Just One Touch
By Shannon
Disclaimer: I do not own, and never will own, the idea and creation of "Alias". I am merely borrowing the characters for my own, and everyone else's amusement. The show belongs to J.J Abrams. (
Some Time In the Present
In . . . out . . .in . . .out . . .
I vie to control my breathing. In . . .out . . .in . . .out . . . rhythmically, my chapped lips forming a perfect "O". My movements are rapid, swift. My elbows, like the sharp corners of triangles, chop down like axes, the left arm, then the right arm, then the left arm again as I gain ground. With each step I shake, my muscles expanding and contracting, as I run. I center myself, focusing only on what's ahead of me, my breathing and running almost entirely in sync. I try not to think about the world around me, feeling free to get lost in myself. The sound of my feet pounding on the blacktop fills my ears, hammering into my reality.
I am well aware of a hollow cacophony of gunshots and chaos behind me, urging me on. I always work well under pressure; this time is no different. Being who I am forces me to accommodate to the moment. Feeling a release, a spurt of energy, I sprint as fast as I can without thinking to the other end of the vaulted building. Two large crates block my path. I split mid- air and soar over the first row. The second row is too high for me to hop over, so I jump sideways and roll over it, never losing stride- or a second to breathe.
These obstacles are never-ending. In the distance, a brick building, complete with rickety, rusting scaffolding, appears. In the last few milliseconds before I reach it, a plan quickly forms in my mind on how I can approach it. The scaffolding leans upwards, like stairs. A few sunken metal gears provide sufficient footholds for support. I step my right foot on one quickly, then another, relying on only tentative strength from the scaffolding. I continue to climb, only with my feet, one foot after the other.I reach the last metal gear and look down. I am only halfway up the wall.
The guns fire from below. I hear the small metallic "ping" as they ricochet off the wall and fall. My breathing is desperate and impatient. To my immediate right, a seemingly sturdy ledge of scaffolding stands. Above that.a thin sewage pipe. I lean back, putting all my weight on the foot on the sunken gear. Judging my timing, I regain my controlled breathing and hop over as quickly as I can to the scaffolding. Immediately, I feel the metal ledge begin to give way. Cue the M-16s from below. Pushing down on the scaffolding, I jump up and reach the pipe. I miss by a mere inch. I reach up and try again, and just as I am about to touch the small metal bar, a jolt of pain enervates my body, sending a shiver of numbness through my outstretched arm.
"Ah!" I cry out, my voice echoing off the wall. I turn and inspect the damage quickly. A deep, messy laceration from the penetration of a rifle burns my skin. By now the scaffolding has already begun to whine and creak, as its foundation collapses slowly. Pushing down once more, I spread my feet wider apart and dig into the metal with the balls of my feet. I shriek with pain and anxiousness as I make the jump. I push up desperately. A strange, satisfying feel rushes over me when I feel the cool pipe beneath my fingers. My wound begins to sting, the shredded flesh hanging limply from the rest of my skin.
Lifting myself up with a yell, I swing my right leg to a sturdy foothold about four feet above the former scaffolding. The crippled scaffolding sinks to a crash on the hard, unwavering ground. I now have enough of a stronghold to hoist myself up to the roof of the building. I do so, gingerly.
But they're still behind me. I jog across a wooden bridge, and maneuver my way under a series of narrow, multi-colored, electrically charged cables.
If I so much as brush one with a strand of hair, I'm a goner.
I crouch low, and attempt to take it slow, but Time whispers in my ear as I am slithering forward. Dust fills my lungs, and I cough. I reach the end of the tunnel and crawl out. I run forward and nearly fall off the edge of the building. A series of large pillars, of the same height as the building I'm on, stand before me. I take a running start and soar over to the first pillar. I do so with the second pillar, so on and so forth. The last pillar looms before me. I take a powerful running start, and right as I am about to jump off the edge, when my left army boot skids the abrasive surface of the building, dragging my hip downwards, and leaving me to fall into the nothingness of space above the pulsating city of Los Angeles. I never even touch the last pillar. It remains as unattainable as it always has: just within the distance of anticipation, but just out of my reach. Wind is literally sucked from my lips as I try to scream, shout, something. I continue to fall, spiraling and swerving, as I am called into the dusty, dirty filth below.
