Title: A Dinner Conversation
Author: MyAlias
Summary: Sydney picks the wrong night to take Vaughn out to dinner, but she gets to hear a memory Vaughn has been keeping from her.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: It could take place anytime after Phase One.
Author's note: Please, please review this. Please. Please.......please.....no, I'm not begging or anything. Never.
A Dinner Conversation
****************************
They sat across from each other at a dimly lit booth in the corner of the trendy Italian restaurant. It had been about ten minutes since she had sighed and leaned back against her bench in resignation. There was no point in trying to talk to him. He wasn't going to respond.
He hadn't wanted to be there tonight at all, but she hadn't given him an option. It was an anniversary of sorts for them - six months since the Alliance had fallen.
The dinner had been a surprise that she sprung on him as he sat at the table in her kitchen and she poured him a cup of steaming coffee that morning. "So, Vaughn," she started as a grin spread across her lips. "Tonight, I am going to take you out to dinner." He already felt pretty miserable, and he knew by the end of the day it would be worse.
It always went that way.
But she wouldn't let him object. "Vaughn, we're going out and I'm paying. Just you, me, and some great Italian food. She smiled again as she poured her own coffee and sat next to him.
He couldn't say no.
It should have been a perfect evening. The setting was nice - candlelight, a good glass of wine, soft classical music in the background, the company of Sydney Bristow - but he was blocking it all out. He was somewhere else entirely. Vaughn could only think of one thing as he twirled his fettuccine with his fork.
He was being exceptionally rude to her and he knew that. But not talking was all he could do. She didn't look hurt as much as she looked confused. Why she was essentially eating dinner by herself?
But there was nothing he could say to her. He couldn't just tell her what he was thinking. Not her. Not Sydney.
He wanted more than anything to get up and leave. To speed down the highway and let out his anger, to fall into his bed and lie awake until the day was finally over.
But he couldn't do that to Sydney. After all, he kept reminding himself, it's not her fault.
"Vaughn," she said finally. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She stared straight at him with her jaw clenched. She grabbed the napkin from her lap and threw it on the table as she began to slide out of the booth.
"Sydney, wait," he said. If she left it would be so much easier, but he knew it wasn't right to let her go.
"I'm only going to stay if you'll talk to me."
"Fine," he said quickly. She moved back to where she had been sitting.
He put his hands over his face and took a deep breath. For a second he wasn't sure if he could do it, but then he just started to talk. "Sydney," he began. "My father died 25 years ago." He looked up at her. She looked confused. "Today."
There was a long pause. "I...I'm so sorry, Vaughn. I didn't know."
"No, no don't be. I didn't want you to know." There was another long pause. She was staring at him. He could tell that she wanted to say something - anything - that would make him feel better. But this was dangerous territory for the two of them.
He wanted to tell her that he was fine, and be able to move on to a lighter topic of conversation, but he knew she wouldn't fall for it. He wanted to tell her how every anniversary of his father's death had been the same - miserable - except that this one had been even worse.
Being insanely in love with the daughter of your father's murderer can do that to you.
He wanted to give her an eloquent speech about his grief and about how even after all this time he misses his father more than ever.
Instead, all he could manage to do was stumble over the memory that he had replayed over and over again in his mind.
**************
It had been one of the first few days of summer - one of those days when the novelty of playing outside until well after dark hadn't worn off yet, when the beginning of third grade was the last thing on his mind, and the game of hockey he was playing in his neighbor's driveway was the first. His father had promised they would go to the rink and play on the ice when he came home from his business trip.
Michael didn't mind that his dad was out of town so often. When he was home, he more than made up for it. In fact, he spent more time with Michael than most fathers who were home all the time spent with their sons.
Michael didn't really understand what his dad did for a living. His friends all knew what their fathers did - they were lawyers or bankers or firefighters - but Michael wasn't sure. All he knew was that his father worked for the government and that his job was very important.
