Everyday Peril
Chapter 9: Tender is the Plight

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Sorry for all the sadness, but (as I think someone mentioned), it is going to get a little worse before it gets better (but it will get better). In this chap, there's a reference to one of my previous stories, but all you basically need to know is that Syd was smacked over the head with a glass vase. Let me know if there's anything else that confuses you… Well, I hope you're still enjoying this even if it is depressing. Thanks for all the kind reviews.

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William had been in and out of the tub in seconds, not putting up any sort of fight, not uttering a single word. Jonny was a little more difficult. He began splashing the moment he got in the tub, giggling and singing gleefully; the tune sounding suspiciously like on of those annoying commercial jingles Michael had heard earlier that week. The older twin would be content to stay in the tub for hours, even after the water became cold letting his tiny but wild imagination take him anywhere.

When Michael had William out of the bath and tried to get his brother, things became messy. William sat quietly in a corner of the bathroom, wrapped in a big, fluffy towel, calmly surveying the scene as his twin scooted out of his father's reach like a slippery little fish. After a few moments of this, Jonny finally conceded to getting out of the water, launching himself at Michael's chest and holding onto his neck for dear life.

Michael sighed. So now, he had to get both little boys dressed and change out of his dripping shirt. The two boys could be a handful, but he wouldn't change any of it, even the fact that he was now sopping wet.

He led the boys out of the bathroom and down the hall. William was dressed and ready in seconds, a little cherub in his blue corduroy overalls and a shirt adorned with colorful dinosaurs. Jonny, of course, had to put up a fight, but Michael succeeded in dressing him as well, his overalls red and his shirt covered with dogs.

He brought them into his room so he could quickly change his own clothes. Just as he pulled off his shirt, the phone rang. He picked it up immediately, thinking that it could be Sydney worrying about his ability to get there in time or warning him of traffic and advising him to take a different route.

"Hello?" Silence greeted him, and he tried again. "Hello?"

There was a click and an overly exuberant voice boomed over the phone line. "Hi, my name is Ethan, and I'm calling on behalf of the Western United Fund. Are you over eighteen years of age and a permanent resident of this household?"

"No, I'm sorry," Michael answered quickly. Damn telemarketers. He didn't have time for this.

"Well, can I please speak to…?"

"They're not available," Michael interrupted. God. Either Ethan had just been laid some time in the last twelve hours, or he was on speed. But Michael didn't really care to find which was correct. "And I don't know when they will be. Sorry. Bye."

He hung up, feeling a twinge of guilt for being so rude; the man was just doing his job. But his boys were starting to get into the closet, flinging Sydney's shoes everywhere, or at least one of them was. And they needed to go if they were going to get to Hailey's play on time. Sydney would not be pleased if they were late, and although she had already promised to give him his "present" later, he knew that keeping her happy would make the night all the more enjoyable for the both of them.

Michael threw on his shirt, picked up the twins and started for the door. He was about to close it when the phone rang again. He considered picking it up, but decided to leave it. If it was really that important, they'd leave a message; if it was a telemarketer, he'd just saved himself two minutes.

He locked the door and it was just about to click shut, when he felt a small hand press against his face. It was William, who was still in his arms, content to remain still and be carried to the car. Jonny had wriggled out of his grasp halfway across the room and was already out the front door.

William gazed at his father with his deep, thoughtful eyes. "Daddy, phone," he said simply.

And maybe it was because he was willing to do anything his youngest son wished just to hear him talk, maybe because he thought that it might actually be important, or maybe he just didn't want to have to deal with the telemarketer later. Not knowing exactly why, Michael threw the door open, tugged Jonny inside, and picked up the telephone right after the third ring. "Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, just as there had been with the telemarketer earlier, and he almost hung up. But this pause was different. It was not the controlled, humming, near silence. There were shouts and car horns. Someone taking a shaky breath, and, "V-Vaughn…"

The color drained from his face, replaced with a clammy, prickling coldness. "Syd?! What's the…?" But even as he talked, he was listening acutely to everything that was happening on her end of the phone. He heard her gasp for air, as if she couldn't get enough of it, as if a terrible pain had grabbed hold of her, shaking her, refusing to let her go. "Syd!"

But she never answered him. Instead, a little voice took her place, muffled because of the distance from the phone, but still overflowing with fear and confusion, "Mommy?!"

