Rating: PG (dark-ish fic)
Disclaimer: JJ, can I have a character? Vaughn? Any one? Please? (Nope, not mine)
Snip it: Black holes need things to fill them, he wrote an article about it once.
Description: directly after 'Almost Thirty Years,' AU in which Jack couldn't convince Sloane that Sydney was innocent and Will is now getting placed into witness protection with Syd.
This is all evident in the story but I don't want anyone spending too much energy trying to figure it out.
Feedback: if my writing blows, feel free to tell me because I never get as much feed back as anyone else seems to (waaaa!).
Notes: chiaroscuro is an actual word-or so my far too intelligent father tells me. When he told me what it means I was enchanted and had to try to use it. The vague definition is the second line
Chiaroscuro.
The contrast created between light and shadow.
Being a reporter he has read about these things but tonight the word eludes him.
Despite his pretense for being a bit of a dolt (accidentally leaving the kettle boiling on high, coming to class in ninth grade with Allison coopers lipstick unknowingly streaked down his face) he is rather intelligent. It has occurred to him on occasion that Sydney probably wouldn't even look at him if he wasn't, so he figures he'd better be at least a little bit grateful.
Still, it isn't enough. He is reminded now; in a moment of nothing in particular accept the soft night hum of the refrigerator, that he as a person has never been enough for her.
She would never say anything about it of course- she has no real concept of the social class structure- though, he remembers, she was more than happy to inform him:
She isn't in your league and you know it.
Jenny.
No, Jenny wasn't in his league, but then maybe he never wanted her to be. Maybe she was perfect for a man who was in love with someone else.
Because the truth is that Will has never been in love with anyone else.
But her.
Chiaroscuro.
And that's what it is too. Not the word, he still can't remember that, but he knows it now.
After everything else has faded out of her, he is left with the stark confrontation that she has always been made out of light and shadow.
Sydney Bristow- the name is made up of light and shadow. Bright memories that make him smile, blurring into sadness that, at the time, he never though to question.
He remembers joking with her.
Did you know that Sydney, rearranged spells Dysney? As in 'The Little Mermaid'?
She had smiled, delightedly, over hot chocolate and asked him where he came up with this stuff.
At the time it never occurred to him to take his triumphs where he could get them. Instead he continued.
It's like some conspiracy. I bet you're a spy. For Dysney.
When she stood to put her dish in the sink, it was (Will decided) because the dish was empty and not because her face had gone grey pale in the lamplight.
I'll be right back. I need a sweater.
The metallic sting of vulnerability in her voice had gotten lost in the couch cushions and he didn't feel the need to ask her what was wrong. To Will Tippin; there was nothing wrong at all.
Chiaroscuro.
Indeed, it really wasn't anything unusual that he never discovered the secrets she hid. It wasn't as though he was trained to seek them out as she was trained to hide them. Anyways, this is what he tells himself now, after time has passed and he has nothing else to do on a rainy night in February.
In the old days he would have gone out, for a walk maybe, or to her house, because despite his ignorance, she confided in him once that she wasn't sleeping well.
Too much going on, she had said, to which he had answered simply:
Tell me about it.
It wasn't until much later (an equally rainy night in Paris) that he realized how little she did tell him. Realized that when he thought he was getting an anecdote, sugar smile story that probably began with, So I was on my way home from work today..., that a story like that was much more likely her own strangled version of a scream. Sydney Bristow's silent scream that 'I Am Tired of Lying and For One Night, God Dammit, I Am Going to Tell Someone the Truth.'
I've been having trouble sleeping, was a truth.
He didn't think he knew anyone who could scream quieter than her.
Chiaroscuro.
And it was funny, too, because from the pieces that she gave him of herself- all the flimsy tokens and trinkets of life, some true and some false- he got the distinct impression that, when assembled correctly, they became an entire person. Like perhaps, from the negative spaces- like cutouts from newspapers- an intelligent person would have been able to find the real image being created.
Perhaps he isn't really all that intelligent after all.
In the kitchen the refrigerator switches and hums at an altered frequency and it occurs to him that even the parts of Sydney that were (on the surface) unimportant, were made up of light and shadow. There were things she would tell him sometimes- tiny details about herself that were almost as dazzling at the truths she would tell him later-
I work for the CIA.
-Dark truths with edges as definite and sharp as blades.
Sydney Bristow is a spy.
It was on the quiet, sunny mornings when the bank had yet to call, and (though it was never noted) there had not been any 'wrong numbers' of people searching for pizza places, that she would smile- smile like butter yellow sunflowers and cupcakes and say,
Oh! Are these chocolate chips?!
