Part 34
"I can just have Will go, Syd." The sound of Vaughn's voice was bordering on a whine.
"Why? It's just two days," she countered, her finger tracing the wooden seam of the dining table edge as the teapot brewed on the counter.
Michael crossed his arms over his chest as his frown deepened, his wife surprised that was even a possibility. "Your morning sickness is kicking your ass right now, Syd."
"Ppft," she brushed off. "I'm fine." The green tint of her cheeks and the fact that it was nearing two in the morning piled onto the fact that she'd been up three times since eleven already. All of that tarnished the confidence of her assurance. "Just because I'm not doing this alone right now doesn't mean that I can't."
Leaning her forehead against the seat of the toilet after a bout of retching, Sydney regretted convincing him so hard that she would be fine. Truthfully, she was fine, just missing the comfort of him kneeling behind her with a hand holding her hair back and the other pressing a cool cloth to her forehead as she purged what remained of her previous meal, the water she'd been forcing down, and the tea that she'd hoped would have made this process a lot easier.
"Mommy?"
Isabelle's tiny voice came from the entrance to the bathroom, Sydney peering up to see the little girl with rumpled pajamas and sleep lingering in her otherwise bright green eyes.
"Hey bean, did I wake you up?"
"I'll help," she said decidedly and grabbed the little stool from the corner of the big bathroom.
Sitting back on her heels and stretching her neck, Sydney felt the pinch of the hair tie on her scalp from where she'd yanked the tresses into place on her bolt to the bathroom. Her daughter turned on the sink and grabbed a hand towel from the nearby rack, soaking it thoroughly, and then carrying the sopping mess over to her mother.
"You sick, mommy?" Setting a tiny hand to Sydney's forehead to check for a temperature made the pale woman laugh and take the towel, pulling the girl into a hug. Wringing the excess water dripping from the soaked terry cloth into the toilet before flushing, they scooted back against the wall to perch on the pillow Vaughn had placed a week ago when the bouts had started.
"Thank you, sweetie, I feel better already. Remember when we planned on the calendar and I said there would be a few weeks where I was sick to my stomach? That's where we're at."
She nodded and threw an arm around Sydney's middle, her little hand patting just above the belly button. "Growing a baby is hard. We shoulda bought one."
The mother laughed, another bout of queasiness hitting but ebbing. "It doesn't work that way, sweetie, but yeah, it's hard sometimes."
"Werf it?"
Looking down at the bright green eyes, Sydney nodded. "Totally worth it. Let's go make some tea."
Isabelle hopped up and held out her hands intending to help her mother up, Sydney accepting and pretending as much as her revolting stomach and dizzy brain would allow that she was having a hard time and that her daughter's hand was just what was needed.
"Can I have hot chocolate?"
"Sure," the mother conceded, knowing that if she made the concoction with warm milk the little girl would be out like a light for the rest of the night.
"Wiff whip cream?"
Sydney grinned, "you can't really have hot chocolate without whipped cream."
Dropping her hand and skipping ahead, the little girl grabbed another stool and set it under the lightswitch, sliding the dimmer to low after blinding them both momentarily with a flick of her finger. Water in the electric kettle churned and Sydney set a cup of milk on the stovetop for the hot chocolate, the little girl climbing up at the table and flipping through the planner she and her mother had put together.
"Mommy? What number are we on?"
Sydney smiled and moved to her side. "Ten weeks."
Flipping the page, Izzy's finger pointed to the pages a couple of weeks earlier. "Eight is a bean!"
"That's how you got your nickname. The first time we saw you in the picture you were the size of a little bean."
Isabelle paused and looked back and forth from the picture in the planner to her mother's still flat stomach. "Is...will the new baby's pretend name be bean? What will you call me?"
Calming her worry by pressing a kiss to the top of her head as the kettle hissed, Sydney promised that wasn't the case. "We'll give the new baby a different one."
"How big is it right now?"
"Keep flipping until you see the ten."
Opening the box of peppermint tea the queasy mother took a deep breath inside the box and let the soothing smell invade her senses in the hope that it would quell her stomach. Thankful that tomorrow was Saturday, her eyes spotted 12:45 on the stove and she realized that tomorrow was already today.
"A peanut or a strawberry," the little girl called out. "Strawberry is a bad pretend name."
