SPOILERS: General season two.
DISCLAIMER: These guys belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.
DISTRIBUTION: This bad boy lives here:
SUMMARY: Companion to Emily Meredith's lovely "Materinstva." He had hoped, though, that she'd tell him when she decided to leave. He'd hoped she'd offer him the choice to go with her.
BIG UPS: To Em, for writing such a compelling piece and for encouraging the madness, and to Lu, for the Haikus of Inventive Stalking.
This one's for Cy. I'll miss you.
La Paternité
Macha
As the days dragged on, he settled back into his pre-Sydney life with relative ease. Sure, he was devastated and furious over her disappearance, and more than a little worried that the anonymous email to Weiss -- "Tell him I love him" -- was sent not by Syd, but by someone who'd captured or killed her and wanted the CIA to believe she was fine.
Most of the time, though, he believed that she'd left of her own accord. Jack claimed that he believed it, probably because he needed to believe that his daughter was no longer in danger. For his part, Vaughn had never quite believed someone as alive and passionate as Sydney Bristow could be happy with him for the long run. He had hoped, though, that she'd tell him when she decided to leave. He'd hoped she'd offer him the choice to go with her.
Instead, she'd disappeared in an airport in Montréal on her way back from a mission. Surveillance cameras caught her getting off the plane, walking through the airport, getting into a cab. And then she just... disappeared.
After two months of searching plane ticket records and train platform surveillance tape and car rental receipts, the one-sentence email arrived. And Vaughn had accepted that she wasn't coming back and he had moved on. Sort of.
Mostly, he concentrated on his job. Sonia was a sweet woman, in her late 30s and quite attractive. She was a walk-in from the SVR, a double agent now, with missions as dangerous as Syd's had been, and so Vaughn did his job and kept Sonia safe and wondered rather listlessly when she, too, would disappear.
He went home to an empty apartment and an endlessly cheerful dog instead of spending his evenings and nights with Sydney. Weiss did his best to keep Vaughn's spirits up, dragging him to bars and concerts, plying him with alcohol, but nothing ever quite worked. Vaughn didn't laugh much anymore. He supposed he was suppressing his feelings, because if he felt the happiness, he'd have to feel the rage and despair.
He couldn't do his job if he was overly emotional, a lesson he should've learned long ago from Jack Bristow.
***
He had a year to himself, a year to adjust, to accept that Sydney had left him of her own volition, to reconcile himself to a life without her before that sweltering day in July.
That day, Weiss approached him hesitantly, an unreadable look on his face and a fax in his hand.
That day, Vaughn stood from his desk, held his breath as he waited for Weiss to tell him that Sydney was dead, that they'd found her body--bleached bones in a remote part of the Mojave or in the trunk of a car or a hundred other nightmarish scenarios he'd imagined.
That day, Jack appeared out of nowhere, as upset as Vaughn had ever seen him, barking orders, arranging transportation, venting frustration.
That day, Weiss told Vaughn the story of a missing woman, Sarah Lewis. Weiss told Vaughn about her apartment, about the bullet lodged in the wall, about a normal life turned upside down by uninvited violence.
That day, Jack clutched a picture of Sarah Lewis with white-knuckled intensity, showing it to Vaughn with a grim expression on his face. Vaughn sucked in a breath and sat back down, feasting on the sight of her after so long, unhurt.
That day, Weiss swallowed hard and said, "There's more."
That day, Vaughn sat beside Jack on a plane, fidgeting the entire flight.
That day, Vaughn saw a picture of his daughter for the first time.
***
He stood in the nursery, immobile in his CIA suit and his trench coat, hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze traced the delicate lines of the crib, the sturdy yet comfortable rockingchair, the open bag of diapers on the changing table, the framed snapshot of Sydney and the baby sitting on the shelf. He reminded himself to breathe. In his hand was a picture of her.
Of Jane Akiva Lewis. His daughter.
God.
Vaughn's attention was drawn to the bullet hole, to the bloodstains on the plush carpet, to the shattered bookcase. He closed his eyes and sent up a prayer that Sydney and Jane had escaped safely.
And then he turned around and walked out of Sarah Lewis's house.
END
Feedback is welcome at Macha@healthyinterest.net
The Sticky Wicket:
Healthy Interest:
DISCLAIMER: These guys belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.
