True North: Polar Coordinates_
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, I'm not J.J. Abrams, end of story.
A/N: So after an extended period of inverse productivity brought on by the brainwashing qualities of Olympic figure skating (and I mean that in the best way possible) I caught the new episode last night and blam, everything else went out the window. This resulted, as well as some other ideas floating around, which according to my chem teacher is something like decomposition.
***
Four days after the retrieval fiasco and the day after the Will fiasco, Sydney was sitting on a dock with Vaughn, drinking coffee he had procured and probably breaking every rule there was. She watched the steam waft from the top of the cup and disappear into the biting air, knowing his eyes were on her and basking in it. He was infallibly polite, waiting patiently for her to tell him exactly what warranted this---but that could wait for a few seconds. The part of her that wondered at these things wanted to know exactly when she'd sunk to such a juvenile level.
It might have been when she saw him for the first time since the last precious few seconds of the countermission debriefing, and he smiled at her with starkly beautiful restraint and handed her the cup with an impersonal concern.
But there they were, watching the sailboats unfurl their white wings, seagulls crying overhead and the ocean crashing underneath, and she couldn't help but think that this was one of the better minutes she'd had in a long while. The tangy sea wind blew a little of his cologne to her, and she'd almost relaxed when he turned to her.
"So you wanted to ask me something." He sounded cautious, and she felt a stinging, unreasonable disappointment that he would have been the first to break the silence.
"Yes," she said, setting her cup down with more care than necessary. "I told you about my journalist friend? Will?"
Something in his eyes darkened, and he nodded perfunctorily.
She barely had time to exult in this small victory. "He…was investigating Danny's death. And even though I asked him to stop, it looks like he's getting somewhere, because yesterday afternoon I saw a folder marked 'SD-6' on his desk."
He inhaled, sharply. "And you."
"Freaked out, mostly. I think I yelled something about Danny and laid a complete guilt trip on him. And then I limped out." She tried to laugh; it sounded raw and harsh in her own ears. "Didn't give away any secrets this time, no matter how much I wanted to. He's making his way into the bathtub on his own."
She hadn't known quite how angry she was at Will until she saw her voice reflected in those damnable eyes. "So you two aren't talking."
"He called twelve times before I disconnected the phone." She shook her head. "And the thing is, it's my fault. Again. It's just. I asked him to stop investigating the case, because God knows what SD-6 would do to him if he found out, and he's. Not."
She could see him turning this over in his mind. He was intellectual like that; he made balanced, well-informed decisions. He was one of those rare people who was perfectly suited to their job, and the only times he'd ever bucked tradition and had gone purely on instinct were when he thought she needed rescuing.
This, she realized, was why she had to stop acting like she was in junior high and get it together. He was trying admirably to keep this in a professional capacity, and waving hockey tickets in front of his face wasn't helping much.
"Listen," he said. "What is he to you?"
Not altogether the question she'd been expecting; it took her a while to gather her thoughts because she hadn't let herself think about this recently. "Will," she said slowly. "I. He's probably in love with me." She saw him open his mouth, and she shook her head, cutting him off. "Yeah, to me. He's always been there, and he'll always be there, and I love him for it, I do. It's just never worked out, but. But if timing, and things, and---we could have been good together, Vaughn."
She caught a fleeting glimpse of something on his face, and it looked familiar and painful.
"He doesn't know about what you do," he said, after a brief pause. "The stakes are smaller when this isn't brought into it."
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" she asked, only half-joking.
He shrugged his shoulders, his face strained. "I'd tell you not to throw something that could be good away just for the investigation, but I've done the same thing for less than that."
"Are you happy about what you did?"
He was staring at the ocean, and she could see enough of his profile to make out a self-deprecating, rueful smile, small and private. "Sometimes," he said.
She had half an idea of what that meant and shook her head abruptly, because it was what she wanted it to mean and infinitely dangerous for both of them. All the circumventing they'd been doing had been showing up on her grades; when her professor asked her with some delight how she'd come up with a particular theory her mind would always revert to Vaughn and half- drawn conversations.
He sighed, and she turned to look at him again. "You know, you should talk to him," he said with effort. "Try to work through this, Syd. Because--- because it'd be the best thing for everyone."
