Author: Amy
Title: Your Eyes That Close
A/N: The literary works in this piece are by Dylan Thomas, William
Shakespeare, and Pablo Neruda. Sigh. They're not mine. And neither are the
characters. But the story is, so please tell me what you think. I've
decided there will be a prequel, and MAYBE a sequel.depending on where my
muse takes me.
"Sydney, please, stay awake. Open your eyes. Open your eyes, baby."
Her head lay cradled in his lap, face horribly still and pale.
"Stop doing this to her!" he shouted. "Take me! Please, take me."
His angry screams gave way to tears as he rocked her gently. He lifted her limp hand and kissed her fingertips, one by one, savouring the feeling of her skin against his lips.
"It's not the end, Syd. I'm not ready. . .you can't go. Stay with me. Stay with me."
He raised her to a sitting position and pulled her into his lap, supporting her neck and head. He could feel her frail body fighting for air in short, shallow gasps.
"Don't give up, baby," he pleaded. "Don't you dare give up now.I know it hurts but you have to keep breathing."
She inhaled sharply and began to cough deeply, her entire body convulsing with each heaving breath. He held her closer, willing the life inside of him to flow into her.
"Please, Sydney. Don't do this to me. I need you."
As though she could hear his words, she suddenly stopped coughing. He felt her hand moving frantically, trying to find his. He did the work for her and wove his fingers together with hers.
Her breathing slowly began to steady out, and her grasp on his hand grew stronger.
He began to cry again, but this time they were hot tears of relief.
"Thank you Syd. Thank you. It won't be long now. Just keep holding on for me."
"Vaughn," she whispered.
"Yes. Good girl, Syd. That's my girl."
"C-cold."
"I'm sorry baby. I don't have a blanket for you. Just stay with me and we'll have one soon."
"So cold."
"I know, cheri. I know. Come here."
She curled up further into his lap, letting his body shield and warm her.
"I love you," she breathed. "Don't forget."
"Don't say that Syd. Don't say it like it's good-bye. It won't be much longer, I promise. No! No Syd, stay awake!"
He panicked as her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went limp in his arms. He carefully shook her, tapping her cheeks with the back of his hands.
"You're like ice," he whispered in fear. His ratty t-shirt wouldn't do much, but he ripped it off anyway and covered her with it as best he could. He ran his hands over her skin, trying desperately to warm her blood.
Watching her, he realized how peaceful she was. Unconsciousness was her only refuge, her only escape from the pain. In blackness she was finally safe, blissfully unaware of the terror around and within her.
Was he being selfish in keeping her here, making her hang on? He wasn't ready to let her go, but if he did she would finally have peace.
"I'm so sorry baby. I'm sorry for making you stay. I know it's easier for you to let go. And I'll understand if you do. I'll still love you."
She squeezed his hand weakly, and he realized she was awake.
"I'm scared," she whispered breathily.
"I'm here."
"I'm scared to let go. It's so dark. I'm so scared that there might be nothing. I'll never see you again. I'll never see Paris again."
His heart broke with her confession.
"Oh Syd. . ." he cried.
"I don't want to go, Vaughn."
"Death couldn't take you from me," he choked on a sob. "You'll always have me. And we'll always have Paris."
She sighed softly, remembering. "Remember last year in Paris?"
"Of course I do. That was the happiest time of my life."
"We'll go back, right?"
"When all this is over, I'll take you back. We'll see Paris in the spring. I'll take you through the country and show you where I was born." He kissed her forehead before continuing. "We can be tourists. We'll pretend we don't speak French, and we'll see all the sights. The Eiffel Tower. . .the Louvre. . .we'll stay in some ridiculously fancy hotel."
"Mmmm. . . it sounds wonderful."
"It will be."
"I need to sleep, Michael. Please, can I sleep?"
He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself to be strong for her. "Of course you can."
He gently helped her lay down, making sure she was still covered.
"Sleep with me," she quietly instructed. "You need to sleep."
"I can't," he responded gently. "I need to watch you."
"I'll be ok. You need to save your strength.so you can take me to Paris."
"Go to sleep," he ordered softly.
"What if I don't wake up?"
"You will," he assured with more confidence than he felt. "You will."
He watched over her as she drifted into sleep, relieved to feel her soft breath flowing steadily onto his hand. Her tortured face now seemed so angelic, demure, devoid of the fear and pain he'd become accustomed to seeing etched on her fair features.
