" Underwater"
rated: PG
Contains: No real concrete spoilers, only general knowledge such as " The Confession" , " Truth be Told" these kinds of things.
Classification: ANGST. If you didn't want angst, then you are at the wrong place, because this one is a triple fudge angst sundae with angsty chocolate syrup on top and a whole lot of angstified whip cream and cherries to boot.
Feedback: is about essential to my existence: aliasfanfiction@home.com
Note: Many thanks to my multi-talented beta Jess, who reads, comments, squeals, and even has a brain large enough to know when I am having a metaphorical moment.
" fingertips are gently on my skin…
I'm underwater…
I feel the flood begin"
UNDERWATER
It's hot, God, so hot. Sydney piles her hair on the top of her head, securing it with what feels like a hundred bobby pins, digging the metal against her tender scalp. An uncharacteristic heat spell, the weather reporters were calling it, giving a blasé excuse for 90 degree weather in the depth of winter. Not that it ever got cold in L.A.- that would be wishful thinking- but ninety in the last week of January was more than uncharacteristically warm.
She peels off the long sleeved shirt she'd worn to class and slips on a tank top instead, the cool silk resting against her skin. Digging through her closet she finds buried in the rear a colorful sarong she picked up years ago on a mission for SD-6 when she still thought she was working for the good guys. It has only been worn once, and she plays with the fabric in her hands for a moment, letting the soft silk caress her fingertips before she decides to wear it. It doubles around her waist easily; she's lost weight since the sunny day that she bought it, and the realization makes her pause.
The house is quiet. So silent that she tiptoes down the hallways, wanting to preserve the gentle peace. Charlie and Francie went to her moms for the weekend, planning to officially announce their engagement. Will hadn't called in days, she assumes he is working, wrapped up in the paper- or maybe even Jenny.…she doesn't care to speculate. She moves to the kitchen and towards the cupboard, finds a bottle of a nicely aged Cabernet and pours herself a large glass.
God, it's hot, she thinks, before plodding to the bathroom, no longer as concerned with preserving the silence. It makes it almost too empty, and that makes her almost feel lonely, a territory she is neither ready or willing to embark upon before drinking this evening. Sydney stands before the bathroom mirror, staring, searching for explanations, reasons, the tell tale signs of strains, stress, age.
Her hair is tousled, haphazard, mussed. Day-old mascara creates a fine line below her eyelashes, catching in the crevices: glaring, obtuse. Beneath that are the circles, the evidence of insomnia, the restless nights of not being able to sleep, consumed with thoughts of….everything. Her cheekbones protrude, she knows it's because she hasn't been eating as much, and the weight loss hardly favors her bone structure or her complexion. …
" You're a mess, Sydney Bristow." She tells herself, without a smile, and takes a very large drink.
A long time passes in this manner. So long that she is forced to get another glass of wine to offer critical comments at her reflection. The sharp ring of the telephone in the distance of her bedroom distracts her, and she is left with only a handful of possibilities of who the person at the opposite end might be.
" This is no substitute for therapy." She reminds herself as she carries her glass to answer.
"Hello?"
" Joey's Pizza?"
" Sorry, wrong number." How does she manage that tone of voice, she wonders? That instant takeover of the pleasant, sweet, never-an-unkind word Sydney Bristow that is absolutely beginning to threaten her sanity. Tonight is not a good night. Not a good night for her, it's hot, she's talking to herself in the mirror, and she's been drinking. Sydney tells herself these things, but she adroitly returns to the bathroom, wipes beneath her eyes, scrambles for mascara wand; hands tremble but manage to close around the cylinder. She opens the cap, extracts the spindly brush, gets the damn thing and when she is done applies a slight tiny flick of the wrist to remaneuver a quickly forming curl on the center of her forehead- damn heat…
Tonight's meeting place is a café less than four blocks from her house, and she plans to walk it. Never mind the grueling heat; the car will only frustrate her, and frustration is the last thing that she needs. She slips on sandals deftly finishes her glass a bit regretfully, sad to be leaving her quiet, dark house. It seems almost equally upset to watch her leave.
