t: tergiversation: chapter 2
a: sesha c. & eve marsh {mindofsesha@aol.com & shackled_rapture@yahoo.com}
s: a promise. a secret. a future foretold in increments { cd super challenge}
r: this section: pg-13 for content and language. forthcoming sections varied
c: premeditated angst and carefully articulated confusion.
o: information available in chapter one.
tergiversation * chapter two {myriad illusions}
Dawn shoves rosy fingers between fluffy blue-gray clouds, the horizon a bleed of color on color as viewed from the adjacent picture window. Obtrusive sunshine forces Sydney to wake suddenly and rise to a sitting position, realizing that she is in an unfamiliar bed, a situation that proves alarming until she comes to the knowledge of where, exactly, it is that she happens to be. With her whereabouts identified, she rolls her head back and wills her heartbeat back to normal.
She takes in steadying gulps of air and forces her on-guard body to relax back into the cushions of the bed. After long moments spent acclimating, she lets her eyes roam around the spacious room, taking stock of her surroundings. A faded, ragtag quilt lies in haphazard folds around her legs, and pillows rumbled with a shape most-resembling her head sags against the oak headboard. A castoff armchair, with one of the back supports snapped in two, occupies the far corner, and there is a solitary area rug to the left of the bed, threads swollen with time and ragged around the edges. A shaft of sunlight falls onto the center of it, bleaching the colors further, revealing its protectory layer of dust. Morning light fractions through an open window, casting the room in a much more welcoming atmosphere; a far cry from the ominous darkness cloaking the room the night before. It feels almost like a weekend house in the country, almost like her childhood home from decades past; she is surprised how a few hours could erase the fear she had experienced when they had first pulled into the rugged drive.
She peers out the window to be confronted with a solid wall of high trees mere yards from the house, and the natural camouflage sends a flash of reality back to her system. This is no weekend house in the country, no quick visit to revel in the simple pleasures of outdoor living and relaxation. The quilt tangling her legs no longer is a quaint reminder of old-fashioned charm but tangible evidence that she will never again sleep in her own bed. No more lounging curled against sheets that smelled like downy and pressed by Francie - she can vividly remember - Francie, her arms tangled in sheets, one hand with an iron and the other with starch. These memories, poignant and haunting, jar her to admit what it is that she most wants to not recollect: she has been erased; everyone that had known her now believes she is dead, and this room, despite its country comfort and old charm, can not remove the facts from stacking up in a neat line in her head.
Feeling confined, her stomach grumbling with hunger, she resolves to get out of this unfamiliar bed and focus on the day ahead of her. Her bare feet touch the old plank oak flooring, worn from countless years of use. This place feels old, it feels grounded, and despite the dust and the solitary nature of its location, she feels secure in its quaint familiarity. She tiptoes across the room to the closet, where she'd stuffed some of her bags the night before in a zombie-like exhaustion. Ruffling through her suitcase she pulls out jeans and a tank top, shampoo, conditioner, a few other toiletry items that she balances in a precarious pile on her forearms. Leaving the room, she begins a search for a working, clean bathroom to hopefully shower in.
Unsure of her direction, she lets the door behind her creak to a soft close before venturing down the stretching hallway. Tentatively stepping forward, each movement forcing her further into an enveloping darkness, she tries doorknobs, opening room after unique room. It becomes a series of discoveries, uncovering forgotten bedrooms, closets, and quarters packed with nothing but relics from families past. The room opposite hers once belonged to a child, she presumes, complete with a hobbyhorse and splintered bunk beds. Faded gingham curtains hang on the windows, building blocks rest against a corner. She pauses and takes in every niche of this hallway, memorizing it instantly, taken by the simple charm of the décor. It becomes clear that each of these rooms tell a story of the decade in which they were assembled, none appearing recent, all with an individualized theme. This voyeuristic exploration makes her feel like an imposter, out of place and time, intruding on the simplicity of a cabin in the woods that belongs to people that she has never- and will never- meet.
After careful searching the door at the end of the hall reveals a bathroom, all blue and white tiling lining across the floor in some haphazard geometric pattern. A squat window lets in a modicum of light, flashing against the porcelain faucets and commode. The bathtub is a claw-footed monstrosity, some sort of throw-back to the 30's that is quaint in its design. A cut out cabinet above the toilet is stuffed with washcloths and terry-cloth towels, and she pulls one down and takes a deep breath. Despite the obvious odor of disuse, it shakes free of debris and appears clean.