. . . I hit the mat.
"Are you alright?" Vaughn asks me, as I brush myself off from the training room floor.
"Are you kidding?" I say between short breaths, readjusting my short ponytail.
"Never answer a question with a question", he answers with a smirk. I take his outstretched hand and he pulls me up to my feet. His hand is warm and strong. Just as I am about to let go, his hand slides down my arm, stopping at my hand. He scrutinizes the broken skin before leading me to wash it with peroxide and covering it with a Band-Aid.
"I'm not eight, you know. I've had cuts and bruises before," I say, rolling my eyes at him. He shrugs sheepishly.
"You never know. Bacteria, or other germs could get in there and infect the bloodstream," he says, stroking the cut with saline solution.
"Ah," I grimace.
"Sting?" he asks gently. I nod, stifling my cries of pain to save face. I mean, seriously, who would want to whine to their co-operative about a small cut? He doesn't mock me, though. In fact, he barely says anything. But.I know he cares. And that's enough to make me smile.
He returns my smile as he winds a band of cloth around my palm.
I reckon that I must look the complete antithesis of a professional secret agent, in my burgundy tank top, tight black Spandex pants, and dirty Nikes, but he doesn't flinch or display any looks of distaste. He must be hooting on the inside, though. He is dressed in a sky blue button-down, under an immaculate brown blazer/pants set, squeaky-clean; without a trace of lint clinging to it. A pair of super-shiny Versacci pumps tap the floor. Impressive.
I shuffle out of my shoes and slip into a pair of sandals. Sliding my bag over my shoulder, I dry myself off with a towel and reach for my water bottle. I am faintly aware of Vaughn's gaze.
I look up abruptly. Vaughn is already heading toward the door, his Versacci's tapping rhythmically. I follow, turning off the lights of the training room as I leave.
"Nice night," he comments as I am thrust into the open air. The breeze is chilly, but cool and comforting to my body. I breathe deeply. We walk along the sidewalk, on McCurry Street. It's desolate and lonely. I half expect to see Luca Brasi wearing a leather jacket, warily searching out the Tattaglias.
Vaughn stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks up, the dark almond of his eyes boring into me. Sometimes, like now, I feel like I have nothing to hide. He can see through my mask and break beyond the millions of strategically placed booby-traps I have on guard. I don't even have to say anything. Somehow he already knows what I'm feeling.
"Yeah." I whisper. I always say something to break the silence. Awkward pauses make me nervous. But I know he heard me. I have a feeling that he notices everything. He's that type of guy. The guy that cares.
"So, ever thought about coming up to the training room area yourself?" I ask. He smiles warmly. We cross the street, toward the Mill's Coffee Shop. The lamps inside glow above each individual tables. Quiet talk and laughter can be heard.
"Yeah, I can't let you be the only one with the toned bod, now can't I?" he asks playfully. I grin.
"I suppose. You look like you could use it," I say, jabbing him in the ribs. He laughs. It sounds so odd, but comforting, in a way. I give him a generous glance.
"What?" he asks me, confused.
"I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before." He blushes. "Well it's not like we do it regularly. Between saving the world, disabling bombs, and fighting steroid-pumped bad guys from remote corners of the world, I don't think we have that much room for laughing," he says.
"Yeah, and from all the action we get, there's not much room for anything," I say, grinning. He gives me a wary, but smiling look. I realize the double entendre of my words, and blush slightly.
"I have a feeling you don't mean fighting."
"Well I suppose you could fight while doing it, but that would be a lot more messy, wouldn't it?"
We both laugh this time.
When we both quiet down, I clear my throat. Solemnity invades our conversation. "I get up, I go to work, I do my job, then I go home. And that's my life. This line of work is fun in a different way, if it's ever that much fun at all." He nods, prompting me.
"There is a sort of adrenaline rush you get when you know that several peoples' lives are at stake, including your own," I continue, "it's never fun when you're experiencing it, but when it's over.you know that you've got by again."
