Title: Two Eyes
Author: snowangel
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Up to season three
Disclaimer: I do not own Alias. However, I do own a snare drum I'm looking to sell…interested? Anyone, anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
A/N: This is a one-parter, written for the June Challenge at SD-1 and a sequel to Two Words which was written for the Feb. Challenge, but also works as a stand alone. I'd recommend reading Two Words, but it's not necessary to understand this one.
I want to thank Melanie for being my beta. That is all, enjoy!
She knows she should not have done this, she's not stable enough. Maybe that's why she needs to do this. She's overly emotional before it even begins, and her hands are trembling in distress. She forcefully folds her hands together, attempting to normalize her appearance but the very thought of this happening tears her apart. She takes a deep breath and exchanges her despair for anger as she compels herself to be rational for the moment. Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you. If he only knew.
She watches as the bride emerges, making her way down the aisle gracefully. Streamed in white from head to toe, she's reminded of a sickeningly sweet marshmallow. She physically swallows hard, her jaw clenches as she unconsciously tries to spit the overpowering image out of her mind. She sits on a hard chair, perfectly still, watching from a distance. She doesn't notice how beautiful the weather is that day or the perfect lining of white chairs adorned with pristine pink roses that seem to revel in their own beauty. She's anxious, yet already defeated as the ceremony begins.
Her eyes wander from the bride over to him. Like always, he looks impeccable in a tux. His eyes are focused solely on the woman and she's sickened that she actually sees love in his eyes. Leaning forward she studies him more carefully, mentally changing her assessment from love to infatuation. Possibly appreciation. It wasn't love. She observes his every move, trained to see the irregularity of his breaths, the slight sheen of moisture that creeps forth on him, starting just behind his left temple.
The preacher begins his monologue but she tunes him out as she becomes absorbed in watching his every move, trying to read his thoughts. She gets lost in his image, her breaths become deeper and intense as she searches for anything that will tell her that he doesn't love the woman standing in front of him, but rather her. She waits for him to turn around, step back and walk away, leaving the breathing marshmallow to wallow in her own repulsive sugar. She eagerly anticipates the moment when he releases his fiancée's hand and declares two words. I object. She feels the beginnings of a smile already pulling at the corners of her mouth as she wistfully imagines the look of utter rejection on the bride's face and sees him walking hastily down the aisle and out of Lauren Reed's life.
She blinks and is brought back to reality and isn't surprised to see the couple precisely where they were standing before. Discontented, she leans back in her chair and bites down on her lip. His eyes are obscured from her view but she can tell by the way he's standing he's not attentive to the activity at hand.
"Quid" He states proudly, laying down the tiles with a smile on his lips. "Q on a triple letter score, plus one, plus one, plus two, is thirty four points." His smile grows smug as soon as he notices her unpleased reaction.
She doesn't let him get too excited before she cuts in, "Quid is not a word."
"Sure it is. It's Latin."
"Exactly, it's Latin, and therefore unacceptable in the game of Scrabble since foreign languages don't count." She states knowingly. He knows it's bugging her, thirty four points. She usually scores that much for her turns, whereas he is lucky to score over twelve most of the time.
He opens his mouth to protest but she interrupts, "I'll challenge you." Her tone is no nonsense, she's serious about Scrabble. He made fun of her when he found out she had the Official Scrabble Dictionary, but had quickly learned to keep his mouth shut as she deftly used it against him on numerous occasions. It was hopeless, he'd never beat her in a game of Scrabble.
"You'll challenge me?" He repeats playfully, raising one eyebrow. She doesn't take the bait, he was hoping to distract her to ensure his prized thirty four points.
"Damn right I'll challenge you." A seductive hint of mischief interlaces her serious words but she doesn't show it as she reaches for the Official Scrabble Dictionary which is located conveniently close to Vaughn. Her eyes dart up to his as she moves closer to grab the book, "Were you cheating?" She accuses as she snatches the book away from him and begins to open to the Q's.
He's somewhat shocked at her accusation, but not that shocked. However, he feigns anger and moves stealthily from his end of the coffee table and down to hers. She sees him approaching and lets out a little yelp before he lunges towards her, his goal is the book, but his desire is her. He manages to take her down pretty well, trapping her body underneath his as he wrestles the book out of her hand.
"Cheater!" She screams from underneath him as he tosses the Official Scrabble Dictionary far away, hearing it skid to a stop on the tile in the kitchen. She's squirming beneath him, half-heartedly trying to escape while enjoying his nearness but her half-hearted attempts turn into full fledged spy mission mode as he changes tactics and starts to tickle her.
