Chapter Two---The Long Day
It had been a long day.
Sydney flung open the passenger-side door with unnecessary force and flopped down into the seat sideways, feet hovering centimeters above the pavement, watching the traffic on the highway pass her by. The slight wind created by the passing cars tugged her hair out in front of her face, and she shoved it viciously back behind her right ear.
She'd woken up this morning cold and lonely, her hands sliding across the icy sheets, searching for something that wasn't there. But that was how she woke up every morning. When she'd first left him, she'd thought that feeling would disappear with enough distance and time. Now, five years later, she decided it was a feeling that she was going to have to live with; after sleeping next to someone warm and tender for so many years, you never could feel the same in a bed by yourself.
Because it couldn't possibly mean she missed the man himself.
People tell you to listen to your heart, it can't lead you astray. But it can, it can lie to you just like anything else. Her heart had told she had been in love, but she couldn't have been; Sydney didn't know how to love, she could kill and maim and deceive, but she couldn't love, not the way he needed.
She kicked her shoes off, letting them fall to the ground, and brought her feet up onto the leather with the rest of her, hugging her knees to the ache in her chest.
Then, Laramie's alarm hadn't gone off, so she'd gone through the intense process of dragging her daughter out of bed for school. She scrounged up a barely edible breakfast on short notice, and survived the nail-biting experience of letting Laramie drive to school, since she had recently acquired her permit.
So what does a retired spy do for living? She taught English and Literature to seventh and eighth grade students. The class had been especially horrendous today, drawing on what she used to think of as her limitless patience. It had definite limits, she'd found. She had stayed late to work with one of her pupils, and Laramie had gotten a ride with a particularly questionable friend, so she had hurried to get home as soon as she could.
And now her car had broken down.
This would have never happened to the old Sydney Bristow. She would have lured someone to the side of the road, and stolen their car. Or she would have had a cell phone that worked. The first option wasn't open to her because she was now a law-abiding citizen, and she couldn't use the second either because her phone battery had run down. No, it wouldn't have happened to Sydney Bristow, but it sure as hell happened to Sydney Bristow-Vaughn.
Sydney Bristow-Vaughn, it was too long, she still couldn't understand why she didn't give up his name. She told herself it was because you couldn't erase eleven years of your life by deleting a word; she used it to drag her mistake out in front of her eyes every day, every time she signed anything, so she couldn't forget. Forgetting was dangerous.
A car up ahead slowed, pulling into the emergency lane, slowly backing up towards her. Her muscles tensed, and she had to mentally remind herself there was no danger, only someone kind enough to try to help her. She slipped her feet into her shoes, and pushed herself up into a standing position, wandering a couple steps forward to meet the person.
The door opened, and he climbed out slowly with the motions of a much older man, his forehead already set in a mass of wrinkles that she used to find adorable, the orange of the fading sun giving him a slightly golden radiance. He buried his hands in his pockets so she couldn't see their nervous movements as he walked, unhurriedly since he felt his legs might collapse right underneath him; the very sight of her had unfortunate side effects on him. He'd been hoping to avoid this confrontation for two or three days, but he had no such luck.
"Need help?" his voice didn't wobble; he almost sounded like his old self.
"Michael," she replied impersonally; she didn't call him Vaughn anymore, that was too intimate, a term of affection. Her eyes grazed past his only long enough to catch a glimpse of green before settling on the scraggly vegetation clinging in the gravel next to his feet. But only a glimpse sent vibrations through her that she'd rather not admit to. "What are you doing here?" He started to answer her, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Actually, I don't want to know."
His eyes moved passed her to survey the condition of her vehicle. "I don't have any jumper cables, but I can offer you ride. I think I still remember where the place is...unless you've packed up and moved without telling me again." He was surprised, and maybe a little pleased, by his own vehemence. He remembered what Weiss had told him and straightened up a little, feeling more empowered. Give her hell, Mike.
She ignored his comment, "Can you just tell me what time it is? Laramie's probably worried by now..."
He removed his hand from his pocket, shoving up his sleeve, and looked at his watch, up at her, then back to his watch again. He tapped it with his finger, cursing quietly to himself. He finally gave up on it with a sigh, "I swear, the thing's never stopped before."
"No, no, no!" she was suddenly furious, one hand pounding down on the hood of her car, forgetting not to look him in the eye. "You will not get me with that line again!"
"What--?" he began, then stopped, all his new control and self-possession gone, ripped away. He remembered the day he told her about his father's watch, the look in her eyes as he had been speaking. It had been a treasured memory of his, her expression had told him that at least she had loved him at one time, but her tone now seemed to turn it all into meaningless trash. When had she become so heartless?
"Don't flatter yourself," he growled, staring straight back at her. "I'm not so desperate as to try to get you back!" He turned his back on her, and stalked to his car. "You either want a ride, or you don't. Decide now, because I'm leaving."
"Fine." Her stomped over to him without about as much dignity as three year old, dropping into his passenger seat with a stiff version of her usual grace. With his own parody of gentleman-like behavior, he slammed the door on her.
He strode of over to the driver's side, sinking into the sun-warmed material, and closed the door. He hoped she didn't notice how much his hands were shaking as he shoved the car in gear, turning the wheel violently, pressing hard on the accelerator as he propelled them back onto the freeway.
