Title: Aliquid Tacere — To Keep Silent Aliquid Tacere — To Keep Silent
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Hangst — humour/angst
Archived: SD-1, , and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!
Spoilers/Timeline: post-"Crossings"
'Shippers' Paradise: S/V
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!
Summary: "Whoever said some things are better left unsaid was a fool." Vaughn disproves the theory that silence is golden. And that saying what you feel cures all. SD-1 2/04 Challenge entry. A Dream Writer Experience.
Suggested Soundtrack: "My Stupid Mouth" by John Mayer, "I Shall Believe" by Sheryl Crow, and "See the Sun" by Dido
Author's Note: You are henceforth privy to the inner musings of Vaughn's mind: what he thinks between his lines of dialogue. This is my attempt at the SD-1 February Challenge. Requirements are the first line and that it's between 1000 and 2500 words. I'm kinda cutting it close with 2393. Don't forget to leave feedback, everyone! I love constructive criticism! Quotes tell me what you like about the piece! And apparently I love exclamation points!
Much unhappiness has come into this world because of things left unsaid.
Yeah, and my name's Michael Vaughn. Tell me something I don't know.
You know, saying everything you think isn't exactly a walk in the park, either; I cannot list all the times my stupid mouth has got me in trouble one way or the other. A little wrongly timed sarcasm here; an aside that was too loud there...It all eventually adds up. Maman said to think before I speak, but I guess I have a faulty filter.
There must be something up there, though. I mean, I did hide my feelings for Syd pretty well up until the takedown of SD-6, and then again after she resurfaced. Those emotions must go somewhere.
Oh wait. I'm a guy. It's my job to hide my emotions.
"Agent Vaughn, Director Dixon would like your analysis of the new ML-47's. Did you already test them at the firing range?"
No, you dumb ass. I'm a junior agent who was just assigned here yesterday. "Yes, but I'm still working on that report. Tell Dixon I'll get back to him."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
Damn. We need to get interns with backbones.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes: my guyness and how it lead to the Biggest Mistake of My Life. One of my truly greatest regrets is keeping silent about my love for Sydney. I should have told everyone we knew; exclaimed it to random passersby; done all the cheesy things guys regret later when recounting tales with friends.
But I didn't.
I should have whispered it every time I woke up next to her; every time we made love; every time I saw her.
But I didn't.
I should have asked her — begged her, pleaded with her — to marry me.
But I didn't.
And what did this get me?
Really fucked up.
As much as I don't want to admit it, Derevko's words after I hinted about how I felt towards her daughter still ring in my ears: "The problem, Mister Vaughn, is that to the one person who matters, you haven't said anything." They haunt me like an unseen force in a romance or gothic novel, always hovering just out reach; or maybe like the idea of good and evil an anti-transcendentalist book. I'm Billy Budd, subject to the envious whim of Claggart; or I'm Hester Prynne, forever doomed to bear the penance of my past sins. Maybe I should have been an English teacher.
Nah. I could never sit very long in that class. Although, maybe it had something to do with the fact that the temperature in the room rivaled Siberia's in the depths of winter, and that woman droned on like the constant humming of one thousand old computers, and every time I'd close my eyes I'd start hibernating—
"Sir? Director Dixon says he needs that report now."
Damn it! Stupid kid. Leave me alone, you little urchin. "Fine. I'll finish it now and give it to him before the ten o'clock briefing."
"Yes sir."
All right. I guess I'll get to work on that now.
What if I did say everything I thought? Would that even the balance? Would less unhappiness come into this world because I told that annoying intern to fuck off? Maybe, but it might just cause more problems. The words could be interpreted the wrong way, said with incorrect inflection, or timed like a burp in the middle of the National Anthem. I mean, the last thing I need right now is an official reprimand for making an eighteen-year-old cry. Plus, I'd be one step closer to being Eric Weiss's clone, my Number One Thing to Avoid in Life Next to Pissing Off Jack Bristow. He says literally everything that runs through his brain, no exceptions. And what does he get in return? That wonderfully free feeling of relief and whatever repercussions may follow, which he deals with in the same sharp tongue. That being the case, you'd think he'd say very little, right? Wrong. You want an opinion, you'll get it; you want advice, it'll be crude and barely relate to the subject, but you'll get it; you want to know the gross national product of Swaziland, he'll make up a number and give it you. Hell, you don't even have to want it; that's when he's at his sharpest. He'll come out of left-centre field, throw the most random curve ball ever, and retreat back into silence.