She screams loudly in protest as he relentlessly tortures her, her stomach the most ticklish but no part of her fails to respond to his teasing hands. She's rolling on the floor, begging him to stop which only makes him enjoy it more. At least he can win at this game. He has her arms pinned above her head with one hand and the other mercilessly tickling her stomach when he speaks, "What do you say?"
"Please?" She manages to gasp out between yelps.
"Nope." He continues tickling her, but pauses to let her catch her breath and to make sure she hears this next part, "You say, 'Vaughn is the king of Scrabble and I will never challenge him'."
"Never!" She yells stubbornly which results in his resuming of the tickling. "You cheater!"
"I object to that accusation." He states defiantly, still a little insulted, he was a boy scout after all.
"You object?" She questions breathlessly.
"I object." He reaffirms, ceasing the tickling. He gazes down at the woman beneath him. Her face is flushed, hair thoroughly mussed by rolling on the floor, her chest rising rapidly, and he can't picture her more beautiful. He lets her arms go as he leans down to kiss her, happy that she eagerly responds.
"I object too." She agrees as his lips pull away slightly for air. He smiles as he meets her lips again.
She lets him have the thirty four points.
A noise behind her startles her and she quickly pries her eyes off the screen and whirls around in her seat. Nothing. She glances about the bare room expectantly, finding nothing more than the familiar gray walls of the basement. A lone desk stands solitary in the center of the area, little more than a computer and an untouched glass of wine sit on its surface. She's not worried, more annoyed.
A breeze seems to always be in the air down here and a chill runs through her body. The feed from the surveillance video is made out of desperation, she knows it and accepts it. Ever since she had convinced the Covenant of her persona of Julia, she'd used her mother's villa in Spain as a temporary refuge. Irina Derevko had revealed herself and offered to help her daughter. Sydney was reluctant to accept-she still was, even as she sits in the basement of her mother's house. But lack of other options had forced her into accepting or at least dealing with her mother.
She sighs and goes back to her task at hand, slightly adjusting the screen on her computer. She hates this part of the ceremony, the vows. She turns down the volume, watching the silent figures interact.
The woman takes his hand, looking down a moment before she lifts her head and opens her mouth. Sydney watches, every part of her wants to shut off the screen but she can't seem to rip her eyes away from it, addicted to the moving images. Her addiction is eating her alive. Physically, her eyes grow damp and tired from the screen. Mentally, she can't help but repeat his long forgotten words. I object. She knows he wants to say them. She knows it. She has to know it. Because he loves her.
She notices the woman is finished talking, and now the man reaches for the hands of his bride. She hastily reaches for the wine glass and takes a generous sip. One. Then another. She turns up the volume and hears his voice cut through the silence that permeates the basement.
"In the name of God, I, Michael Christopher Vaughn, take you, Lauren Elizabeth Reed, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow."
She doesn't breath as she closes her eyes firmly, mentally replacing Lauren's name with her own.
"In the name of God, I, Michael Christopher Vaughn, take you, Sydney Anne Bristow, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow."
His voice is so real, saying her own name that it brings tears to her eyes. Her throat constricts and she holds her breath for another moment in effort to calm herself. Why doesn't he object? Doesn't he realize how much this hurts? She starts to question his love for her. He did love her, didn't he?
"Do you ever think that it's all just a scam?" She asks, looking vacantly at the waves that drift towards the shore, disappearing as quickly as they came, leaving their mark on the sand for only a tiny moment.
"What is?" He asks, his eyes trained upon the water as well.
"Marriage." She answers, her eyes not straying, rooted to their position in the waves. He turns and studies her closely as she draws her knees up and tucks them under herself, hugging them close to her chest. He waits a moment for her to explain herself. "I mean, it's just so tainted. Too much scandal, betrayal and pain." She pauses and takes a breath before speaking, "Isn't there just a point where people can see this and figure out that they don't want to be hurt?" She questions rhetorically.
"No." His answer is simple and soft, and it causes her to break her gaze away from the ocean and to look to his face for more answers. "Because of love." He states, earnestly looking into her eyes.
His honestly and intensity frightens her a bit, causing her to stare rapidly at the sand below her. She feels almost guilty and is a little ashamed as she studies the patterns the moonlight forms as it shines through the spaces of the bench they're sitting on. A long silence passes. He refrains from saying anything further and she knows he's letting her process his words. She doesn't look up as she speaks again.
