Author's Note: This is my first Alias fic, so please be kind and review.
Sorry, I know there are probably some sort of similar ideas out there, but
I've never seen any stories that used this song and I think it fits really
well. Vaughn POV, set in the hopefully not too distant future.
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own the characters. Or the song.
Archive? I'd consider it an honour! Just tell me.
**********
Inarticulate
My eyes were glued to the screen in front of me. Sydney Bristow was on yet another mission trying to retrieve information for both the CIA and SD-6, and we'd managed to tap into the building's security system so we could watch her through their cameras. It was a museum gala, and she was mingling with the guests, dressed up in a beautiful but rather revealing blue dress with a blonde wig. Momentary jealousy flashed through me as I saw her laughing at something a man had said. He got to look at her in public, to let everyone see that he was talking to her and enjoying it. I always had to hide.
'It's not really Sydney he's talking to, Vaughn,' I reminded myself. 'It's "Michelle Owens", rich divorcée and art critic. You get to see the real Sydney Bristow and that's a rare privilege."
While I lectured myself, Sydney had finished with the social butterfly act and headed towards where the documents we needed were hidden. I held my breath as she spoke to a security guard at the top of a deserted staircase. One knee to the stomach and a kick to the head and he was out. No, she definitely wasn't in socialite mode anymore - this was kick-ass Syd. It always amazed me how quickly she could switch from being one person to a totally different one.
As I watched her work, the words of one of my favourite songs kept playing through my head, and I realized how perfectly they fit Sydney. I thought for the millionth time how much danger she willingly put herself into every day. Each time she went on a mission, there was that chance she'd never come back. Tonight, the 'what ifs' were voicing themselves more persistently than usual. What if one of these secret meetings does end up being our last? What if she'll never come home to you again, or you'll never get to see that hockey game? How would you feel if, God forbid, she ever died without knowing exactly how you feel? And tonight, I decided I was going to do something about it. In my head, I saw the scale with all the risks of getting involved with her piled up on one side, and the risks of continuing to wait on the other. That waiting side was getting too heavy.
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own the characters. Or the song.
Archive? I'd consider it an honour! Just tell me.
**********
Inarticulate
My eyes were glued to the screen in front of me. Sydney Bristow was on yet another mission trying to retrieve information for both the CIA and SD-6, and we'd managed to tap into the building's security system so we could watch her through their cameras. It was a museum gala, and she was mingling with the guests, dressed up in a beautiful but rather revealing blue dress with a blonde wig. Momentary jealousy flashed through me as I saw her laughing at something a man had said. He got to look at her in public, to let everyone see that he was talking to her and enjoying it. I always had to hide.
'It's not really Sydney he's talking to, Vaughn,' I reminded myself. 'It's "Michelle Owens", rich divorcée and art critic. You get to see the real Sydney Bristow and that's a rare privilege."
While I lectured myself, Sydney had finished with the social butterfly act and headed towards where the documents we needed were hidden. I held my breath as she spoke to a security guard at the top of a deserted staircase. One knee to the stomach and a kick to the head and he was out. No, she definitely wasn't in socialite mode anymore - this was kick-ass Syd. It always amazed me how quickly she could switch from being one person to a totally different one.
As I watched her work, the words of one of my favourite songs kept playing through my head, and I realized how perfectly they fit Sydney. I thought for the millionth time how much danger she willingly put herself into every day. Each time she went on a mission, there was that chance she'd never come back. Tonight, the 'what ifs' were voicing themselves more persistently than usual. What if one of these secret meetings does end up being our last? What if she'll never come home to you again, or you'll never get to see that hockey game? How would you feel if, God forbid, she ever died without knowing exactly how you feel? And tonight, I decided I was going to do something about it. In my head, I saw the scale with all the risks of getting involved with her piled up on one side, and the risks of continuing to wait on the other. That waiting side was getting too heavy.