Their eyes met and there were a few crazy, suffocating seconds of eye contact, because Vaughn believed in honesty, and self-sacrifice, and although he tried to pretend he was as cynical as her father he was something of an idealist at heart. Not like Will, who wanted freedom for all and truth at all costs, but on a somewhat smaller scale. That everything would work out at the end if he just kept hoping, and that he could stand to lose a little bit if things would be better for someone else.
She could almost hate him for it.
Later, in her car and her hands still shaking, she realized he hadn't answered the right question. Thinking back some more, she realized she'd never asked it.
***
When she got home Will was sitting on her front porch, chewing pensively on what looked like beef jerky and playing with his keys. He looked like he hadn't slept much, and when she got out of the car he stood up and swallowed.
"Hey," he said softly. "I need to talk to you."
"I do too," she said, inexplicably glad that he was there. "I'm sorry I blew up at you yesterday. I guess it was just the shock and everything of seeing that---"
"Sydney," he said, and it was one of the few times he'd called her by her full name. He looked drained, the pallid cast of his face bringing out the blue of his eyes. "How did you know about SD-6?"
---and there was the blood-stained bathtub again, and she was realizing that this was Danny, and he wasn't breathing---
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said shakily, and by the look in his eyes she knew that she was a half a second too late.
"The folder you saw," he continued, watching her reaction, "had absolutely nothing even remotely relating to Danny Hecht. In fact, if you'd looked inside, all you would have seen was the autopsy report of a woman and a transcript of an interview with a man in prison. The only thing I think you saw was the title of the folder, and you suddenly made the connection to Danny. How?"
"Will," she said helplessly, unlocking the door with fumbling fingers. "Get inside."
He did, and stood by the staircase as she leaned against the door to support herself, and how was it that she could conduct life-or-death missions with so much calm and break under this? He was still looking at her, still waiting for her answer, and all she could do was berate herself for the telltale mistake.
"Will, listen to me," she said, and his eyes were still on her, glacial and unmoving. "I can't---I can't tell you."
And he broke that awful silence that was nothing she'd known of him before and was the boy she knew again, half-mad with anxiety and angrier than she'd ever seen him but familiar for all of that. "So you know. Sydney, a man's been in jail for eight years because of SD-6. Eight! His wife is dead, and his daughter's grown up without him and they're both afraid she'll be killed any day now---like that woman who was murdered in the park- --like Danny, Sydney."
"Yes," she whispered.
"And you know about it. You know why Danny was killed, then, and you're going to let it go. And you know what else? I could swear on my life that more people will die because of SD-6." He stopped. "Why? What is this?"
…and his life was the last thing she wanted him to swear by.
"Will," she said again, and was almost gratified to know what she was going to say. "I can't tell you. And you need to stop this, right now. Walk away from it, and don't ever come back to it again."
He laughed bitterly. "And you expect me to go on with---with this," he said, motioning expansively, "Knowing that SD-6, whatever it is, will always be between us as the one thing we'll never talk about? It's the proverbial elephant in the damn living room. I'm not going to lie to you--- the last three years have been the best of my life. But you know me, Sydney, I can't let this go. And you wouldn't know me if I did."
"Dammit, Will, do you want to die like Danny? Like that man's wife? Because you can, and you will, and I'm not going to help you do it. Just. Stop." If she didn't know better she would have said she sounded near- hysterical, grasping at straws now, and he was shaking his head.
"I can't." Two words, toneless, with the determination of a desperate man.
Her head hurt with a mixture of frustration and fear. "Then I can't talk to you again," she said, and for a moment she hoped with everything she had that he would do something that wouldn't make him Will, forget his ideals and convictions for once. And she knew with as much certainty that neither of them could forgive him if he did.
He exhaled, a long silent breath, and looked at her for an endless second, and she thought she saw something like anguish in his eyes. "Goodbye, Syd," he said, opening the door and stepping outside. "I guess I'll see you at my funeral."
"Goodbye," she echoed as the door shut behind him, spent and hopeless. If she could cry, she thought blankly, sliding to the floor, her heart might not have hurt so much.
