TITLE: Notturno
AUTHOR: Hillary aliasfanfiction@comcast.net
WEBSITE: http://www.creditdauphine.net
ARCHIVE: please ask me first
RATED: R for language
SPOILERS: for the BOX I and II and a line/scene for " The Coup"
CLASSIFICATION: AU/Angst/Vaughn POV
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'um. Obviously, , if I did, I'd live in LA, drive a nice car, and eat at Spago for lunch.
A/N: We are going to pretend that the scene between Syd and Vaughn before Moscow wasn't the happy scene it was. I started working on this a month ago, when I first saw the preview for " The Coup", and I, being the glutton for melodrama that I am, decided to take it to the other extreme. So just for the fun of it, let's play the angst card and take it there. Vaughn didn't get a slap on the hand. " The Coup" has not aired. You have just got done watching the Box part two and have seen the preview and all you have to go on is the Observatory snippet scene, all right? Remember the Box Part Two? Where Vaughn was suspended as Sydney's handler and Haladki was such an ass? I'm convinced Chris Carter and The X files have scarred me for life: I'm destined to believe that unrequited, unhappy angst is around every corner for every attractive pair. That said, shall we?
*NOTTURNO*
Sydney is a speck in my vision, a blur that slowly materializes. Her form is cloaked in black, hair down and against her shoulder blades. I swallow and almost stop walking to take a long look at her, fixated on the point where her A-line coat stops and her legs begin and end in sensible but high heels. She leans against the stucco of the railing, oblivious to my gaze upon her. I approach soundlessly, finding a place to stand a few feet next to her, our bodies parallel, eyes intersecting for one instant in silent acknowledgment as I mirror her nonchalant pose and lean forward, staring ahead of me, at anything and nothing.
It's late afternoon and the observatory grounds are deserted; the interior closed for repairs and the grounds barely frequented since the construction began last month. Passerby cross on the lawn in the far distance, their voices muted by space. We're on the upper level, standing in front of the large, oxidized copper domes that loom behind us. It's cold today, unseasonably so, winds blowing at spirited gusts against my cheeks erratically.
"Hi." She says, keeping her eyes fixed ahead of her. The sky is overcast and visibility is poor, lending to an omnipresent feeling of uneasiness that weighs in my stomach and makes me almost angry.
" Hi." I reply in the same even tone.
It has never been her job to study me, to become attuned to the sound of my breathing, the variations of my tone, the shift in my body. She's not schooled in the language of my hand movements or the level of exasperation I express when I sigh. These things aren't for her to examine, expound upon, evaluate, define.
But for me, I live a life ascribed to doing all those things. Perhaps more so than necessary, more so than what's needed, more so than what's sane. How much do I know about Sydney Bristow, and how little does she know about me?
From the corner of my vision I can see her tuck her hair behind her ear, her most habitual of movements, one I've come to find endearing. I correct myself haltingly, had found endearing. That little tic- like so many other things has to stop. Today.
The sky is overcast, gunmetal gray cirrus casting a surreal light over everything around us. We've never met here before, and I'll see to it that we never meet here again, so it will forever serve as an unhappy reminder of protocol and how screwing it can destroy one's career.
" I'm sorry to call you so suddenly, Sydney, but-" I swallow. The words are burning in my throat, anxiety raging in my stomach.
" Vaughn," she interrupts, and casts me a sideways glance. "The other day, when I asked you to the Kings game, I wasn't, I didn't..."
God. I close my eyes. I'm suddenly afraid to face anywhere near her direction, and so I don't. I find a cloud, far in the distance, and scrutinize it as listen to her speak. And there is something in the way she says the next sentence that makes me stop breathing for a second, makes me hitch my breath and hold it until I am nearly dizzy.
"I was trying to tell you that I wanted you to be in my life, Vaughn." I can feel her eyes, and that's the difference between us, I'm so attuned to her that I can feel her eyes shift towards my direction, falling on me. I know it when she walks in the room; I know the sound of her breathing. And that is what makes it dangerous; I'm already in her life, more than I need to be, more than what's safe. That's the problem with being a handler; the lines between protocol and impropriety get fuzzy and indistinguishable and reasoning becomes a damned near impossibility. I can't recall the countless warnings against forming "emotional attachments" in training classes, in those seemingly useless seminars. The intimacy that exists between an agent and their handler is a given. It's a closeness that stems from being the near constant third party on a mission that a hander must become to the agent. I am Sydney's silent partner, listening from a faraway corner, her unseen eyes. Omnipresent. It's an overwhelming position, a heavy weight. One that I so pompously undertook and now my superiors all doubted my competency. There were failures that even I could not deny, fuck ups I would be foolhardy not to admit to myself.
"I know you were trying to tell me that, Sydney." I take a deep breath and exhale before continuing. "It would be nice to be in public with you, to actually get to look at you." I allow myself to look at her then for the briefest of moments. She is blinking back the cold air, squinting in the harsh winter light. We make eye contact, and yes, it's there, the connection, spoken or unspoken, it's there. I can deny to Barnett and Devlin and Haladki but when I look at her, Jesus, it's there. As much as I want it to disappear- and in the beginning, those first few weeks of knowing her when I thought that innocent nudge of attraction for her was mere novelty, one I thought I would transgress, overcome with time- it hadn't. I hate myself for it. I despise that when I look at her I can't conceal it, can't deny it, can't will it to go away, even if it means everything that I lack the control, the power, to let it go. That attraction is disaster; it holds no place for us. I drop my voice to the lowest decibel possible, though even if I shouted, no one could hear.
"I'm your handler, Sydney. I'm not supposed to go to hockey games or get to know you or spend time with you outside of work. Period. It's against protocol." Protocol. My own personal four letter word.
Sydney recoils and returns her focus to the space in front of her.
"I understand." Her tone is tight, constricted, and I wince. "Actually, I don't." Sydney shoots me an impassioned glance before she continues.
"You are the only person that I can trust, the only person that knows...everything. I really need someone like that in my life right now, Vaughn."
I can see the tears forming in her eyes, and they are both beautiful and heartbreaking. I can only afford to look at her for a second, her hair blowing slightly in the wind, complexion offset by the overcast sky. She is breathtaking, amazing. I force myself to quit drinking in her misery and finding her still to be so lovely despite it.
"Sydney-" I begin, my voice tremulous .She wipes at her eyes, great swoops that I pretend to ignore.