"Peanut isn't too bad," Sydney responded as she stirred the cocoa mix into the boiling milk. Tossing in a couple of ice cubes and grabbing the spray bottle of whipped cream from the fridge, she topped it off with a puff of the tasty foam and carried both mugs to the table.
"We should ask the baby."
"If you could have picked your name, what would it be?"
Holding the small mug with both hands and sticking her finger into the cream with a dimpled smile, the wheels turned behind her eyes. "Princess Bean."
Sydney laughed and sipped at her tea.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, Princess Bean?"
Reaching out with a gentle hand she traced the faint scar on the back of Sydney's thumb that continued around to her wrist before heading up to her elbow. "How did you get this owie?"
Behind the question was only innocence, but Sydney still felt the twinge in her muscles that came with any mention of that past. It had lessened over the years, and if she was the one to bring it up there was barely a reaction. If she was surprised by the inquiry, however, it set off either her stomach or her nerves. Her stomach was already a turbulent mess, so Sydney was thankful that it was the nerves that pinched for a moment.
"I broke my arm before you were born. Doctors had to fix it," she lied. There would come a day that she and Vaughn would have to sit their daughter down and explain her past, but today was not that day.
"Did it hurt?" The little finger kept tracing the line, the girl leaning on her stomach over the table as she traced the scar, poking softly when a stitch line popped up every inch or so.
"It sure did."
"Did you falled?"
Sydney smiled softly. "Yep. Tell me, Izzy," she changed the subject with a sip of her tea. "Do you want a brother or a sister?"
"Can I pick?"
Sydney chuckled. "Well no. It's already either a boy or a girl, but it's a fun game to guess. Maybe you'll be right."
"Can I have bofe?"
"Probably not, sweetie. You'll have to guess just one." The tea was starting to work on Sydney's stomach, and as Isabelle drank the warm beverage the mother could see sleep tugging at the little girl as she sat back into the chair with her little feet alternating between hanging off of and propping on the seat.
The little girl turned the tables. "Do you want a brother or a sister?"
"I think a boy would be fun," she answered. "Taking care of a baby brother might be nice, don't you think?"
"If she's a sister she can share all of my dresses and my dolls." Isabelle looked confused for a moment. "Can a brother share my dolls?"
"If he wants to," Sydney answered and propped her head on her hand as the two sat at the table surrounded by the quiet of night.
"Brady at class says dat boy toys can't be girl toys."
Sydney scoffed lightly, "a toy is a toy. If you have a brother and he wants to know how to play baby doll, I think he has a great big sister to teach him, don't you?"
Isabelle nodded vigorously. "I'm real good at baby doll! What if we have a brother but they want to be a sister?"
Sydney was yet again surprised by her daughter's curiosity. The way her mind worked at nearly five astounded them all, and when her father said that it reminded him of Sydney when she was younger, they had to wonder which of her traits Isabelle had inherited.
"Then they can be a sister."
"Okay," she said and finished her drink. "You feeling better mommy?"
Sydney nodded, surprised when it was the truth. "Yes, love. Thank you for helping me."
"Tomorrow we can think a name for the baby. When daddy gets home, he can help. He's a good helper."
…
"Odd you still haven't picked a name. You had Isabelle chosen before you were showing," Jack mentioned, Sydney and Michael sharing a look and a grin. It was the first time it had come up all night, Vaughn having told everyone they weren't sure about a name and would decide after the baby was born. Though he was almost two hours old and still hadn't been donned with one yet, though no one seemed to mind at the moment.
Isabelle, however, had been preparing for "baby Jack" for months, and as she hovered above the infant beside her grandfather's leg with bright green eyes, she frowned and put a hand on her hip.
"We named him your name, papa."
"What, sweetheart?" Jack looked confusedly down at the little girl, the infant in the crook of his arm squeaking and pulling his attention.
"This is baby Jack. I learned to spell it, wanna see?" Dropping to her tiny suitcase she pulled out a tattered notebook and flipped to the page where her grandfather could admire her practiced letters.
In legible and clean letters at the top it said Baby Jack, and below was Isabelle's wobbly, yet readable, copy. The Grandfather's eyes bounced up to the tired yet sweet smile on his daughter's face, Michael's looking the same when he shifted to the young man sitting on the small couch on the other side of the room.