Looking back, Vaughn used to wonder why his parents never explained his father's job to him in a better way. But when he became a CIA agent himself he realized that it would be impossibly to explain to an eight year old why the world needs CIA agents. How could a child understand that?
Just before the hockey game ended, Mrs. Cooker came outside. Michael and Mrs. Cooker's son had attended the same pre-school, and Mrs. Cooker and Michael's mom had become good friends over the years.
"Michael," she said calmly, as she stood on the front stoop. "It's time to go home."
"But...why?" he had asked, genuinely confused, as his teammates began to complain. After all, the game wasn't over and it wasn't even dark yet.
"Your mother just called. She just said that it's time to go home. In fact, why don't I give you a ride?" He lived only a couple of blocks away, and he could have easily skated or walked home.
"Is my dad home!?" he had asked excitedly. He knew it! His father was home early and his mother wanted it to be a surprise.
There was no answer, but that made sense. It was all part of the surprise. "Let's go, Michael. And you can sit in the front, special treat."
This day was shaping up to be perfect. All day he had played outside and had fun with his friends. Now he was going to see his father, and tomorrow they would go play ice hockey together.
When Mrs. Cooker's car approached Michael's house, he knew for sure what was happening. A black sedan was parked in the driveway.
His father had come home early!
He couldn't help but think that Mrs. Cooker was being very strange as she walked him up to the door and stood there with him. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a warm, motherly smile. "We'll see you soon?"
"Yeah," he replied. This was all very confusing, but he didn't care. He rang the doorbell. Mrs. Cooker picked up his hand and held it. He could almost swear that she was holding her breath.
He heard the door opening. What he expected to see was his father standing in the doorway, throwing his arms wide open to pick up his son. Instead, a tall man Michael had never seen before stood there. He smiled.
"So you're Michael?" he asked.
Michael was shocked. His mouth hung open and he couldn't answer.
"Well, I'm Mr. Bradley, Michael," he held out his hand, which Michael reluctantly shook. Mr. Bradley crouched down, so as to be face to face with the eight year old. "You're mom couldn't answer the door, but she really needs to talk to you. Will you come inside with me?"
Michael looked up at Mrs. Cooker and then back at the man. He nodded, not saying a word. The man stood up and shook Mrs. Cooker's hand. "Thank you very much, ma'am," he told her. She planted a kiss on Michael's head and slowly turned around and walked back towards her car.
************************
The manager walked over to the booth. "How is everything tonight?" he asked, smiling. Sydney and Vaughn stared at each other, neither one of them saying anything. He stood there, somewhat awkwardly, waiting for an answer.
When the manager's question finally registered in her brain, Sydney shook her head, as if to bring herself back to reality. "Fine," she flashed a big grin. "If we could just maybe get the check?"
"Of course," he replied.
"Thank you." The manager left quickly, all too ready to get away from their table.
There was another pause. Vaughn picked up his wine glass and took a sip. He started again.
**********************
Out of all the things that have happened in his life, one of his most vivid memories is walking from the front door of his house to where his mother sat. The walk seemed to go in slow motion. Mr. Bradley had put a hand on Michael's shoulder, and even though he had never met this man before, it gave him a strange sense of security.
He was still very confused. He wanted to think that his father would be sitting in the living room with his mother when he walked in, but at this point he was beginning to be afraid. He didn't know what was going on, but something in his eight year old brain told him that it wasn't good.
When he walked into the living room, he was sure that it wasn't good.
It wasn't good at all.
His mother sat on the couch, holding hands with yet another man who Michael had never seen. The man had pulled up a chair right in front of her. She was weeping, in the truest sense of the word. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were puffy, and the top of her blouse was wet with tears. Every couple of seconds, a quiet sob escaped her mouth.
But when she saw Michael, it all stopped. She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She managed a smile.
"Come here baby," she said in French. He walked towards her carefully, not knowing what to expect.
When he made it to the couch she threw her arms around his neck and held him, more tightly than she ever had before. She started sobbing again.
