I decided to publish some stories I read and liked. They can't be find online anymore (I think). I had them on my computer and I thought it would be nice to put them online ! I do not own these stories, this one was written by omg. If you are the author of this story and you're not okay about this, you can contact me and I'll delete it immediately ! I hope these great stories will make some people happy !
Title: Sláinte
Author: omg
Rating: PG-13 for a tiny bit of language and some graphic images
Timeline: Season 4 / Post-Nocturne
Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own Alias or its characters. No infringement intended.
A/N: This was written for the March/April SD-1 Challenge. Required elements are listed at the end of the story.
"Sláinte" (pronounced "slahncha") is a common Irish toast (as in cheers!, not as in toast and jam). The literal translation of the Gaelic word is "health."
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Sláinte
She knew it was him. As soon as the door opened and his silhouette filled the doorway, she knew it was him. Even before she could make out his features, she knew it was him. She shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he always found her. (If you didn't count those two years, he always found her.) Dammit, he always found her, even when she didn't want to be found.
She wanted to roll her eyes and let her breath out in a huff of exasperation, but she didn't do either. Maybe if she didn't move, he wouldn't see her. So she sat unmoving in her booth, with her back against the adjoining wall and her legs stretched out on the bench.
She watched him step across the threshold. He let one arm lag behind, fingers sliding along the thick wooden door so it wouldn't slam loudly behind him. With his other hand he removed his sunglasses and tucked one of the earpieces in the neck of his T-shirt, hanging them there for future use. He certainly wouldn't need them in here. The pub was dark, just the way she wanted it. There were no overhead lights, just small, low-wattage lamps hanging on the wall at the end of each booth. The large front windows were blacked out, but she wasn't sure if that was meant to keep the light out or to keep the dark in.
As she watched him remove his sunglasses she thought of her rule. It was a rule she had made for herself even before she entered the spy world. She was still in high school at the time, and she had just bought her first pair of real sunglasses. They weren't the kind you bought for $3.99 at the drug store. They were cool, and she had thought they made her look tough. She had worn them everyday. She had started noticing other people's sunglasses. She had decided three things. First, some people, if they couldn't see your eyes, assumed you couldn't see theirs. They assumed that your eyes were pointing in the same direction as your head. They didn't realize that you could be facing straight ahead but looking to the right. They didn't realize that you might be watching them watch you. Second, sunglasses, if they were dark enough, provided power. If you couldn't see a person's eyes, you weren't seeing the whole picture, you weren't hearing the whole story. Third (her rule), you could never trust a person who wore sunglasses indoors.
Which was exactly why she wore hers now. She wasn't in the mood to be trusted.
She looked straight ahead, but her eyes were watching him. He was scanning the room casually, looking for her. Of course, his search was over quickly because he knew her well enough to start at the back of the room. When he looked at her she didn't react. She continued to face the wall across from her, pretending that she found it to be particularly interesting. (Apparently someone named Tonya had been there in 1992. Tonya thought that Nick R. sucked, and had proceeded to carve a suggestion of what Nick R. could do to himself. Her sunglasses were too dark to be completely sure of what Nick R. was supposed to do, but apparently Tonya had had a lot of time on her hands, as well as a sturdy carving tool.)
As he made his way to the nearly-empty bar, she followed him with her eyes. She was glad he hadn't made a beeline for her booth; it gave her time to think about how he had found her. She was sure he hadn't followed her, although, this week, she wouldn't put it past him. Ever since she had been released from medical services (with a clean bill of health that clearly stated she was no longer under the effect of any hallucinogens), it seemed that he was never more than ten feet away from her. If he wasn't there, her father was. It was like having two little puppies following her around. Not cute, cuddly puppies either, but yippy little dogs. And then, when she was at home Nadia was there, hovering. She couldn't get a minute alone. Never before had she wished harder for a solo mission, but none had been assigned. Four days straight in L.A. – what were the odds? She had finally managed to slip away for a few hours on her own, and now here he was. She should put a frickin' bell around his neck. Better yet, maybe Marshall would create a gadget just for her. A Michael Vaughn Tracking Device. Maybe it could be linked to an alarm on her watch. A beep could sound every time he got within fifty yards. That should give her enough time to bolt.
Speaking of tracking devices, maybe they were tracking her…
This thought stopped simultaneously with Vaughn's footsteps. He leaned both forearms against the bar, waiting for the bartender to approach him. His profile was bathed in green light from the neon clover-shaped sign hanging over the bar. The green highlighted his tired eyes and the bags beneath them. (He always looked tired these days.) She watched him order a Black and Tan and pay the bartender. He probably gave him a good tip, too. He was a generous guy. (Sometimes he was too generous.) He turned in her direction and walked toward her, stopping at the end of her table. She couldn't very well keep staring at the wall. She couldn't be that rude to him. So she turned her head in his direction and tilted her head up toward his chest, but she didn't look at his face (never at his face).
"Mind if I join you?"
"It's a free country." Okay, maybe she could be a little rude. Today, she was a hard-ass. She was not to be trusted.
"Yes it is, thanks to you." She snorted at his sly comment. Flattery wouldn't get him far today. He slid into the other side of the booth, but she didn't turn to face him. Instead she kept her feet up on her side and turned her attention back to Tonya's wall. "I never figured you for the Irish pub type of girl."
She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug and took a sip of her water. Her glass of Guinness had been emptied long ago and now stood upside down on the table, serving another purpose.
