Title: Frozen Memories
Author: Duck
Timeline: Blood Ties
Summary: "I know why you came Sydney, I know why you're doing this. Revenge blinds you, dear sister, and this time, the consequences won't be so easy to recover from."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the title, believe it or not.
A/N: Okay, huge huge HUGE thank you to Kyle for making me realize how much the thesaurus is NOT my friend. This story would not be the way it is without his imput and teasing. He also beta'd and guided and created the title and just...you kick ass. I bow half way, my grammar pimp. Extra thank you to Dani and my dear twin Neums for listening to me go on and on about how this fic was coming along.
Frozen Memories
Dancing shadows flicker across the walls of the simply decorated bathroom, twisting and turning as the candle's light swells and contracts. The woman in the bathtub watches the delicate tango with interest, hand closed around the thin stem of a wine glass filled to the rim with chardonnay, her poison of choice.
The glass rises to her lips, and slowly, surely, the wine intoxicates her senses, releasing her weary mind from its persistent fortress to roam, to explore into wilderness long buried and long repressed.
Her arm lowers, head tilts back onto the dewy tile. The legs that used to run in stilettos stretch themselves underneath the hissing bath, long neglected. The sinuous arms rest along the edges of the porcelain tub, strong still but from completely different exercises.
Scars are healed with only faint pink lines exposing their existence; they are scattered over her body as distant reminders of what she's left in the dust. On her mind tonight are the ones she gained a lifetime ago; during that time she remembers being blissfully happy. She traces a particularly long line with the nail of her left index finger, skittering across the rough outline with deliberate strokes. The physical pain it caused faded quickly, but she still deals with the aftermath of recovery.
The other scar, not as visible, will remain until her death, fading slowly, surely, with each passing winter. No evidence from this encounter mark her skin, but a deeper torment, a more excruciating pain, that no person can see, but all who know her can feel. They hear it with every word she speaks, with every inhalation of air she takes.
Her finger strokes the pink line on her abdomen a little more harshly as the memories break through the surface. Unable and unwilling to prevent the forthcoming torrent of emotion, she sinks a little further under the surface of water, the jets pummeling her insomnia driven body. Her eyes close, and she is transported into a different time and place.
***
"Caty shouldn't be in danger of losing both her parents!" he snarls, eyes wide in anger.
She just rolls her eyes. "Oh don't act so surprised, Vaughn," her tone is bored. "We've been married three years, and you honestly believe that I'd let you chase after that woman without me?" Her eyebrows raise, masking the small smirk she's trying not to show. "If you thought otherwise, you obviously don't know me at all."
His gaze holds for a full minute before he chooses to respond, mouth moving with a resigned monotone. "I know. I just hoped you wouldn't be so stubborn. "He turns away, but a hand at his shoulder halts any attempt to escape.
"She hurt us both," she says firmly. "I'm not letting you do this alone." The finality of her statement leaves no room for protest, and he feels himself shrugging the fury away.
She is pulled into a clinging embrace, his fingers digging into her back, clutching desperately. "I can't," he whispers, voice catching, "I can't lose you again, Syd."
Her voice is surprisingly steady.
"You won't."
***
He shudders as the volts course through him again. Sweat, water, and blood run down his face in rivulets, and she wishes he could see her, to know that she loves him. His eyes open, briefly, but they do not focus.
The action is noted, and he is shocked again.
***
"Simple, it's so simple," she repeats, doubting the very words she speaks. Once she separates from him she unknowingly allows the fears to return to torment her psyche. "Keep it simple, keep it simple."
The simplicity is what frightens her the most. Lauren, she thinks, will be expecting this, waiting for her ex husband to aim the dart gun at her and fire. Unbidden, her arms rise to ward off the Russian winter's bite. Here is the snow she longed for, and in her concern, is unable to appreciate the vast plains of white. Her white attire blends with her surroundings, and she shifts her weight to raise her head a little higher, to see a little farther.
He waits one hundred yards away, the entirety of his face hidden by cold resistant fabrics. They are both on radio silence, although she's not quite sure why. He's barely spoken; from the moment they boarded the plane he's not been the same. The only words exchanged between them were declarations of love minutes before they hopped on the truck.
"I love you," she whispers into the silent comm. "I love you, my guardian angel."
It's been unusual, for the past three years, to have the openness of affection that a marriage brings. She's grown to appreciate it, the freedom to kiss him whenever she wants, to throw her arms around his neck with no purpose save holding him.
