AN 1: Ok, so I wrote this story before Full Disclosure, so I had no idea that Lauren was evil (yay, she's evil!), as you'll be able to tell from my original author's note.
TIMELINE: Season 3, post Remnants (3.10).
AN 2: Ok, if it were up to me, Lauren would be evil (like crazy, double-agent for the Covenant, Wicked Witch of the West Evil), but, unfortunately for me and my pay-check, it's not up to me. So here's a story were she's not really all that bad—she's human just like you and me. Don't get me wrong, this is absolutely without a doubt a Syd/Vaughn story, but sometimes these stories are almost better when told from the outside. Have faith, S/V shippers, J.J. might decide that Lauren is really evil (mwhahaha) and there's hope for us yet.
Disclaimer: I own nothing (besides my dog, Molly), though I'd like to get my hands on Michael Vartan ;-)
And, now, onto your scheduled fanfic.
T H E C R A C K I N T H E D O O R
I can remember the moment exactly: I had just come back from a local shopping mall and was about to show Michael the new curtains I'd bought. I'd been in D.C. for a NSC meeting, and wasn't due back for another two days, and came home wanting to surprise Michael. I'd stopped at the store briefly, and was so pleased with the purchase—another thing to make the house our home.
I ran up the stairs and walked briskly down the hall. Suddenly, I stopped. I heard voices. My husband's voice, and a woman's. In our bed room. I peered through the crack in the door and there they were.
To my surprise, I was struck first not by the anger that quickly began boiling inside of my, but by their incredible beauty. Hate her though I may, I would have a difficult time denying Sydney Bristow's beauty, and as for Michael…The worst thing was that they looked amazing perfect together. Amazingly, they seemed even more beautiful when together—the perfect couple, the kind you could imagine seeing and envying.
It killed me. That it was her, not me, who looked so perfect with him. Who completed him. Then, the anger came. I was about to storm in, raging about how she was in our bedroom on our bed, when she did the impossible. She burst into tears. Not a quiet drizzle of a few single drops, but long, racking sobs that carried through the hallways, infusing themselves in every corner of the house. He reached for her then, and held in a way I can't ever remember him holding me—tenderly and sweetly, but with such passion and love.
I'd die for him to hold me like that.
He whispered softly into her ears, though what, I couldn't tell. "Vaughn", she said, like a small child who'd lost her way. "I didn't even care anymore. I didn't care whether I lived or died and I don't know what's happening to me I've never felt this way before even when Danny died I wasn't this hopeless and I don't know what to do." The words come spilling out of her, fast and jumbled and full of emotion. Again I see the vulnerability in her, and again I am surprised.
Vulnerability is far from the first word that comes to mind when you look at Sydney Bristow. A brilliant façade of confidence, fearlessness, and intelligence precede her, but now that was gone. She was lost.
"Oh Syd. Oh Syd." He holds her and he rocks her and she buries her face into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I just didn't know who to talk to. I don't have Francie and I don't have Will and Danny's long gone and I just…I'm sorry." He pulls away now, and for the first time I can see her face—a black eye and the blood stains emerging from her mouth tell me that her latest mission didn't go well.
"God, Syd, what did they do to you?" He looks so hurt by her pain, like his heart was breaking at the very sight of seeing her like this. "I don't know," She mumbles, as though in pain, and I'm began to suspect that she's missing a few of her molars. "I didn't tell them anything."
"That's not what I meant."
"I didn't care Vaughn, don't you get it?" Her voice becomes higher and louder and I see the beginnings of anger flaring up inside of her, "I didn't care that they caught me and I didn't care that they tortured me and I didn't care that I was going to die. I've been so fucking numb for the last few months. When I first came back I was angry—at you, at who ever erased two years of my life, at anyone. But eventually I knew that it didn't matter. All the anger in the world couldn't bring it back—couldn't fix this crazy backwards world. My life is broken."
She pauses briefly to catch her breath, but then continues, "I almost wanted them to torture me. I wanted to feel something, anything besides the sinking hole in my chest. I didn't care when Weiss dragged me out of there. And what the fuck do I have to come back to?"