"You really work hard. You deserve everything you get," he says softly. His tenderness strikes me as odd- but I like it. I usually never get to hear it.the CIA lingo kind of masks it most of the time.
"You know, you, and everyone else have been so great so far. I don't know how to thank you." He opens the door for me. At once, the sweet smell of rich flavored coffee reaches my senses.
"Then don't," he says abruptly. He winks to show that his dry wit, a la James Bond, hasn't faded. He gestures inside. "After you."
"Thank you," I say, lingering. He knows it means more than that. I'm really saying thank you to all of the times you've saved my life, thank you for always being there, thank you for caring, thank you for listening, and most of all- thank you for never giving up on me, even when it seemed that hope had gone.
"Don't mention it."
***
"Thanks for the coffee," I whisper faintly, unlocking my apartment door. I don't know what else to say. I meet his eyes.
"No problem," he returns. He holds out his hand. I shake it, feeling an unconscious affinity to his touch. He pulls back stiffly.
"Bye," he says abruptly. I nod. Apparently he isn't overly used to human contact. Neither am I. I back into my apartment, about to shut my door. But at the last second I open it, letting out my insecurities.
"We should do this again sometime," I say, a little more loudly than usual. I pray that my forwardness isn't too bold. He had already started down the hall. At the sound of my voice, he turns. It seems infinity passes before he reacts. He smiles, the kind showing all of the teeth. I smile too. I don't really know why, though. It just feels good to smile, and to see him smile.
"Yeah," blinking, ".goodnight. Agent Bristow."
"Goodnight, Agent Vaughn."
Our names our sterile and cold. Instead of sounding professional and uplifting, they sound limited and restrictive. But the prospect of seeing him again makes me feel better. Stifling a yawn, I slink into my room and cuddle under the covers. Sleep is upon me.
***
I hear her slam the door faintly as I continue to walk down the hall. The seedy upper-levels of Los Angeles apartments are never comforting, but I suddenly feel less than usual without Sydney by my side. I wonder how she manages to live there. Luckily, it's only for a week. SD-6 has decided to ship many of their employees to certain parts all over Central Asia. The secondary team, of which Sydney is a member, has planted themselves in scattered areas next to an abandoned warehouse, where they have their regular meetings. After Cole's break-in, Sloane had become increasingly paranoid about any future endangerment to the SD-6 system. I make a mental note to look out for the warehouse as I drive home. I hop down the steps from the second floor landing, and push open the glass door of the complex. I get into my Saab and lock the door.
Suddenly I don't feel too much like driving home to my apartment. I don't feel too much like going to sleep and forgetting that this ever occurred. I don't feel like walking into my room and staring with sudden contempt at the gallery of pictures of Alice. Pretty, sweet.fragile Alice. Guilt washes over me in waves. What would she do if she had known? Known about what? I say, my denial-ridden self creeping out of the shadows. A coworker and I went out for coffee. So sue me. I lean forward, feeling unusually unlike myself, and turn the key in the ignition. The rumble from the engine comforts me, leading myself to believing that I'm ready to leave. But it's not really true at all. I'm not ready to leave. I look up at the third window of the third floor: Sydney's window. The faint glow of a light in her room is visible beyond her curtains. I sigh. Just look away.I repeat to myself several times before my eyes turn away reluctantly. Why is this so damn difficult? I scream internally. It's not.it's not difficult at all.just forget it. Forget her. I pull the car out of the parking lot and flip the radio switch on.
"Hi this is Glenn Hollis, after-hours."
"Hi!"
"Hi, who's this?"
"This is Jennifer."
"Hi Jennifer, how's your night going?"
"It's been good."
"Yeah, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, just hanging out with my boyfriend."
"Oh? What's your boyfriend's name?"
"Jeremy."
"Jeremy? Would you like to dedicate a song to Jeremy?"
"Yes, I'd like to dedicate 'I Will Always Love You' to him."
"OK, anything you'd like to say to him?"
"That I love him and always will."
"Thanks, bye Jennifer."
"Bye."