"Hailey! Hailey, sweetie, pick up the…"

Something crashed and the line went dead. His wife and his daughter… No, his wife, his daughter, and his fourth child, their little baby… He had thought that they were safe, and he had been wrong. Completely, utterly, fatally wrong. They were not safe. Never would be. There was nothing he could have done to protect them against this, against every other danger that presented itself in life. As the father and husband he was supposed to be a superhero; instead, he was helpless.

He quickly dialed Sydney's cell number, praying that Hailey would know how to answer the phone, would not be too frightened; wishing that his beautiful Sydney would pick it up, chastising him for being late to the play, that this would all have been a dream, a nightmare.

The phone rang a few times, and his blood ran cold. It felt like ice dripping within him running through him, slowly numbing him, freezing him. Finally, the line clicked. Thank God…

"Syd?!"

"The cellular customer you are calling is not available at this time. Please hang up and try your…"

He didn't wait for the end of the message, never heard the rest of what the calm, metallic recording had to say. The phone slipped from his fingers, crashing to the ground. William gazed at him sadly, as if he sensed what was going on. If Michael had been thinking at all clearly, he might have stopped to consider what powers of clairvoyance this little boy possessed, and thanked him for speaking up, for getting him to answer the phone. But as it was, he barely remembered to scoop up Jonny and buckle both of his sons into the car before speeding out of the driveway.

Fear was swarming around him in black and yellow, whirring past his eyes. He could hear it buzzing, feel the air stirring, the brush of its wings. It was beginning to sting him; short, sharp pain, itching and burning. And no matter what he tried, he couldn't wave it away.

He found himself in his mother's driveway, almost not remembering why he was there. But Jonny must have wanted to help as his brother had earlier, and began singing, "Grandma's house! Grandma's house!" just before his father drove out of the driveway. Michael deposited his sons on his mother's doorstep as she frantically asked him what was wrong, not providing much more of an answer other than he had to go, and hurrying away.

Michael followed the route he knew that Sydney would have taken to the preschool, the same one he should be taking himself with the twins still in the backseat and his thoughts on nothing more than Hailey's play and how gorgeous his wife was. It wasn't supposed to be like this. If only he had made her stay home with the twins…

He searched for any sign of Sydney, Hailey, or their car, earning a few choice words and gestures from other drivers and lucky that there were not any police in sight. Traffic slowed, and he barely had time to register the break lights in front of him. His car screamed to a halt, inches away from another vehicle. He wanted to lay on the horn, to curse the light for taking so long and the other drivers for getting in his way.

He sat in traffic for what seemed an interminable amount of time. He never knew how long it actually was; maybe five minutes, maybe fifteen or thirty, maybe three. His thoughts were racing, his body seeming to drive the car without him. Then he saw it. The flashing lights in the intersection ahead, barely visible at this distance. And he knew.

Running, faster than he ever had. Not thinking to turn off the car or shut the door. Ignoring the confused looks and angry shouts. His feet felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, would never be able to carry him far enough; each step agony, but the weight of his feet pressing down on the earth nothing compared to the weight on his chest.

He saw it. Her car. He tried to tell himself it wasn't; it barely looked like a car anymore. But there was her license plate number, there were the three car seats in the back. Someone was yelling to him, but he couldn't hear it, wouldn't have understood it even if he could. All normal, human function of his brain seemed to have turned off. Only the emotions were left: the crawling fear, the dripping sadness, the burning anger. All coursing through him at lightning speed, threatening to take over his body, to bring it to action where mind and reason could not.

"… going to have to move. Sir? Sir, you can't be here." Slowly the voice came back into focus, became something decipherable, something more than the waves of heat shimmering off the pavement. Shouting and horns blaring and distant traffic untangled themselves from the buzzing mixture they had become.

Michael circled slowly around, surveying the scene, trying to comprehend what was around him, for this wasn't just a dream. His wife, his daughter… They had been in that car, and now… His gaze wandered to the sidewalk. He saw Sydney's phone and the stain on the cement. Blood red. The same color that prickled his skin and curdled the blood in his veins. Red, relentless and raging. He hated red.

"Sir?" A hand was on his shoulder, trying to lead him away. He refused to move, the weight of his feet too much, the pressure on his soul even more.

