Sark squeezed her hand with the hand that wasn't holding his gun. She
peered up at him with eyes that were already drowsy from the drugs that
were slowly pushing her under.
"You'll stay?"
He squeezed her hand again in reassurance. He knew how she hated not being alert. He shared the feeling.
"I promise. I'll be right here all the way through."
"Good." She looked up at him with sleepy, faintly apprehensive eyes. "I'm glad you're here, Andrew."
He quirked a half smile and swooped down to kiss her forehead. "Likewise, sweetheart. Likewise. Go to sleep now."
With a murmur of assent she finally stopped fighting the drug cocktail and let it sweep her under. Sark waited a minute until he was sure she was unconscious and then with a curt nod allowed the team of medics who had been waiting patiently to descend on her.
It hadn't been easy finding a clinic that combined absolute discretion with a willingness to allow a heavily armed man to be present for the caesarean but they had finally managed it, choosing this ultra discrete and unflappable facility in Switzerland. When they left all records would be burnt and the few staff that saw them would conveniently develop selective amnesia. For this service they had paid a great deal of money as well as threatening the Director of the clinic with what would happen if he did conveniently remember anything at any time in the future.
With Syd due any day they had announced to Sovanov their intention to take a break for a few weeks. The Russian was so impressed by their success rate over the last 18 months and sufficiently intimidated by them that he agreed without question.
And now the result of all that planning. His woman lying vulnerable on an operating table while these butchers cut her open. His fingers tightened reflexively on the gun and more than one medic glanced nervously at him before attending to the task at hand. They really wanted this operation to go well.
And it did. Ten minutes later the operating theatre's studied calm was ripped apart by a thready, escalating roar, rapidly growing in strength as the new participant took this opportunity to inform the world that she had been comfortable and now she wasn't and what were they going to do about it?!
For Sark, still gripping his gun with one hand and Sydney's hand with the other it had been a very long ten minutes. He couldn't see properly behind the screen of medics working over Sydney's abdomen but at that first indignant scream something lurched deep inside him. He touched Sydney's sleeping face, still peaceful despite the indignant wailing that echoed through the room.
"Hear that Syd? Kid's got a good pair of lungs, I'll give you that."
It took another few minutes before they had cut the cord and cleaned the baby up to their satisfaction but then Sark was presented with the living, breathing proof of his and Sydney's indiscretion.
He met the medic's smile with a dubious look as she presented him with a pink wrapped bundle, but let go of Sydney's hand to gingerly arrange it in one arm, gun still ready in the other.
"Mr Jones - you have a healthy daughter."
He had a daughter?
She was red and crumpled, covered in white paste and the blood of her birthing, glaring up at him with a ferocious scowl out of half opened kitten blue eyes, fingers waving frantically as she demanded everything.
She was the ugliest thing he had ever seen.
And he looked down into those indignant blue eyes and fell instantly and totally in love.
*****************
Of course after all that tension nobody seemed to be in. Typical. I sat down on the step to try and figure out my next move. I could break in but I didn't think that was the best option. Hi - I'm your daughter and a burglar! Nope - not a cunning plan. Or I could come back tomorrow - although that would mean driving Fee nuts with another night of fretting. Or I could go back to the hotel and leave a message. I had just decided that was the most sensible option when I noticed a woman walking along the sidewalk towards the house, laden with bags and with that unmistakeable "who the hell are you and what are you doing on my steps" look. Instantly I realised that time had just been called on my indecision.
***********************
For Sydney it was like being pulled up through a long tunnel. One minute she had happily floating in the black, next she was being dragged back into consciousness. There was a deep persistent ache in her abdomen and her body felt awkward, non responsive. And her eyes were crusty and uncomfortable. And there was a strange feeling of loss, as though something was missing. Something missing. Something.
Sark flinched instinctively as Syd suddenly sat bolt upright, going from unconsciousness to full awareness in an instant. Her eyes scanned the room wildly, looking for god knows what.
He shifted so she could see him and reached out to her as slowly as if he was trying to tame a wild thing.
"Syd."
Recognition and relief passed over her face within a millisecond of each other and she reached out to take his hand, her grip fever warm and slightly shaky.
"Andrew." She looked around again, merely puzzled now, rather than alarmed. "Where are we - I don't recognise this place..Sark, why am I in a hospital? Wait a minute."
He could actually see the moment when memory and recollection poured into her face. She looked around the room again, looked down and gingerly touched her abdomen, wincing slightly as the movement sent an ache through her. Then she snapped her head up again.
"Andrew - the baby! Where's my baby?!"
He could see her getting panicky again, and he reached out to calm her as she attempted to pull herself out of the bed, suddenly frantic to find what her body was telling her was missing.
"She's okay Syd. She's fine."
She stilled at the female pronoun.
"She?"
Sark smirked at her, a little lopsided grin that was full of too many emotions for her to analyse.
"Yeah. We've got a daughter, Syd."
"Oh.." Oh my god
And even when Sark carefully placed a small pink swathed bundle in her arms and she saw the small, fuzz covered head and those kitten blue eyes all she was able to think was - oh my god, I have a daughter, over and over like a mantra, until she was laughing, caught between hysteria and tears at the madness of it all, while Sark kissed her knuckles, face plastered with that little smirk and looked at her and their child as though nothing else in the universe had any other meaning.