"I guess I'll have to add this to your list of places," he said.
"What places?"
"Your usual places: the pier, the observatory, the palisades, the train station."
"How did you find me?"
"When I couldn't find you at any of the other places, I called Nadia and Weiss. Weiss suggested I try this place."
"How did he know? I didn't tell him where I was going."
"He said you hung out here sometimes after you… came back."
"I never told him that."
"He was worried about you. He followed you." She muttered her response under her breath. "What was that?"
She looked in his general direction, but not at his face (never at his face). "I said he's pretty f******' stealthy for a life-sized teddy bear."
"Yeah, I guess he can be when he wants to be," he laughed.
She faced forward again, bringing one knee up toward her chest so she could rest her arm on it. She hoped he would take it as a sign that the conversation was over. Fortunately he picked up on that and took the opportunity to shift in his seat. He copied her choice of positions by leaning against the wall, spreading his long legs out, and letting his feet dangle over the edge of the seat. He turned his attention to a muted television on the far wall of the pub. She stewed in her seat for at least ten minutes. He seemed content to watch the soccer game and nurse his beer. She couldn't tell who was playing because the lenses of her sunglasses were too dark, but he could probably see it just fine. In fact, maybe he could read what it was that Nick R. was supposed to be doing with himself. Maybe she should ask him.
"Why were you looking for me?" A completely different question came out of her mouth. Dammit, she'd told herself she wasn't going to ask him that.
"You left work three hours early without telling anybody. You didn't say goodbye."
"I had my reasons." Hard-ass hard-ass hard-ass.
"I'm sure you did. Care to share them?"
Not really, but she did anyway. "You and my dad have been nipping at my heels for four days. I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe anymore. I needed to be alone for a while." It was a partial truth, but since her eyes were hidden behind her dark glasses, maybe he wouldn't notice.
"I'm sor— "
"No! Don't apologize!" She jerked her head in his direction and sliced into his "sorry" with a sharp hand. "Whatever you do, don't apologize."
He had been apologizing for two damn months now. First he was sorry he had given up on her. He was sorry he had allowed himself to be fooled by Lauren. He was sorry he married Lauren. Then he was sorry he had gone back to Lauren after getting her hopes up. He was sorry about the person he had turned into after he found out about Lauren. She couldn't take another apology. If she heard the words "I'm sorry" come out of his mouth one more time she might just slam his head into the table. She had watched him do that to Sark so many months (years) ago in Stockholm. She thought it might be cathartic.
Even worse than his apologies was the fact that, no matter how many times she had forgiven him and told him it was all totally understandable, there was still a tiny little part of her that hadn't forgiven him. A tiny part of her was still just a tiny bit pissed. A tiny part of her felt a tiny bit betrayed.
The worst thing of all, however, was that she had committed the ultimate betrayal and he had not let her apologize for it. She had betrayed him in the worst way possible. She had pointed a gun at his face and pulled the trigger. Before she could even apologize, he had waved it off with four little words: "Syd, you weren't yourself." Of course she hadn't been herself, but that didn't change the fact that she had done it. How could you ever forgive someone who had tried to kill you? Despite his understanding words, she wasn't sure if he had really forgiven her. Maybe he still felt a tiny bit betrayed, too. The possibility of this being true had filled her with fear, and her fear was manifesting itself in a very gory way.
If she had been looking at his face, she probably would have seen the perfect picture of confusion. He probably had his forehead all wrinkled up, trying to find a reason behind her outburst. Luckily (for him), he was smart enough to let it slide. "I was worried about you," he said. "Since we got back from Prague, you haven't been yourself."
"I'm fine. They wouldn't have let me out of medical services if something were wrong."
"Maybe everything is fine, physically, but I think that something's bothering you." She started to argue, but he cut her off. "Something other than needing time alone."
"What would make you think that?"
"Well, let's see." He dropped his feet back to the floor beneath the table and turned toward her. He laced his fingers together around his half-empty glass and started listing his reasons, as calmly as if he were listing his grocery purchases. "I called your house twice yesterday. Both times, Nadia told me you were out running. Two days ago, you snapped at Marshall, and while I'll admit that does happen on occasion around the office, I've never seen anyone more patient with him than you are. I really knew something was wrong when you didn't snap at Sloane today." He picked up her cell phone, which was on the table, and looked at the display. It notified him that there were eight missed calls and four new messages. "I've been calling you all afternoon, and you haven't bothered to answer your phone or respond to my messages, or to even check them, apparently." He placed the phone back on the table and she stared at it.
"I told you – "
"But the real kicker is, you haven't looked me in the eye in four days." Upon hearing that, her instincts kicked in and, before she could stop herself, her head jerked up and she looked at him dead on. Of course, this was the biggest mistake she could possibly make. She sucked in a harsh breath at the awful sight before her, but as much as she wanted to, she couldn't tear her eyes away. "Clearly you are trying ignore me," he continued. "Maybe I'm just another clueless guy, but I have no idea what I might have done to warrant that. I would appreciate it if you would act like the mature adult you are and tell me what's wrong."
