Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome.
celli@fanfic101.com
Category: General. Some humor, I hope.
Rating: PG-13 for Eric's bad language.
Pairing: Implied mild S/V.
Spoilers: Through "Trust Me."
Summary: Eric mopes. And swears a lot.
Archiving: Cover Me, and my site (www.fanfic101.com);
anyone else please just let me know.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various
other people with lawyers. This means that neither Eric
nor Vaughn belong to me. Why, cruel world?
Notes: Seriously, if I thanked everyone who encouraged me,
it'd be longer than the fic. So I'll 'specially thank JenC
for the beta and the blog gang for the prodding. You rock.
***
James Bond Meets General Hospital
by Celli Lane
***
I am tired.
God. Damn. Am I tired.
I've been lying in the hospital bed from hell for the
last...I don't know, actually...for-fucking-ever. Oh,
except the times they come to get me for physical therapy.
Which is torture beyond reason, but at least then I have an
excuse for being tired.
No, apparently just being shot takes it out of you. Who
knew?
Vaughn comes bounding in the door. "Hey, Eric, how's it
going?"
I'd tell him, but a) it hurts to talk, and b) he doesn't
really want to know. So I just shrug.
He launches into his usual tale of the day's events. I
tell you, I know more now than I did when I was at work
everyday. I admit, I'm fascinated by all the stories.
It's starting to sound more like James Bond meets General
Hospital.
Come on, I'm not the only one half-convinced that Sloane is
actually Sydney's father. And he's going to show up
someday with a black mask and a scuba apparatus. "Join me,
Sydneeeeeeey."
...or possibly I need to stop pushing the painkiller
button. Whatever.
Apparently Sydney's having some trouble with her parents.
Poor baby. Apparently there are sociopaths on both sides
of the family tree. And she's sad, and she's angsty, and--
ooh! She hugged Vaughn. This must be described in detail.
I'd vomit, but it hurts my throat.
Finally I wave him over. "Hey. Mike."
"Huh?"
"Confession."
He gets a funny look on his face. I shake my head. "Not
religious."
"Um...okay."
"Don't care about Sydney."
Dude, he looks like I smacked him one. File that away for
reference...'cause God knows I want to sometimes.
"Don't care about Mommy and Daddy."
He's starting to lean back from me. But he can still hear
me.
"Talk about something not work. Not Bristow."
He stares down at me. "I...I'm sorry."
He turns and leaves, and if I could yell after him I would.
Goddammit, she *shot* me! Why do I have to be nice? I
went along for mission support and I got fuckin' shot!
She shot me.
Shit, now I'm all guilty. And I'm still tired.
***
Physical therapy is almost a distraction. Hell, the pain
in my neck and my head and my back and whatever, it's just
pain.
Guilt sucks.
***
Okay, now I'm *really* tired.
And I'm still hurting.
And that painkiller button's looking damned attractive.
Um, did Sydney Bristow just walk into my room? Or am I
just completely, you know, high?
She crosses her arms and glares at me. What the fuck does
she want? An argument? I sound impressively shitty. A
catfight? I could hit her with my IV stand.
"What did you say to Vaughn?"
I try to communicate huh? with body language.
"You upset him. He won't say why, but he came back
from visiting you not talking to m--anyone."
So sorry I put a damper on their budding...whatever.
"You know, he was in the ICU waiting room for three whole
days when we brought you in. He'd come out for briefings
and that was it. He slept on the floor. Tanya from the
typing pool was bringing him food. He didn't leave until
they promised him you'd live. He hasn't missed a day's
visit unless he was in another freaking country."
And I made him feel like shit.
"And you make him feel like shit."
I blink. A lot. I don't think I've ever heard her swear
before. I'll have to ask Vaughn if she was like this under
pressure...except, of course, I just told him not to talk
about her. Plus he's not talking to me. This is all very
complicated.
"And you know Vaughn, he thinks this is all his fault
anyway. You can read it in his forehead wrinkles."
I open my mouth to laugh before I remember who I'm talking
to.
"It's not. It was my mission. And my...you know, mother."
She drops her head, and that fantastic sweep of hair covers
her face.
"It's okay that you don't like me," the hair says.
Generous of it. "I'm not very good for you. I'm not very
good for...I'm sort of a health hazard. I expect a warning
from the Surgeon General's office any day now. But he's
your friend."
She tosses something that lands squarely in my lap and
walks out.
My lucky yo-yo. I had it in the pocket of my flak jacket
when Derevko shot me. It's older than me and has chipped
paint, so I can always find it by feel. Except....I check
it again. The paint is wearing off in new spots.
I run it through my fingers for a long time. Someone's
been using it for a worry stone, and it wasn't Sydney
Bristow.
Dammit. Goddammit.
I ring for a nurse. I need paper. At least with my
throat, uh, shot, I can get away with apologizing in
writing.