"Let me finish. And now you are telling me it's against protocol for you to look at me? "
"It is." It comes as a snap, though I'm not sure I intend for it to. I watch as her hands grip the side of the building, hear as she inhales sharply. My eyes zero in on the engagement ring she still wears, the diamond twinkling up at me, symbolizing the distance between us, the boundaries between us, and the reminder of why she stands here at all.
"What you are asking me to be, Sydney- I can't be that for you right now." I frown. From the edge of my vision I can see the ends of her hair, lifting in the wind. I don't want to hurt her but I almost have to. Looking at her fully, taking a second, ten, twenty, thirty- feeling the strange, dizzy wash of unidentifiable emotion wash over me as I look at her, I think of the moments inside SD-6, the two of us, side by side, the way my stomach dropped when I saw her surrender to that bastard Cole- the myriad of emotions I experience in a single thought of her, far too complex for me to contemplate or even justify. They hang between us, unspoken and unnoticed.
"What happened to " 'You have my number?'" Her voice cracks slightly, and I want to touch her, but instead stick my hands deep into my pockets and focus on a faraway tree, mindful of protocol, tuning out the sound of her breathing, fast then slow, fast then slow.
"You can always call me, Sydney. You know that. You can always trust me But we can't, it can't be any other way than it is right now."
The wind has picked up, long billows that toss our coats against our legs. We remain motionless, a long silence breeds between us that I'm afraid to penetrate. Eyes stinging from the cold I wonder if things might have been different if our relationship hadn't been so rushed. If I hadn't been promoted within a month of meeting her to a senior officer and her mother hadn't killed my father. Or I didn't think about her an inordinate amount of time throughout the day, or that she did not fascinate me, or that I didn't think she was amazing. Or maybe if I had just listened in those seminars about forming an emotional boundary between myself and my agent. All those things, if all those things never made a bit of difference, would I still be standing here right now?
"Is that all, then?" She asks stonily, breaking the silence.
"Yes." I manage somehow before walking away. I walk past her, letting myself stare openly as I move. Her face is classic, it looks like marble in this light. Her tears have been wiped away and her eyes are fixed ahead of her, devoid of emotion. She is no longer looking at me, no longer breathing irregularly, I hear her inhale as I walk past.
It's so hard for me to not turn around.
*
A half a block away I stop into a sad-looking market on a stooping corner. The overhead bell chimes as I tentatively open the front door and approach the counter. Blinking, my eyes adjust to the dull brown light, the clerk unmindfully smoking cigarettes and listening to a tiny portable radio playing antiquidated country music. He looks up with a weary expression and blinks at me. I take out a crisp twenty and lay it down.
"Cigarettes. And a lighter" I say. He gives me a strange look and takes a long, contemplative drag from his own cigarette before reaching across to turn up the dial on his radio. The wailing sounds of a lonely woman fill the small store, smoke billowing into my face, lending to the otherworldliness I'm experiencing.
"What brand?" He asks impatiently, and I blank. "Camel, lights "I revert to a brand smoked in college, when I had been a different person, brash, overconfident. I'd been so unconcerned with consequences then and now…now my life is entirely composed of consequences.
Picking up the cellophane wrapped box I nod to the clerk and leave the store, drumming the pack against my palm, delighting in the once-habitual smacking sound it makes against my skin. How long has it been, I wonder.Years, years since the last time I'd smoked. Years since the last time I'd even thought of picking up a pack. I volley the box in between my hands as I backtrack to my car, careful to avoid any route Sydney may have taken. I don't want to see that look in her eyes, the evidence of the cold distance that I had have intentionally placed there.
I find my way back to my car and sit inside it a long while before starting my engine. I open the cigarettes, lifting the lid of the box and examining the interior intently, inhaling the semi-sweet and slightly pungent odor of tobacco, my once nemesis but now ally. I give the pack a dubious glance and wonder again absently why I bothered buying them; there aren't many places you can smoke in LA and besides, what kind of self- castigation is buying a pack of cigarettes anyways? I turn the keys in the ignition and drive straight to the liquor store.
"Can I help you find something?" A clerk in her twenties approaches me, athletic, blonde, and cute. She smiles, and for a second I smile back at her, but then I remember how moody and introspective I am, and I revert back to staring at wine bottles.
"No. Thank you" I reply curtly. Her smile does a little flip flop; I realize I've just been an ass to her. She is repairing her picture perfect smile.
"Having a bad day?" She intones with such a sickly-sweet pleasantness that if six months ago, if I were actually having a semi-bad day, one not of bad to very-bad proportions, then I might have found it endearing.
"No. Just buying wine. I'm having a party, actually." I smile at her, a wide, happy smile, just to convey that I am a very happy person with a very happy, normal life. She nods.
"Just let me know if you change your mind, then. I have some awesome suggestions I can make." I look down and grab the nearest cabernet with stars and a vintage greater than five years. Then I grab a few more bottles like it. I'm not making pretenses with the girl - I am having a party, a personal pity party in which I plan on getting extremely drunk and smoking lots of cigarettes. And by the end of it I plan on convincing myself that there is nothing between my agent and I that I cannot handle.
I pay for my wine, fumbling through my wallet and handing the clerk the credit card with the same smile I'd shown her in the aisle.
"Have a nice party" She says on my way out.
Fumbling with the cell I dial and it's answered mid second ring. "Weiss."
"It's me. Look, I'm not coming back in today. It's past four, I think Devlin will understand."
"No problem. Did you have the talk with Sydney?" Weiss makes everything seem less serious- even something as harrowing as the dreaded protocol lecture.
"Yeah, I did. It went less favorably than planned."
"No, man. I'm sorry. You've got to think, it's the only way."
"I know." I reply, running a hand through my hair. "Listen, forward all calls to my cell, okay-"
"Sure, man, take it easy. You know what I would suggest doing in your situation."
"What?" I ask, my tone noncommittal.
"Drink." I laugh in response, reply in the affirmative, and hang up.
I drive home with the radio turned down and let my thoughts recreate the images of Sydney, her hands wiping at her tears, the sound of her voice, the way it felt to hear her actually say she wanted me in her life.
I arrive at my apartment and amble inside, tossing off my jacket, loosening my tie. I sit down the bottles of wine, the cigarettes, and the lighter and find a corkscrew buried deep in a kitchen drawer. It's been awhile since I've been inclined to drink wine and brood, but tonight I feel like brooding.
It's cold in my apartment. I don't bother turning up the heat, and knowing I'll be smoking and hate myself in the morning for it, I open all the windows .The wind billows around the high rise, the sun finally setting, casting low shadows on the high polished hardwood floors.
I'm lonely.
