Title: Bottom of a Bottle
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG-13 for language and themes
Genre: Drunken fluff, or huminahuminahumina wha?
Archived: SD-1, FFN, and my site. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!
Spoilers/Timeline: none; Season 2 after "Phase One" (i.e. S/V is official)
'Shippers' Paradise: Hmm. S/V much?
Summary: Syd, Vaughn, a bottle of tequila, and a drinking game. A Dream Writer Experience.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading! Oh, and I don't own the Alias books, either.
Suggested Soundtrack: "Bottom of a Bottle" by Smile Empty Soul, "The Worst Hangover Ever" by the Offspring, "Good Day" by Luce, "The Jack" and "Back in Black" by AC/DC, "Ice Cream" by Sarah McLachlan, "Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me For Me)" by Blessid Union of Souls, and "I'll Do Anything" by Jason Mraz.
Author's Note: Now that FFN and I have called a formating truce, I've decided to start posting here again. All of my fics are over at SD-1, and I also have a library there, so they're pretty easy to find. This fic is based on an event in one of the Alias books. So, without further blabbing, drink along with our favourite spies...One, two, three, down!
Bottom of a Bottle
"One, two, three, four, down?"
"No! For the last time it's: one, two, three, down. Sheesh."
"Sorry. Okay, I'm ready. One, two, three, down."
"Where the hell did you learn how to do shots?"
"I-I'm not sure how to answer that question."
"Watch me." Syd poured herself another shot of tequila from the bottle on her right. Gripping the glass with her fingertips, she covered the top with her left hand, slammed the drink on the table three times, threw back her head, and downed the entire quantity. She shook her head vigorously and winced, replacing the glass on the table as she reached for the salt and lime wedge. In one fluid movement, the shaker spilled over the wet spot on her wrist and her mouth clamped on it, licking it off before immediately sucking on the lime wedge. She smacked her lips wetly and mimicked her previous movements as she explained, "You have to throw it in the back of you throat so you don't actually taste it. No tongue; just throat."
"Sorry. I'm more of a beer guy. These exotic drinks confuse me." Vaughn grinned in bemusement as he fingered his own engraved shot glass. He sat on the floor in his girlfriend's apartment getting a lesson on the Proper Techniques for Drinking Mass Quantities of Alcohol. They planned this night for days — which, for them was large step — and even went out of their way to buy a bottle of authentic Mexican tequila on their last mission to that country. Both turned their cell phones off, unplugged the land line, and did not tell anyone (especially Weiss) what they held in store for themselves. In other words, hours of blissful, alcohol-laden nothingness lay ahead of them.
"You know," He mused aloud, "when people say they're worried about you, I'd take it to heart. Especially when they give you an A.A. card."
She blushed and ducked her head. "Vaughn..."
"I'm surprised a private boarding school girl knows so much about alcohol," He continued chiding, resting his elbow on his raised knee, "let alone the technique for taking shots."
"You'd be surprised how much you don't know about me." The challenge glowed in her eyes like the first sparks of a hand-made fire. It told him that he had backed himself into a corner with no means of escape. He tried one time: while goofing off at a bowling alley with Will and Francie, he decided to challenge Sydney (one dollar per pin) after her first game of gutter balls. Needless to say, he lost a good chunk of change that night. But now...
He walked right into it again.
She had an agenda from the moment she suggested the event, and he blindly followed along, not suspecting a thing. Leaning back against the couch and sliding farther down on the floor, he sighed and asked resignedly, "What do you have in mind?"
Her entire face lit up like Las Vegas at night, eyes bursting into a well-kindled flame. "I was thinking—" She began but stopped suddenly. She bit her lip and smiled shyly at him, gathering her wits and body onto her knees. He chuckled to himself; she was definitely starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, and they barely just began. Smiling back at her, he raised his eyebrows expectantly. Fidgeting slightly she continued, "What I was thinking was that we could play the drinking game!"
Her exclamation seemed a little anticlimactic. "Uh, Syd," He pointed out slowly, "there's more that one drinking game. You're going to have to be more specific."
She snapped and pointed at him, pinching her face to a point. "You're right. How 'bout this: after every shot, we take turns telling really embarrassing stories, and pretty soon we'll be too drunk to remember them in the morning."