Her heart stops when she sees the figure emerge from the canopied shadows to her right. The pulse in her neck thrums against the delicate skin threatening to jump away. However, when she turns her comm on she wishes it would cease, that her heart would stop beating. She hears these words, and she knows that she may never see her daughter again.
"It's been a long time Michael."
***
She meets his tormented gaze only once, but it is more than enough. He bites through the pain, the sweat, the blood, releasing no cries until his mind shuts down and feelings are all he has left. She knows that she has given him strength, and prays that it will be enough.
***
Slowly, slowly, she feels herself return to earth, cotton sheets like velvet beneath her body. It is not unusual for her to wake several times during moonlit hours, and tonight she has a heavy burden troubling her mind.
The down pillow cradles her cheek in warmth, so comforting that for a brief moment she entertains the possibility of returning to that place between reality and dream. The absence of body heat to her left deters that, and she shivers as the comforter exposes her legs to the winter air.
The polished wooden floors are frigid on her bare feet, and she creeps to the thermostat, silently cursing his insistence of energy conservation. Sliding her hands up and down rapidly, she returns the heat to her slightly chilled arms. The slippers she wears are not under the bed, in the closet, or anywhere that she can see without effort, and so she gives the search up in vain.
There are no lights burning. She passes by a window and pauses, letting the winter moonlight cast an ethereal glow on her pale skin.
She yearns for snowflakes to float down to the green grass, to surround the small blue house and shield her family from outside horrors, prevent old enemies from penetrating the life she's so meticulously protected. The sad reminder of her location is reinforced by the vision of Donovan slumbering peacefully in the backyard, comfortably warm in his fleece bed. Her eyes see whiteness that is not there, snowball fights that will never occur. Her breath fogs the glass and she sees Caty tracing her name in frost with chubby fingers, as she herself did at that age.
Crooning from Caty's bedroom distracts her attention, and when she returns her gaze outside the mystical glitter has melted into dirt and grass. Her sigh echoes in the drafty hallway, reverberating faintly against wood and paint.
In the rocking chair across from Caty's cradle sits the man she married three years ago, rocking a bundle that has grown remarkably in the fifteen months since she came to this world. Emerald green flecks her once brown eyes, foretelling of the wonder they will surely become, and the dark curtain of hair matches the shade of her mother's. The tiny mouth sucks on the tiny thumb in contentment, eyes wide as they watch her father's mouth move.
Nearly inaudible from the doorway, the murmur reaches her ears, broken into single words. "Love...need...careful...back..."
Earnestness coats every word he says, so much that she believes it. Her doubts and fears fade as she watches him hold Caty so assuredly, so strongly. Her love for both fills her with such intensity that she thinks she might burst.
He looks up when she begins to cry, watching silently as the ice drops cascade off her face. Making no attempt to stem the waterworks, she walks over to his chair and kisses him. Instantly she feels her blue lips warm and return to their natural color, her toes tingle as the frostbite melts away. After a few moments, Caty protests, pushing her hands into her mother.
"Sorry, sweet," she whispers, bending down to kiss her daughter as well. Her voice penetrates every corner of the tiny nursery. "Winter's cold has kept you awake, hasn't it, Caty? We're here to keep you warm, little angel. Sleep."
With an answering yawn, the baby's eyes drift shut and she snuggles contentedly against her father's flannel shirt. Assured that girl is indeed asleep, he places her into the teddy bear infested crib, touching her face cautiously soft before letting go completely.
He smiles at the woman next to him. "You sound like a poet sometimes," he says as they peer over the wooden rails at their daughter. She only leans on his shoulder, old fears preventing her throat from functioning properly. He wraps his arm around her waist, fingers stroking her waistline.
"Don't be afraid," he breathes into her ear. She shakes her head resolutely.
"I won't be."
***
Blood runs down to the concrete floor, drops spattering with each passing second. Too much blood, on the walls, ceiling, floor.
***
Even after discovering her pregnancy, she held on to her field rating for as long as she possibly could. It was a safety line, he thought, when he asked her why she didn't just let it go. She needed to have that choice, that decision to go after anyone she needed to whenever necessary. After the first four months it was revoked, and he saw the light leave her eyes as she read the paperwork.
As soon as she returned to work, she trained to bring herself back up to that level. He pleaded with her to stay an analyst, to not risk the chance of leaving their daughter motherless, and eventually she gave in. That didn't mean she let herself go.