"Mommy?" Michael said. He was very worried about her.
She let go of him and softly rubbed the palm of her hand against his face as she regained her composure.
"Come sit here with me." He did. She put her arm around him. She smiled again. She closed her eyes for a moment before she began to speak.
"Michael, do you know what your Daddy does when he goes away?"
"He works for the government, you said," Michael replied.
"Right...right. And do you know what he does for them?"
"Not really," he wasn't sure yet where this was going.
"He works, really, really hard, to...to, um..." she looked at Mr. Bradley as she began tried to stop herself from crying.
He nodded. "He works to keep people safe," Mr. Bradley added.
"Yes, thank you," she said.
Michael nodded, "Okay."
"But sometimes, when you try to keep other people safe, you have to put yourself in some danger..." She put her hand over her eyes, and took another deep breath. She tried to speak again, but she couldn't go on.
Michael suddenly knew. She didn't even have to finish anymore. It all made sense to him. He looked at Mr. Bradley and the other man. "My Daddy's not coming home, is he?" And then he started to cry, too.
************
Sydney picked his hand up off the table and kissed it. Their meals hadn't been eaten, but the check was on the edge of the table.
"Are you ready to go home?" she asked him.
"You know what. I...I think I'm gonna head back to my place tonight."
"You really want to be alone?" she asked.
"I just, I don't really know if you're the best person...I mean if you can understand..."
"If I can understand what?" she interrupted.
"Sydney, I mean..." he stopped.
Sydney sighed. She stood up and sat down on his side of the booth. She put her head on his shoulder.
"I was in first grade. I came home from school one day and she was home, just like she always was. She and my father went out, and I never saw her again..." She corrected herself. "I haven't seen Laura Bristow since she kissed me goodbye and left the house." She paused.
"Believe me, Vaughn...I understand." She rested her head there for another moment, and then she picked up her purse, looked at the check, and left cash. She put out her hand and looked at him.
He took it and they left together.
Author: MyAlias
Summary: Sydney picks the wrong night to take Vaughn out to dinner, but she gets to hear a memory Vaughn has been keeping from her.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: It could take place anytime after Phase One.
Author's note: Please, please review this. Please. Please.......please.....no, I'm not begging or anything. Never.
A Dinner Conversation
****************************
They sat across from each other at a dimly lit booth in the corner of the trendy Italian restaurant. It had been about ten minutes since she had sighed and leaned back against her bench in resignation. There was no point in trying to talk to him. He wasn't going to respond.
He hadn't wanted to be there tonight at all, but she hadn't given him an option. It was an anniversary of sorts for them - six months since the Alliance had fallen.
The dinner had been a surprise that she sprung on him as he sat at the table in her kitchen and she poured him a cup of steaming coffee that morning. "So, Vaughn," she started as a grin spread across her lips. "Tonight, I am going to take you out to dinner." He already felt pretty miserable, and he knew by the end of the day it would be worse.
It always went that way.
But she wouldn't let him object. "Vaughn, we're going out and I'm paying. Just you, me, and some great Italian food. She smiled again as she poured her own coffee and sat next to him.
He couldn't say no.
It should have been a perfect evening. The setting was nice - candlelight, a good glass of wine, soft classical music in the background, the company of Sydney Bristow - but he was blocking it all out. He was somewhere else entirely. Vaughn could only think of one thing as he twirled his fettuccine with his fork.
He was being exceptionally rude to her and he knew that. But not talking was all he could do. She didn't look hurt as much as she looked confused. Why she was essentially eating dinner by herself?
But there was nothing he could say to her. He couldn't just tell her what he was thinking. Not her. Not Sydney.
He wanted more than anything to get up and leave. To speed down the highway and let out his anger, to fall into his bed and lie awake until the day was finally over.
But he couldn't do that to Sydney. After all, he kept reminding himself, it's not her fault.