Vaughn almost acquiesced but then — "Hey! That's not a game!" He protested. "There's no chance to win or lose; you just kinda play."
"Well, I thought you'd like that best, seeing as you recently lost the last game of hockey you played against Eric." He opened his mouth, overly incensed, but she raised her hand to his indignance like a schoolmarm to an unruly child. "Say nothing, and I'll do the same. Just pour me another shot, and we'll get started."
He refused to move, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at her with a mixture of stubbornness and impatience. "Not until you make it a real game. Otherwise I'm packing up the tequila and shot glasses and I'm taking the party to Weiss's. He'll be more than happy to see me."
"No, not the alcohol!" She cried mockingly, covering her mouth with a hand. "And when he teases you 'til you 'til you rock back and forth, don't complain to me. At least here you receive retribution for doing stupid things. I doubt you'll get such consideration from Eric Weiss."
Frowning in consternation, his arms fell to the floor and he sighed in resignation. Again he succumbed to the spell that was uniquely Sydney Bristow — although he attributed her seductive charm more to logic than actual Bristow-brand witchcraft. Anyways, he secretly clamored to acquire any knowledge of her life Before — Before SD-6, double agency, Before him — even if it meant embarrassing himself in the process. He would gladly expose his deepest, darkest secret if it even hinted at the chance to peek into her metaphorical closet. Somehow he guessed she harboured more clothes than skeletons in that closet, and he probably experienced more in one college Spring Break than she had in her schooling career, but...One could never be too cautious, he told himself. He was Mr. Boy Scout. He would not be fully prepared unless he completed an extensive, drunken background check. Who knew what kind of armament he might need in the future?
'Plus,' He thought, 'she's cute.'
"Fine. Whatever," Vaughn conceded, feigning reluctance. "Just as long as you go first, Bristow."
"Done deal." Growing impatient with his sloth-like speed, she poured the liquor and verified the lime wedges and salt shakers stood within reach. "But you're going first."
He almost nodded before frowning at her severely. "Hey! How does that work?" He demanded indignantly.
Syd rolled her eyes and gripped her glass with her fingertips. "Don't worry about it; just go." With a sigh from him, they both downed their shots and necessary follow-ups. Smacking her lips loudly, she straightened in her seat as her hands floated to the coffee table. "So...Let's get the stupid, boring questions out of the way first."
"Why don't we?" He muttered under his breath, the alcohol burning the back of his throat.
Ignoring him completely she asked, "First kiss and first time. Go!"
He groaned loudly and rolled his head melodramatically. "Not again! Syd, how many times have we talked about this?"
"A lot, but we were never drunk."
"Are we that drunk now?"
"Not yet. No. I don't know." She sighed in exasperation and poured another shot. "How's this: I'll answer if you answer."
Hesitating, he thought it over. He tried instigating this conversation many times before, but she always refused to listen (let alone reciprocate), citing that "these things don't matter to me in our relationship." He knew they did, and that her own embarrassment dissuaded her from sharing, so he did not prod. But now...Aw hell, who cared? They were drunk Things sounded more comical when they drank too much.
"Fine." He sighed as well, running a hand through his hair. "First kiss: Patti Daniels in the sixth grade. She was dared by my best friend 'cause she sat next to me in math class. First time...God, Syd, do you really want to go through this now?" She threw him an exasperated look out the corner of her eye as she tried to tidy the table unsuccessfully. He sighed again before continuing. "Beth Wolcombs after my senior prom. A group of my friends rented a beach house up near Sacramento for the weekend, and we snuck off and...you know..."
"Beth Wolcombs?" She said incredulously. "Senior prom? How original is that?" Sarcasm dripped from her tongue to their liquor like lime juice.
"Oh like you have something better."
She cocked an eyebrow, and he immediately flinched at the second open challenge invitation of the night. But instead of flipping her hair over her shoulder cockily, she bit her lip and began to rim the edge of the shot glass with her index finger. "First kiss was Tyler Angelo in the first grade. Under the slide during recess."
"First grade? I don't think that counts."
"Oh but there was tongue. Tongue constitutes a kiss."
"He could have been licking chocolate on your lip. You are quite messy."
"Whatever. You're just jealous that you weren't kissed that early."
He rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that night. "When was the next time? College?" Her silence answered everything. "Right. Now answer the second part of your question."
"Noah," She answered matter-of-factly, still rimming her shot glass.
