you've been," Francie insisted. "All I care about is that your back."
"But it doesn't make any sense -" Will pushed.
"Who cares?" his girlfriend snapped at him. "Who cares? I'd rather be confused and be sitting here talking to Sydney!"
"Guys -" Sydney started as Francie turned towards her.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry Sydney . . . I didn't mean to get upset -"
"I didn't mean to start something either," Will hastily agreed. "Just . . . I've never known anyone to come back from the dead before."
"You've missed so much." Francie gently squeezed her hand. "I don't know how you feel Sydney, but we're going to do everything we can to help you."
"Nothing . . . Nothing really makes sense to me right now," Sydney confessed. At that moment she wished more than anything that there was something to tell, someone to share just how confused she was and how lost she felt, but she was entirely alone. "Just be my friends, like you've always been . . . Just be my best friends."
The pair nodded from their seats across from her as Laura and Jack reappeared with the evening's meal. To her amazement, the five managed to make conversation over meatloaf and mashed potatoes made from scratch, a favorite from her childhood that her mother felt was appropriate to make. Even as they carried conversation, it was obvious to her that they stuck to topics she could participate in or easily understand, such as how the restaurant was doing or what classic piece of literature Laura's classes were currently studying.
Francie and Will left in the evening, making sure to give her all their numbers and promised to be available whenever she needed someone to talk to, no matter what time. Sydney stood at the door to her childhood home, hugging them tightly and then waiting until their car was out of sight. Afterwards she'd excused herself for the night, no longer interested in what her parents would understandably want to discuss. Her mind was already made up - she would do whatever was necessary to return to the CIA and uncover what exactly had happened to her.
After a soak in the tub, she was laying in bed. The room had once been her bedroom but was now little more than a glorified guest room. Little evidence existed to show that it had ever been her room, except the marks in the carpet from where her canopy bed had once rested. Even without the comforts of her memories, the room felt sufficiently comfortable, although she held out little hope for sleep that night.
In a struggle to be practical amid her confusion, chaos, and well-hidden fear, she sat in bed composing a list. The things she needed after being presumed dead for two years were incalculable. First off she'd need an apartment, furniture, clothes, a car, and a job with the CIA - any other job, no matter how wonderful it might be or how fantastic she might have been at it, was entirely unacceptable during that juncture of her life. There were a million things she needed - shoes, socks, she even doubted if she had a pair of underwear to her name. CD's, books, photos . . . picture frames . . . *memories* . . .
Sydney swore at the path her mind had taken her down as she wrestled with her pillows and attempted to sleep, leaving the light on dimly. She lay there struggling not to think of what she was now without, the people who were no longer a part of her life and may never be again. The night passed by slowly, and on nearly half a dozen occasions one of her parents had slipped in to study her for a few moments, seconds that ticked by like years as she did her best to feign sleep, a practice she hadn't used since she was a little girl. Eventually the morning peaked in through her window as she rolled onto her back and squinted her eyes open, feeling more exhausted than she had eight hours earlier, accepting that for at least a short while, sleep would be only a memory as her mind raced to catch up on all it had missed.
That morning started what would be a long process of putting the pieces back together again. She spent the morning going through the classifieds, circling ads for cars and apartments that sounded promising. Jack and Laura had insisted that one if not both of them would co-sign with her when she went to make the more expensive purchases - after being dead for two years, her credit was understandably nonexistent.
Sydney knew there were things to consider. There was a slight possibility that not all of her belongings had been given away to friends or charity and that some things might even be returned. While she knew logically it was unlikely she'd get anything back, the thought of having to start from scratch was too overwhelming for her first real morning back in Los Angeles. Still she had to start from somewhere, and by the afternoon she had racked up a considerable number of local phone calls and made arrangements to go look at a few local apartments and ads for cars that sounded promising.
Once she'd thoroughly searched the classifieds for potential apartments and cars, she got down to the business of searching for evidence that her mother was in fact Laura Bristow. Neither Laura or Jack was home that morning and there was a note telling her not to expect them until the middle of the afternoon, with numbers to contact them in case of an emergency. There were so many questions that she needed an answer to, and she had no one else's help in finding what she sought. For nearly three hours she searched the house, careful to cover her tracks but searching every conceivable place for proof that her mother was not who she claimed to be. Instead, she found a birth certificate, pictures, diplomas and framed degrees, passports, a social security card with what appeared to be Laura's maiden name and even her parent's marriage certificate. Sydney was confident in her own ability to detect a counterfeit of something so basic, and her heart twisted as her mind validated the legitimacy of the documents she'd discovered. There was no one else and nothing else to help her confirm it. By the middle of the afternoon, she'd only found verifiable evidence proving that Laura Bristow was just a literature professor at UCLA.
By the morning of the fifth day of October, Sydney was perhaps more confused than when she'd arrived back in Los Angeles three days ago. What troubled her most were her questions pertaining to Sloane. There was too much at stake to ask anyone about him. Instinctively she knew he had to be involved, but she couldn't decipher his motives, other than an unquenchable desire to ruin her life and rip her from everything she'd loved. In that aspect he'd been successful. Still she wanted nothing more than to delve into investigating him, aware that she would need the resources of the CIA, something her father was unwilling to discuss. That left her with far less advanced and thorough means of investigation, but she was determined to do what she could with the resources available.
Afternoon arrived as Sydney sat perched at the home's computer, her back beginning to ache with the evidence that she'd been at this too long. The notepad in her lap was growing thinner as she took rapid fire notes on what she could find, leads to answer the myriad questions that haunted her dreams and nightmares. Nothing made sense, images that she'd always associated with comfort and safety would play through her mind before twisting into horror right before her mind's eye. There was no peace, only a massive black hole of questions and no quick answer.
The doorbell rang, briefly unnerving her but forcing her to leave her computer-based investigation. As a child she remembered where her father would hide his gun, ironically something she always remembered her mother being uncomfortable with. Sydney was still a young child at the time, and Laura had been uncomfortable with a gun in the house when she was playing. The knowledge of where the gun was accessible was a slight comfort as she approached the door, having no expectations of visitors for the day.
To her relief, she opened the door and smiled at an anxious Will and Francie. "Hey."
"Hi," Will smiled sheepishly as Francie carried a large brown bag.
"We bought lunch. Is this a bad time?"
"No," Sydney smiled and shook her head, moving from the door to let them in. "What did you bring?"
"Only your favorite," Francie smiled as she began to take out the styrofoam containers as the scent filled the Bristow's large formal dining room.
"Shouldn't you be working?" she teased Will, grabbing the necessarily utensils as they sank into the large chairs.
"I met my deadline, I'm free for a few hours," he shrugged, his grin disarming. Sydney could only smile back, having missed the sight of his grin, an easily smile that wasn't plagued by the horror she had unwillingly brought into his world.
"So, how's everything going?" Francie questioned quietly as they dished out food.
Sydney shrugged for a moment, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "Okay. My dad's got a friend who's a real estate agent . . . I'm going to look at a place tonight, an apartment. If I like it, my dad's friend is going to help me cut through some of the red tape so I can move in."