I think it's safe to say that much happiness would come into this world because of the things Eric should leave unsaid.
Shit. Here he comes now. Gotta look busy, gotta look busy. Typity-type-type-type. Shuffle, shuffle. Stare at the screen with my Concerned Look. Wrinkles...appear! Oh, who am I kidding? My attempts are about as futile as a teenage boy trying not to think of sex. Just — don't — make — eye — contact—
"Mikey! Buddy! How ya been? I hear North Korea's nice this time of year; could you recommend any good vacation spots?"
Yeah, there's this great little place on the corner of Shut Up and Get the Hell Outta My Face. "Eric, I'm not in the mood right now. Can we reschedule this Q and A for never?"
Wow. No flashy comeback? Is the man sick? Whoa, whoa, whoa: why is he looking at me like that? With one eyebrow raised, the opposite eye closed, and the line of his lips skewed? You know, if I tilt my head just the right way, he looks like fresh chipmunk road kill.
"You said something to her, didn't you?"
See what I mean? So far into left field, he threw it from the bleachers. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, come on! You know exactly what I'm talking about! You said something to Syd in North Korea, and by the way you're all 'I've got a stick up my ass the size of a Redwood,' I'd guess it was something involving your feelings toward said freakishly awesome agent."
I hate it when he's right. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I'm the best friend of both parties involved; you don't think I can tell when something goes down?"
Skinnery-marinky-dinky-dee, skinner-marinky-doo—
"Let me guess: you finally told her you love her — in the present tense. Man, I know I was the one who convinced you to come back to the Agency, but if it's going to jeopardize your relationship with the cow — and we all know how much I'd hate that — then you better do something about everything, 'cause this cannot go on."
I love you in the evening — heh: cow — under the great big moo — hey!
"You need to figure out how you feel about Sydney and Lauren, then dump the bitch and get with Syd! No more of this 'will they, won't they' crap; this is not Dawson's Creek. Whatever you decide to do, good luck; Hell hath no fury like a woman dumped by Michael Vaughn. Now I'm off to see a man about a horse — if you replace 'man' with 'Marshall' and 'horse' with 'some gadget that will probably end up poking me in the eye.' Later."
Skinnery-marinky-dinky-dee, skinner-marinky-doo...What? Oh good, he's gone. But now I can't get what he said out of my head!
Why — out of the six hundred thousand words in the English language and the thousands more in French, Spanish, and Italian — why did I have to say those? It's just my luck: the one thing I don't leave unsaid comes back to bite me in the ass. There's no pleasing anybody in this situation. No matter what I say (or don't say), someone's going to get hurt; unhappiness will still come into this world. It is better that I — nay, everyone realize that now rather than later.
Whoever said some things are better left unsaid was a fool. For when you miss the opportunity — or wait for the 'right time', letting all the other times — wrong, awkward, too cold, too hot, not enough light — slip away like dead leaves on a crisp autumn breeze to gather in the corner of brick courtyard — for then and only then do you realize that nothing should go unsaid. If it is important enough to be thought, it should be said. If it is important enough to be felt, it should be said. You shouldn't wait for the right time, the right place, the right temperature to mold the idea into words.
More than likely, that time will never come.
And when your window of opportunity, your real window of opportunity closes, you are left with this empty yet heavy feeling that only needs but one name: regret. I have experienced that feeling more times than I'd wish on my worst enemy.
Syd and I have a knack for silent conversations. Sometimes we'd go all morning, even an entire day, without speaking a word to one another. Everything we needed to say was in the position of an eyebrow, the solidity of a gait, the glint of an eye, the geometry of our shoulders. And even though we knew and understood the other's meanings, now I regret not actually saying those words, not being able to swirl them around on my tongue. I regret not being able to savour them as they left my lips, and then again when they hit my ears, and yet a third time when she smiled because of them.