Vaughn visibly flinched, first at the name then at the action associated with it. That ugly, old, evil, ugly man?! Ugh! How could she—? Why did she—? "When did you—?"
"Sophomore year of college. I met him at SD-6 right after I was recruited; he was my partner on my first mission ever. We ran hot and cold for a year before..." She trailed off, glancing up at his face under her eyebrows.
He was glaring at a smudge on the coffee, wishing his gaze were fire and the spot were Noah doused in gasoline. Him? Him? HIM? Vaughn knew Sydney Bristow had her wild streak, but — He thought sweet, wholesome, pre-Betrayal Olympics Sydney would have fallen for someone...else. Someone, maybe, with a conscience? Without over five years of training in Black Ops? Closer to her age?
"This is exactly why I never wanted to answer before," Syd interrupted his thoughts, laying her hand over his dangerously shaking one. His eyes shot to hers, and she attempted to mask her smile, but a laugh escaped instead. Vaughn harrumphed and slid his hand out from under hers, not caring that it fell to his inner thigh. This only caused her to laugh harder, throwing her into an alcohol-enhanced giggling fit. Between spurts she managed to squeak, "Jealous much?" She sobered slightly when he did not show the slightest sign of cracking. Playing with her salt shaker, she maintained eye contact and verified, "Vaughn, that was years ago. The man's dead now, as he damn well should be. We were on a simple grab-and-run that got a little too not simple for comfort. Blah, blah, blah, adrenaline, blah, blah, blah. I'll spare you the details, as you look about ready to kill my coffee table." She warmed her grin and caressed his cheek. "All right. How 'bout we try again. This time you can ask me and you don't have to answer at all. Sound good?"
Nodding, he prepared to take his shot as his frown slowly dissipated. She was probably only nineteen at the time; hardly old enough to be fully responsible for such actions, especially considering Noah's seniority. Yes, that was it; Noah just played an innocent teenager; Syd did not know what she was doing. 'Who are you kidding, man?' A voice called from the back of his head, one that suspiciously sounded like Weiss the last time they got drunk together. 'She's no little girl; you know that for yourself. Even though she hasn't been around the block as many times as you have, she's no virginal sacrifice. And even though she's had sex with Noah at least twice — no, nonononono, don't think about that — she has sex with you now. And it's good, right? So you should probably be thanking the guy. Now shut me up and ask a damn question.' Along the same vein he demanded, "First crush."
This time she rolled her eyes. "How middle school are you?" She asked rhetorically. He shrugged as if to say he only followed her lead. Smiling internally, he wondered if she rued her decision to play the game now. But instead of capping the bottle and shooing him into the bedroom, she straightened up and bit her lip shyly, allowing a coy smile to spread her mouth. "I was in high school. It was my freshman year, and he was a senior from our brother school — you know, the one they let us have dances with and stuff? Okay, so he went to Marmion Boys' Military Academy—"
"A soldier boy? Syd, really. Even then you had a yen for guys in fatigues."
"—Shut up," She continued without missing a beat. "His name was Josh Hann and he was always the lead in every play they performed. God, was he a great Cesar." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction. Immediately, he had scowled at her reflective reverence, but upon noticing his girlfriend's gaze, he brightened obviously, but not before she had herself a small, triumphant grin. Vaughn looked away, frustrated that she caught his jealousy twice in a row, and poured another bout of tequila into their glasses.
"All right," He tried, shifting their conversation. "First fight. Ready? One, two, three, down." The alcohol no longer burned his throat like poison; instead it felt light and cool like a breeze of fresh mountain air playing down his esophagus. The salt and lime wedge were merely an afterthought. He watched her suckle from her wedge a little longer than normal, pondering his query. Eyes transfixed on her luscious lips and mouth-shaped lime, he imagined something else her lips could be doing, and nearly groaned aloud when the wedge fell and her tongue darted out to lick excess juice.
Syd grinned again, and he nearly kicked himself. She played him again! How could he let this happen? Crumpling her arm on a cushion, she laid her head upon it, peering up at him matter-of-factly. "I don't know how many times I've told you this: I'm boring! I was a good girl up through college! No drinking — ergo no drunken brawls — no smoking — ergo no stoned Sydney stories — and no sex — ergo nothing else for you to be jealous of." She paused, blinking languidly. "That said, I think my first fight was right after my mother died. I would sit on the same swing on the playground every day at recess, and one day some kid decided to take my swing. I moved to another — 'cause I was totally afraid of confrontation — but he followed and began taunting me, so I punched him. Broke his nose, apparently. I don't remember the story, but my nanny liked to remind me from time to time."