It had been a long day.
Sydney flung open the passenger-side door with unnecessary force and flopped down into the seat sideways, feet hovering centimeters above the pavement, watching the traffic on the highway pass her by. The slight wind created by the passing cars tugged her hair out in front of her face, and she shoved it viciously back behind her right ear.
She'd woken up this morning cold and lonely, her hands sliding across the icy sheets, searching for something that wasn't there. But that was how she woke up every morning. When she'd first left him, she'd thought that feeling would disappear with enough distance and time. Now, five years later, she decided it was a feeling that she was going to have to live with; after sleeping next to someone warm and tender for so many years, you never could feel the same in a bed by yourself.
Because it couldn't possibly mean she missed the man himself.
People tell you to listen to your heart, it can't lead you astray. But it can, it can lie to you just like anything else. Her heart had told she had been in love, but she couldn't have been; Sydney didn't know how to love, she could kill and maim and deceive, but she couldn't love, not the way he needed.
She kicked her shoes off, letting them fall to the ground, and brought her feet up onto the leather with the rest of her, hugging her knees to the ache in her chest.
Then, Laramie's alarm hadn't gone off, so she'd gone through the intense process of dragging her daughter out of bed for school. She scrounged up a barely edible breakfast on short notice, and survived the nail-biting experience of letting Laramie drive to school, since she had recently acquired her permit.
So what does a retired spy do for living? She taught English and Literature to seventh and eighth grade students. The class had been especially horrendous today, drawing on what she used to think of as her limitless patience. It had definite limits, she'd found. She had stayed late to work with one of her pupils, and Laramie had gotten a ride with a particularly questionable friend, so she had hurried to get home as soon as she could.
And now her car had broken down.
This would have never happened to the old Sydney Bristow. She would have lured someone to the side of the road, and stolen their car. Or she would have had a cell phone that worked. The first option wasn't open to her because she was now a law-abiding citizen, and she couldn't use the second either because her phone battery had run down. No, it wouldn't have happened to Sydney Bristow, but it sure as hell happened to Sydney Bristow-Vaughn.
Sydney Bristow-Vaughn, it was too long, she still couldn't understand why she didn't give up his name. She told herself it was because you couldn't erase eleven years of your life by deleting a word; she used it to drag her mistake out in front of her eyes every day, every time she signed anything, so she couldn't forget. Forgetting was dangerous.
A car up ahead slowed, pulling into the emergency lane, slowly backing up towards her. Her muscles tensed, and she had to mentally remind herself there was no danger, only someone kind enough to try to help her. She slipped her feet into her shoes, and pushed herself up into a standing position, wandering a couple steps forward to meet the person.
The door opened, and he climbed out slowly with the motions of a much older man, his forehead already set in a mass of wrinkles that she used to find adorable, the orange of the fading sun giving him a slightly golden radiance. He buried his hands in his pockets so she couldn't see their nervous movements as he walked, unhurriedly since he felt his legs might collapse right underneath him; the very sight of her had unfortunate side effects on him. He'd been hoping to avoid this confrontation for two or three days, but he had no such luck.
"Need help?" his voice didn't wobble; he almost sounded like his old self.
"Michael," she replied impersonally; she didn't call him Vaughn anymore, that was too intimate, a term of affection. Her eyes grazed past his only long enough to catch a glimpse of green before settling on the scraggly vegetation clinging in the gravel next to his feet. But only a glimpse sent vibrations through her that she'd rather not admit to. "What are you doing here?" He started to answer her, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Actually, I don't want to know."
His eyes moved passed her to survey the condition of her vehicle. "I don't have any jumper cables, but I can offer you ride. I think I still remember where the place is...unless you've packed up and moved without telling me again." He was surprised, and maybe a little pleased, by his own vehemence. He remembered what Weiss had told him and straightened up a little, feeling more empowered. Give her hell, Mike.
She ignored his comment, "Can you just tell me what time it is? Laramie's probably worried by now..."
He removed his hand from his pocket, shoving up his sleeve, and looked at his watch, up at her, then back to his watch again. He tapped it with his finger, cursing quietly to himself. He finally gave up on it with a sigh, "I swear, the thing's never stopped before."
"No, no, no!" she was suddenly furious, one hand pounding down on the hood of her car, forgetting not to look him in the eye. "You will not get me with that line again!"
"What--?" he began, then stopped, all his new control and self-possession gone, ripped away. He remembered the day he told her about his father's watch, the look in her eyes as he had been speaking. It had been a treasured memory of his, her expression had told him that at least she had loved him at one time, but her tone now seemed to turn it all into meaningless trash. When had she become so heartless?
"Don't flatter yourself," he growled, staring straight back at her. "I'm not so desperate as to try to get you back!" He turned his back on her, and stalked to his car. "You either want a ride, or you don't. Decide now, because I'm leaving."
"Fine." Her stomped over to him without about as much dignity as three year old, dropping into his passenger seat with a stiff version of her usual grace. With his own parody of gentleman-like behavior, he slammed the door on her.
He strode of over to the driver's side, sinking into the sun-warmed material, and closed the door. He hoped she didn't notice how much his hands were shaking as he shoved the car in gear, turning the wheel violently, pressing hard on the accelerator as he propelled them back onto the freeway.