Out of the Box
By: Souris
Rated: PG (for impure thoughts and a naughty word or two)
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.
Author's Note: This is a companion piece to "Waiting," this time from Sydney's POV.
Warehouse, City of Industry
Vaughn was already at the warehouse waiting for her when Sydney arrived. He always was there first, she suddenly realized. Of course, it helped that he didn't have to worry about shaking any tails, but still, it was strange. The only time that she could remember getting to a meet before him was when he had had the fight with his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, a little voice in her head felt the need to point out. It really wasn't her business, of course, but she couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction that he wouldn't be having any more fights with Alice.
He had been pacing, but he immediately stopped when he saw her. He smiled, and his entire body seemed to relax. Suddenly, Sydney felt an unexpected urge to fling herself into his arms, to bury her face in his chest and feel his arms tight around her. Somehow, she had the feeling that he would have a wonderful hug, that she might actually feel a little safe in his arms. God knows she didn't feel safe anywhere else anymore. She hadn't felt safe since that nightmarish night when she walked into Danny's apartment and found his lifeless body covered in blood, and her world turned upside-down. She wondered if she'd ever feel safe again.
For some reason, though, she actually felt relaxed during these meetings at the warehouse. Which made no sense, because it was completely counter-intuitive to feel the most relaxed when she was in a position that could compromise her the most. If she missed one tail, was a little too preoccupied one day, one of these meetings could spell her death. And probably his, too.
If she had ever had any illusions about that, they had been effectively shattered. For the past three days, she had felt like a brittle piece of glass, expecting to be smashed into thousands of sharp-edged fragments at any moment. She had been constantly on edge, constantly tensed for flight or fight or some kind of action. She had even expected death. With each administration of pain, each psychological test, each probing question, each silence fraught with meaning and suspicion, each indecipherable look from Sloane or McCollough or some nameless suit, she had been prepared for the ax to fall. Hell, it still could.
And now, here she was in front of the one person in the entire universe whom she didn't have to be on guard against. The one person who knew everything and whose allegiance she didn't have to question.
If I hug him now, she thought, I'll never let go. So she didn't.
* * * * *
"Sydney." She could hear the relief in his voice. "Thank God you're OK. You are OK, right?" He touched her arm softly.
"No visible scars." She was immediately sorry for her flippancy when she saw the pained look flash across his face. "It was awful, but I'm OK."
"Tell me." He led her gently over to a large crate, and they sat down. She idly wondered if there were really things to be shipped in all these boxes, or if they were simply full of old CIA files and evidence and God knows what other detritus that resulted from day-to-day government business. Things never seemed to be moved around.
She looked at her hands, unsure where to start and somehow reluctant to share the details with him. Not because she didn't trust him, never that, but because she knew that he would be upset by them.
"Your father told me a little of what was happening." Her eyes flashed to him in surprise. "I arranged another meeting with him when I couldn't contact you. He really wasn't happy about that."
"I'll bet." She wondered what Jack thought of Vaughn; he had never really said anything about him. Though, in truth, she knew. He would think he was too young, too inexperienced, too soft for this level of danger. Actually, he probably thought the same thing about her.
She sighed. She couldn't sugar-coat things with Vaughn, she realized. He needed to know. Even the seemingly insignificant details could prove valuable in bringing down SD-6.
He must have had the same thought. "You have to be honest with me, Sydney. If we're going to do this, I have to know everything."
She nodded. "I don't know for sure, but I think I'm only still alive because of him. I think he did something, something that convinced Sloane I'm clean. For now, anyway. I don't know what to think. Maybe it's all a trap."
She looked at him and not her hands as she told him about the past three days. Everything.
* * * * *
They'd been here for almost an hour, and she was finally finished with her story. Reliving it hadn't been quite as unpleasant as she had thought; he had shown just the right amount of concern and detachment. It had been good to share it, she realized.
She stood up and shrugged into her jacket. When she glanced back at him, he had pulled a small, red-and-gold-wrapped box from his jacket pocket. For a moment, she thought that it was some sort of CIA gadget disguised as a Christmas present, perhaps a signal jammer to put underneath the tree.
"I got you ... it's...." He wrinkled his forehead, seemingly at a loss for words, before practically blurting out, "Merry Christmas, Sydney."
Ohmigod, it's a gift for me, she thought. She was immediately appalled at herself. Why had she not thought to get him anything? She could call him up in the middle of the evening, drag him out to a meet and figuratively sob on his shoulder, but she couldn't get him a gift? After everything he'd done for her? She felt horrible. "Oh, Vaughn, how sweet! I'm sorry, I didn't get you --"
"'S'okay," he interrupted. "Not a lot of time for shopping when you're being grilled by SD-6."