She stacks her shampoo on the floor beside the tub and draws water into the basin, watching as old rust flows through the antiquated pipes until running clean over her fingers. The temperature goes from icy to tepid to scalding in a matter of moments, and with a satisfied smile she plugs the tub with a cork stopper and lets it fill as she undresses.
Her own face in the mirror looks back at her as she inspects the reflection for the evidence of the past few days' stress. The woman staring back at her lacks vivacity; instead, worn circles rim her eyes, cosmetics long removed by endurance and driving and sleeping against unfamiliar pillows. One side of her face seems puffy, blanched and white is the opposite, and she frowns, pulling down her lips into an unseemly expression of exposed distaste. She brushes her teeth, jerky movements across her gums and rinses, all in time to see the steam rising from the full bath.
Lowering herself into the hot water, she breathes a sigh of unwarranted relief. It takes her a few minutes to realize she is trembling, slightly, her shaking limbs causing minute ripples in the bath water. It feels surreal to allow herself such a simple pleasure of soaking in a tub so soon after the past few days' events. This guilt consumes her, makes her shaky with emotion that simmers so close to the surface. She feels empty, swimming in a murky sea of spent tears and suffering that she cannot evade. How she single handedly has been the harbinger of death to so many evades her - but all the same the tides of pain sweep over her, crashing over her and pulling her back, relentless.
Forcing her attention on other things, she realizes there are items she has forgotten to pack, and now will never see again. Easing deeper into the water, neck resting against the cold porcelain, she remembers trinkets, necklaces and bracelets and barrettes, inconsequential pieces of her past, a past now sacrificed for an old, worn down house in the woods. How long would they remain here, she wondered, in this quiet little place that belonged to neither of them? How long could they possibly dare to stay?
A muffled crash startles her from drifting off. Wary yet curious, she relinquishes the familiar comfort of the cooling tub to stand and dry off with an over-starched towel found earlier in the corner. Dressing hastily, she pads down the hallway to reach the steps leading downstairs, and comes to a halt when she makes out Vaughn's voice, just barely, talking in the air with a horrible stage whisper.
"…don't think that's a good idea right now."
She doesn't dare risk the stairs; old houses are notorious for creaky floorboards. She had no idea they would have phone service out here – he must be on a cell. One of those special-issue deals. She sees him pace into the main room at the foot of the stairs, agitated, turning and leaving her field of vision.
Louder now, "…you hear a word I've said?" A pause. "Just do what I told…", his voice dropping to a murmur she couldn't make out.
What the hell was she doing, crouching besides a wall, eavesdropping? This was ridiculous. So he was on the phone, big deal, she was sure he would have made sure it wasn't traceable. By all accounts so far, he had taken secrecy and covering their tracks with a thoroughness she didn't think was possible. He was being considerate, keeping his voice low to not disturb her if she was still sleeping. Paranoid much, Syd, she mocks herself, shaking her head and descending down the stairs.
Sure enough, the fifth landing lets out a sharp groan the moment her foot adds pressure to the surface. This house reminds her of her parents' home when she had been a child, complete with complaining floorboards and creaking stairs. She felt like a little girl again, caught by the elderly constructs of the house when she would try creeping downstairs first on Christmas morning. The action produces a startled response in her, heartbeat suddenly singing fast beats in her ear, holding her breath, pausing for just a second before letting her next foot down on the step directly beneath. With resolve she inches forward, steadying her heartbeat, breathing normally, she reaches the ground floor and turns in the direction of the kitchen, an overwhelming sensation of hunger ripping through her abdomen. The distinct aroma of coffee hangs in the air, and rounding the corner reveals Vaughn jerkily shoving the phone into his back pocket, the large size and irregular rectangle making a strange protrusion. Sat COM phone, confirming that yes, indeed the call had been untraceable. It floods her with relief and piques her curiosity all the more, but for the moment, the desire for food seems overwhelming.
"You're up early." If he even slept at all; he looked disheveled, hair askew, his button-down shirt a mess of wrinkles.
"Just a couple loose ends to tie up. You're settling in ok? The room, it was alright?" He makes little eye contact, looking around the room sporadically. Her eyes follow his, light on the miscellany lining the floor of cardboard boxes and half-full bags. She recalls them as having been stuffed in the back of the Blazer, but had no idea of the contents until now.
"Yeah, yeah, it was fine, thanks. The hot water is great." He's keeping his distance, arms crossed over the other in a less than casual stance. He has always been very good about keeping the appropriate degree of personal space between them during meetings; she thought that with them like this, in the middle of nowhere, with no one around to enforce the rules, he would loosen up a little more. Or maybe that had been some sort of abstract, stilted hope, because now she feels funny having expected such a thing. She's so accustomed to close quarters, shoulder to shoulder with Francie in the kitchen, crammed on a couch with friends. And now all she has is him, and he's still staying a million miles away. She tries not to take it personally. "That's what you were on the phone about?"
