response #1 to challenge "letters"
Really only spoilery through the beginning of S3, though if you squint you can see hints of S4 events to come --
"Condolence"
Sloane's first letter arrived a week after his pardon was announced, six months after Sydney's death. Jack dropped it in the trash, unopened.
The second letter arrived roughly one month later. Jack was never sure precisely when; it was the single personal item in a large bundle of flyers for pizza delivery and offers for credit cards, the rubber-banded bundle of mail he picked up when he returned from his "deep cover" assignment in Scandanavia. He had left Irina only fourteen hours previously, and as Jack found himself wondering what Irina would say when he told her Sloane had begun to write.
Even that was too much curiosity. Jack burned the letter even before he'd unpacked his suitcase.
He received the third letter at the end of a very hard day. His next meeting with Irina had to be postponed; even her dangerous comfort would be denied him. People at the CIA had begun to ask too many questions about his frequent absences. He was no closer to tracking down the Covenant than he'd ever been.
And on the way home, he wondered why one sonata on the classical station sounded so familiar - then remembered that Sydney had played it at her piano recital when she was 15. That was the only recital he'd ever managed to attend; he missed all the others. Her delight when he finally showed up for that one was almost pitiful, a hundred times more hurtful to Jack than her tears and recriminations had ever been.
Wearily, he sat on his couch, turning the envelope over. His cheeks were stiff with dried tears. It didn't matter what Arvin had to say; Jack couldn't feel any worse.
I presume you've destroyed the other letters I sent. Until you answer - and you eventually will - I can only begin each of these notes by saying the most important thing there is to be said: I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Sydney was the the brightest, strongest, most courageous young agent I ever knew, and the fact that her regard for me became tainted doesn't diminish my fond memories of the relationship we used to have. I am grateful simply to have known her, and I understand as never before the pain you must be feeling. I wish I could offer you comfort, but I know better than to attempt the impossible.
So many things were wrong with this letter that Jack didn't know where to start counting them. Sydney's regard for Sloane was not "tainted" - it was nonexistent. He had no right to feel grateful for knowing Sydney, for being the man who betrayed her conscience and murdered her fiance. And only Arvin could stand in the wreckage of his Rambaldi schemes and claim he had never attempted the impossible.
Jack never answered Sloane's letters. They arrived once a month even after his arrest, the only correspondence he received in prison. He always wondered why Arvin thought he could understand. He never threw the letters away.
"Condolence"
Sloane's first letter arrived a week after his pardon was announced, six months after Sydney's death. Jack dropped it in the trash, unopened.
The second letter arrived roughly one month later. Jack was never sure precisely when; it was the single personal item in a large bundle of flyers for pizza delivery and offers for credit cards, the rubber-banded bundle of mail he picked up when he returned from his "deep cover" assignment in Scandanavia. He had left Irina only fourteen hours previously, and as Jack found himself wondering what Irina would say when he told her Sloane had begun to write.
Even that was too much curiosity. Jack burned the letter even before he'd unpacked his suitcase.
He received the third letter at the end of a very hard day. His next meeting with Irina had to be postponed; even her dangerous comfort would be denied him. People at the CIA had begun to ask too many questions about his frequent absences. He was no closer to tracking down the Covenant than he'd ever been.
And on the way home, he wondered why one sonata on the classical station sounded so familiar - then remembered that Sydney had played it at her piano recital when she was 15. That was the only recital he'd ever managed to attend; he missed all the others. Her delight when he finally showed up for that one was almost pitiful, a hundred times more hurtful to Jack than her tears and recriminations had ever been.
Wearily, he sat on his couch, turning the envelope over. His cheeks were stiff with dried tears. It didn't matter what Arvin had to say; Jack couldn't feel any worse.
I presume you've destroyed the other letters I sent. Until you answer - and you eventually will - I can only begin each of these notes by saying the most important thing there is to be said: I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Sydney was the the brightest, strongest, most courageous young agent I ever knew, and the fact that her regard for me became tainted doesn't diminish my fond memories of the relationship we used to have. I am grateful simply to have known her, and I understand as never before the pain you must be feeling. I wish I could offer you comfort, but I know better than to attempt the impossible.
So many things were wrong with this letter that Jack didn't know where to start counting them. Sydney's regard for Sloane was not "tainted" - it was nonexistent. He had no right to feel grateful for knowing Sydney, for being the man who betrayed her conscience and murdered her fiance. And only Arvin could stand in the wreckage of his Rambaldi schemes and claim he had never attempted the impossible.
Jack never answered Sloane's letters. They arrived once a month even after his arrest, the only correspondence he received in prison. He always wondered why Arvin thought he could understand. He never threw the letters away.