***
_02252002 (jen@velvet-star.com)
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, I'm not J.J. Abrams, end of story.
A/N: So after an extended period of inverse productivity brought on by the brainwashing qualities of Olympic figure skating (and I mean that in the best way possible) I caught the new episode last night and blam, everything else went out the window. This resulted, as well as some other ideas floating around, which according to my chem teacher is something like decomposition.
***
Four days after the retrieval fiasco and the day after the Will fiasco, Sydney was sitting on a dock with Vaughn, drinking coffee he had procured and probably breaking every rule there was. She watched the steam waft from the top of the cup and disappear into the biting air, knowing his eyes were on her and basking in it. He was infallibly polite, waiting patiently for her to tell him exactly what warranted this---but that could wait for a few seconds. The part of her that wondered at these things wanted to know exactly when she'd sunk to such a juvenile level.
It might have been when she saw him for the first time since the last precious few seconds of the countermission debriefing, and he smiled at her with starkly beautiful restraint and handed her the cup with an impersonal concern.
But there they were, watching the sailboats unfurl their white wings, seagulls crying overhead and the ocean crashing underneath, and she couldn't help but think that this was one of the better minutes she'd had in a long while. The tangy sea wind blew a little of his cologne to her, and she'd almost relaxed when he turned to her.
"So you wanted to ask me something." He sounded cautious, and she felt a stinging, unreasonable disappointment that he would have been the first to break the silence.
"Yes," she said, setting her cup down with more care than necessary. "I told you about my journalist friend? Will?"
Something in his eyes darkened, and he nodded perfunctorily.
She barely had time to exult in this small victory. "He…was investigating Danny's death. And even though I asked him to stop, it looks like he's getting somewhere, because yesterday afternoon I saw a folder marked 'SD-6' on his desk."
He inhaled, sharply. "And you."
"Freaked out, mostly. I think I yelled something about Danny and laid a complete guilt trip on him. And then I limped out." She tried to laugh; it sounded raw and harsh in her own ears. "Didn't give away any secrets this time, no matter how much I wanted to. He's making his way into the bathtub on his own."
She hadn't known quite how angry she was at Will until she saw her voice reflected in those damnable eyes. "So you two aren't talking."
"He called twelve times before I disconnected the phone." She shook her head. "And the thing is, it's my fault. Again. It's just. I asked him to stop investigating the case, because God knows what SD-6 would do to him if he found out, and he's. Not."
She could see him turning this over in his mind. He was intellectual like that; he made balanced, well-informed decisions. He was one of those rare people who was perfectly suited to their job, and the only times he'd ever bucked tradition and had gone purely on instinct were when he thought she needed rescuing.
This, she realized, was why she had to stop acting like she was in junior high and get it together. He was trying admirably to keep this in a professional capacity, and waving hockey tickets in front of his face wasn't helping much.
"Listen," he said. "What is he to you?"
Not altogether the question she'd been expecting; it took her a while to gather her thoughts because she hadn't let herself think about this recently. "Will," she said slowly. "I. He's probably in love with me." She saw him open his mouth, and she shook her head, cutting him off. "Yeah, to me. He's always been there, and he'll always be there, and I love him for it, I do. It's just never worked out, but. But if timing, and things, and---we could have been good together, Vaughn."
She caught a fleeting glimpse of something on his face, and it looked familiar and painful.
"He doesn't know about what you do," he said, after a brief pause. "The stakes are smaller when this isn't brought into it."
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" she asked, only half-joking.
He shrugged his shoulders, his face strained. "I'd tell you not to throw something that could be good away just for the investigation, but I've done the same thing for less than that."
"Are you happy about what you did?"
He was staring at the ocean, and she could see enough of his profile to make out a self-deprecating, rueful smile, small and private. "Sometimes," he said.
She had half an idea of what that meant and shook her head abruptly, because it was what she wanted it to mean and infinitely dangerous for both of them. All the circumventing they'd been doing had been showing up on her grades; when her professor asked her with some delight how she'd come up with a particular theory her mind would always revert to Vaughn and half- drawn conversations.
He sighed, and she turned to look at him again. "You know, you should talk to him," he said with effort. "Try to work through this, Syd. Because--- because it'd be the best thing for everyone."
