the near and the dear ones

"Sydney...please stop singing."

Jack was hefting a blue-lipped and shuddering Sark along through the steadily thickening fall of snow, while Irina steered their equally soaked and shivering daughter. He could feel the damp from the young man's clothes seeping into his own too light jacket and pants. What a way to spend Christmas Eve.

Sydney ignored him and went on singing hoarsely, mixing up the verses just the way she had as a child. It was comforting in a way, at least her voice told him she and Irina were still behind him as they slogged through the ever higher drifts, hoping to find some sign of shelter.

He wished she'd sing a different song, though.

Sark had been alarmingly silent since he and Sydney had struggled and pulled each other out of the freezing freshet they'd both dove into while fighting over the Rambaldi orrery. The orrery had been lost, shattered on jagged, ice-edged rocks, the pieces swept away in the quick torrent. Jack and Irina had dropped their guns as they both realized they were in danger of losing daughter and protégé to the same torrent.

They'd scrambled down the sides of the gorge in an immediate and unspoken truce, while below Sark and Sydney caught and clawed at the rocks and each other, pushing and catching and dragging themselves out of the water.

They'd taken one look at the two agents collapsed on each other at the edge of the water and known they had to work together. Sark and Sydney were barely conscious, gasping raggedly, clinging together more like lovers than enemies. The snow that fell on their faces took too long to melt. Shock and hypothermia were both setting in. They needed shelter and care as soon as possible.

Jack's cell phone was dead or the signal was lost in the high mountains. Irina's radio worked, but she shook her head at him, admitting her people couldn't reach them through the worsening storm. They were on their own until the snow let up. That meant they had to take care of Sydney and Sark however they could, together.

"I spotted a building as we were infiltrating," Jack said. "It looked like it had been closed up for the winter, though."

Irina nodded. "There's a chalet, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the target zone. Our intelligence indicated it was uninhabited."

"We need to get them inside."

Irina nodded and pushed a wet strand of hair off Sydney's face. "If you will handle Sark, I can carry Sydney." She waited, obviously wondering if Jack would refuse, but the arrangement made sense.

Sydney protested that she was fine, but only tottered to her feet with Irina's help. Sark glared slit-eyed at Jack, but sensibly accepted his aid. They set out for the chalet's coordinates after taking a compass reading. Jack was grateful their path led them down hill at least.

Sometime after he got Sark onto his feet, and Irina boosted Sydney upright, his drowsily hypothermic daughter had begun mumbling about family Christmases and then began singing half under her breath.


In his ear, Jack heard Sark murmur plaintively, "Isn't there something in the Geneva Convention ... to make her stop?"

Jack suppressed a smile. "You told me she has a lovely singing voice," he said, pleased the young man was alert enough to complain. Though why it pleased him was problematic. Sark was the enemy, most of the time, his survival didn't factor into Jack's plans.

"She does," Sark mumbled, "but I am utterly sick of hearing that song."

The agent was leaning against Jack despite his best efforts to keep going on his own. Jack peered ahead, hoping for some sign of the chalet through white veils of snow. Sark and Sydney were both growing steadily weaker. Irina hadn't complained, but Jack knew she must feel the cold too.

A dark mass loomed out of rapidly dimming afternoon.

"Jack," Irina said from behind him.

"I see it."

Sark lifted his head and peered forward, stumbling but keeping his feet.

"Santa - "

"Sydney," Irina murmured. "We're almost there."

"Sing something else, sing anything else," Sark muttered.

"Why don't you sing something, Sark?" Sydney snapped pettishly, as they reached the steps leading to the front door of the chalet. "I bet you don't even a know any carols."

Jack propped Sark against the wall and pulled a set of lockpicking tools designed by Marshall from inside his jacket. They made swift work of the chalet's locks and Jack pushed the door open. Irina staggered into the dark interior, with Sydney hanging off her. Jack turned back and retrieved Sark, noticing the snow dusting his lashes and built up on his shoulders. Ice crystals had formed in his wet-darkened hair.

He pulled Sark inside, ignoring the agent's half coherent, "I know carols. I can sing if I want to."