****************
I scrambled awkwardly up off the steps, reluctant to face anyone from an indefensible angle and waited while she covered the last few feet to the gate. Then there was a pause while we stared at each other - she obviously wondering who on earth I was. But she didn't seem worried, merely curious.
On my side I was too busy gawping. Apart from the bee stung lips and the softness of her brown eyes this woman was a double of the photographs I had for Irina Derevko. But she couldn't be as Derevko would be in her 70's - if she was still alive. This woman looked like she was in her late 30's, or her early 40's at the most. And now I looked closer I could see the little differences, the darker hair, small laughter lines around the mouth and eyes and those bee stung lips. But otherwise the resemblance was uncanny. And I realised that unless my grandmother had another daughter that so closely resembled her then this slim brunette was probably my Mother. And again I had no idea what to do.
We stood and stared at each other for a few minutes, sizing each other up. As the minutes had passed and I hadn't done anything threatening her stance had softened, wariness shifting to curiosity. And when I stuck my hands in my jeans pockets and hunched my shoulders protectively the wariness disappeared entirely in familiar recognition of adolescent awkwardness. A hint of a smile curled up the full lips and she shifted her book bag more comfortably onto one hip.
"Hi - Are you looking for me? Are you one of my new lit students perhaps? I'm sorry that I don't recognise you, but give me time.."
She thought I was one of her.students? Was she a teacher? There were so many questions I suddenly wanted to ask and I felt paralysed by the weight of them.
She was still patiently watching me, a hint of a smile lurking around her lips. "My normal office hours are 12-3, but if it's really urgent we can discuss it." She slipped the book bag on to the ground and started rummaging head down in her handbag for her keys. "What's your name anyway? I'm assuming it's an issue with comparative literature 101 as I think I would know you if you did any of my other classes." My throat was dry and crusty and I coughed to clear it, the rough noise bringing those brown eyes back onto me. She frowned in concern, forehead wrinkling, eyes creased against the sun.
"Are you okay? Would you like a drink of water? Just wait a second and I'll get you one from the fridge."
"No." I reached out a hand to block her from going past me and she stopped, surprised, the first hint of a frown appearing. I cleared my throat again, suddenly desperate to get this over with.
"Are you Sydney Bristow?" My voice was hoarse and a little squeaky and I cringed inwardly.
She was still faintly amused but wariness was creeping back into her posture. She obviously thought I was nuts. I was making a great first impression. "Yes. And you are.?"
I looked down at my feet, avoiding the question for a few seconds more, clearing my throat again.
"My name is Elena."
She was still watching me in polite incomprehension. Suddenly I couldn't bear the tension any more.
"Elena Sark."
I watched as her complexion blanched in shock and just blurted the rest out.
"My Dad is Andrew Sark. And I think I'm your daughter."
***************************
There was nothing harder in his life than the day she walked away. Assassinations, abandonment, torture and imprisonment, he'd experienced them all. But none of them caused him as great a soul deep pain as the grief on her face as she desperately clutched their child for one last embrace before handing her back to him with hands that shook like an invalid. In her pockets was the disc necessary to access server 47 and bring down the Alliance, the combined price of her freedom and his "death". Behind them their home for the last few years was destroyed, reduced to ashes in an explosion that seemed to Sark a showily appropriate metaphor for the forcible destruction of their relationship. They were both trembling as they leaned against each for one last minute, trying to uproot the mutual dependency that kept them so closely bound together for so long. Finally he leaned forward to hold her for the last time, bathing her face in kisses, lips, eyes, cheeks down which the tears rang unashamedly, tasting the salt of her pain, and finally her forehead, feeling the grace of it as a form of twisted benediction. Then he moved away and when she made to follow shoved her gently backwards, even in this moment of forcible separation unable to physically hurt her.
"Go."
"Andrew.."
"Go, Sydney. Now."
She was hugging herself for reassurance now, unable to stop from reaching out to him, unable to stifle a whimper of hurt as he frantically back- pedalled in order not to touch her. And then he lifted his eyes to her and the sheer, naked animal hurt in them was so desperate that it stopped her in her tracks. He was right. They couldn't stretch this out. If they didn't it now they never would. She looked hungrily at the small whimpering bundle he held so tightly. Elena. Her baby girl. Who would grow up under a death sentence if they didn't do this, who's only realistic chance of living to adulthood relied on her parents having the strength to walk away from each other.
Now.
At this minute.
Her sight was blurring with tears now, her eyes burning, nose running, leaving her wiping her face with her sleeves like a child. She stared at him, memorising everything, the anguish in his blue eyes, the tufts of blond hair, all over the place now, no trace in him of the well groomed assassin she had detested so cordially at the beginning. Then she started to back away, every step like a knife, distantly surprised that her footsteps in the snow weren't filled with bloody traces of the wounds that she was inflicting. He held her gaze and their child desperately as she backed away, biting his lip as though under torture. And it wasn't until she turned from him and started to walk away that she heard him croak out her name. She stiffened, the whispered plea hitting her like a slap between the shoulder blades, pulling her to a stop. For a moment they both stood frozen and then she lurched into motion again, walking away from him with strides that got faster with every step, until she was almost running across the snow, stumbling as her tears blurred her vision, frantic to turn round, but like Orpheus knowing that one look back would be her downfall.
And if she had looked back she would have seen a sight many men had attempted to engineer but which only one woman had ever been able to make happen - Andrew Sark, broken, on his knees in the snow.