Michael stared at the police officer that had a firm grip on his arm. "What happened?" he asked quietly, finding his voice.

The officer glanced at him kindly but disbelievingly. "There was an accident, buddy. What did you think it was? Now, you really have to…"

"Where is my wife? Where's our daughter?" Where's our unborn child… the love of my life, the one person I had to and can no longer live without… the happiness we had possessed in abundance just moments before?

"Oh…" The police officer's eyes and tone softened as he suddenly understood. "Mr.… Mr.…?"

"Vaughn." V-Vaughn... She had called him Vaughn. Over the years, he had heard it in anger, he had heard it in frustration, he had heard it in her dreams. But he had not heard her speak that name in that tone of voice in years. Had never thought he'd hear it again, wished he could have lived his entire life without having to.

"A woman and a young girl… Cedars-Sinai… I'm sorry…"

Those were the only words he caught. The only ones he needed. His feet moved on their own, leading him back to the car, pressing the gas pedal, his arms turning the steering wheel, finding the detour around the intersection and parking him in front of the hospital.

He burst in the door and up to the desk, the words springing quickly to his lips, without thought. "Please. My wife and daughter were in a car accident and were taken here. I need to see them."

The woman at the desk smiled at him sympathetically and spoke slowly. "Just a moment, sir. We'll find you a translator and…"

"No. Please," he begged, in English this time, cursing the fact that at this moment, the French had sprung unbidden to his lips. "My wife and daughter. They… they were just brought in. Sydney and Hailey Vaughn."

She nodded, pushing her thick glasses up her nose and typing furiously. "Your daughter's been taken to pediatrics, and your wife… is still in the ER, I think."

He had thought that once he had made it to them, once he could see them, everything would be all right. But now he was torn. No matter how much he wished it, he could not be in two places at once. Four years ago, he would have run straight to Sydney, no questions asked; but things were different now.

"Which way to pediatrics?" he asked quietly. The woman pointed out the direction and he found his way to the correct room.

"Daddy!" Hailey cried, jumping down from the examination table and running to him; the nurse at her side didn't move to stop or help her. The little girl's was in a tiny splint, and just as her mother had noticed earlier, her father could not help but see every tiny bruise and scratch that ran over her skin.

Michael scooped her up, close to tears but refusing to let them fall. "Hailey," he managed, through the lump in his throat, kissing her all over, wanting to reach each and every little hurt as he had done to her mother countless times before. "My little girl. Are you okay?"

"It was scary," Hailey confirmed, burying her head in his shoulder and sighing, glad to finally have someone familiar with her. "The car crashed and it's all broken."

"But you're all right, and that's all that matters." He said it to comfort her, but he knew that wasn't all that mattered.

Hailey must have agreed with his thoughts. She never spoke a word about how her new dress was ruined, or she had missed her play. She knew what really mattered. "Mommy was bleeding a lot. And she falled asleep and wouldn't wake up." The little girls eyes were wide with the memory. "Is she okay, Daddy?"

"I don't know, angel," Michael answered honestly. It wasn't the time for white lies, even if they would momentarily better the situation. "I came to see you, first."

"Then who's seeing Mommy? She's all by herself. She'll be scared when she wakes up."

"I'm sure the doctors and nurses are taking good care of her," Michael answered, wishing he could believe his own words. He was beginning to become frantic with not knowing exactly what had happened to his wife, with having to rely on the broken bits of the story that his daughter could offer him. He needed to see her more than anything, but he had to comfort his little girl first. "I'll go see her in a couple minutes."

"Then who'll stay with me?" Hailey asked, frightened at the thought of being left alone again.

"Maybe you can come with me," Michael answered, glancing at the nurse for confirmation.

"Her arm's broken," the nurse answered impatiently, his tone tired and unconcerned. "We're waiting for the doctor to come back so we can put a cast on her. It might take awhile. Can't say how long."

"The doctor said that I can get a pink one," Hailey added solemnly. "And it will make my arm all better."

"That's good, angel," Michael responded, not knowing where he found the strength to smile. "But it looks like you're going to have to wait awhile to see your mommy. Can you stay here with nice Nurse…?"

"Salvatore," the nurse mumbled, glancing up from the chart he had been flipping through. "Edward Salvatore. The kid can call me Ed."