DISTRIBUTION: This bad boy lives here:
SUMMARY: Companion to Emily Meredith's lovely "Materinstva." He had hoped, though, that she'd tell him when she decided to leave. He'd hoped she'd offer him the choice to go with her.
BIG UPS: To Em, for writing such a compelling piece and for encouraging the madness, and to Lu, for the Haikus of Inventive Stalking.
This one's for Cy. I'll miss you.
La Paternité
Macha
As the days dragged on, he settled back into his pre-Sydney life with relative ease. Sure, he was devastated and furious over her disappearance, and more than a little worried that the anonymous email to Weiss -- "Tell him I love him" -- was sent not by Syd, but by someone who'd captured or killed her and wanted the CIA to believe she was fine.
Most of the time, though, he believed that she'd left of her own accord. Jack claimed that he believed it, probably because he needed to believe that his daughter was no longer in danger. For his part, Vaughn had never quite believed someone as alive and passionate as Sydney Bristow could be happy with him for the long run. He had hoped, though, that she'd tell him when she decided to leave. He'd hoped she'd offer him the choice to go with her.
Instead, she'd disappeared in an airport in Montréal on her way back from a mission. Surveillance cameras caught her getting off the plane, walking through the airport, getting into a cab. And then she just... disappeared.
After two months of searching plane ticket records and train platform surveillance tape and car rental receipts, the one-sentence email arrived. And Vaughn had accepted that she wasn't coming back and he had moved on. Sort of.
Mostly, he concentrated on his job. Sonia was a sweet woman, in her late 30s and quite attractive. She was a walk-in from the SVR, a double agent now, with missions as dangerous as Syd's had been, and so Vaughn did his job and kept Sonia safe and wondered rather listlessly when she, too, would disappear.
He went home to an empty apartment and an endlessly cheerful dog instead of spending his evenings and nights with Sydney. Weiss did his best to keep Vaughn's spirits up, dragging him to bars and concerts, plying him with alcohol, but nothing ever quite worked. Vaughn didn't laugh much anymore. He supposed he was suppressing his feelings, because if he felt the happiness, he'd have to feel the rage and despair.
He couldn't do his job if he was overly emotional, a lesson he should've learned long ago from Jack Bristow.
***
He had a year to himself, a year to adjust, to accept that Sydney had left him of her own volition, to reconcile himself to a life without her before that sweltering day in July.
That day, Weiss approached him hesitantly, an unreadable look on his face and a fax in his hand.
That day, Vaughn stood from his desk, held his breath as he waited for Weiss to tell him that Sydney was dead, that they'd found her body--bleached bones in a remote part of the Mojave or in the trunk of a car or a hundred other nightmarish scenarios he'd imagined.
That day, Jack appeared out of nowhere, as upset as Vaughn had ever seen him, barking orders, arranging transportation, venting frustration.
That day, Weiss told Vaughn the story of a missing woman, Sarah Lewis. Weiss told Vaughn about her apartment, about the bullet lodged in the wall, about a normal life turned upside down by uninvited violence.
That day, Jack clutched a picture of Sarah Lewis with white-knuckled intensity, showing it to Vaughn with a grim expression on his face. Vaughn sucked in a breath and sat back down, feasting on the sight of her after so long, unhurt.
That day, Weiss swallowed hard and said, "There's more."
That day, Vaughn sat beside Jack on a plane, fidgeting the entire flight.
That day, Vaughn saw a picture of his daughter for the first time.
***
He stood in the nursery, immobile in his CIA suit and his trench coat, hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze traced the delicate lines of the crib, the sturdy yet comfortable rockingchair, the open bag of diapers on the changing table, the framed snapshot of Sydney and the baby sitting on the shelf. He reminded himself to breathe. In his hand was a picture of her.
Of Jane Akiva Lewis. His daughter.
God.
Vaughn's attention was drawn to the bullet hole, to the bloodstains on the plush carpet, to the shattered bookcase. He closed his eyes and sent up a prayer that Sydney and Jane had escaped safely.
And then he turned around and walked out of Sarah Lewis's house.
END
Feedback is welcome at Macha@healthyinterest.net
The Sticky Wicket:
Healthy Interest: