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Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride
Chapter Three: The Third Attempt
Francie somehow found out about their second attempt at marriage. Although Sydney and Michael practically made Weiss swear in blood that he wouldn't tell a soul, pillow talk with his girlfriend had proved to be an impossible dragon to slay. As soon as she discovered their secret, she stormed into their room without any regard for their privacy. She lividly berated them for a solid fifteen minutes, failing to notice 'til the very end of her tirade that they were clutching at the sheets for dear life, upon which time she blushed, covered her eyes, and ran awkwardly out of the room.
After that strange encounter talk of gowns, flowers, and weddings in general decreased dramatically around the apartment. Even Weiss lay off them. Lists pinned to bulletin boards and stuck on the refrigerator door began mysteriously disappearing, leaving only dark patches to remind onlookers of their past presence. Phone calls reminding "Sydney Brisket" of her gown fitting or "Michael Vogan" of his tailoring session suddenly ceased, leaving the answering machine extremely lonely.
All of this made Sydney immensely suspicious. She found herself wondering on more than one occasion what was going on behind her back. Her only solace came from the fact that Michael also had absolutely no idea what their friends were up to. So they were wandering blindly together — not really, as they were still rarely side by side — through very uncharted territory.
Jack Bristow had somehow found a way to increase their mission frequency even further. He must have had some idea of what went on the night Kendall excused Michael from their meeting, because the next day the fiancé found himself assigned on a two-week mission to Liberia. The young man was incensed but had no way of proving anything, so he had to remain silent and resort to daily phone calls to Sydney stolen during the middle of the night. She briefly entertained the notion of approaching her father, but was talked out of it by Michael; he didn't want their already dismal situation to deteriorate even further.
So Christmas passed without incident (Sydney was home while Weiss and Michael were in said Liberia) as did the New Year (both were overseas: Sydney in Sweden and Michael in Cambodia). The only complaining about their constant absence was surprisingly from Will. While Francie took it in stride, Will vehemently opposed every one of their trips, both at home and at work. This piqued Syd's interest even further; her male best friend had never been extremely vocal, especially in regards to her work: that was previously Francie's job. And now that he was, Sydney knew something was up.
She tried to weasel it out of Weiss on more than one occasion (once with cookies and the other with a cake), but he claimed to know absolutely nothing about anything — which she didn't disagree with. No one was talking, and since it was actually kind of pleasant not to think about the wedding, Sydney let everyone be for a time. She didn't let down her guard, but shoved her worries to the back of her mind and refused to deal with them while her environment was so serene.
And so it was during the second week of February. Mission requests and reconnaissance operations were few and far between that week, and ones that did float into the Ops Centre didn't require agents of Michael and Sydney's caliber. Another blue moon had come, there was a coming apocalypse, and snow had fallen in the Sahara: Sydney and Michael had almost an entire week alone. The first day was spent altogether in bed with the door closed and locked. The second day, they were quite literally dragged out of bed by Francie and sent into the bathroom to shower separately, the other baby-sat by a stern-looking Weiss. Then the couple was shoved out of the door and into the cool morning air. Shivering slightly, they climbed into his old pick-up tuck and just drove.
They ended up at the pier — their pier — which was practically abandoned at that time of year. Hand in hand they walked down the middle of the wharf, shoes clunking against the sodden, rotting planks. Mottled grey sky frowned down upon them, the clouds ever shifting and molding, tumbling over one another to change the shade of grey from time to time. Where heavens kissed earth at the interminable horizon, they blended slightly as one grey bled into another, waves rolling and crashing, foam bubbling up and spray spitting into the air. Everything was slightly blurred around the edges as if seen through foggy glass or in a dream.
But the dreariness of the scene did not dampen the couple's spirits. They strolled to the end of the dock and sat on the wet lumber facing into the wind, which was galling at such a clip that it blew Sydney's still-damp hair straight back. Swinging their legs freely over the tumultuous waves, Sydney snuggled into Michael, feeding off his warmth. She smiled against his coat as his arm found its way around her shoulders and pulled her even closer, kissing the top of her head. They simply sat like that for a while, enjoying the other's presence despite the dark atmosphere.
"It seems like we're already married, doesn't it?"
Michael looked down upon his fiancée, slightly confused. "Hmm?"
She smiled back at him contentedly; she had slipped back into her overly imaginative state. "I mean, we've been engaged for almost two years, we haven't been exactly celibate for all that time, and those years we've known each other have been—"
"Action-packed?" He supplied. When she shrugged, he nodded and looked out over the ocean. "So in other words, we've been through enough crap in our relationship that we deserve to be married and left alone for the rest of our lives?"
"Something like that." Identical small smiles crept across their faces simultaneously, and they snuck peeks at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
"Yeah, well, maybe someday it'll happen. But I doubt it: Weiss and Kendall enjoy interrupting our happiness way too much to leave us alone for long. And your father might just possibly bug our house."
