Title: Stumble

Summary: "Sometimes, I still need you"

Timeline: Season 3, post Crossings, but Lauren is not Covenant

Disclaimer: Alias and the characters are not mine, neither is the song "Every Time We Say Goodbye" by Cole Porter, whose lyrics I use. I also don't own "Heart Skipped a Beat" by the XXs which inspired this , I don't condone adultery, but this story kind of begged to be written. Lastly, I know I keep editing this story, but that's because I felt bad about making Vaughn a jerk so I wanted to add some more characterization to try to explain why he is the way he is.

Link to "Heart Skipped a Beat" with lyrics watch?v=IispCAeEFAk

Rating: R for language/sexual situations


"Look where we are. I mean, this isn't real. This isn't what we should be doing."-Sydney, "The Box Part I"

Part I

The first time it happens, it's a mistake. There's a leak somewhere in JTF and it's not safe to discuss sensitive intel within the building until it's contained. He gets her message at 8:00pm: WAREHOUSE, 30 mins. He has already shrugged out of his suit jacket and tie. Lauren is out of town, D.C. again, so the clothing is strewn haphazardly across the couch the way she hates it. If she were home, he might make the five second effort to toss them in the hamper, but she's not so he doesn't care. Grabbing his keys of the counter, he goes on autopilot, trying to ignore the way that his stomach flutters as he makes the drive by heart. Bored by the monotonous talk of the failing economy that he's already heard twice today, his fingers turn the radio dial, halting as he's jolted out of his apathy by a familiar song.

"Every time we say goodbye, I die a little,

Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little,

Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know.

Think so little of me, they allow you to go."

The piano stirs recognition in his heart and a memory resurfaces from its resting place in part of his mind that he doesn't allow himself to go.

Candles dot the room, covering the tops of her dresser, desk and nightstand, the gentle breeze billowing in through the open window making their lights flicker, wafting the scent of vanilla throughout her room. The stereo is on and he hears a few bars of the familiar standard. 'When you're near, there's such an air of spring about it.' But the most beautiful part of this scene is Sydney, sitting on the cream colored comforter and clad in a sheer nightgown he hasn't seen before. She blushes when he meets her gaze, his eyes taking in the breathtaking view. "It's cheesy, I know" she says in a rush, suddenly shy. "I'm just going to miss you this week, that's all." He climbs onto the bed beside her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "It's perfect. Like you." Gently, he lays her back on the bed, and she wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him to her. Their lips meet and there's more love here than he can ever imagine.

Usually a memory of this kind would be pushed aside, tucked back down so far in his subconscious that he can almost convince himself that it was just a dream, that all he's ever known is blonde hair and a soft accent. But this time is different, as if the music is anchoring him there, in her room, in her bed that had somehow always felt like their bed, even in the beginning. He remembers it all; he feels the way her tongue brushes quietly against his, the press of her bare breasts, the dig of her fingernails into his back. He tastes her lips, her skin, her sweat; he hears the faint sighs and almost inaudible moans, and most clearly, he hears the whisper in his ear, the heat of her breath on his neck, as she tells him, "I love you."

Shaking, he realizes that he has arrived and he desperately tries to ignore the filmstrip playing in his head and the way his blood is rushing, but it's hopeless. Pushing past the dusty crates that have probably been there since the beginning of their story, he turns the corner and walks through the open chain link gate. Memory collides with reality. His eyes tell him that she is sitting on a crate with a manila folder clutched in her hand while his mind can only see her lying on her back with the fingers of one hand tangled in his hair and the others clutching tightly to his shoulder. Her legs are crossed and her skirt has slid up, which only reinforces the phantom feeling of her thighs wrapped around his waist. She notices the way that he is looking at her and he sees her emotions rapidly flickering in her eyes; fear, hope, love, lust, fear.

Then, the folder is on the grimy floor, its contents spilling carelessly across the concrete. Leaning forward, he steadies himself with a handful of chain link while his other hand lifts her chin to meet his lips, crashing hungrily against her mouth. She allows herself one, two seconds before she puts a hand to his chest, pushing him back, her body struggling against itself. "Vaughn, we can't-" but his face is buried in her neck and he murmurs in half-song, "Every time we say goodbye, I die a little" and now she's back there with him, the nighttime breeze blowing across their damp skin, the sounds of their lovemaking filling her ears. She takes a deep breath, the images coming like waves. They're in her bedroom and yet they're still in the warehouse, their place, their secret, and suddenly it's not hard to pretend that it's three years ago. Trembling, she turns her head towards his, lips grazing his ear as she consents, "Just this once."

It happens so quickly that the night is a blur, that when they go back to recount this memory in their respective moments of solitude, all they will have are flashes and feelings. Hands fumble at buttons, zippers, hems; anything that is in between them. Lips meet lips, tongues, skin and they're careless, leaving marks in their haste to rediscover the territory that no longer belongs to them. They are trespassers, but that's far from their minds as he lifts her up to press her against the fence, her legs snaked possessively around his hips, pulling him deeper inside her. There is only one vivid moment from this first time, so poignant that for all their training in compartmentalization, neither is able to erase it. His breathing is labored and he knows by her quiet gasps that she's close. He slows and she looks up at him, her eyes dark with lust and surprise. "Say it" he whispers, and he's half begging, half demanding. She shakes her head wordlessly. She doesn't want to give in, because saying those words will make this permanent, and it will be more than just a fluke. He withdraws completely and she cries out, involuntarily, at the loss of his touch. "Don't do this" she pleads, but he persists.

"I need to hear you say it." His voice is so quiet, his lips so near her ear that she shivers in spite of herself, and she gives in, because she doesn't know how not to. "I love you" she admits, defeated, and she hears him repeat it back to her as he takes her again into his arms. It is this moment more than all the others that will haunt them, because this is the moment when they both know that it's about more than just closure or unresolved tension. "Just this once" she had said, but with their declarations of love, they both knew that they were lying to themselves. Their love isn't an itch to be scratched then sated. They are an addiction, and full-blown relapse is inevitable.