"Jonathan William," she said quietly. "Despite that one," she grinned, pointing to Isabelle, "we kept it a secret." The little girl was oblivious to the accusation as she lay on her stomach practicing more letters on the lined paper.
"It took a lot of bribes for Izzy not to spill the beans. She figured out blackmail far too easily."
Steel-blue eyes looked down at the squinting light gaze of his grandson, the pink squished face and suckling mouth staring up at him from within the wrapped blanket.
"You...didn't have to do that," Jack said as a ball of emotion clogged his throat.
"It was daddy's idea," the tiny brunette with green eyes said between poking out her tongue and biting her lower lip deep in thought over another copy of Baby Jack in bright pink crayon.
The adults laughed, "see why we're so surprised?"
Sydney shifted with a wince. The birth hadn't gone as smoothly as hoped. The infant turning just before Sydney's water broke, and after failed attempts to right the wrong position, Sydney was rushed in for an emergency c-section. The process of trying to turn the baby as well as the impromptu surgery had left her painfully sore and extremely tired and uncomfortable, and though everyone wanted to stay for a chance to hold the new baby, all but the grandfather had gone home for the night.
Once the infant got fussy and demanded his evening meal, the elder Bristow stood and pressed a kiss to every forehead present, including Michael's. Settling the baby into Sydney's arms, he said his goodbyes and left.
"This is so different than last time," Michael noted, Sydney nodding as Isabelle moved to stand beside the bed.
"I kind of wish we could be second time parents the first time around. It would have made everything so much easier." Unbuttoning the blouse the baby latched and made squeaking grunts as he drank.
"Can I see, mommy?"
"Sure, bean, climb up with careful steps." The medical bed was a bit too high, so Michael moved from his spot on the settee to lift his daughter and set her gently beside Sydney's legs.
"No, daddy, don't look!"
Forgetting himself for a moment, he quickly turned his head away before realizing that the reaction wasn't warranted. Truthfully, some of his favorite moments as a new parent were spent watching his wife feed their little ones.
"It's a family thing, sweetie, it's okay. Your daddy used to watch you eat all the time."
"You made the cutest little piggy noises," Michael said as he moved back and flopped down on the couch with a sigh, his hands folded behind his head.
Isabelle looked indignant. "No I didn't! I'm a princess! Princesses don't make piggy noises!"
"You're right," Sydney agreed. "They were more like...cute little mousey squeaks."
This made Isabelle cross her arms over her chest in a huff with a huge pout on her face beneath a hardened scowl that, by five, she'd more than perfected. Sydney reached out and cupped her daughter's chin, "I loved your little squeaks. They were very lady-like."
A few hours later, Isabelle was tucked against her mother's side drooling into the pillow with one leg hanging off the bed as Sydney slept with her cheek against the top of the little girl's head. Holding the sleeping newborn to his chest with his left hand sprawled across his back, Michael reached down to bring the girl's foot back to the bed and under the blanket as a knock announced the arrival of the nurse checking in on the small family.
"Look at you. You'd hardly think that I had to teach you how to even pick one up," she commented with a sweet smile, Vaughn chuckling as he finished tucking the blanket around his eldest with his free hand.
"I got the hang of it," he grinned. "Do you need him for anything?"
"No, no, just checking in and making sure everything is alright in here." She left with a smile as Michael placed the little one back into the portable bassinet before passing out on the couch with a light and scratchy blanket draped over his legs.
…
"No, no, no, Jack-Jack, you've gotta stay with me," Vaughn ordered as he caught their three-year-old slinking his way down the hall toward the bedroom where Sydney had escaped earlier.
As predicted, the boy folded as his bones seemed to turn into mush unable to hold up his weight. Michael's grip swung the limp toddler into his arms before carrying him back to the living room.
"Mommy needs me," he whined with a sob, a dead giveaway that the boy was getting sleepy.
Isabelle jumped in from her spot coloring at the kitchen table, "brother, mommy needs to get lots of sleeps before the first day of school."
The tears didn't last very long, the father distracting the boy with a plastic tray and the container of play dough. Each time Jack began to nod off, the clock showing that it was now two hours past his bedtime, Michael would pat him on the back or shoulder just enough to jar him from dozing and he would keep squishing the now brown-colored mixture between his fingers.