Irina already had Sydney on a couch that sat before a massive fieldstone fireplace. Jack noted with approval that it had been left prepared, with firewood and kindling in place and waiting for a match.

Irina was wrestling Sydney's soaked clothes off.

Jack dropped Sark into a wing-backed chair and went to light the fire.

Matches were sitting conveniently on the mantel. He would have to do something to pay back whoever owned and maintained the chalet once they were out of here. The fire caught easily, flames flaring to life and crawling over the wood. The warm light livened the room.

Sark was fumbling with numb fingers at his own clothing, trying to strip it off, but had begun to shake too hard to succeed.

"I'm going to find some blankets," Jack said. "I'll see if there are any clothes too."

"Hurry," Irina advised. The tremor in her voice probably owed more to her own damp and chilled state than any worry, but Jack knew she was concerned - at least over Sydney. He started to walk away and then paused, watching as Irina pulled off her wet coat and then her turtleneck sweater. The sweater was still dry and Irina dressed their daughter in it with ruthless efficiency. It left Irina in a thin singlet that molded to her body. The light from the fire illuminated her outline as she moved.

Irina lifted her dark eyes and met Jack's gaze. He couldn't read her. "Quit wasting time, Jack." A smile curled her lips upward though. She knew he was looking at her. She left Sydney curled in a ball, dressed in panties and the still warm turtleneck, and moved to Sark's side.

Jack left the room as Irina brushed Sark's hands away and began undressing him.


Blankets, towels, and ill-fitting but dry and warm clothes had been retrieved from various closets in the chalet. Jack had built the fire up as high he could; it crackled and coughed, the flames licking high then dancing wildly as the wood shifted and collapsed into ash. Darkness had dropped onto the mountains outside as the storm set in with a fury, the wind picking up and blasting at the chalet's sturdy walls.

The chalet was without electricity, but a second search had garnered oil lamps and candles, a battery radio that only picked up static, and an incongruous set of ice skates in the coat closet. The kitchen was stocked with dry and canned goods and boasted a woodstove along with the useless electric range.

Sydney and Sark were ensconced in a nest of quilts on the floor as close to the fire as they dared get, currently both dressed in oversized sweaters, ski pants, and socks that slid off their feet repeatedly. The sight of Sark yanking his socks back up had resulted in Irina catching Jack smiling like a fool.

Irina's expression had softened as she took in the picture of their daughter and Sark leaning against each other, drowsily thawing out and too exhausted to fight for once. The blankets piled around them quivered as one or the other succumbed to another shivering fit.

Irina, also in stockinged feet - wide horizontal red-and-white striped socks Jack had handed to her deliberately - padded to the doorway. "I'm going to find something for us all to eat."

"I'll bring in some more wood for the stove. Do you need help lighting - "

Irina shook her head. "I grew up in the Soviet Union, Jack. I know what to do."

Jack nodded, angry at himself for forgetting who she really was for a moment. He went to the hall and retrieved his still damp coat, then ducked out into the cold, wind-wracked night. He returned to the warm chalet with an armful of wood and found his way to the kitchen, inhaling the delicious scent of chocolate. He dumped the wood into the woodbox by the stove and stood there, watching.
 
Irina was stirring the contents of a shiny copper sauce pot steadily. Another sat on a back burner, simmering under a closed lid. Several empty cans of condensed milk sat on the counter, next to open cannisters of cocoa and sugar. Irina pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Jack," she said, grabbing his hand and wrapping it around the handle of the whisk she held, "keep stirring the milk and don't let it scorch."

"You know I can't - "

"Just keep stirring it," she said. "I need to find the vanilla. - And watch the soup doesn't boil over."

Jack began whisking the milk, eyeing it apprehensively. Irina poked around the kitchen, moving silently on those ridiculous socks. The last time he'd done this, Irina was still pretending to be Laura. She'd ended up tossing out the pot after he'd started kissing her in the pantry and they'd both forgotten the milk until the smell of it burning set off the smoke alarm.