He lifted an eyebrow playfully at the thought of a six-year-old Sydney punching out some bully with strength alluding to her natural prowess. She merely shrugged and leaned back against the sofa. "So...What about you? How was your first fight?"
Imitating his girlfriend, he shrugged and folded his hands on the tabletop. "It kinda follows along the same lines as yours—"
"Whatever. You just probably can't think of anything better."
A Look. "Plagiarizing is best left to failing high school students. Anyways, right after my father died, I was pretty much fed up with the world, the way it worked, the people. Almost everything. So when my friends decided to pick on their usual target — Sylvie Malbrunot — I basically popped. I gave two black eyes and a broken nose, and I received a concussion. When Maman picked me up from school, she pretended to be angry, but when we got into the car she broke down. She-she said my father would've been proud of me." He never told that story to anyone (especially Weiss); a combination of alcohol and trust in Sydney allowed such a personal anecdote to slip from his lips.
Shoulders rounding, her eyes began to mist over, emotions heavily influenced by her consumption of tequila. She picked at her nails shamefully, avoiding his eyes by boring holes in the carpet beneath them. "I'm sure he would have. I know how much you miss him," She choked out, lump in her throat obvious. "I'm so sorry."
Another familiar occurrence: Sydney apologizing for something she had no control over. Vaughn scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, letting her head fall into the crook of his neck. "Syd, you have nothing to be sorry for," He whispered into her ear. Pausing for a short time, he allowed those words to say everything, to bandage the short tear in her heart that reopened every time someone mentioned her mother. "Besides," He quipped, trying to regain the playful mood of before, "you're supposed to be a happy drunk, and I'm not seeing any dimples."
That coaxed the elusive features from hiding, and she sat up again and reached for the half full bottle of tequila. "What next, Mister Vaughn? It's my turn to ask the question."
"How do you know? This game has no rules; maybe we're supposed to run around the room three times. Hell, how do you know we're not supposed to pass 'go' and collect two hundred dollars?"
"La de da de da! I can't hear you!" She made to plug her ears but stopped before her hands got too far; she had forgotten they had previous obligations. Staring at the twin plates of lime wedges she frowned in thought. "You know we're going to run out of those, don't you? I'll go cut some more."
"No you won't," He contradicted, firmly gripping her upper arm. "You're too drunk to do anything but ask and answer questions. Now go!"
Sydney relaxed again and crumpled her face in thought. "What was the question? Oh yeah! It's my turn to ask you!" A bubbly, uncharacteristic laugh spewed from her throat, and he offered a small, singular chuckle at her airheadedness. "Since we're on the subject—" A smile "—how was the first time you got drunk? And I mean knee-slapping, chest-pounding, suck-on-a-monkey drunk."
Ignoring her colourful adjectives, he fought the numbing effects of the alcohol and transported his memory back almost twenty years. "Okay. Okay, I got it. I was a junior in high school. We — the hockey team — just won Conference and were going to State, so this girl decided to have a party. Total excuse to have a bunch of hot guys and booze in the same room. Seriously. So I get there, and she doesn't stop staring at me the entire night. It was slightly disturbing but, hey, she was hot, I was sixteen, and that's not a good combination."
Sydney truly looked interested, but he could feel contempt in her gaze as well. "So did you two hook up? 'Cause that's not a very fun story."
"No," He replied, expertly hiding a smile, "but I'm getting to that." He allowed it to appear ever so slowly before reigning it back in. "Okay. So I've had liquor before — I am from France — and I've been drunk too — I was a teenager who visited France a lot — but never like this. The girl kept giving me glass after glass of what I thought was pineapple punch, but was actually—" He shook his full shot glass, almost spilling liquid everywhere "—tequila."
Her eyes lit up in recognition. "Totally know how you feel. That happened to me at a Frat party."
A Look. "And I thought you said you were boring."
"Oh, I am," She countered matter-of-factly her eyes wide and innocent. "That was the most interesting thing that happened my freshman year — you know, besides everything with SD-6."