"What? It was nothing. So," his voice turning, modulating to a conspiratory tone, "what do we feel like for breakfast?"
*
He twirls a piece of fabric in his fingers, a thin line of unraveling gossamer ribbon, nearly opaque and warm beneath the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Concentrating on the picturesque scene in front of him, eyes focusing and blurring again. It's past time for the phone call, but he is not interested in rushing the itinerary. After all, he has a plan, and that involves not disrupting the expected with his inability to be patient.
It's on his list of things to do: learning how to be patient. He thinks he is making progress.
Five minutes. He'll give him five minutes to call, and if he doesn't, then he'll go ahead and dial the numbers anyway, knowing the man can be a procrastinator and can get caught up in doing the most inane things. All the same, the waiting is killing him, these little seconds blossoming into minutes and all he can do is stare out the fucking window. Despite that, he must admit - it's a lovely morning, all golden sunlight reflections and birds singing and all that bullshit that shouldn't really matter but does. It's a good start to something, and he needs a good start, because right now everything seems hell-bent on falling apart.
This, he understands, is not part of the plan. Falling apart. He isn't the sort to fall apart and besides, he's come too far to piss away all his careful articulations about everything. And there are still a million things to do, which instead of being stressful just makes everything feel more important. He knows what is going on in the outside world, but he demands a status report anyway, and as soon as that phone rings he-
Incomplete thought, because the phone does ring. 4 and one half minutes late give or take about 8 seconds. He lets it ring twice before answering.
"Hello?" Vague tone. Ambiguous.
"I'm sorry I'm late."
"You ought to be. I really don't like to be kept waiting and I thought we had an understanding about the way things were supposed to be done."
Pause on the opposite end. He spins the cloth around, threads becoming more ragged at the ends.
"I said I was sorry, and I meant it." He hates that pleading whiny tone that he has, really, he does. His own voice never sounds so…unconfident and placating to him. Well, at least not now, not at the moment, because that part of him is buried. Tired of being stepped on and walked over, and it really fucking amazes him that the man at the opposite end of the line could actually want to sound like such an egoless fool.
All the better. "Enough groveling. Let's get to business, then, shall we?"
*
Weiss slams the phone in its cradle, knowing the effort is futile; the conversation had already ended, cut off abruptly by the party on the other end. It still feels good, though, the reverberations as plastic hits hard plastic. If he weren't in the office he'd do a bit more damage than that, but he knows better than to raise suspicions, cast the slightest doubt. He has learned his lessons well.
It's just so…frustrating, not getting the treatment he deserves, not getting the recognition or respect that the other men he deals with receive in spades. Being used as nothing more than a carrier of information, serving other people's interests. He doesn't even care about the work, not really, he could give two shits about Jack Bristow and his hell-bent course for selfish vengeance at the end of the day. Maybe that's why he's so good at this, and really, he is good at this. And soon enough they'll all find out.
His eyes scan the room and fall on the dulled gold coin perched on the corner of his former partner's desk. No one thinks it strange that he lurks in here, takes calls and works on Michael's computer. They expect it, he guesses, after four solid years of working with someone else it is hard to let things go. It's not like he doesn't see their faces when they peer in the blinds to see Eric Weiss hunched in Vaughn's leather-backed chair, yo-yo tangled in his hands, three fingers wrapped around the phone. He's not blind to their pitying stares- like he deserves their pity by hanging in this office and making it his grand central. Fuck them. Maybe he is the last person at the CIA who still gives a damn about where Michael Vaughn had crawled off to.
He'd been such a fool, risking his entire career for one little infatuation. She was cute enough, but not worth risking a government pension over. And now what did he have to show for it? Vaughn's last day and last words were Omega-16 classified, and he and Jack Bristow had apparently simultaneously gone AWOL for all intents and purposes with the agency. No one knew where either went, and about three-fourths of the LA office could care less.
Fingers close around the ice-cold coin. He flips it in between his index and thumb and it falls, rolling across the floor and hitting the baseboard, vibrating to a stop on the tile beneath his feet. Damn. He eases out of the chair and bends to pick it up, catching a gauzy glance of his face in the window above him. He smiles at himself, watching the reflection turn up his lips in a semblance of a grin.
