Reference Point

by labyrinthine

Perspective is never more subjective than when you are alone.

Title: Reference Point

Author: labyrinthine

E-mail: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com

Rating/Classification: PG/post-ep ATY (yeah, I know, shoot me now), challengefic.

Summary: Perspective is never more subjective than when you are alone.

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Author's note: This is a departure for me, and because my internet decided to crash, a largely unbetaed departure at that. Sob. The challenge elements are all here, though I played fast and loose with some of the concepts. Ha. Thanks to the usual suspects – Hil for evil Irina thoughts, Thorne for encouragement, chat people for general crazyness. You know the drill…

*****

Wandering through your labyrinth

I've learned the things you'll never tell-

Maybe I'm afraid that, if I stay too long,

I'll lose myself

-Kerri Anderson, 'labyrinth'

*****

It was a week before they brought him to her.

She thought he was dead, of course. The memory was hazy, thick as the turgid water that captured him before her eyes, scant inches away on the other side of the glass. It was her last concrete thought before she too lost consciousness; overwhelmed by his image to pay attention to the attacker behind her, she had her guard down and nearly succumbed to the same fate. A perfect Romeo and Juliet for the twenty-first century, only Juliet didn't have blue hair and Romeo wasn't the one that rose from the dead.

This was her frame of reference, his drowning. The concussion she sustained from the head injury reacted adversely with the drug cocktail she was given to make her a compliant prisoner. Consequently, her short-term memory was a train wreck of still frames and images. Every time she tried to organize her thoughts they only became more shuffled out of order, offering no sustenance. In fits and starts she recalled her mother's first appearance, an encroaching shadow that still seemed more formidable than the actual woman herself. "We are both adults now, call me Irina," the shadow had stated. She had said nothing in response, because this woman wasn't "Mom" after all, could never be "Mom", and it was safer to just not acknowledge her presence at all. Though that too was recalled in a haze. She thought she was given more sedatives, afterwards, since she hadn't felt remotely like herself past the event.

There was his drowning, and then there was now, and the in betweens were inconsequential. But who was to say that even that was correct? It was all too subjective; there was no true frame of reference, no singular accurate account to draw upon for validity. Perspective is never more subjective than when you are alone. The motion of an object is as variable as the vantage point chosen to view the movement; how was she to say with true conviction that the meager flashbacks she recalled were legitimate when she had no impartial witness? So her boundaries were presumptive only, all she had left to tether her at all. He was dead, and she was here.

But now, he was not dead. Had never been dead at all.

She had been sitting in the corner, the farthest from the door, for over a week. The safest corner: she could not be attacked from behind, and had an unobstructed view of the entire room, with a line of sight that allowed her to see anything that passed through the door the moment the action occurred. Years of training acting on instinct, and she was glad for it. This was important; her motor reflexes were sluggish from drugs, lack of food and exercise, low sunlight. She needed all the help she could get.

When the door had first groaned in protest, opening into the room, the light slicing through the room was enough to make her cringe; her eyes beyond dilated from a week in the dark. The reaction was so swift that when she did elevate her eyes back to the door, she refused to believe what she saw. It had to be an artifact, the bright light from the outside corridor playing tricks on her. It couldn't be him standing there, with hunched shoulders and loose fitting attire and hair everywhere but in place. It was the drugs, the drugs and the concussion and the light, because that wasn't his presence and besides, he was dead. She was here and he was dead. It was the last thought she trusted, it couldn't be wrong. Her memory was still patchy but it couldn't be him, because that would mean her reference point was inaccurate and she couldn't trust anything at all that had happened. But it was. How could it be anybody else?

"Vaughn." She said, ignoring the crack in her voice, ignoring every external cue that made her believe this wasn't really him. She heard the door slam behind him and then they were together, him and her and no one else. And except for his eyes he didn't react, but it was only his eyes that she trusted anyway.

And she thought, now everything is different. Life wasn't bracketed by when he died and now; it was framed by when she was wrong and when she was right. And maybe there was something to look forward to, after all.

*****

That was…she wasn't even sure how long ago that took place. She remembered watching him not long after he arrived, in total concentration, scratching off tick marks on a far wall to count the days pass to time their captivity. Her memories were starting to last, now, short-term events sticking around to hold long-term, and this was one of the first she could recall. The intense focus etched over every line on his face, trying to establish a timeline, considering how many tick marks to start the counter on the wall. It didn't last long, of course; it was hard to count hours when you were locked in perpetual dusk. And after a while she didn't want to know anymore, besides.

*****

Sydney thought of colors.

The navy blue and forest green of her childhood pleated school uniform. The blue-gray of the bay in the early morning, before the boardwalk got packed and the feeling was lost in the color was crowded out. The faded off-white of her mother's wedding gown that Jack kept in the back of his closet no matter how many times they moved; she would steal into the room when she was young and finger the yellowing lace, thinking that her mother would have to return, because she forgot the dress by mistake. The not-quite-quantifiable color of Vaughn's eyes.

