chapter/three// THE SHARP HINT OF NEW TEARS

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Sydney didn't expect to be greeted with such hostility upon her return; she had just gotten back from an emotionally draining and physically straining mission, and she had been hoping that her home and her friends were going to provide a better environment than the one the group of renegade terrorists and nuclear arms dealers had. Apparently they didn't--although admittedly the hostility was a lot less life-threatening.

"Oh, just saving the world from complete obliteration." Sydney wanted to match Francie's hostility, but decided against it.

"Boston. Why?" The same answer, every single time. Sydney thought it was getting kind of old, honestly.

"You missed my reading."

"Your what?"

"My reading."

"What's that?"

"My reading!"

Apparently the succinct "my reading" was suppose to clarify, and apparently the fact that it was shouted the second time meant there was no need for further elaboration.

"What does that mean, your reading?"

"My poetry reading!"

"Poetry?"

"Yes. You said you'd be there!"

"Since when did you write poetry?"

Francie didn't answer; she made a face intended to convey that Sydney was, at this moment, a grade-A, first class, top notch, evil bitch. Sydney knew this look was hard to conjure up, and that Francie couldn't be that mad--certainly she was mad, but not that mad. She had to have mustered up some extra anger to add to the current and original anger to have created that look.

"Do you ever listen? No, that's right, you're too busy thinking about accounts and loans to be bothered by anything else." Francie didn't want to break the face, Sydney could tell, but she wanted to hit Sydney back with something more.

"I'm only thinking about accounts and loans because someone around here needs

to pay rent." This was obviously the right retaliation.

"I-m... Business is slow right now. And I'm working my ASS OFF at school. And I don't have time for anything... I'm BUSY all day."

"Yes. Apparently writing poetry." Okay, that was unnecessary--Sydney knew that--but so was this entire argument, and in any argument where the point wasn't very clear, anything could be thrown into the mix, no matter how irrelevant or uncalled for.

Francie didn't answer, probably because she didn't have an answer. She turned around, scampered into her room, and slammed the door. Sydney wanted to give her a return door-slam--it was the natural response to any door-slam--but seeing as she was in the living room and the nearest door to slam was the front door, Sydney didn't think it was very wise to actually exit her own house. She could, of course, slam the door to her bedroom, but then that would require a hasty walk to her room--one that Francie wouldn't be witness to, so what was the point anyway--that would take... well, a few seconds at least, and those few seconds would be too long, because there was only a tiny window of opportunity in which the return door-slam was effective.

So Sydney did nothing. She took a seat on the couch, turned on the TV, and sighed. This had been quite a week; it was time to relax.

* * * * * *

"What are you doing?" Michael asked, deeply curious.

Alice spit out some of the toothpaste foam that had bubbled in her mouth.

"What?"

"What are you doing?" He repeated the question, but with more authority.

"What does it look like I'm doing? Brushing my teeth."

"Yeah, I see that." Michael paused to make sure, and then when he confirmed it... "Are you using my toothbrush?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot mine." She said it as if it was no big deal, but to Michael it was a big deal. In his opinion, you said "Oh yeah, I forgot" when someone reminded you to put two sugars in their coffee, because you'd made them a cup and had somehow forgotten the two sugars. You didn't say "Oh yeah, I forgot" when you were scraping your teeth with an instrument that wasn't yours. Alice's response disgusted him, but not nearly as much as her insouciant use of his toothbrush.

"So you're just using mine."

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd mind."

Michael just looked at her.

"What? What's the big deal? It's never bothered you before."

Before? There was a before? Michael became even more disgusted. He could just imagine all those times when he had unknowingly brushed his teeth with a toothbrush that had been mucked up with someone else's plaque and tartar and gingivitis and God-knows-what-else.

Sure, one could argue that it wasn't a big deal, that they'd shared other things, much more involved things, much more disgusting things (when you thought about it). They kissed--of course they kissed--and such an act required the exchange of saliva and other things resting in someone's mouth--a lot of the things a toothbrush would pick up. And sex. Sex involved the transfer of certain bodily fluids. But there was a difference, Michael knew. You didn't kiss just so you could swap spit, and you certainly didn't have sex just to inject semen (unless you were a deeply devout religious person who so strongly believed that the sole purpose of intercourse was to create new life). There were exciting, thrilling human rewards in these things; there were no exciting, thrilling human rewards in sharing a toothbrush.

And sure, one could also argue that it wasn't a big deal because it was Alice. She was his mate, his partner, his companion; he was supposed to be comfortable with her. But the thing was, he wasn't that comfortable with her (not comfortable enough to share a toothbrush, that is), and he would probably never be that comfortable with her, or anyone for that matter... Except maybe for Sydney.

