The Sound of Inevitability_
Disclaimer: Everyone and their mother belongs to J.J. Abrams.
A/N: Dormant idea, inspired mostly by a conversation in la clase de espanol post-finale about the implications of Vaughn's death, concerning Sydney and Will. Quick fic, a little too vague, but I'm just glad to be writing again.
***
She was still having nightmares when they left, dreams about black water and flailing arms and wide unblinking eyes, words that were lost in the swell and heave of a crushing force. She wasn't sure of much, those days, and when she saw him sitting with her father, bandaged and bruised and alive with hate and concern, she touched his face and traced his scars to make sure he was real.
Run, she heard her father say, and she said Yes.
He said, I love you.
***
She signs them in as Adam and Evelyn Smith (they'd thought that was fitting, back when these things mattered) and peels off the twenty-dollar bills mechanically, laying them onto the dingy counter in a neat pile. She catches their blurred reflections in the mirror behind the receptionist's head, and remembers when they were young and powerful with beauty. She blinks and leans down to pick up their bags.
Here's your key, says the girl to Will, popping her gum disinterestedly.
He smiles wanly. Thank you.
She lets him take the bags from her without protest and follows him obediently down the corridor after he checks the room number. It's one of his tiny victories that they tacitly agreed on in the beginning, and she scopes the hallway covertly out of habit. Let is an ugly word, she thinks as he unlocks the door and steps back.
Presses herself against the doorway and it's every motel room they've ever stayed in, but she unstraps the gun from her boot anyway and raises it easily, extension of her limb now like she'd never wanted it to be. Ascertains that the room is empty and waves him in, and he hangs back by the closed door while she does a quick sweep, feeling the edges of the table and the linings of the moth-bitten quilts. She's not sure she'd notice if something were there.
He leaves the bags in the closet, unopened, and looks at her like she's another object in the room when he sits down on the bed. Blankly. Detachedly, and everything with them lately has been enclosed by a fine, hard shell that distinguishes them as entirely separate entities.
Hungry? He asks her. We haven't eaten since morning, and we could go out, or. Are you?
She shakes her head and smiles at him demurely, maliciously.
He recedes into silence, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. The implications hang thickly in the room, and she wonders how long she can push him if he's tethered to her for good. Because he can't do anything without her, and this is how far it goes.
***
He bought a gun somewhere in the Midwest.
How did he die? he asked on a Sunday morning as church bells rang.
She said, simply, When they were making your trade. Wanted to add: Because we were there, because we were trying to destroy it, because they traded for you, because they'd taken you, because you. You.
-- I asked you to stop, she said to him silently.
-- I'm sorry, he said, stricken, because he was never as oblivious as she thought. I didn't mean. I wanted to find out about Danny, and there was Kate and McNeill and his daughter and it got worse, and I tried giving it up for you, I really did. But Iâ€"I thought. And it. I'm sorry.
And Danny died because, her mind whispered. She fought a wave of nausea and smiled at him sickly, but he was already digging into his bag and pulled something out, cradling it carefully. Look, he said, with a barely restrained eagerness.
He placed the gun reverently on the table between them, and she saw the fearful glint in his eyes as he let his hand linger on the holster before pulling it back. It lay there, the silver black of the metal gleaming under the lone bulb, the imprints of heat slowly disappearing.
When she touched it gingerly the metal was cold beneath her fingertips, and the chill spread slowly down her spine, paralyzing her with its promise. Picked it up with a foreign familiarityâ€"guns for her were an anomaly, a last resortâ€"and inhaled when she felt herself holding death. Silent death that would keep watch in alleyways, at night, safe and reassuring.
This could be, she said, and her voice trailed off as they stared at it, fixated.
He breathed: for protection.
***
I'm tired of this, he says quietly, immobile on the bed. She flashes back in her mind to a room that was warm and dimly lit and he was infused with this hard defeated resignation as she tried to find the words that meant she was sorry. When they were safe, she thinks, and feels the metal of the gun digging into her leg.
I, Will, she tries.
And you're tired of me. When did it start?
She feels her lips move, hears her voice: When he died.
Yes, he agrees. Yes.
Noâ€"she says, her voice catching and breakingâ€"no; and he reaches over and grazes her face in the lightest of touches. Brings his hand to her lips and she's surprised to taste tears on his fingertips, and she thinks she breaks again before she's scrabbling at his shirt and hears a thread rip, the clink of a button on the nightstand. Her mouth on his neck, his face, his mouth, and he's holding onto her by the shoulders and his eyes are bluer than they've ever been.
I'm sorry, she says, choking on the words. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
***
(I love you, he said.
She stared at him, frozen, his every breath a reassuring hiss in the stillness. Leaned forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, moving slowly, suddenly underwaterâ€"felt him stiffen and relax again, his muscles loosening, unstringing. She kissed the puffy slit of his eye.
I will save you, she promised him. I will.)
***
One man for another, and the moonlight from the winding break of the drapes slips in and dresses his cheek with cold blue light. Illuminates the curve of his bare back and falls over full lips and strong jaw, a light damp curl hanging over a forehead smoothed out with dreamless sleep.
She sits up, leaning against the wall, and his body is warm against hers, conformed to her lines. Her eyes fall on him again and she touches his shoulder gently, always surprised to find that he's naked unashamed adoration in his simplest form, and with her other hand she reaches down into the bag by the bed and pulls out the gun she's never fired.
It echoes in the silence, anticipatory and inviting.
She fingers the cold gunmetal thoughtfully and knows she'll never hate him more than she hates herself.