***************
I had never been as fascinated by a cup of tea as I was right now. That and the patterns on the table cloth. In fact I might just spend the rest of my life staring at them both. Especially if it meant that I wouldn't have to look up again. Maybe she had stopped crying by now, maybe I could risk it. Okay now, I know you might think I'm totally heartless but what would you do when a total stranger hustles you into her house, makes you tea, sits down at a table with you, stares at you as though you are a mirage and then bursts into tears?
Feel deeply uncomfortable and stare down at the table top, that's what you do. Oh god this was awkward. Nothing was turning out like I expected it to. She seemed so upset! I had expected denial, rejection, rejoicing but not this heartbroken sobbing. Surely I wasn't such a disappointment?
All I could hear now was the steady drip, drip of the coffee percolating. No more quiet sobs. Cautiously I looked up from my intense observation of the tablecloth.
She was still wiping her eyes on a tissue but she seemed composed, face a little weary from emotional exhaustion, but calm, rather than taken over by the emotional firestorm I had witnessed earlier. As I straightened up she caught my look and gave me a slightly embarrassed shrug.
"Sorry."
I scrambled to reassure her, feeling very young and clumsy, desperate not to upset her further.
"It's fine, fine. It really is..is there anything I can get you? Tea, water, anything? Both of us were struck with the realisation that our roles had somehow been switched. I had gone from guest to host in an about turn that had left us both a little confused.
She waved off my offers, smiling only a little shakily as she got up to fix herself a coffee. Faced with a sudden silence I cast around for suitable topics of conversation that wouldn't cause either of us to become upset. The sun was pouring the windows, causing the wooden cupboards surfaces to glow richly. There were a number of cooking books piled on one shelf, with one propped open on the counter, a spatula marking the place. Corn chowder I noted. Sounded nice. The rest of the kitchen was stylish but messy, filled the little odds and ends that accrue when people don't entertain often and have no pretensions to minimalism. It was warm and friendly and I liked it.
"It's a nice house."
She glanced at me, smiling a little.
"Thanks."
I was casting around for conversational gambits, anything to keep away from the topics we really had to discuss. My Dad, love, betrayal, redemption, assassination, yada, yada.
"Do you live here alone?"
For a moment a shadow passed over her face and I froze, fearing I'd inadvertently wandered into some taboo area. Then it passed and she sat down again at the table with a sigh, placing her coffee cup on the wood with a small, definite clunk.
"I was married for a short while. I'd didn't work out."
I sat down opposite her, cradling my mug in my hands.
"I'm sorry."
She smiled, a little wryly. "I'm not. It was a long time ago anyway."
Suddenly I wanted to give her something, some kind of gift to make up for all the trauma I was causing by just waltzing cavalierly back into her life.
"My Dad never married. I never got why before."
She smiled at me, hazel eyes lighting up, and suddenly I felt a thrill of adrenaline and a sudden surge of totally unexpected affection. Whoa. This blood thicker than water thing actually worked. Bizarre. I looked down at my mug, feeling unaccountably shy and kind of awkward.
"I never got why before.." I looked at her, really looked at her, the little lines around her eyes, the sweep of hair to her shoulders, the shape of cheekbone and chin and shoulder. And those eyes, those deep as the ocean, peat water eyes. I took a deep breath.
".but now I think, maybe he was waiting for you."
**************
He gathered Elena closer in his arms. One fist had now made its way into her mouth and she was energetically sucking on it, a small silver of drool escaping. He smiled at her energetic messiness and dropped a kiss on her forehead, loving the smell of baby skin and the absolute trust she gave him. Unconditional love on both sides of this relationship, and he would do anything to keep her safe. Anything.
Even this.
With that thought in mind he took the final step, stepping through the unmarked door, ambling up to the startled secretary, who wasn't used to men holding babies disturbing the inner sanctum of this government agency.
"My name is Andrew Sark. Please inform Mr Thomson that I am here to discuss a business opportunity."
At the mention of the eminent name the secretary immediately became all business, calling straight through, showing him to a private room, offering him tea or coffee and biscuits all of which he declined.
He didn't have to wait long. In a few minutes calm footsteps echoed down the marble hall with a measured inevitability. Still carrying Elena, Sark rose, standing to face the calm assessing eyes of Mr "Thomson" as the lean figure entered the room. Thomson's eyes flickered over Elena's baby features before nodding thoughtfully and returning her father's measured gaze.
"Mr Sark. A pleasure, as always."
They shook hands.
"Mr Thomson, likewise."
Sark took a deep breath, suddenly very aware of the ramifications and consequences of his actions. This choice would in some ways take away the freedom which he enjoyed above all else. But for his daughter's security he could handle a few limited shackles.
"I believe you once offered me a.opportunity. I was merely wishing to enquire if the option was still available."
Thomson smiled slightly, rocking back on his heels, hands in his pockets.
"For such a talent as you, Mr Sark, opportunities are always open."
The corner of Sark's mouth twitched slightly at the compliment. Distracted by a baby gurgle he looked down at his daughter who was observing the proceedings with bright button eyes.
"Indeed. If that is still the case, subject to a few provisos, I would now be delighted to accept."
Thomson smiled outright now, pursuing his lips and nodding his head slightly.
"That's very good to hear Mr Sark. Would you have any particular start time in mind?"
Sark looked down at the baby in his arms again and smirked wryly, before looking up to meet Thomson's eyes.