Would he share a toothbrush with Sydney? Probably, because--let's face it--he would do anything, anything for Sydney... And that included letting her use his toothbrush.

So what did that mean? Michael was confused: he would be willing (and glad to) lend Sydney his toothbrush, with no reservations whatsoever. But he was so disgusted by Alice's use of his toothbrush (he would hold off on brushing until he purchased a new toothbrush as soon as possible the next morning) that he had spent the past five minutes ranting to her face about it. Why was it that he would much rather share a toothbrush with a co-worker, his client, if you will, than with his own girlfriend?

* * * * * *

Sydney was bored--something that didn't happen very often, because she was always busy with something--and she didn't like it, not one bit. Being bored meant you weren't doing anything. And not doing anything meant you had time to sit and think. And Sydney didn't want to sit and think; now was a bad time in particular because there was too much to think about. But when you were bored and weren't doing anything, your mind inevitable took control, and you ended up thinking about things you didn't want to think about, no matter how much you didn't want to think about them.

School, work, family, friends, Vaughn: these things were all getting to be too much for Sydney to deal with, let alone think about. It was finals week at school. The whole Rambaldi thing was getting increasingly ridiculous. Her mother had supposedly been resurrected from the dead. Her father was off the wagon (or was it on the wagon? She'd always been confused.) Francie, the recently reincarnated poet, in particular, was starting to get on her nerves. And Vaughn... He was the one giving her the most trouble.

What was she going to do about Vaughn? Act perfectly normal the next time they met? Send her regards to Alice? Wish them luck and tell them to have a nice life together? Not a chance--but what else was she going to do? Make the meeting weird and uncomfortable? Ask him to throw Alice out with the rest of the garbage? Ask him to run off to the Bahamas with her? She couldn't do that either.

Fuck! This was all too much!

She had to get her mind off of all these things, so she turned her attention back to the TV. A Charles in Charge rerun was on. This would help her get her mind off of things; she had quite enjoyed the show back in the day.

* * * * * *

Why did he always end up doing something that he regretted later on? This was a chronic problem for Michael; he could never grasp the concept of consequences. He had some sort of a past-present-future disability or dyslexia. He was okay with the past; he was able to analyze it (usually only when he felt an overwhelming need to), and more importantly, he was able to understand it. The present was fine as well--it was where he was most comfortable because he was good at the actions themselves. But the future... The future was what he didn't understand. He thought about the future, nonetheless, attempting to examine situations, linking this to that and trying to think ahead--but mostly those situations were facile or irrelevant, with no connection to the real world at all. And unfortunately, the real world--the world he didn't get--was where everything important lived and breathed.

Why didn't he see things ahead of time? Why didn't he see this ahead of time. You didn't need clairvoyant powers to see what would happen if he let Alice back into his life. Of course, this would happen. Why didn't he see it then, dammit? He should have stopped her right then and there, when she was at the front door; he should have treated her as if she were one of those door-to-door solicitors: politely say 'I'm busy right now,' then politely say 'no thank you' because she couldn't take a hint, then slowly yet firmly shut the door.

But it was too late, because Alice was inside his house, sitting on his couch, eating his left-over lasagna, watching TV--Felicity, to be precise--when he wanted to watch something else... with someone else.

"I wanna watch the West Wing," Michael said as he sat down on the couch.

She put a finger up to hush.

"Shh... I wanna see what Noel will say."

"I wa--"

"Shh."

"I--"

"Shh."

"Alice."

"Shh... tell me when it's commercial."

Okay, Alice pushed it a little too far, Michael thought. She was a little too comfortable here--and it just wasn't appropriate when he was feeling a little too uneasy. And this was his house. Not only was she in attendance at place she wasn't supposed to be invited to, but she was acting like she was the center of attention, the life of the party.

* * * * * *

Practically every Charles In Charge episode fit the same paradigm: everyone had a problem, including Charles, and it was Charles's responsibility, and most of the time only his, to solve them. The whole episode was about problems--problems and nothing but problems (mostly). Sydney thought Charles In Charge would help her get her mind off of things, but how was a show about problems going to help her forget about her problems?

Sydney understood Charles, now more than ever. For the longest time Charles was just cute--he was nothing more than just another 80's pretty-boy novelty--and that was why she watched the show. But now, Charles was her equal: they were one in the same. Both their forts were under constant siege by an army of problems, relentless in their mission, day in and day out. Everyone's problem was their problem, and that was just how it was. Sloane passed his problems onto her (mission-wise), her family had no other discernible characteristic except for that of being problematic, and her friends (okay, Francie) had just jumped into problem pool with everyone else.

Sydney had learned to accept her role as the ultimate problem-solver, but sometimes it was just too much to bear, especially since the army of attackers consisted of a fifteenth century fortune-teller, a frustratingly distant father, a mysteriously undead mother, and that fucking CIA handler.

