New Fic: Afterlife
This was written for yahtzee63's Alias: The Dearly Departed Ficathon
For spazzo47, who requested Jack, Jack and Sydney, and Jack with one of his grandchildren.
Rating: PG
Summary: Jack's back, and Rambaldi was wrong all along.
Afterlife 1/1
*****
I have always despised incompetence in other people. I've recently had ample opportunity to curse it in myself as well. Being trapped in a cave in Mongolia for five and a half years results in a hell of a lot of time for self-flagellation.
As far as final deeds go, I thought mine was pretty decisive--blow up myself, my worst enemy (although Irina had managed to make herself a pretty damn close second), and the tomb of the ancient genius-cum-madman that has caused my family more trouble and heartache than I'd ever imagined. But I hadn't considered the possibility of the resulting explosion spraying said madman's regenerative fluid all over what was left of my own body. And I sure as hell hadn't counted on the unbelievable itching as my torn-apart flesh started knitting itself back together. By the time my body was whole again, I came to the realization that I'd made a major miscalculation.
Perhaps the only saving grace about my imprisonment was that Arvin was there as well--and in considerably worse shape than me. Pinned by several boulders, he couldn't move anything below his neck. There was nothing wrong with his voice, though. His incoherent ramblings were almost constant until I threatened to feed him a few handfuls of dirt. When Arvin took to cursing Sydney and Nadia for our predicament, I, of course, followed through. I'd like to say it gave me no pleasure to do so. No, that's not true. It gave me intense pleasure, and I don't mind admitting it. And at least things were relatively quiet for a few weeks.
Fate was kind to me, though. I eventually got out with both my body and my mind relatively intact. I was able to tap into hidden accounts set up long before that final mission, and more than five years of compounded interest added up nicely. My network of contacts wasn't in such great shape, however, and it took a few weeks to get back to the States and a few more before I finally found Sydney.
I wanted to see her so badly, but I didn't want to complicate her life any further. We parted on the best of terms, but that wasn't enough for me. I needed to see that she finally got her chance to be happy. I wanted to see how much Isabelle had grown, and to see her little brother--born just two months ago. I found a little café with an outdoor patio near the playground that they frequently brought the kids to. I sat down with my coffee, a croissant, and a newspaper. The park had a few trees that didn't allow me to get a good look at Sydney, but I circumspectly cheered Isabelle on as she crossed the monkey bars.
And all that brings us up to now--when I received something I didn't order: a hard poke in the ribs with the muzzle of a pistol as a man slips into the seat behind mine. Apparently, I was so besotted with my grandchild that I never noticed that I had attracted attention as well. Have I mentioned that I despise incompetence?
"You seem to have an unhealthy interest in my daughter," Vaughn says.
"I could say the same about you." He is silent as he digests this information, and I turn slowly to let him see the part of my face that I had kept hidden behind the paper.
He nods as though my reappearance is not unexpected and leads me over to one of the park benches. Sydney is waiting there with a baby stroller parked beside her. My God, she's so beautiful. She's aged a little, which is to be expected of everyone-- except, I suppose, for Arvin and myself. But there is a sense of contentment around her that I never saw while she was working in the field. Her joy obviously comes from her new role as a wife and a mother. The fact that I have missed all those years hits me like a physical blow.
She barely looks at me as she passes the stroller to Vaughn. As he moves and takes up a position closer to Isabelle, Sydney motions for me to sit on the bench with her. She takes a silenced pistol from the diaper bag beside her and points it meaningfully at my midsection.
"Three questions. No multiple choice, and no second chances. When SD-6 first came after me, you arranged a flight out of the country. Where was it going?"
I've seen her in far worse danger since then, but I know that evening left indelible marks on us both. "I tried to send you to France, with a connection to Switzerland."
"When you had the toaster accident, where did we stay for the next week?"
Sydney looks pained as she asks this, and I know it's because of what eventually happened to Irina. But it's her test, and I have to answer the question. "The Summit Hotel. And every day was Sunday."
She nods to acknowledge the answer to the question she asked as well as the one she didn't--she ate ice cream sundaes every day that we stayed there.
"Which birthday was it when you gave me a red bike?"
For the barest moment, I'm surprised. But then I see the slight narrowing of her eyes as she waits and I realize that she hasn't, in fact, forgotten. It's a trick question, and the rest of my life depends on the answer. "I never gave you a red bike for your birthday, Sydney. I gave you a bike for Christmas one year, but it was blue."
"Dad?"
And then she's in my arms. She's soft and warm and smells of baby powder and she's so real that it takes my breath away.
