Title: Facing Forward (A Series in Six
Parts)
Rating: R mostly for some violence and a character's
death, sexuality.
Spoilers: Through "3x17 - The Frame." After
that, I think I can safely say that this fic diverges from the show's
storyline into AU. You could call this an alternate conclusion to Season
3.
Summary: Post-'The Frame', an alternate series of events
changes everyone's lives. Did I mention this involves a main character's
death? Don't read if you're not interested.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias or its characters. This
is for my and others' reading pleasure.
Thanks: To CognacGirl for her wise words; Luna for
comments and ideas; JeSouhaite for saying "Write it write it write it!";
Macha for help with Los Angeles locations; Thank you also to Nat (MissBlue)
for her lovely, lovely ficart as well as feedback, and Em Mindelan for
giving the nicest insta-feedback a gal could want. *hugs*
Feedback: Yes, please!
Part One - Facing Forward
Lauren
* * * * *
Daylight in the Swiss Alps, just north of Zurich, was only minutes old when it found Lauren Reed already long awake.
She sat rigidly, her legs tucked underneath her on the sofa, her spine straight and stiff. Her gaze was distant - more distant than what she herself could see, for the fog that had gathered the night before had still not lifted.
The grey satin robe had been thrown haphazardly around her, out of habit more so than a need for warmth or any demure sense of propriety. As it was, any hope of propriety or virtue had stepped out of her life years ago.
The robe had slipped down slightly, exposing an entire shoulder, on the verge of sliding further. Her left arm lay motionless in her lap, while the right was bent at the elbow, propped up on the arm of the sofa. The hand at the end of that arm held a half-burned cigarette, and she absentmindedly flicked a piece of ash away before it fell onto her sleeve. Whether the ash landed on the wooden floor or the edge of the carpet, she did not observe, nor did she care. Her thoughts did not carry her that far.
It was exactly one month ago that her father had died.
No, not 'died', she thought. Was killed. Murdered. Shot. By my own mother. The fact that it had very nearly been Lauren herself who had killed him was something that had not left her mind, something she could not let go of.
Countless times, she had wondered how she would have felt about it by now, if she had actually been the one to have pulled the trigger. What might have happened if her mother had not walked in when she had? Or if her father hadn't even been home in the first place?
You'll never know, she admonished herself. Stop it. She drew the cigarette to her lips, pulling the heat and smoke into her mouth, and let it linger in the back of her throat before she released it again. She took in a breath then, as her arm returned to its perch.
It wasn't simply her father's death that had weighed so heavily on her mind. The past four weeks and three days had been an excruciating ballet of pretension, scheming, and acting - even more so than any of the three years of her life before today, each year having been used to full advantage by the Covenant.
But now, her father's death - and her actions in the weeks before - had turned a very dangerous pair of eyes in her direction.
Since the day Jack Bristow's name had flashed across the computer screen, indicating the intruder who had downloaded her itinerary and personal records, a chill had settled in the pit of her stomach that had not yet managed to fade. She'd been able to avoid suspicion from every corner that could possibly hold a threat - even Sloane, she was sure, knew nothing about her true loyalties. She'd even managed to fool Sark, up to a point.
But Bristow was different. She felt herself squaring her shoulders as she looked at him, blinking just a little too quickly when she smiled at him as she spoke. Her own response to his suspicion unnerved her just as much as his behaviour towards her. If she didn't have the excuse of grieving for her father, she knew very well she would have been discovered weeks ago.
And she was much too professional to allow herself to be discovered. Ever.
Say what she might about Julian Sark, she knew now that he'd been right in his strategy. The Senator's death had given her an emotional free reign that she'd never had before, whether as a double agent or private citizen. Almost any inconsistency in her work or hesitancy in her reaction could be excused, chalked up to grief or personal instability, even a month later.
Lately she had become more self conscious, once again doubting the security of her actions. She would look up occasionally from her station, only to find Jack walking through the Ops rotunda, his eyes flickering briefly towards her. And then, another moment would pass and he was gone, conferring with Director Dixon over a set of files. Small moments like these had escalated over the past few days, and each one sent her thoughts back to days immediately before her father's death, when Jack had nearly been able to confirm her betrayal.
Lauren shivered slightly as she remembered, even as she told herself that her bouts of insecurity didn't necessarily mean anything about Jack. But then, she told herself again, If anyone were to find out, it would be Jack. No one else in that Ops centre is smart enough.
