Solitude
Author: Pharo
Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and ABC.
Summary: Loneliness makes people think.
Spoilers: "The Confession".
Feedback: pharo@onebox.com
'is there something that you're trying to say, don't hold back now, it's been a long time since you felt this way, so don't hold back now, I purposely forgot about loving anyone, 'cause I'm the only one who has, who has been stepped upon…' ---Tantric, 'Mourning'
Loneliness is a scary thing. To be lonely is to be vulnerable, to have a flood of emotions open up that everyone struggles to get away from. Loneliness is not a physical thing; it's not just being alone in a room, but rather, a lingering feeling that stays long after everyone else is gone.
Most people drown themselves in work. They delve into it and vow not to emerge until the feeling is gone. Most of the time, they don't. Others surround themselves with others to avoid it. They don't understand that if you're lonely, being the center of a circle made up of every human being in the world isn't going to stop the feeling.
I drink---not heavily to the extent that I won't know how many fingers someone holds up in front of me, but just so I can forget the feeling for a little while. I go into his office---I'm not fond of bars---and pull up a chair. He looks at me and walks over to pour the drinks. This time is no different.
"Sydney," he says more of a statement than a greeting. "The usual?"
I nod and realize that Michael Vaughn would have a blooming career as a bartender. Yep, I can just picture him standing behind the counter with a white towel slung on his shoulder.
He hands me a drink and takes his back to his chair, behind the sleek, black desk. I asked him once---during one of these drinking sessions---why he'd chosen black instead of something more old-fashioned, like mahogany or oak. He told me that black was official, yet had the slightest tinge of intimidation that every agent needed to have. Three days later, I ordered a black desk for my house.
"How's it going?" I ask, looking up from the desk.
"As well as can be expected all things considered…"
The sentence drifts off and I see him staring at a spot on his desk. After a minute, he blinks it off and looks up at me.
"What about you? How are you holding up?"
"I'm…dealing," I say, taking a sip of my drink.
"That's…that's good," he says with a small smile.
I nod and go back to observing my drink. I wish there was more we could talk about it. I hate the silence---sure, they say it's calm and quiet, peaceful even, but to me, it's just loud. It's deafening---empty space all around, not a single sound to make you believe that you're ok. Silence is as deafening as loneliness.
"How's work?" I ask in a futile attempt to break the silence.
It's such a stupid question to ask and I regret saying it as soon as it leaves my mouth. What is he supposed to say?
"You know, my father told me the other day that Sloane is not a complete monster," I quickly say before he has to answer the inane question I asked him.
"Really?" he asks.
"Yep. Apparently he cares about his wife, Emily, more than he cares for himself. My father said something like, 'unconditionally until the end'."
"Must be great, huh? To love someone like that."
"Only if you're loved back like that."
Before I can pick up my drink again, the question just pops into my head, without any warnings: Do you love me like that, Vaughn?
I look up at him and for a second, I'm worried that I might have uttered the question out loud to him.
"It's ideal to have a love like that," he says and for a moment, I'm confused as to what he's talking about. I look at him and figure out that I haven't just bared my innermost thoughts to him.
"The stuff dreams are made of," I agree.
"Or Hallmark cards."
I laugh and wish my life could be like one of those Hallmark cards---I'd even settle for an imperfect one---anything but what I have now.
Do you love me like that, Vaughn?
No, not again.
"Are you ok," he asks, a concerned look etched on his face.
"Just thinking."
He gets up to refill our glasses.
"What do you want?" he asks, holding up my empty glass.
I want you to love me. Do you think you can do that?
"Wine."
He drops an ice cube in, pours out some wine, and hands me the little glass.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Did you love Danny like that?"
"At the time…"
Things change, though.
"Sounds," he seems to be searching through a mental vocabulary list, "nice."
He seems almost a little sad.
"I think I'm going to head out unless there's anything else you want to talk about," he says, looking at me.
Do you love me like that?
What if I actually asked him that? Would he laugh and tell me that I've had too much to drink? Would he look at me with sympathy and tell me gently that I'm a good friend? Or would he look into my eyes and say that he's loved me from the moment he saw me?
"No, that's it. Thanks for the wine," I say with a sigh.
"I'm just going to go tell Weiss that I'm leaving and then I'll walk out with you," he says.
"It's ok, it's better if I leave alone."
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yeah, go ahead. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Ok. Good night."
He smiles one last time before leaving the room.
I don't know if it's the wine or the solitude, but I think that I love you in that way, Vaughn.
If only I could tell him that. I shake my head and walk out. The wine didn't help because now, I feel lonelier than ever.