And he would feel like a whole person
She like them! She liked the chocolate chips!
Even Francie hadn't liked chocolate chips in her pancakes. It quickly became a 'him and Sydney' thing.
Chiaroscuro.
And now, now that it (everything) had fallen into nothing and there would be no late night walks- no, you have any ice cream? I'm hungry, and no sunny butter yellow smiles- he was left with the sinking suspicion that she was all that there ever was, maybe, and all that he'd ever loved.
He can no longer walk the four miles across town in the anticipation of her face appearing in between the crack in the door, because for one thing, he reminds himself she's right down the hall in the room to the left of his, but also because it would be far to dangerous.
Jack had said before he left them alone here,
It's far too dangerous for you to be going out right now. In a few weeks I'll make contact, Sydney, but until then the CIA will have men bring you groceries every three days.
And keep Will inside.
Will hadn't liked how Jack said this. As if he were a puppy that might get out and chase the neighbor's cat.
It angered him because, despite the fact that he was suddenly dead to the world, living in a house with a women who was his entire world anyways, he was still capable of the understanding that: No, this is not something that's ever going to be fixed, and yes, we are in very big danger.
Chiaroscuro.
Danger, as it turned out, was not a new feature in Will Tippins life.
You've been in mortal danger from the first time you leant Sydney Amy's ID.
When at last he found out that, yes, his best friend, was, in fact a spy, and that she had been using his sister as a fake identity, he was struck by the image of Sydney- all made up- bright red hair and everything. He thought she would have looked beautiful.
He never did consider what she had done to his life. At the time it didn't really seem to matter.
Now, he does think about it and it finally occurs to him that his fixation with her is not entirely a healthy one.
Also strangely, he finds it difficult to care.
If anything, since that night in Paris and the subsequent night he was later told of in Taipei-
We had to destroy a thing called The Circumference.
-He has lost whatever threads of 'Moving On' he had been constructing since he had first kissed her over ice cream, since she'd agreed to marry Danny, since they'd met and he'd though:
I could love you in a second.
Because now she is something all together different. Not that she isn't Sydney, really, or even that she looks incredibly different although, Will admits, she does. But what's really changed is something far subtler, so subtle that someone with his limited experience has had to learn to look for it closely.
She is darker.
It's tragic really. He thinks he might like to write about it if he ever found the means. Because, where, ultimately, there used to be a girl who fought to tell the truth, who fought to do the right thing, who fought and fought and fought and who came home glowing in the lamp light over hot chocolate and schizophrenic chats about dysney- now, even Will can see that there is dark. She does not glow.
It hasn't affected the way she looks (though her hair is short and pixie red now) she is still beautiful as ever. If anything, when he sees her, silently, motionlessly watching late night comedy, and he can see the hollows- freshly carved into her tired eyes, she is more beautiful that anything- but she is darker too.
He can see the places: behind her eyes and in the hollowed out scoops of her collarbones, that there is anger.
Angry words and angry sounds and angry tears that (as far as he knows) she has never even cried.
He imagines that she is drowning in them, a dam built up behind the gates. She is stronger than iron and she will use it to drown herself.
What are you doing Syd?
He had come into the kitchen one day to find her scalding her hands. The expression on her face was so blank he wouldn't have even know how hot the water was if he hadn't put his own hands under. Pulled them back, burnt.
What are you doing?
I am feeling, she had told him. He hadn't quite understood.
Chiaroscuro.
But he had begun to notice the changes better. Each time she lost a pound. Each time she woke up screaming- not knowing if she had been screaming out loud or even knowing whether it mattered anymore.
I didn't hear anything, he lied. He knew it was important to her that she screamed quieter than anyone.
He had even begun to understand the actual events of that evening. The Circumference. Torture in Taipei.
The writer in him thought he might have heard a book called that. He couldn't remember for sure, but consoled himself with the fact that, with a title like that it wouldn't have been a good book anyways.
He had caught small glimpses of conversations over secure phone lines and headsets. Notes delivered with the groceries detailing what was happening, who was involved, what was being done.
Who's Dixon He asked her once. They were eating soup and playing chess.
He was my partner, she said- knocking over a piece. He was the man who turned me in...
Checkmate.
She poured her soup into the sink and quietly left the room. The sound of the door shutting was careful- as if it too, was trying not to scream.