He knows she will request to be a part of this mission, and he knows that Dixon will agree.
He curses her decision to stay with the Agency. He curses the Agency for pleading with her to remain. And, last of all, he curses himself for letting her. Not that he could have stopped her, he knows that once she makes up her mind she won't let go, but underneath his love is the first objective he ever had concerning her: keep her safe. It is an instinct he's not completely aware of.
He shudders when he hears the objective, cringes at the purpose. This woman destroyed everything, he thinks, as he looks at her picture. This woman is evil. But this is his paradox: he can't face her because of what she did to him, but he has to, to avenge his relationship with Sydney. I hate you, he thinks, as he stares at the cold eyes, I hate you for what you've done, and what you'll do to us now.
"It's simple," Dixon states, outlining the parameters. "You will be disguised as a contact she meets with regularly. When she approaches, you shoot her with a dart gun. You will have one other person hiding to take the shot from behind as well. We know that Lauren comes alone to meet this contact; so additional backup will be unnecessary."
He sees a flaw. His voice is strong, but feeble in the same breath. "Won't she know when she looks at my face?"
Dixon shakes his head, "No, since it's currently nine degrees below zero in Russia. With all the protection you'll be wearing, she won't be able to tell the difference until its too late."
He nods, accepts, and leaves. The debrief was private so that the revenge factor would not be noted by people that didn't need to notice. He knows that when her father tells her, she will be angry, and she will go with him.
He wishes she were with Caty. He wishes she were at home, safe.
He wishes for a lot of things.
*** "She's doing this because she wants to, Sydney. She wants him to suffer, because he found happiness with you."
***
When she opens her eyes, her first thought is that she had too much to drink, but then she feels the metal chair beneath her, the handcuffs like ice on her wrists.
A blinding light jerks her from the last traces of unconsciousness. She wrenches upwards on the handcuffs, but they are secured to the arm of the uncomfortable chair. She remembers this settling in her stomach, remembers the tinge of fear that clouds her vision.
A figure emerges from the corner shadows, light not quite reaching their face. "Sydney," she says breathily, "It's been a long time."
She recognizes the voice, and her eyes strain against the harsh light to know the identity of her captor. They don't have to try for very long, however, because the woman steps into the light, and she feels a gasp leave her mouth before she can stop it.
Nadia runs her hand down the stand of the light absentmindedly, staring at her sister. The light is close enough to her now that Sydney can distinguish her facial features clearly, akin to her own but different, very different.
"Have you been happy?" Nadia asks, drawing out the words scornfully. She circles behind her sister, hand brushing the back of the metallic chair briefly. "Answer me, Sydney," she commands, facing her. Then, almost sisterly, Nadia brushes stray hairs from her face, head titling as she looks into her eyes.
She nods, tears gathering quickly. Fear floods her senses, fear for him, fear for Caty.
"Good," Nadia says, turning away. "Haven't you wondered, Sydney?" she questions, "Haven't you wondered how your miracle happened?"
Pulling up a chair, Nadia sits across from her sister. She shows no sign of emotion, but Nadia knows the question scares her. "Your daughter, Catherine. She is your miracle, Sydney. Remember that, because you will need it."
"So, did you miss me?"
The last time she saw Nadia the vision filled her with such a sense of sickness that the image has remained, haunting her nightmares and tainting her daydreams. She won't respond, not to that, not to anything.
When she learned of Nadia's existence, she unconsciously saw the two of them fighting evil together, side by side to unveil the mysteries of why the hell Rambaldi chose them. She realizes now she made the same mistake as with Irina.
Nadia smiles sardonically at her discomfort. She moves the light an inch to the right, sending the beams directly into her sister's eyes. "Let me see," she says, tapping her chin, "I think the last time I saw you was the winter I killed my father." She chuckles low in her throat. "Ah yes, that was it. You were so mortified, I remember, watching me as I stood there, coated in his blood."
Her face is impassive, frigid, in a cold mask that hasn't been worn for a long time. Torture has never broken her before, and it won't now.
Nadia moves closer to her, until their faces are mere inches apart. She breathes, "I know why you came Sydney, I know why you're doing this. Revenge blinds you, dear sister, and this time, the consequences won't be so easy to recover from." Nadia's smile disappears, and for a moment she sees a flicker of compassion. It vanishes so quickly, however, that she is almost sure it was imagined.