"Good," Will commented.
"Just tell us when and we'll be there to help you move."
"Which means we'll both be there but I'll be moving the boxes," Will pointed out as the two women laughed. "What about work?"
"I haven't . . . I haven't been looking too hard to find a job," she conceded. There was no easy way to explain that the one job was the one her father was unwilling to discuss. Sydney knew there were ways around her father's disapproval, certainly methods he wouldn't approve of, but she couldn't let him stop her. "Right now I just want to find an apartment and a car . . ."
"Have you called the school?" Francie asked. For a moment she watched her friend freeze before she shook her head and took a bite of her lunch.
"No . . . "
"Know what would be wild?" Will questioned, his face bright with a fresh idea as the two women looked at him. "You should go by the school Syd!" This is so Will!
"Will - " Francie began, her tone a silent warning.
"I'm serious! Think about it! We could drive her by her old place, take her by the school . . . It might help her memory!" he insisted. "Plus, c'mon, wouldn't it be wild? I mean I barely understand how Sydney can still be with us, but I'm sure the school would love it. We can go today! Maybe you can even get your job back, or at least a job . . . It might help to see some of your old friends too."
"I don't know . . . " Sydney sighed.
"I don't think today's a good idea. I have to go back to the restaurant -"
"I don't have to go back today, I'll take Syd. C'mon, have you even left the house since you got home?"
"No," she conceded.
"It'll be fun Syd, and if it gets to be too much . . . well, we'll come right back," he promised, his expression sincere.
Sydney felt her shoulder's sag as she met Francie's sympathetic eyes. "It might be a good idea Syd. You said you don't remember a lot, that you're confused . . . Seeing everyone again might help. Then I can meet you guys back here later and go with you to look at the apartment."
"It's right by the beach," Sydney smiled. Then she expelled a deep breath and spoke, "Okay. We'll go."
"Great!" Will grinned. "I promise Syd, this will help . . . And if not, I'll personally move everything in to your apartment."
"Will, I don't have any furniture," she softly reminded him.
"We'll fix that," Francie vowed. "We'll go shopping . . . I think I still have some of your furniture. Will and I were thinking about moving in and consolidating our stuff . . . "
"Guys, you don't have to -"
"It was your stuff to start with," her friend insisted. "Just . . . Just think about it Syd."
"I will," she promised with a sigh before she met Will's eyes and tried her best to make her smile sincere. "We'll eat, then I'll leave my parents a note just in case, and we'll go." Will smiled widely before they turned to other conversation and finishing their food.
An hour later she was sitting next to Will, on the highway heading in the direction of the school she taught at, a destination completely unknown to her. Thankfully her companion was uncharacteristically quiet, letting the music remain the only noise in the car as Sydney watched the exits pass and the scenery change as they approached her destination. Finally, nearly twenty minutes after they left her parents house, they got off of the highway. Only a few short turns later, they were pulling onto the property of St. Jude's High School.
For a moment she wondered if she should have been surprised that she taught at a private school. Most of her education had been at private schools, including a boarding school for high school, until she'd gone to UCLA. The thought of teaching at one only seemed fitting. Truthfully she could never recall giving much thought to what type of position she'd hold once she got her Master's in Literature. SD-6 had always kept her too busy to consider the specifics of her own future.
Will smiled at her as they got out of the car and approached the entrance. As they walked towards the front door, they walked over a bricked path with names on them. Sydney briefly registered Will's explaination that they put names of those who'd given donations to help refurbish the front of the building, instead she'd paused to focus on her own name on a brick, and a few bricks over the name of her parents. Apparently she'd been there long enough to put down roots, she thought as he opened the door and let her in.
There were no security guards, no metal detectors, but it was obvious from even the front that the school was small. Judging by the exterior, she guessed perhaps three floors, none extensively large. Will placed a gentle hand on her back, breaking her evaluations as he led her left, directly into the front office. The man behind the desk grew wide-eyed at the sight of her, and she had the sinking suspicion she'd never liked him. Not because he was evil, but because he frankly was already beginning to annoy her.
"He's not in a meeting . . . Just go in, I'm sure he'll want to see you," the elderly man motioned to the hallway behind him. Will tossed another smile in her direction, leaving her to wonder if it was for her benefit or his. Silently she smiled back as they walked down a tiny hallway and proceeded to knock on the blue door with the sign of "Principal" on it. Only a moment later the door opened and Sydney did her best not to lose her balance.
"Sydney . . ." he replied, his tenor deep and the shock obvious on his usually stoic face. "Sydney," he sighed and pulled her in for a brief hug. "How? I thought . . . Are you okay?" he questioned, noting the color drain from her face.
"I'm okay . . . Can I sit?" she questioned.
"Of course," Marcus Dixon smiled at her and let her in. "I'm sorry . . . This is a shock Sydney, I don't know how else to explain it," he explained as he ushered her into a seat.
"This . . . You're the principal," she noted softly, looking around the office, relieved to see pictures of Diane, Robyn and Steven, obviously recent. Diane was alive, something that was a tremendous relief to her otherwise troubled soul.
"Yes . . . Mr. Curry left about seven months after we thought we'd lost you. Apparently I did good work as vice principal and they promoted me."
"Congratulations," she whispered as he smiled at her.
"How are you? Where have you been? Is there anything I can do -"
"One question at a time," Will interjected as Sydney smiled, thankful for their friendship.
"I'm sorry . . . I'm sure you already know this, but we thought you were dead."
Sydney looked up and met the eyes of the man she recalled as her working partner and nodded. "I know . . . To answer your questions, I'm as well as can be expected. I don't know where I've been . . . I have no memories of the past two years."
His face twisted in sympathy as he spoke, "I can't imagine how difficult all of this must be for you, but if there's anything Diane or I could do to help, we'd like to."
She sucked in a deep breathes of stale office air and did her best to smile. "Right now I'm staying with my parents . . . There's not much anyone can do . . . I'm trying to get my life back in order," she explained. There was no way to explain that without the CIA and Vaughn; there was no sense of order. For so long that had been her order, Vaughn had become her happiness and her normalcy. She was beginning to loathe how he popped into her mind at the worst possible moments, but she suspected there was nothing she could do to stop it.
"How long have you been in Los Angeles?"
"A few days," she answered. "I woke up and didn't remember anything . . . I spent a night in the hospital. I'm fine."
"Do they know what caused the memory loss?"
"No," she sighed. It felt unnatural to keep details and nuggets of truth from the man across from her, but present circumstances left her no option. In her best interest, and his, the less Dixon knew, the better.
"We filled your position Sydney . . . We didn't want to do it, but we had to. The class of 2003 worked their tails off to get a scholarship established before they graduated, in your honor, to a student who was going to study Literature or English. We thought it would be a fitting tribute," he conceded as she nodded, blinking rapidly and hoping to hide her tears. "I know that this is a difficult time for you . . . If there's anything Diane or I can do, anything, please, let us know," he advised as she promised. "In the meantime . . . I know you were considering leaving, but if you're still interested in working in the school, I'm sure I can find you a position. Any position. That way you would be in a familiar environment, around people you know, until a position opens up in English or the Language Departments."
