Radioactive
Author: Pharo
Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and ABC.
Summary: Thoughts come at night to plague the mind.
Spoilers: "Q & A".
Feedback: pharo@newyork.com
'it's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word, we are screaming inside, but we can't be heard…'
---Sarah McLachlan, 'I Will Remember You'I wanted to be a ballerina when I was three. I think mommy---I mean, my mother---spent days trying to teach me how to dance. I remember twirling around in my soft, pink, toe slippers for hours when I finally got the hang of it. I ran down the stairs and screamed, "Mommy, look, I can dance!" She smiled and clapped. I thought I saw a tear run down her cheek, but it was so many years ago that it could've just been something my mind made up. Maybe her happiness was just a façade. After all, everything else was---her death, her life, everything.
My dad came home, she went out for "groceries", and I sat in the den, twirling around while I watched cartoons. It's funny how when you're a kid, you think you know all there is to know in the world when really, you know nothing at all.
"Your mother was a traitor…A woman who appeared to be one thing but actually was another. Your mother."
I didn't know if Kendall thought that repeating "your mother" was going to help the situation any bit. If he had said "your mother" one more time---which he didn't have to, since it was ringing in my ears---I would have killed him, if I could. I guess those FBI people weren't as stupid as they seemed. Restraints to keep me from acting out the violent scenarios in my mind.
"Your mother."
Mother. Mom. Mommy. No matter what way anyone says it, in the end it's all the same thing. My mother. My mother, yes, who else's mother would it be?
"Your mother was a traitor."
Sloane put more feeling into his sentences than Kendall had. Kendall was some sort of robot hired by someone to remind me of all that I wanted to forget. I had the urge to throw my vanilla milkshake at him. Maybe his systems would malfunction or something.
"How was Italy?" a voice asks, bringing me out of the interrogation room and back to the pier.
"Huh?"
I turn my head and see Vaughn next to me, leaning his elbows on the wooden rail.
"When did you get here?" I ask, looking at my watch.
"A minute or two ago," he says and a puff of smoke leaves his mouth.
I look down at his hand and see a cigarette between two fingers.
"You smoke?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I hadn't pegged him for a smoker.
"Now I do."
"Oh please, don't ruin your lungs on my account."
"This prophecy stuff got me a bit freaked," he says, taking another drag.
Me too.
"Well, it's over so you can put that crap out now," I say angrily.
There's no way I'm going to be the cause of his death. He nods and flicks it into the ocean. Then, he reaches into his coat pocket to pull a small box out and give it to me.
"Just to show you that I'm not addicted," he says with a small smile.
"Lighter?" I ask, flinging the carton.
"No, I want to keep it," he says, "in case I need to make a fire or something."
I guess the two-stick theory doesn't work for him.
"Italy?" he asks again.
"Got back a little while ago."
"And everything's ok?" he asks.
No, everything is never ok.
"I'm all un-prophesized if that's what you mean."
"It's not."
Silence.
"What do you mean?"
"I---" he shakes his head. "Did you talk to your father?"
"Did you?" I ask.
"Never answer a question with a question," he says. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
"Never answer a question," I say with a shrug. "Guess, I got a different memo."
His eyes laugh, but other than that, there's no reaction. Just the way it should be.
"I talked to Jack."
"Did he tell you about her?"
He nods.
"All my cards are on the table then."
"Did you not want him to tell me?"
"No, it's better this way."
"Why?"
"It's easier."
Silence.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly. He's actually turned to face me.
I can't.
"I'd rather not."
"You don't look ok," he says.
You see that too, Vaughn?
"Yeah, I'm not exactly looking too good right now."
A hooded sweatshirt and an old pair of jeans aren't really appealing. I probably should've thought five seconds before leaving the house, but I didn't really care at that time. Now, I'm just wondering why he had to turn to look at me.
"No, that's not what I meant. You could pull off a brown paper bag if you wanted to."
I could've died right then, but instead I found myself wishing that he'd just whisk me away.
"I just meant that you look tired."
"Long trip," I say, stating the obvious.
Of course he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't say anything.
"Plane rides get boring after awhile," he says, playing along with the excuse.
"A lot of things get boring with time."
He looks worriedly at me again.
"Come on, you'll be alright."
It seems to me that he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to convince me. That, in itself, doesn't make me feel any better. I just smile faintly at him and nod for what is probably the fifth time in the last half-hour.