She is released from the chair and led to a small drafty room with an equally small window. Her breath chills the glass, and the sight before her sends tremors of ice through her veins. She speaks for the first time since she's arrived in Nadia's prison.
"Oh my god."
***
She knows as soon as she gets home, as soon as Caty's nanny tells her that Mr. Vaughn hasn't been home. She knows where he is and what he is doing.
After dismissing the nanny, she picks her daughter up and clutches her tightly, wishing that she were with him. It is this way whenever he goes there; she yearns, he cries.
"I love you," she whispers to her family. Caty squirms in protest as her arms tighten in their hold.
It is an hour before the front door opens, the hinges squeaking noisily in the entryway. He curses himself for not fixing that the previous weekend. The tear tracks have faded from his cheeks, but he knows she will see them nonetheless. She always does.
He doesn't feel like talking, which is no surprise, but he knows that she is aware of his presence in the house and doesn't try to avoid the inevitable.
To his surprise, he finds her curled up under the covers in their bedroom. She has brought the quilt Weiss gave them out of the closet; it is thrown over the comforter for extra warmth. She has lived in California too long, he thinks, because the cold is not severe enough for that.
Quietly, carefully, he gets ready for bed, pulling off his wrinkled suit to replace it with equally wrinkled flannel.
Walking over to the bed, he watches her sleep. "I love you," he says, lovingly drawing the hair from her face. She stirs, but does not open her eyes.
He is cold, suddenly, feels the warmth drain from his body. The chill overwhelms him, and he slides under the layers, thankful for the quilt. He spoons behind her, kisses her shoulder. As his eyes close, he feels her hand grope for his. He smiles.
***
Lauren turns away from him and faces the window. Her lips purse into a smug smile, and she waves slowly at her through the window.
***
Echoes of footsteps thunder through the walls, but she can't think, can't see, can't feel. He lies on the other side of the glass, broken down, bloody, and [I]nonohecantbenotyetnonono [/I]very still.
"I told you, Sydney. Consequences," Nadia says, mouth close to her ear, her breath hot. The ice is released from her wrist. "Go to him."
A door is opened to her right, and she feels a cool wind brush her cheek, bringing her out of her comatose state. Her eyes focus through the window, finding him. Nadia motions to the open door, and she rushes through it, nearly slipping on the water that has collected in puddles on the concrete.
She stops before she gets to him, taking in every bruise, burn, cut, gash; every new wound on his body. He looks so frail, so weak, and she's so afraid. Nadia's words repeat in her mind, giving her a push forward.
Her fingers slide on his wrist, slippery from the blood, but she wipes it away with her shirt and tries again. She feels nothing.
Her mind won't accept it, can't understand exactly what is happening; all she can see is him, gazing into her eyes, saying those insignificant words that mean everything. She places her palm on his chest, feels no movement, and tries his wrist again.
She alternates; chest, wrist, chest, wrist. It is a never ending cycle that leaves her desperate for any sign, any movement. She tries for several minutes.
They find her with her ear to his chest, hair matted with blood, listening for a heartbeat. They pull her away and she objects, flailing her limbs in every direction. She is too weak, however, too feeble to break away from their frozen grasp.
Once outdoors, they loosen their grip, letting her fall to the snow. The blood on her hands stains the pure white a deep crimson, and she screams when they pick her up again.
"No!" she shrieks, "No!"
She feels a slight pressure on her neck; the needle punctures her pale skin with no mercy. The world fades to white and red to black.
***
The lights are faint now, the flame burned down to the very end of the wick, nearly kissing the wax. The wine glass, emptied long ago, rests on the tile floor; the crystal tainted from the crimson liquor it held.
The once deadly limbs are submerged beneath the chilled bathwater. Once she lost herself, the waters temperature diminished rapidly, as if her body was draining the heat to sustain the memories.
Her hands lie dormant at her sides, fingers pruned into a million tiny wrinkles. Her head raises slowly, eyes opening, observing how much time has passed by the weak light that dances still, but muted.
The water cascades down her skin as she rises, down her stomach, legs, face. She reaches for the towel that lies on the countertop, water dripping from her arm onto the bathmat underneath her feet. As she rubs the soft terrycloth over her face, she begins to construct the mask she will wear until next year, when she will let herself cry again.
With her robe tied securely in place she exits her room of misery and enters her home of love. She passes by the picture of Vaughn and Caty on her first birthday; they both smile and laugh at the camera, him, holding his daughter close to his face.
She passes this picture, and she smiles.
