Standard Deviation: sequel to "HEAVENS EARTH"
by: Hillary (aliasfanfiction@hotmail.com), sop.diary-x.com
This chapter: rated R: You can find future chapters, as well as the original story, "Heavens Earth" at "Cover Me"; rated nc-17
** This story is a sequel. You DO need to read the first in the series for this one to make sense. However, you could ignore me, but I have a feeling that you'd like to read the first one first or you might be a bit confused, or even angry with me at the end.**
Returning friends:
Welcome back to the universe created by Heaven's Earth. I'll remind you of the standard warnings. This is a mostly unhappy story. It's angsty. It's fucked up. You're going to wonder what's wrong with me and you're going to feel sorry for Sydney and Vaughn.
And trust me, that's the way it should be, at least in this story.
Spoilers: Heaven's Earth was created prior to the final quarter of Season One.
Disclaimer: No, no, damnit no. I have $4.22 in my bank account. I don't own ANYTHING.
additional notes at end.
"This is how, this is how, you made my heart a hunter…made my heart a hunter"
PART ONE: Fallen Idols
Sunrise, the slow rise of color on the midnight sky in radiating waves on the horizon. Watching from her window, made silent by sleeplessness and convoluted thought, she rests her face on the cool pane of the glass, musing inwardly about the night before, and of nothing.
Yesterday, best to not be remembered, returns in clips of seconds, flashes of color, sporadic noise filling her head until it becomes concise, fragmented vestiges of images and sound both horrifying and bone-chillingly real. Her breath makes an arch of fog on the window and she moves soundlessly to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door with mild interest to its contents.
There is nothing to invite her, nothing appealing, the cold hum of electricity and the soft blow of frozen air from the freezer, cooling her flushed cheeks. She robotically pulls out the coffee, makes the black liquid with growing apprehension and more than a little bit of unease.
She has not slept, could not sleep, haunted by the touches and feel of the hours before. His hands on her skin, moving with velocity, with secret purpose on her body. His mouth, filling hers with its texture, its flavor, the scent of him hanging on her still even after the long bath where she had been unable to stop crying, surreptitiously rubbing a washcloth over her used skin with disgust.
The moments between breathing are spent re-living the look in his eyes when she left the interior of his car, the small space between them charged with anxiety and anger. The hostility that rested on her shoulders with every step she took towards her house, feeling his eyes on her before he turned over the engine and drove away. The pervading weight that was borne long before she rounded the final corner and saw the window of her living room, still soft lit from the light in the kitchen, streaming out, welcoming.
Will is still asleep on the couch, mouth half open, hair tousled. The blanket she had put over him hours before is now wadded in a million places, twisted around his torso and falling over his chest in haphazard folds. Coffee brewing, filling the house with its distinct odor, she watches him sleep. Sees the innocence garishly reflected in his resting face, the softness around his edges in sleep. For a moment, she wants that. That innocence. Wants it for herself, wants to bottle it up and keep it so that it belongs to her.
Jarring herself from her undeserved self-pity she accepts that she will never be innocent again. That façade, so clever and disingenuous, is merely a front. A cover-up for what she has allowed herself to become: a shell, a fake, a phony. A liar.
Padding away from him, not wanting to wake him due to the noisy sound of her tears- tears she has quit trying to stop, knowing that it is futile, she pours coffee into a cup and stirs in cream absently. In 6 hours she will be on a flight to Croatia, intent to fulfill her obligation to the CIA and retrieve the strand of code tattooed into Anvar Oybeks upper thigh. She'll take that gold cylinder and knock out the bastard and get the job done.
The cylinder. With a sinking sensation of fear she tries to remember the last time she'd had that cylinder. In all the confusion, the emotion contained within these past hours, she had totally forgotten about it. The last place that she can remember seeing the tiny aerosol container had been from the vantage point of the concrete floor of the warehouse, at a time and place that she had been crawling across it.
In a rush, she recalls the heat in that room. The gritty surface of the floor beneath her palms came back in hint of sensation, a slight tremble that was her mind's unconscious replica. She shivers, drawing her arms around herself, on her shoulders, criss-crossed, her fingers digging into her bones.