At nearly ten-forty-five, he couldn't take it any longer. Despite the pat on the back, Jack nodded off with his chin lolling against his chest and his hands dropping pieces of dough on the floor and chair to both sides of the booster seat.
"Daddy, can I watch cartoons?" Isabelle asked her question as she continued to color, assuming the answer would be 'it's too late'.
Michael nodded, scooping his son up and tucking him against his chest. "If you clean up the play dough, you can watch whatever movie you want."
The suspicious squint she sent his way put a grin on his face. She hadn't moved from her spot drawing. In fact, her hand was still poised with the colored pencil over the artwork and her head was still lowered to get a better angle at whatever she needed to be bright blue, but her eyes shifted to look his way. The wheels of her mind were spinning and thinking. She must have determined that the bargain was fair, and slipping the blue pencil back into the box with the rest, she closed the lid on the tub before hopping off the chair and moving to where her brother had made a mess of the toddler-safe clay.
Jack didn't make a sound as Michael checked the pull-up diaper, finding it dry, and tucked the boy into the small, racecar-shaped bed. Lifting the attachable rail so their toss-and-turner wouldn't end up on the floor, he placed a gentle kiss to the warm forehead, brushed the blond flyaway locks aside, flicked on the night light, and made his way from the room closing the door in his wake.
Isabelle had cleaned well enough and was looking through movies on the shelf when the father flopped down on the couch.
"Tangled is already in the DVD player," he said flippantly. It was her favorite movie and had been for a year, but her glare and the tiny fists set to her hips made him raise his hands in defense and gesture for her to continue her search.
As she looked at the names on the shelf, "daddy, why do you keep us up late when mommy has to go to school the next day?"
'Crap...she's figuring it out. Do I be honest? No. Do I lie? No?'
"When you two wake up in the morning, you use a lot of her energy. The first day of school is tough for her, so if I keep you guys up late at night, you sleep in, and then mommy can go to school before you're awake. It helps her focus on her day to not worry if you're happy that morning."
Half-truths were his bread and butter, and at eight-years-old, Isabelle still thought of them as acceptable answers.
"So...the night before the first day of school," she said slowly as if her brain was working through a logic puzzle, "I get to stay up as late as I want."
"No," her father countered. "The night before your mom's first day of school, assuming it's not the same as your first day of school, you can stay up as late as you want."
Her face made the look that would accompany a huff, though no sound reached his ear. "So...the night before the first day of school for mommy," she began again, Michael's eyes squinting with skepticism, "I can do whatever I want?"
He crossed his arms over his chest. "What is it you want to do?"
"What if I want to watch the same movie three times?"
"Sure."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "What if I want to go play in the sand outside?"
"Sure."
"What if I...want to make a new costume?"
"Not a problem."
"What if…" she paused, her eyes darting about as her brain nearly exploded with the possibilities. "What if I want to play soccer with you?"
"As long as it's outside, I'll be your goalie."
"What if…" she was running out of ideas as she never thought she would get this far. "What if I want to play dress-up?"
"As long as it doesn't wake up your brother, go for it."
"What if I want you to play dress-up with me?"
Michael laughed with a sigh, repeating, "as long as it doesn't wake up your brother, sure."
"What if I want to paint your nails?"
Michael's answer was to lean forward and pull off his socks, wiggling his fingers and toes after propping them back onto the coffee table.
"Can we watch Tangled while I paint your finger and toenails?"
What his daughter was failing to realize is that the morning of intimacy he shared with Sydney before she went to school that first day was something he would be willing to fight almost to the death to keep. It was sacred. Starting in a state of complete relaxation born from love and gentleness was one of the only ways she was able to cope with a day spent unboxing so much hate and hurt. With that in mind, it's likely that he would have given in to almost anything Isabelle said. He was, however, thankful that their bright daughter had taken his agreement with surprise and hadn't instead prepared a dozen activities related to learning the loudest musical instrument of which she could recall.
"Absolutely."
Nearing one in the morning, Isabelle passed out with her cheek mashed against his arm, Vaughn rubbing his bleary eyes, mindful of the brand new layer of pink and purple polish on his nails, turning off the television mid-way through the second play of the movie. His feet shuffled and yawns blurred his vision until he tucked his head into his pillow, his body curling around his wife's as he passed out.
…
"Morning, Mrs. Vaughn," a familiar voice said from the doorway just before the rap of the knuckles hit the wood.
