Title: Don't Look Down
Author: Maeve M (maeve_aislinn@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: "Any society that needs disclaimers has too many lawyers." - Erik Pepke (but just in case... Don't sue me, please! Nah, go ahead... sue me. All I have is a soul mate and a 9 year old daughter with the penchant for calling me "Hoochie Mama"... not too much to bargain with. I'd like to see your lawyers try to argue that in court!)
Distribution: CM, FF.net, and anywhere else who wants it. Just drop me a line so that I may come by and visit it every once in a while.
Classification: Angst, drama, CM March challengefic.
Spoilers/Timeline: As per the rules of the CM March Challenge, only season 2 knowledge up through "Double Agent" will be featured. Hopefully.
Feedback: Feedback is like a drug to me! Please, feed the monkey!
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Summary: At the edge of a precipice, would you have the strength to look down?
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Don't look down.
He remembered the first time he'd heard those words in context to something so terrifying that he didn't heed the warning. Senior year in high school, Spring Break, Costa Rican Rainforest. It wasn't until he was halfway across the 300 foot natural rope bridge that he realized he was acrophobic.
'But I made it though that, and I'll make it though this,' the man thought vehemently. 'Just don't look down.'
Acrophobia was never his true problem. In the last situation he was in, it was a natural instinct to fear the altitude of the bridge. His real phobia was one of looking down. And this is where he finds himself again. So many years later, so many years older, and still afraid to look down. Illyngophobia, in its most basic terms, the fear of looking down.
Cataloging his fear didn't help one bit. In fact, he realized that he was clenching his fists so tightly that he just barely broke the skin on his palms. Slowly, and careful not to look down, he relaxed his hands, wiping the sweat mixed with blood slicked surfaces on his jeans. He could only imagine that the half-moon indentations pressed temporarily into his flesh must seem ridiculous. In his current mindset, a gunshot wound to his head would seem outlandish.
He slipped. Just barely, but enough where he thought just for a second that he might lose his equilibrium and look down.
In the whirling panic of his mind, the man's eyes darted around looking for something... anything to focus onto. A frenzied grasping for something above the ground that would occupy his attention. A slight breeze from the left provided the welcomed diversion. The mid-afternoon sun glinted off several shards of the broken picture window, casting faint rainbow reflections on the pale wall. The brief distraction, while needed, brought only pain of a happier time to the forefront of his mind.
A time when he never knew his best friend was a secret agent for the CIA. A time when the woman he loved wasn't the primary thing he needed a distraction from. A time when...
"Will!" the shrill voice of Sydney Bristow broke him from his thoughts of the past. He spun carefully, trying to retain his balance. "My God! What's happened here?"
Leaving the door wide open, Sydney sprinted from the entry and crumbled to her knees out of his line of sight.
"Will, are you alone? Have you checked the house for intruders!?!" She paused, realizing that he wasn't even looking at her. "Will?" Returning to her feet, Will stared blankly ahead as her concerned expression entered his view. She reached out and grabbed his arms.
That was enough to break the man from his mesmerized reverie. Will jerked away from her, a shout breaking his silence. "No, don't..." His panicky eyes darted to the two bloodstains on his oxford shirt.
Blood. Pain. Gunshots.
Don't look down.
But it was too late, his balance was gone, and his eyes hit the floor. Bile backed up into his throat as his awareness locked on a motionless body centered in a pool of thick blood.
Syd whipped out her cell phone, quickly dialing a number she memorized long ago. "Vaughn...I need you." A pause, then, "My house has been compromised. Send a team." Will envied the protocol that Sydney was able to follow. He tried it earlier with cataloging his fear but was unsuccessful. Compartmentalizing emotion was something Will Tippen wanted to learn, assuming her didn't go crazy first. Her words seemed so sterile, so logical.
Compromised. Team. Need.
"Will, look at me. I ne - need to know," she started, her voice catching in her tight throat, "what happened? Who did this to Francie?"
Francine Calfo. Will's girlfriend. Sydney's best friend. Dead body.
"She's dead," he whispered softly. Will's vision blurred, though not enough to block the view of the gunshot marring Francine's forehead.
"I can see that."
His heart leapt at the anguish in her voice, leading him to believe that she wasn't as good as stripping the emotion from the situation as he thought previously. He offered the only advice he knew. "Don't look down, Sydney." As he spoke the words, he finally realized how absurd they sound. How ridiculous they've always sounded, from the time on the swaying bridge in the heights of the Costa Rican jungle through to every time he's ever thought them or heard them since. An explosive laugh escaped his lips.