"I wouldn't put it past him," She mused quietly, fingering something in an inside pocket of her jacket.
Michael noticed her movement and stared. "Speaking of bugs…Are you taping our conversation, dear?"
Sydney laughed fully and extricated the dilapidated blue journal and a pen from that pocket. "I snuck this out of the house before we were kicked to the curb. What do you say to another joint entry?"
He chuckled quietly and shook his head in bemusement. "Tu es drole, mais je t'aime. Tu as mon coeur."
"I know. I'm good, aren't I?" She slipped off the disintegrating ribbon and shoved it in her pocket as she settled the book in between them, trying to keep the dwindling paper mostly dry. He slid the pen from her grasp and wrote in his rigid, block lettering:
'I love you, Sydney Bristow.'
She frowned playfully and retook the pen. 'Keep it objective, dear. Remember, impersonal. And stop being sappy.'
"Oh, you know you like it, Syd," He replied aloud as he grasped for the writing utensil. But she kept it tightly clutched in her grip, refusing to relinquish it just yet.
'Mr. Vaughn is now glaring at me quite unabashedly,' She wrote in loopy script. 'It's not a very becoming look for him, I must say. I much prefer him when he smiles that bashful smile: the one where he only lifts one corner of his mouth but somehow manages to display all of his flawless teeth. The epitome of perfection.' Abdicating the utensil at last, she smiled triumphantly and buried herself in his side.
'So that's the game we're playing, huh?' Michael wrote back. 'Well then…What I love most about Sydney Bristow is not her smile (although it makes me feel like the most important person in the world). It's not her warm, emotional chocolate eyes; nor her unequaled body (although it's damn fine). It's something you can't quite see unless she allows you to see it.
'It's her strength.
'Of course, there's the physical strength that I marvel at: she can kick my ass five ways from Sunday. But that's not what I mean. What I mean is her emotional strength. She can walk among the scourge of humanity — pretend to be one of their own — see death and destruction enough for fifty lifetimes and still remain whole. But what blows my mind is that she is somehow able to smile at the end of the day, to put that shit behind her and enjoy life to the fullest. She isn't constantly bogged down in a sea of sadness or wearing a cloak of despair. She has her moments, but I love those as well: I get to comfort her and bring her out of those bouts of depression. I thank whoever's listening every day that I'm the one who gets to do that.
'And that is what I love most about Sydney Bristow. My Sydney Bristow.'
Chuckling at a sudden thought she grabbed the pen back and hastily scribbled, 'Nice essay. Were you hoping for a little extra credit?'
Locking onto her eyes, his hand latched onto her and guided it to write, 'Are you offering any?'
She grinned slyly and penned, 'You're being personal, Mr. Vaughn. Strict first person, remember?'
'But the question was personal! Are you above the rules that you came up with?'
'Damn straight.'
Michael calmly regained the utensil and stroked out, 'Alright then. For extra credit, I am willing to throw Miss Bristow over my shoulder, carry her to a secluded, deserted beach, throw her down upon the sand, and ravish her for hours. As the surf crashes around our merging bodies, I'll make her scream out my name so loudly that they'll hear her in China. How's that for extra credit?' He signed both of their names and capped the pen, sliding it into his own pocket for safekeeping.
She merely looked at him, her gaze unabashed surprise. "Remind me never to show this to our kids."
His eyes never faltered. "Well?"
"It's too cold, Michael! It's the beginning of February and the ocean never really gets above seventy degrees, anyway!"
"Well?" He insisted, his eyes drilling into her own with intense unbridled lust, passion, and love.
Feeling the blood rush to her cheeks and her skin turn to liquid from her legs upward she replied huskily, "Take me now, Mr. Vaughn."
* * *
"Get up! Get up, I say! Sheesh. You two are a couple of lazy bums. Don't make me drag Eric in here, 'cause then he'll moon your unconscious selves and it'll get all kinds of ugly real fast!"
"Fran? It's only six AM! Go back to bed and leave me and Michael in peace!"
"Oh, sorry, can't. We're behind by fourteen hours! I need you up right now before the bad luck starts kicking in."
"Francine! What the hell! Go away before I karate chop your ass twenty different ways."
"Eric! They want you to moon them! Uh-huh. Right now. He's coming, guys. I'd kill myself if I were you."
"Fine! We're up!" Michael exclaimed, unwrapping his arms from around Sydney's waist as they sat up simultaneously, each trying to get their bearings on that early morning. Suddenly, pillows clapped down over each of their faces, rendering them sightless and practically unable to breathe. "What the hell! What are you doing, Francie?" He sputtered from behind the ball of fluff.