The smile that crossed her face was sincere as she recognized his generosity, something that transcended her former world into her new bizarre existence. To tell him that this environment was anything but familiar would only raise more questions and shatter his attempts to help her. She'd missed this Dixon, the man who still had his wife and his family, who hadn't had to watch his world torn out from under him and ripped into shreds. This kind man went home to a healthy, living wife and children. As much as this world had taken from her, it had given that back to him.
"Thank you," she spoke. In the end, it would be a job, and Dixon's presence was still comforting despite the change in their dynamics.
"C'mon," he slowly stood. "I'll take you around to see some of the kids. I'm sure they'll be thrilled."
They were thrilled, as were a good number of the faculty, if not more than a little confused. There was so little she could tell them, since she knew so little herself. Even so, the reception was far more joyous than she'd expected. The classrooms were small, and the class numbers even smaller. The atmosphere was comfortable and friendly. She could imagine herself working there and being happy, and as they passed the plaque hung in her honor, she could only imagine how devastated those around her had been as a result her of apparent death.
Francie was already sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea with Laura when Will brought her back from visiting the school. The four went in two separate cars to the apartment, following the directions provided by the real estate agent, having arranged for Jack to meet them there. Despite Eric Weiss' kind offer, since she was supposed to barely know him, she decided against contacting him regarding an apartment. Amazingly enough she'd been successful on her own, her search short but successful. The apartment they viewed incredible, with sliding doors that led out to a balcony with ocean and beach views. There was a large, spacious bedroom, a kitchen that was advanced enough for her rather basic cooking skills and a bathroom complete with an antique, claw-foot bathtub. Between the view and the bathtub, it was love at first sight.
Evening crept into night. Laura had insisted her friends stay for dinner, but by ten the house was quiet. Sydney sat curled up on the living room sofa, her lap covered not only with her new rental agreement but trying to decipher all she'd uncovered that day with the help of the internet. Nearly an hour earlier her mother had excused herself for bed, and it was only when her father stood, blocking her light, that she realized he hadn't done the same.
"Sydney, do you have a moment?"
"Sure," she answered, closing the folder and setting it aside as her father sat down. Awkwardness sank into the room before she twisted and looked him in the eye, "Thanks dad. For helping me get the apartment . . . There's no way I would have gotten a rental agreement without your co-signature."
Jack nodded, remaining silent as he reached into his pocket. A moment later he pulled out a badge and handed it to her. Sydney studied the laminated object for a moment before she looked up at her father in confirmation. "I spoke to the Director and Devlin . . . It's your security clearance. You're not to be field graded until we've discovered more of what you went through. Your clearance is low, but it's a start. As far as the CIA is concerned, your orientation is complete. The clearance doesn't go into effect until the twelfth."
"Why not until then?" she asked, her eyes now studying the object in her hand.
"I don't want you beginning until you have the apartment settled and a car," he explained. "Your mother and I . . . You went with your friend Will to visit the school today."
"Yes," she confirmed.
"I don't suppose it matters, but your mother and I would be relieved if you took a position there," he explained. At his daughter's silence, he added, "But I doubt you'll listen to my advice."
"I can't dad," she sighed. "I can't go back . . . I need answers, and you know better than anyone that this is the only way to get them."
"The CIA is going to use you Sydney, to get information on the Covenant -"
"Then let them. Let them learn what happened to me while I do."
"You're going to try regression therapy first. There are other . . . methods, but they are too dangerous. The results of such procedures are not worth what you would retrieve from your memory," he explained.
"Thank you," she whispered as he stood.
"Your welcome," he studied her for a moment before he spoke again. "It's late. You should get to bed," he advised.
"Good night," she called as he disappeared up the staircase.
Sydney had been back in Los Angeles less than a week when she planned to move into her new apartment. Jack and Laura were eager to see her get on her own two feet again, but less eager to see her living out of their safe perimeters. In her mind she had no other option. Living at home wasn't going to get her anywhere, and she needed the freedom. Thanks to her mother and Francie, a seemingly massive amount of work had been accomplished in just a few days. Not only had Sydney managed to buy a slightly used Jeep from a friend of Francie's, but they had bought or retrieved a modest amount of furniture and possessions to help furnish her new home.
Will and Francie arrived early that Friday morning. They ate breakfast with her parents before they began the day-long task of moving. There were boxes to move and people from utility companies to meet at the apartment, leaving the day a frenzy of activity. A tremendous amount of planning had gone into that day, as well as for her weekend plans. Sydney only had five days before her clearance became valid at the CIA. Inevitably that would lead to work, and she had quite a bit she still wanted to accomplish on her own time before she began answering to the CIA again.
The sunset had streaked the sky outside her apartment a mixture of purples, oranges, and reds as she began carrying the last carload of boxes over. Only her father was helping her by then. Laura had gone to get them something to eat for dinner while Francie had to go to manage the restaurant and Will had been paged to the paper. All other catastrophes aside, the day had been moderately successful and the four spacious rooms were beginning to look like a home.
Exhausted, she let a box of photo albums drop to the floor with a slight thud. She'd been up late the night before, busy doing research and making arrangements, and her back was beginning to pay the price for spending too many hours hutched over a computer keyboard. Letting out a deep breath, she rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the room, pleased to see that the boxes were placed in the appropriate rooms, having teased Will earlier for putting a kitchen box in the tiny bathroom.
From the open door behind her Sydney detected footsteps approach from the hallway. She allowed her eyes to slide close as she rolled her neck, waiting for her father to walk in with the last of the boxes. Instead she heard the footsteps end abruptly at her threshold. "I came by to offer to help," a male voice, one that was deeply imprinted in her soul, explained from the doorway. "I see I'm a little late now though," he added in amusement.
Sydney slowly turned around, waiting for the sight in front of her to disappear into thin air. For a moment she studied him from head to toe, her heart twisting and nearly stopping altogether at the sight of the wedding band on his finger. Finally she met his eyes, her heavy mask of confusion and curiosity unable to completely hide the joy she felt at seeing him. He was married, but he was here, and perhaps he'd offer insight into her life that no one else could.
"Danny."
Author: UConn Fan (Michele)
E-Mail: LoveUConnBasketball@yahoo.com
Story Summary: They were inevitable, weren't they? AU Post-The Telling
Dedication: To everyone who's already read this at SD-1 - hopefully chapter four will be posted here & there soon!
There was a house in a comfortable suburb of Los Angeles, a house that Sydney couldn't recall seeing since she was eighteen and left for UCLA. On a bookcase in the family room of that home was a shelf she knew well. In her memories she remembered spending endless days at home alone with the nanny, sneaking away to look at her mother's cherished books while her caretaker searched for where the precocious child had disappeared. She had treasured looking at those books, and for years had been terrified to touch them. When her father had sent them to her after graduation, she'd been thrilled to receive them, surprised that such an apparently detached man would remember something so sentimental.
