A/N: This chapter is totally messed up, I have no direction, but I need to take a break from this paper I'm writing...
Chapter Eight---One of These Days
He was only supposed to stay a few minutes, but he opened his eyes to find the morning sunlight slanting in tall towers across the russet carpet, edging closer to the bed. Even with the threat that she might wake any moment, he still couldn't find it within himself to move, those few minutes were supposed to indulge his desire, but he should have known better; the more he takes, the more he wants. It was only made more difficult by the fact she had snuggled close to him over the course of the night, her arms locked around his neck, the soft cushions of her lips pressed to the underside of his jaw, his own arm trapped underneath her body.
But he couldn't stay; she'd break every bone in his body if she ever found out.
So, he slowly detached himself from her embrace and gently tugged his arm inch by inch out from beneath her, stopping every few seconds to make sure she still rested peacefully. Levering himself into a sitting position, he dropped his feet to the ground with the heaviness of reluctance and stood up. He immediately turned back around to face her, though, leaning in close for one final caress, not knowing how long it will be before he's this close again.
"One of these days, Syd," he promised as his fingers brushed tenderly down her cheek, "we're gonna get this love thing right."
She stirred in her sleep, and he drew his hand back guiltily. What was he doing? He shouldn't be here, shouldn't have been here.
His feet still stuck to the floor as he made his way across the room, like child resisting bedtime, but he made it back to the couch, pulling the blanket up to cover himself, trying to muffle the memory of her skin against his.
* * * * * * * * *
Sydney Bristow-Vaughn woke up warm for the first time in over five years, and she knew that feeling was wrong. What she was expecting wasn't there when she opened her eyes, though; it was presently on the sofa where it was supposed to be, back turned to her. She followed the hard, cold ridges of his spine, working over the odd emotion she was experiencing; it was almost like disappointment. But what could she have been expecting?
This was definitely, definitely dangerous, she decided as she pushed herself out of bed for the long day ahead, if simply being in the same room with him had this kind of effect on her.
She found a note waiting for her in the bathroom, taped to the mirror, the handwriting sprawling across the paper in unfamiliar scrawl. She reached a cautious hand for it, almost like she was expecting something to jump out at her. Her mind couldn't seem to fathom the possibilities this development presented as she scanned the lines, that the kidnapper could have actually stood in this room while they were unaware.
"Sydney,
"I almost forgot to tell you: the title of the manuscript is La Risposta.
"Hope you slept well."
She stared at her reflection looking back at her in the glass, and saw the same raw terror mirrored there that she felt growing inside her.
* * * * * * * * *
"Five minutes," he warned her, his attention locked on the laptop as she finally broke into the vault. There had been no trouble so far, they had passed perfectly as sightseers, and had only encountered two guards on the way here, both of which were now tied in a janitorial closet. But that didn't mean they were in the clear, far from it in fact.
He heard Sydney's sharp intake of breath and sputtering curse and looked up, seeing what she had encountered. "It's impossible," she declared as she took in the rows and rows of metal shelves in the air-conditioned room, overflowing with precisely placed art and relics. "We'll never find it all of this."
"It's got to be catalogued," he assured her, his brow furrowing as he looked back at the screen. "Four and half minutes until the cameras come back on, you need to start now."
She scurried down the ranks, her mind quickly taking in the information and processing it until she discovered the section that housed the documents. The tips of her fingers brushed down the spines of the books, removing some on a whim, and then swiftly replacing them. "These are all in Mandarin, it can't be here."
"Three and half minutes."
"Ancient Chinese, I'm too far away."
"Three."
"No, no, no."
"Two-twenty...one-fifty."
"It has to be here!"
"One-ten..." He drove his fingernails into his palms as his heart pumped adrenaline through his body, watching the clock run down, unable to do anything. "Forty-seven seconds, Syd!"
"Almost..."
"Twenty-five...We can't wait any longer. We have to get out!"