The sky outside is heavy with clouds, the air heavy with humidity, hanging, expecting. Within an instant she is sweating, tiny beads of moisture dotting her forehead. She ignores the perspiration and continues walking, her agitation growing with nearly every step.
The reason behind her anger confused her. To say it began with her mother would be simple and far too easy, as well as a lie. Trickier still would be the deceptions of her father leading up to her mother, a worthwhile beginning, but still; dishonest. Where had it begun? Where did the seed of abysmal dismay begin to culminate within her, feeding upon her, covering everything, until the only life that remained was a colorless facsimile? A dream, a fantasy, a make-believe story, an entire past built on nothing.
She decides that it doesn't matter when it started, only that it had. And now she feels lonely, an outsider watching everything else pass by her at blinding speeds. Her friends move forward, oblivious to the fact that she is standing still, that fake smile plastered in the middle of her face.
The café comes into full view and she finds a darkened corner table in the back. Vaughn isn't there yet, which is abnormal but hardly concerns her. A waiter emerges from the shadows and hovers, and she orders a glass of wine. Against protocol she knows, but the heat and two glasses of wine have made her feel reckless and she desires avoiding procedure and rules like the plague.
After five minutes, the appearance of a nicely poured glass and an introspective period of gazing into absolute nothing, Sydney is startled by the clearing of a throat at the table next to hers.
She turns and meets the eyes of her handler, the sea-green haze the color of fog and evergreen. They can be enchanting if she lets them, and so she is quick to look away.
" Hi." She says, and brings her wine glass to her lips. She is aware that he is watching her- aware that he is wondering why she is drinking, why her attitude is both cavalier and perhaps even unprofessional. Sydney slides a quick glance out of the corner of her eye and confirms her suspicions- he is staring at her; but not with contempt, more with a wide-eyed wonder.
" Sydney?" She almost laughs, then but stops herself.
" There's hardly anyone here. Why don't you sit with me?" It's a brazen suggestion, and she should regret having made it, but she doesn't. He's swallowing, and his reply is delayed by the appearance of his waiter, asking what he would like to drink.
" Crown and Coke. A double, on the rocks. Two twists of lime, please." She smiles that he orders a drink, smiles over his manners, the clipped edge of his voice, the patrician lit of his tone.
As soon as the waiter disappears he turns. " I can't sit with you, Sydney."
" But you can order a drink." She quips lightly. " I really don't think anyone is watching us, Vaughn. Certainly it would be less conspicuous for two people to speak to one another while sitting at the same table over two people talking while sitting apart .."
" Fine." He sounds almost angry, and for some reason this pleases her. He moves to her table after a less than covert sweep of the room with his eyes and sits in front of her. The waiter returns with his drink, looks momentarily confused, and then locates his transplanted patron.
" I see you've joined the lady, sir."
" She managed to convince me." Vaughn tells the server with a less than amused smile. Sydney shrugs her shoulders and sips from her glass, letting the warm liquid coat her mouth before it languidly slides down her throat. She observes as Vaughn drinks a healthy bit from his tumbler and rests it on the table.
" I can't believe the lengths I go for you…" He mutters, and this time she does manage a stifled laugh.
" You order a drink and sit at my table like an ordinary person and you are admonishing the lengths you go for me? Really, Vaughn, I could think of so much worse." She doesn't want to look at him and instead concentrates on a spot directly below his left ear. In a tiny niche of space there is navy, a triangle of another table, a woman, her features obscured by distance, laughing and talking with her friends.
While waiting for his reply her mind turns to coincidences, an unplanned deviation, but one taken nevertheless. Was it coincidence that he happened to be the agent on duty the day she stumbled into the CIA with a swollen mouth and flaming magenta hair? Was it coincidence that his father had been killed by her mother? Was it coincidence that he was the first man since Danny had died that had made her feel like life was even remotely worth living again based on the power of his smile?
" We aren't ordinary people, Sydney." His reminder is harsh, though spoken softly, followed by another one of his swift drinks, one that drains his glass. He does not wait for her response as he gestures for the waiter to give him a refill. Her eyes fill with tears, the pain suddenly all too acute, beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to break free.
