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Inevitable |
The phone rang just as we were finishing breakfast. I could tell as soon as Mike answered that it
was
I could just hear him giving his clearance code, and rattled the plates louder. I hated these phone calls; every time life settled down a bit, every time Mike relaxed and forgot he wasn't allowed to be happy, there would be a new lead or a new question or something and we would be thrown right back in it again.
The sun was warm through the window; the traffic report for the Beltway area was burbling from the radio on the counter. I tried to concentrate on those rather than the glimpses of Mike's profile I could see out of the corner of my eye. Dammit, I thought at the phone. Leave him alone. Jack Bristow beat all his cooperation out of him two years ago. Leave him alone.
He hung up the phone, so I stopped playing with the dishes
and turned to him. "What is it this
time? Tippin in town for a meeting? One of
"They found her."
Cliches can come true.
For a moment there, I was sure my heart had stopped beating. Then it kicked in again, and I could hardly hear
myself over the pounding in my ears.
"
He nodded.
"For real this time?" I sounded so...normal.
"She called in.
He just stared at me.
"Mike." I
tried to laugh. "This is
"I...I don't know..." He ran a hand through his hair. He'd just gotten it cut; I realized suddenly that he looked exactly as he had two years ago, when Syd had disappeared. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what to do."
I crossed the kitchen and took his hand. It was shaking in mine. "Well, the first thing you need to do is take this ring off," I said briskly. "You don't need to freak her out before you're even in the door."
He looked me full in the face for the first time since the phone call. "I'm not taking the ring off, Eric."
"Vaughn--"
"Don't call me that!"
"I'm sorry. Mike,
just--just pack a bag. Are they sending someone
for you?" He nodded. "Okay.
Get to
He stared at me for another moment, then leaned over and kissed me hard. Before I could think enough to kiss him back, he was gone. I heard the bedroom door slam.
I sat down hard on the nearest chair and stared at the gold band on my left hand. It hadn't even been there a year. "Sydney Bristow," I said under my breath. "Damn you and your whole family to hell. Why can't any of you just stay dead?"
***
In the days after
And me? Well, in theory, I was on the Bristow case. I spent hours on the phone. More hours searching the apartment, the restaurant, and any vehicle involved. The forensics guys still send me Christmas cards. I was the one with a metal detector in the back of the restaurant the day we found Francie's body. She was--I was really glad Mike wasn't there that day.
But, of course, my real job was to keep one Michael Vaughn from imploding. I took his shift by Tippin's bed when he and Bristow had an overseas lead. I dragged him to the building cafe twice a day, and I do mean dragged. I cracked jokes until even Marshall asked what was wrong with me. I started clipping my cell phone to my pillowcase at night, so I wouldn't have to move as far when he called.
So it stands to reason I was the one who found him in the men's room, retching violently.
"Mike! What the--whoa." I caught him as he fell back from the toilet. "Jesus, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm fine." He pulled himself to his feet using my arm and the stall door, and stumbled to the sink.
"Fine?" The bathroom door opened, and I gestured violently at Marshall. It swung shut again. "This is not fine. How long have you been throwing up after lunch?"
"It's not so bad any more." He had his face practically buried in the sink. His voice echoed oddly out of it. "It's just--it's been three months, Weiss. We're looking for her. The FBI's looking for her. Interpol, Scotland Yard, the Mounties for Christ's sake. If we haven't found her by now--"
His voice cracked, and I took a step towards him, but just then the door slammed open. Both Mike and I came to attention.
Jack Bristow had never been a cover model--thirty years of spying had left its mark--but it would be easier to recarve Mt. Rushmore than to erase the new lines on his face. He gave me one quick, cool glance, then focused on Mike. "You all right, Vaughn?"
"Yes, sir." Mike swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Some bad seafood at lunch, that's all."
"There's been a report that one of Sloane's associates was seen in Cyprus."
"When do we leave?"
"Now."
Bristow stalked out, and Mike turned to me. "Uh--"
"I'll take care of Donovan. Go."
I have spent far too much time telling Mike to leave me.
***
Donovan and Allen went for a lot of walks while Mike was in Hong Kong. Poor guys. I went for the leash every time the house started closing in around me. After three days, they probably had the doggie equivalent of shin splints.
Mike called dutifully every night. Kendall had insisted upon a full debrief, so both he and Sydney had to sit through endless repetitions of the standard questions.
"She doesn't remember a thing," he said sometime in the middle of the third day, his voice hoarse and raw. "That's all she can say, over and over. 'I can't remember.' As far as she's concerned, she was...taken...two days ago."
"I know. It'll be okay, Mike." I felt even more inadequate, trying to comfort him from thousands of miles away. "She's back now. You'll make the rest work."
"I wish I had your faith. I told her about her father today." There was a clatter behind him. "Shit. I have to go back in."
"Give her a hug for me." I forced myself to smile into the phone. "Tell her Weiss sends his love."
There was a long silence.
"Eric--" he started.
"Talk to you tomorrow." I hung up on him. And headed straight for the liquor cabinet.
*
"It's not that I'm being noble," I told Donovan that night. He licked my chin happily. The dogs were in heaven with Mike gone; they never got to sleep on the bed. "Well, I suppose I am. But what am I...do I scream and call her names and wave the wedding photos under his nose? Not really my style. Well, the calling her names maybe. She never did forgive me for calling her Spy Barbie that--never mind."
Need I mention that I'd had more than my share of a bottle of Scotch before bed?
"I can't think of a single thing that would make him stay. Too bad I can't get pregnant, huh?" I flopped back and stared at the ceiling. "Do you know, this is the first time we've been apart since the wedding. God, I'm a whiner."
Donovan plopped his snout down on my shoulder and blew snot all over my neck.
"Thanks, buddy, but it's not quite the same."
The doorbell rang. I groaned and dragged myself out of bed. "It's eleven at night," I told the boys, who were barking and jumping like the horrible excuses for watchdogs they were. "The neighborhood better be on fire this late. Oh, stop yapping. What?" I yelled through the door.
"Pizza!" The kid looked really freaked through the peephole. He'd look worse when I was done with him.
"Look--" I yanked the door open. "I'm in bed, moron. I obviously didn't order any--"
There was a red blur, which my foggy vision resolved into the pizza kid being shoved into the porch railing. I whipped my head around just in time to see Jack Bristow's fist headed for my nose.
***
It had been fourteen hours since Mike and Jack Bristow had returned from...where had they gone again? Lima? Milan? Xi'an? Oh, I don't know. All I remember is that wherever they'd gone was faraway and exotic and not where Sydney had been. Again.
I was falling asleep in front of the TV when the phone rang. I fumbled for it. "Mike?"
"It's Jack Bristow. There's been an...incident at Vaughn's residence."
"A what?" I was already on my feet, fumbling for my car keys. "What happened? Is he all right?"
But he'd already hung up. I threw the phone onto the nearest flat surface and headed for the door.
*
"Jesus Christ, Mike, what happened?"
"Nothing."
I blinked. Mike was lying on the floor next to a shattered TV and an overturned chair. Blood was streaming from his nose. "Is this your usual kind of nothing, which requires a 911 call, or will a first aid kit and a cleaning crew do instead?"
"Maybe an icepack?"
I found one in his freezer, grabbed a washcloth from the sink, and was back in record time.
"Here."
