Title: "Family Portrait"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
'Ship: none
Spoiler: none, although anything through "Ice" just to be safe
Length: one-shot
Summary: "You're sleeping with my sister"
Author's Note:Life's dark and twistedin Spyland, or at least in my version, but it was time to dig into the new Bristow family dynamics. And on a sidenote, this is the first "Alias" story I've written that's not about Sark. Yay, for progress! Hope you all enjoy!
"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance."
- George Bernard Shaw
She's waiting for him when he gets home, back pin-straight in his arm chair, arms wrapped around her waist, the bangs she cut for the new start to her new life bouncing angrily with each jagged breath. He wishes she could have started fresh and new – a clean break – but he sees the fire burning in her dark eyes, and he remembers she never had a chance. Not with her past, not with her life, not in the world he created for her.
He puts down his bag, takes off his coat, and tugs at his tie, maroon against the navy of his suit, the cream of his shirt. Red, white, and blue, a true patriot, but when he looks hard enough he can see the sickle and stars embedded in the fabric, and it slips from his fingers like a forgotten noose. Her eyes dart to the tie, to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and come to rest on his face, her mother's eyes lit up like angry flames
"You're sleeping with my sister," she says coldly, like a Russian winter blowing over the steppe, seeping through is clothes straight to the bone. He wishes he'd left the coat on.
"Hello, Sydney," he says and slips into the chair opposite hers. "How was your day?"
"You're sleeping with my sister," she repeats, ice still lacing her tone. "And I want to know why." She unwraps her arms from her waist, her eyes never leaving his. "Tell me why."
He shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his chair, trying to ignore the dark fall of her hair, the shape of her eyes – and fails. "Why would you think that?" he asks and hopes his voice is as strong as he wants it to be. "We're co-workers, same as you and I."
"Stop lying to me, Dad. For once – just once – tell me the truth."
He sucks in a breath, but leaves his face unreadable, blank – his trademark look – emotionless. "Why are you bringing this up?"
As she leans toward him dark hair falls over the angle of her jaw, but it can't hide the familiar tilt of her head. "Because it's wrong and not just because we're co-workers. But because she's my sister and you're my father."
"It's my business."
"It's sick!"
He gets up from his chair, so he can stop seeing his wife reflected in his daughter's face. "Many things are wrong in this world, but that doesn't mean they're going to stop happening."
She's standing now too, her face obscured by shadows cast in the dim lamplight. And her voice, when she speaks, is clear and soft and 100 American. "Why?" she asks, the ice in her voice replaced by bitterness and confusion. He can sense the tears in her eyes, prepped to spill down those half-breed cheeks…like cold vodka on a warm California morning.
He doesn't recognize his voice as he wheezes out the words. "Because she reminds me of your mother."
He flinches as the door slams behind her.
She writhes beneath him, long and lean and supple in his hands. Her hips shift, buck against his, and he's pressed against a body he doesn't quite recognize, but isn't a stranger either. Her hair spills across his hand in an inky wave, and her features blend and mold in the moonlight, the nose shifting, the jaw tightening, the lips deflating against his own. He remembers another time, another woman, so many years ago, and the fire starts to burn inside in entirely different ways.
"Jack," she hisses between parted lips as his fingers reach to wrap around her throat.
"Jack," she says louder, insistent, and grabs his wrists with long, nimble fingers. Her eyes shoot open, wide and cloaked with fear, black as night, the light sparkling like stars in a clear summer sky. He could make that light go out, if he wanted to, if he tried just a little bit harder. She writhes underneath him for entirely different reasons, her nails cutting into his knuckles. Her eyes stare into his, deep and dark – too dark – like a noon-day shadow, not warm caramel. "Jack, I'm not my mother," she whispers, and he jerks away, falling back on the bed.
He feels very tired, feels the weight of his burden – his guilt – weighing heavily on his middle-aged shoulders. He glances at her, looking like no one but herself, curled against the headboard of his bed. "I'm sorry," he says, forcing his tone to remain even. "I have killed her, a thousand times in my mind, in a thousand different ways, but I never meant for it to get this far."