She took another drag on the cigarette as she tried to focus her thoughts once more. Her eyelids closed for a moment as she breathed, before returning her gaze ahead, through the windows and out into the clouds. She was aware of a rustling noise behind her, and then the slow, soft tap of footsteps towards her.
It was her companion from the night before who approached, bending to press his lips to her cheek. Her bare shoulder was far too tempting for him to pass up, and Sark leaned his hands against the back of the sofa, lowering his mouth towards the shadow of her collarbone. She'd already showered, and the scent of her lavender soap lingered on her skin.
"Morning, darling," he told her just before his lips touched her body.
Lauren stiffened, turning away from him, shifting the point of her gaze.
Sark looked at her again, his brow furrowing. "What's wrong?" he asked bluntly, his curiosity long piqued.
The night before, few words had passed between them. Certainly, they had provided each other with sufficient distraction, but he had not failed to notice the air of distance she had carried with her. Sleep had taken them before he could ask.
She blinked once, twice more quickly.
"Lauren, something is bothering you, that much is obvious," he said. "If you don't tell me what it is, I'll have no choice but to phone Bomani and let him know he won't be seeing both of us this morning," he added, calling her bluff.
He knew that her ambition would always exceed her pride, and she knew as well as him that she would never willingly avoid an opportunity for advancement, in whatever short steps that might be accomplished.
She turned her head to look at him, finally, her pale eyes cutting into him with a combination of anger and fear. Before he could fully absorb the impact of her glare, she'd turned away again, pulling once more at her cigarette. Another bit of ash fell towards the floorboards.
"Fine," she answered. "If you must know?" Lauren continued, "I think Jack Bristow may know something," she told him, the tone of her voice remaining deceptively level.
Sark stood up straightly again. "What do you think he knows?" he asked her directly.
Her mouth opened to respond, and then closed again, as if she was still deciding something. She spoke again. "I think he knows about me," she said. "About the fact that I was involved with my father's death, he might even know more than that," she finished.
He took in a breath, evidently considering this.
"Can you confirm this?" He asked her, as if his mind was already working through several possibilities.
"I think so," she answered.
"We'll need it. There's no room for doubt," he reminded her.
"I know that," she said harshly. There was only silence between them then, for a few moments.
"You'd better get ready," she told him, changing the subject. "Bomani's expecting us in two hours." With her free hand she pulled the collar of her robe up over her shoulder.
He looked down towards her again, perhaps debating whether to continue the conversation in spite of her obvious tension. But he decided to wait, for now. After the meeting, she knew, he would confront her with the options, force her hand.
And so he trailed a hand along the curve of her neck, enjoying the soft sensation of her skin. "Yes, yes he is," he responded, before turning away, leaving her to her thoughts once more.
* * * * *
A few days later she sat with the same steely gaze, this time looking through a pair of tinted eyeglasses beneath the dim light of a Los Angeles bar.
As far as her husband knew, she'd returned from a business trip and immediately rushed to her mother's side at the family estate in Virginia. Something to do with her nerves, she told Michael, she needed to stay for the week. He was understanding, of course, even offered to drive her to the airport.
Needless to say, she had preferred to kiss him goodbye at home, before escaping only as far as Sark's L.A. safehouse. She was starting to form a plan.
It hadn't taken her long to find out where Jack's regular haunts were - he so infrequently took social outings, and when he did go out it was most often by himself. Donning a dark wig and matching contact lenses, she'd followed him on speculation, just to see what she could see.
She'd been in luck. This time he was obviously there for business, not pleasure, and it had been easy to sit and observe, unnoticed in her corner of the seating area. She took a chair facing the rest of the bar, and ordered a vodka martini with a twist of lemon.
In Zurich Sark had questioned what her intentions were regarding Jack Bristow. He had scrolled through her limited number of options. Of course, they could simply eliminate him, but Lauren had been predictably reluctant to agree to that step. She'd consider it as a last resort - the man was too high profile to simply turn a gun to, and no one would ever believe it from him if they tried to make his death look like a suicide.
The next list of options involved a course of action directly for her. She could withdraw herself, retreat into the protective resources of the Covenant. If that was the option she chose, then, there would be another choice to make, regarding the manner in which she wanted to be extracted.
Her own death could be falsified, that much was simple. Or, she could maintain the cover and give Michael Vaughn the divorce she knew he must still want. She could also simply fail to show up for work one day, disappear without a trace.
She had several choices, indeed, if she simply chose to withdraw. But the temptation of a challenge was too great, and she'd be damned if Michael Vaughn would take the last two years away from her, only to leave her crawling back to her employers in defeat.