El Fin
Author: Duck
Timeline: Blood Ties
Summary: "I know why you came Sydney, I know why you're doing this. Revenge blinds you, dear sister, and this time, the consequences won't be so easy to recover from."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the title, believe it or not.
A/N: Okay, huge huge HUGE thank you to Kyle for making me realize how much the thesaurus is NOT my friend. This story would not be the way it is without his imput and teasing. He also beta'd and guided and created the title and just...you kick ass. I bow half way, my grammar pimp. Extra thank you to Dani and my dear twin Neums for listening to me go on and on about how this fic was coming along.
Frozen Memories
Dancing shadows flicker across the walls of the simply decorated bathroom, twisting and turning as the candle's light swells and contracts. The woman in the bathtub watches the delicate tango with interest, hand closed around the thin stem of a wine glass filled to the rim with chardonnay, her poison of choice.
The glass rises to her lips, and slowly, surely, the wine intoxicates her senses, releasing her weary mind from its persistent fortress to roam, to explore into wilderness long buried and long repressed.
Her arm lowers, head tilts back onto the dewy tile. The legs that used to run in stilettos stretch themselves underneath the hissing bath, long neglected. The sinuous arms rest along the edges of the porcelain tub, strong still but from completely different exercises.
Scars are healed with only faint pink lines exposing their existence; they are scattered over her body as distant reminders of what she's left in the dust. On her mind tonight are the ones she gained a lifetime ago; during that time she remembers being blissfully happy. She traces a particularly long line with the nail of her left index finger, skittering across the rough outline with deliberate strokes. The physical pain it caused faded quickly, but she still deals with the aftermath of recovery.
The other scar, not as visible, will remain until her death, fading slowly, surely, with each passing winter. No evidence from this encounter mark her skin, but a deeper torment, a more excruciating pain, that no person can see, but all who know her can feel. They hear it with every word she speaks, with every inhalation of air she takes.
Her finger strokes the pink line on her abdomen a little more harshly as the memories break through the surface. Unable and unwilling to prevent the forthcoming torrent of emotion, she sinks a little further under the surface of water, the jets pummeling her insomnia driven body. Her eyes close, and she is transported into a different time and place.
***
"Caty shouldn't be in danger of losing both her parents!" he snarls, eyes wide in anger.
She just rolls her eyes. "Oh don't act so surprised, Vaughn," her tone is bored. "We've been married three years, and you honestly believe that I'd let you chase after that woman without me?" Her eyebrows raise, masking the small smirk she's trying not to show. "If you thought otherwise, you obviously don't know me at all."
His gaze holds for a full minute before he chooses to respond, mouth moving with a resigned monotone. "I know. I just hoped you wouldn't be so stubborn. "He turns away, but a hand at his shoulder halts any attempt to escape.
"She hurt us both," she says firmly. "I'm not letting you do this alone." The finality of her statement leaves no room for protest, and he feels himself shrugging the fury away.
She is pulled into a clinging embrace, his fingers digging into her back, clutching desperately. "I can't," he whispers, voice catching, "I can't lose you again, Syd."
Her voice is surprisingly steady.
"You won't."
***
He shudders as the volts course through him again. Sweat, water, and blood run down his face in rivulets, and she wishes he could see her, to know that she loves him. His eyes open, briefly, but they do not focus.
The action is noted, and he is shocked again.
***
"Simple, it's so simple," she repeats, doubting the very words she speaks. Once she separates from him she unknowingly allows the fears to return to torment her psyche. "Keep it simple, keep it simple."
The simplicity is what frightens her the most. Lauren, she thinks, will be expecting this, waiting for her ex husband to aim the dart gun at her and fire. Unbidden, her arms rise to ward off the Russian winter's bite. Here is the snow she longed for, and in her concern, is unable to appreciate the vast plains of white. Her white attire blends with her surroundings, and she shifts her weight to raise her head a little higher, to see a little farther.
He waits one hundred yards away, the entirety of his face hidden by cold resistant fabrics. They are both on radio silence, although she's not quite sure why. He's barely spoken; from the moment they boarded the plane he's not been the same. The only words exchanged between them were declarations of love minutes before they hopped on the truck.
"I love you," she whispers into the silent comm. "I love you, my guardian angel."
It's been unusual, for the past three years, to have the openness of affection that a marriage brings. She's grown to appreciate it, the freedom to kiss him whenever she wants, to throw her arms around his neck with no purpose save holding him.
