Title: Shattered
Author: Jen
Email: jd108@hotmail.com
Feedback: This is my first Alias fanfic, so any feedback – good or bad – would be greatly appreciated!
Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Classification: AU
Summary: What if Will had made a different choice? Instead of going along with the drug addict cover story, he joined witness protection…Now, five years later, a certain spy has is about to re-appear, shattering his so-called life…No worries, this will eventually be S/V shipper friendly!
"Time stood still, Monday morning…Showed me what I had to see, It's not the way I thought it should be." ~ The Goo Goo Dolls, January Friend
The rain is like ice as it hammers my body, cold and numbing in the grey afternoon. I used to love this weather. Sitting inside playing board games, drinking, laughing, I would gaze at you. I would watch in silence, in awe of your beauty…completely unaware of the truth that lay deep within. You would smile, and I would fall for it every time. That smile always won, always left me defenseless.
But that's not why I'm here, freezing in the November rain. I'm here to protect you. I'm here because not being near you is the only thing that will keep them from finding you out. In the end, I'm here because you're not…
Often, I find myself wanting everything to go back to the way it used to be. The days when I didn't understand how a banking job could be so important. The days when I didn't know the truth. But then reality hits, and I realize that those days will never exist again.
I get to the small café, and sit down in my usual chair in the corner, facing the window. I watch the rain hit the smooth glass, listen to the soft ping sound as it makes contact, watch the world get blurry for a second as rain streaks my vision.
I wish you were here. We would watch the customers come in, and laugh as we criticized their choice of beverage, convinced that it had a direct connection to their lifestyles and personalities. Large coffees were for people with boring lives, long work hours and a tendency to "follow the crowd". Mocha lattes were for people with exciting lives and excessive amounts of self-confidence; we would watch them with envy. Hot chocolate was a definite sign of those seeking comfort, trying to make sense of their lives; people like me. I wonder what you would order if you were to walk through the door right now. The reality of my situation tells me I'll never know.
I wander to the counter and order a hot chocolate. I glance at the picture of you in my wallet as I pull out a five-dollar bill, staring at your hair, your eyes, your lips. I order a muffin too, hoping to erase the taste of your lips on mine, a hint of tequila, ice cream, and chocolate sauce. The only kiss we've shared, and at the same time, the only one we will ever share.
I force myself back to the table, away from the smiling cashier who looks like you, the long list of possible lifestyles that line the wall. I consider choosing another beverage, adopting another lifestyle, pretending that I am someone else. But as I stare at the driver's license in my wallet, I remind myself that I already have a new personality, with a new home, and an unfamiliar name to top off my new life. Andrew Carson. It doesn't suit me at all - or at least that's my opinion. But it doesn't matter either, because there is no one who knows me well enough to find that out.
"What about him?" Out of the corner of my eye I catch a teenage girl pointing a slim finger in my direction. Her hair is long and blonde, tucked behind her pierced ears, and her smile is gentle.
"Uh…. a writer, or maybe an actor." A teenage boy replies. His mop of mahogany brown hair falls into his eyes as he lowers his head to take a sip of his drink. I am amazed at how close he is to the truth. Does he remember the news reports, the articles, the suspicion and confusion that overwhelmed the headlines? Does he remember my face plastered on the covers of newspapers? The events are still perfectly clear in my mind, but does anyone remember me? Does anyone wonder, or maybe even suspect, that maybe I'm not really gone? No…they can't. They can't think like that, not without having seen the things I've seen, not without knowing the truth. There is only a small group of people who know the truth about me, and only member of that group knows where I am.
"No, he's more of a teacher. Primary school, maybe kindergarten." The girl's voice interrupts me thoughts abruptly, scraping through my mind like the pain that tore through my body as my tooth was ripped from my mouth. The same pain that still haunts my dreams. The girl peers at me, trying to get a closer look.
The guy shrugs, a shy smile touching his lips. She smiles back, glancing around the room for another victim. I feel jealousy churn in my stomach, and suddenly my cup of sweet, dark hope doesn't smell so appealing anymore.
I fight the urge to walk over to the couple, tell them how lucky they are. I want to tell him not to let her go, not to lose her in a sad attempt to play the hero. It's not what she's looking for anyway. But he won't see it my way…not until it's too late. He'll try to be the white, chivalrous knight who saves the day…I guess he hasn't found out that guys like us don't get to play the heroes.
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Two hours later, the rain has stopped. I sit on a park bench, gazing at the passersby. A couple jogs by, and my mind races back to you. I wonder if you remember our runs at the track. I close my eyes, remembering the feeling of my feet pounding the pavement, your bright smile when we finally stopped, so I could catch my breath. I guess I know now why you always beat me.
Suddenly, I find myself considering the life I turned down. If I had chosen the other path, would they have taught me to run like that? Would they have trained me to shoot and wound without blinking? To kill without glancing back? Would I have been able to convince myself that I was doing the right thing?
Questions grate my mind and I search the shadows - the details I have tried to forget - to find answers. I lose track of my curiosity, and find myself tangled in the barbed wire of my past. The unanswered questions, the secrets that I still tell myself aren't true, the double life you led that I never knew existed (and if only it didn't, I would still be with you): it all comes back, tearing off the scabs, and pouring a barrel of salt into my freshly opened wounds.
I might have missed you if I didn't glance up right then. I was sick of staring at my reflection in the milky puddle that had soaked through my worn running shoes. The puddle looked like chocolate milk, creamy and smooth, with a hint of something else. It reminds me of you. So much innocence – or so it would appear – with the dark truth hidden beneath the layers of confidence, strength, and perseverance. Maybe that's why I raised my eyes. After all, I had done it many times before. Sick of what I was doing, sick of where I was (or wasn't, maybe), I would glance up, hoping to see you coming to my rescue.
You are standing by the statue, across the park. Your black hair is loose around your shoulders – but I guess the wig isn't really your hair-and you sport a strategically placed pair of sunglasses, despite the lack of sun. You seem to be waiting for something – or someone – as you stand with the utmost calm, leaning against the wet figure.
I stare at you for a long moment; afraid you are just an allusion. I wait in suppressed sadness for my alarm to wake me from my nightmare (or would this be a dream come true?). I know I can't talk to you, and that I shouldn't even be looking at you, but I can't help it. Five years away from you will do that to a guy. I wonder what you're doing here, in this blink-and-you'll-miss-it small town. I wonder why you're still in this job.
I shift my eyes back to the ground, away from you. I don't want to put you in any more danger; I couldn't stand the guilt. I can't tell if you've seen me, but I find myself hoping you haven't.
Watching the murky water ripple in the slight breeze, I wonder if I'll ever be a part of your life again…