The waitress arrived with the martini, and left just as swiftly, recognizing that this customer was not interested in any friendly banter or a list of late night dinner options. The menu stood untouched where she had left it upon seating Lauren, and she pulled it away without a word.
Good girl, Lauren thought, and picked up the drink.
The first sip was bracing, the liquid curling around her tongue and demanding more. The second sip was restorative, and she set the glass down again in front of her, resting her chin against the fingers of her other hand. She felt them shaking slightly, and stiffened again, shaking her hand out next to her side.
Get a grip, she told herself.
She had grown accustomed to being alone with her thoughts. They were always good company, she realized, but she recognized she was starting to lose her efficiency. The small tremor in her hand, the extra thirty seconds it took for her to respond to a question... It was irritating and unnerving at the same time, and she needed to make a decision soon, or else give herself up to the game, now.
Returning to her catalogue of extraction options, she immediately began to discount each one.
Irrationally, she couldn't give up on the fact that extraction would mean defeat for her. She would have failed.
Even after two years of marriage to a man she wouldn't otherwise have given the time of day, after ascending within the NSC's ranks and gaining the trust of the likes of Dixon and Lindsay, after gaining control - if co-operatively - of the Covenant's North American cell... Lauren refused to give up her status as a double agent, unless it was on her own terms.
She took another, long sip from her martini, watching as Jack conferred with the other man at his table. She had no way of knowing what their conversation was about, whether or not he was really on to her or if it was a straightforward business meeting. I should have bugged him, she thought then. A simple tag on his coat lapel or cell phone, that could be arranged easily enough. She made a mental note for the next morning's to-do list.
Her fingers reached absentmindedly for the stir stick, swirling the lemon around as she watched. Looking at Jack, now, she thought how there were moments when it was unmistakable how similar he and Sydney were. Their determination was the same, as was their efficiency and quick intelligence.
Another sip. Sydney. Fucking Sydney Bristow. That woman had caused her more trouble in the past few months of her life than anyone else Lauren could come close to naming. Which was ironic, given how much Lauren herself had learned from her.
When Sydney returned, Lauren was shocked but pleasantly surprised that she had no memory of her two years working with the Covenant. It had at least bought Lauren some time, knowing that Sydney wouldn't remember her. Such a shame, really, she thought, that Sydney would never remember anything about her days as Julia Thorne. Sydney was the best, she would readily admit.
Except for her emotion. That would be the crack in her armour, every single time, Lauren knew. It was one of only things she could count on any more. Sydney was so blinded by her affection for Michael, Lauren was sure, that it would soon become a handicap. She was sure it was the only thing that had kept Sydney's suspicion away from her for the past month. It's true what they say about love, she thought as she drained the last few drops from her glass. It will blind you every time.
Now, all of Lauren's own patience and diligence and skills for learning and impersonation were sliding across very thin ice. It was Sydney's very emotional attachment to Michael that was quickly making her own life impossible.
The Senator's death had bought her some time, some room to move, and it was with no small amount of satisfaction that she watched Michael turn his glance away from Sydney during briefings, or listened to Sydney's voice become unsteady as she reported on the results of her missions. Lauren also knew the younger Bristow had contemplated requesting a transfer. She'd seen the application form peeking out from beneath a file on her desk.
But lately, Lauren had noticed his glances lingering a bit longer in Sydney's direction. Sydney's expression back towards him was not as tense or constrained as it once was a few weeks ago.
Small things, but enough to put cracks in Lauren's own armour.
And now that she'd begun to worry again about Jack? It didn't take long for her to imagine what might happen if Jack shared any of his suspicions with his daughter.
I should have bugged him, she thought again, pushing away her glass. One drink didn't usually bother her, but this one had been generously poured, and she could feel her body loosening a bit more. She leaned back in her chair, watching Jack again as the waitress brought a second round of drinks to his table. He resumed conversation with his colleague, occasionally glancing around the room.
Idiot, she told herself. Do it now. You've got the time, his car's parked outside. The light bulb flashed in her head. She had to know.
She didn't take any more time to debate it with herself. Pulling a few bills out of her purse, she left them on the table for the waitress to find, and made a beeline for the rear exit of the restaurant. It was still dim in the half-empty bar, and she was still shaded, so it didn't surprise her that no one looked askance in her direction.