Her heart stops when she sees the figure emerge from the canopied shadows to her right. The pulse in her neck thrums against the delicate skin threatening to jump away. However, when she turns her comm on she wishes it would cease, that her heart would stop beating. She hears these words, and she knows that she may never see her daughter again.
"It's been a long time Michael."
***
She meets his tormented gaze only once, but it is more than enough. He bites through the pain, the sweat, the blood, releasing no cries until his mind shuts down and feelings are all he has left. She knows that she has given him strength, and prays that it will be enough.
***
Slowly, slowly, she feels herself return to earth, cotton sheets like velvet beneath her body. It is not unusual for her to wake several times during moonlit hours, and tonight she has a heavy burden troubling her mind.
The down pillow cradles her cheek in warmth, so comforting that for a brief moment she entertains the possibility of returning to that place between reality and dream. The absence of body heat to her left deters that, and she shivers as the comforter exposes her legs to the winter air.
The polished wooden floors are frigid on her bare feet, and she creeps to the thermostat, silently cursing his insistence of energy conservation. Sliding her hands up and down rapidly, she returns the heat to her slightly chilled arms. The slippers she wears are not under the bed, in the closet, or anywhere that she can see without effort, and so she gives the search up in vain.
There are no lights burning. She passes by a window and pauses, letting the winter moonlight cast an ethereal glow on her pale skin.
She yearns for snowflakes to float down to the green grass, to surround the small blue house and shield her family from outside horrors, prevent old enemies from penetrating the life she's so meticulously protected. The sad reminder of her location is reinforced by the vision of Donovan slumbering peacefully in the backyard, comfortably warm in his fleece bed. Her eyes see whiteness that is not there, snowball fights that will never occur. Her breath fogs the glass and she sees Caty tracing her name in frost with chubby fingers, as she herself did at that age.
Crooning from Caty's bedroom distracts her attention, and when she returns her gaze outside the mystical glitter has melted into dirt and grass. Her sigh echoes in the drafty hallway, reverberating faintly against wood and paint.
In the rocking chair across from Caty's cradle sits the man she married three years ago, rocking a bundle that has grown remarkably in the fifteen months since she came to this world. Emerald green flecks her once brown eyes, foretelling of the wonder they will surely become, and the dark curtain of hair matches the shade of her mother's. The tiny mouth sucks on the tiny thumb in contentment, eyes wide as they watch her father's mouth move.
Nearly inaudible from the doorway, the murmur reaches her ears, broken into single words. "Love...need...careful...back..."
Earnestness coats every word he says, so much that she believes it. Her doubts and fears fade as she watches him hold Caty so assuredly, so strongly. Her love for both fills her with such intensity that she thinks she might burst.
He looks up when she begins to cry, watching silently as the ice drops cascade off her face. Making no attempt to stem the waterworks, she walks over to his chair and kisses him. Instantly she feels her blue lips warm and return to their natural color, her toes tingle as the frostbite melts away. After a few moments, Caty protests, pushing her hands into her mother.
"Sorry, sweet," she whispers, bending down to kiss her daughter as well. Her voice penetrates every corner of the tiny nursery. "Winter's cold has kept you awake, hasn't it, Caty? We're here to keep you warm, little angel. Sleep."
With an answering yawn, the baby's eyes drift shut and she snuggles contentedly against her father's flannel shirt. Assured that girl is indeed asleep, he places her into the teddy bear infested crib, touching her face cautiously soft before letting go completely.
He smiles at the woman next to him. "You sound like a poet sometimes," he says as they peer over the wooden rails at their daughter. She only leans on his shoulder, old fears preventing her throat from functioning properly. He wraps his arm around her waist, fingers stroking her waistline.
"Don't be afraid," he breathes into her ear. She shakes her head resolutely.
"I won't be."
***
Blood runs down to the concrete floor, drops spattering with each passing second. Too much blood, on the walls, ceiling, floor.
***
Even after discovering her pregnancy, she held on to her field rating for as long as she possibly could. It was a safety line, he thought, when he asked her why she didn't just let it go. She needed to have that choice, that decision to go after anyone she needed to whenever necessary. After the first four months it was revoked, and he saw the light leave her eyes as she read the paperwork.
As soon as she returned to work, she trained to bring herself back up to that level. He pleaded with her to stay an analyst, to not risk the chance of leaving their daughter motherless, and eventually she gave in. That didn't mean she let herself go.