"Damn," I say, shaking my head as my fingers found another radio station. The last thing I need was a maudlin, emotional song to "uplift" my spirits. I drive along the midnight-stricken road, which is haunted by briefly glaring yellow taxicabs passing for night service. The warehouse appears on my left: "Denny's Auto Ser-", but the rest is burned away. The building should be easy to guard. For security reasons, the CIA has chosen not to break up the meeting, but to send in an undetectable bug pinned on Sydney's clothing so that they can hear everything that goes on in the warehouse. I pass the warehouse. Suddenly my mind focuses on other, less technical matters.
Sydney. Her chocolate brown eyes, large and soulful. The way she smiles and suddenly the world is brighter than it's ever been.
And, the most intriguing thing about her.
The long tips of her fingers, which can strangle a man to death, and touch his soul.
I grit my teeth and forced the though of her out of my head. I felt tired and angry beyond control. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard that I could see the whiteness of my knuckles without any source of light. There was a harbored, hungry truth manifesting itself in my soul that I didn't want to face.a demon in the closet. Every movement and every breath somehow gave away this truth, although no one ever seemed to notice anything different. No one noticed except for Weiss and Alice. Every time I admit the truth to myself, I feel pieces of my self-control chipping away.
The truth I spent so long trying to hide, suppress, squelch, and wrangle from the rest of my being was, in the simplest use of the term, love. I am in love. And it hurts. It hurts so much that sometimes I go mad. I hit and throw things, thinking that somehow the things I am throwing are the things I am feeling. I hope that as they shatter against the wall, my pain and anger can shatter too.
But to no avail.
I didn't expect being in love to be this difficult. I always thought that what Alice and I shared was love, even when I tried to deny it. Every time I tried to think that it was, an equal, powerful, and opposing thought entered my mind- this wasn't love.
That wasn't love. Love isn't easy and perfect and continually sweet. It's the combination of the most passionate pleasure and precise pain that's ever felt. Every time I see her my inside squeeze, hard. It's difficult, I imagine, because I haven't shared that love with her yet. Maybe it's more difficult for me, though, because I know that I never will.
Her. Sydney Bristow. The woman who can own a room with just one gaze. The woman who owns my heart with just one touch.
~finis~
By Shannon
Disclaimer: I do not own, and never will own, the idea and creation of "Alias". I am merely borrowing the characters for my own, and everyone else's amusement. The show belongs to J.J Abrams. (
Some Time In the Present
In . . . out . . .in . . .out . . .
I vie to control my breathing. In . . .out . . .in . . .out . . . rhythmically, my chapped lips forming a perfect "O". My movements are rapid, swift. My elbows, like the sharp corners of triangles, chop down like axes, the left arm, then the right arm, then the left arm again as I gain ground. With each step I shake, my muscles expanding and contracting, as I run. I center myself, focusing only on what's ahead of me, my breathing and running almost entirely in sync. I try not to think about the world around me, feeling free to get lost in myself. The sound of my feet pounding on the blacktop fills my ears, hammering into my reality.
I am well aware of a hollow cacophony of gunshots and chaos behind me, urging me on. I always work well under pressure; this time is no different. Being who I am forces me to accommodate to the moment. Feeling a release, a spurt of energy, I sprint as fast as I can without thinking to the other end of the vaulted building. Two large crates block my path. I split mid- air and soar over the first row. The second row is too high for me to hop over, so I jump sideways and roll over it, never losing stride- or a second to breathe.
These obstacles are never-ending. In the distance, a brick building, complete with rickety, rusting scaffolding, appears. In the last few milliseconds before I reach it, a plan quickly forms in my mind on how I can approach it. The scaffolding leans upwards, like stairs. A few sunken metal gears provide sufficient footholds for support. I step my right foot on one quickly, then another, relying on only tentative strength from the scaffolding. I continue to climb, only with my feet, one foot after the other.I reach the last metal gear and look down. I am only halfway up the wall.
The guns fire from below. I hear the small metallic "ping" as they ricochet off the wall and fall. My breathing is desperate and impatient. To my immediate right, a seemingly sturdy ledge of scaffolding stands. Above that.a thin sewage pipe. I lean back, putting all my weight on the foot on the sunken gear. Judging my timing, I regain my controlled breathing and hop over as quickly as I can to the scaffolding. Immediately, I feel the metal ledge begin to give way. Cue the M-16s from below. Pushing down on the scaffolding, I jump up and reach the pipe. I miss by a mere inch. I reach up and try again, and just as I am about to touch the small metal bar, a jolt of pain enervates my body, sending a shiver of numbness through my outstretched arm.
