A/N: I took a break to get some of my inspiration back...Thanks for being patient. This chapter isn't that terrific either, but stick with me because I can promise the last few chapters of this fic will be great!
Chapter Five---Clockwork
"This is the place?" From where he stood on the sidewalk, Michael tipped his head back to look at the sign hanging over the small shop, reading it over again to make sure he understood: Clockwork, Watch Repair.
The first thing they needed, Sydney had told him, was passports. "If we really do end up stealing this...this thing, Sydney and Vaughn can't have been anywhere near it," she had explained through the bathroom door as he dyed his hair. He had pulled the door open a few seconds later, while she had still been leaning on it, and for one breathless moment he thought she would fall into him. But she recovered her balance, stumbling back and fixing him with an odd look.
She was laughing at him.
He had tried not to be insulted; he was still remembering what it was like to be her friend, that sometimes she would laugh at him and not mean any affront by it, but it didn't soothe the sting. His forehead had wrinkled as he gazed back at her quizzically, "What? Did I do it wrong?"
She had shaken her head, her newly-colored auburn hair swirling around her face and getting into her eyes; she pushed it back, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her amusement from spilling out, it wouldn't be right in a situation like this. "I always wondered what you'd look like as a blond."
"So?" She made him uncomfortable, made him feel young, ridiculous, and insecure, all feelings she hadn't inspired for a long time.
She had simply winkled her nose and smartly refrained from comment.
Out on the street, he shifted his eyes to glance sideways at her, the rapid movement throwing his contacts out of position and momentarily blurring his vision as they settled back into place. Colored contacts, those had also been her idea. "Green eyes are much too obvious," she'd lectured him when she had bought them at the convenience store. Now, instead, he had pale blond hair and unremarkable brown eyes, nothing like the man he was used to seeing in the mirror in the morning.
"This is the place," she reaffirmed, reaching for the door handle, the bell overhead shrieking out their entrance in boisterous tones.
The man behind the counter looked up at them from the watch he was fiddling with as they stepped into the dim light of the repair shop, blinking as they adjusted from the agonizingly bright daylight outside, and instantly froze, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He was a small man of no more than fifty years, with a wiry build, olive skin and almond eyes hinting at his ethnic background, and thick glasses perched on the bridge of his nose that slid slowly down as his mouth gaped a bit. "Mrs. Vaughn," he enunciated the greeting too carefully, as if English wasn't his first language, a hint of suspicion and fear glittering in the depths of his eyes.
She smiled at him, but there was an underlying glint of malice as she moved to drape herself over the glass counter, careless toying with a pocket watch that had been left out, leaning in close to his ear. "I need a favor."
"Whatever the lady wants," he deferred with a mocking half-bow as he reached for a towel, wiping the grease off his hands, then tossing in back down with counterfeit security. The man's eyes flicked towards Michael, possibly searching for his agreement with his statement.
She chuckled and the man visibly flinched, causing Michael to wonder what their history included. "Good, then we're in concord. Now, I was hoping you could make, say, two passports and two ID's, one of each for me and for him."
"Pictures," he demanded, holding out a slender-fingered hand, and Sydney obliged, placing two sheets of small square photographs in his sweating palm that she had produced from her pocket. They had taken the pictures in a local arcade, in one of those booths you always find intermingled among the games, where friends and dates crowd in to take those silly pictures. He had walked in the smoky interior by her side and asked the same question of only a few minutes before, "This is the place?"
"Of course not!" she had admonished him, explaining in simple terms, like those you would use with a child, that they needed pictures of how they currently looked for their passports, and these were almost the exact size needed.
The man examined them briefly, giving a grunt of satisfaction. "It shouldn't take more than...maybe, forty-eight hours. You can come back for them then."
"I need them by tomorrow," her voice was low, quiet and threatening, as she trailed a finger across glass display case, leaving a long, ugly smudge.
"Tomorrow? This kind of artistry takes time, if you want it to come out right."
"How has your wife been feeling lately?" She didn't look up to see his reaction at her thinly veiled warning, but she certainly got one as he bolted violently upward from his half-bent position, the ease in his eyes reverting back to pure terror.
"They will be ready by ten o'clock tomorrow morning, at the latest."
"How can I ever thank you?" she purred.
"My pleasure, Mrs. Vaughn." Sarcasm dripped from his mouth, but she chose to ignore it, brushing it aside.
She bestowed another one of those bone-chilling smiles on him and turned around to slip her arm through Michael's, leading him back out to his car. Once they were out of sight of the shop owner, though, she removed her hand, reacting like his touch was repulsive.
She stood for a long moment staring into the sluggish traffic as she slowly reverted to the Sydney he knew, burying the frightening woman she had adopted for the purpose of obtaining their passports somewhere inside of herself, seeming to almost shrink in height, her face smoothing back into familiar lines. She pivoted then, catching his hand again as something bloomed in her brown eyes, giving it a passionate squeeze.
"I'm going to be okay. We are going to be okay."
