Rating: K
Shipper: Sark/Sydney
Summary: The last week of Sydney Bristows life.
A/N: Just a little drabble….
A/N: I know they exchanged Sark for the CIA agent in Mexico, but doesn't Moscow just sound prettier?
PLEASE Review! MondayIt had been a Monday morning, bright and sunny with fresh dew on the green lawn outside, the sun just barely over the horizon filling the dawn with warmth; when Sydney Bristow had fallen over the edge, to the point of no return.
She had stopped at the local dry cleaners, to drop off a basket of the dark suits that made up her meek closet. Stepping out of her car she felt the usual tired dread of facing another day of not knowing, not remembering, and then she had looked up into the interior of the drycleaners. Lauren Reed was hauling a huge basket of laundry to the counter. A blue shirt fell from the pile, landing inconspicuously on the floor, not drawing Lauren's attention.
It had been in that moment, when something inside Sydney broke, something that could never be fixed or replaced. Of course it didn't look like anything, just a woman leaning against her car for a moment, trying to catch her balance. But to Sydney, everything had changed.
It was a Monday morning when she knew she just wanted to die. The realization filled her with the quiet that fills the Bay before a storm, filled with artificial calm and fake reassurance that everything would work out. She had straightened and got back into her car, after all a dead woman didn't need clean clothes.
TuesdayIt was a Tuesday when she bought the sleeping pills, wine and razor blade. At first she had considered a gun, but she was tired of guns, hated the noise they made; she missed the tranquility of the time before guns had appeared in her life.
No one at work had noticed, in fact they all thought she was getting better; she was smiling, walking with her head held high. In fact the only thing that reminded them of her missing two years was the deadness in her eyes, but they brushed it off, she was just tired.
It was a good Tuesday, she wasn't scared anymore, and there was no future to be afraid of. In fact she hadn't even planned on coming back but there was a phone call that night. It would have to be another night; Dixon needed her on Tuesday night.
Wednesday
It was a Wednesday when she decided where she should do it. She was going to Moscow, to exchange Sark for a captive CIA agent, Vaughn was going too. She liked the idea of dieing in Moscow, she thought it suited her; she had always loved snow…
Would it be snowing?
She had thought about her time in Russia as she had packed, the time in Siberia with Sark… The Moscow Embassy with Vaughn… Maybe she had been there in her missing two years. Maybe that was the reason why Moscow sounded so reassuring and safe.
It also pleased her that Sark would be there, it felt right; her greatest enemy would be witness to her ruined poise.
Was Sark her enemy? She couldn't remember, everything seemed so subjective, open to discussion and revision.
Perhaps he wasn't her enemy… after all he had never lied to her, never gone after her personally; the only thing that had stood in between their friendship was his allegiance to the wrong people. No, Julian Sark wasn't her enemy, he was her equal.
It was a Wednesday when Sydney Bristow stopped seeing in black and white and started to view the world in numerous shades of gray.
ThursdayIt was a Thursday when Julian made her smile. Actually he made her giggle and blush too. It had made Vaughn mad, to see her smile at his antics and giggle at his jokes. But Julian liked it, he had smiled back; a smile not a smirk.
They had taken the private jet to Moscow, and Julian had done impersonations of his guards to pass the 10-hour flight, he had even opened up about his childhood. Sydney liked Julian, much more than she had ever liked Sark.
When they had landed the plans had changed, Dixon wanted information on the group holding the captive CIA officers. They would have to get to a computer in a mansion of a Russian Diplomat who happened to be hosting a Masked Ball. She would go with Julian; Vaughn didn't have very good Russian, and Dixon needed the best.
She had liked her dress, and her alias. Alexia Bashmakova the Russian heiress, a young woman in love with her gorgeous blonde escort; with long hair so black that it shone sapphire in the light, and a dark blue gown complete with black swan mask, her character: Odile the Black Swan. And he, Alexander the Great… it fit him. She had smiled to her self in the mirror, standing with Julian; they made a lovely couple…
Why had she never seen this before?
It was a Thursday night when she danced with Julian Sark, a waltz, and felt just a twinge of sorrow about leaving this world.
FridayIt was a cold and sleety Friday when she had curled up with Julian by the fireplace in the suite they shared with Vaughn and talked to him about everything she was afraid to admit to. Surprisingly he didn't offer condolences… he just listened, and understood with no false pretenses.