She couldn't believe it. He was asking her what was wrong? Didn't he know? Didn't he see it? When he looked at himself in the mirror, didn't it glare back at him with the power of a thousand suns? More importantly, couldn't he feel it? How could he not feel it? It was right there, in the middle of his forehead, dead center between his eyes. It was a bullet hole, and she had put it there. From this distance it looked like a clean shot, but she knew that if she leaned a bit closer she would see that the edges were slightly ragged. If her lungs weren't busy collapsing in on themselves she might have wondered how something so small could do so much damage. If the oxygen were flowing to her brain, she would have decided it had something to do with proper placement. Speaking of placement, why was all the air staying out in the room and not entering her lungs? Wasn't she breathing?
"Sydney?" He leaned forward a little, trying to get a better look at her hidden eyes. As he leaned forward a thin line of blood started to trickle out of the bullet hole. It started to slide slowly down the bridge of his nose. She reached out a hand to wipe it away, but she stopped abruptly, watching as the blood decided to forego his nose and start a new path down the left side of his face. God, didn't he feel it? Didn't it itch, like a drop of sweat rolling down your temple? Surely blood was even worse. Why didn't he wipe it away? How could he stand it? She had waited too long to act, and now the blood reached his stubble. It spread out in five smaller lines and crept toward his jaw line. Amazingly, the five resulting drops fell to the table in perfect time and landed there with five perfectly synchronized splats. She jerked her hand back to cover her mouth. She stared at the five drops and then back at his face.
"Sydney? Are you okay?"
"Excuse me." She slid out of the booth rather ungracefully and moved quickly toward the restroom.
"Sydney!"
She waved him off without turning back, and, to his credit, he did not follow her. Once in the restroom, she went straight to the old sink and turned on the water as cold as it would go. She looked at her self in the mirror and saw her tough, dark sunglasses gaping back like big empty sockets where her eyes should be. She would have to remove the glasses if she wanted to wash her face. Slowly she slid them up to rest on top of her head. Her bloodshot eyes stared back at her. They weren't bloodshot from the beer (she had only finished one), but from seventy-two hours with very little sleep. She had been successful in avoiding Vaughn's face during the past few days, but she had no defense against seeing it when she closed her eyes as well. As a result, her nights had been sleepless and long.
She splashed cold water on her face and dried it with a rough paper towel. As she tried to control her breathing she thought about Vaughn and the lost look that had been on his face (right under that bullet hole). The poor guy was probably sitting there wondering if she was even going to come back, or if she had made a run for it out the back door. Or maybe he was thinking she had finally lost it completely.
This was, of course, a distinct possibility. Rationally, she knew there was no bullet hole. Professionally, she knew she should check herself into medical services for a serious pysch evaluation. Emotionally, she knew she had put that hole there and would never forgive herself, so why should he?
She slid her glasses back down over her eyes and exited the bathroom. As she made her way back to the booth, she made a conscious decision to lighten up on the hard-ass routine. He didn't really deserve it. It wasn't his fault she had put a bullet through his brain. She had to get past this. Maybe if she stared at it long enough, it would go away.
She passed in front of the bar and noticed for the first time that the neon of one cloverleaf had flickered out, leaving the clover short one leaf. She wondered if that was a sign of her luck running out. Probably so.
He noticed her approach and stopped running his hand through his hair. Instead he stared down at his empty beer glass until she slid to a stop in front of him. She sat facing forward this time, with her back actually against the back of the seat. She would face this head on. She wouldn't back down. She focused on her water glass. As soon as she could build up the courage to look up, she wouldn't back down.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." She drained the rest of her water in three giant gulps.
"You wanna tell me what that was?"
That was a freak-out brought on by seeing a man walking around with a bullet hole in his forehead. "No. Not really."
He sighed in exasperation. She would have to look up eventually. She would look up, and she wouldn't back down. She would stare it down. That was the plan.
"I need another drink. Do you want anything?" he asked.
"No, thank you." As he turned to get the waitress's attention, she took the opportunity to look up at him. It was still there. Smaller than a penny but as large as a black hole, waiting to suck her in. At least the blood was gone now. (Had he wiped it away?) The waitress came over and Vaughn ordered a Guinness. She looked at the waitress to catch her reaction. Nothing. Just a smile, a nod, and a "sure." Apparently she was used to customers with bullet holes in their heads. Or maybe she was just being kind in the hopes of getting a big tip.
"She was nice," he said. He turned back to her, giving her another good look at her betrayal. Was that smoke coming out of it now?
"Uh-huh."
"You know, when I was in college, I used to go to this Irish pub in Georgetown. There was this waitress named Maggie. She was pretty cute. Anyway, there were these two regulars, old Irish guys. They used to say stuff to her all the time. I mean, like, basically flirting with her and saying these things that were just totally inappropriate for anyone to say, much less two guys each old enough to be her grandfather. They were basically dirty old men, but she never called them on it. She would just laugh and flirt back. She wouldn't give me the time of day, but she would let them slap her on the butt and kiss her on the cheek. It totally blew my mind. It still does, actually."
"It was probably the accent."
"Maybe so."
"Or maybe she figured they were harmless. Maybe she didn't feel threatened by them."
"But she felt threatened by me? I was a nice guy!"
"So. I might have felt threatened by you when I was a young college girl." Especially if he'd had that hole in his head back then, too.
"What? Why?"
"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?" She wasn't just talking about his physique. She was also referring to the bullet hole. She wondered if he would pick up on that. Probably not, since it wasn't really there. (It wasn't really there, right? She was pretty sure it wasn't really there. But it looked so real.)