I wonder if those people at SD-6 whose sole job is to check up on agents are stupid or something. I mean, how obvious can is it that something fishy is going on? No two people "happen" to be on the same pier, staring at the same ocean at 3 am when more important things like sleep could preoccupy their minds.
"Care to share your thoughts?" he asks and causes me to become aware of his presence once more.
"I was just thinking about what would happen if we got caught."
Secret rendezvous made by people who have too many secrets to keep track of. It all reminds me of the early teen years when rebellion against the parental units seems to be in. There's an awkward sense of mystery to every action occurring during that time frame. There's anticipation for the big declaration of independence that these little secrets will eventually burst open.
"There'd be no more middle of the night meetings, that's for sure."
But would that be so bad? Would it be absolutely horrible to not have a debriefing every time Francie wants to have a movie night? Would getting some sleep be the worst thing in the world?
"A shame," I say, not able to get my voice to exhibit that small hint of sadness that is probably in me.
"Pity," he says with the same vigor.
"So what were you doing when I called?"
Yes, I called him again. At least this time it was actually CIA-work related and not another one of those times when I unleash all the emotional turmoil I'm experiencing on him.
"Nothing."
"You had to be doing something."
Maybe he was on a date and he doesn't want to tell me about it. Crossing the imaginary lines between work and life. Although for us, I'm not even sure those lines ever applied. My mother killed his father---how much more personal could it get?
"Hockey game on TV."
I can picture him sitting on a couch in gray sweatpants and a weathered Kings T-shirt.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to---"
"They were losing anyway."
"I never thought I'd hear you admit that."
"Well, consider it our little secret."
Among others…countless others.
"We could go one day," I say casually.
"No, we can't."
"Yeah, I know."
It's just a fleeting dream, a flicker of hope that shines on the ocean on dark nights such as now.
"But if we could---"
"I'd buy you popcorn and catch a puck for you," he says.
I don't bother to tell him that the chances of anyone catching a stray puck without dying from the mobs of people trying to do the same thing are pretty slim.
"That'd be nice."
A beep signifies that 4 am is here. In an hour or so, the early birds will stumble out of bed and complain about the lengths they go for their stupid jobs.
My mother never complained about the teaching profession. She told me that she was a teacher---someone who told people stories. I thought she was talking about Dr. Seuss, but the stories she meant were much more elaborate. They were lies woven and spun into a cloak of deceit pulled over my eyes.
"I better head back."
"Car?"
"Brought it."
"Ok, I'll get going too."
Yep, those tracking people are useless imbeciles. Neither one of us makes the effort to move from our places. I wonder if I'll ever get out of here.
What's compelling me to stand here anyway?
The wish to get caught? Get to experience first-hand what betrayal of an agent means to them. Would Sloane send another colorblind assassin to do it or just pull the trigger himself? Would they leave me in someone's bathroom also?
Would anyone realize I was missing? Probably not. Just another one of those "bank trips". No one would scrawl the horrible reminder on their calendar for me like I did for Danny.
Bath tub. Blood. Danny. Gone.
I look down at my finger, no longer bearing the sign that I, too, was once loved. It seems so long ago that I took it off. One quick action and I felt like I couldn't breathe properly: the faint dizziness that accompanied the loss of solace.
"You know, I was engaged once too," he says unexpectedly.
He must've seen me looking at my empty finger.
"Seriously?"
He nods.
"First year of law school."
"What happened?"
"Things didn't work out like we thought they would: the whole 'young and stupid' deal," he says with a faraway look in his eyes. "It turns out we just didn't know each other well enough to spend our entire lives together."
Silence. Has it been enough sharing for him?
"Did you love her?"
"You know, I thought I did at a time," he says with a forced smile, "but I guess I didn't know what love was. Not really."
I know exactly what he's talking about, but that was years ago. Back when the agency was still good and the spy job was still exciting.
"I had one of those. I think everyone has one of those relationships," I say.
"If they're lucky, they don't."
"I didn't know such people existed."
"They do, just not people like us."
And I wonder what type of people we are. Generally, we're government agents. Specifically, I'm a spy and he's my handler. Cutting through even more layers, we're scared people who fight to resemble any sort of normalcy after knowing more truth than is healthy.
Beep. 5 am. We were supposed to leave an hour ago, but yet, we're still standing here.
"We should really get out of here before people start waking up," he says, cutting through my classification process.
I nod.
What are we? Nothing. There is no 'we'. If there ever were a 'we', the world wouldn't exist anymore.
There was never a chance for a 'we'.
There's only a him and a me. Just two average people who have never seen each other, heading in two different directions, not knowing of a 'we'.