Gridlock
Author: Chshalogrl aka Ellie
Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone. Alias and its characters are
the property of JJ Abrams, the lucky people at ABC, and Bad Robot Productions.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to Episode 3.11 "Full Disclosure"
A/N: Okay. I know I'm supposed to be working on the
last chapter of LNPD. But my roomie and
I rewatched "Full Disclosure" and got to talking about how Vaughn would react
if her heard Syd's story as we did during the episode. So this fic was born. I was brainstorming while I was stuck in
infamous Southern California traffic this afternoon…hence the title. Anyway, I'm afraid it's a bit boring. But it was actually therapeutic for me to
write. Now that it's done…I must get to
my studies. Let me know what you think.
~Ellie
Gridlock
They weren't meant for your eyes and ears. But in a misguided attempt to force your understanding of her situation, Jack Bristow managed to wrangle the elusive recordings and pass them on to you. Your wife is away on business. Which is something that seems more a routine than a rarity in recent history. So you leave the phone off the hook, turn off your pagers and cells, park yourself on the edge of your couch…and listen.
She's different, you note. Even her voice carries an extra tremor of trepidation…or is it just loneliness? You can't see her. Kendall only bothered with audio when he recorded his meeting with Julia Thorne. But you know you'll see her soon enough because, although you're not surprised, Jack managed to get his hands on Julia's departing video to Kendall. But you're not ready to see her anyhow. Because while you can handle the disorientation that ripples her voice over the static of a tiny speaker, you're not sure you can tolerate the sight of terror in her eyes. At least not without making an immediate trip to her apartment to place kisses on her long-healed wounds.
Just the way you used to…
~~~~~
"Syd, are you okay?"
"I don't want to talk. Not now."
Her neck is smooth as you press a kiss there and burrow into her tired form. You know that she's devastated and you know that what she needs is to feel loved and cherished. You see her shoulders sag slightly and you smile into the dark as you realize she's allowing herself to be comforted by your presence. Never has anyone made you feel so infallible…never has anyone rendered you so powerless.
Later as you watch her sleep quietly, you can't help but hope that you make her feel just as weak…and just as invincible
Deep mocha eyes, smooth chestnut strands, and cheeky dimples.
You sigh heavily and feel yourself sink deeper into the mattress.
~~~~~
.
Her soft voice jars you back to reality and you focus back on the task at hand.
Through the tiny player, you hear her relay her memory of watching her funeral and you cringe, biting back a wail at the thought that she was so close. That if you hadn't been so consumed by your grief, perhaps you skills of keen observation would have picked up the peculiarity of a van parked in such a remote spot. The irony of it stings like a slap to the face. Your complete devotion to her…you determination to provide her with a dignified end…blinded you to her very near, very living and breathing presence. And upon this realization you pause the recording and rake a trembling hand through your unkempt hair.
You're reliving the agony. But you know that it is nowhere near the vicinity of what she went through. So you continue as an oddly-intentioned tribute to her grace under fire.
You press play.
Her descriptions of her torture are graphic and nauseating. And yet…you know Sydney. And you know that her habit is one of downplay. So you know that the horror stories you are hearing are just a mind-numbing fraction of the realities she faced.
You are suddenly nauseous.
As she lists the strategies used to "break" her, images flash through your head like a hazy filmstrip. You can picture her wasting figure sprawled out on a cold floor as she waits, clutching one last, pathetic, shred of hope. You can see the strength and resolve fading slowly from her eyes as she vomits the latest sub-nutritious offering.
You wince at the idea of her writhing in agony as she is shocked from one undesired response to the next. And you brace yourself further because you know that she didn't give in. You always knew that it was her spirit that kept her going. But you always had a sinking feeling that her spirit would one day serve as her death sentence.
~~~~~
She smiles as she cocks her head slightly. They are each propped against an end of her couch, their feet entangled underneath a fleece afghan. You grin back at her and watch as her expression sobers slightly.
"What's your scariest memory?"
"Besides walking in on Weiss taking a bubble bath?"
She kicks you lightly beneath the blanket and you realize that she's being completely serious.
You stop to ponder for a moment before settling on the most heartstopping moment of your life. You shake your head wryly as you answer.
"When you posed as that bastard's escort to access Server 47." You pause as you remember the numbness you felt as you watched her tiny figure hurtling from the falling aircraft. "When you shot the window out of that plane, I just knew that whatever we had between us was going to be forever unrequited."
You try to gauge her reaction and you're surprised to see a flicker of guilt. She clutches the hem of the blanket and pulls it towards her chest.
"I'm sorry. Sometimes…I don't think about how my recklessness must affect you."
You nod and lean forward to grasp her hand. "Your independence and fearlessness are two things I love most about you, Sydney. I'm just afraid they'll take you away from me someday."