"What? I wasn't always this buff, you know." He grinned and she found herself grinning, too, which seemed entirely inappropriate considering… the bullet hole. "Anyway. When I was back in D.C. recently, I went to Georgetown. I thought I'd visit the old pub, but I got there, where it was supposed to be, and it was gone. I mean, the building was still there, but they had converted it into a store. A Baby Gap, of all things. It was kinda depressing." He shook his head and she tensed and sat further back in her seat, expecting the blood to shake out in all directions at the sudden movement.
He seemed to notice her reaction but before he could question her about it the waitress returned with his beer. He thanked her and the waitress grinned sweetly. Too sweetly, in her opinion. She wanted to set her straight. He's mine, honey. Don't you see that bullet hole in his head? I put that there. Mine. No, she probably shouldn't say that. She didn't have a chance, anyway, because the waitress was leaning over the table, asking if she could clear away the over-turned beer glass.
"No!" She held the glass in place with her hand. "Um, that's okay. Thanks, though." The waitress looked at her strangely but smiled and walked away. She couldn't blame her. It was, after all, a perfectly reasonable reaction to being snapped at by a woman who had put a bullet through her customer's head.
"Any particular reason you're so attached to that glass?" he asked.
She shifted her eyes toward it, and, even though she was sure he couldn't see her eyes behind their shield, he looked at it, too. He bent down for closer examination. She supposed the blood would really start gushing out now.
"Is that a spider in there?"
"Yes."
"Why is there a spider trapped in there?"
"I was going to crush it, but I thought to myself, 'what would Vaughn's father think?'"
He grinned at that. "So you decided it would be better to let him die a slow, suffocating death of oxygen deprivation and beer fumes?" Well, when he put it that way… "Do you mind if I let him go?"
"As long as you keep it away from me." He looked at her strangely.
"You don't like spiders, do you?" Perhaps it was time for her to come clean.
"Not particularly. But I didn't have a real problem with them until recently."
"Why's that?"
"I kept seeing them."
"What?"
"When I was affected by the drug, that was one of the things I kept seeing. Spiders. Spiders in my sink, tarantulas in my tea." A bullet hole in his head. Oh no, wait, that was afterwards.
"Oh. Well, that was before you knew they were lucky. Now you don't have to worry about them." She just nodded her head, not taking her eyes off the glass. He didn't look convinced. She sat back in her seat with her arms stiff by her side while he slid a napkin to the lip of the glass. With some maneuvering he managed to slide the napkin under the glass without letting the spider out. He flipped everything over in one quick movement, keeping the napkin over the mouth of the glass. "I'll be right back."
She had expected him to let the spider loose on the pub floor, so she was surprised when he walked to the entrance and stepped outside to set it free. She knew he was doing that for her, to give her some sense of security. Pretty nice, considering she had tried to blow his head off. While he was gone she thought about what he had said about spiders being lucky. Maybe he was right. Maybe the spider had come to replace the luck that had run off with the missing cloverleaf. Maybe her luck wasn't running out just yet. She sincerely hoped not.
Luck played a huge role in their jobs. Good luck didn't usually affect the outcome of a well-planned mission, but bad luck could certainly ruin one. It didn't take much, either: a rain storm, a jammed weapon, a guard taking an unexpected smoke break. All of these could spell disaster. While you were planning a mission, you asked all the what-ifs you could think of. (What if there is a guard posted at this location? What if Alpha Team doesn't make the specified rendezvous time? What if the package isn't where you expect it to be?) You asked the what-ifs and you made contingency plans to deal with them. The rules totally changed for the trip home. You never asked what-ifs about a completed mission. (What if those hinges had squeaked a little louder? What if we hadn't had the right code? What if that guard's aim had been a little better? What if that bullet had hit two inches to the right?) If you asked the what-ifs post-mission, if you questioned your good luck, you would drive yourself crazy, just like she was doing now.
She knew she shouldn't be doing it, but she just couldn't stop.
He was almost back at the table now. She looked up at him, thinking that maybe the bullet hole had scampered off with the spider. (Stranger things had happened. Didn't the dish run away with the spoon?) No such luck. It was still there, front and center, and maybe a little juicier around the edges. She had to take a deep breath and remind herself of her plan: stare it down.
He sat back down across from her, placing the glass on the table between them. He removed the napkin with a flourish.
"No more spider," he said.
"Thank you."
"My pleasure." He grinned at her and leaned back in his seat. "And just to clarify, he would have liked you."
"The spider?" Since some of his brains had been obliterated she couldn't blame him for being a little off, but this was a bit much.
"No, not the spider, my father. I think he would have liked you."
"Oh." Taking the recent events into consideration, she couldn't find it in herself to agree, but she couldn't exactly argue, either.
"He would have been impressed by you. He would have respected your intelligence and your abilities as an operative. I think most of all, though, he would have liked you for your strength, your sense of morality, your determination, your loyalty to the people you care about, your kindness, your goodness. I think those are probably some of the things that drew him to my mother."
She should have let that slide. She should have smiled and thanked him for the compliment.
"I'm not sure about all that." She didn't always do what she should do.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I'm not so sure anymore. I don't really feel like those things are a part of me anymore. Maybe I haven't felt them in a while, but lately I've begun to notice it a lot more, especially this week."
"Why this week?" His brow wrinkled in confusion, which caused the edges of the hole to converge in a tighter circle. Her staring strategy wasn't really working. She wondered if maybe the dark lenses of her glasses were diminishing the full force of her Bristow glare.