He knows she will request to be a part of this mission, and he knows that Dixon will agree.
He curses her decision to stay with the Agency. He curses the Agency for pleading with her to remain. And, last of all, he curses himself for letting her. Not that he could have stopped her, he knows that once she makes up her mind she won't let go, but underneath his love is the first objective he ever had concerning her: keep her safe. It is an instinct he's not completely aware of.
He shudders when he hears the objective, cringes at the purpose. This woman destroyed everything, he thinks, as he looks at her picture. This woman is evil. But this is his paradox: he can't face her because of what she did to him, but he has to, to avenge his relationship with Sydney. I hate you, he thinks, as he stares at the cold eyes, I hate you for what you've done, and what you'll do to us now.
"It's simple," Dixon states, outlining the parameters. "You will be disguised as a contact she meets with regularly. When she approaches, you shoot her with a dart gun. You will have one other person hiding to take the shot from behind as well. We know that Lauren comes alone to meet this contact; so additional backup will be unnecessary."
He sees a flaw. His voice is strong, but feeble in the same breath. "Won't she know when she looks at my face?"
Dixon shakes his head, "No, since it's currently nine degrees below zero in Russia. With all the protection you'll be wearing, she won't be able to tell the difference until its too late."
He nods, accepts, and leaves. The debrief was private so that the revenge factor would not be noted by people that didn't need to notice. He knows that when her father tells her, she will be angry, and she will go with him.
He wishes she were with Caty. He wishes she were at home, safe.
He wishes for a lot of things.
*** "She's doing this because she wants to, Sydney. She wants him to suffer, because he found happiness with you."
***
When she opens her eyes, her first thought is that she had too much to drink, but then she feels the metal chair beneath her, the handcuffs like ice on her wrists.
A blinding light jerks her from the last traces of unconsciousness. She wrenches upwards on the handcuffs, but they are secured to the arm of the uncomfortable chair. She remembers this settling in her stomach, remembers the tinge of fear that clouds her vision.
A figure emerges from the corner shadows, light not quite reaching their face. "Sydney," she says breathily, "It's been a long time."
She recognizes the voice, and her eyes strain against the harsh light to know the identity of her captor. They don't have to try for very long, however, because the woman steps into the light, and she feels a gasp leave her mouth before she can stop it.
Nadia runs her hand down the stand of the light absentmindedly, staring at her sister. The light is close enough to her now that Sydney can distinguish her facial features clearly, akin to her own but different, very different.
"Have you been happy?" Nadia asks, drawing out the words scornfully. She circles behind her sister, hand brushing the back of the metallic chair briefly. "Answer me, Sydney," she commands, facing her. Then, almost sisterly, Nadia brushes stray hairs from her face, head titling as she looks into her eyes.
She nods, tears gathering quickly. Fear floods her senses, fear for him, fear for Caty.
"Good," Nadia says, turning away. "Haven't you wondered, Sydney?" she questions, "Haven't you wondered how your miracle happened?"
Pulling up a chair, Nadia sits across from her sister. She shows no sign of emotion, but Nadia knows the question scares her. "Your daughter, Catherine. She is your miracle, Sydney. Remember that, because you will need it."
"So, did you miss me?"
The last time she saw Nadia the vision filled her with such a sense of sickness that the image has remained, haunting her nightmares and tainting her daydreams. She won't respond, not to that, not to anything.
When she learned of Nadia's existence, she unconsciously saw the two of them fighting evil together, side by side to unveil the mysteries of why the hell Rambaldi chose them. She realizes now she made the same mistake as with Irina.
Nadia smiles sardonically at her discomfort. She moves the light an inch to the right, sending the beams directly into her sister's eyes. "Let me see," she says, tapping her chin, "I think the last time I saw you was the winter I killed my father." She chuckles low in her throat. "Ah yes, that was it. You were so mortified, I remember, watching me as I stood there, coated in his blood."
Her face is impassive, frigid, in a cold mask that hasn't been worn for a long time. Torture has never broken her before, and it won't now.
Nadia moves closer to her, until their faces are mere inches apart. She breathes, "I know why you came Sydney, I know why you're doing this. Revenge blinds you, dear sister, and this time, the consequences won't be so easy to recover from." Nadia's smile disappears, and for a moment she sees a flicker of compassion. It vanishes so quickly, however, that she is almost sure it was imagined.