"Ow!"
"Sorry. How bad is it?"
"Hurts like a sonofabitch. Nose isn't broken. Maybe a couple of cracked ribs. I've gotten worse playing hockey. You didn't ask who."
"Oh. I figured it was...work-related," I said, for lack of a better term.
"Jack Bristow."
I could feel my jaw drop. "But he's the one who called me!"
"I know. He did it from my phone. Then he kicked me one more time on his way out the door."
"Why?"
"Because he lost his mind?" Mike's gaze drifted to the side. "Oh, is that my TV? Dammit, I liked that TV."
"Vaughn, focus," I said sharply.
"Don't. Hate my name. Hate it. Sydney used to say it--"
I cut that off at the pass. "Okay. Mike. Pay attention here."
He smiled up at me dreamily. "Hey, Eric. Boy, my head hurts all of a sudden."
"Your concussion's probably kicking in." I leaned down to check his eyes, which were very--eye-like. I'm not a damn doctor. "I'm sorry, Mike, but you're gonna have to see--"
He kissed me.
Pay attention here. He kissed me. All right?
I licked my lips. They tasted mostly like his blood. "Let's get your nose stopped up and you to the hospital."
"'Kay."
*
"How are you today?" I asked the next morning at the hospital. He was sitting up, wearing little more than bandages, which kind of answered my question.
Mike held his head. "Hungover, without the fun drunk memories."
"'What's so unpleasant about being drunk?' 'Ask a glass of water,'" I quoted randomly.
"Ha."
"Work's crazy. Has anyone been in to talk to you?"
He shook his head. "Ow. Whenever anyone in a suit comes by, I fake unconsciousness until they're gone. Present company excluded, of course."
"Lucky me."
"Will was here all night, though. Paying me back." He shrugged. "We talked a lot between medications kicking in."
"I haven't talked to him outside work in, well, four months. How is he?"
"Physically, he's fine. Emotionally, he's just as much the walking dead as some of the rest of us. I think he wants Allison to wake up--to tell us where Sydney is, yes--but also so he can look her in the eye and really know she's not Francie. He can't get past it."
I had absolutely nothing to say to that. We weren't any of us getting past this. Bristow, Tippin, Mike all tied to Sydney, and me to them. Or honestly, him.
I hadn't looked him in the eye since I got there. I made myself do it and smiled weakly. "So, did Jack Bristow tell you why he rearranged your face?"
"I told him I didn't want to look for Sydney any more."
Well, holy flying pigs, Batman. "You. Uh. Did?"
He worried at the bandage around his chest. "I told him Sloane's not giving her back until he's good and ready, assuming she's still alive. She's a good agent. If she could escape, she would. There's nothing we can do for her now."
"You--I--wow. And his reaction?"
"From what I heard while getting my ass kicked, he thinks I know where she is. That this is some sort of collusion on my part, and I've been leading him astray all this time."
"Christ."
He nodded. "Also, he's insane," he said, sounding more like his old self than he had in four months. "Did I mention that?"
"I think you did."
"I tried to fight back, but it's Jack fucking Bristow. He's got some moves for an old guy."
"You heard he was reported dead this morning," I said. Even if he'd avoided direct conversation, I was sure he'd heard.
"Will told me." His eyes were cold. "Do you believe it?"
"Not for a second."
"Me either. This is such bullshit. Eric, let's get out of here."
"Out? I think they want you under observation--"
"No, I mean out. Away from all this. You liked Virginia when you were posted there. You're always talking about the beauty of a place with more than one season."
My brain refused to translate his words into concepts. "You want us to take a vacation in Virginia?"
"No. Which of us got hit on the head? I want us to move to Virginia."
"Who's this 'us,' Kemosabe?"
He grinned. My heart flipped over in my chest. Damn it. "You kissed me back."
"I was..." Going to pretend that never happened. "Being kind to a friend with possible brain damage."
"Come on. You know you want to."
It was all a dream, I decided. Considering how melodramatic my life had been lately, a quirky little dream was just what I needed to keep my spirits up. "Fine, I'll run away to Langley with you."
***
As soon as I was conscious, I made a break for the door. Bristow had me flat on the floor in two moves. "Son of a bitch!" I rubbed the back of my head. "Are you trying to give me front and back matching bruises, you sadist?"
"Try again and you'll have side-to-side ones, too."
"You know, Jack, I'd forgotten what a joy it is to be in your company."
"I'm sure. So how long have you been fucking Vaughn?"
If looks could kill, he would have been sliced, diced, sauteed, and frappeed from one blink to the next. "Since shortly before I married him," I said through gritted teeth.
"Hm. I should apologize to Tippin. I didn't believe him when he told me that. Hawaii?"
"Vermont. Would you like to see our china pattern?"
He ignored that--well, it was kind of weak--and went back to cleaning the pistol in his hand. "I take it you didn't believe I was dead."
"Well, I didn't see the stake through your heart personally," I muttered.
"What was that?"
"No, sir."
He set the pistol down and picked up another. "I always thought you showed a certain amount of basic intelligence."
"Wow. Thanks. What am I doing here, Bristow?" Not that I knew where "here" was. I shook my head--damn, my nose hurt!--and focused on my surroundings. It looked like the inside of a van, although we certainly weren't moving. I was half on top of a bedroll that stretched into one corner; two suitcases were stacked neatly not far from me, and Jack was sitting at a card table with a laptop and lots of firepower on it. Jesus, did he live here?
"You're here because, while I trust no one within the CIA, you're the one person who has enough of a vested interest in this mission that you'll do as I say."
"Mission? Interest?" It dawned on me. "You've finally cracked, Bristow. If you think I'm going to help you get Sydney out of CIA custody--"
"As of a few hours ago, she is no longer in CIA custody." Bristow's voice was clipped, and the knuckles holding the gun were white.
"What?"
"A faction of Sloane's organization headed by Sark--"
"Fuck!"
"Precisely--infiltrated the safe house and killed everyone present, except for Vaughn and my daughter. I'm waiting to hear their destination."
"And you have a plan?"
"Break in. Kill Sark. Get Sydney out. And Vaughn, of course."
"Of course." I took the pistol out of his hand. "You have more of these, I assume? And maybe a Stinger or two? This is Sark we're talking about."
"I have a few ideas."
"Do any of them involve clothing? I don't want to storm the castle in my pajama bottoms unless I have to."
***
After a couple of months, I was pretty sure that conversation had been at least partly a dream.
We did move to Virginia. Devlin was indecorously eager to give us transfer recommendations--with SD-6 and the Bristows gone, we were just reminders of bad times. Langley was only too happy to put my MBA and Mike's law degree to good use. He did a lot of the endless coffee-filled meetings the CIA calls "analysis," and I was hip-deep in Russian financial statements most of the time.
We even moved in together. Mike bullied me into buying a house in Alexandria. We each took a bedroom and converted the third into a joint office. It was a nice place, all family photos and sports memorabilia and dog toys. Donovan and Allen settled in nicely and devoted their lives to getting each other in trouble.
But it was the rest of it I thought I'd dreamed. Mike and I worked. We watched TV. I talked him into an Orioles playoff game; he flashed his badge at a stupefied park ranger and made me walk up all 897 steps of the Washington Monument. We didn't talk much about our lives before we moved, and we never referred to our one-and-only kiss.