The realization is neither sudden nor new. It's been with me for awhile, even before I ended my relationship with Alice, and before I met Sydney. I open a bottle of wine and let it sit in front of a window, find a deep wine glass and rinse it out, drying it clean with a soft cloth. I know what Sydney meant about needing and wanting someone she could trust in her life. That need was what lent to the dissimulation of my relationship with Alice - it wasn't that she was untrustworthy, it was the fact that there was so little I could truly share with her. And then there was Sydney- she knews so much. So many things that no one else will ever know. And it's frightening, powerfully so.
Pulling off my tie angrily I toss it across the floor. I pour a glass of the wine and take a steadying gulp. Sydney. I lean into the kitchen counter and close my eyes briefly. When I open them the light has shifted again, it's darker, night is soon approaching. I leave the kitchen and cross to the small dining room, pull out the chair and sit.
The walls are painted yellow. Beige-white-yellow that might be called lemon- cream or meringue-saffron or some other LA themed color, I don't know. I stare as I drink, exchanging glances between the wall and the cigarettes, anger with myself growing. I lean forward and grab the pack finally; arm extends and ends when it finds cardboard and plastic, satisfied to surrender the search. I extract a cigarette and light it, taking a huge inhalation, coughing massively, eyes burning from the exertion.
I feel like I've betrayed her trust, which is such an awful feeling. It looms within me, begging for a release I cannot grant.
*
Several hours and over a bottle later I am smoking cigarettes at a furious pace and admonishing myself for allowing Alice to convincing me to buy a three thousand dollar Ethan Allen sofa. It's taupe, or some other sort of creamy -off-white brown, and I realize that I hate it. Hate it, with absolute passion. Of course, this is from the kitchen dinette in the dark that I make such astute observations, while smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. The temperature has dropped to at least fifty degrees and yet I'm feeling pleasantly warm, throat burning from the acrid smoke, the haze of nicotine and tar casting an ungodly halo over my head as I drink steadily from my glass.
Musings stray from home decor and aplomb over removal of cigarette smoke odor from Ethan Allen furniture. These things can be worried about in the morning, while nursing the head-pounding headache that will only be suitable after the colossal night of drinking intended to progress for the rest of the evening.
In college, I tried the debonair image for a brief period while "finding myself". I'd drink wine at parties and discuss philosophy and art. I can recall a certain woman being interested in me, her name now I cannot remember. She had been a brunette, tall, and willowy. And I had flat out said that I preferred blondes, that I found brown hair and brown eyed women to be boring. I actually think I used something like " non- aesthetically pleasing to my half-French eyes" because I'd been drunk at an especially raucous party, but I now know I'd been wrong.
Boring. Right. Forty-eight hours ago when Devlin told me I was officially suspended from Sydney's case I had a silent panic attack. The thought of not being her handler was only half of it, the other half was that I found her to be far, far less than boring. When that bastard Haladki was assigned as her standing officer and I imagined him laying one single finger on her, it was worse than Lambert, worse than anything I had to imagine, not seeing her face, not knowing the outcome of her missions.
And why should it matter to me? Head in my hands I can't stop the delirious spinning that is only amplified by the wine. I've let her get to me, emotional boundaries so crossed I'm beyond fucked. I've started thinking in terms of the intangible, the nuances of her personality that I don't even have the right to notice. And to think of her being handled by a jackass like Lambert, or Haladki, I can't help but find them inadequate in comparison to me. She needs someone who knows her, knows her strengths, her weaknesses, who knows her breaking point-
How I became that authority, I'm not sure. And no, I tell myself, it isn't the best thing, or the right thing, or the most sound of all things, but…..
After SD-6, a week ago, Devlin had called me into his office and admonished my actions for a half-hour before finally telling me I had one hell of an instinct. I'd smiled awkwardly and shifted in my seat before finally breathing.
" I'm going to reassign you as Bristow's handler on one condition."
I squint my eyes tight and my phone rings, breaking the memory. I answer on the third ring. " Hello."
" Vaughn?" It's Sydney. "Is this line..." She pauses, then "I am going to request a new handler."
" What?" I reply, and I think I shout it at her. I don't think I've drunk too much alcohol, but I have had had a considerable amount, enough to make her statement come as a shock.
" I am going to request-" She repeats, her tone exasperated. My lips are numb, I can't feel them when I lick them nervously.
" I need to see you." The words come from my mouth before I have time to think. Certainly, " I need to see you" is not a standardized agent-handler response, but I have had no control over what I've just managed to utter.
" I have to meet my friends for dinner in an hour." Her voice is strained, and I know what that tone means. I know what it translates to: it means she is going to see me; that she wants to see me, because she knows what kind of risk it is to call my cell phone and announce that she wants a new handler.
" Meet me first. Or after. Either or. Just meet me tonight." My throat has been ravaged by the cigarettes, and I swallow, aware of the desperation evident in my tone. If I were thinking rationally, if I hadn't drunk so much so quickly, I'd do something about that.
" Do you want to meet on the pier in fifteen minutes." I sigh with relief. I wonder if she hears the meaning behind it, if it leaves a mark on her. If she translates that into a level of relief as her sighs do for me when I hear them over telephone lines.
" I'll be there." I hang up after I wait to hear the dial tone. It's stemmed in nostalgia, I know, a sentimentality I cannot afford to have, and yet... I pull the receiver from my face and fold the phone, returning it to the table in front of me, pausing before I rise., mentally chastising myself for my utter lack of control.
I stand, blood rushing to my head, evidence of wine consumed and heady emotion. Disoriented in the dark I stumble to the light switch and find it, squinting in the artificiality and the forced brightness. The table before me is a mess, cigarette ashes coat the table, and pieces of cork litter the counter where my anxious hands had decimated it. A mess, not unlike my life. Retreating to the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror: ragged, rumpled Michael Vaughn with multiple bottles of wine on his table and a half- smoked pack of cigarettes going to meet his agent, agent--remind yourself again, Michael, she is your agent and you are her handler. And she wants to replace you. I brush my teeth, furious with my obvious fallacies, making a drunken mental list as I vigorously scrub.
Once finished I frown, replace the toothbrush, struggle with fitting it back into that tiny hole. It seems almost comical to me, the amount of pain I feel over not seeing her on a bi- weekly basis. I think of all the suffering I'd gladly put myself through just to keep her in my life, just to see her face, just to be able to sit on the opposite end of her transmissions and press the band-aids onto her arm when she leaves the bloodmobile.
I make it to the pier before her. I wait, leaning over, peering into the water. The clouds still rib the night sky, the breeze bringing in the salty sting of the pacific. I wait for her with apprehension, the reminder of this afternoon still acute, alcohol burning in my veins, nerves on edge. I hear her approach before I turn to look. And when I do, I am stunned a moment, because she looks so lovely, so soft and pretty.