They both acknowledged the truth of his words with the barest of humorless laughs. "Go ahead, open it," he urged.
Suddenly nervous, she removed the lid. "It's an angel."
"I know, they're kind of cheesy, but I remembered that you called me that once, your guardian angel. And I thought, I wish I could be there for you all the time, even when I'm not there," he said, and she felt a tiny flutter in her stomach that he had remembered. She had been so happy to hear his voice in her ear then, to have him back as her contact. It had been so wrong without him. "Anyway, this seemed more appropriate than 24-hour surveillance, so...."
"It's not cheesy at all," she assured him in what she felt was a gross understatement. In fact, it was one of the loveliest pieces she'd ever seen, delicate and exquisitely made. The golden angel was almost ethereal. There wasn't much light in the warehouse, but it still sparkled. "Vaughn, it's *beautiful*."
She could tell that he was pleased and relieved at her reaction. "Sydney, there is one thing you could give me for Christmas," he said, his voice warm and husky. "No shopping needed."
"What is it?" she asked, prepared to provide just about anything he requested.
"Call me Michael."
The flutter in her stomach was joined by others as she looked into his gray-green eyes. She'd never quite noticed all the different shades in them before. They were ... beautiful. She felt a wide, joyful grin spread across her face. "Michael ... thank you." Impetuously, she added, "Would you put it on for me?"
She handed him the necklace, then turned her back and pulled aside her hair. Just a few minutes ago, she had been off-kilter, unsteady, filled with worries. Now, she felt ... happy. How strange that such a small box could make so much difference. Although, really, she acknowledged, it wasn't so much the box as the man whose presence she felt so close behind her. He fastened the clasp, and as he withdrew his fingers, she felt them brush against the sensitive skin of her neck. Just barely, as light as a feather, but she couldn't contain a small shiver at the contact.
She turned and, without any conscious decision on her part, leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. She would have done the same to any of her friends to thank them for a present. There was nothing remarkable about it -- until her lips met his cheek. Suddenly, the soft contentment that she had felt was gone, replaced by something electric, something that clamored for her attention and would not let her go. She knew she should lean back, but she couldn't move, couldn't really think, could only stay there and breathe in his scent, soap and aftershave and musk and *him*.
Then, in a flash, they had moved apart. How did that happen? she wondered foggily as their eyes locked.
For a moment, she thought that he was going to kiss her. She could read the desire in his eyes. But even more shocking than that realization was her own reaction. I want him to, she thought, so stunned that she could barely breathe. I want him to kiss me.
Things at the edge of her vision seemed to be moving, shifting, though his eyes remained fixed and almost mesmerizing. She needed air. "I should go," she managed. "I'm supposed to meet Francie and Will for dinner."
"You should go,".he replied, his voice sounding somehow far off.
She felt herself nod, but she couldn't break his gaze, even when she reached back for her purse. She backed toward the door, then, finally mustering the strength, she turned and fled outside.
* * * * *
She was almost halfway to the restaurant before she remembered to check for a tail. Dammit, she thought. She took a quick right at the next intersection, then another, then a left, watching carefully to see if any cars were following her. Finally, she decided that she was clear. And then realized that she was shaking. She didn't know if it was from fear or anger at herself or ... something else. She pulled into an empty bank parking lot and shoved the gear into "park," blowing out a loud breath and letting her shoulders sink. She released her death-grip on the steering wheel.
How could she have been so careless? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But she knew. It was because of what had happened at the warehouse. What had almost happened.
What was wrong with her? First, she had kissed Will, which had been foolish enough and she regretted immensely. She knew that he felt something more than friendship for her, and it had been wrong to play with his emotions when she knew that her own feelings were strictly platonic. She should have realized that even in her tequila-induced haze.
There had been no alcohol to blame this evening. Was it her fear and anxiety from the past three days? Had she just needed to connect to someone, someone whom she could trust? Was a simple Christmas kindness from a handsome man enough to turn her into a quivering, hormonal teen-ager?
But, remembering the electricity that had sped across her nerve endings after she had kissed his cheek and again as she looked into his eyes, she didn't think so. There was something more there, something nascent but no less dangerous for its infancy. It was completely inappropriate, but it was there. God help her, it was there.
She caught the flash of her engagement ring, and she felt even worse. How could she even *think* about another man like that? How could she look at another man with desire this soon? How could she ever again?
I just won't, she thought. It's not going to happen again. She took one last deep breath and pulled out of the parking lot.