"Ah!" I cry out, my voice echoing off the wall. I turn and inspect the damage quickly. A deep, messy laceration from the penetration of a rifle burns my skin. By now the scaffolding has already begun to whine and creak, as its foundation collapses slowly. Pushing down once more, I spread my feet wider apart and dig into the metal with the balls of my feet. I shriek with pain and anxiousness as I make the jump. I push up desperately. A strange, satisfying feel rushes over me when I feel the cool pipe beneath my fingers. My wound begins to sting, the shredded flesh hanging limply from the rest of my skin.
Lifting myself up with a yell, I swing my right leg to a sturdy foothold about four feet above the former scaffolding. The crippled scaffolding sinks to a crash on the hard, unwavering ground. I now have enough of a stronghold to hoist myself up to the roof of the building. I do so, gingerly.
But they're still behind me. I jog across a wooden bridge, and maneuver my way under a series of narrow, multi-colored, electrically charged cables.
If I so much as brush one with a strand of hair, I'm a goner.
I crouch low, and attempt to take it slow, but Time whispers in my ear as I am slithering forward. Dust fills my lungs, and I cough. I reach the end of the tunnel and crawl out. I run forward and nearly fall off the edge of the building. A series of large pillars, of the same height as the building I'm on, stand before me. I take a running start and soar over to the first pillar. I do so with the second pillar, so on and so forth. The last pillar looms before me. I take a powerful running start, and right as I am about to jump off the edge, when my left army boot skids the abrasive surface of the building, dragging my hip downwards, and leaving me to fall into the nothingness of space above the pulsating city of Los Angeles. I never even touch the last pillar. It remains as unattainable as it always has: just within the distance of anticipation, but just out of my reach. Wind is literally sucked from my lips as I try to scream, shout, something. I continue to fall, spiraling and swerving, as I am called into the dusty, dirty filth below.
. . . I hit the mat.
"Are you alright?" Vaughn asks me, as I brush myself off from the training room floor.
"Are you kidding?" I say between short breaths, readjusting my short ponytail.
"Never answer a question with a question", he answers with a smirk. I take his outstretched hand and he pulls me up to my feet. His hand is warm and strong. Just as I am about to let go, his hand slides down my arm, stopping at my hand. He scrutinizes the broken skin before leading me to wash it with peroxide and covering it with a Band-Aid.
"I'm not eight, you know. I've had cuts and bruises before," I say, rolling my eyes at him. He shrugs sheepishly.
"You never know. Bacteria, or other germs could get in there and infect the bloodstream," he says, stroking the cut with saline solution.
"Ah," I grimace.
"Sting?" he asks gently. I nod, stifling my cries of pain to save face. I mean, seriously, who would want to whine to their co-operative about a small cut? He doesn't mock me, though. In fact, he barely says anything. But.I know he cares. And that's enough to make me smile.
He returns my smile as he winds a band of cloth around my palm.
I reckon that I must look the complete antithesis of a professional secret agent, in my burgundy tank top, tight black Spandex pants, and dirty Nikes, but he doesn't flinch or display any looks of distaste. He must be hooting on the inside, though. He is dressed in a sky blue button-down, under an immaculate brown blazer/pants set, squeaky-clean; without a trace of lint clinging to it. A pair of super-shiny Versacci pumps tap the floor. Impressive.
I shuffle out of my shoes and slip into a pair of sandals. Sliding my bag over my shoulder, I dry myself off with a towel and reach for my water bottle. I am faintly aware of Vaughn's gaze.
I look up abruptly. Vaughn is already heading toward the door, his Versacci's tapping rhythmically. I follow, turning off the lights of the training room as I leave.
