Reverberations
By: Souris
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.
Summary: Sydney and Vaughn try to deal with the events of "The Confession"
Author's Note: This is just a short, overly talky, mega-angsty piece that I had to get out before the show got there first. Maybe someday I'll write an Alias fic that doesn't focus on Syd & Vaughn. Nyah, probably not. ;-)
Conference room
CIA headquarters, Los Angeles
Sydney and Vaughn sat side by side, unmoving, alone.
The otherwise empty conference room was filled with an echoing silence. The air was heavy and pressed down on them so that every breath was an effort, every complete thought a struggle, every moment an eternity.
"Agents, the information that you have heard is, of course, classified. It is not to be repeated, and it will not be referenced again."
Devlin's words were the last that had been spoken in the room. Neither of them was sure exactly how long ago that had been.
Jack had left almost immediately after dropping his bombshell, and Sydney had been so shell-shocked that she had been unable to move, to run after him, to demand the answers that would quiet the clamoring questions in her mind. Devlin and the others, the matter settled as far as they were concerned, had stood practically en masse and shuffled out as quickly as they could. Devlin at least had managed a nod in their direction, to go along with his immutable order.
And so they had been left alone.
How long they sat like that, staring straight ahead, their minds a maelstrom of every emotion imaginable, they didn't know.
When the silence was broken, strangely -- and yet perhaps not -- it was in unison.
"Sydney --"
"Vaughn --"
"I'm sorry."
For a moment, there were no more words to say. There were far too many to say.
Sydney looked down at the books in front of her. Her mother's books. She had treasured them, read them over and over, turned their pages gently and with love. They had meant everything to her.
She despised them.With a sudden burst of fury, she swept them violently from the table. They struck the wall and fell to the floor, antique pages scattering from their bindings. The sound reverberated.
He moved, too, turning toward her. "Sydney--"
The words came then in a torrent, falling faster and faster, drawing forth her sobs with them. "She was so good. I thought she was so good. She was beautiful and kind and read me stories and baked cookies and sewed me costumes for school. She never raised her voice. She never got angry. I thought I was so lucky to have a mother like that. And when she was gone, I missed her, oh God, I missed her so much. But it wasn't real. It was all a *lie*. She wasn't beautiful. She was a *monster*."
She sucked in a great gulp of air, dizzy, her voice choked by tears, her hands hovering helplessly in front of her. "I can't breathe."
"Oh, God, Sydney." His voice broke on her name. He longed to crush her into his arms, but she was so brittle, so fragile. He was afraid that she would shatter into a million pieces. Or maybe he would.
"Vaughn." It was more a sob than a name. "It was my mother. She.... Your father.... How can I...? How can you...?" Her words shredded away, the questions too big to ask, let alone answer.
He looked at her, his heart breaking, or broken. And yet it still beat. And he still felt hers. Somehow, a connection remained. He concentrated on the beats, the living rhythms, the truths they contained.
"My mother would never talk about him afterward. When I asked, it would just make her cry. So I stopped asking. She hated it so much when I joined the Agency. She never said anything, but I knew how much it scared her. How much it still does. But I had to do it. From that day at his funeral, no one would give me any answers about *why* and *who*. It was 'classified.' It was 'unsolved.' Everything changed, and no one would tell me anything. I couldn't *do* anything."
"But I always thought, if I followed in his footsteps, I could find out. I could get the answers. I could make somebody pay. I never got anywhere, and sometimes I even thought I didn't need to know anymore, but it was really always there. And then suddenly, there was the answer to the questions I had been asking for 25 years, and it became the most important thing in the world. I couldn't let it get away. But it turns out, it wasn't the most important thing in the world after all."
They looked toward each other, but their eyes did not meet.
"What are we going to do?" Her voice was calmer now, the despair edged with something like resolve.
We.
"We go on."
She reached out and lay her hand on the table between them. Immediately, he grasped it in his, their fingers tightening around one another's, so tight it almost hurt, so tight they might never let go.
"Don't ever deceive me again."
He nodded his head. "I promise."
"I can't take any more lies."
"I know."
They looked at each other.
Sydney and Vaughn sat side by side, unmoving, together.