"I love you, Sydney," he breathed, even as he felt himself being dragged into the depths of sleep.
He fought for awareness for several more minutes. . .or maybe hours.until he was assured that her chest would continue its gentle rise and fall even if he shut his eyes for a few minutes.
"I'll sleep now, Syd. Just keep breathing when I close my eyes."
He leaned his head against the wall, placing a loving hand over her stomach. . .just so he could feel her. . .and let his exhaustion overtake him.
His sleep was deep and mercifully dreamless. The images did not haunt his thoughts, nor did the screams that often echoed between the mind and the soul. Long nights of worry and fear for her had worn him out. So now there was nothing but blackness, and the vague numbness of emptiness.
They heavy echoing of footsteps rocked him from sleep, and he instinctively reached for Sydney.
Her eyes fought to flutter open, and she looked up at him in confusion. She involuntarily flinched as she too heard them coming, but squeezed his hand and offered a brave smile to calm his racing heart.
"Get up," a faceless voice, hidden in the shadows, ordered.
"Don't, Sydney," Vaughn pleaded, carefully grasping her arm.
"I have to. I'll be alright," she soothed.
She struggled to sit up and he had to fight back the urge to jump up and demand they take him instead. If he fought, she would only suffer more. But it was killing him to sit here and do nothing as they stole his love away little by heartbreaking bit.
"I'm sorry," he whispered in grief and shame. "I'm sorry I can't protect you."
She squeezed his hand once more, her eyes conveying everything.
I love you. . .it's not your fault. . .I'll be ok. . .
She began to stand, and he looked away, unable to bear the sight of her wobbly legs.
"Come on," the gruff voice demanded again.
She took a single faltering step forward before her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor.
"She's no good like that," a different voice noted.
"Ehh, we'll come back later."
Vaughn waited until their retreating footsteps sounded no more in the corridor before crawling to her side.
With gentle hands he felt her head, wincing as he felt a large knot where she had met the concrete. His hands fluttered quickly over the rest of her body, feeling for obvious injuries.
Finally satisfied, he pulled her into his lap once more, where he could at least feel like she was safe.
"Don't forget Paris, Sydney. We'll always have Paris."
Though it hurt to see her too weak to stand, he silently thanked any god listening that she had fainted. She was spared from the pain.this time, at least.
But she's living on borrowed time. . .
"Not much longer, baby. I can feel it. They'll be here soon. I promise you, just hang on a little bit longer."
He continued to speak nonsense, praying that she somehow heard his voice and held on for just one more minute with him.
"Get some sleep, sweetheart. Just rest, and I'll be here when you wake up. You will wake up. You have to. We haven't had enough time yet. I need a lifetime."
He spoke of nothing and everything, as much to fill the silence as to comfort her, for it was the silence that could drive you mad. The timelessness. . .the blackness. . .it was like falling forever through an endless tunnel with no hope of hitting bottom.
He began to recite stories.the French tales of youth his mother once sang to him. He spoke to her, his voice a soft lullaby as though he was soothing a sick child.
Le jeune prince à ce discours se sentit tout de feu; il crut sans hésiter qu'il mettrait fin à une si belle aventure; et poussé par l'amour et par la gloire, il résolut de voir sur-le-champ ce qu'il en était. A peine s'avança- t-il vers le bois, que tous ces grands arbres, ces ronces et ces épines s'écartèrent d'eux-mêmes pour le laisser passer : il marche vers le château qu'il voyait au bout d'une grande avenue où il entra, et ce qui le surprit un peu, il vit que personne de ses gens ne l'avait pu suivre, parce que les arbres s'étaient rapprochés dès qu'il avait été passé. Il continua donc son chemin : un prince jeune et amoureux est toujours vaillant. . .
Her moans interrupted his quiet story.
"That's it, Syd. There you go," he encouraged. "Easy, easy. . .take it slowly, Cheri."
She tried to sit up, but he held her down with a firm yet loving hand.
"Not yet. Just stay still," he ordered, trying to sound calm.
"What happened?" she breathed.
"You passed out for a little bit."
She groaned slightly in pain, though whether it was physical, he couldn't tell. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be. You needed to rest. It'll make you stronger, Syd."
She smiled sadly at his desperate optimism, and reached her hand to his face. She lacked the strength to keep it there, so he covered her hand with his own.