It's a weakness on my part, and one I should try to resolve. I shouldn't be so overcome by her, the natural aesthetic, the way her skin seems so luminescent, the way her hair has diffuse glow. Her eyes, chestnut, a million prisms of sienna and mocha and espresso, delicious and inviting, seductive and deep.
" Sorry, I took more than fifteen minutes." I can't stop looking at her, and she seems unnerved by my blatant dissection. Her hair is pulled back, low against her neck, smooth on her head. Her makeup is minimal but stunning; everything about her tonight is incredible. I pull my eyes away and back out to the water.
" It's okay." I reply stupidly She moves next to me, closer than we had stood earlier today. The pier is deserted, and the mood is surreal, the clouds moving quickly across the sky, the wind blowing, Sydney so close I can feel her body heat.
" I think it would be best for both of us if I request a new handler, Vaughn."
" Please, Sydney, you can't do that." I say, tripping over my words. I can't think of anything else to say, my tongue still thick from wine and the fear of her actually leaving far too acute. That fear, I'm quickly realizing, will be my undoing.
"I don't know why you wouldn't agree with me on this. Obviously things aren't working out with the two of us." Sneaking a glance over at her I stare at her ears. I can't believe I can get caught up in something as innocuous as ears. But Sydney's ears- there are elements of her that are so tough, so worldly, so experienced, and then there are her ears: unpierced, unfettered by steel or precious stones. I wonder how that lobe would feel in my mouth, that perfect, virgin ear in between my lips -
" Vaughn?" Sydney interrupts my image of her ear and I blink.
" I'm sorry. No, I don't agree. Listen, there is something I need to tell you, and I shouldn't be telling you this, Sydney, but dammit- I don't really feel like keeping anything from you anymore." Her eyes widen. I realize that we aren't being covert anymore, she has gotten closer to me and we have stopped being careful about who is watching us. I 'm not going to tell her everything, I reason. I'm not going to tell her that I want to taste her earlobe, that's for sure-
" When we found out about your mom I was called in for a psych evaluation which led to my suspension as your handler. As you know, SD-6 was infiltrated by Cole and I was involved with entering SD-6 against CIA wishes. In fact, against a direct order." I watch as she opens her mouth to a solid "O" and then closes it.
" When I got back, I didn't really know my future with the CIA. I acted as I did because I wanted to be sure that everyone-including you and your father, would be all right." I pause then, taking a moment to look down at my shoes and orient myself. There is a strange buzzing in my ears, I'm not sure if it's from nerves or alcohol, and I know I'm talking very fast, trying to push everything out at once, slurring my words together.
" Devlin gave me a huge speech about the importance of protocol and then I got a lecture on agent - handler propriety." I dare a look at her, and she is avoiding my eyes, her expression indecipherable. I wonder if she can tell I've been drinking. I wonder if she still is going to want to replace me. Hell, I wonder why she wanted to replace me in the first place. I continue, keeping my eyes on her face " It seems that I have acted outside the guidelines of agent and handler guidelines, and after a stern reprimanding I was given one last chance as your handler- provided that I gave you the impression that I was interested in following protocol and protocol only when it came to our relationship."
She doesn't reply for a moment, and I watch as she registers my words. Sydney is so expressive, letting a myriad of emotions flit across her countenance as she contemplates everything. I stand stock still, carefully avoiding what would appear as staring and allow her to digest the information I have given. After a prolonged silence, I feel her hand find mine in the darkness.
"I wish you could have just told me that." There are tears in her eyes, glinting in the shadows. "I was ready to get a new handler, and you know, that would have really sucked."
I smile at her then, and I can't resist squeezing her hand in response.
"That's why I had to see you"
She looks at me with those eyes, deep and penetrating and endless.
"You can always trust me enough to tell me the truth."
The moment between us is thick, and it takes every ounce of my self control to not bridge the gap between us and kiss her. I want to kiss her, God knows I do, and I almost know her well enough to think that she wants me to kiss her, too.
I have to be wrong, because she wears her engagement ring every day that I see her, and there is a haunting sadness still in the back of her eyes. It must be my own wishful thinking, or alcohol that clouds my judgment. Or the moonlight that intermittently falls on her skin and makes her look almost ethereal. I've lost it, really lost it. I shouldn't have contested her when she told me she wanted a new handler, because she was right. She needs one, because I've lost my objectivity. I want her, in all the ways I shouldn't, in all the ways that make me a very, very bad person for standing here and thinking that she is fucking divine.
" I think I know that, Sydney. It just happens to go against every rule I've been taught to follow." I'm surprised to hear my voice so low, and I'm even more shocked when Sydney sways in response.
" Vaughn.." The way she says my name, I--
Her cell phone rings, and any moment is absorbed in the space time continuum and she is fumbling with her purse, removing her hand from mine. The warmth that was once there only momentarily before is now cooling, and it's for the best, I know, because this is forbidden, all of this, our clandestine moments on the pier, our tiny moments of truth-
" Hi Francie, sure, sure, no, I'm coming, I'm coming. I'm on my way."
Smiling at me with that pretty smile I realize that I've broken all the rules, I've fallen in love with her, I have. On this pier maybe, or earlier, maybe I fell in love with that earlobe- it could have been a series of moments, I'm not really sure. She looks so wonderful, so perfect, the clouds in the sky casting a heavenly umbrella. She is saying goodbye and we've decided something, right, decided she is going to dinner and that we will play the protocol game in public.
"Goodnight, Vaughn" She whispers, and smiles again, and I get one last glimpse of her, and it makes me weak.
It's awhile that I stare at the place that she stood, a long moment before I reach into my pocket for the half-smoked pack of cigarettes, extracting them and pulling one out. Lighting, inhaling, wincing over the burn, I think this is for the better. Nothing has changed, not really. Nothing but the fact that I'm so far gone that I'll stand here all night, thinking of that one moment, wondering what would have happened if the phone hadn't rung, and my throat will still hurt like hell in the morning.
FINIS
A/N: Super special thanks to Jessica and Kate, for the stellar beta readings. Jessica, thanks for the pressure to post, I finally put down the weapons, thanks to you—hope you are happy. Kate, hot food go, and I am drinking a glass of Princi at the end of the alps for you right now in silent toast as I toss a dime in the fountain.
Also, this was a really hard piece for me to write and post, because I never really thought I managed to get it right. Feedback/thoughts/comments are appreciated and adored.