Sydney's pillow dropped from her face to reveal a comical sight. A fully dressed Francie was smothering a not-so-fully-dressed Michael with bedding while attempting to do the same to Syd. When she succeeded in failing at completing both tasks, she gave up on Syd and motioned for her friend to get dressed while she concentrated on Michael with her eyes squeezed shut. Sydney quickly finished dressing, afraid that her fiancé just might accidentally pummel her friend, and asked again about the early wake-up call. The pillow moved up and down, indicating that Michael was nodding in agreement.
"Everyone knows its bad luck for the groom to see the bride twenty-four hours before the wedding! And we're fourteen hours behind! Since most of that was hopefully spent sleeping, though, I guess they'll let it slide. But come on! We've only got ten hours 'til your wedding!"
"What?" Both of them exclaimed at the same time, one voice slightly more muffled than the other. Sydney added, "What wedding? We're not getting married today. We didn't plan on this; we haven't organized anything."
"Correction," Francie said, "you haven't organized anything. I have, and so have Will and Eric. We were getting a little tired of you guys taking your sweet time with this so we took it into our own hands. You're getting married at four o'clock this afternoon at St. John the Baptist Church if we have to tie you to boards and plant you at the end of the aisle. Happy surprise wedding!"
Sydney stared at her friend in utter disbelief and had a suspicious feeling that her fiancé was, too. She knew her friend to be pushy at times, but this was downright controlling! To what extent had Francie planned this? Syd somehow knew that she wouldn't have to wait long to find out.
Weiss appeared abruptly in the doorway with a bored expression alighting upon his face. "You called, mistress?"
Francie swung into Controlling Best Friend Mode and used every last ounce of strength to muscle Vaughn back into a lying position on the bed. "Get him showered and dressed, pick up your tuxes, and get over to the church as fast as humanly possible."
"Does your schedule include regular feeding times? I mean, we do have ten hours: it's the least we can do for them."
His girlfriend merely growled at him and bared her teeth, eerily reminiscent of Donovan when someone tried to touch his doggie bowl with kibble still in it. While Weiss shrugged his shoulders and began rooting in drawers for Vaughn's clothes, Francie dragged Sydney out of the room with herself spread in Michael's eye line.
Leading her to her car, Francie was conserving energy by not explaining a thing. Sydney's mind was overflowing with question after question, punctuated occasionally by a choice curse. As the car sputtered to life and Francie pulled out, Syd chose the broadest one she could think of. "Fran, what the hell is going on?"
Her friend didn't take her eyes off the crowded road as she answered. "Weren't you listening? You're getting married today. We have to pick up our dresses and get over to the church. Then I become your awesome wedding planner and hop over to the reception hall, arrange the flowers there, get the food and DJ set, and cruise back there to oversee things. Do you know how incredibly hard it is to throw a wedding together in just one day?"
"No," Syd replied in a tension-wrought tone, "I wouldn't know, now, would I?" Animosity was creeping into her heart like fog down a street. Her friend only had her best interests at heart, but she didn't need to do this. She knew that a person could have the ability to dictate their feelings toward a situation: if they found it unfavourable, a person could set their mind against it — be irritable and disagreeable — in hopes that things would change to their liking. That, she decided, was what she was going to do.
Francie suddenly swerved into a parking spot on the side of the road and screeched to a halt. She was a flurry of purse straps, keys, and receipts as she tried to get out of the car and gather everything at once. Syd simply sighed, unbuckled her seatbelt, stepped out, and waited for her friend to show her the way. They trekked into Betty's Bridal Boutique, an unassuming and even quaint store that remained homey despite the busy street outside. Syd sat politely in a chair in front of the window, but Francie flew to the receptionist's desk and began to frantically ring a bell poised on the desktop. A frazzled-looking woman appeared from a back room with a fabricated smile plastered onto her face.
Syd's best friend didn't even wait for the lady to say anything. Instead she demanded, "Two dresses for Calfo: one bride and one bridesmaid. Hurry up! We're kinda on a time limit here!" After not bothering to hide a disdainful glare, the woman hurried back to room from whence she came.
Closing her eyes and breathing meditatively, Syd asked a question that she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to. "How did you know what dress to pick out for me? Last time I checked, I hadn't even decided on what kind of skirt I wanted."
Fran rolled her eyes dismissively and began tapping her nails on the desk impatiently. "I picked out the one I knew you'd like the most, and I already know your size. I'm your best friend: it's my job to know these things."
'You're kidding me,' She thought incredulously, physically shaking her head. 'Well if you know my goddamn size, you should know that I'm not enjoying this at all. If you were my best friend, you'd realize that I'd rather go down the aisle butt-naked than have no say in my dress. Or my wedding for that matter.'
The lady reappeared, bustling out of the back room with her arms piled high in nylon garment bags. Francie grabbed them from her, shoved them at Sydney, and breezed out of the boutique like a whirlwind. Syd had to practically jog to keep up.