Looking up from her desk with a smile, Sydney greeted the assistant as he carried a gorgeously arranged bouquet of flowers in through the small office door.
"He never misses a Monday," the young man grinned as he stepped into the room. Setting the vase on the desk, a spot cleared off for the weekly delivery, this being the first of the new semester.
"Thanks, Steven," she said as he waved and left, and she took a moment to study the bright splash of color that seemed to lighten the room, and her heart, with just its presence. The deep vermillion of a smattering of roses lay between orange lily blooms, and betwixt those in almost an even pattern were purple Matthiola and lemon-colored mums.
The rectangle of folded paper was like the many she'd accumulated over the last eight years, and she recognized Michael's handwriting as he quoted one of her favorite poets yet again.
'When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.'
Beneath that said, 'the joy was this morning, and more is waiting for you at home.'
With a wistful tilt of her lips she rose, reading it three or four times before reaching the bulletin board across the room. Pulling one of the pins from the corner she put the card in line with others, eight year's worth, and stuck it in place.
Another knock pulled her attention, a young woman in a University sweater and faded jeans with a tall young man behind her wearing very nearly the same, both offering smiles. "Sorry that we're early, do you mind if we sit in the front?"
"The seats are wide open," Sydney confirmed with a thankful nod, the bonafides provided and confirmed from the undercovers that attended every day of her classes. She figured that in eight years with absolutely nothing happening the C.I.A. would pull back on the security, but a contract was a contract, and any moment she spent outside of the house was accompanied by a tail, either agents or a vehicle.
Voices trickled in as students began to arrive for the start of class, and the conversations became a wafting steady noise throughout the lecture hall that leaked into the open door of the office attached to the presentation area. Gathering what she'd been working on at the desk into an organized pile, she left it behind and made her way out after taking a deep breath.
"Good afternoon," her voice echoed, the voices dimming almost immediately as another roster packed nearly every seat. Gone were the semesters with waiting lists and over-crowded aisles lined with fidgeting students standing when no seats were left. The hype was dying down, and in perhaps two or three more years, Sydney likely wouldn't need to have the unique day-one question and answer session.
This first day of each semester was draining, but she'd learned that it was a necessity early in her tenure. Around half of the students that signed up for her classes were there for literature. The non-literature students usually dropped out, still able to say that they'd met Sydney Bristow, despite the fact that it had been almost nine years since she had used her maiden name.
An echoing rumble of return greetings washed over the room before silence reigned save for a cough from one side, and a rustle of notebook paper from the other.
"Though not everyone will stay, this is Poetry 111. My name is Sydney Vaughn, though I assume that all of you know me as Sydney Bristow. Yes," she paused with a grin to slide herself up and sit on the flat of the desk in the middle of the lowered center floor tier, "that Sydney Bristow."
Much like every other time, a low rumble of voices moved like a wave through the crowd. She watched side conversations pop up with tilted heads and cupped hands from her comfortable vantage point. This was the last class of the day for her, and she'd found that sitting on the desk and taking the load off her feet quickly became a priority. The dark blue button-up shirt bunched around her waist, and she loosened it before shifting to sit cross-legged with her hands folded together and resting lightly in the middle of her lap. Her stance was open and inviting, body language something she knew would help everyone with the upcoming conversation.
"Our first class is just this - me and you. This is the one chance you have to get any and all questions about me out of the way. For those here that don't know anything about me except what I look like sitting here in front of you, this will be a weird first day. Those that are all too familiar, now's your chance. There are no stupid questions, but know that after four other classes today unique ones will probably be few and far between. I challenge you to surprise me."
Dead silence. That's what always greeted her the moment she told any group how the first class would proceed. One hand finally rose, slow and timid, and Sydney gestured as she tried to exude calm and confidence.
"You...did, um" the young girl stuttered and shifted her eyes back and forth. "Was it real?"
Sydney nodded. "Very real. I know there are a lot of conspiracy theories out there about it being a hoax, and I don't think there's anyone out there more than me that wishes that were true." She paused for a moment before grinning to add, "maybe my husband."
More hushed whispers bounced around and were promptly followed by silence, so she laid it all out in a reassuring voice. "This is the one chance any of you will have at this. Past today, I'll shut you down." she prompted. "If I can sit in that chair for six days, you can find the courage to ask what you want to know...but you have to ask."