"I need to know you'll be ok, Vaughn. Promise me."
He shook his head resolutely. "Don't say that. You're not going anywhere."
"I don't know how much longer. . ." She stopped, afraid to go on.
He wanted to break down and weep, but instead smiled just a little. "Do not go gently into that good night."
She closed her eyes and smiled peacefully. "Old age should burn and rage at the close of day," she added.
Encouraged by her recognition, he continued. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
"Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gentle into that good night."
She squeezed his hand, urging him to go on.
"Good men the last wave by crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay."
Her voice no more than a mere whisper, she joined him. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," they spoke in unison.
"I never knew you were a literary marvel," she teased weakly.
"You have all the time in the world to learn," he assured.
She gasped in sudden pain, and he squeezed her hand, tears seeping from his eyes.
"Curse. . .bless. . .me now. . .with your. . .fierce tears. . .I pray," she rasped through the pain.
"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, Sydney. Rage against the dying of the light," he recited as an urgent plea.
"I love thee," she whispered. "I love. . .but thee. . ."
"With a love that shall not die," he affirmed, lifting her hand and kissing her fingers.
"Till the sun grows cold. . ."
". . .and the stars grow old."
She sighed softly, her grasp on his hand slowly weakening.
"Stay with me Syd," he begged. "It's not time yet."
Her eyes glazed over and began to close, and he shook her with as much force as he dared.
"NO!" he shouted angrily. "You don't give up! The Sydney Bristow I know would never give up! She fights!"
"I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered, beginning to cry.
"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz, or arrow of carnation that propagate fire," he blurted tearfully. "Come on Syd. Say it with me. I know you can."
"I love you as certain dark things are loved," she laboured.
He joined in with her and they spoke in perfect harmony.
"Secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom, and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth."
There was a sudden crashing sound in the distance, and his heart told him this was it.
Oh God, I'm not ready for the end. . .
She looked up at his green eyes in sad resignation to their fate. Together, her soul chanted to his.
He forced himself to be brave. "Don't stop. Just keep going, Syd."
She said nothing, so he carried on alone until she joined him.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving."
Gunshots rang out, and he pulled her to him in a desperate embrace, breathing her in.
"I love you," he whispered. "Forever and always."
"We'll always have Paris," she chanted breathily.
"We'll always have Paris," he echoed as her voice faded away.
The door flung open and he braced himself for the end.
Into Thy hands I commit my spirit. . .
"Vaughn!"
His eyes shot open. It couldn't be. . .
"Jack?!"
"Mountaineer and Boy Scout secured, I repeat, secured!"
Men suddenly swarmed towards the two figures hunched in the corner.
Vaughn stood up somewhat shakily, Sydney limp and unaware in his arms.
"Oh my God," Jack breathed in horror.
Vaughn wept openly and unashamed, holding his love close to his heart. "Jack, she's barely holding on," he cried. "Help her, please."
Jack wrapped an arm around Vaughn's shoulder, helping to support him as they ran.
"They took her," Vaughn cried senselessly. "I'm sorry Jack, I tried, they wouldn't take me. They wanted me to see her, they wanted me to break but she wouldn't let me. . .and. . .oh, my God, my Sydney."
"Get in the van!" Jack shouted.
The order snapped Vaughn back into reality and he clambered into the armoured van.
"I need a blanket!" he shouted urgently.
An agent in the back of the van tossed him a heavy blanket and a bag of medical supplies.
Vaughn wrapped the blanket around her like a protective cocoon, shielding her from the cold in the only way he could. He lifted her head and pressed his fingers to her neck.
Thank you God, thank you.
"Stay with me Syd," he ordered. "It's over. You're safe."
He rocked her gently, holding his hand near her mouth so he could feel the small puffs of air, making sure they didn't suddenly stop.
"But this," he whispered," in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand." He stopped, his voice choking with emotion. ". . .so intimate that when I fall asleep, it is your eyes that close."
The agent next to him touched his arm gently. "You're shaking," he noted, handing him another blanket. But instead of wrapping it around himself, he gently draped it over her.
"I told you I'd get you a blanket soon. Do not go gently, cheri. We have too much to do, too much to see. Please, don't give up now, we're so close."
The van screeched to a stop and Vaughn lifted Sydney from the car, refusing help from any of the numerous agents around him.
