Title: The Secret Conversations of Flowers
Author: wolfish
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Truth Takes Time
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and ABC.
Summary: Sloane learns the one lesson of Alias: no one is ever truly dead. September CM Challenge.
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Emily had a language all her own, without ever speaking a word. It was language of sight and smell and touch. Every flower had its own scent, it own texture and plumage, its own secret meaning.
She used to press the flowers into his palm, curling his fingers around the stem with her own like he was a blind man. She'd stretch up on her toes then, so she could tickle his ear with her breath as she whispered a name and a message. (Lily of the Valley. You've made my life complete.) Regardless of what he was trying to concentrate on, her antics always managed to divert his most well-meaning efforts, his golden-haired siren luring him out into her garden. He was mystified by her, still after all those years, how she saw straight through the stoic man in a suit to something in him that even he couldn't stir. She made him human: flawed, vulnerable, foolish, and ultimately redeemable. She'd lace her hand in his and lead a different man outside, touching their interlocked fingers to every petal and stalk, repeating their names like some magic spell until he had finally memorized every one. (So we never have to be at a loss for words.)
He hated to leave her, mainly because she hated to be left alone, but the best he could do was to litter his wake with striped carnations (sorry I can't be with you). Without fail, a few days later, pink camellias (longing for you) and azalea blooms (take care of yourself for me) would appear in abundance at whatever address he left for her. She always forgave him, no matter the crime, no matter how angry she had been with him this time. She was the most open, most innocent soul he had ever met, totally apart from the deceptive world he traveled in. She was a novelty, and he treasured her above all else, kept her safe with every lie.
Her favorites were orange blossoms; she sprinkled them everywhere, even going so far as to wash the sheets with them so that the smell was on everything. When he was at his most frustrated he used to snap at her about having to wade through flowers, but she never responded in kind. She only needed to remind him that orange blossoms were their flower, that they stood for eternal love, for all his irritation to melt away, and in the next few hours while she avoided him, he would find time to sneak out into her garden and pluck a couple purple hyacinths (please forgive me). He'd present them to her on his knees, and she would always toss them out of the way, drawing him up beside her, never really mad to begin with. (Eternal, love.)
It was hardest on both of them during all the time she spent in the hospital; him for wanting the impractical, to be by her side day and night, and her for yearning for the freedom her garden had come to represent. The world was coming apart at the seams; no rival organizations, no CIA, no international intrigue, but something completely out of his control had found his weakness, cut straight through the chink in his armor to his heart, and the best that could do was to put on a strong front for her, making certain that she had fresh flowers in her room everyday: white poppies (consolation), yarrow (good health), peonies (healing), and star of Bethlehem (hope), so she would never have to be silent in that frightening, deathly quiet place.
Viscaria was for their anniversaries. He would lead her out into the garden under the stars, while she struggled to tuck it into his collar, giggling beguilingly into his shoulder. And when she had finally affixed to her satisfaction, she would lean in close, mouthing the words that went along with the flower, though by now they were worn into his very being, like well-tread footpaths on his soul. (Will you dance with me?) It was those nights, with her in his arms and the world and the sky turning with their feet, that they were untouchable, immortal.
But that year in the hospital dropped him suddenly into a shockingly cold reality. There were no stars, no flowers, no dancing, only the harsh monitor lights in her room and sharp smell of disinfectant—she was too ashamed to even look at him because she could barely stand on her own two feet. So he came to her instead, slipping into her narrow hospital bed, muffling her protests while he stroked the ravaged remains of her curls. At last she fell quiet, easing her head down onto his chest and closing her eyes, content with his promise that they would spend the night together, dreaming of dancing in her garden—until next year. Because there had to be a next year.
That is, he thinks, why it was so impossible to let her lifeless body go, even while Irina was pulling him toward the helicopter. It wasn't because he had really believed in any cure of Rambaldi's. Rambaldi was a quest, and it had never really mattered if the quest had an end, only that he was on it. As long as he felt in control of the situation again, so he would never have to feel the same way he had when they had given him Emily's diagnosis. He had already watched her die in that cramped little room with her doctors all around; he wasn't ready when it happened the second time.
He's walking in the garden again—not their garden, but Irina had specified that this newest of their hideouts had one of its own. She was strange like that; a woman who had caused so much suffering in her time, but some of part of her still longed to ease it too. He wonders how she understood so well that Emily felt closest when he was out here, with the flowers brushing against each other in the breeze, the whispering they made could almost be her voice, and the lonely beat of his heart could almost be her footsteps beside him. He touches the flowers as he passes, leaving his silent messages in his path, all the things he would say if only she were still there to listen. Primrose (I can't live without you), yellow zinnias (daily remembrance), cyclamen (resignation and goodbye), and forget-me-nots, which spoke for themselves.
He comes full circle back to the house, and without any reason to linger any longer, he sighs as he passes back inside. He crosses the kitchen absently as he makes a course for the rooms he has claimed as his, but pulls up abruptly as he notices the vase on the table. He had adamantly instructed Sark and Irina that none of the flowers were to be cut, and he takes a few aggravated steps forward to inspect the damage.
Monkshood. (Beware. A deadly foe is near.)
He almost convinces himself that it's only a coincidence, that Sark or Irina took a fancy to the flower, but among the monkshood, situated unmistakably in the center of the arrangement, is a single orange blossom.
Eternal love. Eternal, love. Eternal.
When he had been young, eternal had been too large to comprehend; when he had married her, it had been the rest of their lives; when he had grown older it had seemed far too short. So why was it only after she was gone that he was finally beginning to grasp what she had really meant?
END.