"I think right now would be acceptable."
"Ah."
The two men regarded each other for a few seconds, fully aware of the significance of the moment. Then Thomson stuck out a hand again. Sark clasped it firmly in acceptance, silently pledging himself to this new cause.
"In that case I can see no reason for further delay. Welcome to the SIS, Mr Sark. Welcome home."
********************
Sark shifted restlessly. In all the years he had been a single father, he and his daughter had established certain traditions. One of which was that they always met each other at the airport, unless it was severely impractical. In her very young days her nanny used to bring her, often still clad in furry sleeper pyjamas, dozing off in the back of the car while the chauffeur drove them both home, her hair smelling of strawberries. Just like her mother. He closed his eyes for a moment, caught off guard by the memory of the scent of Sydney's hair, spread out on a pillow beside him. It still hurt, even after all these years. He had never found a woman to match her and after a while had stopped trying. He had his daughter, the most precious gift a man like him could have. He had resolutely trained himself to believe that he didn't need anyone else.
He shifted, checking the flight board impatiently. Elena's plane had landed 20 minutes ago and he was anxious to see her, to reinforce the fact that she was still coming home to him. Whatever she had learned, as long as she came home to him he could handle anything.
Because that was his weakness. Everything else life had thrown at him he had handled with detached efficiency. But not his daughter, and not her mother. He had given up one to ensure the safety of the other and he still hurt from that choice 20 years later. But if his daughter rejected him as well he wasn't sure he could survive it.
There, the first trickle of passengers was pouring out of the arrivals gate. Briskly he walked towards the barrier, searching for one familiar caramel head. There she was. He was about to call to her, eager to see the way her face would light up when she saw him, when he realised she was not alone. There were not one, but two brunettes making their way out the entrance hall. One was slightly taller than the other, holding the other's hand in a death grip, hair covering her face. But there was something infinitely familiar about the way she moved. The other, his daughter, was oblivious to anyone but her companion, chatting animatedly, free hand gesticulating. Some part of his mind noticed that she looked entirely happy, but the rest of his over active brain dismissed that, focusing entirely on her companion, every sense quivering. The hair was starting to stand up on the back of his neck and he had to fight the sudden and inexplicable urge to rapidly retreat. But while he stood there, frozen in space his choices abruptly narrowed as his daughter spotted him and waved, moving towards him, pulling the other woman behind her excitedly. He stood there, a condemned man, unable to do anything but wait as the executioner approached.
Elena reached him first and threw her arms around him, vibrant young body bouncing into a hug. He returned it automatically, still staring at the figure behind her, hair still carefully covering her face. And then Elena pulled back and reached out to pull the other woman closer, and as she did so the stranger straightened, tucking her hair back behind her ear and he almost choked at the familiarity of the gesture, all his suspicions coming true. For the woman his daughter with was the one that had haunted his dreams all these years. His falcon in the dive. Sydney. Sydney Bristow.
For a second he just stood, almost paralysed with shock as brown eyes met blue for a long, endless moment. And then she smiled at him and the sun came up all over again.
*********************
Well, I bet you want to know what happened next? Let's just say that we all got in a lot of transatlantic travel over the next few months, before my Mum finally decided that the logistics of having two people on one side of the ocean and another on the other really weren't working. Which is why we are celebrating Thanksgiving for the first time in my experience, at home in Surrey. Fee is watching TV in the living room and my Mum's cooking, singing Beach Boys songs over the cranberry sauce while my granddad Jack Bristow, (who is a really cool guy for an ex-CIA bloke) is complaining already about the pecan pie. She keeps flicking bits of gravy at him and he keeps grumpily dodging them. She's so happy it's infectious. I've even seen Jack crack a smile once or twice which my Dad dryly informed me is nothing short of miraculous.
And my Dad? Well he's still my Dad. But he's lighter somehow, as though some huge burden has been lifted. And when he looks at my Mum it's like all the lights go on at once. It's faintly embarrassing to be in the same room as them. Talk about blatant. And she just smiles at him and keeps on doing whatever she's doing, but with just a little extra swing in her hips when she knows he's watching.
I always thought that when my Dad finally got properly involved with a woman I'd be jealous. But I can't you know? It's just too big a thing for that. And after all I've got my Mum now and we're trying to make up for twenty years of lost time. We're getting there, bit by bit. I understand now why she had to let me go, and what it cost her, but what I can't understand, knowing my Dad as I do, is how he could bear to let her go, even for me. I asked him about it once and he had been uncharacteristically hesitant, picking his words with care.
"I knew, that if she could have come with us she would have. And I hoped.that one day circumstances would be such that she could come back. I let her go, but I kept that hope."
I had frowned at him, unconvinced by such a passive attitude from my normally proactive Dad. He smiled, amused by my expression and we sat for a moment in front of the fire, taking in the unfamiliar sounds of another person moving around in the house as my mother rearranged things to her liking. Finally he took pity on my confusion.
"Sometimes 'Lena if you love something you have to let it go. And then if it comes back to you." he paused suddenly and I looked up at the interruption, following his gaze to where my Mother had slipped silently into the room and was leaning against the doorway, the firelight casting her hair in a nimbus of auburn streaked mink. She smiled at him and his face lit up as I ducked my head, feeling slightly intrusive, something in their faces too intimate for even my observation. But I didn't need him to finish the sentence; I knew what he was trying to say.