"Oh, my God," she says as she clings to me like she'll never let go again. "I thought about you every day. You haven't changed at all."
"Sydney," I say as she finally pulls away reluctantly, "I wish that were true."
She's still holding her gun. "Do these even work on you anymore?" she asks as she puts it back in her bag.
There isn't an easy answer to that. "Yes and no. It'll knock me down, but not for long. Even the scars will be gone within minutes."
This will change things between us, it has to, but she's still grinning from ear to ear, she's still holding my hand tightly in hers, and she's still--always and forever--my daughter.
The smile falters a little as another thought occurs to her. "What about Sloane?"
"The earthquake that freed me wasn't as kind to him. He's still in Mongolia, presumably ranting at Nadia's ghost even as we speak."
Sydney's lips tighten at the mention of her sister, and she's reminded of just how much Rambaldi has cost our family. "You know about Irina."
The fact that Sydney no longer calls her 'Mom' doesn't escape me. "I know. I read the reports. You don't need me to tell you that there was nothing else you could have done." But from the look on her face, that's exactly what she needs, so I say it again. "It wasn't your fault, Sydney. She left you no choice."
There are no tears--she must have shed them all years ago--but she scoots a little nearer to me and rests her head on my shoulder as we watch Isabelle scampering through the playground. After a few minutes, Vaughn returns with the stroller and parks it beside us again before taking Isabelle by the hand and walking her over to the ice cream stand across the street.
Sydney lifts the baby from his nest of blankets and pulls a knitted blue cap over his head before placing him into my arms. I used to think that all babies look the same, but, in my admittedly biased opinion, he is absolutely beautiful. He has Sydney's eyes and her nose, but his coloring and his chin must come from his father. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, his brow is much the same as mine. It's amazing how someone so tiny and so utterly helpless can also be so captivating. He wraps a hand around one of my fingers and squeezes tightly, as though to remind me that mighty things come in small packages. Not that I needed the reminder after watching his mother grow up.
Rambaldi had it all wrong. True immortality is found in the wonder that is this little child, knitted together from the very best parts of both of his parents. Arvin lost his chance when he sacrificed Nadia on Rambaldi's altar. Irina lost as well when she tried to do the same to our daughter.
Sydney and Vaughn will live on through this baby and through Isabelle, and no one and nothing on this earth will interfere with that.
I'll be watching.
fin
For spazzo47, who requested Jack, Jack and Sydney, and Jack with one of his grandchildren.
Rating: PG
Summary: Jack's back, and Rambaldi was wrong all along.
Afterlife 1/1
*****
I have always despised incompetence in other people. I've recently had ample opportunity to curse it in myself as well. Being trapped in a cave in Mongolia for five and a half years results in a hell of a lot of time for self-flagellation.
As far as final deeds go, I thought mine was pretty decisive--blow up myself, my worst enemy (although Irina had managed to make herself a pretty damn close second), and the tomb of the ancient genius-cum-madman that has caused my family more trouble and heartache than I'd ever imagined. But I hadn't considered the possibility of the resulting explosion spraying said madman's regenerative fluid all over what was left of my own body. And I sure as hell hadn't counted on the unbelievable itching as my torn-apart flesh started knitting itself back together. By the time my body was whole again, I came to the realization that I'd made a major miscalculation.
Perhaps the only saving grace about my imprisonment was that Arvin was there as well--and in considerably worse shape than me. Pinned by several boulders, he couldn't move anything below his neck. There was nothing wrong with his voice, though. His incoherent ramblings were almost constant until I threatened to feed him a few handfuls of dirt. When Arvin took to cursing Sydney and Nadia for our predicament, I, of course, followed through. I'd like to say it gave me no pleasure to do so. No, that's not true. It gave me intense pleasure, and I don't mind admitting it. And at least things were relatively quiet for a few weeks.
Fate was kind to me, though. I eventually got out with both my body and my mind relatively intact. I was able to tap into hidden accounts set up long before that final mission, and more than five years of compounded interest added up nicely. My network of contacts wasn't in such great shape, however, and it took a few weeks to get back to the States and a few more before I finally found Sydney.
I wanted to see her so badly, but I didn't want to complicate her life any further. We parted on the best of terms, but that wasn't enough for me. I needed to see that she finally got her chance to be happy. I wanted to see how much Isabelle had grown, and to see her little brother--born just two months ago. I found a little café with an outdoor patio near the playground that they frequently brought the kids to. I sat down with my coffee, a croissant, and a newspaper. The park had a few trees that didn't allow me to get a good look at Sydney, but I circumspectly cheered Isabelle on as she crossed the monkey bars.