"Nice night," he comments as I am thrust into the open air. The breeze is chilly, but cool and comforting to my body. I breathe deeply. We walk along the sidewalk, on McCurry Street. It's desolate and lonely. I half expect to see Luca Brasi wearing a leather jacket, warily searching out the Tattaglias.
Vaughn stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks up, the dark almond of his eyes boring into me. Sometimes, like now, I feel like I have nothing to hide. He can see through my mask and break beyond the millions of strategically placed booby-traps I have on guard. I don't even have to say anything. Somehow he already knows what I'm feeling.
"Yeah." I whisper. I always say something to break the silence. Awkward pauses make me nervous. But I know he heard me. I have a feeling that he notices everything. He's that type of guy. The guy that cares.
"So, ever thought about coming up to the training room area yourself?" I ask. He smiles warmly. We cross the street, toward the Mill's Coffee Shop. The lamps inside glow above each individual tables. Quiet talk and laughter can be heard.
"Yeah, I can't let you be the only one with the toned bod, now can't I?" he asks playfully. I grin.
"I suppose. You look like you could use it," I say, jabbing him in the ribs. He laughs. It sounds so odd, but comforting, in a way. I give him a generous glance.
"What?" he asks me, confused.
"I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before." He blushes. "Well it's not like we do it regularly. Between saving the world, disabling bombs, and fighting steroid-pumped bad guys from remote corners of the world, I don't think we have that much room for laughing," he says.
"Yeah, and from all the action we get, there's not much room for anything," I say, grinning. He gives me a wary, but smiling look. I realize the double entendre of my words, and blush slightly.
"I have a feeling you don't mean fighting."
"Well I suppose you could fight while doing it, but that would be a lot more messy, wouldn't it?"
We both laugh this time.
When we both quiet down, I clear my throat. Solemnity invades our conversation. "I get up, I go to work, I do my job, then I go home. And that's my life. This line of work is fun in a different way, if it's ever that much fun at all." He nods, prompting me.
"There is a sort of adrenaline rush you get when you know that several peoples' lives are at stake, including your own," I continue, "it's never fun when you're experiencing it, but when it's over.you know that you've got by again."
"You really work hard. You deserve everything you get," he says softly. His tenderness strikes me as odd- but I like it. I usually never get to hear it.the CIA lingo kind of masks it most of the time.
"You know, you, and everyone else have been so great so far. I don't know how to thank you." He opens the door for me. At once, the sweet smell of rich flavored coffee reaches my senses.
"Then don't," he says abruptly. He winks to show that his dry wit, a la James Bond, hasn't faded. He gestures inside. "After you."
"Thank you," I say, lingering. He knows it means more than that. I'm really saying thank you to all of the times you've saved my life, thank you for always being there, thank you for caring, thank you for listening, and most of all- thank you for never giving up on me, even when it seemed that hope had gone.
"Don't mention it."
***
"Thanks for the coffee," I whisper faintly, unlocking my apartment door. I don't know what else to say. I meet his eyes.
"No problem," he returns. He holds out his hand. I shake it, feeling an unconscious affinity to his touch. He pulls back stiffly.
"Bye," he says abruptly. I nod. Apparently he isn't overly used to human contact. Neither am I. I back into my apartment, about to shut my door. But at the last second I open it, letting out my insecurities.
"We should do this again sometime," I say, a little more loudly than usual. I pray that my forwardness isn't too bold. He had already started down the hall. At the sound of my voice, he turns. It seems infinity passes before he reacts. He smiles, the kind showing all of the teeth. I smile too. I don't really know why, though. It just feels good to smile, and to see him smile.
"Yeah," blinking, ".goodnight. Agent Bristow."
"Goodnight, Agent Vaughn."
Our names our sterile and cold. Instead of sounding professional and uplifting, they sound limited and restrictive. But the prospect of seeing him again makes me feel better. Stifling a yawn, I slink into my room and cuddle under the covers. Sleep is upon me.