Sometimes when you love something you have to let it go. And if it comes back to you it's yours forever. And for my Dad, I think it finally has.
"You'll stay?"
He squeezed her hand again in reassurance. He knew how she hated not being alert. He shared the feeling.
"I promise. I'll be right here all the way through."
"Good." She looked up at him with sleepy, faintly apprehensive eyes. "I'm glad you're here, Andrew."
He quirked a half smile and swooped down to kiss her forehead. "Likewise, sweetheart. Likewise. Go to sleep now."
With a murmur of assent she finally stopped fighting the drug cocktail and let it sweep her under. Sark waited a minute until he was sure she was unconscious and then with a curt nod allowed the team of medics who had been waiting patiently to descend on her.
It hadn't been easy finding a clinic that combined absolute discretion with a willingness to allow a heavily armed man to be present for the caesarean but they had finally managed it, choosing this ultra discrete and unflappable facility in Switzerland. When they left all records would be burnt and the few staff that saw them would conveniently develop selective amnesia. For this service they had paid a great deal of money as well as threatening the Director of the clinic with what would happen if he did conveniently remember anything at any time in the future.
With Syd due any day they had announced to Sovanov their intention to take a break for a few weeks. The Russian was so impressed by their success rate over the last 18 months and sufficiently intimidated by them that he agreed without question.
And now the result of all that planning. His woman lying vulnerable on an operating table while these butchers cut her open. His fingers tightened reflexively on the gun and more than one medic glanced nervously at him before attending to the task at hand. They really wanted this operation to go well.
And it did. Ten minutes later the operating theatre's studied calm was ripped apart by a thready, escalating roar, rapidly growing in strength as the new participant took this opportunity to inform the world that she had been comfortable and now she wasn't and what were they going to do about it?!
For Sark, still gripping his gun with one hand and Sydney's hand with the other it had been a very long ten minutes. He couldn't see properly behind the screen of medics working over Sydney's abdomen but at that first indignant scream something lurched deep inside him. He touched Sydney's sleeping face, still peaceful despite the indignant wailing that echoed through the room.
"Hear that Syd? Kid's got a good pair of lungs, I'll give you that."
It took another few minutes before they had cut the cord and cleaned the baby up to their satisfaction but then Sark was presented with the living, breathing proof of his and Sydney's indiscretion.
He met the medic's smile with a dubious look as she presented him with a pink wrapped bundle, but let go of Sydney's hand to gingerly arrange it in one arm, gun still ready in the other.
"Mr Jones - you have a healthy daughter."
He had a daughter?
She was red and crumpled, covered in white paste and the blood of her birthing, glaring up at him with a ferocious scowl out of half opened kitten blue eyes, fingers waving frantically as she demanded everything.
She was the ugliest thing he had ever seen.
And he looked down into those indignant blue eyes and fell instantly and totally in love.
*****************
Of course after all that tension nobody seemed to be in. Typical. I sat down on the step to try and figure out my next move. I could break in but I didn't think that was the best option. Hi - I'm your daughter and a burglar! Nope - not a cunning plan. Or I could come back tomorrow - although that would mean driving Fee nuts with another night of fretting. Or I could go back to the hotel and leave a message. I had just decided that was the most sensible option when I noticed a woman walking along the sidewalk towards the house, laden with bags and with that unmistakeable "who the hell are you and what are you doing on my steps" look. Instantly I realised that time had just been called on my indecision.
***********************
For Sydney it was like being pulled up through a long tunnel. One minute she had happily floating in the black, next she was being dragged back into consciousness. There was a deep persistent ache in her abdomen and her body felt awkward, non responsive. And her eyes were crusty and uncomfortable. And there was a strange feeling of loss, as though something was missing. Something missing. Something.
Sark flinched instinctively as Syd suddenly sat bolt upright, going from unconsciousness to full awareness in an instant. Her eyes scanned the room wildly, looking for god knows what.
He shifted so she could see him and reached out to her as slowly as if he was trying to tame a wild thing.
"Syd."
Recognition and relief passed over her face within a millisecond of each other and she reached out to take his hand, her grip fever warm and slightly shaky.
"Andrew." She looked around again, merely puzzled now, rather than alarmed. "Where are we - I don't recognise this place..Sark, why am I in a hospital? Wait a minute."
He could actually see the moment when memory and recollection poured into her face. She looked around the room again, looked down and gingerly touched her abdomen, wincing slightly as the movement sent an ache through her. Then she snapped her head up again.
"Andrew - the baby! Where's my baby?!"
He could see her getting panicky again, and he reached out to calm her as she attempted to pull herself out of the bed, suddenly frantic to find what her body was telling her was missing.
"She's okay Syd. She's fine."
She stilled at the female pronoun.
"She?"
Sark smirked at her, a little lopsided grin that was full of too many emotions for her to analyse.
"Yeah. We've got a daughter, Syd."
"Oh.." Oh my god
And even when Sark carefully placed a small pink swathed bundle in her arms and she saw the small, fuzz covered head and those kitten blue eyes all she was able to think was - oh my god, I have a daughter, over and over like a mantra, until she was laughing, caught between hysteria and tears at the madness of it all, while Sark kissed her knuckles, face plastered with that little smirk and looked at her and their child as though nothing else in the universe had any other meaning.
****************
I scrambled awkwardly up off the steps, reluctant to face anyone from an indefensible angle and waited while she covered the last few feet to the gate. Then there was a pause while we stared at each other - she obviously wondering who on earth I was. But she didn't seem worried, merely curious.