She takes a breath, half of it oxygen and the other heat and humidity….it's so hot, still, well after nine o' clock. And damn him, he's right, they aren't ordinary people.
" I'm sorry, Sydney." She can tell by his tone that he means his apology.
" Don't be, you're right." Her tone is bland, the tears gone from her eyes, another sip from her glass. Its mostly empty; a fact that now fascinates her, and with slight dismay it becomes clear there is the possibility that she might be getting drunk.
" Sydney-" Again, the waiter, with Vaughn's drink, somewhat fuller than the last.
"Thank you." He says.
" Miss? Another?" The waiter gestures at her soon to be empty wineglass. She takes a half-second to answer.
" Sure."
Vaughn gives her a warning glance. She looks up at him, feeling intense suddenly, inspired to say something. "I know you called me for a reason, but for about fifteen minutes I want to sit here, with you, share a drink, talk if the mood strikes us.. For fifteen minutes can we be ordinary people, Vaughn?"
He looks at her, blinks, picks up his glass and offers a tight smile. "To ordinary people, Sydney."
She taps his glass, wanting to grin, wanting to hug him for really going too far for her, but she doesn't. She sits there, a true smile on her face, a flush to her cheeks, and when the waiter brings her next glass of wine she downs the one she's been holding onto in a rather large gulp.
" Sometimes you perplex me." Vaughn is looking at her again, in that same way, a mix of wonder and confusion on his face. The restaurant is dim; and his eyes shine back at her like glassy marbles. He's leaning back in his chair, swirling his drink in his hands. In the distance if she concentrates she can almost hear the ocean lapping against the shore.
" How so." Her tone should have been light, but it isn't. She wonders how she always messes that up with him. How it's so much easier to be duplicitous in tone with any other person and yet…with him….her voice belies her fears every time. The honesty of her emotions always come shining through, blatantly obvious, as plain as the glasses on the table before them.
" Your occasional blatant disregard for reason, for one. Oh, that coupled with your apparent lack of concern for your personal safety, or for that matter, my safety, but.." he drinks, flashes her a smile that makes her feel dizzy, an ailment quickly blamed on heat and wine, and continues. "I really shouldn't be doing this." He shakes his head.
" I really appreciate it that you are." Sydney is not fully sure of what he means, but if it's this table, him sitting across from her, this conversation- then she is thankful. Any moment that can hang on a vestige of normalcy is welcomed by her, and it's something she doesn't want to admit to need. She drums her fingers on the table, finding imaginary things to pick up and toy with her half-polished fingernails. If it's wrong to want this, she thinks, and she knows it is, then I'm a very, very bad person. She swallows another drink and hears him clear his throat again.
" I don't think you fully understand me here, Sydney. I really shouldn't be doing this." His words have an edge they'd lacked on first utterance. She doesn't understand their full meaning, her mind fuzzy with alcohol.
" What do you mean? I won't tell anyone." She winks and instantly regrets it, it's a testament to her weakening inhibitions and her casual comfort with him, her handler. She watches him process her words, he shifts in his seat, his once well-pressed oxford now sticking to his well defined arms in the humidity.
She's staring, she knows it, and she doesn't stop herself. After a moment she breaks the gaze and brings her eyes to his, and in the pale light it is impossible to make full eye contact. He surprises her when he leans forward suddenly.
" I'm not concerned with your telling anyone, Sydney. I …"
He reaches over then, and touches her hand with his finger. It's a light touch, almost imperceptible to the untrained hand but to her- it causes her eyes to flutter closed. The wash of sensation over her entire body is incredible, amazing, undulating….a fingertip. She opens her eyes and he is watching her, his face no longer in shadows, his eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions.
" Vaughn." She says, and her voice is breathy, and she watches him swallow again. His finger has not moved, a warm, centralized radius of electric pulsations originate from where it remains on her hand. It's sexy, magnetic, divine. She is warm, and knows it's from more than the heat, and more than the wine.