"I mean, ever since I got back from Prague, it's been staring me in the face." She shot the hole a dirty look.
"What has?"
"This feeling that I'm not the same person I used to be, that I'm not as good, or kind, or moral as I used to be. I've done things I never would have thought myself capable of. There's this feeling that maybe the darkness has gotten to me. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm a part of it; maybe that's where I belong, in the darkness. I'm not sure that there's a place in the light for a person like me." If she couldn't get away from him, she could try to push him away. The more distance she placed between them, the harder it would be for her to hit her target next time. She was so sure there would be a next time.
"A person like you?" She was scaring him. She could hear the fear in his voice. The bullet hole, on the other hand, wasn't backing down. It was as distinct as ever, not wavering. It knew exactly what kind of person she had become.
"Yeah. A person like me."
"I don't understand."
"I'm not the same person I used to be and I'm not the same operative I used to be. I'm not denying that I'm good at what I do, but I'm not as good as I used to be." This, of course, was not the bigger problem, but it was the more immediate one.
"Syd, I don't know what you're trying to say here. With everything you've been through, I can understand that your outlook might have changed, and I'm sorry that had to happen, but your skills haven't diminished in the least. You and I both know that you're as good as you used to be, maybe better."
"Fine, but it's not just about skills and techniques. Every operative has to admit that luck plays a part in his work. I think that I got my last dose of luck in Prague. I think I'm all out."
"You mean the antidote?"
"No, not the antidote, the bullets. Ever since I got out of medical services, I keep asking myself: what if my dad hadn't removed the bullets from that gun? It was a matter of dumb luck, and if it hadn't happened, I would have done the worst thing an operative could do. I already had done the worst thing an operative could do, I turned on my partner; I just wasn't successful. If it hadn't been for my dad, I would have succeeded."
He seemed shocked to hear her say it. (Perhaps referring to his murder as a success hadn't been the best tactic.) She watched him as he looked off to the side, contemplating her comment and his response. He was staring at Tonya's wall, but now probably wouldn't be the best time to ask him about Nick R.'s orders.
"It wasn't dumb luck. Your father is one of the best strategists I've ever worked with. Removing the bullets was a calculated decision and a logical move given the situation."
That was a nice answer. The perfect answer, actually. It was a gift, wrapped in a neat box, tied with a pretty bow, presented to her so that she could go back to being an operative without the fear that good luck had abandoned her, leaving her to face bad luck on her own. She hadn't been born yesterday, though. She didn't accept gifts from strangers or men with bullet holes prominently displayed on their wrinkled foreheads.
"Don't sell yourself short, Vaughn. You're quite the strategist, too. But you didn't think to empty the clips, did you? If it were a purely logical move, why didn't either of us think of it?" He started to interrupt, but she wouldn't listen. "No matter how you try to rationalize it, it comes down to luck. I was lucky that my dad removed the bullets. You were lucky. Why can't you admit that? Can't you let me consider the what-ifs of this whole ridiculous scenario?"
"Fine. Go ahead. Drive yourself crazy over it." He tried to act resigned, but she could tell he was angry.
"I already have. Now I'm asking you to think about it. What if my father hadn't taken the bullets out of that gun?"
"If your father hadn't taken the bullets out of that gun, I would probably be dead, and Donovan would be living with Weiss, getting fat off pizza and potato chips."
"How can you joke about this?"
"I have to joke about it!" His fist slammed on the table. "If I don't joke about it, then I might think about the fact that deep down, there's a part of you that is scared enough of me, that hates me enough, to want to kill me." He lowered his voice. "Now I know what you're afraid of. You're afraid of me. You think that I betrayed you, and you're afraid that I'll do it again."
"When I said those things, I wasn't myself."
"No, you weren't your usual self, but they were your thoughts. They were your fears, not someone else's. You knew who I was, you knew what I had done to you, and you knew what you were talking about. It might have been something you wouldn't have normally said, but it was still the truth."
"Vaughn—"
"I know that I hurt you, and I've apologized for that. I don't know what else to do to make it up to you. If you know of a way, then tell me, and I'll try to do it. If you want to stay angry at me, fine. But if you're angry, yell at me or kick my ass or something. I'd rather have you yelling at me than go another day with you ignoring me."
"I'm not angry at you." She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was the one who had pulled the trigger, and here he was taking all the blame again. He was the one who should be angry. "I mean, I was angry at first. I think I made that pretty clear after Hong Kong. But after we went through everything with Lauren, I wasn't angry anymore, just scared of getting hurt again."
"There's nothing I can do about that, is there?" he asked dejectedly. He leaned his head forward over the table. Both hands ran through his hair and stopped there. His elbows rested on the table. She could only see the top of his head, and was grateful to have a moment without the gaping hole in her line of sight. "I thought that you realized I would never do anything to hurt you, at least not intentionally. I can't force you to believe it." She was caught off guard as a drop of blood fell to the table, dangerously close to landing in his beer. She had to stop this before another one fell, or worse, a steady stream.
"Vaughn, I wasn't finished. Sit up and let me finish." She hoped he caught her extra emphasis on the sitting up part. He did. She would have sighed gratefully, but she was back to having the bullet hole front and center. "After you gave me the antidote, after I woke up, I realized what I had done. I wasn't scared anymore."
"So you went from scared of me to completely indifferent?"