Everything became a blur once he stepped into the bright sunlight outside the van. He was dimly aware of people in white trying to pull him from her side. He staunchly refused, holding her hand as though if he let go, she might as well.
He heard the low hum of voices, but they all bled together. All he knew was Sydney's pale, still face.
Eventually someone found a chair and made him sit, though they did not try to coax him from his vigil.
Finally, his body could stay awake no longer, and he fell into a fitful sleep, his only peace the knowledge that she would never hurt again.
The nightmares awoke him only hours later, and he turned to find Jack at his side. "How is she?" he asked sleepily, trying to mask the fear in his voice.
"The same. She's holding on. God only knows how, but she's fighting."
Vaughn leaned in closer to her sleeping form. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," he whispered.
"Her heart rate improves when you talk to her," Jack noted.
"Paris," Vaughn said, looking pointedly at Jack. The older man nodded in wordless understanding, and promptly exited the room.
Days later, Vaughn was once again reciting in French the stories he knew by heart. . .but this time he had an audience.
"Le jeune prince à ce discours se sentit tout de feu; il crut sans hésiter qu'il mettrait fin à une si belle aventure," he spoke in hushed tones, smoothing down soft locks of brown hair.
"I love it when you speak French," a soft voice suddenly whispered.
"Sydney?! Oh my God! Syd!"
He rose immediately and stood beside her bed, bending over to kiss her soft cheek.
"Oh Syd.thank God you're ok. . .I was so scared."
She smiled confidently. "I love but thee with a love that shall not die." Suddenly something caught her eye and her entire face brightened, glowing a faint pink he had missed so much. "Paris!" she cried in amazement.
"Your dad brought her. I knew you'd want to see her."
Sydney reached out her arms and Vaughn brought the little girl to her mother's lap.
"My beautiful baby," she cooed happily, stroking Paris' wispy locks. "Mommy missed you, angel." She looked up at Vaughn, tears stinging her eyes. "Oh Michael," she choked.
He cupped her face in his hands. "Shh.don't cry. Everything's ok now. We're all together. And you're safe, you're getting strong again. You can recover in France. We'll take Paris back to her birthplace, and we'll do all the things I promised we'd do."
Sydney reached out one hand and threaded her fingers through his, grasping her daughter's tiny hand in the other.
"We'll always have you, Paris," she whispered. Then she turned her gaze back to him.
"I love you," she began, waiting for him to join her.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. . ."
"Sydney, please, stay awake. Open your eyes. Open your eyes, baby."
Her head lay cradled in his lap, face horribly still and pale.
"Stop doing this to her!" he shouted. "Take me! Please, take me."
His angry screams gave way to tears as he rocked her gently. He lifted her limp hand and kissed her fingertips, one by one, savouring the feeling of her skin against his lips.
"It's not the end, Syd. I'm not ready. . .you can't go. Stay with me. Stay with me."
He raised her to a sitting position and pulled her into his lap, supporting her neck and head. He could feel her frail body fighting for air in short, shallow gasps.
"Don't give up, baby," he pleaded. "Don't you dare give up now.I know it hurts but you have to keep breathing."
She inhaled sharply and began to cough deeply, her entire body convulsing with each heaving breath. He held her closer, willing the life inside of him to flow into her.
"Please, Sydney. Don't do this to me. I need you."
As though she could hear his words, she suddenly stopped coughing. He felt her hand moving frantically, trying to find his. He did the work for her and wove his fingers together with hers.
Her breathing slowly began to steady out, and her grasp on his hand grew stronger.
He began to cry again, but this time they were hot tears of relief.
"Thank you Syd. Thank you. It won't be long now. Just keep holding on for me."
"Vaughn," she whispered.
"Yes. Good girl, Syd. That's my girl."
"C-cold."
"I'm sorry baby. I don't have a blanket for you. Just stay with me and we'll have one soon."
"So cold."
"I know, cheri. I know. Come here."
She curled up further into his lap, letting his body shield and warm her.
"I love you," she breathed. "Don't forget."
"Don't say that Syd. Don't say it like it's good-bye. It won't be much longer, I promise. No! No Syd, stay awake!"
He panicked as her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went limp in his arms. He carefully shook her, tapping her cheeks with the back of his hands.
"You're like ice," he whispered in fear. His ratty t-shirt wouldn't do much, but he ripped it off anyway and covered her with it as best he could. He ran his hands over her skin, trying desperately to warm her blood.