* * * * *
Franco's Ristorante, Santa Monica
"Syd, where'd you get that necklace? I haven't seen it before. It's beautiful," Francie suddenly asked.
"What? Oh." Sydney realized that she had been unconsciously fiddling with the angel as she looked over the menu. She had thought about taking it off, had meant to, even. But she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. "Somebody at work. Secret Santa."
"Really? It looks expensive." Francie always had a keen eye for jewelry, and she was now staring at it closely. Sydney could see her trying to decide on a price tag. For a moment, she wondered herself -- just how much money *had* Vaughn spent on her? -- but she pushed that shameful curiosity aside.
She resisted the urge to tuck the necklace inside her shirt; that would only seem more suspicious. "No, I'm sure it's not. We had a limit."
"Hmph. Looks like somebody went over. So, is he cute?"
"Who?"
"The guy who gave it to you."
Sydney was getting decidedly uncomfortable, as if she hadn't been already. And now Francie had Will staring at her necklace. For all of his reporter's powers of observations, he was still a guy -- she could've been wearing the Hope Diamond on a chain around her neck and he wouldn't have noticed. At least he wouldn't have if Francie hadn't been so damned observant.
"I don't know, Francie. That's why it's called a *secret* Santa. I don't even know if it *was* a guy." Please don't pursue it, she thought, knowing it was probably hopeless.
"Don't you always find out eventually? With the last present?" Oh, great, now Will was asking questions.
"I guess so. We don't do it that way, though. We just keep it a secret."
"Doesn't that bother you? I'd want to know," Will said. "You should ask around."
"It's *fine*. I don't care." She immediately worried that she had seemed a little ... strident. "I think it's kind of *nice* actually. Very ... holidayish."
"Well, I think whoever it was -- and, Syd, trust me, it *was* a guy -- must really like you," Francie said confidently.
She felt a mixture of pleasure and distress at Francie's words. "Ah, too bad, I guess I'll never know. So, what are you guys going to have? I think I'll have the manicotti. That I *do* know about."
Thankfully, Francie immediately started debating the relative merits of the shrimp alfredo and the eggplant parmigiana. But Will had a curious look in his eyes that she didn't like. At all.
She forced herself not to touch the angel for the rest of the meal. It was far more difficult than she would have thought.
By: Souris
Rated: PG (for impure thoughts and a naughty word or two)
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.
Author's Note: This is a companion piece to "Waiting," this time from Sydney's POV.
Warehouse, City of Industry
Vaughn was already at the warehouse waiting for her when Sydney arrived. He always was there first, she suddenly realized. Of course, it helped that he didn't have to worry about shaking any tails, but still, it was strange. The only time that she could remember getting to a meet before him was when he had had the fight with his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, a little voice in her head felt the need to point out. It really wasn't her business, of course, but she couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction that he wouldn't be having any more fights with Alice.
He had been pacing, but he immediately stopped when he saw her. He smiled, and his entire body seemed to relax. Suddenly, Sydney felt an unexpected urge to fling herself into his arms, to bury her face in his chest and feel his arms tight around her. Somehow, she had the feeling that he would have a wonderful hug, that she might actually feel a little safe in his arms. God knows she didn't feel safe anywhere else anymore. She hadn't felt safe since that nightmarish night when she walked into Danny's apartment and found his lifeless body covered in blood, and her world turned upside-down. She wondered if she'd ever feel safe again.
For some reason, though, she actually felt relaxed during these meetings at the warehouse. Which made no sense, because it was completely counter-intuitive to feel the most relaxed when she was in a position that could compromise her the most. If she missed one tail, was a little too preoccupied one day, one of these meetings could spell her death. And probably his, too.
If she had ever had any illusions about that, they had been effectively shattered. For the past three days, she had felt like a brittle piece of glass, expecting to be smashed into thousands of sharp-edged fragments at any moment. She had been constantly on edge, constantly tensed for flight or fight or some kind of action. She had even expected death. With each administration of pain, each psychological test, each probing question, each silence fraught with meaning and suspicion, each indecipherable look from Sloane or McCollough or some nameless suit, she had been prepared for the ax to fall. Hell, it still could.
And now, here she was in front of the one person in the entire universe whom she didn't have to be on guard against. The one person who knew everything and whose allegiance she didn't have to question.
If I hug him now, she thought, I'll never let go. So she didn't.
* * * * *
"Sydney." She could hear the relief in his voice. "Thank God you're OK. You are OK, right?" He touched her arm softly.