Satisfied with himself, he turns from the window and relays the coin on the corner of Vaughn's neat-as-a-pin desk. He knows his boss is proud with his work. He can tell – the conversation had been curt as usual, to the untrained ear it probably sounded just like his earlier phone call. But there was a note of satisfaction in his boss's voice, something Weiss was able to pick up after so many interactions. He is gaining power, becoming more valuable. It won't be long now until his boss realizes just how instrumental he is in this whole operation.
It won't be long at all.
Feeling refreshed from working things out in his head, Weiss turns, and moves to the door. Perhaps he'll hit the deli across the street for lunch today.
*
She didn't know how Vaughn had been able to stuff so many boxes in the blazer – he must have made a trip here before they arrived last night to drop off supplies. From her spot unpacking in the living room, she can see the late afternoon sun filter in through curtained windows, casting light and shadow on the sea of cardboard before her. Exhaustion hits her all at once; unexpected, but with the level of intensity they has approached everything with since they has arrived, not that surprising.
They've spent the morning unpacking, dusting off, cleaning up. In the full light of day the house has become merely idiosyncratic, and without shadows hanging from every corner it is bearable, even quaint. Using an old array of cleaning solutions, they have managed to remove most of the grime covering every unused surface, working together in less than companionable silence.
Every moment that she's even thought to look up had been covered in a quick, closed mouth retreat into polishing or dusting in bit-lip quiet. The problem is that she wants to ask questions – a desire that is met with a terse audience in Vaughn. Any statement that she makes pertaining to any sort of particular seemed to un-nerve him, and she is treading on eggshells around him as she attempts to quell her own unending curiosity.
This morning, over breakfast- her nibbling toast and coffee with cream and sugar, explaining that a safe house retreat seemed bad for one's health and diet as he devoured eggs and toast and coffee with a swiftness that she secretly admired. The lines in his face had made the most beautiful array of angles as he smiled at her- this genuine, dazzling smile that takes away from the fact that he looks absolutely exhausted.
She brought up the fact that she had no idea what state they were in, and this seemed to almost make him happy. Smiles like a chestire cat and says "it's best that you don't know all about that, Sydney," and it made her nerves stand on end. It still does.
If anything, she has an issue with truth. Not trust- she trusts Vaughn, implicitly. Knows he is incapable of cultivating an emotion of doubt within her; she trusts him. But truth- that is another thing entirely. She wants to know the truth, the facts, doesn't want to have things colored with any sort of secret or silence. Wants to know where the hell she is right now.
"You aren't going to tell me?" It was a quiet little statement, hard to make and preciously fragile. Looked into her coffee and bites at her toast, avoiding his direct gaze, which has become suddenly intense.
"No, not right now."
There is something in the way that he said it: final, authoritative, convinced –that made her turn her head for a moment and stare at nothing but the wall, a haze of red-hot anger washing over her, making her seethe with an inner heat she has not felt between them in a long time. The way that they used to disagree on particulars, quick intense jockeying for power in the warehouse and the bloodmobile seems infantile in comparison to the hostility brewing between them at that moment. Add to it the fact that in the past she had usually won most arguments with him, and was not, presently, winning.
So she has stopped asking about the phone calls and the state they are in and they decided that the house ought to be clean, and which rooms should be done when, a diatribe that has now wasted several hours in productive bliss. Hours making the house presentable, and now, attacking the boxes he brought along. Or, rather, Vaughn playing authoritative and telling her which boxes are supposed to go where. She has played along, not knowing the topography of the house or the contents of the boxes, but feeling wary over his constant vein of secrecy throughout the whole day.
And now, Vaughn stands in a corner, arms crossed over the top of the other, focused on the proper placement of every box. She is still wary of the commanding tone his voice has taken on, reminiscent of the scene earlier in the kitchen. It's a reoccurrence of the same bristling of nerves, the instantaneous creep of annoyance lurking beneath the surface and in direct response to his constant vein of secrecy throughout the whole day.
Fingers closing around a nearby box, she bends to pick it up. "Syd, wait, I'll do that box later. Here," he steps over, pulling out another box, opening it, verifying its contents as dry kitchen goods, "can you take care of this one?"
"Why, what's in the other box?" Meeting his eyes, she asks half-joking, half-waiting for a straight answer.
Of course, she gets neither. He looks away and merely takes the box, throws it in a closet with all the other unopened boxes that he'll 'take care of later', and goes about sorting through the rest without a moment's explanation.
"Vaughn, stop." He looks up, then, and if she weren't so exasperated he might even look cute. She attempts to interject her tone with humor, "Do you want to level with me here?"
He stands, not advancing towards her, just reaching his full height. Why does she see that as combative? "I don't know what you're talking about."