Every once in a while, Mike would invade my personal space in a way that just made me nervous. Or I'd look up from a book at night to see him leaning against the nearest doorframe, giving me a look that...I can't describe it. Considering? Challenging? Sad, definitely. But when I looked back, he'd fake a smile, unwrinkle his forehead, and go back to whatever he'd been doing.
Other than that, everything was normal. Normal for us.
It was a Thursday night in October, seven or eight months after Sydney's disappearance, when it all changed. I let the dogs into the house, sorting through the usual tangle of leashes and tails and herding them into the living room.
"It's getting cold at night," I said cheerfully to Mike.
He didn't look up from the report in his lap. "You wanted seasons."
Oh, it was going to be one of those nights. "That's why God made leather," I said, tossing my jacket on the back of the sofa. It landed right next to his head. He still didn't look up. I was surprised his glare didn't incinerate the paperwork.
I took myself and a good book to the office. No need to clutter up his bad mood with my disgustingly good one.
I'd probably been in there twenty minutes when I heard Mike's voice. "You should come running with me and the boys tomorrow."
As olive branches went, it sucked, but I accepted it with my usual graciousness. "What is it with you and physical activity? Running and mornings, my two least favorite things."
"Wuss." He was laughing.
"You know my idea of the perfect morning? One during which I'm unconscious the entire time."
There was a charged silence, and I knew before I looked up what I'd see. Mike, leaning against the wall, giving me that look. I knew I was an idiot to let him get to me, but God, that expression made my heart hurt.
This time, though, I got to my feet. He didn't move at all as I walked toward him. I stopped just inches away and mimicked his stance exactly.
I'm not sure how long we stood there staring at each other. I fully expected him to walk away, so you can imagine my shock when he moved forward instead.
His lips were firm and tasted like the spaghetti sauce he'd made for dinner. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and when I lifted my hands to push his away, I could feel the pulse going like sixty in his wrist.
"Mike, don't do this." My body politely requested that I shut the fuck up. I ignored it. "It's not fair."
"Why not? I want you, Eric." I felt the impact of his words all the way down my spine.
"There are some very good reasons. Why not. I'm sure." My hands dropped away from their hold on him and fisted at my side.
He seemed to take it as permission; he kissed me again. "Give me...three," he murmured against my lips.
"Well, for one thing, our bosses wouldn't like it."
"Fuck the CIA."
"Right. Um...this one's better. You're straight."
His hands dropped to my belt buckle. "Check again."
I was getting really desperate. Really, painfully desperate. "Sydney."
His eyes went flat. His lips went white. He backed away. "This is not about Sydney."
"Everything is about Sydney."
"Shut up!"
"You're just marking time until she gets back." I was talking so fast I don't know how either of us understood me. "If you have to get off while you wait, hell, might as well be with good ol' Eric, right? Poor bastard's been in love with you for years, he'll jump at the chance. And then you can tell Syd it didn't count, you never really cheated on her--"
At that distance, I'm lucky he didn't aim for my nose. It would have broken for sure. His fist caught me solidly where my jaw hinges, and I was on my ass on the floor before I could even register the blow.
The only sound for quite some time was the two of us breathing heavily. Not in the good way, sorry. Mike from anger, and me--
look, he hits hard. It was either pant or whimper.
"I'm not sorry," he said finally.
I shrugged. "I'm not wrong."
"You are." He shifted his weight. "Mostly."
"Uh-huh." I checked to make sure my jaw was still attached.
"Did I hurt you?"
"Of course you hurt me, you dipshit. You punched me in the face!"
He crouched down next to me. "I'm sorry."
"You said you weren't."
"I lied."
"Fine."
"I really am sorry."
"Mike. Thanks to you, I'm now really pissed off and really turned on. Go away."
"Eric."
"What?"
"I've waited--I didn't want to say, to do anything, because I knew what you'd think."
"Nothing's changed."
"I have." He ran a hand through his hair. "Months of lying in bed, replaying every moment with Sydney. Plotting insane rescues and imagining a hundred different reunions."
"I understand." Which was why this was killing me.
"Then...I don't know. Right around the time I realized I wasn't going to be able to rescue her--give me a minute. This part is really hard to say. I loved her, Eric."
"I know. Didn't I help the two of you get together?"
"I remember." The ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "You're too good to me, you know."
"Probably."
"I loved her. I loved having her in my life. But I didn't love my life. You know?"
No, not really. "You seemed happy."
"Time stopped when my dad died. One of the things I've realized since I've been away is how everything in my day-to-day life in Los Angeles was tied up with him. Mom. Work. SD-6. Irina. Sydney was--having her there made the rest okay. I would have stayed like that forever, for her, but not without her. So I took the best parts of my life and I ran like hell."
"The best parts?"
Definitely a smile this time. "Donovan. Hockey. You."
How romantic. "I'm touched, really. But you don't have to fuck me to keep me any more than you have to fuck Donovan. We're both already here."
"Number one, never talk about my dog like that again. Number two, all that was just to explain why I'm not fucking anyone in Sydney's place."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He leaned forward, but this time I wasn't going anywhere. "I just want to...well." He smiled very wickedly at me.
I swallowed.
"I dream about it." He was close enough now that his voice vibrated along my skin. "I watch you all the time. When you're eating, when you're reading, at the ball game, walking the damn dogs. Trust me, Eric, I'm at least as turned on as you."
And then he kissed me. Hard. My jaw twinged in protest. I really didn't care. If Saint Sydney herself had walked through the door, I would have shot her cheerfully. This was my mouth under Mike's, my body under his, my hands tangled in his hair. My chance with him. And I'd let enough chances go. No more.
***
Jack grunted into the phone. "You're sure? You've seen her? All right. I have a plane nearby; we can be there in under five hours. Find me the nearest airstrip, and I'll contact you for a flight plan." His voice softened. "I know you will. But don't let him see you." He hung up and headed for the front of the van. I followed.
I weighed the benefits of knowing our destination and the cost of wading through Bristow sarcasm to get it. "Well, where are they?"
"You'll know when we get there."
"I'll know now. Do not play games with me, Jack."
I sat through his stony silence. Just when I was about to scream, he said, "South Dakota."
"Huh?"
"Sark's people have fortified an old Forest Service cabin at the base of Mt. Rushmore. He's taking Sydney and Vaughn there while he prepares."
I searched my brain for information on Mt. Rushmore. All I could remember was seeing it a couple of times as a kid. My father loved to stand where he could see Lincoln and recite the Gettysburg Address. It embarrassed me terribly at ten. But it had never struck me as a good place for a terrorist hideout. "I don't believe it. Your source has to be wrong."
"Likely why Sark chose it."
"Hmph." Then I sat up straight. "Prepares for what?"
"The exchange. Sark has contacted the CIA and offered to trade Vaughn and Sydney for Allison Doran."
"You mean Allison Doran's body. She's been in a coma for years."
"Sark knows."
"What the hell is he thinking?"
"I have my suspicions."
Which he wasn't going to share with me, of course. My brain was about to explode. None of this made fucking sense.
"What does Sloane think of your rescue attempt?" I asked suddenly.
Dead silence.
"Come on. Tell me I'm wrong. You went to work for Sloane after kicking the crap out of Mike, right? He's the only one who could have helped you fake your death so well."