"No visible scars." She was immediately sorry for her flippancy when she saw the pained look flash across his face. "It was awful, but I'm OK."
"Tell me." He led her gently over to a large crate, and they sat down. She idly wondered if there were really things to be shipped in all these boxes, or if they were simply full of old CIA files and evidence and God knows what other detritus that resulted from day-to-day government business. Things never seemed to be moved around.
She looked at her hands, unsure where to start and somehow reluctant to share the details with him. Not because she didn't trust him, never that, but because she knew that he would be upset by them.
"Your father told me a little of what was happening." Her eyes flashed to him in surprise. "I arranged another meeting with him when I couldn't contact you. He really wasn't happy about that."
"I'll bet." She wondered what Jack thought of Vaughn; he had never really said anything about him. Though, in truth, she knew. He would think he was too young, too inexperienced, too soft for this level of danger. Actually, he probably thought the same thing about her.
She sighed. She couldn't sugar-coat things with Vaughn, she realized. He needed to know. Even the seemingly insignificant details could prove valuable in bringing down SD-6.
He must have had the same thought. "You have to be honest with me, Sydney. If we're going to do this, I have to know everything."
She nodded. "I don't know for sure, but I think I'm only still alive because of him. I think he did something, something that convinced Sloane I'm clean. For now, anyway. I don't know what to think. Maybe it's all a trap."
She looked at him and not her hands as she told him about the past three days. Everything.
* * * * *
They'd been here for almost an hour, and she was finally finished with her story. Reliving it hadn't been quite as unpleasant as she had thought; he had shown just the right amount of concern and detachment. It had been good to share it, she realized.
She stood up and shrugged into her jacket. When she glanced back at him, he had pulled a small, red-and-gold-wrapped box from his jacket pocket. For a moment, she thought that it was some sort of CIA gadget disguised as a Christmas present, perhaps a signal jammer to put underneath the tree.
"I got you ... it's...." He wrinkled his forehead, seemingly at a loss for words, before practically blurting out, "Merry Christmas, Sydney."
Ohmigod, it's a gift for me, she thought. She was immediately appalled at herself. Why had she not thought to get him anything? She could call him up in the middle of the evening, drag him out to a meet and figuratively sob on his shoulder, but she couldn't get him a gift? After everything he'd done for her? She felt horrible. "Oh, Vaughn, how sweet! I'm sorry, I didn't get you --"
"'S'okay," he interrupted. "Not a lot of time for shopping when you're being grilled by SD-6."
They both acknowledged the truth of his words with the barest of humorless laughs. "Go ahead, open it," he urged.
Suddenly nervous, she removed the lid. "It's an angel."
"I know, they're kind of cheesy, but I remembered that you called me that once, your guardian angel. And I thought, I wish I could be there for you all the time, even when I'm not there," he said, and she felt a tiny flutter in her stomach that he had remembered. She had been so happy to hear his voice in her ear then, to have him back as her contact. It had been so wrong without him. "Anyway, this seemed more appropriate than 24-hour surveillance, so...."
"It's not cheesy at all," she assured him in what she felt was a gross understatement. In fact, it was one of the loveliest pieces she'd ever seen, delicate and exquisitely made. The golden angel was almost ethereal. There wasn't much light in the warehouse, but it still sparkled. "Vaughn, it's *beautiful*."
She could tell that he was pleased and relieved at her reaction. "Sydney, there is one thing you could give me for Christmas," he said, his voice warm and husky. "No shopping needed."
"What is it?" she asked, prepared to provide just about anything he requested.
"Call me Michael."
The flutter in her stomach was joined by others as she looked into his gray-green eyes. She'd never quite noticed all the different shades in them before. They were ... beautiful. She felt a wide, joyful grin spread across her face. "Michael ... thank you." Impetuously, she added, "Would you put it on for me?"
She handed him the necklace, then turned her back and pulled aside her hair. Just a few minutes ago, she had been off-kilter, unsteady, filled with worries. Now, she felt ... happy. How strange that such a small box could make so much difference. Although, really, she acknowledged, it wasn't so much the box as the man whose presence she felt so close behind her. He fastened the clasp, and as he withdrew his fingers, she felt them brush against the sensitive skin of her neck. Just barely, as light as a feather, but she couldn't contain a small shiver at the contact.
She turned and, without any conscious decision on her part, leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. She would have done the same to any of her friends to thank them for a present. There was nothing remarkable about it -- until her lips met his cheek. Suddenly, the soft contentment that she had felt was gone, replaced by something electric, something that clamored for her attention and would not let her go. She knew she should lean back, but she couldn't move, couldn't really think, could only stay there and breathe in his scent, soap and aftershave and musk and *him*.