"Western books; it has to be one of these!"
"Fourteen!"
"Found it!" She held it up for his inspection, red-backed and crumbling, the parchment bound together with leather strips, but he didn't see because he was watching the last of their time on the clock run out, the security cameras coming back on.
"They've seen us," his voice was low, a quiet echo running across the room, bouncing around in the emptiness; he could almost hear the running feet now.
She grabbed his arm, hauling him bodily after her, deeper into the room, and he looked on helplessly as the computer slipped from his grip, arching in the air, scattering its pieces as it hit the ground. "Leave it," she commanded as she saw his backward glance, his mind caught in images of his fingerprints on the keys.
"Behind here." She shoved him in first, a tight squeeze between one of the metal shelves and the wall, his shoulders scraping painfully along the sides, and propelled herself after him. She landed against his chest, the book clutched between them the only barrier, and he braced his hands against her hips to keep them both from tumbling over. Their hearts beat frantically only a handbreadth apart, both immobile as they waited for what would happen next.
He was so wrapped in the sensation of being close to Sydney, his irrational thoughts that he could die happy right now, that he didn't recognize the telltale signs that his breath wasn't the only one speeding up, didn't feel the one hand spreading long fingers experimentally across his ribs until her finger brushed bare flesh where his shirt had pulled up.
And he knew, knew exactly what had turned Sydney into this bitter woman, knew what she had been hiding from him, from herself too.
"You still need me," he accused, but the words still held some uncertainty because he couldn't believe what his senses were telling him; the sound was a quiet stone fall in room, he was still acutely aware of the threat outside this little world of theirs.
"No." The protest was weak, discredited by the fact her hand was sliding farther under the hem of his shirt.
"You still love me."
Her hair lashed his face as she shook her head furiously in the constricted area; he'd struck a nerve. "I hate you," her breath hissed between her teeth, hot against his face.
"You--" But he never got a chance to finish as her lips descended over his.
* La Risposta, if I translated it right, means 'the truth' in Italian.
Chapter Eight---One of These Days
He was only supposed to stay a few minutes, but he opened his eyes to find the morning sunlight slanting in tall towers across the russet carpet, edging closer to the bed. Even with the threat that she might wake any moment, he still couldn't find it within himself to move, those few minutes were supposed to indulge his desire, but he should have known better; the more he takes, the more he wants. It was only made more difficult by the fact she had snuggled close to him over the course of the night, her arms locked around his neck, the soft cushions of her lips pressed to the underside of his jaw, his own arm trapped underneath her body.
But he couldn't stay; she'd break every bone in his body if she ever found out.
So, he slowly detached himself from her embrace and gently tugged his arm inch by inch out from beneath her, stopping every few seconds to make sure she still rested peacefully. Levering himself into a sitting position, he dropped his feet to the ground with the heaviness of reluctance and stood up. He immediately turned back around to face her, though, leaning in close for one final caress, not knowing how long it will be before he's this close again.
"One of these days, Syd," he promised as his fingers brushed tenderly down her cheek, "we're gonna get this love thing right."
She stirred in her sleep, and he drew his hand back guiltily. What was he doing? He shouldn't be here, shouldn't have been here.
His feet still stuck to the floor as he made his way across the room, like child resisting bedtime, but he made it back to the couch, pulling the blanket up to cover himself, trying to muffle the memory of her skin against his.
* * * * * * * * *
Sydney Bristow-Vaughn woke up warm for the first time in over five years, and she knew that feeling was wrong. What she was expecting wasn't there when she opened her eyes, though; it was presently on the sofa where it was supposed to be, back turned to her. She followed the hard, cold ridges of his spine, working over the odd emotion she was experiencing; it was almost like disappointment. But what could she have been expecting?
This was definitely, definitely dangerous, she decided as she pushed herself out of bed for the long day ahead, if simply being in the same room with him had this kind of effect on her.
