- Title: To Serve and Protect (1/1)
- Author: A. Jinnie McManus
- Email: jinnie@ sbjdesigns.com
- Rating: PG
- Spoilers/Timeline: The Box, Part II (S1)
- Summary: A moment during The Box, Part II (S1). Sydney introspection.
- Disclaimer: Not mine. Some quotes are directly from various episodes. No infringement is intended. Thanks to Lori and the Hos for the transcripts.
- 'Ship: S/V
- Archiving: Ask first. Unless you're Cover Me. In which case, you rule.
You know, I think I can pull out the crystal without touching the lasers.
You want me to do it? My hands are pretty steady.
Well, so are mine.
One more spray on three.
One.
Two.
Three.
If this was any other circumstance, you'd laugh. Because you're being ridiculous.
Your father is in danger. And he's half the reason why you're alive, in all technicality. Your friends, your mentors, your most hated enemies – all depend on you for safety. All should be prominent in your concerns.
But all you can think about, in those fleeting moments that pass almost too fast for thought to occur, is him.
He's not field-trained, you remember, terrified. You step over slightly, clenching your hands into fists, keeping yourself in front of him. So you shield him from circumstances he's now in because of you. Because somehow, he always knows what you need. And what you needed was backup. Though you didn't want it.
Funny how need and want so rarely coincide.
So he came. He risked his life and ignored laws set forth by the founders of the United States of America. He put his career on the line and walked into a parking garage and ended any chance he had of retiring in thirty years or so with a perfect record.
For you.
The woman with the large machine gun smiles, knowing your thoughts. Knowing immediately how to ensure your cooperation.
She's studied you, you realize. In the time you took to save them all, or at least start, she demonstrated her gratitude by gauging your weaknesses. She observed your clothing – noted the no-nonsense black tank top. And she also scanned Vaughn's figure. His suit hardly wrinkled at all, his gun wedged awkwardly in his shoulder holster, his left foot tapping with nervous, inexperienced energy.
All deadly giveaways.
"Hands behind your heads," she orders, the tip of her gun gesturing with emphasis. You obey, but impose yourself even more in front of Vaughn. Even as he does the same, his taunt readiness shifts a bit. Undeniable annoyance radiates from him.
If this was any other circumstance, you'd laugh. Because he's being ridiculous.
He's not field-rated, you think. As if reading your mind, he reluctantly acknowledges your superior status and steps back, allowing you shield him, eyes darting between you and her. Not quite experienced enough to spot an opening, but trying nonetheless.
For you.
The other women arches an eyebrow, watching him. "Come here," she orders him.
Your breath catches. Your eyebrows shoot up. Your hands curl even tighter together, fingernails digging into your flesh.
He glides around you with no hesitation, hands folded together behind his head. There is no fear in his lithe frame, just simple defiance. He stands in front of her, his back to you, silently, calmly, asking her What?
She reaches forward, still aiming her rifle at you with one hand. Knowing he will never try anything as long as you are in danger.
Her other hand probes the inside of his suit jacket, lingering perhaps longer than necessary. His body goes rigid, and you can clearly see, though of course not literally, his soft lips fading into alabaster as he bites his tongue, averting his eyes, forcing himself to stay silent and not voice his immediate indignity. Behind his head, his knuckles turn as white as the dress shirts he sometimes wears with his suits.
But he's not wearing white today. He's wearing blue. And you realize, as he stands parade-back straight and endures her touch, that the cobalt color is your favorite look on him.
Such a domestic thought. Something entirely out of place in current occurrences. But true nonetheless.
Meanwhile, his service pistol wisps softly against leather and silk as she disarms him, pulling the gun free and tucking it in her belt.
"Down the hall," she orders, smoothing his jacket where she wrinkled it to get to his holster, and then gesturing with her rifle. You can't help but wonder, idly, possessively, why she doesn't also straighten his tie.
He hesitates, not daring to turn around, but not willing to leave you behind. Life in your profession is hardly a guarantee, but he will not move another step without knowledge in your well-being. He is, was and always will be your guardian angel.
Whether you want him to be or not. Somehow you know, if he had a choice, that he would shoot himself before allowing you to endure even a glare from the Asian woman.
And in your life, that's a domestic thought. But one wholly appropriate.
The Asian woman cocks an eyebrow, sensing his stalling. But your handler remains resolute, feet planted solidly where he stands, head cocked with expectant determination. He is not one for showy bravado, you know, and you can't help but be both touched and hopeful.
I'm moving on with my life, you had wanted to tell him, before reality crashed down and he declined your hockey invitation. And I want you to be a part of it.
But despite his previous adherence to duty, could his show of protectiveness – for you – be an indication of similar feelings?
Something flickers in your captor's eyes, so fleeting that it's impossible to truly judge. For a moment, you can almost believe empathy shines in her stern gaze. She again waves the gun, silently telling you to move. And you do so, keeping pace with Vaughn as you both leave the room, hands behind your heads and a gun at your backs.
Walking in step.