response # 1 to "jewelry" challenge
Spoilers: None. Set S2, post "The Telling"
A/N: I got this fire in my brain this morning after yahtzee dropped "Family Heirloom." Inspiration is contagious, y'all.
Up to this point, Jack had busied himself with paperwork, insurance claims, the will and moving everything into a Caymans trust. The abstract was all he was capable of handling after his daughter’s death. It was also the least deserving but most readily available target of his rage since Arvin had disappeared and Irina had again vanished into the night, with nary an explanation. The rote process was something he could easily digest-he knew its course, could predict what would raise questions and what invectives he would need to hurl in order to resolve them. He’d already done it after Laura’s death so many years ago, when it was the product of so much contrivance and when grief had numbed him to feeling anything except self-pity.
But now everything-even the littlest of matters-seemed more raw and more real, perhaps because his loss seemed so present. Without Sydney, Jack felt more alone than at any other point in his life, more than he’d even thought possible. Sometimes he felt actual remorse for yelling at the insurance adjuster, whose only accident was being on other end of the phone. Jack knew even this fleeting concern of his was a legacy of his daughter.
It was a week since the fire, and he still hadn’t been able to witness the scene of the crime. He doubted he ever would before the demolition crew razed the remains of Sydney’s home. Vaughn had been haunting the burned out shell day and night, inconsolable and in progressive degrees of intoxication, and Jack figured that his presence would have made an already tragic situation take a morbid turn. After the police had shown up and the CSI team from Langley had been abruptly excused at his orders, Jack had instructed his own team to bag and tag everything that remained. After Sydney’s body had been recovered, the illegal weapons stash taken into possession, Jack was left with what was left behind.
He stood for a moment at the door of the storage room, darkly musing that if after a lifetime of well-prepared destruction, his cosmic bill was finally being presented to him. Sydney’s life had been so rich, so full of love from her friends, Jack wasn’t sure how much he could bear to witness of its remains. He lifted the door and the clatter of metal rolling up sounded like thunder.
The smell of smoke hit him like a fist. Blinking, he fumbled along the doorframe and, finding the pullchain, turned on the overhead light. There was charred furniture lining the walls, covered by clear plastic tarps. A half dozen storage boxes sat on the table in front of him. Six boxes contained Sydney’s entire adult life-Jack knew he had double that amount holding her childhood belongings, her report cards, her highschool journals and diploma. The fire must have obliterated nearly everything Jack could remember in Sydney’s home. How could a life so full be reduced to so little?
He leaned against the table for a moment, allowing it to hold him up. Sydney had suffered greatly by his feeble attempt at parenting and had taken such pains to keep him at arm’s length since she left home, but he couldn’t imagine there would be so little left for him to find of his daughter’s life. What little was here could be picked through by his analysts, to find anything to give him closure. Or perhaps even a lead he would follow for the rest of his life. Jack looked again at the boxes, all in a tidy row. He wouldn’t allow his grief to punish her again. He wouldn’t allow it to cripple him. He owed Sydney so much, but now he owed her the reason for her death. It would cost him everything to do it, but it was a debt he would need to bear himself.
He stood back, preparing to leave, but Jack stopped, putting his hand on one of the boxes. He’d spent all her life thinking of Sydney only as his daughter. But in that moment, Jack realized he’d forgotten she was a grown woman and a fully-fledged person in her own right, and he felt a powerful urge to take someting with him. He lifted the lid, finding the contents of what must have been her bedside table. There was a leather journal, the page edges blackened with soot, and a remarkably hideous tie that Vaughn must have left behind. He took the journal out and placed it carefully in a briefcase to take home with him. Jack left the tie behind and was ready to close the box when he noticed something at the bottom .
Tucked under the tie was a small jewelry box, the black velvet matted in spots with water stains. Jack knew Michael Vaughn’s love for his daughter manifested itself in odd and strangely charming ways, like putt-putt and ice hockey games, but he hadn’t ever really thought of Vaughn as anything more than a simple boy, a feverish workplace crush for Sydney. There was something inexorable about finding love in a foxhole, especially in their line of work. Sydney had come to rely on Vaughn as more than a handler, he knew very well, but Jack wondered if this token might have been an indicator of something more serious that he hadn’t wanted to see.
He opened the box and his eyebrow quirked. Jack watched as the feeble incandescent light from the single bulb overhead reflected brilliantly in the diamond earrings in his hand. They were the earrings Irina had given to Sydney before her extraction, which Sydney had turned over and he’d used every resource possible to discover the transmission source. She must have asked for them tobe returned from CIA custody. Why he wasn’t sure, as they’d provided no intel whatsoever about Irina or her whereabouts. There’d only been the single, irritating, cryptic refrain of morse code that Sydney translated as “truth takes time” before it stopped transmitting.
But Sydney was more sentimental than he. He’d long since stopped believing anything Irina told him at face value, but Sydney had always clinged onto shreds of hope, even when she knew her hopes were misplaced. It had been Sydney’s nature to be optimistic, to keep an open mind, to believe when the odds were against her. It made her incredibly stubborn but also an outstanding agent. And a wonderful person.
Jack wondered if word of Sydney’s death had reached Irina yet. He snapped the box shut and dropped the velvet box into his briefcase next to the journal. They might yield something yet, if he took the time.