"No, I didn't say I was indifferent." She was starting to get aggravated. She was sure that the bullet hole was interfering with her ability to get her point across, but she wasn't sure if it was interfering with her eloquence or with his ability to comprehend. She decided it was probably both. "I'm just saying that after doing the things I did, I'm not scared of getting hurt anymore."
"You're saying that putting a gun in my face, pulling the trigger, beating the crap out of me, and nearly bashing my head in with a metal pipe made you feel more secure about our relationship?" She flinched at the mention of the pipe. She had hoped her fuzzy memory had conjured up that image on its own.
"Vaughn—"
"Well if that's all it took, that's great!" Even her friend the bullet hole could sense the sarcasm in his comment. (Maybe it was time to give the bullet hole a name, especially if it planned on sticking around much longer.)
"I'm saying that I realized I almost lost you again, and this time it would have been all my fault. That was much scarier than the thought of getting hurt."
He nodded his understanding but didn't say anything.
"I haven't been able to forget the what-ifs this time," she continued. "If my dad hadn't emptied that gun, I would have killed you. I was lucky, and I can't ignore the fact that sooner or later my luck is going to run out. When it does run out, if it hasn't already, the odds are pretty good that you're going to be there. When my luck runs out I won't be the only one to suffer."
"Are you thinking about quitting? Is that what this is about?"
"No. I probably should be, but I'm not. The truth is, I'm too selfish. I like my job, I like the excitement, and I'm not sure I'd be as happy doing anything else."
"Then I don't understand," he said, shaking his head softly (too softly for the blood to react). "What are you doing here? What are you trying to figure out?"
"Nothing. I really came here just to get away." He looked like he had his doubts about that. He was pretty intuitive. After all, she hadn't told him the whole truth. She hadn't told him what she was really trying to avoid.
"I almost hate to say it, but I don't believe you. None of this really explains why you've been avoiding me. I don't think it was because you needed your space. If it had just started today, I might believe that, but you've been trying to avoid me since the day you got out of medical services."
She should have known he would call her on it. Just like he always found her, he always knew when she was keeping something from him. She didn't speak. She thought that opening her mouth would only give more away.
"I can't figure it out," he said. "I've been trying to figure it out for four days, but I can't. Even now, after what you've told me today, I can't make sense of it. If you're scared of losing me, why are you avoiding me?"
She just shook her head no. She had a mission to complete, and none of the objectives included letting him back in.
"No? You're not going to tell me what this is about?" She noticed the utter disbelief in his voice. She thought there also might be a bit of anger. "I don't get to know why you won't answer my calls?" He picked up the phone and held it in front of her. She confirmed the anger. "I don't get to know why you won't talk to me about anything other than work? I don't get to know why you won't even look me in the eye?" He (and the bullet hole) had leaned further across the table with each question. She had moved back as far as possible. She still made no move to speak. He pushed back in his seat and dropped his head back. "I don't believe this," he said, almost to himself. After taking a deep breath he looked back at her. "You can tell me why. Don't you think that, after everything, I deserve to know why?"
She wondered if, by "everything", he meant everything they had been through over the years, or just the more recent fact that she had looked him in the face and shot him at point blank range with a semi-automatic.
"Sydney, how do you expect us to have a relationship if you won't even talk to me?"
She tilted her head to the side. She was glad to see that he was finally beginning to understand. (There was a small possibility that she was confusing gladness with complete terror.) Her eyes were tearing up, but he wouldn't be able to see them past her sunglasses. As long as she kept the tears from falling, she might evade capture. She watched as he closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them and looked directly at her. She felt as if he could see through the glasses, right into her traitorous eyes, maybe beyond them. She knew then that he knew. He had deciphered the cryptic clues and discovered her objective. This was the moment of truth. Would she stay the course, maintain her silence, and complete her mission, or would she break under the torture and divulge everything?
"You don't expect it," he whispered. "You're trying to stop it before it starts. You want to end it."
Yes. Her brain told her to say yes. She did not move.
His look was a combination of emotions, and, while her brain ordered her into action, she picked out each one. She saw disbelief, anger, shock, and self-deprecating humor, as if he were laughing at himself for being so blind and stupid that he hadn't figured it out sooner.
"Is that what this is?" he asked.
Yes! Her brain told her to scream yes. She could only manage half a nod.
"I need you to tell me," he said, using her own words to torture her as she had done to him so many months (years) ago.
Yes. If she wanted to save his life, she should say yes. The quickest way to ensure his safety, to make sure she never killed him again, was to say yes. Her brain told her to say yes. At the same time, she could feel something pumping in her chest. (She thought it might be her heart, but she wasn't sure she still had one, so she couldn't be certain.) Her supposed heart was launching an attack, a coup to take control away from the brain. Her brain was still yelling at her to say yes, to carry out a campaign of disinformation against her captor. All she had to do was say one little word, just tell him a one-word (but nowhere near small) lie that he would take as the truth, leading him to act in such a way that would ultimately give her the results she wanted. It would only take one word. But apparently the heart (or whatever had taken its place) was gaining an advantage, or at least the two organs were at a stand-off; she couldn't get the word out. She couldn't say yes, as her brain was telling her to do. She couldn't say no, as her heart was telling her to do. She was just frozen, a puppet whose strings were being pulled in so many directions that they had tangled to the point of being useless.
"Dammit, Sydney, talk to me! Say something!" He slapped a hand down on the table, drawing a few curious eyes in their direction.