"Whatever," He answered cautiously, only half-believing her. "Anyways. So she gets me real drunk — kinda like you're doing now — and takes me up to her room. Like teenagers, we make out for half an hour before I finally pass out. The next thing I know, I wake up naked and strapped to the hood of my car, which, because I was a guest of honour, is parked in her driveway."
"Now that's a great story," Syd commented after a pause. "I would have paid to see Sixteen-Year-Old Vaughn naked and strapped to a car."
"Pedophile."
"Does Weiss know about this? 'Cause we could come up with some kick-ass birthday or April Fool's surprises."
"Oh, God, no..."
"Man, that girl must've had some fun with you. Poor little Vaughn, all out in the open for everyone to see. I wonder if you were er—"
"Moving on," He interrupted hastily. "Next question." They took their shots, and before she could reprise her teasing, he asked the question. "First love."
They locked gazes for a moment before she rolled her eyes. "You're just fishing for a compliment." A warm flower bloomed in his chest and spread outwards as he fought to keep a triumphant smile from his face. But then a doubt crept into his brain slowly, fighting with the alcohol-induced numbness to gather coherent words and phrases.
Reading his mind, her more apt consciousness beat him to the punch. "Of course I loved Danny. Why would I marry someone I didn't love? But that was different; this...This is amazing." The mere twinkle in her eye outshone the light from the kitchen. Normally, they never talked this candidly about their feelings; metaphors, symbolism, and aphorisms spanned their repertoire. But that fabulous tequila worked wonders on their rigid vocabulary. He mirrored her bashful grin. "This is like nothing I've ever felt before. I've never been so happy." She paused a moment, the smile fading reluctantly as she attempted to be serious. "Have you ever felt that someone was your soul mate?"
Another flower practically burst in his chest as his sluggish mind comprehended her statement. But true to form, he did not answer; instead, he let his hand wander towards the top of her left thigh and stroked it gently, feeling her jump under his touch. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Surely you must have loved something else. You know, when you were little? Something you wouldn't let go for even ice cream?"
Her eyes looked far away. "There was...There was..." She stammered, words thick and slightly slurred. "Before my first edition Alice in Wonderland, I had a second edition Winnie the Pooh. It was my father's favourite book, and he'd read it to me every night before I went to bed — even if he was out of town. I'd carry that book with me everywhere, even though I couldn't read it. It reminded me so much of him, and I loved it as I loved him. Then I left it one day in Mom's classroom, and when she went back to get it, it was gone. That's when she gave me Alice. The end."
"That's a great story; you should tell it at parties," He remarked slyly, nodding his head. They reached for the tequila bottle at the same time and both of them missed, barely avoiding the salt shakers. She giggled haltingly as he tried again — this time successfully — and poured another shot. Shaking the bottle heavily he stated, "Only a few more left in her. Too bad we didn't buy another."
"Who says vodka won't do?" She asked rhetorically, nodding towards the dusty liquor cabinet stocked with more wine than anything else. "Or gin? I think we might even have some whiskey left from the last time Francie was sick. Don't—Don't ask."
"Aren't you drunk enough?" Vaughn chuckled, gripping his glass again, hoping against hope it would not slip from his grasp when he lifted it.
"Nowhere near. I can still see relatively straight." She swirled the amber liquid and stared at it with a small smile.
Vaughn peered at her thoughtfully, assessing her state of mind as he questioned his own. "You took a pill." A statement, not a query.
"No!" She answered too quickly. The blush rose almost instantaneously, and she confessed, "Just one. I swear. I wanted us to get through the whole bottle and not pass out and die from alcohol poisoning."
"So you slipped one into my drink, too?" He accused. She nodded, not fazed in the slightest. A grin lilted his lips as he shook his head in disbelief. "And I suppose you think the Russians developed this alcohol-blocking drug just so you and I could have sex after drinking an entire bottle of authentic, strong Mexican tequila?"
"Damn straight."
"Well, as long as we've got that one covered," Vaughn said, raising his glass, "cheers." The liquor slid down his throat thickly, and he now understood why he was not seeing triple of every object in the room. She smacked her lips as she thought of a new conversation, but he beat her to the punch. "Guiltiest pleasure."
"What?" She groaned, relaxing her posture and leaning into his side. "It's my turn to ask!"