Several hands went up, a few more confident than others, and Sydney chose a young tan-skinned man with thick-rimmed glasses and a Sand Diego baseball cap. "Why let everyone that watched think you had died?"
"I did die. For nearly five minutes, I was dead. I had some amazing doctors that didn't give up on me, but what you saw was real, I didn't walk out of that room. Letting everyone think the bad guys had won afterward was an important step in keeping my friends, my family, and ultimately myself, safe."
An older woman with kind eyes and a greying head of hair spoke clearly. "What happened after? I've always wondered, and the CNN interview didn't clear much of that up."
Sydney nodded and looked down at her folded legs while she gathered her thoughts before meeting the eyes. "A tactical and medical team was actually out in the hall during the last ten minutes, but our director made the call to wait out the camera."
"Why? Didn't he know you could die?" A follow-up came out from the audience.
Sydney nodded sadly. "If the organization that put me in that chair saw me rescued, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. I'd probably look like someone else, talk like someone else...be someone else. I get to be me because of that decision, but I know how hard it was to make. He told me how hard it was. He absolutely knew what that decision would mean, and that a rescue could quickly turn into a recovery. No one else could have made that call, but I'm thankful he did."
"Do you know what happened to Flynn?" A voice came from the opposite side of the hall.
Sydney chuckled. "He gets to spend a very long time in a very small cell. Before he was transferred I went to see him, and the look on his face was pretty priceless."
The audience shared a collective relieved laugh. "Which part was the worst?" That question always came, no matter the class, and no matter the wording. Sometimes it would come early and sometimes it would come near the end, but it always came. The emergence of this question meant that they were getting comfortable, and that was always the preferred road for the rest of the class period.
"Truth?" She saw dozens of avid nods. "The fact that my friends and family were watching."
"And your husband?"
Sydney smiled. "At the time he wasn't my husband, but saying 'secret boyfriend' is really weird when you're over thirty. Secret dating or not, knowing he was watching was very hard. It took me a long time to get over the fact that I didn't have secrets any longer." Looking around, the faces indicated that they didn't entirely accept her answer, or she may have answered incorrectly.
Following up, she felt her right hand trace the scar on her left forearm, the students in the front row the only people in the room able to see anything. "In terms of the other stuff, the broken arm hurt the most, but it's a close second to the day after that damn little knife."
Winces reminded her that the most brutal week of her life had been shared with the world.
A hand went up somewhere in the middle. "Was your dad really in the C.I.A. with you?"
Sydney nodded, "I retired right after I...came back to life," a small chuckle wafted, "and he retired about three years ago. He was a double agent for the C.I.A. before I was, and circumstances being what they were, I couldn't have asked for a better teammate. I don't think I knew that at the time."
"Are you allowed to talk about those circumstances?" A deep voice from the right side asked.
She thought before responding, keeping in mind that some things were still classified. "The organization that recruited me had spent almost thirty years pretending to be the C.I.A.. Every question that was asked had an answer, and the Board of Directors were all ex-intelligence from various agencies around the globe. They were very good at lying, and I spent seven years working for them without knowing they were the bad guys."
A soft feminine tone from her left, "how did you not know?"
Sydney chuckled. "I still ask myself that from time to time. I don't know how I didn't see the truth, but I was blinded by my patriotism. I was really good at my job, but when you get to see the inner workings that bare every truth...it's rough learning that you were on the wrong side."
"How did you find out?"
"They tried to kill me," she responded quickly.
Murmurs floated above the room once more.
"Yeah. If you don't stay in this class that's okay, but take the note that if your boss tries to kill you, it's a massive red flag," she laughed and lightened the mood.
A middle-twenties, or early thirties, studious man with thin, artsy glasses a few rows back raised his hand. "You seem pretty mentally sound. Is talking about this stuff a trigger? Physical or mental? Do outside actions, noises, or certain people affect you based on your experiences in that room?"
'Ah yes, there's the high-level psychology student.' They were her least favorite type of drop in, but she didn't let the annoyance show on her face. Over the years, many that were seeking degrees in psychology or psychiatry took just her first class in order to ask a few questions. This gentleman was like the others, reciting his earlier assigned homework from the new $300 book she could see open on the elbow-shaped half desktop attached to the seat.
