Lion
Author-Alias_addict
Feedback- But of course
Distribution: Whatever, just tell me where I can see it
Disclaimer-Nothings mine, It's JJs, Touchstone, Bad Robot, yadda yadda
Summary- Sydney/Vaughn, angst, almost-romance, or romance, who knows. And I suck at summaries, so you'll just have to wait and find out.
Rating- Most likely PG.
Author's Note: This fic is based on the poem To The Lion by Diane Wakoski, and each beginning and some of the ends of the sections have quotations from it.
Part One:
//I am the girl who visits the sun,
east of destiny and west of destruction.
Who comes in the rain to remind you of tomorrow
and the silken trees//
He was late. He was never late before, always there to open the rusty gate into her second life. But here he was, half an hour after the traditional call was made, which, in itself, was a lie, but then again so was her life, so she didn't sweat it. It was just strange for him to be late, to come in second. Their eyes met and he immediately shifted his gaze; she did not. He could feel her eyes on him, pounding into his skull and trying to find the reason. One that he would not so generously give unless she asked for it, which she would not. He turned to face her again, and she studied his eyes. But they would give her no more, for they were distant, far-away. She longed to find out where he was, but kept silent, perched beside a small crate in the corner of the dusty warehouse.
"How was Paris?"
"Fine." Now it was his turn to study her eyes. The operation had not run smoothly, and she had hospital bills to prove it, along with a forming scar across the spine of her back. He could see the tip of it at the top of her sky blue tank top, and bottom at the break before her jeans. What was most likely worse was the emotional scar. Visible in her eyes if you were searching. He envied anyone who could.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head. In her trembling hand she held a small slip of paper as white as her death-gripped face. He knew what it was. The funeral invitation.
"Sydney?" She turned her head away from his face, but he could see the silvery tears shining as they crawled down her face. He walked over and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. They stood like that for a few long seconds, until she turned to him, her eyes glistening.
"He's gone."
It was all she said, all she had to say. He wrapped his arms around her as she cried on his shoulder until no tears were left, simply emotion, hanging in the air, motionless.
"He's gone."
He strained to find something to say, something that he could tell her, something, anything. Instead, they just simply stood like that, seconds dripping into minutes, feeding on each other's emotions. Finally, she slipped away and paced to the other side of the warehouse, then turned and walked half the way back, stopping to lean on the chain fence for support. He walked over and stood in front of her, daring her to speak, daring her to look at him. Wanting her to. She looked up but avoided his eyes, gazing into the darkness.
"I loved him, Vaughn. He was like my father. He didn't even do anything." Slowly she looked up at him. He longed to stoke her hair and kiss her, to lie and say everything would be alright. But he couldn't, he knew this, and so he did none of these. Instead, he stared at the ground and waited for words to form on his tongue.
"What happened?" He knew it was too hard a question, to relate back to the story, relieve the memory play by play. She already had enough bad memories, and he felt bad asking her to play back another one. However, she wiped her eyes with her hands and reluctantly told him the story.
"The mission was running smoothly; I was just about to get into the van and drive away when someone came up from behind me. He gagged and blindfolded me. By the time the blindfold was off I was in a dark room lit by one window in the very corner of the room, but even that was barred, so the light was streaky. They had Dixon. They kept asking us why we were here, and who had sent us. Dixon refused to answer. They finally got so mad that they...they..." She broke down again, this time refusing the warmth of his arms although it was all she wanted. She composed herself the best she could and continued, slowly. "They...smashed bottles on his skin and cut him. They told me they were killing him, torturing him for not answering. They made me watch it... I tried to stop them, they hit me," she motioned to the cuts on her arms. "They cut off his hand, slowly slit part of his throat, keeping enough for him to live, jammed glass in his skin...they made me watch, they made me, his last words were 'there's always tomorrow, Syd, there's always another day.' Then they shot him in the back, and threw him in the corner to die, slowly and painfully. Then they cut my skin with the knife, but it didn't hurt, they had already killed me, I had already felt the pain. They told me 'Go back and play with your dolls, slut, and tell whoever you're working for not to try and mess with us.' Then they dragged me to the door, right past Dixon, and I saw him, his eyes, his eyes, they'll haunt me..." She stopped, she had to. She couldn't go on. Her breath came in short gasps, her cheeks flooded with memory. She didn't feel his embrace, she couldn't feel anything, just pain. "They wouldn't take me, they wouldn't kill me, Vaughn, they wouldn't. I asked them to, they wouldn't. I can't forget. I can't forget the sound, his eyes...and then tomorrow at his funeral no one will know what he did, how brave he was, he didn't even yell, just winced and talked to me. Told me to tell his wife he loved her. Vaughn...Vaughn..." She leaned into him, her full weight on his chest, unable to support herself. She cried again, gray tears of anger. Unaware of his tears, his tears flowing into her hair. Unaware he had, too, seen this form of murder, by the hands of her own mother.
"My father, too," He said at last. She pulled her head away for a minute, stared at him.
"I'm so sorry." The tears increased; their drops on the concrete floor resembled the raindrops on the pavement outside. He stroked her hair.
"It'll be alright," he lied. She knew it was a lie, but she forced herself to believe him. She nodded.
"There's always tomorrow."