On my side I was too busy gawping. Apart from the bee stung lips and the softness of her brown eyes this woman was a double of the photographs I had for Irina Derevko. But she couldn't be as Derevko would be in her 70's - if she was still alive. This woman looked like she was in her late 30's, or her early 40's at the most. And now I looked closer I could see the little differences, the darker hair, small laughter lines around the mouth and eyes and those bee stung lips. But otherwise the resemblance was uncanny. And I realised that unless my grandmother had another daughter that so closely resembled her then this slim brunette was probably my Mother. And again I had no idea what to do.
We stood and stared at each other for a few minutes, sizing each other up. As the minutes had passed and I hadn't done anything threatening her stance had softened, wariness shifting to curiosity. And when I stuck my hands in my jeans pockets and hunched my shoulders protectively the wariness disappeared entirely in familiar recognition of adolescent awkwardness. A hint of a smile curled up the full lips and she shifted her book bag more comfortably onto one hip.
"Hi - Are you looking for me? Are you one of my new lit students perhaps? I'm sorry that I don't recognise you, but give me time.."
She thought I was one of her.students? Was she a teacher? There were so many questions I suddenly wanted to ask and I felt paralysed by the weight of them.
She was still patiently watching me, a hint of a smile lurking around her lips. "My normal office hours are 12-3, but if it's really urgent we can discuss it." She slipped the book bag on to the ground and started rummaging head down in her handbag for her keys. "What's your name anyway? I'm assuming it's an issue with comparative literature 101 as I think I would know you if you did any of my other classes." My throat was dry and crusty and I coughed to clear it, the rough noise bringing those brown eyes back onto me. She frowned in concern, forehead wrinkling, eyes creased against the sun.
"Are you okay? Would you like a drink of water? Just wait a second and I'll get you one from the fridge."
"No." I reached out a hand to block her from going past me and she stopped, surprised, the first hint of a frown appearing. I cleared my throat again, suddenly desperate to get this over with.
"Are you Sydney Bristow?" My voice was hoarse and a little squeaky and I cringed inwardly.
She was still faintly amused but wariness was creeping back into her posture. She obviously thought I was nuts. I was making a great first impression. "Yes. And you are.?"
I looked down at my feet, avoiding the question for a few seconds more, clearing my throat again.
"My name is Elena."
She was still watching me in polite incomprehension. Suddenly I couldn't bear the tension any more.
"Elena Sark."
I watched as her complexion blanched in shock and just blurted the rest out.
"My Dad is Andrew Sark. And I think I'm your daughter."
***************************
There was nothing harder in his life than the day she walked away. Assassinations, abandonment, torture and imprisonment, he'd experienced them all. But none of them caused him as great a soul deep pain as the grief on her face as she desperately clutched their child for one last embrace before handing her back to him with hands that shook like an invalid. In her pockets was the disc necessary to access server 47 and bring down the Alliance, the combined price of her freedom and his "death". Behind them their home for the last few years was destroyed, reduced to ashes in an explosion that seemed to Sark a showily appropriate metaphor for the forcible destruction of their relationship. They were both trembling as they leaned against each for one last minute, trying to uproot the mutual dependency that kept them so closely bound together for so long. Finally he leaned forward to hold her for the last time, bathing her face in kisses, lips, eyes, cheeks down which the tears rang unashamedly, tasting the salt of her pain, and finally her forehead, feeling the grace of it as a form of twisted benediction. Then he moved away and when she made to follow shoved her gently backwards, even in this moment of forcible separation unable to physically hurt her.
"Go."
"Andrew.."
"Go, Sydney. Now."
She was hugging herself for reassurance now, unable to stop from reaching out to him, unable to stifle a whimper of hurt as he frantically back- pedalled in order not to touch her. And then he lifted his eyes to her and the sheer, naked animal hurt in them was so desperate that it stopped her in her tracks. He was right. They couldn't stretch this out. If they didn't it now they never would. She looked hungrily at the small whimpering bundle he held so tightly. Elena. Her baby girl. Who would grow up under a death sentence if they didn't do this, who's only realistic chance of living to adulthood relied on her parents having the strength to walk away from each other.
Now.
At this minute.
Her sight was blurring with tears now, her eyes burning, nose running, leaving her wiping her face with her sleeves like a child. She stared at him, memorising everything, the anguish in his blue eyes, the tufts of blond hair, all over the place now, no trace in him of the well groomed assassin she had detested so cordially at the beginning. Then she started to back away, every step like a knife, distantly surprised that her footsteps in the snow weren't filled with bloody traces of the wounds that she was inflicting. He held her gaze and their child desperately as she backed away, biting his lip as though under torture. And it wasn't until she turned from him and started to walk away that she heard him croak out her name. She stiffened, the whispered plea hitting her like a slap between the shoulder blades, pulling her to a stop. For a moment they both stood frozen and then she lurched into motion again, walking away from him with strides that got faster with every step, until she was almost running across the snow, stumbling as her tears blurred her vision, frantic to turn round, but like Orpheus knowing that one look back would be her downfall.
And if she had looked back she would have seen a sight many men had attempted to engineer but which only one woman had ever been able to make happen - Andrew Sark, broken, on his knees in the snow.