Then the earrings began beeping.
A/N: I got this fire in my brain this morning after yahtzee dropped "Family Heirloom." Inspiration is contagious, y'all.
Up to this point, Jack had busied himself with paperwork, insurance claims, the will and moving everything into a Caymans trust. The abstract was all he was capable of handling after his daughter’s death. It was also the least deserving but most readily available target of his rage since Arvin had disappeared and Irina had again vanished into the night, with nary an explanation. The rote process was something he could easily digest-he knew its course, could predict what would raise questions and what invectives he would need to hurl in order to resolve them. He’d already done it after Laura’s death so many years ago, when it was the product of so much contrivance and when grief had numbed him to feeling anything except self-pity.
But now everything-even the littlest of matters-seemed more raw and more real, perhaps because his loss seemed so present. Without Sydney, Jack felt more alone than at any other point in his life, more than he’d even thought possible. Sometimes he felt actual remorse for yelling at the insurance adjuster, whose only accident was being on other end of the phone. Jack knew even this fleeting concern of his was a legacy of his daughter.
It was a week since the fire, and he still hadn’t been able to witness the scene of the crime. He doubted he ever would before the demolition crew razed the remains of Sydney’s home. Vaughn had been haunting the burned out shell day and night, inconsolable and in progressive degrees of intoxication, and Jack figured that his presence would have made an already tragic situation take a morbid turn. After the police had shown up and the CSI team from Langley had been abruptly excused at his orders, Jack had instructed his own team to bag and tag everything that remained. After Sydney’s body had been recovered, the illegal weapons stash taken into possession, Jack was left with what was left behind.
He stood for a moment at the door of the storage room, darkly musing that if after a lifetime of well-prepared destruction, his cosmic bill was finally being presented to him. Sydney’s life had been so rich, so full of love from her friends, Jack wasn’t sure how much he could bear to witness of its remains. He lifted the door and the clatter of metal rolling up sounded like thunder.
The smell of smoke hit him like a fist. Blinking, he fumbled along the doorframe and, finding the pullchain, turned on the overhead light. There was charred furniture lining the walls, covered by clear plastic tarps. A half dozen storage boxes sat on the table in front of him. Six boxes contained Sydney’s entire adult life-Jack knew he had double that amount holding her childhood belongings, her report cards, her highschool journals and diploma. The fire must have obliterated nearly everything Jack could remember in Sydney’s home. How could a life so full be reduced to so little?
He leaned against the table for a moment, allowing it to hold him up. Sydney had suffered greatly by his feeble attempt at parenting and had taken such pains to keep him at arm’s length since she left home, but he couldn’t imagine there would be so little left for him to find of his daughter’s life. What little was here could be picked through by his analysts, to find anything to give him closure. Or perhaps even a lead he would follow for the rest of his life. Jack looked again at the boxes, all in a tidy row. He wouldn’t allow his grief to punish her again. He wouldn’t allow it to cripple him. He owed Sydney so much, but now he owed her the reason for her death. It would cost him everything to do it, but it was a debt he would need to bear himself.
He stood back, preparing to leave, but Jack stopped, putting his hand on one of the boxes. He’d spent all her life thinking of Sydney only as his daughter. But in that moment, Jack realized he’d forgotten she was a grown woman and a fully-fledged person in her own right, and he felt a powerful urge to take someting with him. He lifted the lid, finding the contents of what must have been her bedside table. There was a leather journal, the page edges blackened with soot, and a remarkably hideous tie that Vaughn must have left behind. He took the journal out and placed it carefully in a briefcase to take home with him. Jack left the tie behind and was ready to close the box when he noticed something at the bottom .
Tucked under the tie was a small jewelry box, the black velvet matted in spots with water stains. Jack knew Michael Vaughn’s love for his daughter manifested itself in odd and strangely charming ways, like putt-putt and ice hockey games, but he hadn’t ever really thought of Vaughn as anything more than a simple boy, a feverish workplace crush for Sydney. There was something inexorable about finding love in a foxhole, especially in their line of work. Sydney had come to rely on Vaughn as more than a handler, he knew very well, but Jack wondered if this token might have been an indicator of something more serious that he hadn’t wanted to see.
He opened the box and his eyebrow quirked. Jack watched as the feeble incandescent light from the single bulb overhead reflected brilliantly in the diamond earrings in his hand. They were the earrings Irina had given to Sydney before her extraction, which Sydney had turned over and he’d used every resource possible to discover the transmission source. She must have asked for them tobe returned from CIA custody. Why he wasn’t sure, as they’d provided no intel whatsoever about Irina or her whereabouts. There’d only been the single, irritating, cryptic refrain of morse code that Sydney translated as “truth takes time” before it stopped transmitting.
But Sydney was more sentimental than he. He’d long since stopped believing anything Irina told him at face value, but Sydney had always clinged onto shreds of hope, even when she knew her hopes were misplaced. It had been Sydney’s nature to be optimistic, to keep an open mind, to believe when the odds were against her. It made her incredibly stubborn but also an outstanding agent. And a wonderful person.
Jack wondered if word of Sydney’s death had reached Irina yet. He snapped the box shut and dropped the velvet box into his briefcase next to the journal. They might yield something yet, if he took the time.
Then the earrings began beeping.