It wasn't the scrutiny that broke her. It wasn't the harshness of his voice, or the pleading she heard in it, or even his tired eyes. It was the bullet hole, bearing down on her, reminding her of her sins and her betrayal, threatening to destroy everything if she kept her silence, making her believe that it might disappear and leave her in peace if she would only reveal her secrets. She had withstood its torture for days, but even she had a breaking point.
"What am I supposed to say?" she choked out.
If he was surprised to see her break so early, he didn't show it.
"Tell me why you're doing this. Tell me why you want to end this. I need a reason."
She ignored his requests, and instead continued on as if she hadn't heard him. She lowered her head. Her own voice sounded distant to her, as if her inner monologue had been let out to float freely through the space between them, as if someone else were reading it off the air.
"What could I possibly say? There is only one thing to say, and you wouldn't let me say it when it needed to be said. How can I say it now? It's too late. How could I start a conversation about anything else? How could anything else have meaning? Even if I said the one thing that needs to be said, what good would it do? How could you ever forgive me? Why would you ever want to hear me say anything else?"
"Forgive you for what?"
She looked up at him. She was surprised to hear him speak, surprised to hear him ask a question with such an obvious answer.
"For killing you."
The breath he released was heavy, weighed down with fear.
"Sydney, you didn't kill me."
"I shot you." She barely kept herself from pointing at his forehead, from showing him the evidence that he obviously was not aware of.
"No."
"I pulled the trigger, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her forehead dropped into her hands. She continued to repeat her apology with a shaking head. He did not move for several moments, taking in the scene with a lost look on his face. Finally, he reached out and placed gentle hands around her face to stop her movement. His hands slid down to hold her upper arms.
"Sydney."
"How can you ever forgive me?"
He pulled her hands down and held them tightly between his.
"I forgave you before it even happened."
"What?" She looked up at him.
"I knew it wasn't you. Despite the fact that I believe the words were yours, I know the actions weren't. I knew that the true Sydney Bristow would never really hurt me. I still know that."
"How can you say that? I've hurt you so many times. There have been so many times that I've nearly killed you."
"Never by choice," he said, but she ignored him and began listing all the things that had been building up in her head for days.
"In Taipei, I got you trapped with a tidal wave."
"You found me in France."
"The virus…"
"You got the antidote."
"I stabbed you in Spain."
"Walker would have killed me. You left the tracker on me. Sydney, how could I ever blame you when you're always the one who saves me?"
"What about in that safehouse in Hong Kong? I tried to choke the life out of you." The images combined with his words had been too much for her. Tears were easing their way out from behind her glasses and flowing down her cheeks. She pulled a hand away to wipe them off.
"The only time you ever came close to killing me was when you disappeared. In Hong Kong you gave me hope, you gave my soul back to me. You saved me in Hong Kong. You always save me."
A wave of relief washed over her. It was as powerful as the wave that had nearly taken him in Taipei, but this one did not drown or suffocate her. It resuscitated her. It allowed her to breathe for the first time in days. She couldn't help but notice, however, that her new breath did not mean new sight. Despite all of her efforts, despite revealing her secrets and aborting the mission, despite her admissions of guilt, despite breaking under its torture, the bullet hole still loomed large before her. She had to try one more time.
"But all those times, I never apologized, did I? I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?" she begged. She begged harder than she could ever remember begging. She begged as if she were begging for his life, not her own.
"There was never a need to apologize. There was never anything to forgive, but if it means you'll stay, I'll forgive you everyday for the rest of my life."
She noticed that his voice cracked a little. She noticed that he gripped her hand tighter. She noticed that his eyes were pleading with her. She noticed that the bullet hole was still there.
She dropped her head in surrender. She rested it on her arm, flat on the dark table. She had no more options, no more contingency plans. She cried for her lost sanity. She felt one of his hands squeezing one of her shaking shoulders. He probably thought she was crying in relief. He let her cry.
A few minutes passed and so did her tears. She stayed motionless, still resting her arms and head on the table. She tried to devise a new plan for dealing with a problem that clearly would not go away. Should she tell him what haunted her? Should she just accept that it would be there forever and learn to ignore it? Should she schedule an appointment for that much-needed psych eval? Finally she felt him give simultaneous squeezes to her shoulder and her hand.
"Hey. Come on now. That's enough. Sit up," she heard him say. She complied. She was done arguing. She tried to smile. (Maybe she could make nice with the bullet hole, become good friends.) "How about that drink?" She nodded in agreement. Instead of signaling for the waitress, he stood and went to the bar to order her a beer. His was only half empty. (She was still a little pessimistic.) He returned quickly and placed her beer on the table.
"Thanks," she managed. Feeling self-conscious, she used both hands to wipe at her face. She snaked her fingers behind the dark lenses of her glasses to rub at her eyes and free any tears still balancing on her lashes.
"How long are you going to hide behind those?"
There it was. He had given her the opening she needed. She rushed toward it.
"Until it's gone."
"Until what's gone?" he asked, clearly confused.
When she was a small child she had been taught that it was impolite to point, but if ever there was a time to point, it was now. So she pointed. She stiffened her arm as straight as possible, raised it, and pointed across the wide table. She pointed right at his forehead. (It's a bird, it's a plane, it's not faster than a speeding bullet, but the bullet put it there.)