More silence. I sighed. "Fine. I'll keep guessing. Sloane showed you proof he had Sydney." Hopefully not his traditional severed body part. "He said she was safe, and if you went to work for him she'd stay that way. Am I close? At all? You know I am."
"It couldn't have been faked that well--my death. You knew about it."
I laughed. "Everybody forgets that I was there the day Sydney walked into the CIA. I've known about SD-6 for a long time. Part of my job was to read all your reports. I know your style, Jack, and I know Sloane's."
"Kendall and Devlin--"
"If Devlin didn't know, he chose not to." I thought about it. "Kendall's dumb enough."
Bristow's laugh was immensely creepy.
***
It's not a coincidence that we got married a year to the day after Sydney went missing. It was a bit too symbolic for me, but Mike was insistent, and my pushover nature is probably obvious by now.
"I have to admit, most couples who take part in this ceremony are more...upbeat than the two of you," the Justice of the Peace said as we stood in the hall outside his office, watching our mothers watching us. They looked slightly bewildered by the whole thing. I didn't blame them.
"We're just properly sobered by the momentousness of this occasion," Mike said.
The JP looked at him oddly; it was the first time he'd spoken since we got there. I looked at him oddly because that was a damned odd thing to say.
"Well, let's get started then, shall we?"
"You know," I said under my breath as we walked in, "we don't have to go through with--"
"Stop trying to talk me out of it. I proposed." A dimple flashed in his cheek. "You don't need to play hard-to-get any more."
"Really, we don't have to--"
"Eric. Can we just do this, goddammit?"
"Fine."
*
We came back to Virginia that same night, even though it didn't get us home until nearly midnight. I drove, watching the map light reflect in the windshield as Mike read what looked like a book of poetry. I didn't ask, and he didn't tell. Sometimes, when he turned a page, the ring on his left hand would catch the light. I always looked over when that happened. He almost always smiled.
I came out of the shower at home to find him sprawled across the still-made bed, the book open on his chest. I set it down still open on the nightstand and worked his shoes and tie off. Then I stood there arguing with myself for a few minutes. Finally I picked the book up and read the first lines on the page.
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
"Mmm. Turn the light off and come to bed," Mike said.
I closed the book and crawled in beside him. "You're going to be really uncomfortable in the morning if you sleep in those clothes."
"Don't care. G'night."
"Good night."
*
He woke me up very unsubtly, by kissing me until my eyes popped open.
"Hmm?" I thought I was dreaming until I brought a hand up and it bumped into his head. "Mike?"
"Hey." He went back to kissing me. He was a damn good kisser, I'd noticed that...well, a long time ago. My brain was stubbornly refusing to kick in, so I just closed my eyes and went with it.
It was surreal, lying in the dark, his nose bumping against mine and his teeth scraping my bottom lip. I moaned, and he pressed even harder against me.
"That was...a fun way to wake up," I said a short while later. "Is it morning?" I peered up at him. "I'm not going for a run with you."
"No." His voice was soft and amused. "I thought you deserved a slightly more memorable wedding night."
"Civil union."
"Whatever. Of course, you could still go running--"
"I don't think so." I yawned. "Then you'll expect me to do it every time you get married."
I fell asleep in the middle of his laughter. Not very polite, but hey, I'm a guy.
***
The flight was fucking endless. I dressed in the clothes that had somehow been waiting for me. Either the pilot was my size or Bristow had planned a little too well ahead for my taste. We finished preparing all the weapons, and then Bristow napped. Napped! I booted up the computer and read everything I could about Mt. Rushmore. Here's a hint. North by Northwest? Not all that accurate. I fell asleep on the keyboard and dreamed about Mike's dad reciting the Gettysburg Address.
A hand on my shoulder woke me in the middle of the word "consecrate." "Hmph?"
"Pilot says we're landing in twenty." He had refused to tell me where the plane came from or who was flying it.
"Oh, okay." I pulled myself upright and rubbed my cheek. I probably had QWERTY imprinted somewhere.
"Strap in."
"Jack? You never did tell me what you did for Sloane."
He made an unidentifiable noise. "Killed people, mostly."
"Anyone I know?"
"Yes."
...oh. "And who's your source in Sark's faction?"
"Will Tippin."
"The fuck? He works for the CIA."
"Mostly."
My stomach twisted. "Did he have to kill people, too?" I remembered Will, delirious in his hospital bed, begging Francie to come back.
A noticeable hesitation this time. "Not directly." That was the last thing he said to me before we landed.
*
A car was waiting when we touched down. A familiar figure leaned against it, squinting into the sunrise.
"About fuckin' time," he said as we approached. "Hey, Weiss."
"Hi, Will."
"Planes only go so fast." To my immense surprise, Bristow opened the passenger side door, leaving the driver's side for Will. I clambered into the back seat. Ooh, more guns. "Do you have a map to the cabin?"
Will tapped his temple. "Right here."
"Does Sark know you're gone?"
"Not yet. By the time he does, well, one way or another, it won't matter any more, will it?"
*
The plan was simple. In the immortal words of Brendan Fraser: "Rescue the damsel in distress. Kill the bad guy. Save the world." (Yes, but who was the damsel?) Sark had six people, but at least two would stay to guard Mike and Syd, and we had the element of surprise.
Will walked up to the guy guarding the back perimeter. "Marcus, good to see you!"
"Tippin, what the hell are you doing out here?" The man whipped his head around to glare at Will. "Sark sent you to--"
His head turn brought him in line with one quick, silenced bullet from Bristow's gun. He fell with an audible thunk in front of Will, who dragged him back into the shrubbery.
"That was the easy one," Bristow muttered to me.
I nodded and tightened my grip on my rifle. This was not the time to remind anyone, me included, that I hadn't seen active field duty since Irina Derevko shot me in the neck nearly three years earlier. "Bring it on."
Will appeared near the cabin. Blood was smeared across the lower part of his shirt. He waved Marcus's weapon at us and started around the side of the house. We headed out, too.
The next guy came around the corner. There was no time for stealth. Will brought the rifle almost into the man's stomach and fired three short bursts. The bad guy's gun went off as he fell, catching Will on the arm.
"Shit!" was all Will said.
I started for him, but Bristow grabbed me and shoved me back the way I'd been heading. Two more men burst out the back door, and a third opened fire from the window.
There wasn't time to worry about anything but the guy closest to me. I dove for the ground, firing as I went. The world was full of guns barking, bullets whistling, men shouting.
I rolled and came back up, bracing for a bullet. Nothing happened. My guy was down, writhing; Bristow's had just fallen out of the window, and a third was a lump on the ground near Will.
"Holy shit." I kicked my guy's gun far away from him just in case. Then I looked at Will, who was still standing, although he looked like he might not be in a second. "How many was--Sark!"
Too late.
My last three memories were the blood blooming on Will's chest, the feel of a rifle butt being slammed into the back of my neck, and Sark's voice ordering Bristow to "put the bloody gun down, now."
***
Keep in mind, I can only be in one place at a time. What I know about what happened in the cabin I know from piecing together some very odd post-mission reports.
Sark and his little sidekick led Bristow into the cabin. As they passed through the front room, Bristow saw his daughter and Mike unconscious on the floor, which explained why there were two extra guys out there to take us on. In the back was a setup similar to the one in Mexico City, but there most of Rambaldi's pieces had been hidden where Bristow couldn't see them. Although they all fit together, they looked...antique, the report says. Out of place even in this rustic cabin. On each end of the now-assembled device was a hospital bed and an IV stand like the ones from Mexico, as well as a copper band that looked like a restraint, maybe two inches wide.