"Oh, get over it already. We broke whatever rules there were a long time ago. Guiltiest pleasure. Go."
Crossing her arms over her chest huffily, she peered out across the room as he draped his arm instinctively around her shoulders. "Boy bands," She muttered reluctantly. "I hide their CDs and buy those stupid teenybopper magazines for stories on them."
"Me too! Crazy world, ain't it?" That earned him a light slap on the back of his head, but he took it grinning. Rubbing the outside of her elbow — making note of her dry skin at the joint so he could find the lotion and have an excuse to give her a massage later — he chuckled once. "Fine. My guiltiest pleasure...Hmm...Can't tell you about my Internet girlfriend, 'cause that'd get me in trouble." Another slap. "You already know about the impressions." A harder slap, as she knew how horribly he impersonated anyone and anything. "All right. My guiltiest pleasure is hcnrhpofmpt."
She sat up and faced him, entwining their legs under the coffee table. "Excuse me? I didn't quite hear you."
Rolling his eyes and sighing he repeated, "I said Harry Potter. You know? Those books? The ones I said I bought for Weiss?"
Her eyelids exploded apart in recognition and she offered a short laugh as she slapped him again, leaning back into his side. "You're kidding! That's so cute!"
"You can't tell me that you haven't read them."
"Of course I have," She assured, "but I have a master's in Literature; it's kind of a requirement that I read popular books. In my opinion, though, they're okay, but Tolkein's Lord of the Rings series is amazing. It's epic. He created a world, several languages, races—"
"Are you sure you only had one of those pills?" He interrupted, veering her back on course.
She blinked up at him and nodded shortly. "Yeah, 'cause all sixteen of your lips look really inviting." Syd pressed her own lips against his cheek and, lifting her hand to cup the other side of his face, moved them closer to the corner of his mouth. He responded in kind, pulling her fully into his lap and locking his arms about her waist. Their mouths finally collided, and the kiss was slow and languid, penetrating, filled with sensuous tasting. He pulled at her bottom lip while she tugged at his upper, their tongues miraculously still in contact. Their bodies pressed flush up against one another, their mutual arousal evident, and his hands wandered down to mold the globes of her backside.
But when her hands snaked between them to dance at the buckle of his belt, he pulled away reluctantly. For a moment, their chests heaved in unison and they shared breath as their foreheads rested together. Vaughn's hands continued their dance on her rear even as he quipped, "I thought you wanted to finish the bottle."
"Damn it," Syd breathed, licking her lips and his at the same time. "And I suppose you're not going to let this rule fall to the wayside?"
"Not a chance." He shifted her back to the floor and took up the bottle. "There's still enough for two more shots, here. Whaddya say? You ask this one and I'll ask the next?"
"Then sex?"
"Then sex."
"Okay. Pour. One, two, three, down." The lime juice could not cover the taste she left in his mouth, and he began to rue his decision as she remained sitting with her eyes closed, relishing the alcohol. And concocting a question. "If your apartment caught on fire and you could only save three things, what would they be? Discounting Donovan; for argument's sake, let's say he's at Weiss's."
Without hesitation he answered, "You, pictures of you...Can I stop at two?"
Smiling coyly she replied, "You're sweet, dear, but three is the number. What else would you save?"
He pondered for a moment, pouring over all the crap in his apartment he would throw into the fire rather than out the window. Mentally, he sorted through the hubris and alighted upon a few items shoved in a box at the back of his closet. "Something for posterity, definitely," He mused, more to himself than her. "Maybe my lucky Kings jersey. Or my Gordy Howe helmet. Or my first pair of skates. Or—"
"Okay! That's more than three."
"Or my favorite stick—"
"Got it! Thank you! I'd be the last thing you'd think of when your apartment is burning down. No, don't mind me. That's okay. When my apartment burns, I'll save my books first." She stuck out her tongue, and he caught it between his teeth. Their eyes locked from inches away as he idly played with the tip of her tongue and she groaned, making to sit on his lap again.
But Vaughn simultaneously released her and pushed her away, grinning triumphantly as she huffed and sat back against the couch. He shook his head and taunted, "Nuh-uh-uh. Not so fast dear. We've still got one more shot left."
"Then nookie?" She practically pleaded, sounding so pathetic that he almost gave in on the spot.