The restaurant door shut with an echo, and she was alone in the small parking lot. She withdrew her gloves to cover her hands, preventing any fingerprints from turning up, and walked as quietly and casually as possible, her own keys now dangling deceptively from her right hand. Her left hand reached into her handbag, searching for the small case she knew was there.
She arrived at his car after another thirty seconds, pulling out the small tools. Another minute later the door was open, and she seated herself in the front seat of his car, looking for something she could tag.
From her handbag she took a pair of innocent-looking devices, each no larger than a five-cent coin, dressed to look like discarded jacket buttons. After another glance around the car, she slipped one into the side pocket near the driver's seat, and reached for the leather bag that he had left hidden underneath the back seat.
She opened it, dropping the button into the bottom of the bag, but her eye caught a glimpse of one of the files it held, and she froze.
Tentatively, she pulled the top piece of paper out of the folder, and read it again to make sure she hadn't made a mistake. It was another page of flight itineraries and cell phone logs, this time including everything as recent as her trip to Zurich only three nights ago. It was a photocopy, which begged the question of who had the original. Or was that, perhaps, what he was discussing in the bar inside, at this very moment?
He knows now, she realized. If he didn't before, he does now. She rifled through the bag further, her fingers becoming numb as she turned page after page, detailing almost every moment of her time from the last month. The final few pages showed cross-matches between her locations and the known locations of Covenant leaders. And at the bottom, a hand-written note, signed - but for whom? she wondered - that read:
"Suspect Covenant participation. Questionable activity continues, following S.R.'s death."
With a sudden reflex she slammed the file shut, cramming it back into the bag. Hurriedly she pushed it all back into its hiding place underneath the seat.
Much less delicately than the way she had entered the vehicle, she quickly gathered her purse and stepped out of the car, managing to lock the door once again before she closed it.
She was pacing, now, doing her best to hide herself at the edge of the parking lot, along the row of palm trees that lined the property. Another minute passed and she finally pulled out her cell phone, realizing how few options she had. Her mother would have to be consulted, that much was certainly clear. But decisions had to be made, first.
Her fingers dialed the number she had memorized months ago.
"Darling, it's lovely to hear from you, I was starting to worry." Sark's voice jested back at her, all the more ready to hear what she had to tell him.
"I have confirmation," she said. "Bristow knows."
"I assume you mean Jack?" he asked, just to be sure.
"Of course I mean Jack," she spat back at him. "What else do you think I've been doing for the past two days? I certainly haven't been horse-back riding in Virginia," she added cuttingly.
"Then what else are you waiting for?" he asked her. "He needs to be eliminated."
"That's your answer for everything, isn't it?" she responded, not expecting a direct reply.
"Dearest, if we had any more time to spare, or if there was any more doubt, we could come up with something else, but unless you'd care to wait around for both him and his dedicated little girl to show up on your doorstep with a S.W.A.T. team..."
"Alright, fine..." she answered curtly. She sighed, her free hand brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She rubbed her fingers at her temple, trying to regain focus once more. She lowered her voice a bit, her tone becoming more even. "But I can't simply walk back into the bar and shoot him, now, can I?" she retorted harshly.
"You've been following him?" he asked.
"Yes, I've been following him," she said. "He's meeting with someone right now, very possibly conferring about me. I found a stack of files in his car..."
"In his car? You have access to his car?" he questioned again.
"Yes, I can see it from here."
"Then use it, of course. Can you plant an explosive? What have you got on you?"
She braced herself at his suggestion. He's expecting me to do this, she told herself. I have to do it. "Very little," she told him. "Nothing along the lines of what you have in mind, I'm sure."
An exasperated sigh sounded through the receiver. "Then for God's sake, use what you have. All you need to do is make it look like an accident."
She paused, staring back at the car.
"You're hesitating," he said.
"No," she responded abruptly. "I'll take care of it." And with that, she pressed the 'end' button, terminating the call before he could protest further.
She looked up at the dark sky, noting how thick the clouds had become. Rain. Perfect. With any luck, she wouldn't need to do very much - more of a nudge, really.
Another cursory glance around the parking lot, and she stepped once again towards the car. She needed to be quick. Accessing the door to the passenger side once again, she reached back for the brief bag, pressing it under her elbow. Even if they're copies, she thought, they'll be my copies, now.
The last thought that passed through her mind, before she reached under the hood and pulled at the braking cable, was to wonder what the look on Sydney's face would be like when she heard the news.
Lauren hailed a cab, and headed straight for the airport. She would board a plane to Virginia, phone her loving husband, and not devote a second thought to Jack Bristow.
* * * * *
End Part One