She rises and begins to dress while he watches her, the clothes obscuring her similarities to the woman who haunts his dreams, waking or asleep. "Same time tomorrow?" she asks, a knowing smile on her lips.
He can barely contain his surprise. "You're sure?" he asks and she nods, sliding her purse over the slope of her shoulder. "Why?"
"Because you remind me of my mother."
He doesn't see her out, and as he curls in his bed, her perfume clinging to his pillows, he suddenly feels very old.
It's late when she gets home, to late even to watch "The Daily Show" and roll her eyes at all the ways Jon Stewart mocks the country she risks her life to protect. There's a note from her sister, something about working late and not waiting up. She swallows hard, thinking about what kind of "work" Nadia is doing. There's a bottle of red wine on the counter from their girl's night in the previous evening, a Bordeaux she knows Sark would never lower himself to touch, and she pours herself a glass – anything to help sleep after her day. She watches the wine catch the light, turn the liquid into a bright, brilliant red, and if she looks hard enough she can see the sickle and stars lurking there. She pushes the glass away in disgust. She's tempted to go on a McDonald's run, something fatty and gross and authentically American, but then she remembers Golden Arches on a mission to Russia and realizes she'll never escape that part of who she is, not really, no matter how hard to tries to bury it. Like her mother in her cold Moscow tomb – gone maybe, but never forgotten. Bed is beginning to sound like a fantastic idea.
There's a photo on her nightstand, taken a few weeks earlier at Weiss' birthday party, and she traces the figures of her family with her eyes – her father, her sister, and herself, flanking her like bookstands. She notes the shape of her father's nose, her sister's eyes, and sees them in her own face. And if she tries hard enough, she can remember her mother the way she wants to remember her, soft and sweet, cool fingers brushing her hair off a flushed face. Back when things were normal, and easy…and right.
The door opens with a crack and she hears her sister's footsteps on the tile. "Syd?" Nadia asks in her smoothly accented voice – similar, but not quite the same. "Syd?" Nadia tries again. "Why are the lights on? I told you not to wait up."
Her sister looks normal, hair tamed and clothes straight, but there's a flush to her cheeks and a puffiness to her lips – and a wring of bruises wrapped around her throat. Syd smiles. "Couldn't sleep. How was work?" she asks, emphasizing the last word.
"Fine," Nadia responds, her tone strained, reaching a self-conscious hand to her neck, hair swinging forward to hide the marks. "Are you okay?" she asks, eyes locking with her sister's, and Sydney knows that she knows that she knows. It's like that episode of "Friends," only without the laugh track and happy ending.
Nadia chooses her words carefully and sits on the couch. "Are you mad?"
"Mad?" she laughs. "Of course I'm mad. I just don't know what makes me angrier, that it's happening in the first place, or that I can't bring myself to care." Nadia looks up quickly, but doesn't say a word. "I know why you're doing it," Sydney continues and sits down beside her. "I understand it. I'm even jealous that you can do it."
"Why?" Nadia asks, hands shaking.
"Because it's duplicitous, manipulative, cruel…" Her voice hitches on a sob. "Because it reminds me of my mother.
Nadia breathes in deep, ducks her head. "We never wanted you to know."
"I know, but just because you don't want something to happen doesn't mean it won't."
Her sister's eyes are like bleeding bruises. "Is there anything I can do?"
She examines the familiar set of the jaw, the tilt of Nadia's head, and nods. "You can hold me, okay?"
Nadia chokes out a reply and wraps her in her arms, one hand brushing her bangs off her heated forehead. "I'm sorry, Syd. I never wanted it to be this way."
"I know, but it is this way, and there's nothing we can do." And she closes her eyes, smells her father's scent on her sister's skin and feels her mother's eyes caressing her face…and smiles, because it feels like home.
Thoughts anyone? Any feedback is greatly appreciated.