Through A Glass Darkly

A little AU piece for the CD April Challenge.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish they were mine. They aren’t.
Archive: Credit Dauphine, all others please ask.
Author’s note: Thank you Robin, beta-extraordinare!


Published 5-02-02

1 Reflection

Sydney stood at the sink, over the pile of dirty dishes, staring at the pouring rain outside. It had been raining since around midnight, alternating between crashing thunderstorms and misty spring rain. Currently, the rain was sheeting down the windows, making it nearly impossible to see the lawn. It was already getting dark, although it was still early.

She sighed as she scrubbed and rinsed, scrubbed and rinsed. It was soothing to her, this kind of domestic chore. Easy to pretend she lived a normal, safe life. She heard the television come to life in the other room, and smiled to herself as she heard him begin flipping through channels. He could never settle on just one thing to watch.

Suddenly, thunder roared out, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes. Sydney jumped at the brilliant flash of lightening that followed. For one moment, she saw her own face reflected in the glass of the kitchen window. Ghostly and pale, a frightened Sydney peered back at her. She was startled out of her reverie as the coffee cup she had been washing slipped from her soapy hands and shattered on the tile floor. When she saw which cup she had dropped, Sydney sucked in a deep breath and held it tight. “No, no,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. The mug, hand-made, and glazed a brilliant blue, had been one of her last gifts to Danny. Her hands shook as she bent to pick up the shards.

The day she gave it to him was no anniversary, no special occasion at all. He opened the package with the glee of a four-year-old. He had demanded an inaugural cup of coffee, but when she brought it to him, he took a sip and then sputtered, “This coffee tastes horrible. I thought you knew the way I liked it. Now go get me a new cup and make it quick." He made it almost all the way through before breaking into peals of laughter at the look on her face.

Sydney knelt on the cool tile floor, holding the shards of pottery tight in one hand as she felt the old grief come sweeping over her.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Danny. Daniel Hecht, M.D. Charming, sweet Danny. He proposed to me when I was twenty-seven years old. I said yes, and less than a week later, he was dead. I had been so happy when we became engaged. I couldn’t stand the thought of starting our married lives together with the lie of what I did for a living - who I was – between us. So I told him the truth. Well, that is only partially correct. I told him what I believed to be true. I repeated the lies I had been taught - that I worked for SD-6, a black ops division of the CIA.

Danny did not take it very well. We had a huge argument. One of my biggest regrets was that I left him while we were both still upset. I had no way of knowing that I would never see him alive again. I left for my trip to Taiwan as planned.

While I was gone, Danny thought it over, and he forgave me my lies. Thoughtful, caring Danny called my answering machine and left a loving message saying that he still wanted to build a life with me. Stupid. God, such a grand, idiotic gesture. But Danny didn’t have my training, and he didn’t know how deadly some secrets are. SD-6 gunned him down within hours. He had been dead for a while when I returned from Taiwan and found him cold and silent in his bathtub, awash in blood.

I wanted out then. I wanted to get far away from SD-6 and everything connected to it. I would never again be able to work for people who could do such a thing. Of course, there is no out from an organization like SD- 6. When I refused to return to work, they came after me. The only reason I wasn’t killed outright was because my father intervened. It was unbelievable to me, but my father, Jack Bristow, was a part of SD-6 and had been for years. He found me that night, running blindly away from my own life, and he took me out of the country for two weeks. In a cold, tiny flat in London, he told me the truth about who I worked for. SD-6 was not a division of the CIA. It was an operational arm of the collective known as The Alliance of Twelve. It’s a pretty name for a gang of killers and thieves.

My father made it clear to me that I could come back to SD-6 with him, or I could die. He wouldn’t be able to keep me safe from Security Section forever. I knew he was right, and even after everything that had happened, I wanted to live.

Arvin Sloane, the head of SD-6, knew why I came back. He had sent my father after me as a last chance. Sloane and Dad had apparently known each other for years – he had even known my mother, who had been killed in a car crash when I was six.

I told Sloane that I wanted out, that I hated him and everything he represented. He merely nodded and told me to report for work in the morning. After a sleepless night, I did. I had to live to see him pay for what he had done. My rhythm was off for a long time afterwards, although they gave me simple missions, not trusting me with sensitive information. Sloane had me followed for five months, testing me. He doubted my loyalty and commitment, but I did everything by the book. I did as I was told, took my classes, and lied to my friends when they asked if I was OK.

My life settled into a grim pattern. Sloane began giving me more complex, dangerous missions. I finished each one with a sick feeling in my stomach, knowing that I was helping evil people become richer and more powerful. However, my father had warned me not to say anything to Sloane about knowing the story of the Alliance of Twelve. The look in his eyes when he told me that Sloane would have to eliminate me because I knew frightened me. So I said nothing to Sloane, nothing to Dixon, nothing to Marshall; I never said anything to anyone. I started asking for more missions. I was afraid that if I paused to think about what my life had become, I would shatter from the pressure and the pain.

That was the month I met Michael.

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