Sometimes I wonder if she feels the same way.
Most of the time, I know she does.
There's something to be said for talking.
"Vaughn, I need—"
"I told you I'd give Dixon the report later—! Oh. Sorry, Syd." Look away now and save yourself a shred dignity, Vaughn...."What's up?" And why do you look like we just got intel stating the KGB gained control of a U.S. nuclear arsenal?
Look away now and save yourself a shred dignity, Vaughn.... And why do you look like we just got intel stating the KGB gained control of a U.S. nuclear arsenal?"We need to talk. Alone. NOW."
Hearing you loud and clear. "Sure. Um, over here." Not the Flirting Corner; not the closet we christened the first week of our relationship; not conference room 2B; not anywhere near Jack's desk...Ah ha! The conference room no one involved with the Bristows likes to talk about: room 47A. We should be relatively safe in here.
"We need to talk."
"I agree."
"About us."
Figured as much. "Yes."
"Vaughn..." Syd, your body says everything your mouth can't; don't voice anything you'll want to take back later. "This isn't working."
I love you. "I know."
"Whatever we have, or-or don't have between us — I can't stand it anymore."
I love you. "I can't either."
"You're a walking, talking contradiction, Vaughn! First you say you don't regret moving on; then you help me leave the country; then you break about a hundred laws to spring me out of federal custody; then you're all over Lauren and even defending her; then you're an absolute jerk for the longest time! You say what you did in North Korea — kiss me — and when we get back home, what do you do? You run straight into Lauren's arms! You either don't know what you want or you're the biggest liar in the world. And I don't think you've changed that much in two years."
I love you. "I know."
"If you didn't mean it, you shouldn't have said it. I could have gone on with my life, peacefully presuming that you had moved on, and maybe — just maybe — I could have managed to do the same. I could have fooled myself into thinking that the feelings I still have for you went unrequited, that all those looks you throw me when you think I'm not looking mean nothing. But now all that is shot to hell, Vaughn. It's out there in the open; you can't take it back. And I can't tolerate not knowing where you stand when it comes to me. It's ripping me apart. I can't stand it anymore. I won't stand it anymore." "I love you."
Oops.
Insert the Most Awkward Silence Ever here.
"What?"
Don't look at me like that, Syd; I know you heard me the first time. "I love you." Those words taste like all of my favourite foods thrown into a blender, frozen, and served over cheesecake. They glide off my tongue so effortlessly and flow into my ears so languidly. They're everything I expected and so much more. Those three words make up the most important phrase in the English language, one that I want to repeat over and over in some bazaar mantra for the entire world to hear.
I've finally said what has gone unsaid for far too long.
Are my feet touching the ground? 'Cause I think I'm floating.
Why are you looking at me like that, Syd?
"No. No, this can't be happening."
Of course it is, Syd! This is what we've been waiting for since the moment we met each other! Now it's your turn: go on, say it. You can do it. "What? What can't be happening?"
Why are you backing away, Syd? Why do you look so scared? Why do you look so sad?
"This! You can't tell me you love me and then leave to go home to your wife! That's not the way this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to say, 'I'm sorry for North Korea; I didn't really mean it. I said it in the heat of the moment — we both thought we were going to die! I wasn't in my right mind. I've gotten past us—'"
"But I really do love you!" Sweet ambrosia of the gods, never stop flowing!
"No! Vaughn, this isn't helping! Don't you get it? It's killing me inside, knowing that...we still feel the same way about each other. I was perfectly happy thinking that you were completely over me—"
I could never be over you!
"—that those feelings were nonexistent. And now — I don't know. I just don't know what to do. I don't want to break up your marriage, no matter how strong my feelings are. I — just — can't — I need to leave. Excuse me."
Wait! Syd! Come back! I love you!
My God. What have I done?
Much unhappiness has come into this world because of things left unsaid.
But just as much has come into this world because of what has been said.
END