Bristow was stripped of his jacket and shoes, frisked, and handcuffed to one bed. "You can try to escape," Sark told him, "but I will shoot your daughter if you do." Not one to mince threats, Mr. Sark.
Sark had his man drag me, still unconscious, into the cabin and tie me next to Sydney and Mike. Then he placed a brief call to summon reinforcements. Upon being informed of some delay, he swore in several languages and threw the phone across the room.
He swore some more, paced around, and finally came to a halt in front of Bristow. "We have time for one last test, I think."
Any protest the other man made was overridden. "Get Tippin from outside."
Will was dragged in. According to the reports, he'd been shot in the right side of his chest. A lung had been punctured, and he was bleeding profusely, but he hadn't died just yet.
Sark dragged him onto one of the beds. He slid the IV needle into the back of Will's hand and attached the copper banding onto his other wrist. With another warning to Bristow, he hooked him up in the same way, with the addition of actual restraints on wrists and ankles.
"I could add the oxygen tube, but really, I don't care enough," he said as he attached a heart monitor to the nondamaged side of Will's chest. It beeped, but very erratically. "There wasn't a chance to test this on you the first time, but Sloane has studied it extensively, and I'm sure I calibrated it correctly."
"What's this for?"
"You'll see."
"Does Sloane know you're doing this?"
Sark may have told him, but by this point, whatever he'd connected to Bristow was kicking in. He passed out.
***
When you get knocked unconscious twice in one damn day, things get fuzzy. I came to with the presence of mind to start tugging at the ropes on my wrists, but not the brainpower to actually get loose. Mike and Sydney were nearby, tied and not moving, and three men were wandering around the tiny room getting in the way of each other's huge honking rifles.
There was a humming noise coming from the back room. It sounded like a bunch of really pissed-off bees.
I noticed Sark when the door to the back room closed behind him. "It's started," he said. "You two know how it works?"
The two guys sitting at the table looked up. One of them said, "Yes, sir," in a guttural accent.
"Good. I need to go up top and make my final call to the CIA. Wait until it's finished, kill them both, and dismantle it. Then get everything out of here as quickly as possible."
"Why not kill them now?"
Sark gave him a completely disgusted look. "Because blowing up this entire mountain would irritate me." He turned his attention to the third man. "Wake the rest of them up and keep your eye on them. They're all dangerous." He glanced my way. "Except maybe the fat one."
Bastard.
The other two were roused with some kind of injection. The second Mike was on his feet, Sark had a gun to the back of his neck. The look he gave me made it very clear that he knew all the angles of my personal triangle, and that he was prepared to take advantage of every one. "Do as I say, and Mr. Vaughn survives to break more hearts in the future."
Both Sydney and I nodded.
"I'm sorry, Eric--" Mike began miserably, but Sark poked him with the gun. He waited until Sark looked away, then mouthed backup?
I shook my head.
Sydney looked over and I managed to smile at her. What a kid. Even with her braid messed to hell and gone and bags under her eyes, she was still gorgeous. Then she looked down at my hand--
probably hoping against hope for a weapon--and her eyes lit up. "Weiss! You got married, too!"
"He didn't tell you?" Sark laughed. "Poor Sydney. Vaughn's been very busy while you were gone..."
Mike closed his eyes as the cruel, amused voice continued, but it seemed only fair that I watch the understanding and the betrayal dawn in her face.
***
When Bristow woke up, Will was completely still. Bristow craned his neck and saw that the monitor was still on, sending out that flat tone we all know from doctor shows on TV. Will's face was waxy, and his lips completely pale.
By his reckoning, it was at least ten minutes later when the heart monitor kicked in again, without any warning, signaling a completely normal heart rhythm, and five minutes after that when Will opened his eyes and asked what the hell was going on.
***
"Um..." I looked up at the granite slabs marking the entrance to Mt. Rushmore. "You're calling the CIA from the Shrine of Democracy."
Sark smirked. "I thought it appropriate."
"You've got some issues, don't you?" That was me again. Sydney was still a bit glassy-eyed (drugs or shock, you pick), and Mike hadn't said a word yet. Perhaps he was aware that he was in the company of several people who, at least at the moment, wanted him dead. (How could he not tell her?)
"Shut up," Sark said. He draped a friendly-looking arm around Mike's shoulders. The other hand was definitely on the gun in his pocket. "Do I need to warn you two again what happens if you try to get away?"
"Not really," Sydney said shortly.
"Look like tourists," Sark said.
Uh-huh.
We made quite the little parade down the sidewalk. Sark and Mike, both looking like someone was daring them to stand so close. Then, exactly opposite, Sydney and myself doing everything short of climbing the walls to make sure we didn't touch. Then Sark's sidekick (who I'd mentally dubbed Gonzo) skulked behind us. The few times I looked back, he seemed much less successful than Sark at concealing his gun.
I looked around a bit as we went through the Avenue of Flags. "They've done some work since I was here last. Oh, look, California!"
Sark shot me a death glare.
"Just being a tourist, man," I said.
Sydney poked me with her elbow when I turned around. I poked back.
"Hey!" Gonzo said. He kicked me in the back of the knee.
"Ow!"
"Children," Mike said, still facing forward. "If I have to stop this car..."
The three of us burst into laughter. The look on Sark's face was...well, priceless doesn't even begin to do it justice.
He guided us around and down behind the official buildings, talking us smoothly past a couple of park rangers with a flat Midwestern accent (overdone, if you ask me) and some dumbass story about a Senator's permission and a foreign delegation. Mike spoke French on cue, Syd and I smiled, and obviously the National Park Service employs no telepaths, because the "danger, Will Robinson!" vibes coming off the three of us should have knocked everyone flat.
Finally we came to the foot of a stairway. A really tall stairway. A really tall stairway reaching towards...
"You want us to go to the top of Mt. Rushmore?" Sydney asked. "Are you insane?"
Gonzo reached out and cuffed her on the back of the head.
She whirled around. I braced myself.
"You, don't do that again." She turned back to Sark. "And you. What are you thinking? That's not a defensible position. The CIA can put a helicopter up there and just wait you out."
He smirked. Again. I really, really hated that expression. "They'll leave me alone."
"No, they won't."
"You'd be surprised what a few dollars and a knowledge of geology can do for you. They won't stop me unless they want Mt. Rushmore to be a molehill." He shoved Mike towards the stairs. "Climb."
There are 507 steps to the top of the mountain. No, I didn't count them; I looked it up later. At the time, I was too busy inventing and discarding stupid plans, keeping an eye on Sydney (if she fell, I'd be a Weiss-shaped domino headed down the mountain), and wishing I'd taken Mike up on his morning runs. Oh, and mocking Sark.
It was kind of fun. It took our mind off our possible impending doom, for one thing. And for another, working together like good spies should, considering our particular fucked-up relationship, was unnerving Sark like you would believe. And the more tense he got, the more fun we had.
*
Somewhere around step 150: "You know," Mike said, "this would never have happened to Cary Grant."
"Cary Grant had Alfred Hitchcock telling him what to do," I said reasonably. "Also, there's no house up there. I checked. And besides that, which of us would be Cary?"