" I have got to go." He whispers the words. She did hear that, didn't she? He pulls his hand from hers and backs away.
" Wait, Vaughn. Wait. The countermission?" It's amazing, she thinks in that instant, how a moment can have power to exist, to rise, and then to fall. Something as innocuous as his finger touching her had left her feeling like she was drowning, and just as quickly as it had started it was now over. The complexity of it startled her; the abrupt nature of Vaughn's withdrawal frightened her. She wants to ask him what he is afraid of. She wants to ask him if he wants to stay here, with her, to hell with protocol, to hell with the countermission.
The waiter appears again, asking for more refills, and they both decline. After he is out of earshot, Vaughn looks at Sydney pointedly and then looks away.
" All we need are GPS photographs. You'll use the standard equipment." His tone is back to business-like, perfunctory. He refuses eye contact now.
" What?" She asks, confusion in her voice, still slightly flustered by the strange exchange between them. She had been watching the way his face had hardened, his visible avoidance of her, the way his eyes had shifted with every word he'd spoken.
" Photographs. You know what to do when you return, right? I'll talk to you then." He looks at her briefly and smiles.
In less than thirty seconds he's walked away, the ice from his glass pooling in condensation on the table. She swirls the wine in her glass, sipping it occasionally, prolonging the walk back to her apartment, no longer wanting it to be so lonely. She pays her bill, throwing down money for her wine and a sizable tip, and as she is leaving she circles to the other side of the table, steps unsteady from alcohol, vision slightly blurred. There are still ice cubes in his drink , still the soft gold of liquid at the bottom, untouched. She lines the rim with her fingertip, letting it run over the smooth, cool surface.
Blaming her next actions on the heat, and the wine, she brings her fingers to her lips and can taste the hint of lime, the softer, sugary taste of soda, and the heady flavor of alcohol. Beneath that she imagines something else, a different flavor, one foreign to her, one her body lacks immunity to, one she secretly, and only momentarily, allows herself to enjoy.
THE END
Tell me what you thought!! aliasfanfiction@home.com
rated: PG
Contains: No real concrete spoilers, only general knowledge such as " The Confession" , " Truth be Told" these kinds of things.
Classification: ANGST. If you didn't want angst, then you are at the wrong place, because this one is a triple fudge angst sundae with angsty chocolate syrup on top and a whole lot of angstified whip cream and cherries to boot.
Feedback: is about essential to my existence: aliasfanfiction@home.com
Note: Many thanks to my multi-talented beta Jess, who reads, comments, squeals, and even has a brain large enough to know when I am having a metaphorical moment.
" fingertips are gently on my skin…
I'm underwater…
I feel the flood begin"
UNDERWATER
It's hot, God, so hot. Sydney piles her hair on the top of her head, securing it with what feels like a hundred bobby pins, digging the metal against her tender scalp. An uncharacteristic heat spell, the weather reporters were calling it, giving a blasé excuse for 90 degree weather in the depth of winter. Not that it ever got cold in L.A.- that would be wishful thinking- but ninety in the last week of January was more than uncharacteristically warm.
She peels off the long sleeved shirt she'd worn to class and slips on a tank top instead, the cool silk resting against her skin. Digging through her closet she finds buried in the rear a colorful sarong she picked up years ago on a mission for SD-6 when she still thought she was working for the good guys. It has only been worn once, and she plays with the fabric in her hands for a moment, letting the soft silk caress her fingertips before she decides to wear it. It doubles around her waist easily; she's lost weight since the sunny day that she bought it, and the realization makes her pause.
The house is quiet. So silent that she tiptoes down the hallways, wanting to preserve the gentle peace. Charlie and Francie went to her moms for the weekend, planning to officially announce their engagement. Will hadn't called in days, she assumes he is working, wrapped up in the paper- or maybe even Jenny.…she doesn't care to speculate. She moves to the kitchen and towards the cupboard, finds a bottle of a nicely aged Cabernet and pours herself a large glass.