It's there. The cylinder- she can't remember actually carrying it out of the warehouse, can't recall anything past the tumult of emotion after Vaughn threw her clothes at her in an angry pile. Running her hands through her still wet hair, she ruminates over a course of action. The warehouse would be easy to get into on a quiet Sunday morning. There's no alarm, nothing to detect her, nothing to point out the fact that she had come back and re-entered the place where the two of them had-
Erase it, her mind screams, wincing over the still fresh recollection. His hands – dear God, his hands, they left an imprint on her. Every time she closed her eyes it was the only thing she could see, only thing she could feel, and the haunting is starting to kill her in increments, drawing out all of her strength and leaving her weak. With resolution to exorcise this ghost, she finds her keys and exits through the front door.
Ridiculous, she knows. Driving on her quiet street to a broad stretch of innocuous lawns in the soft light of morning. She maneuvers blindly, passing mailboxes, driveways, silent homes with inhabitants all sleeping. The simple life of Sunday morning: of lazy slumber oblivious to the outside world.
The drive is a blur; she pays little attention to her surroundings outside of the idyllic scenery of her street. Hands gripping the steering wheel she wills her mind to become blank again, to assume nothing, to abolish all thoughts of him and her and the two of them together. Her mind is centered on her hand placement (2 o'clock, 10 o'clock) on the wheel. She's focused on her turn signal and her headlights and the tilt of the rear-view mirror.
Warehouse before her suddenly, she tentatively steps out of the car. Morning sunlight slants through the thin wall of trees flanking the side of the building. Birds chirp in the cool morning air, the sound of their song filling her ears with its melodic cheeriness. Maneuvering the door open is easier than she expected, the hard sound of metal on concrete jarring her senses as she slides the heavy weight back.
In early morning light, the warehouse feels different. Diffused sunlight pours from the box windows high above her head, making the particles floating in the air seem dense. Her breath catches- against her inner will – as her eyes trace the path to the wall in the far distance.
His breath in her ear, his skin on hers. The way his lips trailed along her neck, finding every sensitive spot, every vulnerable crevice. Automatically her feet take her there, past the stainless steel table, past the place where she fell to the ground, on her knees, that file in her hand-
Placing her palm flat against the grey concrete she is transported, filled with poignant sensation she has no right to re-live. She digs her still-tender fingers into the tiny cracks of the wall, regains her equilibrium, and turns.
Eyes red, fatigue evident on his features, Michael Vaughn stands mere feet away from her. His expression is indeterminable as he looks at her, takes in her damp eyes and mournful expression.
Move. Speak. Do something. Something, anything. She blinks.
"Sydney". Her name now hoarse, descriptive of an anguish beyond anger within him. She can not open her eyes, afraid of what cannot be revealed in them, petrified of what she might feel.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry; echoing in her mind, knowing her declaration would be refused, again, knowing her vocabulary has become tarnished by her actions. Knowing he will still be looking at her, his expression grim, his eyes so vacant that she-
"Sydney." It is more broken this time, more a plea than a statement.
"I forgot the cylinder, I left my purse, I-"words fly out of her mouth, jumbled and quick. She dares to look at him; seeing his formerly starched oxford half rolled at the cuff and unbuttoned to his collarbone, his slightly dusty and certainly wrinkled slacks. She raises her eyes to his face and witnesses the pulled down expression he wears, the doubt in his eyes as he looks at her. Within her, the knowledge of her guilt, made evident by the shuffle of her feet, the quick look, the lowering of her lashes. And within, the echo: you caused this, you caused this….I'm sorry, I'm sorry, god, Vaughn so sorry….
"I didn't expect to see you here." Vaughn's eyes are fixed on the wall behind her- the wall she just touched, recalling the way he felt pressed against her, his scent, so near, becoming omnipresent, an instant aphrodisiac…
"I didn't expect to see you here, either." Feet find purpose again and she begins the search for her purse, needing justification. Why are you here, Vaughn- her silent question, one she is intelligent enough not to ask.
"I've never done this before." He sighs heavily and takes a step towards her. "I've never done this before. " His eyes are fully on her, blazing in the space between them. "I want to be honest with you." He takes a step towards her. "Right now, it all feels so heavy. Do you feel that?"