AUTHOR: Hillary aliasfanfiction@comcast.net
WEBSITE: http://www.creditdauphine.net
ARCHIVE: please ask me first
RATED: R for language
SPOILERS: for the BOX I and II and a line/scene for " The Coup"
CLASSIFICATION: AU/Angst/Vaughn POV
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'um. Obviously, , if I did, I'd live in LA, drive a nice car, and eat at Spago for lunch.
A/N: We are going to pretend that the scene between Syd and Vaughn before Moscow wasn't the happy scene it was. I started working on this a month ago, when I first saw the preview for " The Coup", and I, being the glutton for melodrama that I am, decided to take it to the other extreme. So just for the fun of it, let's play the angst card and take it there. Vaughn didn't get a slap on the hand. " The Coup" has not aired. You have just got done watching the Box part two and have seen the preview and all you have to go on is the Observatory snippet scene, all right? Remember the Box Part Two? Where Vaughn was suspended as Sydney's handler and Haladki was such an ass? I'm convinced Chris Carter and The X files have scarred me for life: I'm destined to believe that unrequited, unhappy angst is around every corner for every attractive pair. That said, shall we?
*NOTTURNO*
Sydney is a speck in my vision, a blur that slowly materializes. Her form is cloaked in black, hair down and against her shoulder blades. I swallow and almost stop walking to take a long look at her, fixated on the point where her A-line coat stops and her legs begin and end in sensible but high heels. She leans against the stucco of the railing, oblivious to my gaze upon her. I approach soundlessly, finding a place to stand a few feet next to her, our bodies parallel, eyes intersecting for one instant in silent acknowledgment as I mirror her nonchalant pose and lean forward, staring ahead of me, at anything and nothing.
It's late afternoon and the observatory grounds are deserted; the interior closed for repairs and the grounds barely frequented since the construction began last month. Passerby cross on the lawn in the far distance, their voices muted by space. We're on the upper level, standing in front of the large, oxidized copper domes that loom behind us. It's cold today, unseasonably so, winds blowing at spirited gusts against my cheeks erratically.
"Hi." She says, keeping her eyes fixed ahead of her. The sky is overcast and visibility is poor, lending to an omnipresent feeling of uneasiness that weighs in my stomach and makes me almost angry.
" Hi." I reply in the same even tone.
It has never been her job to study me, to become attuned to the sound of my breathing, the variations of my tone, the shift in my body. She's not schooled in the language of my hand movements or the level of exasperation I express when I sigh. These things aren't for her to examine, expound upon, evaluate, define.
But for me, I live a life ascribed to doing all those things. Perhaps more so than necessary, more so than what's needed, more so than what's sane. How much do I know about Sydney Bristow, and how little does she know about me?
From the corner of my vision I can see her tuck her hair behind her ear, her most habitual of movements, one I've come to find endearing. I correct myself haltingly, had found endearing. That little tic- like so many other things has to stop. Today.
The sky is overcast, gunmetal gray cirrus casting a surreal light over everything around us. We've never met here before, and I'll see to it that we never meet here again, so it will forever serve as an unhappy reminder of protocol and how screwing it can destroy one's career.
" I'm sorry to call you so suddenly, Sydney, but-" I swallow. The words are burning in my throat, anxiety raging in my stomach.
" Vaughn," she interrupts, and casts me a sideways glance. "The other day, when I asked you to the Kings game, I wasn't, I didn't..."
God. I close my eyes. I'm suddenly afraid to face anywhere near her direction, and so I don't. I find a cloud, far in the distance, and scrutinize it as listen to her speak. And there is something in the way she says the next sentence that makes me stop breathing for a second, makes me hitch my breath and hold it until I am nearly dizzy.
"I was trying to tell you that I wanted you to be in my life, Vaughn." I can feel her eyes, and that's the difference between us, I'm so attuned to her that I can feel her eyes shift towards my direction, falling on me. I know it when she walks in the room; I know the sound of her breathing. And that is what makes it dangerous; I'm already in her life, more than I need to be, more than what's safe. That's the problem with being a handler; the lines between protocol and impropriety get fuzzy and indistinguishable and reasoning becomes a damned near impossibility. I can't recall the countless warnings against forming "emotional attachments" in training classes, in those seemingly useless seminars. The intimacy that exists between an agent and their handler is a given. It's a closeness that stems from being the near constant third party on a mission that a hander must become to the agent. I am Sydney's silent partner, listening from a faraway corner, her unseen eyes. Omnipresent. It's an overwhelming position, a heavy weight. One that I so pompously undertook and now my superiors all doubted my competency. There were failures that even I could not deny, fuck ups I would be foolhardy not to admit to myself.
"I know you were trying to tell me that, Sydney." I take a deep breath and exhale before continuing. "It would be nice to be in public with you, to actually get to look at you." I allow myself to look at her then for the briefest of moments. She is blinking back the cold air, squinting in the harsh winter light. We make eye contact, and yes, it's there, the connection, spoken or unspoken, it's there. I can deny to Barnett and Devlin and Haladki but when I look at her, Jesus, it's there. As much as I want it to disappear- and in the beginning, those first few weeks of knowing her when I thought that innocent nudge of attraction for her was mere novelty, one I thought I would transgress, overcome with time- it hadn't. I hate myself for it. I despise that when I look at her I can't conceal it, can't deny it, can't will it to go away, even if it means everything that I lack the control, the power, to let it go. That attraction is disaster; it holds no place for us. I drop my voice to the lowest decibel possible, though even if I shouted, no one could hear.
"I'm your handler, Sydney. I'm not supposed to go to hockey games or get to know you or spend time with you outside of work. Period. It's against protocol." Protocol. My own personal four letter word.
Sydney recoils and returns her focus to the space in front of her.
"I understand." Her tone is tight, constricted, and I wince. "Actually, I don't." Sydney shoots me an impassioned glance before she continues.
"You are the only person that I can trust, the only person that knows...everything. I really need someone like that in my life right now, Vaughn."
I can see the tears forming in her eyes, and they are both beautiful and heartbreaking. I can only afford to look at her for a second, her hair blowing slightly in the wind, complexion offset by the overcast sky. She is breathtaking, amazing. I force myself to quit drinking in her misery and finding her still to be so lovely despite it.
"Sydney-" I begin, my voice tremulous .She wipes at her eyes, great swoops that I pretend to ignore.
"Let me finish. And now you are telling me it's against protocol for you to look at me? "
"It is." It comes as a snap, though I'm not sure I intend for it to. I watch as her hands grip the side of the building, hear as she inhales sharply. My eyes zero in on the engagement ring she still wears, the diamond twinkling up at me, symbolizing the distance between us, the boundaries between us, and the reminder of why she stands here at all.