***************
I had never been as fascinated by a cup of tea as I was right now. That and the patterns on the table cloth. In fact I might just spend the rest of my life staring at them both. Especially if it meant that I wouldn't have to look up again. Maybe she had stopped crying by now, maybe I could risk it. Okay now, I know you might think I'm totally heartless but what would you do when a total stranger hustles you into her house, makes you tea, sits down at a table with you, stares at you as though you are a mirage and then bursts into tears?
Feel deeply uncomfortable and stare down at the table top, that's what you do. Oh god this was awkward. Nothing was turning out like I expected it to. She seemed so upset! I had expected denial, rejection, rejoicing but not this heartbroken sobbing. Surely I wasn't such a disappointment?
All I could hear now was the steady drip, drip of the coffee percolating. No more quiet sobs. Cautiously I looked up from my intense observation of the tablecloth.
She was still wiping her eyes on a tissue but she seemed composed, face a little weary from emotional exhaustion, but calm, rather than taken over by the emotional firestorm I had witnessed earlier. As I straightened up she caught my look and gave me a slightly embarrassed shrug.
"Sorry."
I scrambled to reassure her, feeling very young and clumsy, desperate not to upset her further.
"It's fine, fine. It really is..is there anything I can get you? Tea, water, anything? Both of us were struck with the realisation that our roles had somehow been switched. I had gone from guest to host in an about turn that had left us both a little confused.
She waved off my offers, smiling only a little shakily as she got up to fix herself a coffee. Faced with a sudden silence I cast around for suitable topics of conversation that wouldn't cause either of us to become upset. The sun was pouring the windows, causing the wooden cupboards surfaces to glow richly. There were a number of cooking books piled on one shelf, with one propped open on the counter, a spatula marking the place. Corn chowder I noted. Sounded nice. The rest of the kitchen was stylish but messy, filled the little odds and ends that accrue when people don't entertain often and have no pretensions to minimalism. It was warm and friendly and I liked it.
"It's a nice house."
She glanced at me, smiling a little.
"Thanks."
I was casting around for conversational gambits, anything to keep away from the topics we really had to discuss. My Dad, love, betrayal, redemption, assassination, yada, yada.
"Do you live here alone?"
For a moment a shadow passed over her face and I froze, fearing I'd inadvertently wandered into some taboo area. Then it passed and she sat down again at the table with a sigh, placing her coffee cup on the wood with a small, definite clunk.
"I was married for a short while. I'd didn't work out."
I sat down opposite her, cradling my mug in my hands.
"I'm sorry."
She smiled, a little wryly. "I'm not. It was a long time ago anyway."
Suddenly I wanted to give her something, some kind of gift to make up for all the trauma I was causing by just waltzing cavalierly back into her life.
"My Dad never married. I never got why before."
She smiled at me, hazel eyes lighting up, and suddenly I felt a thrill of adrenaline and a sudden surge of totally unexpected affection. Whoa. This blood thicker than water thing actually worked. Bizarre. I looked down at my mug, feeling unaccountably shy and kind of awkward.
"I never got why before.." I looked at her, really looked at her, the little lines around her eyes, the sweep of hair to her shoulders, the shape of cheekbone and chin and shoulder. And those eyes, those deep as the ocean, peat water eyes. I took a deep breath.
".but now I think, maybe he was waiting for you."
**************
He gathered Elena closer in his arms. One fist had now made its way into her mouth and she was energetically sucking on it, a small silver of drool escaping. He smiled at her energetic messiness and dropped a kiss on her forehead, loving the smell of baby skin and the absolute trust she gave him. Unconditional love on both sides of this relationship, and he would do anything to keep her safe. Anything.
Even this.
With that thought in mind he took the final step, stepping through the unmarked door, ambling up to the startled secretary, who wasn't used to men holding babies disturbing the inner sanctum of this government agency.
"My name is Andrew Sark. Please inform Mr Thomson that I am here to discuss a business opportunity."
At the mention of the eminent name the secretary immediately became all business, calling straight through, showing him to a private room, offering him tea or coffee and biscuits all of which he declined.
He didn't have to wait long. In a few minutes calm footsteps echoed down the marble hall with a measured inevitability. Still carrying Elena, Sark rose, standing to face the calm assessing eyes of Mr "Thomson" as the lean figure entered the room. Thomson's eyes flickered over Elena's baby features before nodding thoughtfully and returning her father's measured gaze.
"Mr Sark. A pleasure, as always."
They shook hands.
"Mr Thomson, likewise."
Sark took a deep breath, suddenly very aware of the ramifications and consequences of his actions. This choice would in some ways take away the freedom which he enjoyed above all else. But for his daughter's security he could handle a few limited shackles.
"I believe you once offered me a.opportunity. I was merely wishing to enquire if the option was still available."
Thomson smiled slightly, rocking back on his heels, hands in his pockets.
"For such a talent as you, Mr Sark, opportunities are always open."
The corner of Sark's mouth twitched slightly at the compliment. Distracted by a baby gurgle he looked down at his daughter who was observing the proceedings with bright button eyes.
"Indeed. If that is still the case, subject to a few provisos, I would now be delighted to accept."
Thomson smiled outright now, pursuing his lips and nodding his head slightly.
"That's very good to hear Mr Sark. Would you have any particular start time in mind?"
Sark looked down at the baby in his arms again and smirked wryly, before looking up to meet Thomson's eyes.
"I think right now would be acceptable."
"Ah."