In her mind's eye, she could still see those same books tear apart her world. Francie's carelessness, a tipped over glass of lemonade, led to bitter revelations - codes she recognized to be from the KGB. For a brief time Sydney had been certain that the codes would prove that her father had not only been working for the Russians, but had killed William Vaughn. Instead they'd torn apart her life in another way, opening the door for a myriad of self-doubts that Sydney had yet to fully recover from.
Except now those codes were gone. The books remained, the house nearly unchanged, except for a few new pieces of furniture here and there. Alone for the first time since her arrival, Sydney had done nearly everything but spill her glass of iced tea onto the aged text to insure that the books were in fact legitimate. The collection had grown since what she recalled, something that could be accounted for by the extra years of book buying that this Jack Bristow had.
"You've loved those books since you were a little girl," a soft voice fondly recalled. Sydney turned around and met her mother's eyes, still uncertain of the words necessary for such moments. The comfort of this house, the relationship the family that inhabited it shared, was foreign to her.
"I remember," she answered honestly. Laura smiled softly, her eyes still in awe of the young woman in front of her. Jack had struggled to explain everything in the car, his wife listening with a quiet, analytical approach, one similar to the mother she remembered as a child. After a short drive from the UCLA campus, they'd arrived there, to the home that had been hers in childhood, complete with the tree she used to climb on and the flowerbeds that had died shortly after Laura did.
"Please Sydney, sit," Laura gently implored, taking a seat across from her daughter in the comfortable living room. For a moment, the older woman studied her daughter, remembering the tiny lines and freckles that she had memorized since Sydney's birth. As the silence grew in length, she sat back briefly and smiled, "I'm sorry Sydney. We tried not to give up hope . . . Two years is a long time though."
"I know mom," Sydney nodded and looked down at her glass.
"Your father's on the phone with Ben. He was just telling us how they found you . . . or actually, how you found them," she explained as her daughter's eyes met hers. "None of it seems to make sense, does it?"
"No," she sighed. "None of it makes sense at all," she agreed, feeling the weight of her own words more than the woman across from her knew.
"You met Agent Vaughn once," Laura recalled as the younger woman's quickly snapped through a well-hidden shock. "Of course, this was back when he was still Michael Vaughn . . . Years before he likely even considered becoming an agent," she fondly remembered. "You were just a baby Sydney . . . perhaps two at the most, and I believe Michael was seven or eight . . . His father worked with yours . . . Most little boys don't like girls, nevermind toddlers, but when he thought no one else was looking . . . He was very doting, it was quite sweet," she smiled briefly. "The two of you only met a handful of times, and it was years ago. I couldn't help but think of him when Ben told your father that Agent Vaughn was the man you called."
"I don't remember how I got his number," she lied effortlessly before her mother could even pose the obvious question.
"Yes," Laura patiently nodded, "I know."
Sydney glanced down at her glass, feeling the sincerity slip into her heart as she spoke, "I wish I remembered."
"You will," her mother urged. "It's just going to take time Sydney," she determined with a tone eerily similar to the Irina Derevko in Sydney's mind. "It will take time . . . But I think it's best of you begin to assimilate," she explained. "You've only been back a day sweetheart, and there's so much you've missed . . . So much you must be curious about. Your father and I discussed it, and we thought it might be easier if you had more people from your life before around you . . . "
"And?" she prodded with a less than calm edge to her voice.
"I called your friends, Will and Francie . . . Obviously, you have more friends than that, but we thought it would be best to start with the people closest to you."
"Will and Francie?" Sydney spoke, blinking away her tears.
"Yes, Sweetheart, are you alright?" Laura leaned over, resting her hand on her daughter's arm as she took a moment to compose herself.
"Will and Francie . . . They're alright?"
"I believe so. . . Sydney, if it's too much, I'll cancel -"
"No!" she quickly stopped her mother's train of thought. "No. Don't do that," she calmly added, wiping away her tears. "Did you . . . Did you tell them what happened?"
"Not yet. I didn't know how to explain over the phone . . . They should be here in a little while. We haven't seen them in quite some time, so I know they must wonder why we called them so suddenly," she explained. As the silence dripped into unnaturally long lengths, she softly broke it, "Sydney?"
Raising her eyes, she met her mother's confusion. Quietly she confessed, "I just wish I remembered something . . . Who did this to me . . . Or why . . . " she admitted, although her mind had already formed it's own conclusion. Something about this inevitably led back to Arvin Sloane, an avenue of possibility she'd have to investigate on her own, at least until she knew more about the people who now surrounded her.
"Sydney, have you considered the possibility that no one else was involved?" Laura gently suggested as her daughter's eyes flashed. "The accident . . . We were nearly certain you were dead sweetheart," she struggled to explain. "Perhaps . . . Perhaps you had amnesia, or entered a fugue state . . . I haven't done much reading into it, but it is a possibility."
"Maybe," she sighed, her heart unable to wrap around the all too simple theory that it was amnesia. The differences in her life were too radical, the memories she knew were too painful to have been fabricated by her mind, for it to be a common case of amnesia or a less common fugue.
"Dinner should be ready soon," Jack announced as he walked into the room, taking a moment to study the simple sight of his daughter and wife in the same room again. The past twenty-two and a half months had been agony, believing that their daughter was dead, with little or no evidence to support otherwise. Then to have her suddenly arrive out of the blue, seemingly without a scar on her body, left him pondering the possibility of miracles. Cautiously he sat down on the sofa and looked over at his daughter, the pain and questions etched on every inch of her still flawless face. "How are you feeling Sydney?"
"What did Director Devlin say?" Sydney asked. For a moment a silent question passed between the married couple before Laura stood.
"I'm going to go set the table," she explained, dropping a gentle kiss on her daughter's head as she seemed to glide effortlessly out of the room.
"When you're ready, the CIA would like you to come speak to them. There are some . . . techniques that can be used to help recover lost memories. They'd like you to try hypno regression therapy . . . But given the apparent magnitude of all you've forgotten, there is a legitimate possibility it will not work. The only alternatives after that are . . . rather invasive and dangerous. Right now our best course of action is to hope that regression therapy works but to pursue less evasive alternatives for the possibility that it doesn't."
"When can I start?"
"Sydney -" Jack started, the disapproval wrapped up clearly in the two syllables she allowed him to release.
"No dad. The only real chance I have of finding out what happened to me, where I've been . . . Why this happened to me, is with the CIA," she adamantly spoke. "Mom suggested that I had amnesia, that it was all a fugue state, that no one else was involved, but you can't possibly believe that dad. You wouldn't have left the agency if you had."
"Your mother has her own way of coping with what happened . . . We all do," he explained.
Sydney began to speak rapidly, leaning in slightly towards her father as her voice lowered an octave, "Then let me finish my orientation dad. Whatever the CIA needs me to do so I can figure out what happened to me."