Heaving a sigh, which she hoped everyone took as steadying herself, "sure. I look over my shoulder when I'm not at home, and that includes every day that I'm here. In eight years I've excelled at being the closest thing to a hermit I can possibly be, which is so different from how I lived before that room. I don't leave my house much if I can help it, and that's because being out still kind of scares me." She paused to collect her thoughts, but if someone else asked a question in between, she'd take the out.
No one did. In fact, everyone was still waiting for her to finish the answer.
Looking down a bit as she collected her thoughts, she recited the answer she'd given many times. "I sleep with a night light on because waking up in the dark is disorienting and sometimes terrifying. Night terrors are fortunately few and far between, but once a month is pretty common." Holding up her left hand, the tip of her thumb meeting the tips of the other fingers, "I still have numb spots on my fingertips from the damage of them being broken for so long, and my left shoulder is still sore if I lean on it the wrong way because of several days of dislocation."
The psych student nodded, his thumb and pointer finger on his chin as if he had her in his chair at an office. "What do you do to prepare for today's sessions? What works when you have to dredge all of this stuff up?"
Oh how badly she wanted to be honest with this cocky little shit about the amazing morning in bed with Vaughn. Here was this guy, sitting in the audience as if those cut and paste questions that he borrowed from the very book on his desk made him a golden goose. Did he honestly think that in eight years no one had asked her about P.T.S.D.? She made up her tired mind quickly and settled on a completely honest answer, whether or not that's what the student had actually wanted. An airy chuckle left through exhale as her eyes met his with a mischievous twinkle.
"The night before the first day of the semester I go to bed pretty early. This day is...pretty draining. It's my choice to do this, and I stand by that as so many people walk in here just to ask me what they think is a shared experience."
Sydney's eyes darkened and her voice was a little louder, but there was no hard edge. She wasn't angry, but she definitely wasn't as relaxed as she sought to portray earlier. "Believe me when I say that I do not see what happened to me as something that I shared with anyone. It was my job to sit there and take it, and I did it alone. None of you were there with me despite the fact that every single one of you could pull the footage up on your phones in an instant."
Looking around, a kink to the edge of her mouth brought out the dimple on her left cheek. That little grin released a pent up breath that many in the audience were holding. "For those here that have kids, you know that going to bed early is almost impossible as a parent, but my husband sends me on my way and does an amazing job of keeping our two kids up for as long as they can last. For the little one that's about ten, maybe ten-thirty, though last night he made it to ten-forty-five. Our older kid is outgrowing this, unfortunately, and lasted until around one in the morning."
Nods from both sexes around the room pointed out who were parents, their exhausted and vigorous agreement giving them away.
"Why?" The psych student continued thinking he'd hit paydirt with his obviously very unique question.
"Because in the morning, a three-year-old and an eight-year-old are...a force to be reckoned with, even though there's two of us. A good night's sleep means that at six in the morning, sometimes earlier, two excited kids jump into bed with you ready to start their day. Keeping them up as long as they can go means they won't be awake the next morning until at least eight, and if miracles exist, closer to nine."
She paused with a chuckle. "I would not be able to do today without the morning with my husband and the fact that my kids are still unconscious."
Some eyebrows lifted, scattered laughter and diverted eyes with heads bouncing in agreement as many throughout the audience caught her meaning, whether by experience themselves or picking up on the soft and reverent tone of her voice.
"That's it? Just...not having to worry about kids?" He sounded shocked and wasn't prepared for the bright smile that accompanied a slight shake of her head. The long hair bounced around her shoulders and she absent-mindedly ran her fingers through the tresses before tucking each side behind her ears.
Laughing from around him brought a blush to his face as he realized he wasn't picking up on any of the subtle context she'd provided, mostly because he wasn't hearing what she was saying. He was listening, but listening enough to wait for your chance to speak wasn't the same as hearing what was being said. He still wasn't getting it, and that fact made him shift uncomfortably in the seat.
She gave in and tossed him a bone. "Chapter fourteen," she laughed, pointing to the psychology textbook he still had open.
The auditorium waited with bated breath as the pages turned, and his eyes went wide when he read the title Psychology of Intimacy at the top of the page.
"You aren't my first psychology student today, let alone over the last eight years that's tried to do their homework on me in this class." This shut him down completely. "If you have a question, I'm happy to answer. Leave Freud in the hallway." She pointed to someone else with their hand raised.