Hailey's lower lip trembled. "He's not so nice, Daddy," she whispered. A grunt from Ed's direction told Michael that the male nurse had heard this, but Michael didn't really care. "He said he doesn't work with the kids everyday, and I'm the last one afore he goes home." Her whisper became even tinier and more worried. "His eyes are mean. Don't leave me alone with him, Daddy. Please?"

She looked close to tears, and Michael couldn't stand to have to see them fall. She had been through more than any four-year-old should have to, and he couldn't leave her alone again, not if this nurse was really as unkind as he appeared.

He kissed her temple tenderly, sure that she must be able to feel him shaking with frustration and anxiety. "Okay, sweetie. We'll go see your mother in a little while." He could call Jack or someone else, but he really didn't want to have to try to explain what had happened just yet, didn't think he would be capable of doing it until he saw for himself that Sydney was safe.

"I'll stay with her if you want to go now," a voice responded from behind him.

"You came back!" Hailey called, already seeing the owner of the voice from over her father's shoulder. Michael whirled around and found himself face to face with a young woman. As far as he could see, her eyes weren't "mean" and he was hoping Hailey agreed.

"I told you I would, honey," the woman answered, and then said to Michael, "I'm Carol Ross, one of the paramedics that brought Hailey in. My shift just finished, and she was so scared when we brought her here that I promised I'd come back to make sure you got here."

"Thanks," Michael answered. "For taking such good care of her. I'm Michael Vaughn."

Carol nodded, giving him a kind smile. "Hailey's told me all about you."

On any other day, on any ordinary day, Michael would have wondered exactly what that statement entailed, for whatever Hailey had to say was sure to include some stories that he wouldn't want relayed to others. But he didn't even have considered that now, wouldn't have cared even if he had.

"Carol telled me to think of something happy when my arm hurted. And I telled her about you and Mommy and William and Jonny and Donovan. And I teached her about French." At least the little girl seemed relaxed around this woman, and he only had to wonder for a few more seconds whether or not his daughter would accept her as suitable company.

Carol held her arms out to Hailey. "You want to come to me now, honey, and let your daddy go see your mom?" Michael held his breath, not wanting to push the little girl either way.

But Hailey agreed, passing easily into the woman's arms. She seemed a little sad that her father was going to leave her, but was content to stay with the paramedic for the time being.

"I'll be back in a little while, angel," Michael murmured, giving Hailey a kiss and turning gratefully to Carol. "Thank you."

She didn't smile as she answered him this time, her voice hushed, her eyes serious. "Good luck."


A quick trip back to the main desk informed Michael that Sydney had been moved out of the ER. She had a bed upstairs, but at least it wasn't in the Intensive Care Unit. He thanked God for that as he made her way to her.

A doctor was just walking out of her room, glancing down at the chart she held in her hands and nearly bumping into him. "Is she…?" he asked, not able to think of a proper ending to this question. What was he supposed to ask? Okay didn't seem like the right word anymore.

The doctor glanced up, quickly apologizing for almost running into him. "Are you the husband?" she asked. He nodded in reply and she led him down the hall a little ways. "I'm Melina Quinn," she began, rearranging her clipboard and pens to offer him her hand. "Your wife sustained a head injury that might not have been too serious, but had hit a relatively tender area. She's had a similar head injury before?"

Suddenly, Michael was back in that hotel room in Cairo on their last mission. The last one before SD-6 had been taken down, the last one before they had been married, the last one they had gone on. Ever.

He could hear the ear-splitting crack, the crashing of glass, her small gasp of pain that had nearly broken his heart, and the sickening thud of her body hitting the floor. There was that voice, the one he had later extinguished forever with a single bullet to the chest.

"Mr. Vaughn?"

The doctor's voice snapped him back to the present. He was here, in LA, in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, not that hotel or the hospital in Cairo. "Yes. A little over seven years ago."

"Well, this new injury should heal as the old one had. Although I was just reading her chart and those headaches she had been getting may become more frequent for awhile. Your wife will be fine, Mr. Vaughn, but I'm afraid…"

Those words triggered it. And he suddenly remembered. How could he have forgotten? He had seen his daughter, and she had been fine; and he had just now learned that his beloved wife was going to be okay. But what about the other passenger in the car? The completely helpless, the completely trusting child, who had not yet had a chance to live…

"… the child she was carrying was lost. I'm very sorry."