Watching her, he realized how peaceful she was. Unconsciousness was her only refuge, her only escape from the pain. In blackness she was finally safe, blissfully unaware of the terror around and within her.
Was he being selfish in keeping her here, making her hang on? He wasn't ready to let her go, but if he did she would finally have peace.
"I'm so sorry baby. I'm sorry for making you stay. I know it's easier for you to let go. And I'll understand if you do. I'll still love you."
She squeezed his hand weakly, and he realized she was awake.
"I'm scared," she whispered breathily.
"I'm here."
"I'm scared to let go. It's so dark. I'm so scared that there might be nothing. I'll never see you again. I'll never see Paris again."
His heart broke with her confession.
"Oh Syd. . ." he cried.
"I don't want to go, Vaughn."
"Death couldn't take you from me," he choked on a sob. "You'll always have me. And we'll always have Paris."
She sighed softly, remembering. "Remember last year in Paris?"
"Of course I do. That was the happiest time of my life."
"We'll go back, right?"
"When all this is over, I'll take you back. We'll see Paris in the spring. I'll take you through the country and show you where I was born." He kissed her forehead before continuing. "We can be tourists. We'll pretend we don't speak French, and we'll see all the sights. The Eiffel Tower. . .the Louvre. . .we'll stay in some ridiculously fancy hotel."
"Mmmm. . . it sounds wonderful."
"It will be."
"I need to sleep, Michael. Please, can I sleep?"
He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself to be strong for her. "Of course you can."
He gently helped her lay down, making sure she was still covered.
"Sleep with me," she quietly instructed. "You need to sleep."
"I can't," he responded gently. "I need to watch you."
"I'll be ok. You need to save your strength.so you can take me to Paris."
"Go to sleep," he ordered softly.
"What if I don't wake up?"
"You will," he assured with more confidence than he felt. "You will."
He watched over her as she drifted into sleep, relieved to feel her soft breath flowing steadily onto his hand. Her tortured face now seemed so angelic, demure, devoid of the fear and pain he'd become accustomed to seeing etched on her fair features.
"I love you, Sydney," he breathed, even as he felt himself being dragged into the depths of sleep.
He fought for awareness for several more minutes. . .or maybe hours.until he was assured that her chest would continue its gentle rise and fall even if he shut his eyes for a few minutes.
"I'll sleep now, Syd. Just keep breathing when I close my eyes."
He leaned his head against the wall, placing a loving hand over her stomach. . .just so he could feel her. . .and let his exhaustion overtake him.
His sleep was deep and mercifully dreamless. The images did not haunt his thoughts, nor did the screams that often echoed between the mind and the soul. Long nights of worry and fear for her had worn him out. So now there was nothing but blackness, and the vague numbness of emptiness.
They heavy echoing of footsteps rocked him from sleep, and he instinctively reached for Sydney.
Her eyes fought to flutter open, and she looked up at him in confusion. She involuntarily flinched as she too heard them coming, but squeezed his hand and offered a brave smile to calm his racing heart.
"Get up," a faceless voice, hidden in the shadows, ordered.
"Don't, Sydney," Vaughn pleaded, carefully grasping her arm.
"I have to. I'll be alright," she soothed.
She struggled to sit up and he had to fight back the urge to jump up and demand they take him instead. If he fought, she would only suffer more. But it was killing him to sit here and do nothing as they stole his love away little by heartbreaking bit.
"I'm sorry," he whispered in grief and shame. "I'm sorry I can't protect you."
She squeezed his hand once more, her eyes conveying everything.
I love you. . .it's not your fault. . .I'll be ok. . .
She began to stand, and he looked away, unable to bear the sight of her wobbly legs.
"Come on," the gruff voice demanded again.
She took a single faltering step forward before her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor.
"She's no good like that," a different voice noted.
"Ehh, we'll come back later."
Vaughn waited until their retreating footsteps sounded no more in the corridor before crawling to her side.
With gentle hands he felt her head, wincing as he felt a large knot where she had met the concrete. His hands fluttered quickly over the rest of her body, feeling for obvious injuries.
Finally satisfied, he pulled her into his lap once more, where he could at least feel like she was safe.
"Don't forget Paris, Sydney. We'll always have Paris."
Though it hurt to see her too weak to stand, he silently thanked any god listening that she had fainted. She was spared from the pain.this time, at least.