She lifted her own eyes to assess the scheme in front of her, to remind herself that everything was still as it should be. The bulb situated in the far corner, emitting a weak beam of white light that cut through a haze of suspended particles to effectively keep the one corner of the room lit while leaving the rest in shadow. Matte brown cinderblock walls, obviously painted years ago, allowing her the option of flaking away brown to reveal their true color underneath. She opted against this, because doing so ran the risk of lodging the brown underneath her fingernails and the last thing she wanted was to have any association of this place trapped on her body. Besides, she had long decided there was enough exposed cement to go around, as she gave one last dismissive glance at the cold cement that made up the floor. An old army-issue blanket, full of rough patches and thread-bare areas. It was like a vacuum, or a black hole; sucking up all the color and spitting out a dismal palette of gray and brown and black. Both their outfits were beyond recognizable, as they too began to accept the surrounding murk and transformed into a mess of dust and snags and dirt. A mirror would be wonderful, a visual reminder of who she was on the outside, but she would probably be too afraid to look into it if she even had one available.

What comprised these four walls and everything inside – these were things she could believe. She looked at them because she had nothing else to look at, but they became comforting, a constant to hold onto. She would scrutinize them, examine their details, form new memories she could trust. Hoping her old memories would follow suit.

The day after he arrived she had wracked her brain, looking for visual clues to give him a reference between where they had once been and where they were now. Her eyes had settled on the blanket in the corner almost by chance, and in a flash of recognition she remembered the little picture frame he had given her during the holidays. The drab olive green of the blanket was an exact match for the awning over the shop where they had met, she was sure of it. She shifted to reach the blanket and felt its abrasive surface, every dyed thread a welcome link to the past.

"Vaughn." She could *feel* the sensation running from the blanket, through her fingerpads, unlocking the forgotten memory. "Do you remember-"

"I don't remember."

She wished she could share her discoveries with him. It would help him remember too, help him remember that there was more than these four walls, that there was a whole life outside of this waiting for them to return. But he was closed off, still reconciling what had taken place in his mind. She had turned away, giving him time, giving him what he thought it was he needed.

On her side, facing the wall, she let the silver of the picture frame dance in her mind. Remembered that it matched the silver accents of her grandmother's favorite amethyst broach. Let the memories swirl and mix and be born again, her link to the past and she hoped, the future as well.

*****

It was so difficult to reconcile what had taken place, even as the time passed. So much of what happened was still foggy, filtering through clogged neurons in her head, and he was even worse. From her estimates, Irina had kept her drugged for questioning, examinations; aside from their initial encounter Sydney has no recollection of that first week, and was thankful for it. The drugs were potent, and mixed with a concussion and malnutrition left quite an impression on her system, probably more than would be expected given her base physical condition. And as for Vaughn…she really had no idea what they did to him, and he was in no condition to offer up a clearer perspective. She still didn't know how he could be alive, sitting not twenty feet away from her, back leaned against the second most desirable corner of the room, and not weeks drowned. He claimed he had no recollection of anything beyond sprinting with her down the hallway before the water hit, which would mean his memory was more ravaged than even her own. You'll get it back, she told him, but inside she could only think how lucky he was.

Time built up like the layers of grime on their skin, ever present but immeasurable. Irina showed up at odd intervals, bearing scowls and scraps of food, jars of water. They had not spoken since their initial encounter – not counting whatever she might have said during her first week, which is a total blank. She could think of no reason to keep them here, two CIA officers locked up in a stale room, kidnapped, secluded.

And he was no help. She glanced to his corner, where he sat silently, staring at specks of dust on the far wall. Or so she assumed, pattering his actions on her own. She was still jealous of him, not being able to remember most of his ordeal. As time passed her own memories started to return and the more she remembered, the less sleep she was able to catch at night. His were far more spotty, both in regards to the time they spent apart as well as recalling what had happened mere hours before. She expected that his memory faculty would return as hers did, it would just take time, and in the meantime they played memory games, bringing up the "good times" before they had ever heard of the Man or broke protocol to run on unsanctioned missions. She liked to think it helped, even when he would break off the banter and return to staring at the far wall, oblivious to her presence.

She couldn't fathom what was going on in his head. He had been dead, he had to have been. And what kind of reference point could a dead man have?

*****

"Do you remember what's on the other side, behind the door?"

"No. Do you?"

"I can't remember. I wonder what it feels like to be out in the light."

"We'll get out of here, we will. And then you'll remember."

"No, we won't."

*****

One would think that forced prolonged confinement with another individual would lead to an escalation in social interaction, that the two of them would become inseparable, sharing this common drive to escape, working together to make it a reality. But the more time passed, the more distant he became towards her. Their little banter to stimulate his memory dwindled to cessation, and it was rare that he would ever speak up when not prompted by a question from her. Classic PTSD, avoidance preserving what autonomy he still clung to, but it felt like there was an underlying cause. She thought that he was starting to remember, to recall the missing week after his near drowning, and the memories were just too painful or severe to allow for extraneous thought. This is what she assumed, from his reserved posture, his silence, his aversion to touch. It killed her to see him the way he was, but in her own state of withdrawal and recovery she was in little position to offer a remedy. Her only thought was to get out, find a way to escape and get him help, get them both help. She was still optimistic enough to think it would be easy and everything could still return to normal.