And all that brings us up to now--when I received something I didn't order: a hard poke in the ribs with the muzzle of a pistol as a man slips into the seat behind mine. Apparently, I was so besotted with my grandchild that I never noticed that I had attracted attention as well. Have I mentioned that I despise incompetence?
"You seem to have an unhealthy interest in my daughter," Vaughn says.
"I could say the same about you." He is silent as he digests this information, and I turn slowly to let him see the part of my face that I had kept hidden behind the paper.
He nods as though my reappearance is not unexpected and leads me over to one of the park benches. Sydney is waiting there with a baby stroller parked beside her. My God, she's so beautiful. She's aged a little, which is to be expected of everyone-- except, I suppose, for Arvin and myself. But there is a sense of contentment around her that I never saw while she was working in the field. Her joy obviously comes from her new role as a wife and a mother. The fact that I have missed all those years hits me like a physical blow.
She barely looks at me as she passes the stroller to Vaughn. As he moves and takes up a position closer to Isabelle, Sydney motions for me to sit on the bench with her. She takes a silenced pistol from the diaper bag beside her and points it meaningfully at my midsection.
"Three questions. No multiple choice, and no second chances. When SD-6 first came after me, you arranged a flight out of the country. Where was it going?"
I've seen her in far worse danger since then, but I know that evening left indelible marks on us both. "I tried to send you to France, with a connection to Switzerland."
"When you had the toaster accident, where did we stay for the next week?"
Sydney looks pained as she asks this, and I know it's because of what eventually happened to Irina. But it's her test, and I have to answer the question. "The Summit Hotel. And every day was Sunday."
She nods to acknowledge the answer to the question she asked as well as the one she didn't--she ate ice cream sundaes every day that we stayed there.
"Which birthday was it when you gave me a red bike?"
For the barest moment, I'm surprised. But then I see the slight narrowing of her eyes as she waits and I realize that she hasn't, in fact, forgotten. It's a trick question, and the rest of my life depends on the answer. "I never gave you a red bike for your birthday, Sydney. I gave you a bike for Christmas one year, but it was blue."
"Dad?"
And then she's in my arms. She's soft and warm and smells of baby powder and she's so real that it takes my breath away.
"Oh, my God," she says as she clings to me like she'll never let go again. "I thought about you every day. You haven't changed at all."
"Sydney," I say as she finally pulls away reluctantly, "I wish that were true."
She's still holding her gun. "Do these even work on you anymore?" she asks as she puts it back in her bag.
There isn't an easy answer to that. "Yes and no. It'll knock me down, but not for long. Even the scars will be gone within minutes."
This will change things between us, it has to, but she's still grinning from ear to ear, she's still holding my hand tightly in hers, and she's still--always and forever--my daughter.
The smile falters a little as another thought occurs to her. "What about Sloane?"
"The earthquake that freed me wasn't as kind to him. He's still in Mongolia, presumably ranting at Nadia's ghost even as we speak."
Sydney's lips tighten at the mention of her sister, and she's reminded of just how much Rambaldi has cost our family. "You know about Irina."
The fact that Sydney no longer calls her 'Mom' doesn't escape me. "I know. I read the reports. You don't need me to tell you that there was nothing else you could have done." But from the look on her face, that's exactly what she needs, so I say it again. "It wasn't your fault, Sydney. She left you no choice."
There are no tears--she must have shed them all years ago--but she scoots a little nearer to me and rests her head on my shoulder as we watch Isabelle scampering through the playground. After a few minutes, Vaughn returns with the stroller and parks it beside us again before taking Isabelle by the hand and walking her over to the ice cream stand across the street.
Sydney lifts the baby from his nest of blankets and pulls a knitted blue cap over his head before placing him into my arms. I used to think that all babies look the same, but, in my admittedly biased opinion, he is absolutely beautiful. He has Sydney's eyes and her nose, but his coloring and his chin must come from his father. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, his brow is much the same as mine. It's amazing how someone so tiny and so utterly helpless can also be so captivating. He wraps a hand around one of my fingers and squeezes tightly, as though to remind me that mighty things come in small packages. Not that I needed the reminder after watching his mother grow up.
Rambaldi had it all wrong. True immortality is found in the wonder that is this little child, knitted together from the very best parts of both of his parents. Arvin lost his chance when he sacrificed Nadia on Rambaldi's altar. Irina lost as well when she tried to do the same to our daughter.
Sydney and Vaughn will live on through this baby and through Isabelle, and no one and nothing on this earth will interfere with that.
I'll be watching.
fin