And if in his heart he couldn't believe in her words, in her confidence, he didn't say a word.
Chapter Five---Clockwork
"This is the place?" From where he stood on the sidewalk, Michael tipped his head back to look at the sign hanging over the small shop, reading it over again to make sure he understood: Clockwork, Watch Repair.
The first thing they needed, Sydney had told him, was passports. "If we really do end up stealing this...this thing, Sydney and Vaughn can't have been anywhere near it," she had explained through the bathroom door as he dyed his hair. He had pulled the door open a few seconds later, while she had still been leaning on it, and for one breathless moment he thought she would fall into him. But she recovered her balance, stumbling back and fixing him with an odd look.
She was laughing at him.
He had tried not to be insulted; he was still remembering what it was like to be her friend, that sometimes she would laugh at him and not mean any affront by it, but it didn't soothe the sting. His forehead had wrinkled as he gazed back at her quizzically, "What? Did I do it wrong?"
She had shaken her head, her newly-colored auburn hair swirling around her face and getting into her eyes; she pushed it back, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her amusement from spilling out, it wouldn't be right in a situation like this. "I always wondered what you'd look like as a blond."
"So?" She made him uncomfortable, made him feel young, ridiculous, and insecure, all feelings she hadn't inspired for a long time.
She had simply winkled her nose and smartly refrained from comment.
Out on the street, he shifted his eyes to glance sideways at her, the rapid movement throwing his contacts out of position and momentarily blurring his vision as they settled back into place. Colored contacts, those had also been her idea. "Green eyes are much too obvious," she'd lectured him when she had bought them at the convenience store. Now, instead, he had pale blond hair and unremarkable brown eyes, nothing like the man he was used to seeing in the mirror in the morning.
"This is the place," she reaffirmed, reaching for the door handle, the bell overhead shrieking out their entrance in boisterous tones.
The man behind the counter looked up at them from the watch he was fiddling with as they stepped into the dim light of the repair shop, blinking as they adjusted from the agonizingly bright daylight outside, and instantly froze, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He was a small man of no more than fifty years, with a wiry build, olive skin and almond eyes hinting at his ethnic background, and thick glasses perched on the bridge of his nose that slid slowly down as his mouth gaped a bit. "Mrs. Vaughn," he enunciated the greeting too carefully, as if English wasn't his first language, a hint of suspicion and fear glittering in the depths of his eyes.
She smiled at him, but there was an underlying glint of malice as she moved to drape herself over the glass counter, careless toying with a pocket watch that had been left out, leaning in close to his ear. "I need a favor."
"Whatever the lady wants," he deferred with a mocking half-bow as he reached for a towel, wiping the grease off his hands, then tossing in back down with counterfeit security. The man's eyes flicked towards Michael, possibly searching for his agreement with his statement.
She chuckled and the man visibly flinched, causing Michael to wonder what their history included. "Good, then we're in concord. Now, I was hoping you could make, say, two passports and two ID's, one of each for me and for him."
"Pictures," he demanded, holding out a slender-fingered hand, and Sydney obliged, placing two sheets of small square photographs in his sweating palm that she had produced from her pocket. They had taken the pictures in a local arcade, in one of those booths you always find intermingled among the games, where friends and dates crowd in to take those silly pictures. He had walked in the smoky interior by her side and asked the same question of only a few minutes before, "This is the place?"
"Of course not!" she had admonished him, explaining in simple terms, like those you would use with a child, that they needed pictures of how they currently looked for their passports, and these were almost the exact size needed.
The man examined them briefly, giving a grunt of satisfaction. "It shouldn't take more than...maybe, forty-eight hours. You can come back for them then."
"I need them by tomorrow," her voice was low, quiet and threatening, as she trailed a finger across glass display case, leaving a long, ugly smudge.
"Tomorrow? This kind of artistry takes time, if you want it to come out right."
"How has your wife been feeling lately?" She didn't look up to see his reaction at her thinly veiled warning, but she certainly got one as he bolted violently upward from his half-bent position, the ease in his eyes reverting back to pure terror.
"They will be ready by ten o'clock tomorrow morning, at the latest."
"How can I ever thank you?" she purred.
"My pleasure, Mrs. Vaughn." Sarcasm dripped from his mouth, but she chose to ignore it, brushing it aside.
She bestowed another one of those bone-chilling smiles on him and turned around to slip her arm through Michael's, leading him back out to his car. Once they were out of sight of the shop owner, though, she removed her hand, reacting like his touch was repulsive.
She stood for a long moment staring into the sluggish traffic as she slowly reverted to the Sydney he knew, burying the frightening woman she had adopted for the purpose of obtaining their passports somewhere inside of herself, seeming to almost shrink in height, her face smoothing back into familiar lines. She pivoted then, catching his hand again as something bloomed in her brown eyes, giving it a passionate squeeze.
"I'm going to be okay. We are going to be okay."
And if in his heart he couldn't believe in her words, in her confidence, he didn't say a word.