God, it's hot, she thinks, before plodding to the bathroom, no longer as concerned with preserving the silence. It makes it almost too empty, and that makes her almost feel lonely, a territory she is neither ready or willing to embark upon before drinking this evening. Sydney stands before the bathroom mirror, staring, searching for explanations, reasons, the tell tale signs of strains, stress, age.
Her hair is tousled, haphazard, mussed. Day-old mascara creates a fine line below her eyelashes, catching in the crevices: glaring, obtuse. Beneath that are the circles, the evidence of insomnia, the restless nights of not being able to sleep, consumed with thoughts of….everything. Her cheekbones protrude, she knows it's because she hasn't been eating as much, and the weight loss hardly favors her bone structure or her complexion. …
" You're a mess, Sydney Bristow." She tells herself, without a smile, and takes a very large drink.
A long time passes in this manner. So long that she is forced to get another glass of wine to offer critical comments at her reflection. The sharp ring of the telephone in the distance of her bedroom distracts her, and she is left with only a handful of possibilities of who the person at the opposite end might be.
" This is no substitute for therapy." She reminds herself as she carries her glass to answer.
"Hello?"
" Joey's Pizza?"
" Sorry, wrong number." How does she manage that tone of voice, she wonders? That instant takeover of the pleasant, sweet, never-an-unkind word Sydney Bristow that is absolutely beginning to threaten her sanity. Tonight is not a good night. Not a good night for her, it's hot, she's talking to herself in the mirror, and she's been drinking. Sydney tells herself these things, but she adroitly returns to the bathroom, wipes beneath her eyes, scrambles for mascara wand; hands tremble but manage to close around the cylinder. She opens the cap, extracts the spindly brush, gets the damn thing and when she is done applies a slight tiny flick of the wrist to remaneuver a quickly forming curl on the center of her forehead- damn heat…
Tonight's meeting place is a café less than four blocks from her house, and she plans to walk it. Never mind the grueling heat; the car will only frustrate her, and frustration is the last thing that she needs. She slips on sandals deftly finishes her glass a bit regretfully, sad to be leaving her quiet, dark house. It seems almost equally upset to watch her leave.
The sky outside is heavy with clouds, the air heavy with humidity, hanging, expecting. Within an instant she is sweating, tiny beads of moisture dotting her forehead. She ignores the perspiration and continues walking, her agitation growing with nearly every step.
The reason behind her anger confused her. To say it began with her mother would be simple and far too easy, as well as a lie. Trickier still would be the deceptions of her father leading up to her mother, a worthwhile beginning, but still; dishonest. Where had it begun? Where did the seed of abysmal dismay begin to culminate within her, feeding upon her, covering everything, until the only life that remained was a colorless facsimile? A dream, a fantasy, a make-believe story, an entire past built on nothing.
She decides that it doesn't matter when it started, only that it had. And now she feels lonely, an outsider watching everything else pass by her at blinding speeds. Her friends move forward, oblivious to the fact that she is standing still, that fake smile plastered in the middle of her face.
The café comes into full view and she finds a darkened corner table in the back. Vaughn isn't there yet, which is abnormal but hardly concerns her. A waiter emerges from the shadows and hovers, and she orders a glass of wine. Against protocol she knows, but the heat and two glasses of wine have made her feel reckless and she desires avoiding procedure and rules like the plague.
After five minutes, the appearance of a nicely poured glass and an introspective period of gazing into absolute nothing, Sydney is startled by the clearing of a throat at the table next to hers.
She turns and meets the eyes of her handler, the sea-green haze the color of fog and evergreen. They can be enchanting if she lets them, and so she is quick to look away.
" Hi." She says, and brings her wine glass to her lips. She is aware that he is watching her- aware that he is wondering why she is drinking, why her attitude is both cavalier and perhaps even unprofessional. Sydney slides a quick glance out of the corner of her eye and confirms her suspicions- he is staring at her; but not with contempt, more with a wide-eyed wonder.
" Sydney?" She almost laughs, then but stops herself.
" There's hardly anyone here. Why don't you sit with me?" It's a brazen suggestion, and she should regret having made it, but she doesn't. He's swallowing, and his reply is delayed by the appearance of his waiter, asking what he would like to drink.