That laugh changed everything. Like the gunshot that killed their friend, it murdered innocence. Like a machete, it sliced the restraints holding Will's bridge up, causing him to plummet to the lush floor of the jungle. Like a father giving his daughter away on her wedding day, it lifted the veil of Sydney's silent grief, allowing her to see things she'd missed since entering her home.
The smears of blood Sydney left on Will's shirt were not alone, but were surrounded by several patterns of spattered dried blood. The broken window that had transfixed the man's attention as she entered the house was broken out and not in. Most blatant of all were the signs of struggle throughout the living room, ending with her noticing several large bruises on Will's face and the exposed skin of his arms.
"Will?" she questioned, hoarsely, not wanting to believe the answer she knew he would give. He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts, but the distinctive 'ka-chunk' sound of a gun being cocked forced them open again. Sydney stood in front of him, her firearm ready. "Tell me."
"You've known for a while, Syd. The questions she couldn't answer. The names and dates she couldn't remember. I walked in on her tonight. She was planning on killing me."
She shook her head. "You're trying to tell me that this isn't Francie? I don't buy it!" The woman steadied her gun. "How do I know that you are you?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, Sydney. I thought I knew you and it turned out that you had this whole secret life. I thought I loved Francie and she wasn't even my friend. If you don't believe me, that's fine. No, really it is. Go ahead, Syd. simplify my life."
Her determination wavered. "By dying? That's going to simplify your life? Prove to me who you are. Take a moment and make me care if you live or die. Make me believe!"
"She talked about Helix. She hated you for destroying her only way back to who she was."
Sydney gasped, dropping the weapon onto the stained carpet. "I never told you about Project Helix."
"I know."
She crossed the brief distance between them, not noticing the sticky blood underfoot, and wrapped her arms around him.
Leaning closer, he began to sob into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Syd..."
Secret Agent Sydney Bristow had never been trained for a situation like this, and uttered the only words that came to mind, "Don't look down, Will."
END (1/1)
Guidelines for the story: *Someone's first something (kiss, kill, ect) *A broken window *1000-2000 words long
Author: Maeve M (maeve_aislinn@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: "Any society that needs disclaimers has too many lawyers." - Erik Pepke (but just in case... Don't sue me, please! Nah, go ahead... sue me. All I have is a soul mate and a 9 year old daughter with the penchant for calling me "Hoochie Mama"... not too much to bargain with. I'd like to see your lawyers try to argue that in court!)
Distribution: CM, FF.net, and anywhere else who wants it. Just drop me a line so that I may come by and visit it every once in a while.
Classification: Angst, drama, CM March challengefic.
Spoilers/Timeline: As per the rules of the CM March Challenge, only season 2 knowledge up through "Double Agent" will be featured. Hopefully.
Feedback: Feedback is like a drug to me! Please, feed the monkey!
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Summary: At the edge of a precipice, would you have the strength to look down?
+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Don't look down.
He remembered the first time he'd heard those words in context to something so terrifying that he didn't heed the warning. Senior year in high school, Spring Break, Costa Rican Rainforest. It wasn't until he was halfway across the 300 foot natural rope bridge that he realized he was acrophobic.
'But I made it though that, and I'll make it though this,' the man thought vehemently. 'Just don't look down.'
Acrophobia was never his true problem. In the last situation he was in, it was a natural instinct to fear the altitude of the bridge. His real phobia was one of looking down. And this is where he finds himself again. So many years later, so many years older, and still afraid to look down. Illyngophobia, in its most basic terms, the fear of looking down.
Cataloging his fear didn't help one bit. In fact, he realized that he was clenching his fists so tightly that he just barely broke the skin on his palms. Slowly, and careful not to look down, he relaxed his hands, wiping the sweat mixed with blood slicked surfaces on his jeans. He could only imagine that the half-moon indentations pressed temporarily into his flesh must seem ridiculous. In his current mindset, a gunshot wound to his head would seem outlandish.
He slipped. Just barely, but enough where he thought just for a second that he might lose his equilibrium and look down.
In the whirling panic of his mind, the man's eyes darted around looking for something... anything to focus onto. A frenzied grasping for something above the ground that would occupy his attention. A slight breeze from the left provided the welcomed diversion. The mid-afternoon sun glinted off several shards of the broken picture window, casting faint rainbow reflections on the pale wall. The brief distraction, while needed, brought only pain of a happier time to the forefront of his mind.