We thought for a minute. Then we both said, "Sydney."
*
Long after Step 200: "I've been spending all my time catching up on the events of the spy world. What's happened everywhere else since I've been gone?"
"Oh, wow." I tried to think. "Same President. New Pope. Jewel went glam. Britney went country."
"Nuh-uh."
"Well, she tried. That's about all I can remember."
"You forgot the most important one!" Mike yelled.
"I did?"
"The Kings won the Cup!"
"Oh, God, how could I forget?"
*
Step 300-ish: "So how long have you guys been married, Weiss?"
"Not quite a year. But you know I was just keeping him warm for you, babe."
Mike stumbled. "Careful, Vaughn," Syd said. She actually giggled. "You need to be in one piece so Weiss and I can duel for your hand later."
"Only if I get to choose the weapons," I said.
"Pistols at dawn?"
"Ha."
"Shut up, Mike. I was thinking arm wrestling at high noon."
*
Step four-hundred-and-God-help-me: "I'll never look at a Stairmaster the same way again," Sydney moaned. "I'm either going to have killer thighs or my thighs will kill me."
"No comment," I said. Or gasped. Or wheezed. Something.
"Why not?"
Mike called back, "He's afraid you'll prove the killer thighs by killing him with them."
"Don't you people ever shut up?" Gonzo sounded a bit winded, too, which cheered me to no end.
"Only when we're dead," Sydney told him.
Mike said, "And even that's not a guarantee."
***
The mistake the goons in the cabin made was waiting too long for the machine to shut off.
Oh, and sending only one of them in to shoot Will and Bristow.
Now that I think of it, being there in the first place was the defining mistake. The rest was just gravy.
The guy that leaned over Bristow, checking the readout on the machine, found himself disarmed, turned around, and with a length of IV tubing garroting him.
Bristow tossed the gun to Will and asked the goon, "How many more?"
"Just one."
"Call him in."
"Okay. Okay. Hey! Adam! Will you come check on this for me?"
"Dammit, Wally, I'm trying to set up--"
Will took him out with one shot.
"Good boy," Bristow told Wally, adding pressure to the tubing. "Now. Where did Sark take them?"
"Up."
"Up where?"
"Top. Mt. Rushmore. Can't breathe."
"If you're lying to me, I will come back and kill you."
"Not lying. Please..."
Bristow left him unconscious and tied up on the floor by the bed. Honesty is a virtue.
***
If you look down at Mt. Rushmore from the air, you'll see what looks like a huge archway leading straight into the rock. That's the Hall of Records, which was originally intended to be a huge permanent museum of American history. The people who made Rushmore were afraid that thousands of years from now, people would look at it with the same baffled bewilderment we direct at Stonehenge now. It was never finished; now it's that archway at the top of the staircase, a buried time capsule, and a hole into the mountain, with sixty-year-old drill marks in the walls. Why Sark chose that for his rendezvous with the CIA, no one can really say, but that's where he led us.
We collapsed just inside the entry to the Hall. All I could think was, It's a good thing they're going to kill me, because I am not walking back down.
Sark opened his phone, started to dial a number, then hesitated and looked at the three of us. "I'll be right back. Watch them." He started outside and paused again. It was a little unnerving to see the cold-blooded Sark uncertain. "Vaughn. With me."
Mike got up, reluctantly releasing Sydney's hand.
"Don't try anything," Sark snapped as he left.
Gonzo, perhaps knowing that Sark's threat and not his gun held Sydney back, retreated to the far wall. Sydney and I were left trying not to look at each other. The mocking camaraderie of the climb had faded. I sighed. So did she.
"So--" we started at the same time, then broke off to laugh nervously.
"This is all so crazy," Sydney said with another sigh. She leaned her head back against the rock wall. "Nothing is what I remember. Nobody's where they were. Will's a field agent. Marshall's married. I thought Sark was locked in my mom's old cell."
"He was. Sloane broke him out after--about six months after you disappeared. It was a big epic Sloane-like thing. Long story." No need to mention that several elements of the break-out bore the "late" Jack Bristow's personal style.
"Huh. And my parents? Vaughn said my dad might be dead, but he didn't sound too sure, and Sark said Mom was dead...and Dad killed her." She sounded about six years old, and my better instincts kicked in. I scooted over until I was next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. She snuggled in. I was pretty sure both of us would regret this later, but as later wasn't a definite possibility, I didn't worry about it.
"I don't want to give you false hope, kiddo, but your dad was alive the last time I saw him." Captured, but--I shook away the image of Will falling and the sound of Bristow telling me he'd killed to keep Sydney alive. "I don't know about your mom." Not for sure. "Did Sark tell you where you've been for the last two years?"
"Blah, blah, Rambaldi, blah. Something about a power source."
"A what?"
She shrugged against my arm. "You got me."
Just then, the sound from outside increased noticeably. Syd and I jumped apart. Mike came back in. Sark was right behind him, screaming into his cell phone. He shoved Mike to the ground and stood over him, holding his gun about an inch from Mike's temple. Mike's face was calm, but his eyes kept darting back and forth between Sydney and me.
"Russian, right?" I whispered to Sydney. I was used to the bloodless economic words, not the obscenities he was surely spewing.
She nodded. "He's really not happy with someone." She listened more carefully. "Who's Allison?"
"Uh. I'll tell you when he's less trigger-happy."
***
Bristow and Will had the Mt. Rushmore security staff in a tailspin. Bristow had to practically sit on Will to keep him from charging headlong up the mountain.
"Sark will be able to see us from a mile away. Use your head." He turned back to the ranger he'd been harassing. "Find me a back way."
"There's not really--"
"Find it. Or I'll make one."
"I don't understand," someone else was saying behind them. "It all seemed fine. He spoke French!"
Will got tugged aside by someone with a phone. "He says his name is Kendall," she whispered. "He sounds kinda--"
"Cranky? Yeah, thanks."
By the time he made his way back to the center of the room, Bristow had everyone gathered around a huge map of the memorial.
"Get all the civilians within this perimeter," he said, gesturing. "Close this--what's it called?"
"The Presidential Trail."
Bristow eyed him. "Of course. Close everything below this viewing terrace."
"What are we supposed to tell them?"
"Water leak, private tour, bad weather. As long as you don't mention the madman with hostages and explosives, I don't much care."
"Kendall says they're telling Sark right now, no deal for Allison. He's not taking it well; we need to hurry. Also, I'm supposed to welcome you back to the living."
Bristow just grunted. "Where's my back way? No, a helicopter won't work. You might as well call him up and ask for an invitation. Is the long-range camera up yet? Good. Let's see it."
***
Sark and Gonzo dragged the three of us out of the Hall and onto the top of Roosevelt's head. Vertigo reached up and slapped me in the face. I don't mind heights, but I do mind being on top of a windy mountain on uneven terrain with a gun-toting maniac prodding me along. I'm funny that way.
"Do not fuck with me!" Sark was shouting into the phone. "Proof? Fuck proof. If I know the CIA, you have cameras on us even now." He shoved me another few feet. "Don't you?"
I squinted around. The sun was low in the western sky (how long had we been up here?), making it hard to see anything. He was probably right about the cameras, though.