Author-Alias_addict
Feedback- But of course
Distribution: Whatever, just tell me where I can see it
Disclaimer-Nothings mine, It's JJs, Touchstone, Bad Robot, yadda yadda
Summary- Sydney/Vaughn, angst, almost-romance, or romance, who knows. And I suck at summaries, so you'll just have to wait and find out.
Rating- Most likely PG.
Author's Note: This fic is based on the poem To The Lion by Diane Wakoski, and each beginning and some of the ends of the sections have quotations from it.
Part One:
//I am the girl who visits the sun,
east of destiny and west of destruction.
Who comes in the rain to remind you of tomorrow
and the silken trees//
He was late. He was never late before, always there to open the rusty gate into her second life. But here he was, half an hour after the traditional call was made, which, in itself, was a lie, but then again so was her life, so she didn't sweat it. It was just strange for him to be late, to come in second. Their eyes met and he immediately shifted his gaze; she did not. He could feel her eyes on him, pounding into his skull and trying to find the reason. One that he would not so generously give unless she asked for it, which she would not. He turned to face her again, and she studied his eyes. But they would give her no more, for they were distant, far-away. She longed to find out where he was, but kept silent, perched beside a small crate in the corner of the dusty warehouse.
"How was Paris?"
"Fine." Now it was his turn to study her eyes. The operation had not run smoothly, and she had hospital bills to prove it, along with a forming scar across the spine of her back. He could see the tip of it at the top of her sky blue tank top, and bottom at the break before her jeans. What was most likely worse was the emotional scar. Visible in her eyes if you were searching. He envied anyone who could.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head. In her trembling hand she held a small slip of paper as white as her death-gripped face. He knew what it was. The funeral invitation.
"Sydney?" She turned her head away from his face, but he could see the silvery tears shining as they crawled down her face. He walked over and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. They stood like that for a few long seconds, until she turned to him, her eyes glistening.
"He's gone."
It was all she said, all she had to say. He wrapped his arms around her as she cried on his shoulder until no tears were left, simply emotion, hanging in the air, motionless.
"He's gone."
He strained to find something to say, something that he could tell her, something, anything. Instead, they just simply stood like that, seconds dripping into minutes, feeding on each other's emotions. Finally, she slipped away and paced to the other side of the warehouse, then turned and walked half the way back, stopping to lean on the chain fence for support. He walked over and stood in front of her, daring her to speak, daring her to look at him. Wanting her to. She looked up but avoided his eyes, gazing into the darkness.
"I loved him, Vaughn. He was like my father. He didn't even do anything." Slowly she looked up at him. He longed to stoke her hair and kiss her, to lie and say everything would be alright. But he couldn't, he knew this, and so he did none of these. Instead, he stared at the ground and waited for words to form on his tongue.
"What happened?" He knew it was too hard a question, to relate back to the story, relieve the memory play by play. She already had enough bad memories, and he felt bad asking her to play back another one. However, she wiped her eyes with her hands and reluctantly told him the story.
"The mission was running smoothly; I was just about to get into the van and drive away when someone came up from behind me. He gagged and blindfolded me. By the time the blindfold was off I was in a dark room lit by one window in the very corner of the room, but even that was barred, so the light was streaky. They had Dixon. They kept asking us why we were here, and who had sent us. Dixon refused to answer. They finally got so mad that they...they..." She broke down again, this time refusing the warmth of his arms although it was all she wanted. She composed herself the best she could and continued, slowly. "They...smashed bottles on his skin and cut him. They told me they were killing him, torturing him for not answering. They made me watch it... I tried to stop them, they hit me," she motioned to the cuts on her arms. "They cut off his hand, slowly slit part of his throat, keeping enough for him to live, jammed glass in his skin...they made me watch, they made me, his last words were 'there's always tomorrow, Syd, there's always another day.' Then they shot him in the back, and threw him in the corner to die, slowly and painfully. Then they cut my skin with the knife, but it didn't hurt, they had already killed me, I had already felt the pain. They told me 'Go back and play with your dolls, slut, and tell whoever you're working for not to try and mess with us.' Then they dragged me to the door, right past Dixon, and I saw him, his eyes, his eyes, they'll haunt me..." She stopped, she had to. She couldn't go on. Her breath came in short gasps, her cheeks flooded with memory. She didn't feel his embrace, she couldn't feel anything, just pain. "They wouldn't take me, they wouldn't kill me, Vaughn, they wouldn't. I asked them to, they wouldn't. I can't forget. I can't forget the sound, his eyes...and then tomorrow at his funeral no one will know what he did, how brave he was, he didn't even yell, just winced and talked to me. Told me to tell his wife he loved her. Vaughn...Vaughn..." She leaned into him, her full weight on his chest, unable to support herself. She cried again, gray tears of anger. Unaware of his tears, his tears flowing into her hair. Unaware he had, too, seen this form of murder, by the hands of her own mother.
"My father, too," He said at last. She pulled her head away for a minute, stared at him.
"I'm so sorry." The tears increased; their drops on the concrete floor resembled the raindrops on the pavement outside. He stroked her hair.
"It'll be alright," he lied. She knew it was a lie, but she forced herself to believe him. She nodded.
"There's always tomorrow."