--the end--
celli@fanfic101.com
Category: General. Some humor, I hope.
Rating: PG-13 for Eric's bad language.
Pairing: Implied mild S/V.
Spoilers: Through "Trust Me."
Summary: Eric mopes. And swears a lot.
Archiving: Cover Me, and my site (www.fanfic101.com);
anyone else please just let me know.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various
other people with lawyers. This means that neither Eric
nor Vaughn belong to me. Why, cruel world?
Notes: Seriously, if I thanked everyone who encouraged me,
it'd be longer than the fic. So I'll 'specially thank JenC
for the beta and the blog gang for the prodding. You rock.
***
James Bond Meets General Hospital
by Celli Lane
***
I am tired.
God. Damn. Am I tired.
I've been lying in the hospital bed from hell for the
last...I don't know, actually...for-fucking-ever. Oh,
except the times they come to get me for physical therapy.
Which is torture beyond reason, but at least then I have an
excuse for being tired.
No, apparently just being shot takes it out of you. Who
knew?
Vaughn comes bounding in the door. "Hey, Eric, how's it
going?"
I'd tell him, but a) it hurts to talk, and b) he doesn't
really want to know. So I just shrug.
He launches into his usual tale of the day's events. I
tell you, I know more now than I did when I was at work
everyday. I admit, I'm fascinated by all the stories.
It's starting to sound more like James Bond meets General
Hospital.
Come on, I'm not the only one half-convinced that Sloane is
actually Sydney's father. And he's going to show up
someday with a black mask and a scuba apparatus. "Join me,
Sydneeeeeeey."
...or possibly I need to stop pushing the painkiller
button. Whatever.
Apparently Sydney's having some trouble with her parents.
Poor baby. Apparently there are sociopaths on both sides
of the family tree. And she's sad, and she's angsty, and--
ooh! She hugged Vaughn. This must be described in detail.
I'd vomit, but it hurts my throat.
Finally I wave him over. "Hey. Mike."
"Huh?"
"Confession."
He gets a funny look on his face. I shake my head. "Not
religious."
"Um...okay."
"Don't care about Sydney."
Dude, he looks like I smacked him one. File that away for
reference...'cause God knows I want to sometimes.
"Don't care about Mommy and Daddy."
He's starting to lean back from me. But he can still hear
me.
"Talk about something not work. Not Bristow."
He stares down at me. "I...I'm sorry."
He turns and leaves, and if I could yell after him I would.
Goddammit, she *shot* me! Why do I have to be nice? I
went along for mission support and I got fuckin' shot!
She shot me.
Shit, now I'm all guilty. And I'm still tired.
***
Physical therapy is almost a distraction. Hell, the pain
in my neck and my head and my back and whatever, it's just
pain.
Guilt sucks.
***
Okay, now I'm *really* tired.
And I'm still hurting.
And that painkiller button's looking damned attractive.
Um, did Sydney Bristow just walk into my room? Or am I
just completely, you know, high?
She crosses her arms and glares at me. What the fuck does
she want? An argument? I sound impressively shitty. A
catfight? I could hit her with my IV stand.
"What did you say to Vaughn?"
I try to communicate huh? with body language.
"You upset him. He won't say why, but he came back
from visiting you not talking to m--anyone."
So sorry I put a damper on their budding...whatever.
"You know, he was in the ICU waiting room for three whole
days when we brought you in. He'd come out for briefings
and that was it. He slept on the floor. Tanya from the
typing pool was bringing him food. He didn't leave until
they promised him you'd live. He hasn't missed a day's
visit unless he was in another freaking country."
And I made him feel like shit.
"And you make him feel like shit."
I blink. A lot. I don't think I've ever heard her swear
before. I'll have to ask Vaughn if she was like this under
pressure...except, of course, I just told him not to talk
about her. Plus he's not talking to me. This is all very
complicated.
"And you know Vaughn, he thinks this is all his fault
anyway. You can read it in his forehead wrinkles."
I open my mouth to laugh before I remember who I'm talking
to.
"It's not. It was my mission. And my...you know, mother."
She drops her head, and that fantastic sweep of hair covers
her face.
"It's okay that you don't like me," the hair says.
Generous of it. "I'm not very good for you. I'm not very
good for...I'm sort of a health hazard. I expect a warning
from the Surgeon General's office any day now. But he's
your friend."
She tosses something that lands squarely in my lap and
walks out.
My lucky yo-yo. I had it in the pocket of my flak jacket
when Derevko shot me. It's older than me and has chipped
paint, so I can always find it by feel. Except....I check
it again. The paint is wearing off in new spots.
I run it through my fingers for a long time. Someone's
been using it for a worry stone, and it wasn't Sydney
Bristow.
Dammit. Goddammit.
I ring for a nurse. I need paper. At least with my
throat, uh, shot, I can get away with apologizing in
writing.
--the end--