She is released from the chair and led to a small drafty room with an equally small window. Her breath chills the glass, and the sight before her sends tremors of ice through her veins. She speaks for the first time since she's arrived in Nadia's prison.
"Oh my god."
***
She knows as soon as she gets home, as soon as Caty's nanny tells her that Mr. Vaughn hasn't been home. She knows where he is and what he is doing.
After dismissing the nanny, she picks her daughter up and clutches her tightly, wishing that she were with him. It is this way whenever he goes there; she yearns, he cries.
"I love you," she whispers to her family. Caty squirms in protest as her arms tighten in their hold.
It is an hour before the front door opens, the hinges squeaking noisily in the entryway. He curses himself for not fixing that the previous weekend. The tear tracks have faded from his cheeks, but he knows she will see them nonetheless. She always does.
He doesn't feel like talking, which is no surprise, but he knows that she is aware of his presence in the house and doesn't try to avoid the inevitable.
To his surprise, he finds her curled up under the covers in their bedroom. She has brought the quilt Weiss gave them out of the closet; it is thrown over the comforter for extra warmth. She has lived in California too long, he thinks, because the cold is not severe enough for that.
Quietly, carefully, he gets ready for bed, pulling off his wrinkled suit to replace it with equally wrinkled flannel.
Walking over to the bed, he watches her sleep. "I love you," he says, lovingly drawing the hair from her face. She stirs, but does not open her eyes.
He is cold, suddenly, feels the warmth drain from his body. The chill overwhelms him, and he slides under the layers, thankful for the quilt. He spoons behind her, kisses her shoulder. As his eyes close, he feels her hand grope for his. He smiles.
***
Lauren turns away from him and faces the window. Her lips purse into a smug smile, and she waves slowly at her through the window.
***
Echoes of footsteps thunder through the walls, but she can't think, can't see, can't feel. He lies on the other side of the glass, broken down, bloody, and [I]nonohecantbenotyetnonono [/I]very still.
"I told you, Sydney. Consequences," Nadia says, mouth close to her ear, her breath hot. The ice is released from her wrist. "Go to him."
A door is opened to her right, and she feels a cool wind brush her cheek, bringing her out of her comatose state. Her eyes focus through the window, finding him. Nadia motions to the open door, and she rushes through it, nearly slipping on the water that has collected in puddles on the concrete.
She stops before she gets to him, taking in every bruise, burn, cut, gash; every new wound on his body. He looks so frail, so weak, and she's so afraid. Nadia's words repeat in her mind, giving her a push forward.
Her fingers slide on his wrist, slippery from the blood, but she wipes it away with her shirt and tries again. She feels nothing.
Her mind won't accept it, can't understand exactly what is happening; all she can see is him, gazing into her eyes, saying those insignificant words that mean everything. She places her palm on his chest, feels no movement, and tries his wrist again.
She alternates; chest, wrist, chest, wrist. It is a never ending cycle that leaves her desperate for any sign, any movement. She tries for several minutes.
They find her with her ear to his chest, hair matted with blood, listening for a heartbeat. They pull her away and she objects, flailing her limbs in every direction. She is too weak, however, too feeble to break away from their frozen grasp.
Once outdoors, they loosen their grip, letting her fall to the snow. The blood on her hands stains the pure white a deep crimson, and she screams when they pick her up again.
"No!" she shrieks, "No!"
She feels a slight pressure on her neck; the needle punctures her pale skin with no mercy. The world fades to white and red to black.
***
The lights are faint now, the flame burned down to the very end of the wick, nearly kissing the wax. The wine glass, emptied long ago, rests on the tile floor; the crystal tainted from the crimson liquor it held.
The once deadly limbs are submerged beneath the chilled bathwater. Once she lost herself, the waters temperature diminished rapidly, as if her body was draining the heat to sustain the memories.
Her hands lie dormant at her sides, fingers pruned into a million tiny wrinkles. Her head raises slowly, eyes opening, observing how much time has passed by the weak light that dances still, but muted.
The water cascades down her skin as she rises, down her stomach, legs, face. She reaches for the towel that lies on the countertop, water dripping from her arm onto the bathmat underneath her feet. As she rubs the soft terrycloth over her face, she begins to construct the mask she will wear until next year, when she will let herself cry again.
With her robe tied securely in place she exits her room of misery and enters her home of love. She passes by the picture of Vaughn and Caty on her first birthday; they both smile and laugh at the camera, him, holding his daughter close to his face.
She passes this picture, and she smiles.
El Fin