He could tell from her eyes that she meant those words, but that still didn't make the truth any easier to grasp. Their fourth child might not have been planned, but they had already started loving their new baby, had already begun planning their life with four children instead of three. Michael thanked her quietly, and she said something about wanting to keep Sydney awhile for observation and hurried away.

He made his way to Sydney's room, pausing outside the door. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her, stars whizzed out of the corner of his eyes and he had to grab the doorframe to keep from falling over. His wife still lived and breathed, and at that moment, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was standing by the window, leaning heavily on the sill with one hand and clutching the pole that held her IV with the other. Her back was to him, her clothes long gone, replaced by a hospital gown, her bare feet on the cold tile floor.

"Syd?" It was barely more than a whisper. She didn't move, probably hadn't heard him; he knew she shouldn't be out of bed, but didn't want those to be his first words to her. He tried again, louder this time, able to hold back the tears of relief and let his voice through, "Syd?"

She didn't turn to face him, but he knew that this time she had heard him. He took a few tentative steps into the room. "I'm so sorry, Syd." He didn't know what else to say, couldn't help but think that this was somehow his fault. If he hadn't distracted her, if they had been able to leave a split second sooner…

Sydney still didn't turn around, never acknowledging his presence or his words. He didn't know if she blamed him as much as he blamed herself, didn't know, even, if she could actually hear him. He had thought that he was able to sense that she had heard his words, but perhaps, for the first time in his life, he had been wrong about that.

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, murmuring, "Syd? Baby?"

She finally moved, shaking off his hand. But it had been his words and not his touch that had gotten to her. "Don't call me that," she whispered. She had regained consciousness almost as soon as the ambulance began on its way to the hospital, but these were the first words she had spoken since waking up. "Hailey…" she mumbled, and he knew it was a question.

"She broke her arm and she's scared, but she's going to be fine. She made friends with one of the paramedics, and she came back to stay with her."

He was beside her now and could finally see her face. The good half, he thought to himself, the half that looked untouched, that looked just like his Sydney. Only suddenly not at all. Although her features were flawless, not revealing any signs of an accident, the sparkle, the laughter, the life was lost from her eye.

He turned her gently, and the horror of what had happened hit home. Her face was a mess of bruises. It looked as if there had been a war in a paint store and Sydney had been caught in the crossfire between the reds and blues. More hues of those two colors, and the purple that their mixture made, were evident in her skin than he had even known to exist. And he knew that if he stripped the hospital gown from her suddenly frail body, he would find even more colors lining its entire length.

Michael wanted to cry, but didn't. Instead, he lifted Sydney up, waiting for her protest, wanting her to tell him that she could walk. But she didn't say a word as he carried her to the bed, and perhaps that's what hurt most of all. Only when she was nearing unconsciousness and when he was carrying her across the threshold, had his wife ever allowed him to pick her up; but this time, she simply gave in to him.

"I love you," he murmured, laying her gently on the bed. "You're beautiful." And she didn't protest that either, even though maybe an hour before, she had good-naturedly argued with him over her appearance.

He kissed her lips and for the first time in over seven years, she didn't kiss him back. "Michael," she whispered after a moment, pausing as a tear found its way down her cheek, wincing at the pain the salt within it caused her as it ran over her wounds. He gently brushed it away, waiting for her to continue. "There's no enemy."

Her words may have seemed strange, but he knew what she meant. For years she had fought against the enemy, knew exactly who the bad guys were, could practically tell just by looking at them. She had only had to look after herself, and he knew that most of the time, she hadn't cared whether she came back or not.

It had been different this time. She had not only herself, but Hailey and their unborn child. Something wrong had happened and there was no one to go after, no way to make it right, no way it could have been prevented. This could have happened to anyone, anybody else, anybody at all. But it hadn't. It had happened to them.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but she flinched at the slight pressure of his fingers running down her cheek. He wasn't sure if his touch had actually caused her physical pain, or if she just couldn't stand to feel it at the moment.

She closed her eyes to fight back the tears. But she didn't cry; that single tear was the only one he would see her shed for quite awhile. She looked so young and helpless before him. And although he had no way of knowing, for the first time ever, mother reflected daughter in words and expression, instead of the other way around.

"I want to go home."