"Feel what?" Why is she always reduced to whisper, her voice losing its timbre and richness at all the wrong moments? Something dark flutters over his features, and he takes another step. Rooted to the ground, she can't move, is no longer breathing, he takes a finger and traces the curve of her cheek.
"I don't want this," he whispers, his touch crossing over her lips. The air between them, so thick, every breath feels like it is forced, from somewhere deep underwater. Eyes fixed on his, watching the storm of emotion reflected in his eyes: anger, confusion, bewilderment. "I don't want to want this."
His hand creeps behind her neck, and there is the hard crush of desire filling her chest. Breathing shallowly, she does not resist when he tugs her forward, forcefully.
"I know last night was a mistake." his tone has purpose, but his hands are in her hair, letting the semi-wet strands tangle in his fingers. "I can't stop myself."
His lips find her in the span of a heartbeat, full force on her mouth with an urgency she comprehends. Opening her mouth to him, she lets him kiss her, gasps when his tongue delves deeper. Her hands weave up his chest, behind his neck, grasping at him as her legs feel weak with wanting, with needing…
He pulls from her, breathing heavy. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." Stepping back, his face changes, from bewildered to once again fixed. "I'm not making this mistake again, Sydney."
"What?" She said, her mouth still filled with the sensation of his tongue.
"I said –"
"I heard what you said, Vaughn." Eyebrows knitting together he gives her a hard glance. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not stupid, Sydney. I know last night was just some... fling to you."
Her hand hits with his face before she thinks of her actions. He appears shocked, cupping the place where her fingers connected with the line of his jaw.
"Some fling?" She stammers, already moving, intent to grab her purse and leave. "Fuck you, Vaughn."
"You told me that you took advantage of me, Sydney. You said you used me to get whatever it was that you wanted. Did you find it in me, Sydney? Did you locate whatever it was that you were looking for?"
She looks up at him, willing herself to not cry any longer, not in front of him, never again. Her motivation feels simple, "I did take advantage of you." Words well within her, angry and bitter, intent to cause pain. "Your actions here prove to me that it meant something to you, and for that, I'm sorry for you, Vaughn."
"You're sorry? Sorry that I cared, sorry that I still do care." He drew ragged breaths, "Even after the things you have said to me, the things you have done?" His eyes are wild when they fall on hers, she sees the hurt within them, the betrayal making his eyes incandescent "Well, I'm sorry, Sydney. Sorry for falling for that innocent act you put on of the woe-begotten girl."
He pauses a moment, to glare at her with a good measure of menace. "Sorry I fell for the mask you so cleverly wore. That I had a weakness for something you are telling me now had never been real."
"Is that what you wanted to say to me, Vaughn, that I'm not the person you thought I was? Well, surprise." Hands close around the strap of her purse and she stuffs it up her arm, onto her shoulder, turning, feeling her cheeks grow warm with the intensity of her anger. "I'm not the person that any of you think I am. There is no Sydney Bristow. She's a fabrication, an act for everyone else's benefit."
His expression changes through her tirade, reflecting the distaste that she is cultivating within him. Feeling purposeful, she strides to him, inches from his face.
"You wanted me, last night. You wanted me five minutes ago." Hands reaching, pulling, she slams her mouth onto his, feeling his rigid lips turn almost immediately plastic and yielding. "You still want me now. That is your weakness, Agent Vaughn, not mine."
Walking away she sees the vehemence etched on his features, the confusion. She waits until she sees the highway before she allows herself to feel.
*
A/N : Future, smutty chapters @ Cover Me and Allies, where they allow me to corrupt the kiddies and talk about the nature of flesh and sin. You can e-mail me, with complaints or encouragement, at: aliasfanfiction@hotmail.com.
This story is *done* so the chapters will be posted weekly ( 4 total )
Thanks to all the people who decided to come along for the ride, my beta readers (Jess—who I love beyond love, my little soon to be Emory whore) and ( fred—who should know I'm the sort of girl who turns over my engine and keeps my coffee in the freezer—it's fresher like that, don't you know?), and YOU, for reading the notes at the bottom of the page.