To preserve his integrity, he sunk low into his seat and closed the book, sliding it into his backpack as someone else's voice filled the auditorium.
"What was the coolest thing you ever did as a spy? Can we call you that? You were a spy, weren't you?" Initial confidence petered away to insecurity.
"Yes, I was a spy. I...haven't ever been asked that. Uh," she thought as mission after mission poured through her mind. "That's a very hard question to answer. A good mission is when nothing goes wrong, but I got so bored when everything went right." The audience laughed. "My favorite moments usually involved cool disguises and being sneaky, hiding in plain sight and speaking different languages. But...jumping out of planes and driving away from an explosion on a motorcycle was the adrenaline rush that kept me going back into the field."
She paused and pictured Vaughn shaking his head disapprovingly in her mind. "My husband would absolutely disagree. He was in his element when everything went perfect and was very boring. He's a bit of a Boy Scout."
"Did you two meet at the C.I.A.?" The kind older woman from before asked.
Her memories flew like a video reel through her mind. Meeting in his office, holding his hand at the pier, the secrecy of the warehouse and their secluded corner out of range of the cameras, and everything between then and now. "We did. When I found out I was on the wrong side I fixed that as soon as possible. He became my handler, the upper level staff that would meet and give me countermissions against the bad guys. Being together was a very big no-no, but neither of us were great at following all the rules when it came to each other," she said with a laugh.
"Does your older kid know anything about...you know. Anything?" A voice from her left asked.
Sydney shook her head. "Not yet. Eight isn't a great age to learn that kind of truth. There will come a day where I will have to tell them everything, but I hope that day stays far, far away. I know it won't and we'll handle it as best as we can when it happens, but for now, everything is blissful ignorance."
She uncurled her legs and slid off the desk, paused, and folded her hands before her as a gentle smile soothed the audience. "Last question."
She gestured to a student sitting in the front row. "How did you get over everything? You seem...really normal for someone that got tortured to death, no offense. How did you get over it so you could go back to who you were before?"
Sydney smiled at the thoughtful question, another one that came up more often than not.
"Before entering the sea, a river trembles with fear. She looks back at the path she had traveled from the peaks of the mountains, the long winding road crossing forests and villages, and in front of her she sees an ocean so vast that to enter there seems nothing more than to disappear forever."
The auditorium was still and silent, not even a breath being taken as the words rolled through memory from her lips. With the pause, she took a breath meeting the eyes of the student whose query she answered with a poem.
"But there is no other way. The river cannot go back; nobody can go back. To go back is impossible in existence." Her gaze shifted to the older woman with the greying hair, the kind crinkles at the edges of the eyes deep as she smiled through the tears on her cheeks.
"The river needs to take the risk of entering the ocean because only then will fear disappear, because that's where the river will know it's not about disappearing into the ocean, but of becoming the ocean."
Changing her focus to the embarrassed psych student, the man now listened rather than waiting for his moment to speak.
"That was written by Khalil Gibran, a man whose work we will heavily study in this class." A lingering, reverent silence kept the crowd hushed, no one daring to speak lest it break the spell that was just weaved into what felt like such a special moment - though for her it was the fifth of the day. Sydney spotted more than a few glistening eyes in the overhead lights.
"My experience is that...no matter who you are or what's happened in your life, it's all part of who you're becoming. I am not defined by those six days. They are part of what's brought me here today but...they aren't the thing that's shaped who I am any more than someone sitting in here is defined by this being their first day at college or their thousandth, and everything before or between. A lot of you came here just to be able to say you asked Sydney Bristow a question, and that's fine. That's now part of your experience. However, the takeaway isn't that you asked someone something, it's that you learned something about yourself through the asking."
Sydney stopped for a moment after letting her words land. "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final."
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A/N: That last part was from the poem Go to the Limits of Your Longing by Rilke.
The next chapter is the last. Originally, the above was the ending and I was so happy with it. I'd written it months ago and then had to put the rest in between. However, my brain got an idea, as it does, so there's one more after this one.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting, it's so appreciated for a fandom that doesn't have many folks loitering, but it's been a joy to create this adventure and live for over a year and a half in this world again, and I'm genuinely sad that this story is coming to an end!
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