She liked talking to Julian; he helped rid her of her monsters. Vaughn was mad again; he had those ugly frown lines on his forehead as he banged away on his computer. She longed for him to say something nice to her, but he didn't even notice her starring at him, tears building in her eyes…
Julian noticed… perhaps he had always noticed and she had never known how well he knew her. He had taken her hand in his, an odd gesture that felt wonderfully normal. That was when Vaughn had chosen to look up, to see why there was a sudden silence. He saw Sydney's hand resting in the terrorists upturned palms, and he saw Julian's hand snake its way to her neck to brush a stray strand of hair away, and to her cheek to wipe away a solitary tear.
He had looked hurt for a moment, but remembered himself and looked away. He didn't see Sydney's fingers trace the line of Julian's jaw; if he had he would have known Sydney was having feelings for Julian Sark.
Sydney felt confused, but resolved. Julian continued surprising her by requesting to play a game. The game was: Guess Which Scar You Inflicted, a game of assignments and battle stories, and a frightening jagged scar from an ice pick on his knee that made her cringe; it made her think of her own scar, the one on her abdomen. Julian hadn't liked that scar; he had frowned and stood to get some fresh air.
Vaughn had turned to her, not understanding why the cold-blooded killer was so spooked by a scar. He didn't understand that Julian had been scared for her, not of her. Actually there was a lot that Vaughn didn't understand.
In general she liked the game; it made her laugh so hard she started crying. And then she couldn't stop crying… once again Vaughn didn't understand, he never would. Michael Vaughn had never lost two years of his life to the enemy. Julian had, the CIA had taken two years from him, he understood completely!
It was a Friday when Sydney knew she would miss life a little bit more than she had expected.
SaturdayIt was a snowy Saturday morning when she knew she would die.
She had gotten up long before the sun rose in the East and gone outside to walk in the quiet pre-dawn hours, just her and the snow. Walking in the streets of a sleeping Moscow she said goodbye to the world that had cursed her from birth.
She had a silent conversation with her mother, and father; with Marshall, Weiss, Dixon, Carrie, even Lauren and Vaughn. The one person she couldn't say goodbye to in her head was Julian. But that was ok, she didn't need to say good bye to him, he would understand better than anyone else why she had left when and how she did.
She made her way up to the nice suite, just as the sun touched the horizon. It was funny, the day she was going to be free of the world, and Julian would be free of the CIA. She liked irony, and grinned as the elevator rose to the 47th floor.
The bathroom was expansive and she felt sad she hadn't gotten to bathe in the huge tub. Settling on the floor she pulled out she tools. The wine was sweet in her mouth and burned only a little going down her throat. The pills were harder, bulky and unpleasant. She had always hated taking pills, but she got 10 pills down and took another swing of wine. A light feeling spread in her body and she reached for the razor.
A knock sounded from the door, but the wine and pills left no room for common sense. Sydney sat, leaning against the tub smiling to herself, imaging the elation of seeing Francie again, the real Francie and maybe the real Laura Bristow, who would hug her and give her a band aide.
She nodded to herself and brought the razor down, feeling its sweet kisses on her bare wrists. She must have moaned because there was a bothersome shout and more pounding. But nothing mattered, the razor felt wonderfully simple, her pain now had an origin, it was no longer a messy bundle of pain somewhere in her chest.
She was slumped blood running freely, eyes closing quickly when Vaughn and Julian broke down the door. She smiled and in that moment, the look on Julian's face made her failing heart miss a beat. He was in a rage running to her, clasping towels to her wrists fighting to keep her there. Vaughn hadn't moved he was shell-shocked, glued to the floor.
Julian had seen the wine and pills, he moved fast doing something, for a moment Sydney was afraid he would leave her but he didn't. He was crying now, moving her body onto his own, still holding the towels over her wrists, rocking her back and forth.
Sydney smiled and felt her eyes close for the last time. In her last moment she felt regret for leaving him, not Vaughn but Julian whom she had come to trust and love. Her eyes closed and she was gone.
It was a Saturday when Sydney Anne Bristow, noble CIA agent, died in the arms of Julian Sark, known terrorist.
Sunday
It was a Sunday two weeks later that Sydney woke up in a private hospital in sunny Tuscany with Julian Sark holding her hand and sleeping beside her.
She was glad to be alive, happy that he had helped her. She wasn't fixed, she had been broken beyond repair, but Sydney Bristow was reborn.
He had saved her, escaped Vaughn and moved her here. He had protected her and was offering himself to her, of only she promised never to scare him again.
She promised.
It was a Sunday in the hills of Italy when Alexia Bashmakova began the first day of her many days with Julian Sark.