"What you are asking me to be, Sydney- I can't be that for you right now." I frown. From the edge of my vision I can see the ends of her hair, lifting in the wind. I don't want to hurt her but I almost have to. Looking at her fully, taking a second, ten, twenty, thirty- feeling the strange, dizzy wash of unidentifiable emotion wash over me as I look at her, I think of the moments inside SD-6, the two of us, side by side, the way my stomach dropped when I saw her surrender to that bastard Cole- the myriad of emotions I experience in a single thought of her, far too complex for me to contemplate or even justify. They hang between us, unspoken and unnoticed.
"What happened to " 'You have my number?'" Her voice cracks slightly, and I want to touch her, but instead stick my hands deep into my pockets and focus on a faraway tree, mindful of protocol, tuning out the sound of her breathing, fast then slow, fast then slow.
"You can always call me, Sydney. You know that. You can always trust me But we can't, it can't be any other way than it is right now."
The wind has picked up, long billows that toss our coats against our legs. We remain motionless, a long silence breeds between us that I'm afraid to penetrate. Eyes stinging from the cold I wonder if things might have been different if our relationship hadn't been so rushed. If I hadn't been promoted within a month of meeting her to a senior officer and her mother hadn't killed my father. Or I didn't think about her an inordinate amount of time throughout the day, or that she did not fascinate me, or that I didn't think she was amazing. Or maybe if I had just listened in those seminars about forming an emotional boundary between myself and my agent. All those things, if all those things never made a bit of difference, would I still be standing here right now?
"Is that all, then?" She asks stonily, breaking the silence.
"Yes." I manage somehow before walking away. I walk past her, letting myself stare openly as I move. Her face is classic, it looks like marble in this light. Her tears have been wiped away and her eyes are fixed ahead of her, devoid of emotion. She is no longer looking at me, no longer breathing irregularly, I hear her inhale as I walk past.
It's so hard for me to not turn around.
*
A half a block away I stop into a sad-looking market on a stooping corner. The overhead bell chimes as I tentatively open the front door and approach the counter. Blinking, my eyes adjust to the dull brown light, the clerk unmindfully smoking cigarettes and listening to a tiny portable radio playing antiquidated country music. He looks up with a weary expression and blinks at me. I take out a crisp twenty and lay it down.
"Cigarettes. And a lighter" I say. He gives me a strange look and takes a long, contemplative drag from his own cigarette before reaching across to turn up the dial on his radio. The wailing sounds of a lonely woman fill the small store, smoke billowing into my face, lending to the otherworldliness I'm experiencing.
"What brand?" He asks impatiently, and I blank. "Camel, lights "I revert to a brand smoked in college, when I had been a different person, brash, overconfident. I'd been so unconcerned with consequences then and now…now my life is entirely composed of consequences.
Picking up the cellophane wrapped box I nod to the clerk and leave the store, drumming the pack against my palm, delighting in the once-habitual smacking sound it makes against my skin. How long has it been, I wonder.Years, years since the last time I'd smoked. Years since the last time I'd even thought of picking up a pack. I volley the box in between my hands as I backtrack to my car, careful to avoid any route Sydney may have taken. I don't want to see that look in her eyes, the evidence of the cold distance that I had have intentionally placed there.
I find my way back to my car and sit inside it a long while before starting my engine. I open the cigarettes, lifting the lid of the box and examining the interior intently, inhaling the semi-sweet and slightly pungent odor of tobacco, my once nemesis but now ally. I give the pack a dubious glance and wonder again absently why I bothered buying them; there aren't many places you can smoke in LA and besides, what kind of self- castigation is buying a pack of cigarettes anyways? I turn the keys in the ignition and drive straight to the liquor store.
"Can I help you find something?" A clerk in her twenties approaches me, athletic, blonde, and cute. She smiles, and for a second I smile back at her, but then I remember how moody and introspective I am, and I revert back to staring at wine bottles.
"No. Thank you" I reply curtly. Her smile does a little flip flop; I realize I've just been an ass to her. She is repairing her picture perfect smile.
"Having a bad day?" She intones with such a sickly-sweet pleasantness that if six months ago, if I were actually having a semi-bad day, one not of bad to very-bad proportions, then I might have found it endearing.
"No. Just buying wine. I'm having a party, actually." I smile at her, a wide, happy smile, just to convey that I am a very happy person with a very happy, normal life. She nods.
"Just let me know if you change your mind, then. I have some awesome suggestions I can make." I look down and grab the nearest cabernet with stars and a vintage greater than five years. Then I grab a few more bottles like it. I'm not making pretenses with the girl - I am having a party, a personal pity party in which I plan on getting extremely drunk and smoking lots of cigarettes. And by the end of it I plan on convincing myself that there is nothing between my agent and I that I cannot handle.
I pay for my wine, fumbling through my wallet and handing the clerk the credit card with the same smile I'd shown her in the aisle.
"Have a nice party" She says on my way out.
Fumbling with the cell I dial and it's answered mid second ring. "Weiss."
"It's me. Look, I'm not coming back in today. It's past four, I think Devlin will understand."
"No problem. Did you have the talk with Sydney?" Weiss makes everything seem less serious- even something as harrowing as the dreaded protocol lecture.
"Yeah, I did. It went less favorably than planned."
"No, man. I'm sorry. You've got to think, it's the only way."
"I know." I reply, running a hand through my hair. "Listen, forward all calls to my cell, okay-"
"Sure, man, take it easy. You know what I would suggest doing in your situation."
"What?" I ask, my tone noncommittal.
"Drink." I laugh in response, reply in the affirmative, and hang up.
I drive home with the radio turned down and let my thoughts recreate the images of Sydney, her hands wiping at her tears, the sound of her voice, the way it felt to hear her actually say she wanted me in her life.
I arrive at my apartment and amble inside, tossing off my jacket, loosening my tie. I sit down the bottles of wine, the cigarettes, and the lighter and find a corkscrew buried deep in a kitchen drawer. It's been awhile since I've been inclined to drink wine and brood, but tonight I feel like brooding.
It's cold in my apartment. I don't bother turning up the heat, and knowing I'll be smoking and hate myself in the morning for it, I open all the windows .The wind billows around the high rise, the sun finally setting, casting low shadows on the high polished hardwood floors.
I'm lonely.