"Concluding your orientation is just a mere formality Sydney," Jack told her, leaving her to momentarily wonder just how close to beginning the agency she'd apparently been. "What concerns me is that the CIA had leads immediately after your death that perhaps a newly formed terrorist organization was involved for reasons I cannot even begin to explain to you -"
"Rambaldi," Sydney effortlessly connected the dots. For a world in such desperate ruins at the hands of terrorists and psychopaths, she found that massive intelligence agencies spent an alarming amount of time on an insane prophet and architect from the sixteenth century.
"How did you know about him?"
"Dad, I need to start at the agency. The leads . . . It's been two years, there might a chance that not all of them are dead . . . "
"You are a wonderful teacher Sydney," Jack insisted, the first person to confirm any suspicions she'd had regarding her occupation. "I'm certain once you go back to the school, visit with your students -"
"I need to know what happened to me dad. I need to know what happened to me, who kept me from my life for two years . . . I need to know *why*."
"Sydney, while your persistence is admirable, and while I have no doubt that you'd be an exceptional asset to the CIA, there is little doubt in my mind that an *international terrorist organization* has already stepped in and participated in you losing two years of your life. Tell me Sydney, what part of *not* joining the CIA *doesn't* appeal rational to you?"
"I think I might have lost my ability to rationalize around the same time I lost two years!" she harshly pointed out.
"I understand this is difficult for you Sydney, it's difficult for all of us, but we *must* proceed rationally and with caution. Your decision to enter the agency would be foolish at best and deadly at worst."
"But it's my decision!" she reminded him. "Rational or not, it's my decision to work with the agency," she pressed on, her ears hardly believing that she sat there fighting for a job that she spent years trying to escape. Yet she still sat there, engaged in a heated battle of wills with her father, fighting for her spot with the agency, for no other reason then she had nothing else left.
"This discussion is closed," Jack sat back, the mask of indifference slipping effortlessly into place. "Right now your primary concern, your *only* concern, is getting readjusted with your life."
Before Sydney could strategize a more fruitful protest, the doorbell rang and her mother slipped back into the room. "I think your friends are here," she smiled as her daughter and husband stood. The two remaining Bristow's silently regarded one another as Sydney listened carefully, hearing her mother open the front door and the long awaited sound of Francie and Will's confused voices - a sound she never thought she'd hear again.
"I know it's out of the blue, but I thought dinner would be a nice idea. Besides, there's someone here I want you to see," Laura explained, her voice carrying into the room as Sydney heard her friend's laugh.
"Oh no. I'm sorry Mrs. Bristow, but I'm not letting you set me up again. The last time was disastrous!" Will protested as she heard Francie laugh.
"Why would I want to set you up William? I'm no longer as young as I used to be, but do you think I didn't notice you holding Francie's hand until I opened the door?" Laura easily teased, leading them towards the living room.
Will and Francie's laughter immediately stopped, Will's steps ending so abruptly that Francie collided into him. Sydney slowly smiled, fighting back her tears as images of the last time she recalled seeing them - Will half dead in the tub and Francie's body being controlled by Allison Doren - and watched the reaction play out over their faces. "Syd?" Will croaked.
Francie's eyes turned to Laura, "How?"
"I don't know," Sydney answered before anyone else could, cautiously taking a step towards them. "I don't know . . . I just woke up in Hong Kong. I don't remember anything," she began to concede. Before she could consider how to explain any further, they were by her side, each hugging her so fiercely she wasn't certain she could breathe.
"We thought you were dead," Francie confessed as Sydney felt her friend's tears drip down onto her own skin.
"I know . . . I'm so sorry."
"How?" Will asked, pulling back to examine her. "You look . . ."
"You look fine," Francie finished.
"Physically . . . Physically I am fine," she assured them. That much was true, she reassured herself as she took a moment to hug each of them individually.
"We missed you," Will promised, each holding one of her hands.
"I wish I could say I missed you . . . But I just don't remember," she explained, feeling her tears pool with a new fury.
"Hey, it's okay, what matters is you're back," Francie softly soothed her. "It's okay Syd. You're home now, that's all that matters. You're home and safe," she sighed in relief. Sydney pulled back and smiled at her friend, more grateful than ever for her soothing presence but unable to stop worrying about how safe she truly was.
"How are you? What have I missed?" Sydney asked, smiling honestly as she took in the two of them.
"We have plenty of time for that," Laura explained. "Dinner is almost ready, so go sit down," she urged as her daughter nodded and led her friends to the dining room.
"Your father hasn't said much," Will mumbled as the three took their seats.
"Will," Francie softly warned.
Sydney chuckled and looked up at them, her heart still swelling with the mere sight of them, healthy and safe. "Does he ever say much?" she pointed out before she took a sip of her wine and continued. "I'm so happy you two are here. Everything is a mess right now," she explained, her thoughts briefly clouded with images of Vaughn and his wedding band. "The two of you are my best friends though . . . my oldest friends in the entire world. I'm so glad you're here."
"Hey," Will reached out to take her hand again, gently squeezing it. "We're here Syd. Whatever you need."
"Thank you," she smiled at them, feeling a tinge of relief that she had their support. At least in this world, a world without Vaughn and without the job that had seemingly been her life for so long, she had them. Somewhere along the way she decided it must be an even trade and perhaps she even got the better end of the deal. "Now what about you two? I overheard my mother say something about the two of you holding hands?" she teased.
Francie and Will both looked away, a reaction similar to their confession at the restaurant what felt like a lifetime ago. "We didn't plan it Syd . . . " Will started, his skin quickly burning red.
"We were celebrating the restaurant's second year, once I'd realized that we'd actually made an even bigger profit than we'd anticipated . . . Will was trying to convince me to let him go to his editor about doing a piece on the restaurant -"
"Hey, I was just trying to help a friend get some free publicity!" he insisted as both women laughed.
"I just wasn't comfortable with using your connections to further my business!" Francie insisted. Only a moment later she looked at her best and longest friend and sobered, "It was probably a year and a half after we thought we'd lost you . . . We'd spent most of our time together, obviously, since we always did . . . Syd, I swear, we never forgot about you and some times it was so hard not to have you around -" Francie struggled to explain, the tears becoming noticeable in her eyes.
"I know," Sydney reached over for her hand. "I know. I know you didn't forget about me . . . But I am so happy for you."
"This is so weird," Will muttered as they all laughed.
"I think it's wonderful," she sincerely commented. "I think it might even be the best news I've heard since I got back," she added with a smile. "The restaurant's doing well . . . You two are together . . . The newspaper?" she turned to Will, silently relieved that he still worked as a reporter, although she was uncertain of all the consequences that entailed.
"It's going okay," he shrugged. "I mean, after that whole Jenny fiasco, the big joke is that I don't get another assistant until I'm married or dead, whatever happens first," he humorously added. "I've covered some interesting things . . . "
"And he still has a terrible 'His Girl Friday' complex," Francie added.
"No! Still?" Sydney laughed as her best friends nodded. She took a moment to collect herself, allowing for another languid sip of wine, enjoying the opportunity to just look at them, healthy and glowing.