" Crown and Coke. A double, on the rocks. Two twists of lime, please." She smiles that he orders a drink, smiles over his manners, the clipped edge of his voice, the patrician lit of his tone.
As soon as the waiter disappears he turns. " I can't sit with you, Sydney."
" But you can order a drink." She quips lightly. " I really don't think anyone is watching us, Vaughn. Certainly it would be less conspicuous for two people to speak to one another while sitting at the same table over two people talking while sitting apart .."
" Fine." He sounds almost angry, and for some reason this pleases her. He moves to her table after a less than covert sweep of the room with his eyes and sits in front of her. The waiter returns with his drink, looks momentarily confused, and then locates his transplanted patron.
" I see you've joined the lady, sir."
" She managed to convince me." Vaughn tells the server with a less than amused smile. Sydney shrugs her shoulders and sips from her glass, letting the warm liquid coat her mouth before it languidly slides down her throat. She observes as Vaughn drinks a healthy bit from his tumbler and rests it on the table.
" I can't believe the lengths I go for you…" He mutters, and this time she does manage a stifled laugh.
" You order a drink and sit at my table like an ordinary person and you are admonishing the lengths you go for me? Really, Vaughn, I could think of so much worse." She doesn't want to look at him and instead concentrates on a spot directly below his left ear. In a tiny niche of space there is navy, a triangle of another table, a woman, her features obscured by distance, laughing and talking with her friends.
While waiting for his reply her mind turns to coincidences, an unplanned deviation, but one taken nevertheless. Was it coincidence that he happened to be the agent on duty the day she stumbled into the CIA with a swollen mouth and flaming magenta hair? Was it coincidence that his father had been killed by her mother? Was it coincidence that he was the first man since Danny had died that had made her feel like life was even remotely worth living again based on the power of his smile?
" We aren't ordinary people, Sydney." His reminder is harsh, though spoken softly, followed by another one of his swift drinks, one that drains his glass. He does not wait for her response as he gestures for the waiter to give him a refill. Her eyes fill with tears, the pain suddenly all too acute, beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to break free.
She takes a breath, half of it oxygen and the other heat and humidity….it's so hot, still, well after nine o' clock. And damn him, he's right, they aren't ordinary people.
" I'm sorry, Sydney." She can tell by his tone that he means his apology.
" Don't be, you're right." Her tone is bland, the tears gone from her eyes, another sip from her glass. Its mostly empty; a fact that now fascinates her, and with slight dismay it becomes clear there is the possibility that she might be getting drunk.
" Sydney-" Again, the waiter, with Vaughn's drink, somewhat fuller than the last.
"Thank you." He says.
" Miss? Another?" The waiter gestures at her soon to be empty wineglass. She takes a half-second to answer.
" Sure."
Vaughn gives her a warning glance. She looks up at him, feeling intense suddenly, inspired to say something. "I know you called me for a reason, but for about fifteen minutes I want to sit here, with you, share a drink, talk if the mood strikes us.. For fifteen minutes can we be ordinary people, Vaughn?"
He looks at her, blinks, picks up his glass and offers a tight smile. "To ordinary people, Sydney."
She taps his glass, wanting to grin, wanting to hug him for really going too far for her, but she doesn't. She sits there, a true smile on her face, a flush to her cheeks, and when the waiter brings her next glass of wine she downs the one she's been holding onto in a rather large gulp.
" Sometimes you perplex me." Vaughn is looking at her again, in that same way, a mix of wonder and confusion on his face. The restaurant is dim; and his eyes shine back at her like glassy marbles. He's leaning back in his chair, swirling his drink in his hands. In the distance if she concentrates she can almost hear the ocean lapping against the shore.
" How so." Her tone should have been light, but it isn't. She wonders how she always messes that up with him. How it's so much easier to be duplicitous in tone with any other person and yet…with him….her voice belies her fears every time. The honesty of her emotions always come shining through, blatantly obvious, as plain as the glasses on the table before them.