He hit a button on his phone and turned to Gonzo. "Get on the two-way. Call Adam. If he and that idiot friend of his aren't halfway to another state by now, they'd better have a damn good explanation." Back to his cell. "I'm here...no I don't think you understand. If you're not willing to give me what I want, I have no reason to keep your people alive, now do I? You have twenty minutes to decide which is more important to you: one woman in a coma, or three of your own agents."
***
Will and Bristow were listening to the cell phone feed and watching the grainy shot of the five of us. The CIA's version of surround sound.
Law enforcement officials from various jurisdictions had poured into the room: National Park Service security, local Bureau and CIA personnel--Will swears he saw a Secret Service guy or two. None of them questioned Bristow's authority, even though he had no ID and was wearing yesterday's clothes. He wasn't going to let them question it. Jack Bristow on a mission is an intimidating sight; Jack Bristow trying to save his little girl is downright scary.
So it's not too surprising that the FBI guy who had to tell them when things went wrong at the cabin walked off looking as though he'd been flayed alive.
"I don't believe it," Jack said. "What kind of incompetents shoot a machine for making noise?"
"One of Rambaldi's weird machines? I can't entirely blame them." Will shrugged. "I hope we can put it back together. Think of what we could do with it."
"I am." Bristow's gaze remained on the monitor.
***
The minutes ticked by. Gonzo got more agitated, especially after the fourth or fifth failed attempt to reach the cabin. But Sark's profanity-laced rage drained away until he was completely still.
After fifteen minutes, he even started smiling.
At twenty minutes exactly, he dialed his phone. "It's Sark. Have you changed your mind? Very well."
"It's almost a relief," he said pleasantly to us as he returned the phone to his pocket. "I wanted to guarantee Allison's safety, so my first instinct had to be put aside." He advanced on Sydney, who threw her chin up and glared at him.
"Two years." His voice was brittle. "Two years I've waited. Two years you've been completely vulnerable to me. I used to watch them hook you up to Il Dire every night. You couldn't fight back. Couldn't even see me standing over you. I would dream of leaning down and just snapping your neck."
Sydney was frozen, staring up at him with tears in her eyes. I could see Mike on her other side, tensed and ready to move, but Gonzo was alert behind me even if Sark was losing it.
"Sloane knew. He had to. And he couldn't have me interfering with his precious plans. So he sent me away. It took me over a year to steal the machine from him. I had to steal you twice; you got away from me the first time." His face was distorted with hate. "And they still won't give her back to me!"
His pistol shook as he brought it up towards her head. "I've loved two women in my life. And the Bristows destroyed them both."
Mike started forward. "Stay back!" Sark yelled. Then he saw the look on my face. It made him laugh. "Look at you, a bunch of heroes with no way to save yourselves. Weiss!"
He pulled a second gun from under his jacket and winged it my way. I barely caught it before it clipped me in the nose.
My brain was whirling, but my hands knew what to do. They checked the gun, flicked the safety off, and aimed it squarely at Sark.
He stepped behind Mike. "Not so fast."
"What's your game, dammit?" My hands wanted to shake. I didn't let them.
"It's very simple, Weiss. One of them has to die."
"What?"
"Shoot one of them."
"I'm not--"
"Or I shoot both of them." He was practically gleeful. "This is your chance, my friend. Eliminate the woman who's made both our lives hell for four years."
The gun was warm and sliding slightly in my hand. I could feel the curve of the trigger guard under my finger.
"Have you forgotten what her mother did to you?"
"Shut up."
"Eric--" Mike started.
"All of you!" If I turned around and got Gonzo, Sark would have time to shoot both Mike and Sydney. If I stepped around, he'd see me coming. "You can't make me do this."
"I will kill them both. And I doubt the CIA would trade so much as a paper clip for you, Mr. Weiss."
I steadied the gun. Looked into Mike's eyes. Sydney's. Back to Mike. "I'm sorry."
"You have ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven..."
"I'm sorry," I said again, and fired.
The report of the gun blended with Sydney's scream and Sark's roar of anger.
***
"Shots," Will said.
"Who?"
"It's not--they're all tangled together."
"Get the helicopter up."
***
The bullet caught Mike a couple of inches below the breastbone. He flew back; both he and Sark tumbled to the ground.
I took Gonzo out while he was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened. His rifle skidded across the granite and fell over the edge.
"Weiss!"
Sydney and Sark were grappling for the gun over Mike's body. I fired in their general direction. Sark flinched just enough for Sydney to bat the gun away. She aimed a blow at his head. He blocked and retreated. She jumped over Mike and chased him.
It was immediately obvious that I couldn't shoot at Sark without risking Sydney. So I kept one eye on them--if she started to lose, we'd re-evaluate--and ran to Mike.
He was still conscious. Trying to sit up, even. "Hey, stay put." I shucked my jacket and got it under his head. Next came my shirt and sweater, to cover the entrance and--"Oh, Jesus"--the exit wounds.
He blinked up at me when I applied pressure. "Fuck, that hurts."
"I'm sure." I pushed even harder. "Hang on."
"Oh? Yeah. Sure. Syd--?"
"Fine." I peeked over. Sydney was just kicking Sark in the face. "Never better."
"Good. Eric--"
"Shh."
"Thank you. I'm glad--"
"I know. That's why I did it. Lie still."
I kissed him. Then I leaned my forehead against his and applied all my strength to holding him together.
When the helicopter landed, it was physically painful to peel my hands from him.
***
They took Mike to the hospital in nearby Rapid City. The paramedic Will had culled from the crowd at Mt. Rushmore accompanied him; the rest of us saw Sark packed off into federal custody, waved off any and all questions, and followed in our car. I watched the Bristows cling to each other in the back seat as Will broke every major traffic law along the way.
By the time we caught up, Mike was in surgery. "It's likely to be several hours yet," a nurse told us. "We're getting his medical records faxed over, but ma'am, does your husband have any medical conditions or allergies we should know about immediately?"
"Oh, God, I'm not--I--"
"I'm next of kin," I said briefly. I kept my left hand firmly in my jeans pocket. I'd put my jacket back on for some attempt at cover, and the dried blood scraped against my back. "No allergies. No conditions."
An enterprising CIA flunky conjured up showers, clean clothes, and a private waiting room near the OR. I withstood it for at least twenty minutes before I had to get out of there.
"Page me if there's any change?"
Bristow didn't look up from his seat next to Sydney, but Will nodded.
*
The hospital chapel was thankfully empty. I sank onto a bench. There was a nice crucifix on one wall; I distracted myself for a while by wondering what Will thought of his unexpected resurrection. From the sound of it, he'd be the last of Rambaldi's customers; the device was being sent to Marshall, but even he probably couldn't make it work now.
Everything hit me then: the panic, the anger, even the aches in my mountain-climbing muscles. I squeezed my eyes shut hard. I had the urge to do something stupid and self-destructive, just to get my mind off what was happening in that OR upstairs. I pondered my options. Take up smoking? No immediate gratification. Go back to the top of Mt. Rushmore and jump off? Fuck, not those stairs again.
The door opened behind me. "There you are."
...be stuck in a small room with my soon-to-be ex-husband's future father-in-law? Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Jack."
He sat down on the bench next to mine.
"Where's Sydney?"
"Will's with her."
I nodded. "You shouldn't leave her alone for too long."
He ignored my subtle hint. "She seemed to think you might be worrying about Vaughn."
"That's my job, isn't it? I'm his...friend."