"Have you seen a doctor?" Will asked softly as the mood of the room shifted.
"Yes," she replied, setting her glass carefully down. "I spent an overnight at the hospital. I'm fine," she emphasized, seeing the concern on their faces.
"Physically, medically . . . I'm not sick, I don't have any scars or bruises . . . "
"That's good, isn't it?" Francie inquired.
"Yeah, it's great that no one did anything to Syd, but it sucks that there's nothing to help figure out where she's been," Will reasoned.
"I have no idea where I've been . . . or how I survived . . . " she softly added, unsure of how she survived the fate she remembered or the fate that they had pushed upon her.
"I don't care you've been," Francie insisted. "All I care about is that your back."
"But it doesn't make any sense -" Will pushed.
"Who cares?" his girlfriend snapped at him. "Who cares? I'd rather be confused and be sitting here talking to Sydney!"
"Guys -" Sydney started as Francie turned towards her.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry Sydney . . . I didn't mean to get upset -"
"I didn't mean to start something either," Will hastily agreed. "Just . . . I've never known anyone to come back from the dead before."
"You've missed so much." Francie gently squeezed her hand. "I don't know how you feel Sydney, but we're going to do everything we can to help you."
"Nothing . . . Nothing really makes sense to me right now," Sydney confessed. At that moment she wished more than anything that there was something to tell, someone to share just how confused she was and how lost she felt, but she was entirely alone. "Just be my friends, like you've always been . . . Just be my best friends."
The pair nodded from their seats across from her as Laura and Jack reappeared with the evening's meal. To her amazement, the five managed to make conversation over meatloaf and mashed potatoes made from scratch, a favorite from her childhood that her mother felt was appropriate to make. Even as they carried conversation, it was obvious to her that they stuck to topics she could participate in or easily understand, such as how the restaurant was doing or what classic piece of literature Laura's classes were currently studying.
Francie and Will left in the evening, making sure to give her all their numbers and promised to be available whenever she needed someone to talk to, no matter what time. Sydney stood at the door to her childhood home, hugging them tightly and then waiting until their car was out of sight. Afterwards she'd excused herself for the night, no longer interested in what her parents would understandably want to discuss. Her mind was already made up - she would do whatever was necessary to return to the CIA and uncover what exactly had happened to her.
After a soak in the tub, she was laying in bed. The room had once been her bedroom but was now little more than a glorified guest room. Little evidence existed to show that it had ever been her room, except the marks in the carpet from where her canopy bed had once rested. Even without the comforts of her memories, the room felt sufficiently comfortable, although she held out little hope for sleep that night.
In a struggle to be practical amid her confusion, chaos, and well-hidden fear, she sat in bed composing a list. The things she needed after being presumed dead for two years were incalculable. First off she'd need an apartment, furniture, clothes, a car, and a job with the CIA - any other job, no matter how wonderful it might be or how fantastic she might have been at it, was entirely unacceptable during that juncture of her life. There were a million things she needed - shoes, socks, she even doubted if she had a pair of underwear to her name. CD's, books, photos . . . picture frames . . . *memories* . . .
Sydney swore at the path her mind had taken her down as she wrestled with her pillows and attempted to sleep, leaving the light on dimly. She lay there struggling not to think of what she was now without, the people who were no longer a part of her life and may never be again. The night passed by slowly, and on nearly half a dozen occasions one of her parents had slipped in to study her for a few moments, seconds that ticked by like years as she did her best to feign sleep, a practice she hadn't used since she was a little girl. Eventually the morning peaked in through her window as she rolled onto her back and squinted her eyes open, feeling more exhausted than she had eight hours earlier, accepting that for at least a short while, sleep would be only a memory as her mind raced to catch up on all it had missed.
That morning started what would be a long process of putting the pieces back together again. She spent the morning going through the classifieds, circling ads for cars and apartments that sounded promising. Jack and Laura had insisted that one if not both of them would co-sign with her when she went to make the more expensive purchases - after being dead for two years, her credit was understandably nonexistent.
Sydney knew there were things to consider. There was a slight possibility that not all of her belongings had been given away to friends or charity and that some things might even be returned. While she knew logically it was unlikely she'd get anything back, the thought of having to start from scratch was too overwhelming for her first real morning back in Los Angeles. Still she had to start from somewhere, and by the afternoon she had racked up a considerable number of local phone calls and made arrangements to go look at a few local apartments and ads for cars that sounded promising.
Once she'd thoroughly searched the classifieds for potential apartments and cars, she got down to the business of searching for evidence that her mother was in fact Laura Bristow. Neither Laura or Jack was home that morning and there was a note telling her not to expect them until the middle of the afternoon, with numbers to contact them in case of an emergency. There were so many questions that she needed an answer to, and she had no one else's help in finding what she sought. For nearly three hours she searched the house, careful to cover her tracks but searching every conceivable place for proof that her mother was not who she claimed to be. Instead, she found a birth certificate, pictures, diplomas and framed degrees, passports, a social security card with what appeared to be Laura's maiden name and even her parent's marriage certificate. Sydney was confident in her own ability to detect a counterfeit of something so basic, and her heart twisted as her mind validated the legitimacy of the documents she'd discovered. There was no one else and nothing else to help her confirm it. By the middle of the afternoon, she'd only found verifiable evidence proving that Laura Bristow was just a literature professor at UCLA.
By the morning of the fifth day of October, Sydney was perhaps more confused than when she'd arrived back in Los Angeles three days ago. What troubled her most were her questions pertaining to Sloane. There was too much at stake to ask anyone about him. Instinctively she knew he had to be involved, but she couldn't decipher his motives, other than an unquenchable desire to ruin her life and rip her from everything she'd loved. In that aspect he'd been successful. Still she wanted nothing more than to delve into investigating him, aware that she would need the resources of the CIA, something her father was unwilling to discuss. That left her with far less advanced and thorough means of investigation, but she was determined to do what she could with the resources available.
Afternoon arrived as Sydney sat perched at the home's computer, her back beginning to ache with the evidence that she'd been at this too long. The notepad in her lap was growing thinner as she took rapid fire notes on what she could find, leads to answer the myriad questions that haunted her dreams and nightmares. Nothing made sense, images that she'd always associated with comfort and safety would play through her mind before twisting into horror right before her mind's eye. There was no peace, only a massive black hole of questions and no quick answer.
The doorbell rang, briefly unnerving her but forcing her to leave her computer-based investigation. As a child she remembered where her father would hide his gun, ironically something she always remembered her mother being uncomfortable with. Sydney was still a young child at the time, and Laura had been uncomfortable with a gun in the house when she was playing. The knowledge of where the gun was accessible was a slight comfort as she approached the door, having no expectations of visitors for the day.
To her relief, she opened the door and smiled at an anxious Will and Francie. "Hey."
"Hi," Will smiled sheepishly as Francie carried a large brown bag.
"We bought lunch. Is this a bad time?"