"Vaughn," she said finally. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She stared straight at him with her jaw clenched. She grabbed the napkin from her lap and threw it on the table as she began to slide out of the booth.
"Sydney, wait," he said. If she left it would be so much easier, but he knew it wasn't right to let her go.
"I'm only going to stay if you'll talk to me."
"Fine," he said quickly. She moved back to where she had been sitting.
He put his hands over his face and took a deep breath. For a second he wasn't sure if he could do it, but then he just started to talk. "Sydney," he began. "My father died 25 years ago." He looked up at her. She looked confused. "Today."
There was a long pause. "I...I'm so sorry, Vaughn. I didn't know."
"No, no don't be. I didn't want you to know." There was another long pause. She was staring at him. He could tell that she wanted to say something - anything - that would make him feel better. But this was dangerous territory for the two of them.
He wanted to tell her that he was fine, and be able to move on to a lighter topic of conversation, but he knew she wouldn't fall for it. He wanted to tell her how every anniversary of his father's death had been the same - miserable - except that this one had been even worse.
Being insanely in love with the daughter of your father's murderer can do that to you.
He wanted to give her an eloquent speech about his grief and about how even after all this time he misses his father more than ever.
Instead, all he could manage to do was stumble over the memory that he had replayed over and over again in his mind.
**************
It had been one of the first few days of summer - one of those days when the novelty of playing outside until well after dark hadn't worn off yet, when the beginning of third grade was the last thing on his mind, and the game of hockey he was playing in his neighbor's driveway was the first. His father had promised they would go to the rink and play on the ice when he came home from his business trip.
Michael didn't mind that his dad was out of town so often. When he was home, he more than made up for it. In fact, he spent more time with Michael than most fathers who were home all the time spent with their sons.
Michael didn't really understand what his dad did for a living. His friends all knew what their fathers did - they were lawyers or bankers or firefighters - but Michael wasn't sure. All he knew was that his father worked for the government and that his job was very important.
Looking back, Vaughn used to wonder why his parents never explained his father's job to him in a better way. But when he became a CIA agent himself he realized that it would be impossibly to explain to an eight year old why the world needs CIA agents. How could a child understand that?
Just before the hockey game ended, Mrs. Cooker came outside. Michael and Mrs. Cooker's son had attended the same pre-school, and Mrs. Cooker and Michael's mom had become good friends over the years.
"Michael," she said calmly, as she stood on the front stoop. "It's time to go home."
"But...why?" he had asked, genuinely confused, as his teammates began to complain. After all, the game wasn't over and it wasn't even dark yet.
"Your mother just called. She just said that it's time to go home. In fact, why don't I give you a ride?" He lived only a couple of blocks away, and he could have easily skated or walked home.
"Is my dad home!?" he had asked excitedly. He knew it! His father was home early and his mother wanted it to be a surprise.
There was no answer, but that made sense. It was all part of the surprise. "Let's go, Michael. And you can sit in the front, special treat."
This day was shaping up to be perfect. All day he had played outside and had fun with his friends. Now he was going to see his father, and tomorrow they would go play ice hockey together.
When Mrs. Cooker's car approached Michael's house, he knew for sure what was happening. A black sedan was parked in the driveway.
His father had come home early!
He couldn't help but think that Mrs. Cooker was being very strange as she walked him up to the door and stood there with him. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a warm, motherly smile. "We'll see you soon?"
"Yeah," he replied. This was all very confusing, but he didn't care. He rang the doorbell. Mrs. Cooker picked up his hand and held it. He could almost swear that she was holding her breath.
He heard the door opening. What he expected to see was his father standing in the doorway, throwing his arms wide open to pick up his son. Instead, a tall man Michael had never seen before stood there. He smiled.
"So you're Michael?" he asked.
Michael was shocked. His mouth hung open and he couldn't answer.
"Well, I'm Mr. Bradley, Michael," he held out his hand, which Michael reluctantly shook. Mr. Bradley crouched down, so as to be face to face with the eight year old. "You're mom couldn't answer the door, but she really needs to talk to you. Will you come inside with me?"