A time when he never knew his best friend was a secret agent for the CIA. A time when the woman he loved wasn't the primary thing he needed a distraction from. A time when...
"Will!" the shrill voice of Sydney Bristow broke him from his thoughts of the past. He spun carefully, trying to retain his balance. "My God! What's happened here?"
Leaving the door wide open, Sydney sprinted from the entry and crumbled to her knees out of his line of sight.
"Will, are you alone? Have you checked the house for intruders!?!" She paused, realizing that he wasn't even looking at her. "Will?" Returning to her feet, Will stared blankly ahead as her concerned expression entered his view. She reached out and grabbed his arms.
That was enough to break the man from his mesmerized reverie. Will jerked away from her, a shout breaking his silence. "No, don't..." His panicky eyes darted to the two bloodstains on his oxford shirt.
Blood. Pain. Gunshots.
Don't look down.
But it was too late, his balance was gone, and his eyes hit the floor. Bile backed up into his throat as his awareness locked on a motionless body centered in a pool of thick blood.
Syd whipped out her cell phone, quickly dialing a number she memorized long ago. "Vaughn...I need you." A pause, then, "My house has been compromised. Send a team." Will envied the protocol that Sydney was able to follow. He tried it earlier with cataloging his fear but was unsuccessful. Compartmentalizing emotion was something Will Tippen wanted to learn, assuming her didn't go crazy first. Her words seemed so sterile, so logical.
Compromised. Team. Need.
"Will, look at me. I ne - need to know," she started, her voice catching in her tight throat, "what happened? Who did this to Francie?"
Francine Calfo. Will's girlfriend. Sydney's best friend. Dead body.
"She's dead," he whispered softly. Will's vision blurred, though not enough to block the view of the gunshot marring Francine's forehead.
"I can see that."
His heart leapt at the anguish in her voice, leading him to believe that she wasn't as good as stripping the emotion from the situation as he thought previously. He offered the only advice he knew. "Don't look down, Sydney." As he spoke the words, he finally realized how absurd they sound. How ridiculous they've always sounded, from the time on the swaying bridge in the heights of the Costa Rican jungle through to every time he's ever thought them or heard them since. An explosive laugh escaped his lips.
That laugh changed everything. Like the gunshot that killed their friend, it murdered innocence. Like a machete, it sliced the restraints holding Will's bridge up, causing him to plummet to the lush floor of the jungle. Like a father giving his daughter away on her wedding day, it lifted the veil of Sydney's silent grief, allowing her to see things she'd missed since entering her home.
The smears of blood Sydney left on Will's shirt were not alone, but were surrounded by several patterns of spattered dried blood. The broken window that had transfixed the man's attention as she entered the house was broken out and not in. Most blatant of all were the signs of struggle throughout the living room, ending with her noticing several large bruises on Will's face and the exposed skin of his arms.
"Will?" she questioned, hoarsely, not wanting to believe the answer she knew he would give. He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts, but the distinctive 'ka-chunk' sound of a gun being cocked forced them open again. Sydney stood in front of him, her firearm ready. "Tell me."
"You've known for a while, Syd. The questions she couldn't answer. The names and dates she couldn't remember. I walked in on her tonight. She was planning on killing me."
She shook her head. "You're trying to tell me that this isn't Francie? I don't buy it!" The woman steadied her gun. "How do I know that you are you?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, Sydney. I thought I knew you and it turned out that you had this whole secret life. I thought I loved Francie and she wasn't even my friend. If you don't believe me, that's fine. No, really it is. Go ahead, Syd. simplify my life."
Her determination wavered. "By dying? That's going to simplify your life? Prove to me who you are. Take a moment and make me care if you live or die. Make me believe!"
"She talked about Helix. She hated you for destroying her only way back to who she was."
Sydney gasped, dropping the weapon onto the stained carpet. "I never told you about Project Helix."
"I know."
She crossed the brief distance between them, not noticing the sticky blood underfoot, and wrapped her arms around him.
Leaning closer, he began to sob into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Syd..."
Secret Agent Sydney Bristow had never been trained for a situation like this, and uttered the only words that came to mind, "Don't look down, Will."
END (1/1)
Guidelines for the story: *Someone's first something (kiss, kill, ect) *A broken window *1000-2000 words long