She looks you in the eye before responding. "For years, I've been surviving for myself. Now, I'm living for you too."
~~~~~
And live she did. The countless beatings, druggings, and other forms of abuse cause you to clench your hands a little tighter as you listen to her tale. And while she is attempting to speak to Kendall with an air of detachment, you detect something new in her voice.
Defeat adds a high-pitched edge to her words. It causes her statements to become questions. Causes her assertiveness to sound diminutive. And what frightens you most of all is how close they came to achieving their goal. How close they were to breaking her.
Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
Or so your father used to say. And you've never been happier to discover the utter truth of the saying. Because she may have been slightly fractured. But Sydney Bristow remained intact.
You grow breathless when you sense her desperation because you've seen how close to the treacherous edge she can tiptoe. You're furious when she tells Kendall about Simon Walker because you've spent months suffering from the image of Simon's hand in places you covet as your own. You sigh with what you hope will be the end of her horrifying trials.
You are sadly mistaken.
You aren't ready to hear your name enter the conversation, to hear Kendall suggest a threat to your safety. And before you know it, your fist has met the coffee table with a bone-crunching thud and you're cradling your crippled hand as you realize that Sydney came looking for you. And a quick confirming glance at the date of the tape causes your jaw to clench and your teeth to grind.
You know the exact night it happened.
It was nearly two months after you'd started dating her.
It was the first night you'd spent with someone besides Sydney.
~~~~~
She's a lovely woman. Lovely is the most appropriate word you can think of to describe Lauren Reed. Petite and blonde with large blue eyes and a graceful air, you can't come up with any legitimate reasons not to ask her out.
So you do.
And you're happy. You enjoy Lauren's company and you find her to be very attractive. You do occasionally notice the absence of dimples and the lack of honking belly-laughter when you tell her jokes. But with Lauren, you go for hours at a time without aching for Sydney. You function almost as well as you used to. So after the eighth or so evening of polite conversation, friendly laughter, and innocent kisses, you decide that it's time to let Sydney go for good.
So you invite her back to your place. And for once you find yourself grateful that Sydney never had a chance to sleep over.
~~~~~
Your throat begins to ache and tighten. Your head throbs with the staccato beat of your heart as the blood rushes to your head. She was there. Mere steps away, she was coming to you at the lowest of times. And you were an unwitting contributor to the nightmare she was trying desperately to escape.
Another slap in the face. Courtesy of all that is painfully ironic.
Realizing that Sydney's story has ended on that bitter note, you stand from your perch on the edge of your couch and move to place a disc into the DVD player across the room.
You let her crackling voice waft throughout the room before your turn to face the screen. You know you're just punishing yourself. You know that history is an untouchable. That as much as you can relive the past…you can't rewrite it or repair it. Turning slowly, your gaze falls on her. With her hair blonde and curled, her face a bit gaunter than you remember, and her eyes larger…perhaps more hollow…than before. You are forced to remind yourself that it's Julia Thorne on the screen and this realization helps to you to understand the woman on the screen.
You understand that Jack's motive for supplying you with the surveillance. You are very aware that you are expected to take a step back, to show your respect for the trauma Sydney has experienced. You understand.
Unfortunately, you don't understand how to tell Jack that his plan has backfired. That, self-centered as it may be, you've realized more than ever how much Sydney needs you…and you her.
You let your head fall to the back of the couch exhausted by Sydney's exertions and victimizations. Raising your hands, you cup them over your itchy eyes and you're surprised to feel a trace of moisture.
You love your wife. You're anchored to
her by your love, your sense of duty, and your marriage vows. You discover that you've been playing a
waiting game. Waiting for a reason to
break away from a marriage that has changed so dramatically since the day you
said "I do".
You love Sydney. You're drawn to the past you share with her and to the passion you feel for her. You ache to comfort her. Your fingers burn from the desire to sooth and heal her wounds.
Not for the first time since Sydney's return, you acknowledge your entrapment.
Wedged into a space designated by protocol, morals, values, and vows. You move when others move. Then and only then. You know this feeling well. You live in Los Angeles after all.
Gridlock.
But as insufferable as it is, you roll forward following a jerky pattern of motion.
Accelerate. Brake. Accelerate. Brake.
A symphony of brake lights glitter in front of you and you struggle to divide your focus between where you are and what lies in the rearview mirror.
But you can't. Because you know that the path you're on is circular. That what remains behind will soon become what lies ahead.
Eventually the crowd will dwindle. Eventually the barriers will break away. And you'll be rewarded for your patience with a clear stretch of asphalt. You'll be free to get to where you belong.
With Sydney.
FIN
Let me know what you think!