006 / Empty
Title / Prompt: Empty / 006 picture prompt (Feb.)
Character: Jack Bristow
Warnings: Season 3 spoilers (missing years filler)
Your character's fandom: Alias
Word count: 713
Rating: PGish
Disclaimer: JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, etc.
Two days after they scatter Sydney's ashes at sea, he takes her pictures down off the walls. He boxes up the albums, the old toys and the baby shoes which Laura had insisted that they save. (He used to sit and hold those little shoes, the first pair they ever tied on her tiny feet.) He carefully packs away the drawings she made for him, which he dutifully took in to work.
He didn't tack them up on his wall, as most parents do, but he did keep them in his desk, on top of a stack of files. He would pull them out now and again when the office was empty; once he can even remember showing them to Arvin. Pointing out the little stick figure Sydney had solemnly explained to him was Uncle Arvin.
"It's the glasses, Daddy, see?"
"Of course, Sydney. That's very nice."
He packs up these reminders of his daughter's childhood, and he puts them away. He only has one storage locker, so there is only one place they can go. Next to racks of firearms, crates of carefully separated explosive components, there is a pile of cardboard boxes. (Paper boxes, cheerily labeled with the brightly colored logos of whichever company's product was on sale when Marshall went to Office Depot.)
He sometimes thinks that this is really the sum total of his life; weapons of war, and all that remains of his daughter.
Jack wonders, in a rare moment of whimsy, if Sydney's old stuffed animals feel lonely or scared in their dark box between his sniper rifle (which he really ought to clean, just to be sure- he hasn't used it in a while) and a box of odds and ends. Souvenirs from SD-6, toys Arvin stole from the CIA, and Jack appropriated from Arvin; a few of Marshall's inventions which he'd asked the head of op-tech to make for him. (Once or twice Marshall asks why he needs them, but mostly these days he doesn't.)
He imagines that as fond as she had been of Marshall, Sydney likely would not have minded her things keeping company with his.
The other day, Marshall came to see him, with the sad little encouraging smile most of his daughter's friends give him these days, holding another little marvel, a tiny little injector with needles so small they were virtually painless. "Hey, Mr. Bristow." Holding up the injector, disguised in a working ballpoint pen. A rather nice one, actually. "Don't know what I was thinking, I made an extra one of these. It's pretty cool, though-"
He's carrying that pen now, loaded with a powerful sedative. When he finds what he's looking for, he wants to be able to take them by surprise, knock them out, take them somewhere very quiet, very private. And take his time.
He has put his daughter's mementos away, unable to face them every day. It is hard enough going home, knowing there will be no messages on his answering machine, no emails, asking him to dinner, just saying hello. (She'd started sending the emails when she realized that he ignored the answering machine, and seldom answered his apartment phone even when he was home.)
He's thought, more than once, about taking the photos out of his wallet. The ones Sydney probably never even suspected were in there. He was never the sort of father to her who would have carried photos, but he did it anyway. Baby pictures which everyone in the office saw after she was born, school pictures every year without fail. Now he keeps a copy of her college graduation picture, a snapshot of Sydney and Vaughn taken at the office Christmas party, and a surveillance shot of Irina and Sydney just before their first embrace, two years ago.
But he has to keep some part of her with him, no matter how little it is.
Every day on his way to his office, Jack passes the memorial wall with its stars and its lists of names. Trying not to let his eyes linger too long over "Bristow, Sydney A." But they always do.
Then he walks on, to an empty chair at an empty desk. (It'll always be empty, even when it is finally occupied again by someone else.)
Character: Jack Bristow
Warnings: Season 3 spoilers (missing years filler)
Your character's fandom: Alias
Word count: 713
Rating: PGish
Disclaimer: JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, etc.
Two days after they scatter Sydney's ashes at sea, he takes her pictures down off the walls. He boxes up the albums, the old toys and the baby shoes which Laura had insisted that they save. (He used to sit and hold those little shoes, the first pair they ever tied on her tiny feet.) He carefully packs away the drawings she made for him, which he dutifully took in to work.
He didn't tack them up on his wall, as most parents do, but he did keep them in his desk, on top of a stack of files. He would pull them out now and again when the office was empty; once he can even remember showing them to Arvin. Pointing out the little stick figure Sydney had solemnly explained to him was Uncle Arvin.
"It's the glasses, Daddy, see?"
"Of course, Sydney. That's very nice."
He packs up these reminders of his daughter's childhood, and he puts them away. He only has one storage locker, so there is only one place they can go. Next to racks of firearms, crates of carefully separated explosive components, there is a pile of cardboard boxes. (Paper boxes, cheerily labeled with the brightly colored logos of whichever company's product was on sale when Marshall went to Office Depot.)
He sometimes thinks that this is really the sum total of his life; weapons of war, and all that remains of his daughter.
Jack wonders, in a rare moment of whimsy, if Sydney's old stuffed animals feel lonely or scared in their dark box between his sniper rifle (which he really ought to clean, just to be sure- he hasn't used it in a while) and a box of odds and ends. Souvenirs from SD-6, toys Arvin stole from the CIA, and Jack appropriated from Arvin; a few of Marshall's inventions which he'd asked the head of op-tech to make for him. (Once or twice Marshall asks why he needs them, but mostly these days he doesn't.)
He imagines that as fond as she had been of Marshall, Sydney likely would not have minded her things keeping company with his.
The other day, Marshall came to see him, with the sad little encouraging smile most of his daughter's friends give him these days, holding another little marvel, a tiny little injector with needles so small they were virtually painless. "Hey, Mr. Bristow." Holding up the injector, disguised in a working ballpoint pen. A rather nice one, actually. "Don't know what I was thinking, I made an extra one of these. It's pretty cool, though-"
He's carrying that pen now, loaded with a powerful sedative. When he finds what he's looking for, he wants to be able to take them by surprise, knock them out, take them somewhere very quiet, very private. And take his time.
He has put his daughter's mementos away, unable to face them every day. It is hard enough going home, knowing there will be no messages on his answering machine, no emails, asking him to dinner, just saying hello. (She'd started sending the emails when she realized that he ignored the answering machine, and seldom answered his apartment phone even when he was home.)
He's thought, more than once, about taking the photos out of his wallet. The ones Sydney probably never even suspected were in there. He was never the sort of father to her who would have carried photos, but he did it anyway. Baby pictures which everyone in the office saw after she was born, school pictures every year without fail. Now he keeps a copy of her college graduation picture, a snapshot of Sydney and Vaughn taken at the office Christmas party, and a surveillance shot of Irina and Sydney just before their first embrace, two years ago.
But he has to keep some part of her with him, no matter how little it is.
Every day on his way to his office, Jack passes the memorial wall with its stars and its lists of names. Trying not to let his eyes linger too long over "Bristow, Sydney A." But they always do.
Then he walks on, to an empty chair at an empty desk. (It'll always be empty, even when it is finally occupied again by someone else.)