Chapter Four
Life in a Suitcase
The walls are white, not so different from gray. He's still a prisoner, here inside the CIA.
He sat on the floor, ignoring the bare cot, staring at the one suitcase resting between his drawn up knees. One suitcase. He never knew you could fit your whole life in one suitcase. All the rest was gone. Home was gone.
Weiss was right; you can't go home when you're dead.
He felt much too alive to be dead.
At least they'd given him a shower, washed off most of the blood. He closed his eyes against the bright glare of the room, for the first time in his life wishing it was dark. So he couldn't see the ugly yellow of old bruises, the blue and white splint on his finger, the rust color of the dried blood he couldn't scrub out from under his fingers. So he couldn't see the mess his life had become.
A mess that fits in one suitcase.
The door behind him opened, and the guard gave a polite cough. Think of that, a polite prison guard. It was almost laughable.
He turned around, all his movements slow and lethargic. What's the use in hurrying? Tomorrow will come for him anyway, take him far away from here.
"There's a visitor here for you, sir." Vaughn made a sketchy nod, unsure of the answer required. Apparently, it was enough because the guard stepped back, letting someone in the room. "Five minutes, sir."
The door shut, and he was left alone with Sydney Bristow.
She stood uncertainly just over threshold, staring him with her eyes, tearing out his soul. He didn't want her to see what was written there, so he turned his head away from her gaze, concentrating on the walls, the suitcase, anything but her.
His heart began to pound out a jumpy cadence in a way he's grown familiar with by now, only there's a bitter twist to it this time. There's another obstacle between them now, more serious than ever before. It made protocol look like an anthill. Why hadn't he said something when he had the chance? There was no time anymore. This would be the last time he'll ever see his beautiful spy, his odd sort of hero.
What do you say to the woman who saved your life? How do you say goodbye?
A/N: We know Vaughn, though. He always thinks up something to say, even if he doesn't speak out loud...
Life in a Suitcase
The walls are white, not so different from gray. He's still a prisoner, here inside the CIA.
He sat on the floor, ignoring the bare cot, staring at the one suitcase resting between his drawn up knees. One suitcase. He never knew you could fit your whole life in one suitcase. All the rest was gone. Home was gone.
Weiss was right; you can't go home when you're dead.
He felt much too alive to be dead.
At least they'd given him a shower, washed off most of the blood. He closed his eyes against the bright glare of the room, for the first time in his life wishing it was dark. So he couldn't see the ugly yellow of old bruises, the blue and white splint on his finger, the rust color of the dried blood he couldn't scrub out from under his fingers. So he couldn't see the mess his life had become.
A mess that fits in one suitcase.
The door behind him opened, and the guard gave a polite cough. Think of that, a polite prison guard. It was almost laughable.
He turned around, all his movements slow and lethargic. What's the use in hurrying? Tomorrow will come for him anyway, take him far away from here.
"There's a visitor here for you, sir." Vaughn made a sketchy nod, unsure of the answer required. Apparently, it was enough because the guard stepped back, letting someone in the room. "Five minutes, sir."
The door shut, and he was left alone with Sydney Bristow.
She stood uncertainly just over threshold, staring him with her eyes, tearing out his soul. He didn't want her to see what was written there, so he turned his head away from her gaze, concentrating on the walls, the suitcase, anything but her.
His heart began to pound out a jumpy cadence in a way he's grown familiar with by now, only there's a bitter twist to it this time. There's another obstacle between them now, more serious than ever before. It made protocol look like an anthill. Why hadn't he said something when he had the chance? There was no time anymore. This would be the last time he'll ever see his beautiful spy, his odd sort of hero.
What do you say to the woman who saved your life? How do you say goodbye?
A/N: We know Vaughn, though. He always thinks up something to say, even if he doesn't speak out loud...