Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.
mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.
Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
I remember it all as a dream. Her arriving in a cab, all leather and suede in a cloud of Japanese mind silk, strong hands raising me to eye level, inspecting me for damage, smoothing my hair away from my face with velvet fingers.
"What happened here?" Syd asks, keen eyes surveying the room with the professional flair of the consummate spy that she is.
"History." My tongue is thick against my lips as I force the word out.
She nods, seeming to understand that words are not an option right now. With an arm slung around my shoulders, she murmurs, "Let's take this one step at a time."
More like microsteps. New stars form and galaxies spin out of existence in the time that it takes to get to the cab. When I finally settle back against the seat, I close my eyes and try to shut out the incessant assault on my senses that batters me from every direction. Horns honking, whistles blowing, kids yelling and screaming. The noxious curtain of exhaust that blankets the air. And the searing orange light of the morning sun through my eyelids. "Th-thanks," I stammer, shivering inside the thin shell of my leather coat.
She squeezes my left hand in reassurance and I clutch her fingers like a lifeline. My only port in the storm that surrounds my life. I sigh heavily and my head slumps against her shoulder. "I was surprised to hear from you."
"Umm…" The taste in my mouth is enough to stop a charging elephant at 50 paces. "No one else."
"Do you remember why we're here?" Quietly muttered to avoid detection from the nosy driver. I shake my head and feel her shoulders tense as she thinks about this. "Not good."
"Nope." I crack one eye open and find myself staring at the delicate swirl of her ear. The longer I stare, the more surreal its folds become. "Nice lobes."
"What?" When she turns her face, I see how alive she is. Crackling with an energy that defies logic. How anyone can look this way after the night I've had is beyond my grasp.
"Quark." I smile at my own joke, sure she has never tuned into Star Trek. Then I think of something even funnier. "Are we there yet?"
Now she grins back and I nearly swoon at the power of that smile and what it does to me. "A few more blocks."
"'Kay." I snuggle against her and revel in the feel of her arm against my neck. That's the last I remember before sleep claims me.
*****Consciousness comes only gradually, soft edges sharpened by her voice in the background. When I groan, she stops talking and comes over to me. "Vaughn?"
"Yeah." My first mistake is trying to sit up without assistance. Weak and woozy from my misadventure, I am not in any shape to navigate on my own. While I've graduated to normal vision, my gut has its own agenda. I clutch my stomach and gasp, "S-syd, I have to…."
With lightning speed, she grabs the wastebasket and I score. Several embarrassing minutes later, the churning subsides (for the moment). "Sorry."
"No problem." She extends her arms and helps me to the bathroom. Where I proceed to pay homage to the porcelain god, embracing its sides with trembling hands. Wave after wave of nausea wracks my frame and I shudder after each attack. Too sick to care that I'm at my absolute lowest point, relieved that she's here for me. When it finally passes, I'm ready to be laid out at the morgue. Figuring that dead is better than this.
I finally manage to stand without help and she points to the shower. "Sure," I say.
"Strong coffee?" she asks, and I guess she's already ordered it.
"Yeah. Thanks," I say huskily, noticing her beauty for about the millionth time. She stares back for a moment, then nods and turns away.
The door closes, and I look down at my clothes. Splattered in vomit and stinking of regurgitated Martell. Definitely ready for burial. I leave a trail of debris on my quest for cleanliness and sigh as the first drops hit my shoulders.
I let the water pound at me, hissing as its heat sears my body, punishing me for my night on the town. My head drops and the shower cascades around me as I finally get around to the business of lathering up.
Scrub away the guilt. Wash away the angst (not possible). Rid myself of the demons that continue to haunt me (not in this lifetime).
Time passes and I finally emerge, stunned at the sight of clean clothes and a pot of coffee. I sidle closer, not believing my eyes, hands finding my favorite pair of jeans and the blue sweater that Memere knit for me last year. My throat closes with emotion as I get dressed, tugging a comb through my hair and running the shaver over my jaw. When I finally finish, I pour out some coffee and crack open the door.
She's sitting in an armchair, legs folded Indian style, nose buried in a novel by Virginia Woolf. Her head raises and she smiles shyly. "Feel better?"
I smile back and look around me. "Yes."
"You ready to talk?" Syd closes the book and lets it slide to the floor.
It all comes slithering back. My real reason for being here. Partying with my buddies on purloined puffs. And the phone call from a ghost. "We don't have much time," I say, trying not to panic, sensing that collective dark forces are about to throw me another bone.