After that he couldn't get any answers from her, instead he began to become adept in his own version of spying, which never involved actual death but (to him) was important because it involved Sydney.
Have they found Vaughn yet?
It was Syd's favorite question and the only one she ever asked more than once.
The first two weeks they answered her, no. no. no. and by the look on her face, Will came to realize that there was something of extreme importance in this question.
On the third week her father came to the door. He looked sad, still as cold as ever.
-Have they found Vaughn yet?
-Vaughn's dead.
Will forget to keep hidden. Like everything else, it didn't seem to matter anymore. After all, the only thing worse than finding out that Syd was in love with someone else, turned out to be seeing her lose him.
She just looked at Jack. As cold as him, colder even, and said
Keep looking.
That night she let Will hold her even though she wasn't crying, and she didn't get angry when he whispered comfort words into her ear.
We'll be okay, we'll be allowed to go out soon, and we'll start over.
She watched TV and answered him flatly as he suggested names they should request when they began their new lives.
Timothy and Stacy.
Maybe.
Fredric and Holly.
Sure.
Jack and Jill.
Un huh.
That night he couldn't sleep. He lay in bed remembering how, when he had held her, she smelled just exactly like deep, ripe, cranberries. He could still smell the bitter tang on his clothes if he tried.
Chiaroscuro.
And he realized that, even if she didn't remember, or if maybe she didn't want to remember, he could still tell exactly how she used to smell. Like pears and watermelons with just a little bit of ginger- Warm as sweet fire.
Cranberries, he realized, are nothing like sweet fire. The though had unnerved him. He didn't tell her- he probably never would- but he hadn't been sleeping well either. Yes, he was scared as hell, and yes, he did miss his old life. He missed her.
No, instead of creeping into her room like he might have in the old days. Throwing teddy bears at the bed until he managed (with awful aim) to hit her, wake her- he stood, stark and a little bit cold, (after all it was February) and went downstairs.
The clock in the kitchen (which has always been 19 minutes slow) says 3:30, when he hears a noise and looks up. Realizes that Sydney has snuck down the stairs behind him and into the kitchen. No noise. The house is screaming, they are both screaming but it is silent.
He wonders if she would leave without a word if he let her.
Hey.
She looks over- her hair looks like a jagged halo- glowing. She has the water running and he remembers when she scalded her hands so he comes into the kitchen to make sure she doesn't try it again- he feels like he has to, he still loves her- no matter who she is. The linoleum is tacky under foot and the light of the stove is softer on both of their faces. He thinks that in her silk tank top and flannel pants she looks about six years old. Her eyes look big and scared.
Chiaroscuro.
No, he decides that maybe he was wrong, she looks closer to fifty, maybe older- she looks like she's been trying too hard for too long. He's also relieved that she's only making coffee, nothing more- nothing painful.
He figures again, that it's a good thing he's actually intelligent because if not, she wouldn't even talk to him and then she would be all alone. Maybe he should write a book about this, about everything that has happened. If Jack were here, he'd say it was the kind of stupid risk that would get him killed.
Jack would talk to him like a puppy.
No. Bad dog. No.
He doesn't even care any more.
Let me help, he says and Sydney steps aside, hands him the kettle. He isn't really sure that's what he meant but if this is all she'll allow him, then he'll do it. Once the kettle is filled she takes his hand and pulls him close to her, up tight against the counter, she sits on it and puts one leg on either side of his own.
I am not Vaughn, he wants to tell her. I am only Will.
He knows he could tell her how much he loves her. That right now, she wouldn't reject him even a little. Knows that this much darkness in a person needs a little light too. Black holes need things to fill them. He wrote an article about it once.
He wonders if they should kiss, is it really appropriate due to the circumstances? And he knows that if she tells him she loves him now, they will be words wasted on a man who isn't here.
Have they found Vaughn?
Acceptance is not something that comes easily to either of them. She has not accepted this death.
Will open his mouth.
He thinks that maybe, tonight with both of them so wrecked, he can say the one thing, the biggest thing,
The only thing there has ever been- and so he opens his mouth.
Acceptance is not something that comes easily to him. He has not accepted that she doesn't love him.
And who knows, maybe she could. Now that he knows about her, now that they are so different. Inverted.
Him strong.
Her weak.
They are close together.
Light and dark. Will thinks about all the shadows he can see in her. He wants to tell her about that, but he can't remember.
He can tell her about love- he knows it will all be wasted.
He wishes he could make her glow. She hasn't in so long.
He wishes he could remember the word
And he opens his mouth.
Chiaroscuro.