Jack followed Irina back into the main room, carrying a tray with bowls of soup and crackers. Irina had a tray with mugs of hot cocoa for all of them.

They both froze in the doorway.

Sydney had slipped down and was sleeping with her head in Sark's lap. Sark was looking down at her, his blond hair looking like a halo, singing softly in a voice like an angel's.


He looked up and blinked, looking rather disconcerted at having anyone see him so unguarded. His blue eyes moved to the trays in their hands. His hand touched Sydney's shoulder. "Sydney, wake up."

Sydney blinked her eyes open and scrambled away from Sark, a blush darkening her face. She scrubbed at her face with her hands. "Wow," she mumbled. "I thought someone was singing ..." She looked up, confused, as Jack chuckled.

"You mean besides you, Agent Bristow?" Sark asked. His usual mask of cool control was back in place, a faint hint of humor in his teasing tone. "I'm sure you have a blond wig somewhere in your collection to aid in the Madonna impersonation."

Sydney's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about, Sark?"

Lightly, he sang, "I really do believe in you, Let's see if you believe in me..."

"Ooh, God," Sydney muttered in obvious embarrassment.

Sark smirked. Jack wondered if he'd been a hellion as a teenager, then flinched from the thought. From what he knew of Sark, the boy had already been working for Irina in the field when normal children were going to their first prom dance and worrying about pimples.

"Children, behave," Irina said, continuing into the room past Jack. She presented a mug to Sydney and then Sark, then set the tray with the other two mugs on the hearth and sank down to sit cross-legged before it. Sark's eyes had fixated on the red-and-white socks and a smile was tugging at his mouth.

Irina wiggled her toes.

"They look like something from Doctor Suess," Sark blurted out. Sydney began giggling. Irina merely reached over and picked up her mug of chocolate, politely ignoring both her daughter's mirth and Sark's expression of apologetic horror. Both agents were much recovered from their cold water ordeal, but they weren't in complete control. Though it was interesting to see that Sark had a much more personal relationship with Irina than most agents did with a superior.

"Jack, please bring the soup over here before it goes cold," Irina said.

The four of them spooned up the chicken noodle. Sydney crumbled her crackers into it, just as she had a child. It was a habit she'd picked up from Laura. Jack noticed Irina still had it and when he glanced over at Sark, the blond was absently doing the same. Jack looked back at Sydney. Exactly the same mannerism.

Sydney was looking pensively at the fire.

"This is so surreal," she murmured.

Sark eyed Irina's socks wordlessly.

"It's rather charming," Irina commented. "I'm enjoying spending Christmas Eve with you and your father again, Sydney. It's usually just Sark with me."

"Very, very surreal."

Jack had to agree.

"I thought I would be home, eating Francie's turkey and homemade cranberry sauce, with her and Will," Sydney reflected.

She frowned at Irina. " - With Sark?"

"Don't look so horrified, Sydney," Sark sneered. "What do you think I do at Christmas?"

"I don't know, Sark. Fly to Aruba and drink rum with Allison?"

Sark snickered and Irina shook her head.

"Oh. Well, too bad."

"You have a over-inflated idea of how we live, Sydney."

Sark cocked his head, listening the wind booming outside, then rubbed his arms to stifle a shiver. "Though Aruba sounds pretty good right now."

Jack thought the boy had a point.

Irina patted the quilt next to her. "Come sit next to me, Sydney."

Sydney shook her head, but moved over to sit between Irina and Jack and ended up with her head resting against her mother's shoulder. That left Sark separated from them as he calmly spooned up the last of his soggy crackers and placed the empty bowl on the tray with the rest of their abandoned dishes. His eyes flicked to Jack, then lowered, but not before a trace of wistfulness touched his expression.

Perhaps Irina saw it too, or maybe she would have done the same in any case. She held her hand out toward Sark. "You too, Sark. I know you're still cold."

"There's no need - " Sark started to protest quietly.

" - To be foolish and proud," Irina finished. "Sit beside me, my arrogant princeling."