Michael looked up at Mrs. Cooker and then back at the man. He nodded, not saying a word. The man stood up and shook Mrs. Cooker's hand. "Thank you very much, ma'am," he told her. She planted a kiss on Michael's head and slowly turned around and walked back towards her car.
************************
The manager walked over to the booth. "How is everything tonight?" he asked, smiling. Sydney and Vaughn stared at each other, neither one of them saying anything. He stood there, somewhat awkwardly, waiting for an answer.
When the manager's question finally registered in her brain, Sydney shook her head, as if to bring herself back to reality. "Fine," she flashed a big grin. "If we could just maybe get the check?"
"Of course," he replied.
"Thank you." The manager left quickly, all too ready to get away from their table.
There was another pause. Vaughn picked up his wine glass and took a sip. He started again.
**********************
Out of all the things that have happened in his life, one of his most vivid memories is walking from the front door of his house to where his mother sat. The walk seemed to go in slow motion. Mr. Bradley had put a hand on Michael's shoulder, and even though he had never met this man before, it gave him a strange sense of security.
He was still very confused. He wanted to think that his father would be sitting in the living room with his mother when he walked in, but at this point he was beginning to be afraid. He didn't know what was going on, but something in his eight year old brain told him that it wasn't good.
When he walked into the living room, he was sure that it wasn't good.
It wasn't good at all.
His mother sat on the couch, holding hands with yet another man who Michael had never seen. The man had pulled up a chair right in front of her. She was weeping, in the truest sense of the word. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were puffy, and the top of her blouse was wet with tears. Every couple of seconds, a quiet sob escaped her mouth.
But when she saw Michael, it all stopped. She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She managed a smile.
"Come here baby," she said in French. He walked towards her carefully, not knowing what to expect.
When he made it to the couch she threw her arms around his neck and held him, more tightly than she ever had before. She started sobbing again.
"Mommy?" Michael said. He was very worried about her.
She let go of him and softly rubbed the palm of her hand against his face as she regained her composure.
"Come sit here with me." He did. She put her arm around him. She smiled again. She closed her eyes for a moment before she began to speak.
"Michael, do you know what your Daddy does when he goes away?"
"He works for the government, you said," Michael replied.
"Right...right. And do you know what he does for them?"
"Not really," he wasn't sure yet where this was going.
"He works, really, really hard, to...to, um..." she looked at Mr. Bradley as she began tried to stop herself from crying.
He nodded. "He works to keep people safe," Mr. Bradley added.
"Yes, thank you," she said.
Michael nodded, "Okay."
"But sometimes, when you try to keep other people safe, you have to put yourself in some danger..." She put her hand over her eyes, and took another deep breath. She tried to speak again, but she couldn't go on.
Michael suddenly knew. She didn't even have to finish anymore. It all made sense to him. He looked at Mr. Bradley and the other man. "My Daddy's not coming home, is he?" And then he started to cry, too.
************
Sydney picked his hand up off the table and kissed it. Their meals hadn't been eaten, but the check was on the edge of the table.
"Are you ready to go home?" she asked him.
"You know what. I...I think I'm gonna head back to my place tonight."
"You really want to be alone?" she asked.
"I just, I don't really know if you're the best person...I mean if you can understand..."
"If I can understand what?" she interrupted.
"Sydney, I mean..." he stopped.
Sydney sighed. She stood up and sat down on his side of the booth. She put her head on his shoulder.
"I was in first grade. I came home from school one day and she was home, just like she always was. She and my father went out, and I never saw her again..." She corrected herself. "I haven't seen Laura Bristow since she kissed me goodbye and left the house." She paused.
"Believe me, Vaughn...I understand." She rested her head there for another moment, and then she picked up her purse, looked at the check, and left cash. She put out her hand and looked at him.
He took it and they left together.