He turned his head to look over his shoulder, thinking she was pointing at something behind him. "What?"
"No, not behind you. Right there, on your forehead," she said, still pointing. Her voice cracked.
"What is it?" he asked, just before he raised his own hand up to brush it across his forehead. She gasped and jerked her hand back. She watched as his fingers smeared blood away from the hole. She stopped breathing. "What? I don't feel anything." He looked down at his fingers. She followed his eyes. Where there should have been blood, there was none. She kept looking between his bloody forehead and his clean hand. Her eyebrows bunched in confusion. She started breathing again. It resembled hyperventilating.
"I don't understand," she said.
"Me neither." He laughed. "What is it?"
"It's…" she trailed off. She stared at his forehead.
"Syd? Do you see something there or not?"
She nodded her head.
"Well, what is it? Get it off." He wasn't laughing anymore.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I put it there."
"What? Syd, you're not making any sense." Now he looked worried.
"You smeared it."
"Smeared what?"
"The blood."
"What blood?"
"From the bullet hole. Can't you feel it?" she whispered.
"No," he started to answer before he really took in what she had said. Then it hit him. "Oh God. No, Sydney, there's no bullet hole."
"There is. I can see it. I put it there. It's been there for days. It won't go away."
"There's nothing there, Sydney. You didn't shoot me."
"Then why is it there?"
"It isn't. Your mind – your eyes are playing tricks on you."
"I know it's not real. It can't be real, but it looks so real."
"It's not real. I'll show you." He reached out and took her hands, pulling them across the table toward him. She realized what he was planning and tried to pull away. He held onto her. She struggled weakly, but he kept a gentle grip on her wrists. His voice came out soft and smooth, as if he were talking to a scared child. "Relax, Syd. I won't hurt you, just like you didn't hurt me." He placed one of her palms against his chest. "See? Still beating." He smiled at her. He leaned forward and started to move her other hand to his face. She tensed. "It's not real," he repeated. Her hand was only an inch away. She stared open-mouthed, watching as her index finger lined up perfectly with the hole. Any second now her finger would slip inside. She froze. He pressed her palm harder into his chest, reassuring her. She took a breath and closed her eyes. Her hand moved forward. Her eyes shot open when she reached the spot, the spot where it should have been, but wasn't. It was gone. She felt his warm flesh, intact and smooth. There were no jagged edges, there was no black hole, no smeared blood. She ran all of her fingers over the spot where it wasn't.
"It's gone," she said in wonder.
"It was never there."
She smiled, laughed, exhaled, and inhaled all at once. She pushed herself to her feet, leaned across the table, took his face in both hands, and planted a kiss where there used to be a bullet hole. She fell back into her seat, laughing at herself, at her momentary (four-day) lapse into insanity.
"It was never there," she said, shaking her head. She couldn't stop a few tears of joy from escaping.
He leaned forward and wiped away her tears. His fingers touched the bottom rims of her sunglasses. "You don't need these anymore." He pushed the glasses up to rest on the top of her head, letting in the light and releasing the darkness.
He leaned back and grinned at her. Her smiled beamed back. He raised his beer glass, which was still half full (now she was an optimist), in a toast. She did the same.
"Cheers."
"Sláinte," she replied.
She drank to his health and to her salvation.
If she had not been so wrapped up in reacquainting herself with the true green of his eyes, she might have noticed that the formerly-missing cloverleaf had flickered back to its own true green.
The End
Required Elements
1. a lucky cloverleaf
2. a pair of sunglasses
3. a Marshall gadget
4. a bullet hole.
Salvation: (noun) 1a. Preservation or deliverance from destruction, difficulty, or evil. b. A source, means, or cause of such preservation or deliverance. 2. Theol. a. Deliverance from the power or penalty of sin; redemption. b. The agent or means that brings about such deliverance.
A/N: When I started writing this (before I really knew where it was going) I knew I wanted to use the word "sláinte" in it somewhere, so I checked an online dictionary to verify the spelling. Imagine my joy when that dictionary told me there were two meanings to the word: health and salvation. Well, that would be awesome, right? I mean, that's the kind of thing you get bonus points for mentioning in a Lit paper. However, being the generally doubting/distrusting person I am, I checked a few other sources. None of the other online dictionaries said anything about salvation (dammit). Not to be deterred, I checked with some true Irishmen to see if salvation could be a second meaning of sláinte. One of them didn't know, which led me to believe that my doubts were probably right. The second Irishman said this: "Only meaning I know about is 'good health', usually in the context of a toast… The closely related word 'slan' ordinarily means 'safe' or 'unharmed' but I believe it is used also in reference to the dead in which case it would have a meaning of salvation. After I had written the above off the top of my head, I checked my trusty English-Irish dictionary where I find 'salvation' given as 'slanu' and the phrase 'to find salvation' as 'd'anam a shlanu' (literally, your soul to save). Also, Our Savior is Ar Slanaitheoir."
So, you know, it doesn't quite make the statement I would have liked. But it would have been way cool, don't you think?
Man, there were some cheesy lines in this story. I'll try to cut back on those if I ever write another story.
I don't think my characterization/dialogue in this story is quite as accurate as in my last, but if you've been watching Season 4 you might have noticed that Syd and Vaughn are portrayed very differently than they used to be. (That sounds like a good excuse.)
I hope you enjoyed it. Personally, I like In The Drink better. (Shameless plug.)
Thanks for reading!