***
I hear her slam the door faintly as I continue to walk down the hall. The seedy upper-levels of Los Angeles apartments are never comforting, but I suddenly feel less than usual without Sydney by my side. I wonder how she manages to live there. Luckily, it's only for a week. SD-6 has decided to ship many of their employees to certain parts all over Central Asia. The secondary team, of which Sydney is a member, has planted themselves in scattered areas next to an abandoned warehouse, where they have their regular meetings. After Cole's break-in, Sloane had become increasingly paranoid about any future endangerment to the SD-6 system. I make a mental note to look out for the warehouse as I drive home. I hop down the steps from the second floor landing, and push open the glass door of the complex. I get into my Saab and lock the door.
Suddenly I don't feel too much like driving home to my apartment. I don't feel too much like going to sleep and forgetting that this ever occurred. I don't feel like walking into my room and staring with sudden contempt at the gallery of pictures of Alice. Pretty, sweet.fragile Alice. Guilt washes over me in waves. What would she do if she had known? Known about what? I say, my denial-ridden self creeping out of the shadows. A coworker and I went out for coffee. So sue me. I lean forward, feeling unusually unlike myself, and turn the key in the ignition. The rumble from the engine comforts me, leading myself to believing that I'm ready to leave. But it's not really true at all. I'm not ready to leave. I look up at the third window of the third floor: Sydney's window. The faint glow of a light in her room is visible beyond her curtains. I sigh. Just look away.I repeat to myself several times before my eyes turn away reluctantly. Why is this so damn difficult? I scream internally. It's not.it's not difficult at all.just forget it. Forget her. I pull the car out of the parking lot and flip the radio switch on.
"Hi this is Glenn Hollis, after-hours."
"Hi!"
"Hi, who's this?"
"This is Jennifer."
"Hi Jennifer, how's your night going?"
"It's been good."
"Yeah, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, just hanging out with my boyfriend."
"Oh? What's your boyfriend's name?"
"Jeremy."
"Jeremy? Would you like to dedicate a song to Jeremy?"
"Yes, I'd like to dedicate 'I Will Always Love You' to him."
"OK, anything you'd like to say to him?"
"That I love him and always will."
"Thanks, bye Jennifer."
"Bye."
"Damn," I say, shaking my head as my fingers found another radio station. The last thing I need was a maudlin, emotional song to "uplift" my spirits. I drive along the midnight-stricken road, which is haunted by briefly glaring yellow taxicabs passing for night service. The warehouse appears on my left: "Denny's Auto Ser-", but the rest is burned away. The building should be easy to guard. For security reasons, the CIA has chosen not to break up the meeting, but to send in an undetectable bug pinned on Sydney's clothing so that they can hear everything that goes on in the warehouse. I pass the warehouse. Suddenly my mind focuses on other, less technical matters.
Sydney. Her chocolate brown eyes, large and soulful. The way she smiles and suddenly the world is brighter than it's ever been.
And, the most intriguing thing about her.
The long tips of her fingers, which can strangle a man to death, and touch his soul.
I grit my teeth and forced the though of her out of my head. I felt tired and angry beyond control. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard that I could see the whiteness of my knuckles without any source of light. There was a harbored, hungry truth manifesting itself in my soul that I didn't want to face.a demon in the closet. Every movement and every breath somehow gave away this truth, although no one ever seemed to notice anything different. No one noticed except for Weiss and Alice. Every time I admit the truth to myself, I feel pieces of my self-control chipping away.
The truth I spent so long trying to hide, suppress, squelch, and wrangle from the rest of my being was, in the simplest use of the term, love. I am in love. And it hurts. It hurts so much that sometimes I go mad. I hit and throw things, thinking that somehow the things I am throwing are the things I am feeling. I hope that as they shatter against the wall, my pain and anger can shatter too.
But to no avail.
I didn't expect being in love to be this difficult. I always thought that what Alice and I shared was love, even when I tried to deny it. Every time I tried to think that it was, an equal, powerful, and opposing thought entered my mind- this wasn't love.
That wasn't love. Love isn't easy and perfect and continually sweet. It's the combination of the most passionate pleasure and precise pain that's ever felt. Every time I see her my inside squeeze, hard. It's difficult, I imagine, because I haven't shared that love with her yet. Maybe it's more difficult for me, though, because I know that I never will.
Her. Sydney Bristow. The woman who can own a room with just one gaze. The woman who owns my heart with just one touch.
~finis~