"Weiss--"
I shook my head. "You know, I'm not stupid. I've always known what--" I broke off and took a couple of deep breaths. "What I'm trying to say is, one way or another, this is likely to be my last night as a married man. So I would appreciate it if everyone would leave me alone until I can pretend that's all right. All right?"
Bristow didn't move for quite a while. I concentrated on ignoring him.
"I strangled my wife."
"You...you what?"
He fixed his gaze straight ahead. "Sloane said it was somehow related to the Rambaldi prophecy. For once, I didn't believe him. He was testing my loyalties. He had a photo of Sydney. She was unconscious, and she--" He cleared his throat. "Sloane said he would kill her himself if I didn't bring Irina's body back to him."
"How did you get to her?"
"The truth," he said quietly. "I found her in a little bar in Warsaw--well, Will found her for me, contacted her through a black ops agent I used to know. I told her everything. I thought she'd have an idea, a plan. Something. But she listened, and then she just said, 'Well, Jack, you'd better kill me then.' I argued with her, but--" He looked over at me. "What choice was there?"
It was all too easy to picture. I think we've all wanted to strangle Derevko on occasion, which helped. This was an odd thing to be bonding over. "I'm sorry, Jack."
"Yes."
"We should go back now."
"Yes."
***
The way I see it, there are three ways this could end. Each is a happy ending--for someone. Each is a tragedy for someone else.
***
We waited until slightly before the end of time. I drank so much rancid coffee that it started to taste good.
It all threatened to come back up when the doctor came out. She was older, tired, and didn't react at all to Jack Bristow looming over her, which was either a really good sign or--
"I'm sorry," she said. "We fought our hardest, but the damage--"
Sydney didn't make a noise. She just stood in the circle of her father's arms, Will's hand on her shoulder, and stared at me.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I said. How had I ended up on my knees? "Oh, God."
"You. Did. This." Her words were precise and sharp. "You killed him."
"I did." I was too overwhelmed to be kind for his sake. "And the last thing he did was thank me for saving you. So be careful, Saint Sydney. I loved him, and I don't love you."
The only consolation, I thought as they led her away, was that in some ways this was easiest on Mike. It would have k--he would have hated making one of us unhappy. And now both Sydney and I could pretend it wouldn't have been us.
***
We waited until slightly before the end of time. I drank so much rancid coffee that it started to taste good.
It all threatened to come back up when the doctor came out. She was older, tired, and didn't react at all to Jack Bristow looming over her, which was either a really good sign or--
"There was a lot of damage, and he may require more surgery in the future, but we have him stabilized."
"Thank God," I heard Will whisper. I was busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"When can we see him?" Sydney asked.
"I'll let you know when he's out of recovery. Only one at a time can go in."
Sydney looked over at me.
"Ladies first."
*
By the time they let me in, someone had persuaded them to let Sydney stay. She was holding his hand in both of hers, and the looks they gave me were equal parts joy and sheepishness. I had to smile.
"All right. Who sweet-talked the nurse?" I asked, leaning against the door.
Sydney giggled.
I looked down at Mike. "I'm really glad you're okay."
"Thanks to you, we're both okay."
"Just doing my job. Which reminds me. Kendall is frothing at the mouth back in LA. I need to go take care of him."
Sydney sobered. "Dad and Will--"
"No worries. By the time I'm done, Langley will be handing out medals." I started out the door, then leaned back in. "And by the way?"
Syd and Mike both looked up.
I pointed at Sydney. "I could still take you at arm-wrestling. I'm just saying."
"I believe you."
*
I pried the cheerful smile from my face as the elevator doors closed behind me. Perhaps my CIA designated drivers could be persuaded to stop for alcohol before we flew back to California.
I looked down and saw that I was compulsively rubbing my wedding ring with my thumb. "Fuck," I said to the empty elevator. "Well, better do it." I tugged at the ring. It came off easily enough.
I tucked it in my pocket and leaned back against the elevator wall. A great deal of alcohol.
***
"There was a lot of damage, and he may require more surgery in the future, but we have him stabilized."
"Thank God," I heard Will whisper. I was busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"When can we see him?" Sydney asked.
"I'll let you know when he's out of recovery. Only one at a time can go in."
Sydney looked over at me.
"Ladies first."
*
By the time they let me in to see him, Sydney was nowhere around. I stopped just in the door. "Hey."
"Hey yourself." He lifted the non-IV-wearing hand. "C'mere."
I sat down next to him. "You sound like shit, but a lot better than I did when I got shot."
"Location, location, location." He touched my throat. "We'll have matching scars."
"Yeah. Yeah, we will."
"I know this probably isn't the best time, but I have to tell you...when I was lying there bleeding, I thought, Eric did all this for me and I'm never gonna get the chance to tell him, tell him how I couldn't have made it through the last two years without him."
Fuck me, not now. Not yet. "Yeah, I know." I was holding his hand, probably too hard, but if it would be the last time, I wanted to remember it. "You don't have to--"
"And to tell you I don't think I can get through the rest of my life without you, either."
"What? No." A movement in the observation window caught my eye. Sydney was standing there, one hand over her mouth. Her father came up behind her, and she simply crumpled into his arms. "Mike, Sydney is--"
"Goddammit!" He tried to sit up, which brought on a minor coughing fit. "Why can't you listen to me? You never listen to me. I married you, you dipshit. Not Sydney. You."
"Well--"
"Well, nothing. I'm in love with you." He tugged the IV line over and covered my hand with his. "Live with it."
"Okay." I was lightheaded, really. I had never expected--"Um. Okay."
He laughed. "You're a romantic fool."
"No." I smiled. "But you love me anyway."
***
Some mornings when my brain is awake but my eyes are refusing to open, I lie in bed and wonder if maybe they're all true. If the science-fiction writers aren't right with their concepts of alternate universes and parallel lives.
Maybe somewhere, Sydney Bristow is about to wake up next to her husband on their first anniversary. Their wedding picture is on the table by their bed, and she's almost resigned herself to the face of his best man in it.
Somewhere else, Eric Weiss is about to wake his partner up to celebrate their third anniversary. His gift to Mike will be the much-maligned morning run. Sydney will call to wish them well; Eric has almost conquered the urge to hang up when he hears her voice on the line.
And somewhere beyond that, that same Sydney and that same Eric will meet to lay flowers on the grave of a man they both loved.
And maybe none of them ever happened, and maybe all of them did. And maybe each is, somehow, inevitable.
--the end--
Thanks to:
Rhysenn for the original idea.
Shelley for pre-betaing every word, encouraging me, and swearing that she loved it.
Caro for audiencing the smut.
Diana and Jenn (researchminion) for the early feedback and keeping an eye on the characters for me.
My amazing betas: Robin, Gail, Karen T, and Shelley (again!), who caught more errors than you can imagine, offered brilliant suggestions, and made me laugh. Any remaining errors are entirely my fault.
And finally, I have to thank all the people who read it in progress and let me know they thought I could pull it off. I literally couldn't have done it without you.
Quote credits:
"What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"
"Ask a glass of water."
--Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
written by Douglas Adams
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
--Shakespeare, Sonnet CLII
"Rescue the damsel in distress. Kill the bad guy. Save the world."
--Rick O'Connell (Brendan Fraser) in The Mummy
written and directed by Stephen Sommers