***
_(06052002) jen@velvet-star.com
Disclaimer: Everyone and their mother belongs to J.J. Abrams.
A/N: Dormant idea, inspired mostly by a conversation in la clase de espanol post-finale about the implications of Vaughn's death, concerning Sydney and Will. Quick fic, a little too vague, but I'm just glad to be writing again.
***
She was still having nightmares when they left, dreams about black water and flailing arms and wide unblinking eyes, words that were lost in the swell and heave of a crushing force. She wasn't sure of much, those days, and when she saw him sitting with her father, bandaged and bruised and alive with hate and concern, she touched his face and traced his scars to make sure he was real.
Run, she heard her father say, and she said Yes.
He said, I love you.
***
She signs them in as Adam and Evelyn Smith (they'd thought that was fitting, back when these things mattered) and peels off the twenty-dollar bills mechanically, laying them onto the dingy counter in a neat pile. She catches their blurred reflections in the mirror behind the receptionist's head, and remembers when they were young and powerful with beauty. She blinks and leans down to pick up their bags.
Here's your key, says the girl to Will, popping her gum disinterestedly.
He smiles wanly. Thank you.
She lets him take the bags from her without protest and follows him obediently down the corridor after he checks the room number. It's one of his tiny victories that they tacitly agreed on in the beginning, and she scopes the hallway covertly out of habit. Let is an ugly word, she thinks as he unlocks the door and steps back.
Presses herself against the doorway and it's every motel room they've ever stayed in, but she unstraps the gun from her boot anyway and raises it easily, extension of her limb now like she'd never wanted it to be. Ascertains that the room is empty and waves him in, and he hangs back by the closed door while she does a quick sweep, feeling the edges of the table and the linings of the moth-bitten quilts. She's not sure she'd notice if something were there.
He leaves the bags in the closet, unopened, and looks at her like she's another object in the room when he sits down on the bed. Blankly. Detachedly, and everything with them lately has been enclosed by a fine, hard shell that distinguishes them as entirely separate entities.
Hungry? He asks her. We haven't eaten since morning, and we could go out, or. Are you?
She shakes her head and smiles at him demurely, maliciously.
He recedes into silence, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. The implications hang thickly in the room, and she wonders how long she can push him if he's tethered to her for good. Because he can't do anything without her, and this is how far it goes.
***
He bought a gun somewhere in the Midwest.
How did he die? he asked on a Sunday morning as church bells rang.
She said, simply, When they were making your trade. Wanted to add: Because we were there, because we were trying to destroy it, because they traded for you, because they'd taken you, because you. You.
-- I asked you to stop, she said to him silently.
-- I'm sorry, he said, stricken, because he was never as oblivious as she thought. I didn't mean. I wanted to find out about Danny, and there was Kate and McNeill and his daughter and it got worse, and I tried giving it up for you, I really did. But Iâ€"I thought. And it. I'm sorry.
And Danny died because, her mind whispered. She fought a wave of nausea and smiled at him sickly, but he was already digging into his bag and pulled something out, cradling it carefully. Look, he said, with a barely restrained eagerness.
He placed the gun reverently on the table between them, and she saw the fearful glint in his eyes as he let his hand linger on the holster before pulling it back. It lay there, the silver black of the metal gleaming under the lone bulb, the imprints of heat slowly disappearing.
When she touched it gingerly the metal was cold beneath her fingertips, and the chill spread slowly down her spine, paralyzing her with its promise. Picked it up with a foreign familiarityâ€"guns for her were an anomaly, a last resortâ€"and inhaled when she felt herself holding death. Silent death that would keep watch in alleyways, at night, safe and reassuring.
This could be, she said, and her voice trailed off as they stared at it, fixated.
He breathed: for protection.
***
I'm tired of this, he says quietly, immobile on the bed. She flashes back in her mind to a room that was warm and dimly lit and he was infused with this hard defeated resignation as she tried to find the words that meant she was sorry. When they were safe, she thinks, and feels the metal of the gun digging into her leg.
I, Will, she tries.
And you're tired of me. When did it start?
She feels her lips move, hears her voice: When he died.
Yes, he agrees. Yes.
Noâ€"she says, her voice catching and breakingâ€"no; and he reaches over and grazes her face in the lightest of touches. Brings his hand to her lips and she's surprised to taste tears on his fingertips, and she thinks she breaks again before she's scrabbling at his shirt and hears a thread rip, the clink of a button on the nightstand. Her mouth on his neck, his face, his mouth, and he's holding onto her by the shoulders and his eyes are bluer than they've ever been.
I'm sorry, she says, choking on the words. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
***
(I love you, he said.
She stared at him, frozen, his every breath a reassuring hiss in the stillness. Leaned forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, moving slowly, suddenly underwaterâ€"felt him stiffen and relax again, his muscles loosening, unstringing. She kissed the puffy slit of his eye.
I will save you, she promised him. I will.)
***
One man for another, and the moonlight from the winding break of the drapes slips in and dresses his cheek with cold blue light. Illuminates the curve of his bare back and falls over full lips and strong jaw, a light damp curl hanging over a forehead smoothed out with dreamless sleep.
She sits up, leaning against the wall, and his body is warm against hers, conformed to her lines. Her eyes fall on him again and she touches his shoulder gently, always surprised to find that he's naked unashamed adoration in his simplest form, and with her other hand she reaches down into the bag by the bed and pulls out the gun she's never fired.
It echoes in the silence, anticipatory and inviting.
She fingers the cold gunmetal thoughtfully and knows she'll never hate him more than she hates herself.
***
_(06052002) jen@velvet-star.com