The realization is neither sudden nor new. It's been with me for awhile, even before I ended my relationship with Alice, and before I met Sydney. I open a bottle of wine and let it sit in front of a window, find a deep wine glass and rinse it out, drying it clean with a soft cloth. I know what Sydney meant about needing and wanting someone she could trust in her life. That need was what lent to the dissimulation of my relationship with Alice - it wasn't that she was untrustworthy, it was the fact that there was so little I could truly share with her. And then there was Sydney- she knews so much. So many things that no one else will ever know. And it's frightening, powerfully so.
Pulling off my tie angrily I toss it across the floor. I pour a glass of the wine and take a steadying gulp. Sydney. I lean into the kitchen counter and close my eyes briefly. When I open them the light has shifted again, it's darker, night is soon approaching. I leave the kitchen and cross to the small dining room, pull out the chair and sit.
The walls are painted yellow. Beige-white-yellow that might be called lemon- cream or meringue-saffron or some other LA themed color, I don't know. I stare as I drink, exchanging glances between the wall and the cigarettes, anger with myself growing. I lean forward and grab the pack finally; arm extends and ends when it finds cardboard and plastic, satisfied to surrender the search. I extract a cigarette and light it, taking a huge inhalation, coughing massively, eyes burning from the exertion.
I feel like I've betrayed her trust, which is such an awful feeling. It looms within me, begging for a release I cannot grant.
*
Several hours and over a bottle later I am smoking cigarettes at a furious pace and admonishing myself for allowing Alice to convincing me to buy a three thousand dollar Ethan Allen sofa. It's taupe, or some other sort of creamy -off-white brown, and I realize that I hate it. Hate it, with absolute passion. Of course, this is from the kitchen dinette in the dark that I make such astute observations, while smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. The temperature has dropped to at least fifty degrees and yet I'm feeling pleasantly warm, throat burning from the acrid smoke, the haze of nicotine and tar casting an ungodly halo over my head as I drink steadily from my glass.
Musings stray from home decor and aplomb over removal of cigarette smoke odor from Ethan Allen furniture. These things can be worried about in the morning, while nursing the head-pounding headache that will only be suitable after the colossal night of drinking intended to progress for the rest of the evening.
In college, I tried the debonair image for a brief period while "finding myself". I'd drink wine at parties and discuss philosophy and art. I can recall a certain woman being interested in me, her name now I cannot remember. She had been a brunette, tall, and willowy. And I had flat out said that I preferred blondes, that I found brown hair and brown eyed women to be boring. I actually think I used something like " non- aesthetically pleasing to my half-French eyes" because I'd been drunk at an especially raucous party, but I now know I'd been wrong.
Boring. Right. Forty-eight hours ago when Devlin told me I was officially suspended from Sydney's case I had a silent panic attack. The thought of not being her handler was only half of it, the other half was that I found her to be far, far less than boring. When that bastard Haladki was assigned as her standing officer and I imagined him laying one single finger on her, it was worse than Lambert, worse than anything I had to imagine, not seeing her face, not knowing the outcome of her missions.
And why should it matter to me? Head in my hands I can't stop the delirious spinning that is only amplified by the wine. I've let her get to me, emotional boundaries so crossed I'm beyond fucked. I've started thinking in terms of the intangible, the nuances of her personality that I don't even have the right to notice. And to think of her being handled by a jackass like Lambert, or Haladki, I can't help but find them inadequate in comparison to me. She needs someone who knows her, knows her strengths, her weaknesses, who knows her breaking point-
How I became that authority, I'm not sure. And no, I tell myself, it isn't the best thing, or the right thing, or the most sound of all things, but…..
After SD-6, a week ago, Devlin had called me into his office and admonished my actions for a half-hour before finally telling me I had one hell of an instinct. I'd smiled awkwardly and shifted in my seat before finally breathing.
" I'm going to reassign you as Bristow's handler on one condition."
I squint my eyes tight and my phone rings, breaking the memory. I answer on the third ring. " Hello."
" Vaughn?" It's Sydney. "Is this line..." She pauses, then "I am going to request a new handler."
" What?" I reply, and I think I shout it at her. I don't think I've drunk too much alcohol, but I have had had a considerable amount, enough to make her statement come as a shock.
" I am going to request-" She repeats, her tone exasperated. My lips are numb, I can't feel them when I lick them nervously.
" I need to see you." The words come from my mouth before I have time to think. Certainly, " I need to see you" is not a standardized agent-handler response, but I have had no control over what I've just managed to utter.
" I have to meet my friends for dinner in an hour." Her voice is strained, and I know what that tone means. I know what it translates to: it means she is going to see me; that she wants to see me, because she knows what kind of risk it is to call my cell phone and announce that she wants a new handler.
" Meet me first. Or after. Either or. Just meet me tonight." My throat has been ravaged by the cigarettes, and I swallow, aware of the desperation evident in my tone. If I were thinking rationally, if I hadn't drunk so much so quickly, I'd do something about that.
" Do you want to meet on the pier in fifteen minutes." I sigh with relief. I wonder if she hears the meaning behind it, if it leaves a mark on her. If she translates that into a level of relief as her sighs do for me when I hear them over telephone lines.
" I'll be there." I hang up after I wait to hear the dial tone. It's stemmed in nostalgia, I know, a sentimentality I cannot afford to have, and yet... I pull the receiver from my face and fold the phone, returning it to the table in front of me, pausing before I rise., mentally chastising myself for my utter lack of control.
I stand, blood rushing to my head, evidence of wine consumed and heady emotion. Disoriented in the dark I stumble to the light switch and find it, squinting in the artificiality and the forced brightness. The table before me is a mess, cigarette ashes coat the table, and pieces of cork litter the counter where my anxious hands had decimated it. A mess, not unlike my life. Retreating to the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror: ragged, rumpled Michael Vaughn with multiple bottles of wine on his table and a half- smoked pack of cigarettes going to meet his agent, agent--remind yourself again, Michael, she is your agent and you are her handler. And she wants to replace you. I brush my teeth, furious with my obvious fallacies, making a drunken mental list as I vigorously scrub.
Once finished I frown, replace the toothbrush, struggle with fitting it back into that tiny hole. It seems almost comical to me, the amount of pain I feel over not seeing her on a bi- weekly basis. I think of all the suffering I'd gladly put myself through just to keep her in my life, just to see her face, just to be able to sit on the opposite end of her transmissions and press the band-aids onto her arm when she leaves the bloodmobile.
I make it to the pier before her. I wait, leaning over, peering into the water. The clouds still rib the night sky, the breeze bringing in the salty sting of the pacific. I wait for her with apprehension, the reminder of this afternoon still acute, alcohol burning in my veins, nerves on edge. I hear her approach before I turn to look. And when I do, I am stunned a moment, because she looks so lovely, so soft and pretty.