Sark grimaced and joined Irina, settling on her other side and sitting stiffly, just out of contact. Irina smiled in amusement. Jack raised an eyebrow at her, mouthing, Princeling? Irina shook her head minutely, her eyes saying she would explain later. Sydney's eyes had fallen closed already. Sark stared into the fire, looking thoroughly exhausted, but too proud to admit it.
 
Jack got up and took the tray full of dishes back into the kitchen. When he returned, Sark had succumbed too and was the one sleeping with his head on a lap, curled up close to Irina like a child.

Jack retrieved the blankets that had been around the agents and draped them over Sydney and Sark carefully. They both looked appallingly innocent and vulnerable for two supremely dangerous operatives.

They were so frighteningly young.

"Thank you, Jack," Irina said softly.

He fed some more wood into the fire and sat down close by.

"Who is he, Irina?" he asked quietly.

Irina lowered her eyes and seemed to study Sark's features fondly, before replying. "My mother was a ballerina with the Kirov, a part of the corps de ballet. So was her sister, my aunt. My cousin Larissa and I studied dance together. Of course, when I was recruited by the KGB that ended for me, but Larissa continued and found a place with the troupe." She sighed and stroked Sydney's shining hair. "I was in America by then. I never saw her dance."

Jack waited, knowing Irina wasn't telling him these things without a reason. The warm flicker of firelight painted her features, casting them into a mask of melancholy.

"She married a diplomat, a man named Andrian Lazeray." Irina brushed her fingertips over Sark's forehead, feather-light. "Sark is their son."

Jack drew in a sharp breath. So much made sense, but there were still too many questions. Sydney had faked Andrian Lazeray's death during her two years as Julia Thorne. Irina glanced up and added, "She died and Andrian sent Sark to me. It wasn't safe for him to be known as Andrian's son. I raised him."

"Why?"

Irina frowned.

"He's part of Milo Rambaldi's prophecies, too, Jack."

"Why did you tell Sydney he was in Stockholm?" he asked, though he was already putting it together. Sark in custody was safe from the Covenant, from Andrian Lazeray's enemies and Irina's, and even out of Sloane's reach. Irina would have calculated it, decided it was necessary, and acted. The only real question was if she had warned Sark of what she intended and why she let it go on so long. It hadn't taken her much effort to extort his release when she did decide to retrieve him.

"Sloane was getting too close."

He glanced down at Sark. "Does he know?"

"Not all of it. He doesn't remember Andrian or Larissa."

Jack sat back and stared at the fire.

"How much of a threat is Sloane?" he asked after a chunk of wood shifted in a shower of sparks and white ash.

"Arvin is playing his part," Irina said quietly. "Men like Lindsay and his masters are the ones we must be wary of, Jack. They want more and more power and they want to keep the power they have."

Sydney stirred uneasily, the strain in Irina's voice drawing her out of her sleep. Sark's eyes had flickered open, though he hadn't moved.

"We cannot go on as enemies, Jack."

"What do you suggest?"

"An alliance."

Jack nodded. "I'll think about it."

Sydney settled closer to Irina and said softly, "Sing me something, Mom. Sing that song you and Dad used to sing at Christmas."

Irina smiled fondly. "What song was that, Sydney?"

Sark murmured, "And so this is Christmas."

Irina looked at Jack.

"Jack?"

"Dad?"

"Okay," he said reluctantly. He let Irina start.


"Dad," Sydney complained when he remained silent.

Jack sang very softly.


He sang the next part along with Irina, smiling at the memories it brought, continuing on through the song. Neither he nor Irina faltered as Sydney and Sark sang the last part along with them, their voices blending perfectly as they sang John Lennon's words.


"What time is it?" Sydney murmured afterward.

Jack checked his watch.

"Ten after midnight."

Irina hugged Sydney closer. "Go back to sleep, Sydney."

"'Kay."

"You too, Sark."

Sark obediently closed his blue eyes.

Irina smiled at them both, then looked up at Jack.

"They're both still alive, Jack," she said seriously. "We have to keep them that way. That's all that really matters."

Jack nodded decisively, making his decision.

"You're right."

"Merry Christmas, Jack."

"Merry Christmas."