"No," Sydney smiled and shook her head, moving from the door to let them in. "What did you bring?"
"Only your favorite," Francie smiled as she began to take out the styrofoam containers as the scent filled the Bristow's large formal dining room.
"Shouldn't you be working?" she teased Will, grabbing the necessarily utensils as they sank into the large chairs.
"I met my deadline, I'm free for a few hours," he shrugged, his grin disarming. Sydney could only smile back, having missed the sight of his grin, an easily smile that wasn't plagued by the horror she had unwillingly brought into his world.
"So, how's everything going?" Francie questioned quietly as they dished out food.
Sydney shrugged for a moment, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "Okay. My dad's got a friend who's a real estate agent . . . I'm going to look at a place tonight, an apartment. If I like it, my dad's friend is going to help me cut through some of the red tape so I can move in."
"Good," Will commented.
"Just tell us when and we'll be there to help you move."
"Which means we'll both be there but I'll be moving the boxes," Will pointed out as the two women laughed. "What about work?"
"I haven't . . . I haven't been looking too hard to find a job," she conceded. There was no easy way to explain that the one job was the one her father was unwilling to discuss. Sydney knew there were ways around her father's disapproval, certainly methods he wouldn't approve of, but she couldn't let him stop her. "Right now I just want to find an apartment and a car . . ."
"Have you called the school?" Francie asked. For a moment she watched her friend freeze before she shook her head and took a bite of her lunch.
"No . . . "
"Know what would be wild?" Will questioned, his face bright with a fresh idea as the two women looked at him. "You should go by the school Syd!" This is so Will!
"Will - " Francie began, her tone a silent warning.
"I'm serious! Think about it! We could drive her by her old place, take her by the school . . . It might help her memory!" he insisted. "Plus, c'mon, wouldn't it be wild? I mean I barely understand how Sydney can still be with us, but I'm sure the school would love it. We can go today! Maybe you can even get your job back, or at least a job . . . It might help to see some of your old friends too."
"I don't know . . . " Sydney sighed.
"I don't think today's a good idea. I have to go back to the restaurant -"
"I don't have to go back today, I'll take Syd. C'mon, have you even left the house since you got home?"
"No," she conceded.
"It'll be fun Syd, and if it gets to be too much . . . well, we'll come right back," he promised, his expression sincere.
Sydney felt her shoulder's sag as she met Francie's sympathetic eyes. "It might be a good idea Syd. You said you don't remember a lot, that you're confused . . . Seeing everyone again might help. Then I can meet you guys back here later and go with you to look at the apartment."
"It's right by the beach," Sydney smiled. Then she expelled a deep breath and spoke, "Okay. We'll go."
"Great!" Will grinned. "I promise Syd, this will help . . . And if not, I'll personally move everything in to your apartment."
"Will, I don't have any furniture," she softly reminded him.
"We'll fix that," Francie vowed. "We'll go shopping . . . I think I still have some of your furniture. Will and I were thinking about moving in and consolidating our stuff . . . "
"Guys, you don't have to -"
"It was your stuff to start with," her friend insisted. "Just . . . Just think about it Syd."
"I will," she promised with a sigh before she met Will's eyes and tried her best to make her smile sincere. "We'll eat, then I'll leave my parents a note just in case, and we'll go." Will smiled widely before they turned to other conversation and finishing their food.
An hour later she was sitting next to Will, on the highway heading in the direction of the school she taught at, a destination completely unknown to her. Thankfully her companion was uncharacteristically quiet, letting the music remain the only noise in the car as Sydney watched the exits pass and the scenery change as they approached her destination. Finally, nearly twenty minutes after they left her parents house, they got off of the highway. Only a few short turns later, they were pulling onto the property of St. Jude's High School.
For a moment she wondered if she should have been surprised that she taught at a private school. Most of her education had been at private schools, including a boarding school for high school, until she'd gone to UCLA. The thought of teaching at one only seemed fitting. Truthfully she could never recall giving much thought to what type of position she'd hold once she got her Master's in Literature. SD-6 had always kept her too busy to consider the specifics of her own future.
Will smiled at her as they got out of the car and approached the entrance. As they walked towards the front door, they walked over a bricked path with names on them. Sydney briefly registered Will's explaination that they put names of those who'd given donations to help refurbish the front of the building, instead she'd paused to focus on her own name on a brick, and a few bricks over the name of her parents. Apparently she'd been there long enough to put down roots, she thought as he opened the door and let her in.
There were no security guards, no metal detectors, but it was obvious from even the front that the school was small. Judging by the exterior, she guessed perhaps three floors, none extensively large. Will placed a gentle hand on her back, breaking her evaluations as he led her left, directly into the front office. The man behind the desk grew wide-eyed at the sight of her, and she had the sinking suspicion she'd never liked him. Not because he was evil, but because he frankly was already beginning to annoy her.
"He's not in a meeting . . . Just go in, I'm sure he'll want to see you," the elderly man motioned to the hallway behind him. Will tossed another smile in her direction, leaving her to wonder if it was for her benefit or his. Silently she smiled back as they walked down a tiny hallway and proceeded to knock on the blue door with the sign of "Principal" on it. Only a moment later the door opened and Sydney did her best not to lose her balance.
"Sydney . . ." he replied, his tenor deep and the shock obvious on his usually stoic face. "Sydney," he sighed and pulled her in for a brief hug. "How? I thought . . . Are you okay?" he questioned, noting the color drain from her face.
"I'm okay . . . Can I sit?" she questioned.
"Of course," Marcus Dixon smiled at her and let her in. "I'm sorry . . . This is a shock Sydney, I don't know how else to explain it," he explained as he ushered her into a seat.
"This . . . You're the principal," she noted softly, looking around the office, relieved to see pictures of Diane, Robyn and Steven, obviously recent. Diane was alive, something that was a tremendous relief to her otherwise troubled soul.
"Yes . . . Mr. Curry left about seven months after we thought we'd lost you. Apparently I did good work as vice principal and they promoted me."
"Congratulations," she whispered as he smiled at her.
"How are you? Where have you been? Is there anything I can do -"
"One question at a time," Will interjected as Sydney smiled, thankful for their friendship.
"I'm sorry . . . I'm sure you already know this, but we thought you were dead."
Sydney looked up and met the eyes of the man she recalled as her working partner and nodded. "I know . . . To answer your questions, I'm as well as can be expected. I don't know where I've been . . . I have no memories of the past two years."
His face twisted in sympathy as he spoke, "I can't imagine how difficult all of this must be for you, but if there's anything Diane or I could do to help, we'd like to."
She sucked in a deep breathes of stale office air and did her best to smile. "Right now I'm staying with my parents . . . There's not much anyone can do . . . I'm trying to get my life back in order," she explained. There was no way to explain that without the CIA and Vaughn; there was no sense of order. For so long that had been her order, Vaughn had become her happiness and her normalcy. She was beginning to loathe how he popped into her mind at the worst possible moments, but she suspected there was nothing she could do to stop it.
"How long have you been in Los Angeles?"