She's pulled away from him by now, and I can see long bloody lash marks across her back. I wince as Michael grabs her shoulders, almost roughly, and forces her to look at him. "Listen to me, Sydney," now it's he who looks upset, though not at her, "You are the strongest person I've ever known. Whether it's in the field or at home, you've gotten yourself through some horrible situations and have remained a good person despite it all. Hell, it's amazing that you're even sane given what you've been through. And it's more than that. You have this quality…I don't know Syd, you give people hope. You have this ability to brighten the day of just about anyone that you meet. And you're this amazing, good person. God, Syd, when you died…I wanted to die. I felt like my purpose for living was gone. My life had no meaning. Weiss nearly went crazy…he tried just about everything to get me back up on my toes—"
A small smile crosses his face, and I want to cry because that used to be my smile, and he used to be my man, but isn't any longer. "—Including hiring a hooker for the night. But in the end it wasn't Weiss or Lauren or anything that got me out of bed every morning, it was you. I remembered you and your beautiful smile, and how no matter what happened to you, you always kept living, you never gave up. That's what I always loved about you, what I still love about you. I never stopped loving you Syd, and I never will. I know that things aren't—"
She breaks him off. "I know. I love you, but I know." He reaches over, scooping her into a hug. My heart breaks and my chest tightens as I hear him whisper, "She'll never take your place in my heart. No one ever could. I'll never love anyone like I love you."
I don't know what to do. Part of my wants to cry, out of pity for myself, another part of me wants to storm in their and yell, 'I'm your wife damit! I deserve better than this!'. And yet, another part of me—a part that's growing stronger by the second—wants to turn away. I almost feel as though I'm invading something private, something sacred. And as much as I really want to, I can't seem to bring myself to hate her.
I remember the first time when my violent hate actually threatened to turn into a respect for Sydney Bristow. It was in Mexico City, mere hours after I'd threatened to get her transferred. We were in a mad dash to follow the van that had taken Sloane—I was driving—and I felt this rather insane rush of adrenaline. My heart was pumping about 5 beats per second and my hands were shaking as I clutched the wheel. Perversely, I liked this feeling—I liked being on the edge of control and insanity, liked the idea that I'd have to make decisions on a moments notice. Then I looked over at Sydney, who was shooting at the car behind us as calm as anything, as though this was something she did on a daily basis. Then I realized she did do it on a daily basis, and bizarrely, I respected her for it. In that moment I almost forgave her for stabbing Michael: living in this kind of rush—knowing that you might die at any moment—day in and day out might make me stab the man I loved to save his life too. Though I still didn't like her, still felt threatened by her, for the first time I was able to sympathize in the slightest way about how her life was.
I also realized that by respecting her, even in the tiniest amounts, I was making this much harder on myself. "I don't hate you. Or Vaughn. That's why it's so hard." So she'd said, when I told her that people wouldn't blame us if we hated each other.
I'd heard them all of course—the many parallels between Sydney Bristow and myself. Yes, we were both strong, intelligent, attractive women. But I'd always assumed that the similarities ended there. Now, I found one more: neither Sydney nor I where able to get the man we wanted, the man we loved. Mine didn't exist, and she was denied hers because of a technicality. And we'd both never get our curtain moments—our mundane but ever so important signs of living a normal life.
Now I saw her, with my husband and my fantasy romance.
And for the first time, in a long time, I didn't hate her.
I hated him.
So I walk away, letting them have their tragic love scene, and call a hotel. On Friday, I'll return as planned. I'll bring Michael our curtains and make him dinner and laugh with him about the crazy bureaucrats that I've encountered. I'll get have my curtains and I'll have my white picket fence and fairy tale romance. But that's all it will be.
A fairy tale.
~*~*~*~*
DISCLAIMER: Alas, there comes a time in a person's life when she must acknowledge that there are people far more brilliant than herself out there. This is such a moment. I must confess that this story is based loosely off a Buffy/Angel story that I read long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Though the characters and situations are entirely different, (and hers is written significantly better then mine), there are certain plot structures that are undeniably similar. The story, which I recommend you read, if you have any interest whatsoever in buffy/angel fics, is by Starla and is called Dying with Dignity. No infringement was intended (Oh, and the same goes for J.J. and the A.B.C.).
A/N: Thanks for reading guys, and please, please, please review. Just hit the little button on the bottom of the screen, and write a five second review. And don't forget, shippers, there's still hope for Syd and Vaughn.