The two men regarded each other for a few seconds, fully aware of the significance of the moment. Then Thomson stuck out a hand again. Sark clasped it firmly in acceptance, silently pledging himself to this new cause.
"In that case I can see no reason for further delay. Welcome to the SIS, Mr Sark. Welcome home."
********************
Sark shifted restlessly. In all the years he had been a single father, he and his daughter had established certain traditions. One of which was that they always met each other at the airport, unless it was severely impractical. In her very young days her nanny used to bring her, often still clad in furry sleeper pyjamas, dozing off in the back of the car while the chauffeur drove them both home, her hair smelling of strawberries. Just like her mother. He closed his eyes for a moment, caught off guard by the memory of the scent of Sydney's hair, spread out on a pillow beside him. It still hurt, even after all these years. He had never found a woman to match her and after a while had stopped trying. He had his daughter, the most precious gift a man like him could have. He had resolutely trained himself to believe that he didn't need anyone else.
He shifted, checking the flight board impatiently. Elena's plane had landed 20 minutes ago and he was anxious to see her, to reinforce the fact that she was still coming home to him. Whatever she had learned, as long as she came home to him he could handle anything.
Because that was his weakness. Everything else life had thrown at him he had handled with detached efficiency. But not his daughter, and not her mother. He had given up one to ensure the safety of the other and he still hurt from that choice 20 years later. But if his daughter rejected him as well he wasn't sure he could survive it.
There, the first trickle of passengers was pouring out of the arrivals gate. Briskly he walked towards the barrier, searching for one familiar caramel head. There she was. He was about to call to her, eager to see the way her face would light up when she saw him, when he realised she was not alone. There were not one, but two brunettes making their way out the entrance hall. One was slightly taller than the other, holding the other's hand in a death grip, hair covering her face. But there was something infinitely familiar about the way she moved. The other, his daughter, was oblivious to anyone but her companion, chatting animatedly, free hand gesticulating. Some part of his mind noticed that she looked entirely happy, but the rest of his over active brain dismissed that, focusing entirely on her companion, every sense quivering. The hair was starting to stand up on the back of his neck and he had to fight the sudden and inexplicable urge to rapidly retreat. But while he stood there, frozen in space his choices abruptly narrowed as his daughter spotted him and waved, moving towards him, pulling the other woman behind her excitedly. He stood there, a condemned man, unable to do anything but wait as the executioner approached.
Elena reached him first and threw her arms around him, vibrant young body bouncing into a hug. He returned it automatically, still staring at the figure behind her, hair still carefully covering her face. And then Elena pulled back and reached out to pull the other woman closer, and as she did so the stranger straightened, tucking her hair back behind her ear and he almost choked at the familiarity of the gesture, all his suspicions coming true. For the woman his daughter with was the one that had haunted his dreams all these years. His falcon in the dive. Sydney. Sydney Bristow.
For a second he just stood, almost paralysed with shock as brown eyes met blue for a long, endless moment. And then she smiled at him and the sun came up all over again.
*********************
Well, I bet you want to know what happened next? Let's just say that we all got in a lot of transatlantic travel over the next few months, before my Mum finally decided that the logistics of having two people on one side of the ocean and another on the other really weren't working. Which is why we are celebrating Thanksgiving for the first time in my experience, at home in Surrey. Fee is watching TV in the living room and my Mum's cooking, singing Beach Boys songs over the cranberry sauce while my granddad Jack Bristow, (who is a really cool guy for an ex-CIA bloke) is complaining already about the pecan pie. She keeps flicking bits of gravy at him and he keeps grumpily dodging them. She's so happy it's infectious. I've even seen Jack crack a smile once or twice which my Dad dryly informed me is nothing short of miraculous.
And my Dad? Well he's still my Dad. But he's lighter somehow, as though some huge burden has been lifted. And when he looks at my Mum it's like all the lights go on at once. It's faintly embarrassing to be in the same room as them. Talk about blatant. And she just smiles at him and keeps on doing whatever she's doing, but with just a little extra swing in her hips when she knows he's watching.
I always thought that when my Dad finally got properly involved with a woman I'd be jealous. But I can't you know? It's just too big a thing for that. And after all I've got my Mum now and we're trying to make up for twenty years of lost time. We're getting there, bit by bit. I understand now why she had to let me go, and what it cost her, but what I can't understand, knowing my Dad as I do, is how he could bear to let her go, even for me. I asked him about it once and he had been uncharacteristically hesitant, picking his words with care.
"I knew, that if she could have come with us she would have. And I hoped.that one day circumstances would be such that she could come back. I let her go, but I kept that hope."
I had frowned at him, unconvinced by such a passive attitude from my normally proactive Dad. He smiled, amused by my expression and we sat for a moment in front of the fire, taking in the unfamiliar sounds of another person moving around in the house as my mother rearranged things to her liking. Finally he took pity on my confusion.
"Sometimes 'Lena if you love something you have to let it go. And then if it comes back to you." he paused suddenly and I looked up at the interruption, following his gaze to where my Mother had slipped silently into the room and was leaning against the doorway, the firelight casting her hair in a nimbus of auburn streaked mink. She smiled at him and his face lit up as I ducked my head, feeling slightly intrusive, something in their faces too intimate for even my observation. But I didn't need him to finish the sentence; I knew what he was trying to say.
Sometimes when you love something you have to let it go. And if it comes back to you it's yours forever. And for my Dad, I think it finally has.