Their eyes met and there were a few crazy, suffocating seconds of eye contact, because Vaughn believed in honesty, and self-sacrifice, and although he tried to pretend he was as cynical as her father he was something of an idealist at heart. Not like Will, who wanted freedom for all and truth at all costs, but on a somewhat smaller scale. That everything would work out at the end if he just kept hoping, and that he could stand to lose a little bit if things would be better for someone else.
She could almost hate him for it.
Later, in her car and her hands still shaking, she realized he hadn't answered the right question. Thinking back some more, she realized she'd never asked it.
***
When she got home Will was sitting on her front porch, chewing pensively on what looked like beef jerky and playing with his keys. He looked like he hadn't slept much, and when she got out of the car he stood up and swallowed.
"Hey," he said softly. "I need to talk to you."
"I do too," she said, inexplicably glad that he was there. "I'm sorry I blew up at you yesterday. I guess it was just the shock and everything of seeing that---"
"Sydney," he said, and it was one of the few times he'd called her by her full name. He looked drained, the pallid cast of his face bringing out the blue of his eyes. "How did you know about SD-6?"
---and there was the blood-stained bathtub again, and she was realizing that this was Danny, and he wasn't breathing---
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said shakily, and by the look in his eyes she knew that she was a half a second too late.
"The folder you saw," he continued, watching her reaction, "had absolutely nothing even remotely relating to Danny Hecht. In fact, if you'd looked inside, all you would have seen was the autopsy report of a woman and a transcript of an interview with a man in prison. The only thing I think you saw was the title of the folder, and you suddenly made the connection to Danny. How?"
"Will," she said helplessly, unlocking the door with fumbling fingers. "Get inside."
He did, and stood by the staircase as she leaned against the door to support herself, and how was it that she could conduct life-or-death missions with so much calm and break under this? He was still looking at her, still waiting for her answer, and all she could do was berate herself for the telltale mistake.
"Will, listen to me," she said, and his eyes were still on her, glacial and unmoving. "I can't---I can't tell you."
And he broke that awful silence that was nothing she'd known of him before and was the boy she knew again, half-mad with anxiety and angrier than she'd ever seen him but familiar for all of that. "So you know. Sydney, a man's been in jail for eight years because of SD-6. Eight! His wife is dead, and his daughter's grown up without him and they're both afraid she'll be killed any day now---like that woman who was murdered in the park- --like Danny, Sydney."
"Yes," she whispered.
"And you know about it. You know why Danny was killed, then, and you're going to let it go. And you know what else? I could swear on my life that more people will die because of SD-6." He stopped. "Why? What is this?"
…and his life was the last thing she wanted him to swear by.
"Will," she said again, and was almost gratified to know what she was going to say. "I can't tell you. And you need to stop this, right now. Walk away from it, and don't ever come back to it again."
He laughed bitterly. "And you expect me to go on with---with this," he said, motioning expansively, "Knowing that SD-6, whatever it is, will always be between us as the one thing we'll never talk about? It's the proverbial elephant in the damn living room. I'm not going to lie to you--- the last three years have been the best of my life. But you know me, Sydney, I can't let this go. And you wouldn't know me if I did."
"Dammit, Will, do you want to die like Danny? Like that man's wife? Because you can, and you will, and I'm not going to help you do it. Just. Stop." If she didn't know better she would have said she sounded near- hysterical, grasping at straws now, and he was shaking his head.
"I can't." Two words, toneless, with the determination of a desperate man.
Her head hurt with a mixture of frustration and fear. "Then I can't talk to you again," she said, and for a moment she hoped with everything she had that he would do something that wouldn't make him Will, forget his ideals and convictions for once. And she knew with as much certainty that neither of them could forgive him if he did.
He exhaled, a long silent breath, and looked at her for an endless second, and she thought she saw something like anguish in his eyes. "Goodbye, Syd," he said, opening the door and stepping outside. "I guess I'll see you at my funeral."
"Goodbye," she echoed as the door shut behind him, spent and hopeless. If she could cry, she thought blankly, sliding to the floor, her heart might not have hurt so much.
***
_02252002 (jen@velvet-star.com)