Smiling he replied, "Now there's the drunk Sydney I know and love. Yes, then we can 'nookie'. But for now—" He emptied the bottle into their two glasses "—one, two, three, down." As the last of the burning liquid seared his already-raw throat, the question appeared in his brain like a ray of sunshine through a fluttering curtain. "All right," He started, clearing a space on the table with the slow sweep of his arm. "How 'bout your worst cover ever."
She began giggling uncontrollably. "Are you kidding me? Every cover was my worst cover!"
"Oh come on. There had to be one that was worse than the rest."
"Well," She stalled, climbing into his lap despite his protestations, "I always hated coveralls. Yeah, all those outfits fit for a hooker are uncomfortable, but at least I look like a woman. In those things...Hell, I could be three men and no one would know."
"God, do I know what you're talking about!"
"Coveralls make you feel like less of a woman?"
"Shut up. You know what I mean. Continue."
"There was a really bad one. Maybe it wasn't so bad, but because it was my first time with coveralls, it seems so much worse." Her eyes grew distant as her fingers toyed with the hairs on the nape of his neck, pulling him to her ever so slightly. "It was my first year with SD-6, so they were still sending me on small jobs against small groups — La Rappresaglia, for this one. I was in New York — I still can't believe they sent me somewhere inside the U.S. — looking for Dominic something-or-other; it's been a while and I'm drunk."
His interest piqued, he began to listen more closely. Her tale reminded him of something, some memory lodged deep within his numb brain. Shaking off the senses of eerie, unexplained recognition, he returned his attention to her.
"So I'm in this ugly brown jumpsuit with a hat and glasses. We were supposed to be doing a weapons exchange, so I'm guarding millions of fake dollars while trying not to look suspicious. It's freezing in New York — at least that's what they told me — so I wear extra layers underneath. Guess what: they're wrong. So I'm on a mission, ugly, and sweating."
"I know exactly what you mean," He contributed, his mouth moving while his brain still calculated sluggishly. "They just made me an agent and they sent me to baby-sit some Italian president's brat. Cute, all right, but a complete bitch. You know, the girl in high school that everyone hates but secretly wants to be? Well, I also had to track some guy — Dominic Whatever — and the CIA heard he had a deal nearby. So they decided to dress me up like a homeless person — five layers of clothing, a hat, heavy boots, stank, and all. I swear to God, I thought they were dressing me up as a hobbit at first."
She laughed blithely and began discreetly moving her hips against his. "You can't have looked any worse than the guy I saw on that mission. Man, he looked like he hadn't had a shower in weeks! Smelly and scruffy and really, really overdressed." Pausing, her fingers slowly popped the buttons on his navy blue Oxford, and she smiled slyly, peering through half-lidded eyes at her boyfriend. "Kinda like you are right now."
Without another word, she tugged him to his feet and led him towards her bedroom.
At three forty-seven AM, Vaughn wakes with a start. In his dream, he relived the night of his worst cover ever. He vividly remembers watching a woman in a brown jumpsuit and glasses with silky brown hair, full lips, and high cheek bones. He remembers her force, her professional moves, her demanding tone. He remembers his heart flip-flopping like crazy.
Vaughn sits up straight in realization, sheets pooling around his bare waist.
"Sydney! That woman in the jumpsuit was Syd! And I was the homeless man!"
She rolls over upon hearing her name, stretching out an arm across his lap. "What? What did you say, honey?"
His head pounds with a combination of the alcohol and his discovery, and he closes his eyes against the throbbing. It subsides marginally, and he bites his lip in thought. Should he tell her? Nah, he would do it in the morning. For the moment..."Nothing, Syd. Just a dream. Go back to sleep."
"Mm-hmm," She sighs sleepily, molding to his side as he lays back down, his arms instinctively pulling her even closer. Her breathing evens out, and he continues to stare off into space recounting his memories of that day — their first true sight of each other so many years ago.
'Great,' He thinks, remembering another nuance of that baby-sitting mission, 'now I'll have to take her to Trattoria di Nardi, too.'
END
If you actually read the book, then you get extra brownie points for sticking through all that simplistic writing. The only reason I even bother is for research and ideas for fan-fics...such as this!
Now, if someone can tell me which of my other fan-fics I alluded to in this piece, I'll reward your awesomeness.
Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read! Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is lovely, as always.
:D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life