"A few days," she answered. "I woke up and didn't remember anything . . . I spent a night in the hospital. I'm fine."
"Do they know what caused the memory loss?"
"No," she sighed. It felt unnatural to keep details and nuggets of truth from the man across from her, but present circumstances left her no option. In her best interest, and his, the less Dixon knew, the better.
"We filled your position Sydney . . . We didn't want to do it, but we had to. The class of 2003 worked their tails off to get a scholarship established before they graduated, in your honor, to a student who was going to study Literature or English. We thought it would be a fitting tribute," he conceded as she nodded, blinking rapidly and hoping to hide her tears. "I know that this is a difficult time for you . . . If there's anything Diane or I can do, anything, please, let us know," he advised as she promised. "In the meantime . . . I know you were considering leaving, but if you're still interested in working in the school, I'm sure I can find you a position. Any position. That way you would be in a familiar environment, around people you know, until a position opens up in English or the Language Departments."
The smile that crossed her face was sincere as she recognized his generosity, something that transcended her former world into her new bizarre existence. To tell him that this environment was anything but familiar would only raise more questions and shatter his attempts to help her. She'd missed this Dixon, the man who still had his wife and his family, who hadn't had to watch his world torn out from under him and ripped into shreds. This kind man went home to a healthy, living wife and children. As much as this world had taken from her, it had given that back to him.
"Thank you," she spoke. In the end, it would be a job, and Dixon's presence was still comforting despite the change in their dynamics.
"C'mon," he slowly stood. "I'll take you around to see some of the kids. I'm sure they'll be thrilled."
They were thrilled, as were a good number of the faculty, if not more than a little confused. There was so little she could tell them, since she knew so little herself. Even so, the reception was far more joyous than she'd expected. The classrooms were small, and the class numbers even smaller. The atmosphere was comfortable and friendly. She could imagine herself working there and being happy, and as they passed the plaque hung in her honor, she could only imagine how devastated those around her had been as a result her of apparent death.
Francie was already sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea with Laura when Will brought her back from visiting the school. The four went in two separate cars to the apartment, following the directions provided by the real estate agent, having arranged for Jack to meet them there. Despite Eric Weiss' kind offer, since she was supposed to barely know him, she decided against contacting him regarding an apartment. Amazingly enough she'd been successful on her own, her search short but successful. The apartment they viewed incredible, with sliding doors that led out to a balcony with ocean and beach views. There was a large, spacious bedroom, a kitchen that was advanced enough for her rather basic cooking skills and a bathroom complete with an antique, claw-foot bathtub. Between the view and the bathtub, it was love at first sight.
Evening crept into night. Laura had insisted her friends stay for dinner, but by ten the house was quiet. Sydney sat curled up on the living room sofa, her lap covered not only with her new rental agreement but trying to decipher all she'd uncovered that day with the help of the internet. Nearly an hour earlier her mother had excused herself for bed, and it was only when her father stood, blocking her light, that she realized he hadn't done the same.
"Sydney, do you have a moment?"
"Sure," she answered, closing the folder and setting it aside as her father sat down. Awkwardness sank into the room before she twisted and looked him in the eye, "Thanks dad. For helping me get the apartment . . . There's no way I would have gotten a rental agreement without your co-signature."
Jack nodded, remaining silent as he reached into his pocket. A moment later he pulled out a badge and handed it to her. Sydney studied the laminated object for a moment before she looked up at her father in confirmation. "I spoke to the Director and Devlin . . . It's your security clearance. You're not to be field graded until we've discovered more of what you went through. Your clearance is low, but it's a start. As far as the CIA is concerned, your orientation is complete. The clearance doesn't go into effect until the twelfth."
"Why not until then?" she asked, her eyes now studying the object in her hand.
"I don't want you beginning until you have the apartment settled and a car," he explained. "Your mother and I . . . You went with your friend Will to visit the school today."
"Yes," she confirmed.
"I don't suppose it matters, but your mother and I would be relieved if you took a position there," he explained. At his daughter's silence, he added, "But I doubt you'll listen to my advice."
"I can't dad," she sighed. "I can't go back . . . I need answers, and you know better than anyone that this is the only way to get them."
"The CIA is going to use you Sydney, to get information on the Covenant -"
"Then let them. Let them learn what happened to me while I do."
"You're going to try regression therapy first. There are other . . . methods, but they are too dangerous. The results of such procedures are not worth what you would retrieve from your memory," he explained.
"Thank you," she whispered as he stood.
"Your welcome," he studied her for a moment before he spoke again. "It's late. You should get to bed," he advised.
"Good night," she called as he disappeared up the staircase.
Sydney had been back in Los Angeles less than a week when she planned to move into her new apartment. Jack and Laura were eager to see her get on her own two feet again, but less eager to see her living out of their safe perimeters. In her mind she had no other option. Living at home wasn't going to get her anywhere, and she needed the freedom. Thanks to her mother and Francie, a seemingly massive amount of work had been accomplished in just a few days. Not only had Sydney managed to buy a slightly used Jeep from a friend of Francie's, but they had bought or retrieved a modest amount of furniture and possessions to help furnish her new home.
Will and Francie arrived early that Friday morning. They ate breakfast with her parents before they began the day-long task of moving. There were boxes to move and people from utility companies to meet at the apartment, leaving the day a frenzy of activity. A tremendous amount of planning had gone into that day, as well as for her weekend plans. Sydney only had five days before her clearance became valid at the CIA. Inevitably that would lead to work, and she had quite a bit she still wanted to accomplish on her own time before she began answering to the CIA again.
The sunset had streaked the sky outside her apartment a mixture of purples, oranges, and reds as she began carrying the last carload of boxes over. Only her father was helping her by then. Laura had gone to get them something to eat for dinner while Francie had to go to manage the restaurant and Will had been paged to the paper. All other catastrophes aside, the day had been moderately successful and the four spacious rooms were beginning to look like a home.
Exhausted, she let a box of photo albums drop to the floor with a slight thud. She'd been up late the night before, busy doing research and making arrangements, and her back was beginning to pay the price for spending too many hours hutched over a computer keyboard. Letting out a deep breath, she rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the room, pleased to see that the boxes were placed in the appropriate rooms, having teased Will earlier for putting a kitchen box in the tiny bathroom.
From the open door behind her Sydney detected footsteps approach from the hallway. She allowed her eyes to slide close as she rolled her neck, waiting for her father to walk in with the last of the boxes. Instead she heard the footsteps end abruptly at her threshold. "I came by to offer to help," a male voice, one that was deeply imprinted in her soul, explained from the doorway. "I see I'm a little late now though," he added in amusement.
Sydney slowly turned around, waiting for the sight in front of her to disappear into thin air. For a moment she studied him from head to toe, her heart twisting and nearly stopping altogether at the sight of the wedding band on his finger. Finally she met his eyes, her heavy mask of confusion and curiosity unable to completely hide the joy she felt at seeing him. He was married, but he was here, and perhaps he'd offer insight into her life that no one else could.
"Danny."