" Your occasional blatant disregard for reason, for one. Oh, that coupled with your apparent lack of concern for your personal safety, or for that matter, my safety, but.." he drinks, flashes her a smile that makes her feel dizzy, an ailment quickly blamed on heat and wine, and continues. "I really shouldn't be doing this." He shakes his head.
" I really appreciate it that you are." Sydney is not fully sure of what he means, but if it's this table, him sitting across from her, this conversation- then she is thankful. Any moment that can hang on a vestige of normalcy is welcomed by her, and it's something she doesn't want to admit to need. She drums her fingers on the table, finding imaginary things to pick up and toy with her half-polished fingernails. If it's wrong to want this, she thinks, and she knows it is, then I'm a very, very bad person. She swallows another drink and hears him clear his throat again.
" I don't think you fully understand me here, Sydney. I really shouldn't be doing this." His words have an edge they'd lacked on first utterance. She doesn't understand their full meaning, her mind fuzzy with alcohol.
" What do you mean? I won't tell anyone." She winks and instantly regrets it, it's a testament to her weakening inhibitions and her casual comfort with him, her handler. She watches him process her words, he shifts in his seat, his once well-pressed oxford now sticking to his well defined arms in the humidity.
She's staring, she knows it, and she doesn't stop herself. After a moment she breaks the gaze and brings her eyes to his, and in the pale light it is impossible to make full eye contact. He surprises her when he leans forward suddenly.
" I'm not concerned with your telling anyone, Sydney. I …"
He reaches over then, and touches her hand with his finger. It's a light touch, almost imperceptible to the untrained hand but to her- it causes her eyes to flutter closed. The wash of sensation over her entire body is incredible, amazing, undulating….a fingertip. She opens her eyes and he is watching her, his face no longer in shadows, his eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions.
" Vaughn." She says, and her voice is breathy, and she watches him swallow again. His finger has not moved, a warm, centralized radius of electric pulsations originate from where it remains on her hand. It's sexy, magnetic, divine. She is warm, and knows it's from more than the heat, and more than the wine.
" I have got to go." He whispers the words. She did hear that, didn't she? He pulls his hand from hers and backs away.
" Wait, Vaughn. Wait. The countermission?" It's amazing, she thinks in that instant, how a moment can have power to exist, to rise, and then to fall. Something as innocuous as his finger touching her had left her feeling like she was drowning, and just as quickly as it had started it was now over. The complexity of it startled her; the abrupt nature of Vaughn's withdrawal frightened her. She wants to ask him what he is afraid of. She wants to ask him if he wants to stay here, with her, to hell with protocol, to hell with the countermission.
The waiter appears again, asking for more refills, and they both decline. After he is out of earshot, Vaughn looks at Sydney pointedly and then looks away.
" All we need are GPS photographs. You'll use the standard equipment." His tone is back to business-like, perfunctory. He refuses eye contact now.
" What?" She asks, confusion in her voice, still slightly flustered by the strange exchange between them. She had been watching the way his face had hardened, his visible avoidance of her, the way his eyes had shifted with every word he'd spoken.
" Photographs. You know what to do when you return, right? I'll talk to you then." He looks at her briefly and smiles.
In less than thirty seconds he's walked away, the ice from his glass pooling in condensation on the table. She swirls the wine in her glass, sipping it occasionally, prolonging the walk back to her apartment, no longer wanting it to be so lonely. She pays her bill, throwing down money for her wine and a sizable tip, and as she is leaving she circles to the other side of the table, steps unsteady from alcohol, vision slightly blurred. There are still ice cubes in his drink , still the soft gold of liquid at the bottom, untouched. She lines the rim with her fingertip, letting it run over the smooth, cool surface.
Blaming her next actions on the heat, and the wine, she brings her fingers to her lips and can taste the hint of lime, the softer, sugary taste of soda, and the heady flavor of alcohol. Beneath that she imagines something else, a different flavor, one foreign to her, one her body lacks immunity to, one she secretly, and only momentarily, allows herself to enjoy.
THE END
Tell me what you thought!! aliasfanfiction@home.com