It was only at night where he would reach out at all, show vestiges of the Vaughn she remembered from before any of this had taken place. At first the was the one with the nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat with distorted visions of Irina hovering over her or Vaughn slipping away behind the window glass. And he would respond to her then, inch towards her and pet her hair, grasp her shoulders, rocking slightly. The comfort was reassuring, if bittersweet; he would never watch her during this process, keeping his eyes trained on the far wall, just as silent as when they were both awake. And now he was the one who would wake up at night, his eyes wild and seeking an invisible target. She would respond in kind, and there were times he would dip his head to her lap and shake, and this was the closest she could connect with him at all.

She wished she could understand him, but was afraid his mind was as ravaged as her own. She watched him during the day, her eyes on him and his eyes on the wall, and thought that dying would be preferable to this stalemate. Perhaps they were already dead, and this was all there was, and it was only her lack of perspective that fooled her into thinking there was hope left in this life for them at all.

*****

She would think of her friends, the life outside this room that was carrying on without her. Wondering what lies they had been told to cover up her absence, if they had been told anything at all. One night she woke up violently, shaking with tears sluicing through the layer of dirt on her face, dreaming that Will and her father were trying to find her and bring her home. The dream was too vivid, too real; it had to be fake. The visions that were remembered with clarity couldn't be trusted, no matter how badly she wanted them to be true. She curled around her other side, and tried to think of nothing.

*****

After a length of time, Irina would hover in the room after depositing the regular meal, trying to engage them in conversation. Her presence, oddly enough, didn't seem to affect Vaughn at all; he merely ignored her. Sydney, meanwhile, had to struggle to hold herself in when confronted with the woman's arrival. She would listen passively as Irina would ask about the food, the room, their contentment, and refuse to participate in her games. Because they were games. The more she remembered about her interrogation the more familiar this routine felt, Irina's beck-and-call taunts.

"Don't you wonder what you're missing back home, Sydney? Do you think you are actually missed?"

This was becoming habitual, and tired, and old, and she wanted no part in this woman's mocking.

"Do you think they held a funeral for you? They would have by now. Do you think anyone showed up?"

"I went to your funeral," Sydney spat in response, wanting an end to the day's games so she could focus on something else, anything else but the monstrosity blocking the light outside the doorway.

But her unexpected reply sent Irina aback, and for a moment Sydney could see a softening, a crack in the armor. She did not think about compassion – this woman had no compassion and did not deserve even a moment of sympathy. But as Irina left the room abruptly, Sydney started to think about escape, a method of attack to break the woman and devise a way to break free. Memories as ammunition; if she could only remember enough, she could fire an arsenal and break the woman apart. She turned to Vaughn to share this discovery and the moment her eyes fell on his form her spirit fell to the ground. She found him oblivious as he ever was, locked in his own world with no indication that he had witnessed the recent exchange. And her excitement, her one shred of hope, fell to pieces, and for the first time she was truly afraid they would never find a way out.

*****

Time passed. It didn't matter how much, nothing mattered at all. Irina, always punctual with her tray of lukewarm food and taunting banter, failed to show up, and then failed to show up again. Sydney was too weak to care anymore; even if she did, she was in no shape to mount any sort of attack, physical or mental, against her captor. She had given up long ago trying to figure out why they were kept here, barely alive, no longer interrogated. Were they a bounty, a ransom for one of their abundant enemies? Or were they kept alive for Irina's own amusement? Neither option would surprise her, and at this point, it didn't make a difference.

She propped herself up to see Vaughn staring at her from his corner of the room, acknowledging her presence for the first time in days.

"It's not supposed to end like this." A whisper.

"It's not going to end."

And she found the reserve to push off the wall and make her way to where he was waiting, his arms free and she leaned against him. It would be ok, she thought. She remembered her initial relief when he first arrived in the doorway, when her perspective was shifted to accommodate his newfound presence. The excitement over having two separate reference points. The hope that they would combine to create a validated, objective, third point of view that would be their way out, their free ride. It was too late now, there was nothing left, and it didn't bother her at all. She could see clearly, it was all she could do, and she closed her eyes in relief, knowing there was another pair looking out for her.

*****

A voice. But they were too tired to talk. No, a different voice.

A different voice?

Hands on her shoulder, turning her over, hearing a shout and that touch felt familiar, it made her open her eyes, a sliver.

"Syd, god, Syd. Hang on, we're getting you out of here."

What was…her eyes fluttered shut again, the sudden clarity of Will in her vision with her dad in the background too much to comprehend. It was too bright, too fast, and let herself relax as she felt herself lifted off the ground. She let it happen, not sure if this was truly happening or just a dream, giving herself over to this external perspective. It was out of her hands, and the loss of control was liberating. She let it go, let it all go, and imagined a future where she had infinite reference points, trusting her eyes and memories together once again.

*****

As your worlds and colors

come together

And then drift apart…

*****

Reference Point

elabyrinthine@yahoo.com