It's a weakness on my part, and one I should try to resolve. I shouldn't be so overcome by her, the natural aesthetic, the way her skin seems so luminescent, the way her hair has diffuse glow. Her eyes, chestnut, a million prisms of sienna and mocha and espresso, delicious and inviting, seductive and deep.
" Sorry, I took more than fifteen minutes." I can't stop looking at her, and she seems unnerved by my blatant dissection. Her hair is pulled back, low against her neck, smooth on her head. Her makeup is minimal but stunning; everything about her tonight is incredible. I pull my eyes away and back out to the water.
" It's okay." I reply stupidly She moves next to me, closer than we had stood earlier today. The pier is deserted, and the mood is surreal, the clouds moving quickly across the sky, the wind blowing, Sydney so close I can feel her body heat.
" I think it would be best for both of us if I request a new handler, Vaughn."
" Please, Sydney, you can't do that." I say, tripping over my words. I can't think of anything else to say, my tongue still thick from wine and the fear of her actually leaving far too acute. That fear, I'm quickly realizing, will be my undoing.
"I don't know why you wouldn't agree with me on this. Obviously things aren't working out with the two of us." Sneaking a glance over at her I stare at her ears. I can't believe I can get caught up in something as innocuous as ears. But Sydney's ears- there are elements of her that are so tough, so worldly, so experienced, and then there are her ears: unpierced, unfettered by steel or precious stones. I wonder how that lobe would feel in my mouth, that perfect, virgin ear in between my lips -
" Vaughn?" Sydney interrupts my image of her ear and I blink.
" I'm sorry. No, I don't agree. Listen, there is something I need to tell you, and I shouldn't be telling you this, Sydney, but dammit- I don't really feel like keeping anything from you anymore." Her eyes widen. I realize that we aren't being covert anymore, she has gotten closer to me and we have stopped being careful about who is watching us. I 'm not going to tell her everything, I reason. I'm not going to tell her that I want to taste her earlobe, that's for sure-
" When we found out about your mom I was called in for a psych evaluation which led to my suspension as your handler. As you know, SD-6 was infiltrated by Cole and I was involved with entering SD-6 against CIA wishes. In fact, against a direct order." I watch as she opens her mouth to a solid "O" and then closes it.
" When I got back, I didn't really know my future with the CIA. I acted as I did because I wanted to be sure that everyone-including you and your father, would be all right." I pause then, taking a moment to look down at my shoes and orient myself. There is a strange buzzing in my ears, I'm not sure if it's from nerves or alcohol, and I know I'm talking very fast, trying to push everything out at once, slurring my words together.
" Devlin gave me a huge speech about the importance of protocol and then I got a lecture on agent - handler propriety." I dare a look at her, and she is avoiding my eyes, her expression indecipherable. I wonder if she can tell I've been drinking. I wonder if she still is going to want to replace me. Hell, I wonder why she wanted to replace me in the first place. I continue, keeping my eyes on her face " It seems that I have acted outside the guidelines of agent and handler guidelines, and after a stern reprimanding I was given one last chance as your handler- provided that I gave you the impression that I was interested in following protocol and protocol only when it came to our relationship."
She doesn't reply for a moment, and I watch as she registers my words. Sydney is so expressive, letting a myriad of emotions flit across her countenance as she contemplates everything. I stand stock still, carefully avoiding what would appear as staring and allow her to digest the information I have given. After a prolonged silence, I feel her hand find mine in the darkness.
"I wish you could have just told me that." There are tears in her eyes, glinting in the shadows. "I was ready to get a new handler, and you know, that would have really sucked."
I smile at her then, and I can't resist squeezing her hand in response.
"That's why I had to see you"
She looks at me with those eyes, deep and penetrating and endless.
"You can always trust me enough to tell me the truth."
The moment between us is thick, and it takes every ounce of my self control to not bridge the gap between us and kiss her. I want to kiss her, God knows I do, and I almost know her well enough to think that she wants me to kiss her, too.
I have to be wrong, because she wears her engagement ring every day that I see her, and there is a haunting sadness still in the back of her eyes. It must be my own wishful thinking, or alcohol that clouds my judgment. Or the moonlight that intermittently falls on her skin and makes her look almost ethereal. I've lost it, really lost it. I shouldn't have contested her when she told me she wanted a new handler, because she was right. She needs one, because I've lost my objectivity. I want her, in all the ways I shouldn't, in all the ways that make me a very, very bad person for standing here and thinking that she is fucking divine.
" I think I know that, Sydney. It just happens to go against every rule I've been taught to follow." I'm surprised to hear my voice so low, and I'm even more shocked when Sydney sways in response.
" Vaughn.." The way she says my name, I--
Her cell phone rings, and any moment is absorbed in the space time continuum and she is fumbling with her purse, removing her hand from mine. The warmth that was once there only momentarily before is now cooling, and it's for the best, I know, because this is forbidden, all of this, our clandestine moments on the pier, our tiny moments of truth-
" Hi Francie, sure, sure, no, I'm coming, I'm coming. I'm on my way."
Smiling at me with that pretty smile I realize that I've broken all the rules, I've fallen in love with her, I have. On this pier maybe, or earlier, maybe I fell in love with that earlobe- it could have been a series of moments, I'm not really sure. She looks so wonderful, so perfect, the clouds in the sky casting a heavenly umbrella. She is saying goodbye and we've decided something, right, decided she is going to dinner and that we will play the protocol game in public.
"Goodnight, Vaughn" She whispers, and smiles again, and I get one last glimpse of her, and it makes me weak.
It's awhile that I stare at the place that she stood, a long moment before I reach into my pocket for the half-smoked pack of cigarettes, extracting them and pulling one out. Lighting, inhaling, wincing over the burn, I think this is for the better. Nothing has changed, not really. Nothing but the fact that I'm so far gone that I'll stand here all night, thinking of that one moment, wondering what would have happened if the phone hadn't rung, and my throat will still hurt like hell in the morning.
FINIS
A/N: Super special thanks to Jessica and Kate, for the stellar beta readings. Jessica, thanks for the pressure to post, I finally put down the weapons, thanks to you—hope you are happy. Kate, hot food go, and I am drinking a glass of Princi at the end of the alps for you right now in silent toast as I toss a dime in the fountain.
Also, this was a really hard piece for me to write and post, because I never really thought I managed to get it right. Feedback/thoughts/comments are appreciated and adored.