But she's living on borrowed time. . .
"Not much longer, baby. I can feel it. They'll be here soon. I promise you, just hang on a little bit longer."
He continued to speak nonsense, praying that she somehow heard his voice and held on for just one more minute with him.
"Get some sleep, sweetheart. Just rest, and I'll be here when you wake up. You will wake up. You have to. We haven't had enough time yet. I need a lifetime."
He spoke of nothing and everything, as much to fill the silence as to comfort her, for it was the silence that could drive you mad. The timelessness. . .the blackness. . .it was like falling forever through an endless tunnel with no hope of hitting bottom.
He began to recite stories.the French tales of youth his mother once sang to him. He spoke to her, his voice a soft lullaby as though he was soothing a sick child.
Le jeune prince à ce discours se sentit tout de feu; il crut sans hésiter qu'il mettrait fin à une si belle aventure; et poussé par l'amour et par la gloire, il résolut de voir sur-le-champ ce qu'il en était. A peine s'avança- t-il vers le bois, que tous ces grands arbres, ces ronces et ces épines s'écartèrent d'eux-mêmes pour le laisser passer : il marche vers le château qu'il voyait au bout d'une grande avenue où il entra, et ce qui le surprit un peu, il vit que personne de ses gens ne l'avait pu suivre, parce que les arbres s'étaient rapprochés dès qu'il avait été passé. Il continua donc son chemin : un prince jeune et amoureux est toujours vaillant. . .
Her moans interrupted his quiet story.
"That's it, Syd. There you go," he encouraged. "Easy, easy. . .take it slowly, Cheri."
She tried to sit up, but he held her down with a firm yet loving hand.
"Not yet. Just stay still," he ordered, trying to sound calm.
"What happened?" she breathed.
"You passed out for a little bit."
She groaned slightly in pain, though whether it was physical, he couldn't tell. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be. You needed to rest. It'll make you stronger, Syd."
She smiled sadly at his desperate optimism, and reached her hand to his face. She lacked the strength to keep it there, so he covered her hand with his own.
"I need to know you'll be ok, Vaughn. Promise me."
He shook his head resolutely. "Don't say that. You're not going anywhere."
"I don't know how much longer. . ." She stopped, afraid to go on.
He wanted to break down and weep, but instead smiled just a little. "Do not go gently into that good night."
She closed her eyes and smiled peacefully. "Old age should burn and rage at the close of day," she added.
Encouraged by her recognition, he continued. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
"Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gentle into that good night."
She squeezed his hand, urging him to go on.
"Good men the last wave by crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay."
Her voice no more than a mere whisper, she joined him. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," they spoke in unison.
"I never knew you were a literary marvel," she teased weakly.
"You have all the time in the world to learn," he assured.
She gasped in sudden pain, and he squeezed her hand, tears seeping from his eyes.
"Curse. . .bless. . .me now. . .with your. . .fierce tears. . .I pray," she rasped through the pain.
"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, Sydney. Rage against the dying of the light," he recited as an urgent plea.
"I love thee," she whispered. "I love. . .but thee. . ."
"With a love that shall not die," he affirmed, lifting her hand and kissing her fingers.
"Till the sun grows cold. . ."
". . .and the stars grow old."
She sighed softly, her grasp on his hand slowly weakening.
"Stay with me Syd," he begged. "It's not time yet."
Her eyes glazed over and began to close, and he shook her with as much force as he dared.
"NO!" he shouted angrily. "You don't give up! The Sydney Bristow I know would never give up! She fights!"
"I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered, beginning to cry.
"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz, or arrow of carnation that propagate fire," he blurted tearfully. "Come on Syd. Say it with me. I know you can."
"I love you as certain dark things are loved," she laboured.
He joined in with her and they spoke in perfect harmony.
"Secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom, and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth."
There was a sudden crashing sound in the distance, and his heart told him this was it.
Oh God, I'm not ready for the end. . .
She looked up at his green eyes in sad resignation to their fate. Together, her soul chanted to his.
He forced himself to be brave. "Don't stop. Just keep going, Syd."
She said nothing, so he carried on alone until she joined him.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving."
Gunshots rang out, and he pulled her to him in a desperate embrace, breathing her in.
"I love you," he whispered. "Forever and always."
"We'll always have Paris," she chanted breathily.
"We'll always have Paris," he echoed as her voice faded away.
The door flung open and he braced himself for the end.