Then, in a flash, they had moved apart. How did that happen? she wondered foggily as their eyes locked.
For a moment, she thought that he was going to kiss her. She could read the desire in his eyes. But even more shocking than that realization was her own reaction. I want him to, she thought, so stunned that she could barely breathe. I want him to kiss me.
Things at the edge of her vision seemed to be moving, shifting, though his eyes remained fixed and almost mesmerizing. She needed air. "I should go," she managed. "I'm supposed to meet Francie and Will for dinner."
"You should go,".he replied, his voice sounding somehow far off.
She felt herself nod, but she couldn't break his gaze, even when she reached back for her purse. She backed toward the door, then, finally mustering the strength, she turned and fled outside.
* * * * *
She was almost halfway to the restaurant before she remembered to check for a tail. Dammit, she thought. She took a quick right at the next intersection, then another, then a left, watching carefully to see if any cars were following her. Finally, she decided that she was clear. And then realized that she was shaking. She didn't know if it was from fear or anger at herself or ... something else. She pulled into an empty bank parking lot and shoved the gear into "park," blowing out a loud breath and letting her shoulders sink. She released her death-grip on the steering wheel.
How could she have been so careless? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But she knew. It was because of what had happened at the warehouse. What had almost happened.
What was wrong with her? First, she had kissed Will, which had been foolish enough and she regretted immensely. She knew that he felt something more than friendship for her, and it had been wrong to play with his emotions when she knew that her own feelings were strictly platonic. She should have realized that even in her tequila-induced haze.
There had been no alcohol to blame this evening. Was it her fear and anxiety from the past three days? Had she just needed to connect to someone, someone whom she could trust? Was a simple Christmas kindness from a handsome man enough to turn her into a quivering, hormonal teen-ager?
But, remembering the electricity that had sped across her nerve endings after she had kissed his cheek and again as she looked into his eyes, she didn't think so. There was something more there, something nascent but no less dangerous for its infancy. It was completely inappropriate, but it was there. God help her, it was there.
She caught the flash of her engagement ring, and she felt even worse. How could she even *think* about another man like that? How could she look at another man with desire this soon? How could she ever again?
I just won't, she thought. It's not going to happen again. She took one last deep breath and pulled out of the parking lot.
* * * * *
Franco's Ristorante, Santa Monica
"Syd, where'd you get that necklace? I haven't seen it before. It's beautiful," Francie suddenly asked.
"What? Oh." Sydney realized that she had been unconsciously fiddling with the angel as she looked over the menu. She had thought about taking it off, had meant to, even. But she hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. "Somebody at work. Secret Santa."
"Really? It looks expensive." Francie always had a keen eye for jewelry, and she was now staring at it closely. Sydney could see her trying to decide on a price tag. For a moment, she wondered herself -- just how much money *had* Vaughn spent on her? -- but she pushed that shameful curiosity aside.
She resisted the urge to tuck the necklace inside her shirt; that would only seem more suspicious. "No, I'm sure it's not. We had a limit."
"Hmph. Looks like somebody went over. So, is he cute?"
"Who?"
"The guy who gave it to you."
Sydney was getting decidedly uncomfortable, as if she hadn't been already. And now Francie had Will staring at her necklace. For all of his reporter's powers of observations, he was still a guy -- she could've been wearing the Hope Diamond on a chain around her neck and he wouldn't have noticed. At least he wouldn't have if Francie hadn't been so damned observant.
"I don't know, Francie. That's why it's called a *secret* Santa. I don't even know if it *was* a guy." Please don't pursue it, she thought, knowing it was probably hopeless.
"Don't you always find out eventually? With the last present?" Oh, great, now Will was asking questions.
"I guess so. We don't do it that way, though. We just keep it a secret."
"Doesn't that bother you? I'd want to know," Will said. "You should ask around."
"It's *fine*. I don't care." She immediately worried that she had seemed a little ... strident. "I think it's kind of *nice* actually. Very ... holidayish."
"Well, I think whoever it was -- and, Syd, trust me, it *was* a guy -- must really like you," Francie said confidently.
She felt a mixture of pleasure and distress at Francie's words. "Ah, too bad, I guess I'll never know. So, what are you guys going to have? I think I'll have the manicotti. That I *do* know about."
Thankfully, Francie immediately started debating the relative merits of the shrimp alfredo and the eggplant parmigiana. But Will had a curious look in his eyes that she didn't like. At all.
She forced herself not to touch the angel for the rest of the meal. It was far more difficult than she would have thought.