"I just...sometimes…" She struggles but he waits for her to continue, "I don't understand it sometimes." She finishes, her voice a bit strained. He's come to know her indisputably well and he senses her tears before he can see them. He pulls her close to him, the little ball she had wound herself into comes undone as she sprawls one arm across his chest and lets her head rest below his chin.
She feels his hands running through her hair absent-mindedly and she closes her eyes. His even breathing relaxes her and as moments slip away and waves continue breaking on the shore she knows that he thinks she has fallen asleep. She doesn't stir as the sound of her voice interrupts the night.
"Vaughn, even though we haven't said it," She says burrowing closer, "I do." She completes in a soft voice.
"Me too." He replies easily and honestly. She smiles against his chest and wants to freeze time so she can remember exactly how she feels for all eternity.
She convinces herself that he'll say the words when they reach the appropriate part of the ceremony. Ever the gentleman she knew he wouldn't want to be rude and object before the due moment. She's nervous, she swallows and closes her eyes briefly, imagining the quality of voice he'll use when he says the words. I object. Short and clipped? Like a painful yet necessary intrusion? Or will it be intense and forceful, utilizing the deep element that he holds within his voice, usually saved stressed moments such as standing up to Jack Bristow? I object. She decides on a strained utterance that's choked with tears and sweat but steadily grows in volume and confidence as he realizes that this is right. I object. I object.
The reverend's voice causes her to abruptly resurface back to reality. Oh God, here it is. She notices she's sweating as she leans forward on her chair, as if drawn into him by an unseen force.
"Should there be anyone who has cause why this couple should not be united in marriage, they must speak now or forever hold their peace." The reverend's voice rings out clear.
A second passes and instead of watching his mouth form the words she watches him give a small smile to his nervous bride. The silence is killing her. It has to be said, "I object. Say it goddamn it. Say it!" Her voice rises from a frantic whisper to a heart-breaking plea. "Say it!" She demands, her heart beating frantically. "I object! I object!" She's no longer sitting down, her arms are placed on either side of the computer, her stature overpowering the screen as she shrieks again, slamming her hands down on the desk, "I object!" Her ability to suppress her passion suddenly deteriorates as desperate her screams engulf the stagnant air.
Enraged that the ceremony hasn't halted from her cries she grabs the waiting wine glass on the desk and hurls it at the wall. It shatters on contact with the cement. Red wine is no longer confined by the glass that lay in pieces on the cold floor. The destruction of the delicate glass seems to console her slightly, her screams transform into despondent breaths that shape the words as she sinks to the floor. I object. Her tears aren't fanatical, they're focused and precise, in contrast with every other part of her being. They mourn her loss effectively as a few form tiny rivers on her face, then drop off onto the cement.
She glances around her and can't help but feel like a child. She stands up and straightens the chair, but looks at the shattered glass with satisfaction. The footage is still playing and as much as it pains her to watch she's captivated by the image of him, clinging to a naive hope that he'll still say the words, those two words. The ceremony continues, she passes the time by pacing back and forth in front of the screen, her body moving but her gaze never wandering as she focuses on him again. She knows it's almost over. Come on Vaughn, just say it! I object! The words echo throughout her mind mercilessly. I object, I object, I object. She notices the increasing amount of sweat that covers his forehead and he momentarily clenches his hands into fists. This is it. She stops moving and freezes in front of the monitor. Say it, Vaughn, say it! Just two words!
She watches as he takes a deep breath, and his voice fills the air with two words, "I do."
She turns away from the screen, her back towards him and arms folded across her chest. She concentrates on staring at the blank wall in front of her as a pain radiating from her heart slowly emanates throughout her entire body. A shuddering breath is let out and she closes her eyes briefly before spinning on her heel to face him again. She looks at the screen and sees the exact place where he was standing before, except now it's vacant. She averts her eyes quickly.
She glances in front of her to the broken wine glass. It sits slightly off to the right of the previous four that had met their fates similarly. She sits down at the desk again, and her eye catches on the post-it note that clings to the edge of the computer monitor. Four straight lines are written on the paper. She takes a marker from the desk and draws another line to join the others.
A voice interrupts her tradition. "You know if you keep watching that you'll kill yourself." Irina leans against the doorway, not bothering to move. "It never changes Sydney, he always says the words."
She doesn't respond, only thinks that her mother is wrong. He never says the words.
FIN