- Title: Waiting on Time
- Author: A. Jinnie McManus
- Rating: PG
- Spoilers/Timeline: Vague S3 spoilers.
- Summary: He's gone. You lost. Or have you? S/V, Sydney POV, Christmas.
- Disclaimer: Not mine. Some quotes are directly from various episodes. No infringement is intended.
- 'Ship: S/V.
- Archiving: Ask first.
Author's Note: Best wishes for a joyous holiday season!
You were happy once.
The events blur together; a kaleidoscope of brightly wrapped presents and laughter and kisses and Santa and cookies and love and warmth...
So much warmth. The type that a blanket or a heater could never provide. The type of warmth found only in the loving gaze of the man that was your equal in every way. The man you loved more than anything else on earth.
The man that moved on to save himself. The man that you lost because of the life that kidnappers forced you to leave behind.
You sit in your apartment, the soft corduroy of the armchair feeling alien against your bare skin. And you wonder. What's he doing now?
It's their first Christmas, you know. You can see them snuggled by a fire, laughing and happy. It is easier than you think to picture them, blonde heads resting on their shoulders, arms wrapped around each other, the fire crackling warmly in their home as they smile and kiss and glow in their union. It is easier to picture, you suppose, because you dreamed of being in her position. Many times.
You're cuddling on the floor, his arms around your waist, your head resting against his shoulder, his soft laughter causing you to shudder from more than just the vibrations of his husky voice as he tells you he loves you, the presents forgotten and out of the way as you lose yourselves in each other…
You have to stop this, you know. He's gone. You lost. By dwelling on him, you only hurt yourself.
So you sit by yourself in your apartment, shivering as a cold breeze invades your bubble. The bubble you built around your mind to protect yourself from him. The bubble you will pop if you move to turn up the heat. The bubble that includes several bottles of multicolored liqueur. And you realize, you don't have to be cold. The alcohol will solve all ways of coldness that you are.
So you drink.
It doesn't have to be this way, you know. Your father has called. It was an awkward voicemail, permeated with his strong tone that is at once reassuring, nervous, dominant, and hesitant.
Sydney, call me if you want. I… Merry Christmas, Sydney.
Weiss even stopped by. He has family of course, so he couldn't stay, but he still worries. A sweet man, that Eric. Even if they aren't friends, even if his connection to Vaughn is the only reason why they know each other, they have a sort of bond.
He's the one that gave you the Stoli.
Your apartment is dark and musky. You could turn on lights, but that would mean seeing just how much you've had to drink to stop feeling cold. Probably something not helpful to know, you decide.
And besides, the darkness fits your mood.
What's he doing now? Certainly not sitting in his home with the white picket fence and the large master bedroom and drinking. Why would he? You were happy once, but he's happy now. He made that very clear.
I don't regret moving on with my life.
You can see his eyes light up and his dimples appear as his wife kisses him to say thank you. His eyes were always so beautiful. Windows to the soul, as the saying goes. And to him, nothing was more true. His innocence, his love, his anger, his terror, his contentment, his courage, his honor… all you needed to know about how he felt had been reflected in his jade-green eyes.
You always thought that everyone could see that. You would worry about that, even. Not the safest vulnerability for an Intelligence operative to have.
But you had been wrong. Because since you came back, you can't read him. He's a blank canvas, an inscrutable block of ice that you can't see into. But she can.
And you realize, that's why you're so cold.
The doorbell rings. You stop mid-sip, frowning at the invasion of your solitude. You'll ignore that, you decide. Weiss is with his family, your father wouldn't stop by, and Vaughn is married and celebrating his first Christmas with a woman that is not you. No one else would stop by.
You have no one else.
But it rings again. And again. And again.
So you scowl to yourself and stumble upright, slamming the much-used glass on the coffee table that you promptly walk into. Swearing and limping and cold, you head blindly for the door, opening it with enough excess energy to send it crashing into the wall.
And then you stop.
He's not cuddled up with his wife in front of a roaring fire.
He's not kissing her and laughing at her jokes.
He's not watching her rip paper and teasing her with hints.
Instead he's standing on your doorstep, a brightly wrapped package in his hand. And you know he's been at work, you can tell his suit is crumpled from hours of meetings and briefings that accomplish everything and nothing.
He smiles. Really smiles. And in your state of semi-sloshness, it is enough to light up the darkness of your home. Enough to earn him a reflexive returning smile of equal beaming power. Because that's what you are. His equal.
There's so much to be said, you know. He knows. But instead, he extends his hand and gives you the gift.
"Merry Christmas," he says, and his eyes say everything else.
And then you realize, belatedly, that you can read him. That you never lost that gift, that you only refused to see it. Ironic, that.
He glances past you, noting the liqueur and the darkness. The slightest hint of a frown mars his forehead. But he says nothing.
"Merry Christmas," you say, closing the door slightly to hide his view. You smile. He smiles. There's so much to be said…
But he turns away with one final nod, returning to his bright black government car. To his new life. You watch him leave. And then you realize, you can't.
"Vaughn!" you call after him.
He turns, one hand resting lightly on his car door. But what can you say? So you smile again. "Thank you."
He nods. And then he stops. Can he not leave either?
"Syd," he says, the barest hint of an accent in his voice. Underlying his words is a bit of spontaneity, as though his heart has not told his mind what he will say to her. "This will end."
You nod, fingering his gift. "Someday," you say.
You both hear the echo of a past conversation. You both know the double meaning of then still rings true now. You both know it's only a matter of time. And in your life, time is a gift to be cherished. Cherished almost as much as his arms around you again will be. Someday.
"Merry Christmas," you say again.
He chuckles. You shudder without knowing you do so.
"And a happy new year," he returns.
And then he is gone, the car pulling away in more ways than one. You return to your chair, turning on the lights as you do so. And you open his note, scrawled lazily in his handwriting on CIA letterhead.
To replace the one you lost.
Puzzled, you rip the paper, echoes of childhood laughter ringing through your ears. How long has it been since you ripped wrapping paper?
And then you catch your breath, eyes welling with tears. You know they do. You can see them, watery and wide, in the reflection of the beautiful silver antique picture frame perched on your lap.
The phone rings. You don't move, tracing the beautiful engravings of the frame with your fingers.
Sydney, it's your father. I just…
You dive across the room, Vaughn's gift clenched in your hands. And you pick up the phone.
"Hi, Dad," you tell him. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," he answers. "Would you like – "
"I would," you reply. "Can I bring something?"
He pauses. What you have with him is so new, so frightening… but just as cherished as time. "No," he assures, and there is no other emotion layered on his voice. "Just you."
"I'll be there," you say. And then you hang up, returning to the hard wooden coffee table and the corduroy chair. Vaughn's gift remains in your hands. You'll take that with you.
But first, you cap the Stoli bottle. And then you head for the door, grabbing a light jacket on the way out.
As you close the door, you leave the lights on.