By: Souris
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.
Summary: Sydney and Vaughn try to deal with the events of "The Confession"
Author's Note: This is just a short, overly talky, mega-angsty piece that I had to get out before the show got there first. Maybe someday I'll write an Alias fic that doesn't focus on Syd & Vaughn. Nyah, probably not. ;-)
Conference room
CIA headquarters, Los Angeles
Sydney and Vaughn sat side by side, unmoving, alone.
The otherwise empty conference room was filled with an echoing silence. The air was heavy and pressed down on them so that every breath was an effort, every complete thought a struggle, every moment an eternity.
"Agents, the information that you have heard is, of course, classified. It is not to be repeated, and it will not be referenced again."
Devlin's words were the last that had been spoken in the room. Neither of them was sure exactly how long ago that had been.
Jack had left almost immediately after dropping his bombshell, and Sydney had been so shell-shocked that she had been unable to move, to run after him, to demand the answers that would quiet the clamoring questions in her mind. Devlin and the others, the matter settled as far as they were concerned, had stood practically en masse and shuffled out as quickly as they could. Devlin at least had managed a nod in their direction, to go along with his immutable order.
And so they had been left alone.
How long they sat like that, staring straight ahead, their minds a maelstrom of every emotion imaginable, they didn't know.
When the silence was broken, strangely -- and yet perhaps not -- it was in unison.
"Sydney --"
"Vaughn --"
"I'm sorry."
For a moment, there were no more words to say. There were far too many to say.
Sydney looked down at the books in front of her. Her mother's books. She had treasured them, read them over and over, turned their pages gently and with love. They had meant everything to her.
She despised them.With a sudden burst of fury, she swept them violently from the table. They struck the wall and fell to the floor, antique pages scattering from their bindings. The sound reverberated.
He moved, too, turning toward her. "Sydney--"
The words came then in a torrent, falling faster and faster, drawing forth her sobs with them. "She was so good. I thought she was so good. She was beautiful and kind and read me stories and baked cookies and sewed me costumes for school. She never raised her voice. She never got angry. I thought I was so lucky to have a mother like that. And when she was gone, I missed her, oh God, I missed her so much. But it wasn't real. It was all a *lie*. She wasn't beautiful. She was a *monster*."
She sucked in a great gulp of air, dizzy, her voice choked by tears, her hands hovering helplessly in front of her. "I can't breathe."
"Oh, God, Sydney." His voice broke on her name. He longed to crush her into his arms, but she was so brittle, so fragile. He was afraid that she would shatter into a million pieces. Or maybe he would.
"Vaughn." It was more a sob than a name. "It was my mother. She.... Your father.... How can I...? How can you...?" Her words shredded away, the questions too big to ask, let alone answer.
He looked at her, his heart breaking, or broken. And yet it still beat. And he still felt hers. Somehow, a connection remained. He concentrated on the beats, the living rhythms, the truths they contained.
"My mother would never talk about him afterward. When I asked, it would just make her cry. So I stopped asking. She hated it so much when I joined the Agency. She never said anything, but I knew how much it scared her. How much it still does. But I had to do it. From that day at his funeral, no one would give me any answers about *why* and *who*. It was 'classified.' It was 'unsolved.' Everything changed, and no one would tell me anything. I couldn't *do* anything."
"But I always thought, if I followed in his footsteps, I could find out. I could get the answers. I could make somebody pay. I never got anywhere, and sometimes I even thought I didn't need to know anymore, but it was really always there. And then suddenly, there was the answer to the questions I had been asking for 25 years, and it became the most important thing in the world. I couldn't let it get away. But it turns out, it wasn't the most important thing in the world after all."
They looked toward each other, but their eyes did not meet.
"What are we going to do?" Her voice was calmer now, the despair edged with something like resolve.
We.
"We go on."
She reached out and lay her hand on the table between them. Immediately, he grasped it in his, their fingers tightening around one another's, so tight it almost hurt, so tight they might never let go.
"Don't ever deceive me again."
He nodded his head. "I promise."
"I can't take any more lies."
"I know."
They looked at each other.
Sydney and Vaughn sat side by side, unmoving, together.