"What's with all the boxes?"
He docks his head, just a little, and proceeds as if he's placating a small child. "Sydney, you're going to be here a while. You do realize that; that it's impossible for you to go anywhere in public for a very long time? These are only supplies; it's not like you'll be able to just jog off to the store for anything. Besides," he gestures to the far window, revealing the ever- present thick woods behind him "it's not like there's anywhere to go."
His statement takes her aback, both with his cold rendition of her situation as well as his tone. There's being cruelly honest, and then there's being sensitive to a situation she had been brought into largely against her wishes. There is no reason for him to be so mocking, and after hours of working inside the stuffy confines of the house, she wants nothing more than to get out of this room, get some distance from his tension. And there is no way she could do that, not now. It's like she's still trapped in the coffin in the cemetery, locked up with no way out.
"I would just appreciate it if when I asked you a question that you would answer it instead of intentionally dissuading me for being an active participant in my own life." She's not sure that she intended for her own voice to sound as brittle, bristling with surging disdain. Not afraid to look at him, she meets his eyes from across the room and awaits his response. Returning to his earlier pose, he re-crosses his arms and looks at her levelly.
"I don't know what you are talking about, Sydney. It's not your business to know every action that I make and the meaning behind it."
"I expect you to be honest with me, Vaughn."
"When have I not been honest with you, Sydney?" Is his terse reply, voice taking an edge she is suddenly willing to urge on.
"When have you told me the truth?"
Eyebrows arching skyward he drops his arms. "I'm trying to protect you. It's not in your best interest to know your present location."
"Do you not trust me, Vaughn? I'm not going to run. I'm not going to give away my location. I'm not some novice in all this, and I'm still not sure that I need your protection in the first place."
He visibly bristles at her response, face twitching into an angry scowl. "I am your handler, Sydney. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that fact when you are challenging me and my authority over you…"
"Authority over me!" Stuttering, she greedily drinks in air before continuing, incensed to a level of anger she has not felt directed at anyone in a very long time.
"Yes. The authority that the CIA gives me: the power I have over you. You are my responsibility. It's my job to decide what is best for you. So if that means that I am not going to tell you what is in these boxes, or who I am on the phone with- then you should trust my good judgment and know…"
"This is ridiculous" her vision fills with the refection with unshed, frustration-filled tears. "I can't believe you are treating me like this…"
"Like how, Sydney?" He's genuinely confused, but the hostility lingers beneath his words.
"Like I'm…like the two of us, our…" she looks into his eyes, lets him see the glitter wavering in her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then exhales. "You're right."
He seems taken aback by her sudden retreat. Backing away from him, turning to face a picture frame on the wall, noting the dust that still clings in tiny webs on the surface of the glass. They must have missed it in their cleaning expedition, and she looks at the photograph buried beneath the glass plate and grime.
"I think you are reading too much into my actions, Sydney. The only thing that I want is for you to be safe."
A perfect family. Standing in this living room, mother, father, son, daughter. Interlocking hands as they face the camera, expressions grim. She can see her own face, pale, unsmiling, wearing a similar countenance of discontent.
His words hang in the air, unchallenged. He is right, on some level: where can she go? And after the fury of the past week, she is tired of confrontations, the tenseness that seems to surround her. She runs her fingers past the photograph, wiping away the shell of dust and leaving fingerprint smears on the glass, and turns back to the cartons that still need attention. After moments of silence Vaughn too turns to his pile of boxes, and they resume the relentless unpacking, of grunted directives from her handler and her mute compliance. It's a tenuous truce she forces herself to acquiesce just as she forces a smile on her face when the last box is stuffed into the closet and Vaughn yawns from across the room.
"I think I'm going to head up to the shower" He says almost amicably, and she nods curtly, sinking into the cool cushions of the leather sofa.
"Sure."
"Maybe when I come down we can discuss dinner?" He's trying, she knows, can hear the strain in his voice from his effort. Wanting to find some sort of middle ground and break the forced platitudes she smiles up at him, wiping a strand of hair from her cheek.
"Sounds good, Vaughn."
His face skews into a brief smile before he turns. She sinks deeper into the cushions and watches him leave, watches as he pauses at the banister and looks back at her.
"I'm sorry Sydney, for everything. I know this isn't ideal for you…"
"You don't have to apologize, Vaughn. Everything is going to be okay."
Something crosses his face but from the muted light and distance she can't read the expression. She turns from him, facing the wall in front of her, the long since used fireplace filling her vision, and hears as his feet find the creaking floorboard.
*
{tbc}