Title: Cozen
Summary: So I crawl back into your open arms
Author: BristowBoyScout545, the neglectant updater
Genre: Flangst, of course
Timeline: VERY AU, but mid-S2 I think
Rating-PG-PG-13
Soundtrack: Warning Sign by Coldplay
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, or the line from Warning Sign at the end
Dedication: To the Quartetians and the Distinctive Writers
Cozen
I almost did it today. I almost do it every day, but I've never wanted to more than I did as I stared at that damn little heartbeat. But I didn't make that call. I could pretend he knew, but that wouldn't work. He would know I was lying. He always knew.
"I feel sick." "No you don't. You just don't want to be in the Thanksgiving play today. You're going to school."
I wonder if this would be easier if it had been voluntary. But nothing is ever voluntary with him.
"Since you parents died in that accident, Emily and I are going to take care of you. She is now your mother, and I'm your father, and you must never disobey your father."
This had been an order, issued with a stoic face across a blank, impersonal desk.
"Long-term deep-cover mission. Infiltrate the CIA posing as a double agent working against the Alliance. Seduce this CIA agent."
His car is in the driveway and I feel sick. I enter our house (not home, never home) and he's on the couch. He smiles at me and I blame the weakness in my knees on my condition.
"Hey."
I try not to choke on that single word as he moves to stand before me. His arms are around my waist and his face is buried in my hair and I want to cry the way I did while staring at that monitor this morning.
"I'm sorry I didn't make it home in time for your appointment" he apologizes, making me wonder why an exemplary agent would clutter up his mind with useless dates and times that way.
"It's alright." 'I didn't want you to come anyway'
"And… 'It's' alright too. Actually, 'It's' perfect." I close my eyes, flinching at the thought of what his face would look like if he knew how much I wished our 'It' was far from all right, had never existed.
"I can't wait to meet 'It'" he laughs (I can) and he teases, "Is 'It' ever going to have a name?"
He kisses the top of my head, and I want to wash it now, scrub away every trace of his love; scour his scent off my skin.
"Well, maybe, it 'It's' father ever came up with a name that didn't sound like a comic book character's" I banter back, slipping into the façade I create with him, so easily, I'm not sure I'll ever get it off again. He lifts my face to his, and, as always, the photo from his file plasters itself to my mind. He's just a picture, just a two-dimensional figure, not a man, just an objective. One I'm accomplishing. I chastise myself for letting my fatigue show as he says, "You're tired. A bath would help you relax."
His voice is husky, and I remind myself to lower the air conditioning. It's getting to his throat. I let him lead me to the bathroom because it's my job. It has nothing to do with the way his skin feels against mine. As hot water fills the tub, steam coats everything, making it all seem like a dream. Except my dreams aren't like this. In my dreams, he never smiles at me the way he is now, never steps forward and lifts the hem of my sweater (I was mortified in that maternity store, proud mothers cooing at their unborn children that they didn't despise the way I did mine). I lift my arms, and his fingers dust lightly across my skin as he carefully discards my top. My bra comes next (the real Sydney Bristow would never wear one like this) and I slowly strip off my socks and shoes as he removes the rest of my dignity. He forces my eyes to his, and I stare through him as he tells my alias that she's so beautiful. He's transparent as he pours vanilla (her favorite scent-I hate it) into the heated water, thick lather polluting its surface.
Taking me in his arms, he lifts me, lowering me carefully into the depths of his romantic (hell) haven, and he gentleness still surprises me. I try to pretend it's because he's so strong that it's so shocking, but I know it's because it's so strange that he cares enough to be careful. He's so different from the 20 (or is it thirty? I lost track after ten…) others I've had besides him, and behind my mask I cry out for a night of almost violent and animalistic hunger that comes from seedy clubs, not candlelit bubble baths in quiet beachside houses.
But in my dreams, he's just like them: greedy, lustful, and cold. I like him better in my dreams because then he's the type of man I know how to deal with. Then, he's just like my "father". Which means, just like Daddy Dearest, he dies in my fantasies, a cruel, gruesome death. At my hands. But in reality, I am deprived of that wonderful pleasure because, in reality, he's the exact opposite of Arvin Sloane. Meaning his blood stains.
He must be getting more aware, because he senses something. In this way, he's just like my father. He loves seeing pain in my eyes. Not to exploit or manipulate it like Arvin does, but because it gives him a chance to be my hero, my knight in shining armor. Perhaps I'll let him "save" me. I'll tell him that I didn't want to lie to him, but Sloane would have killed me if I didn't (at least that much was true) and that I really had fallen in love with him, and was so scared for our baby's safety. Then, he'd take me away somewhere safe, and we'd have a house with a white picket fence, and a dog and raise our 2.5 perfect kids. Happily ever after. Only I was taught not to believe in Fairy Tales.
"They're just lies that grown-ups tell the other kids to keep them quiet. But you know better, don't you? There are no princes and princesses, no heroes and no villains."
"But Daddy said I was his princess."
"And your daddy is gone."
Then, all at once, he's beside me in the bath that's too hot, yet too cold to warm me. I force myself not to tense up as he wraps his arms around me, and my head falls to his chest as he places his hand protectively where "It" lays, not knowing the one who hates "It" the most is in his arms. When "It's" born, "It" will be named, but in my mind, "It" will always be "It" to me. Just an object, like him. An object with his bright green eyes, and his dimpled chin, and his perfectly crooked smile, and-"Syd" he whispers, and I lift my head to start memorizing his eyes, the way I always keep occupied as his Syd converses lovingly with him. She waits for him to continue, and I slowly count the flecks of gold in his irises.
"Having this baby…"
'one, two, three…'
"…more than I could ever imagine…"
'…seven, eight…'
"And I want you to know…"
'…thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…'
"It's so amazing…"
'…Twenty. Twenty-one, Twenty-two, Twenty-th-'
I'm suddenly aware that his little speech is done, and, as usual, I'm not quite sure what he said.
"This watch belonged to my father…"
'…five, six, seven…'
"…October first…"
So, I smile and murmur his surname, knowing that he accepts that as a viable answer to just about everything. His lips crash against mine and it's the easiest part of the job. His kisses are warm and loving as they trail down my neck, and I wonder if he can taste the stains of all the others before him. He always assumes the faded angry marks are results of missions, so ready to believe that Sydney Bristow is just a victim. My hands travel down his chest, and lower, and lower, and these are the only times I can rip away this disguise, because here, I always know what to do. This is who his precious Sydney really is, a product of Arvin Sloane, whoring herself for his causes. He whispers clichéd words and heartfelt declarations, and I'm annoyed with him for ruining this by making it more than it really is. When it's over, he kisses my forehead and holds me as I trace his tattoo, wondering why on earth he got a map of southern Mexico of all things.
"I love you."
It's only then I realize how angry I am at him for being so stupid, for not seeing through me. I want him to yell at me, hit me, drown me in his damn romantic gesture, anything but smile at me like I'm the most perfect thing he's ever seen. I think about the extraction call I wanted to make this morning, how much I wanted out, and I wish I had done it, gotten away from his tender caresses and affectionate words. I wish I was anywhere but here with him as I drift to sleep in his embrace.
So I crawl back into your open arms…
But at the same time, I can't think of any place I'd rather be.
Fin.