Title: "Silent Reverie"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Alias", ep. 04.
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Vaughn POV, Vaughn/Sydney-ish, angst, language.
Disclaimer: I don't know who owns this show, but it sure ain't me.
Summary: Takes place during the ocean scene with Vaughn and Syd after her botched dinner attempt with dear old Dad.

In the sixth grade, you had a monster crush on Kathy Fliehman because she could kick your ass. She'd been the first person in your Tai Kwan Do class to make black belt and you thought she was the most amazing creature on earth...with her perky brown ponytail, big blue eyes, and killer instinct. Every time you faced her across the mats, you would just glaze over...anticipating the moment where she'd beat you into the ground.brbr

That magical instant as her small hand flew threw the air...it was more arousing to you than the nudie pictures the boys passed around in the locker rooms at school.brbr

It was no wonder you didn't make black belt yourself until she tested out into the next class.brbr

By the time you got to high school, you gave up the Kathy Fliehmans of the world for calculus and languages. But you had secret fantasies about becoming a spy and battling the Russians like James Bond. This was before the Cold War had officially ended, of course. So, your imagination ran wild and you just knew that being dapper and debonair and great with intelligence would get you girls.brbr

The liquid dreams of every math nerd.brbr

In your case, they came true.brbr

And you didn't just get a girl. You got a woman. brbr

You got Sydney Bristow.brbr

Your assignment.brbr

They had you pulled off just a few months in. Said you were too green. They never would've put you back on the case if she hadn't demanded it. There were meetings. Serious meetings. They almost said "fuck it, we'll LOSE a double agent if we have to." And you know it had nothing to do with you being green. It had everything to do with seeing *her* for the first time and not being able to look at anything else since.brbr

With glazing over as you face her across your desk or in the cramped confines of an ice cream truck. With anticipating the moment where she'll beat you into the ground.brbr

With *knowing* that Sydney Bristow is the most amazing creature on earth.brbr

Your hands are inches apart on the railing. The Pacific stretches out before you and you pretend to be fascinated by the ebb and flow of the water. You've gotten marginally better at masking the gawky wonder that used to lay you flat--since you realized that keeping your current position depends on it.brbr

You want to touch her so badly you can taste it. Tangy and sharp like a half-sucked fireball on a sticky Sunday afternoon. It's only inches ...centimeters...millimeters. You can take her hand in yours and pull her deceptively slender body against your chest...tell her you'll always be here for her, that you have faith in her and you know nothing can break her. brBr

But you don't give in to the infinitely insane desire to hold her. And you *do* tell her all those things. In a roundabout, stuttery, teenage way. Not quite the usual CIA doublespeak. Her wrenching sobs quiet...and she grabs your fingers. Closes the space on the cool metal. You gasp, feel your carefully erected composure start to crumble, and are thankful for the darkness and, for once, for her anguish. She doesn't realize what she's done.Brbr

You're not going to make black belt this year.brbr

You're not going to be able to breathe for decades.brbr

You're not going to let her go it alone.brbr

--end--brbr

October 22, 2001.br