She found a note waiting for her in the bathroom, taped to the mirror, the handwriting sprawling across the paper in unfamiliar scrawl. She reached a cautious hand for it, almost like she was expecting something to jump out at her. Her mind couldn't seem to fathom the possibilities this development presented as she scanned the lines, that the kidnapper could have actually stood in this room while they were unaware.
"Sydney,
"I almost forgot to tell you: the title of the manuscript is La Risposta.
"Hope you slept well."
She stared at her reflection looking back at her in the glass, and saw the same raw terror mirrored there that she felt growing inside her.
* * * * * * * * *
"Five minutes," he warned her, his attention locked on the laptop as she finally broke into the vault. There had been no trouble so far, they had passed perfectly as sightseers, and had only encountered two guards on the way here, both of which were now tied in a janitorial closet. But that didn't mean they were in the clear, far from it in fact.
He heard Sydney's sharp intake of breath and sputtering curse and looked up, seeing what she had encountered. "It's impossible," she declared as she took in the rows and rows of metal shelves in the air-conditioned room, overflowing with precisely placed art and relics. "We'll never find it all of this."
"It's got to be catalogued," he assured her, his brow furrowing as he looked back at the screen. "Four and half minutes until the cameras come back on, you need to start now."
She scurried down the ranks, her mind quickly taking in the information and processing it until she discovered the section that housed the documents. The tips of her fingers brushed down the spines of the books, removing some on a whim, and then swiftly replacing them. "These are all in Mandarin, it can't be here."
"Three and half minutes."
"Ancient Chinese, I'm too far away."
"Three."
"No, no, no."
"Two-twenty...one-fifty."
"It has to be here!"
"One-ten..." He drove his fingernails into his palms as his heart pumped adrenaline through his body, watching the clock run down, unable to do anything. "Forty-seven seconds, Syd!"
"Almost..."
"Twenty-five...We can't wait any longer. We have to get out!"
"Western books; it has to be one of these!"
"Fourteen!"
"Found it!" She held it up for his inspection, red-backed and crumbling, the parchment bound together with leather strips, but he didn't see because he was watching the last of their time on the clock run out, the security cameras coming back on.
"They've seen us," his voice was low, a quiet echo running across the room, bouncing around in the emptiness; he could almost hear the running feet now.
She grabbed his arm, hauling him bodily after her, deeper into the room, and he looked on helplessly as the computer slipped from his grip, arching in the air, scattering its pieces as it hit the ground. "Leave it," she commanded as she saw his backward glance, his mind caught in images of his fingerprints on the keys.
"Behind here." She shoved him in first, a tight squeeze between one of the metal shelves and the wall, his shoulders scraping painfully along the sides, and propelled herself after him. She landed against his chest, the book clutched between them the only barrier, and he braced his hands against her hips to keep them both from tumbling over. Their hearts beat frantically only a handbreadth apart, both immobile as they waited for what would happen next.
He was so wrapped in the sensation of being close to Sydney, his irrational thoughts that he could die happy right now, that he didn't recognize the telltale signs that his breath wasn't the only one speeding up, didn't feel the one hand spreading long fingers experimentally across his ribs until her finger brushed bare flesh where his shirt had pulled up.
And he knew, knew exactly what had turned Sydney into this bitter woman, knew what she had been hiding from him, from herself too.
"You still need me," he accused, but the words still held some uncertainty because he couldn't believe what his senses were telling him; the sound was a quiet stone fall in room, he was still acutely aware of the threat outside this little world of theirs.
"No." The protest was weak, discredited by the fact her hand was sliding farther under the hem of his shirt.
"You still love me."
Her hair lashed his face as she shook her head furiously in the constricted area; he'd struck a nerve. "I hate you," her breath hissed between her teeth, hot against his face.
"You--" But he never got a chance to finish as her lips descended over his.
* La Risposta, if I translated it right, means 'the truth' in Italian.