By the time the end credits began to roll, Sydney had built herself up to the point where she was ready to explode; she needed a release, and thus felt the sharp hint of new tears approaching. Crying was an effective method of ventilation, one that bore major significance, because Sydney only cried on the rare occasion that called for it. (The last time she cried, like really cried, was when Danny died, and during the mourning period directly after. She also let out a stream of tears and emotions when her father failed to show up to their scheduled dinner that one night.)

And the last time she cried, she had someone who was there, on the pier, to listen. But this time, he was a part of the problem. She could call him though, but it was probably better not to. But maybe she should. No, she shouldn't. She definitely shouldn't. But then again, it might help. But then again, it might make it worse. He was probably busy anyway, and she didn't want to call while he was "busy" with Alice, definitely. So it was settled, she wouldn't call. This was her problem--not his. But then again, he was her handler, and he was supposed to handle her (case, that is). Her problems were related to work (more or less, indirectly), and therefore he held some responsibility in the matter. So maybe she should call him; it was his duty to report to her. But then wouldn't that make it worse? If he was only there to comfort her because it was his job, his obligation? No... Well, yes, that would definitely make it worse. So that was two-to-one against; she absolutely positively wouldn't call him, for sure. But, what if...

Fuck it. She picked up her cell phone, the secure CIA one, and dialed his number.

* * * * * *

It was thirty-five minutes into the West Wing, so it was too late to catch up. Even if he had the balls to strip Alice of the remote and change the channel, he had already missed too much of the plot and the story and the dialogue to understand or enjoy the program. And of course, Alice would get upset--furious even--if he just got up and changed it to the West Wing, even though it was his TV, and his remote, and his couch, and his fucking left-over lasagna that he was saving for lunch the next day. So he scrapped the idea, and decided to sit through the rest of Felicity.

He never really watched Felicity (actually, come to think of it, he had seen a number of episodes before, with Alice, when they were together the first time. He suddenly remembered how much Alice loved this show; he had forgotten that she never missed an episode.) Anyway, even though he didn't really know that much about the characters, their history, etc., he still, somehow, became interested in the events of the episode. To Michael's understanding, Felicity had traveled back in time (yes, he was confused too; Alice promised to explain later) and she had just dumped Ben in favor of Noel (he didn't very much like this Noel character--he seemed a bit shady) and now she was messing up everyone's lives. Felicity was lost and confused. For the entirety of the show, apparently, Felicity was in the middle, between two people she cared about, and there was nothing but pushing and pulling going on--pushing one away while pulling the other closer, then alternating who was being pushed with the one who was being pulled.

In Michael's estimation, it was so obvious who Felicity should be with--so why wasn't she with him? There were thousands of reasons, Michael felt, why Felicity should be with Ben instead of Noel (and it wasn't just because he had a bias against Noel). And yes, Felicity and Ben had their problems, their complications, but that didn't matter in the long run, did it? He certainly didn't think so.

Just then Michael realized something--something that would solidify a lot of the thoughts that were swishing around in his head: he realized just how amazing it was, how much resonance and synchronicity Felicity had with his own life.

When Felicity was over, his cell phone rang.

* * * * * *

Michael was already situated in the storage facility when Sydney walked in. She had hurried in, but suddenly slowed down her pace as she came closer. Tears had already started to emerge, and he took notice immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"Vaughn. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"I shouldn't have called you."

"No, it's alright. Are you okay?"

Sydney just looked at him, and he realized that it wasn't words that she was looking for--she didn't call on him to chat. So he looked her in the eye, nonverbally indicating that it was going to be all right, whatever it was. And then he wrapped his arms around her.

* * * * * *

Sydney stood inside his embrace for what seemed like forever. Neither of them said a word, and it was best that they didn't--not right now, at least. She wanted to tell him everything there was to tell, though--her feelings, thoughts, etc.--but she knew that it would amount to exactly the same thing their dinner had amounted to: nothing. She would dish out all the details, and he would listen, and that would pretty much be it. And this was a problem, because Vaughn was all she had.

Vaughn was the only person who really knew her: he was the only one she ever really talked to (the only other person she was allowed to talk to was her father, and understandably she was unable to genuinely communicate with him). At any rate, she felt that Vaughn was there for her, and that she could turn to him in her moments of despair. But this was the harsh reality of it all: she could hand over her confessions to him in a file folder, and it wouldn't make any bit of difference. Just because they were sharing this moment in an embrace didn't mean shit.

Sydney was in the middle of thinking about how empty all this was, when Vaughn separated his body from hers, just enough so that he could look at her without twisting his neck in an unwieldy way. Then he looked at her intensely, and she looked at him curiously, and then the structures of Sydney's critical thinking came crashing to the floor, because that was when he kissed her.