Title: Fade (Chapter 3/3)
Author: agent otter
Summary: "It's safer that way, to remain constantly on the move. But this isn't the first time that they've sacrificed safety for something else." Sydney/Vaughn
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias or anything having to do with it, but if I did I'd be seeing a lot more of Bradley Cooper. And I mean that in several literal ways.
He's come to think of them as comfort clothes: soft long-sleeved shirts that cover her hands all the way to the knuckles, loose-fitting jeans, flexible Keds. She always wears her hair down when she's dressed this way because it makes a good veil to hide behind. But she doesn't hide from him; not at the moment, anyway. Her face is downcast, but her left hand sweeps the hair up and tucks it behind her ear. She casts a nervous, sidelong glance at him from beneath that raised curtain, and smiles a very small smile.
He realizes that he made a mistake with her the last time; gave her too many chances to think, too much time to mull things over, too many opportunities to break and run. The drive from Phoenix to Los Angeles will take about seven hours -- he expects traffic once they hit Los Angeles County, because there's always traffic in LA -- but he stops only for bathroom breaks, and keeps a sharp eye on her. They drive straight through, no matter how much he wants to pull the car over and pull her into the backseat. He settles for occasionally grasping blindly for her hand and, when he finds it, giving it a gentle squeeze that says thankyouthankyouthankyou for coming home.
Vaughn tries to convince himself that he's not falling over himself with gratitude just because she's (finally, finally) sitting in the passenger seat of his car. He tries to remember that this wouldn't be such a victory if she hadn't fled in the first place. He tries to remember over a year's worth of lonely nights, worry, wondering. He tries to remember what she's put him through but all he can think is how wonderful she smells and how much he wants to touch her.
The drive passes surprisingly quickly; it's late by the time they arrive in Los Angeles, and the freeways are mostly clear. She'll have to be debriefed, reinstated, reprimanded, but the CIA will have to wait until morning to have their turn with her. He drives her to his building -- it used to be their building, but he isn't sure he can call it that anymore -- and leads her up the back stairs, through the hallway, and into the apartment.
He wants to scream at her, to rage and maybe, if he's feeling particularly brave, break some things. But the look on her face as she stands in his living room -- their living room -- is so lost and penitent and broken, that all he can do is wrap his arms around her and breathe in the scent of her hair. He strips her comfort away one piece at a time, leaves it crumpled on the floor, but he replaces it with his own: bare arms wrapped around her back, chest pressed to hers, nose buried in the curve of her neck.
When they're in bed, drifting away, he holds her tightly, and when he means to whisper "I'm glad you're back" or "I love you" or "don't you ever do that to me again," what actually comes out is, "Please don't disappear. Please. Please."
She's still there in the morning, and she holds him tightly when he cries.
THE END
Abrupt? Probably. But I didn't know where I was going and neither did you. HAH! So uh... yeah. I swear the next story will be better. ;) But maybe you should review me anyway...