Into Thy hands I commit my spirit. . .
"Vaughn!"
His eyes shot open. It couldn't be. . .
"Jack?!"
"Mountaineer and Boy Scout secured, I repeat, secured!"
Men suddenly swarmed towards the two figures hunched in the corner.
Vaughn stood up somewhat shakily, Sydney limp and unaware in his arms.
"Oh my God," Jack breathed in horror.
Vaughn wept openly and unashamed, holding his love close to his heart. "Jack, she's barely holding on," he cried. "Help her, please."
Jack wrapped an arm around Vaughn's shoulder, helping to support him as they ran.
"They took her," Vaughn cried senselessly. "I'm sorry Jack, I tried, they wouldn't take me. They wanted me to see her, they wanted me to break but she wouldn't let me. . .and. . .oh, my God, my Sydney."
"Get in the van!" Jack shouted.
The order snapped Vaughn back into reality and he clambered into the armoured van.
"I need a blanket!" he shouted urgently.
An agent in the back of the van tossed him a heavy blanket and a bag of medical supplies.
Vaughn wrapped the blanket around her like a protective cocoon, shielding her from the cold in the only way he could. He lifted her head and pressed his fingers to her neck.
Thank you God, thank you.
"Stay with me Syd," he ordered. "It's over. You're safe."
He rocked her gently, holding his hand near her mouth so he could feel the small puffs of air, making sure they didn't suddenly stop.
"But this," he whispered," in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand." He stopped, his voice choking with emotion. ". . .so intimate that when I fall asleep, it is your eyes that close."
The agent next to him touched his arm gently. "You're shaking," he noted, handing him another blanket. But instead of wrapping it around himself, he gently draped it over her.
"I told you I'd get you a blanket soon. Do not go gently, cheri. We have too much to do, too much to see. Please, don't give up now, we're so close."
The van screeched to a stop and Vaughn lifted Sydney from the car, refusing help from any of the numerous agents around him.
Everything became a blur once he stepped into the bright sunlight outside the van. He was dimly aware of people in white trying to pull him from her side. He staunchly refused, holding her hand as though if he let go, she might as well.
He heard the low hum of voices, but they all bled together. All he knew was Sydney's pale, still face.
Eventually someone found a chair and made him sit, though they did not try to coax him from his vigil.
Finally, his body could stay awake no longer, and he fell into a fitful sleep, his only peace the knowledge that she would never hurt again.
The nightmares awoke him only hours later, and he turned to find Jack at his side. "How is she?" he asked sleepily, trying to mask the fear in his voice.
"The same. She's holding on. God only knows how, but she's fighting."
Vaughn leaned in closer to her sleeping form. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," he whispered.
"Her heart rate improves when you talk to her," Jack noted.
"Paris," Vaughn said, looking pointedly at Jack. The older man nodded in wordless understanding, and promptly exited the room.
Days later, Vaughn was once again reciting in French the stories he knew by heart. . .but this time he had an audience.
"Le jeune prince à ce discours se sentit tout de feu; il crut sans hésiter qu'il mettrait fin à une si belle aventure," he spoke in hushed tones, smoothing down soft locks of brown hair.
"I love it when you speak French," a soft voice suddenly whispered.
"Sydney?! Oh my God! Syd!"
He rose immediately and stood beside her bed, bending over to kiss her soft cheek.
"Oh Syd.thank God you're ok. . .I was so scared."
She smiled confidently. "I love but thee with a love that shall not die." Suddenly something caught her eye and her entire face brightened, glowing a faint pink he had missed so much. "Paris!" she cried in amazement.
"Your dad brought her. I knew you'd want to see her."
Sydney reached out her arms and Vaughn brought the little girl to her mother's lap.
"My beautiful baby," she cooed happily, stroking Paris' wispy locks. "Mommy missed you, angel." She looked up at Vaughn, tears stinging her eyes. "Oh Michael," she choked.
He cupped her face in his hands. "Shh.don't cry. Everything's ok now. We're all together. And you're safe, you're getting strong again. You can recover in France. We'll take Paris back to her birthplace, and we'll do all the things I promised we'd do."
Sydney reached out one hand and threaded her fingers through his, grasping her daughter's tiny hand in the other.
"We'll always have you, Paris," she whispered. Then she turned her gaze back to him.
"I love you," she began, waiting for him to join her.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. . ."