"What about my hair and nails? If I'm getting married today, I should have gotten them done yesterday. As I don't think my memory is defective, I don't believe that's what happened."
"Don't worry; I have people waiting at the church."
People. That's what she was afraid of. "Aren't you worried about spreading yourself too thin?"
"No."
"What if you get stuck in traffic on your way back to the church?"
"Then I'll fly."
"Seriously, Fran!"
"I'm dead serious! I'll flag down a passing pigeon! Nothing is going to keep me from my best friend's wedding."
'Obviously. Not even the best friend herself.' "Aren't you afraid you left something out? How did you manage to get this all together in one day?"
They had only just climbed into the car when it sped back out into the busy street. Francie scoffed. "Are you kidding me? Even I'm not that good! I've had everyone waiting on stand-by ever since I found out about Weiss's little gig as an ordained priest. They've just been waiting for my cue. When a little — well, not so much little as large — birdie told me that your trips were going to be non-existent this week, we rolled into action."
"But what about Michael's bachelor party? Or my bachelorette party? Why deprive us of knowing about our last night as single people?" Sydney was officially grasping at straws; any excuse to get this wedding train to turn around was good enough for her.
Fran issued a short laugh as she swung right down a street. "You're joking, right? Michael wasn't really into the whole 'bachelor party' thing, anyway; he said he was only going to do it for Eric, remember? I'm not too fond of the idea of strippers rubbing their large fake breasts up in my boyfriend's face and giving him ideas. And you don't bother to even look at guys anymore, so what's the point?"
Damn. She tried.
They screeched to a halt in front of a church that she had never seen — let alone been to — and Francie switched on her hazard lights as she quickly guided her friend inside. Through hallways and around corners the friends traveled until Fran literally shoved Sydney through a door into one of the dressing rooms, still carrying the garment bags and staggering bewilderedly. After muttering a hasty word of parting Francie took off again, presumably either to check the flowers in the church or zoom to the reception hall (wherever that was).
Facing Syd were seven women, each looking like a hungry lioness that had spotted its prey and was crouched to spring. She barely had time to think about running out the door before they pounced. Two of them grabbed the bags out of her arms while yet another pair dragged an armchair into the middle of the room and in front of the three-paneled mirror. As she fought to strip her own clothes, one of the attendants unzipped a garment bag, and she got her first glance of the wedding dress.
All she could do was gasp.
The sleeves were bell-shaped and drooped a good two feet from her wrist. Trimmed with a gold ribbon, they also had oval cutouts along the arm interspersed with tiny pink rosebuds. The neckline still left something to the imagination and was adorned with rosebuds as well, while the back dipped down to her waist. Off-white silk was draped across the bust in flowing waves and bled down into a smooth, form-fitting satin bodice. The skirt overshadowed everything. It was bell-shaped like the sleeves, a built-in petticoat of stiff taffeta keeping its princess-style shape. Pleats ran from the waist down, pearls sown on in random designs. Flowers were embroidered at the skirt's hem, centres made of clustered pearls. And there was a train. It was tapered at the waist but fanned out to the width of the skirt and continued on for a good twelve feet, edged with embroidered ivy sprigs and flowers matching the skirt's.
"Okay, somehow hand me my tiara and I'll be all set."
"Not yet. We still have hair to do."
Sydney hadn't even realized she had spoken. A short black-haired woman was standing in front of her with her back to the mirrors, fists digging into her hips. Pointing towards another door she commanded in Spanish-tinged English, "Shower. Now. Then we dress you."
'And I shall call her Mini Francie!'
Following the woman's orders, she showered and allowed one of the women to dress her (albeit very self-consciously). And the dress didn't fit. The upper part of the bodice was too snug while the lower was a little big. Syd sighed: apparently Francie didn't know all her sizes as well as she thought.
While all seven of the women formed a huddle to discuss her problem, Sydney's cell phone rang. Quickly smothering the noise, she slipped back into the bathroom and answered it. "Save me! Now!"
A light chuckle was the response. "I'm guessing you're not having as much fun as I am."
It was Michael. Precious few times had his voice been more welcome to her ears. "Fun?! A wedding is supposed to be fun?! Why did no one tell me this?"
Another short laugh, and she could hear the soft chink of plastic on porcelain: he was shaving. "Okay, spill: what's happening on your end?"
Collapsing on the closed lid of the toilet seat, she struggled to keep her voice from shaking. "I had no choice in my wedding dress; it looks like I stepped out of a really bad version of Cinderella. Francie thinks I'm fat with small breasts. I can't breathe; this thing is so tight. There are seven — count 'em, seven! — angry women waiting to attack me with nail files and curling irons. I have no idea what flowers are in the church, what's being served for dinner, what flavour the cake is, what colours are in the reception hall, or even where the damn thing is! And to top it off, I haven't had anything to eat since dinner yesterday. I'm really, really hungry!"
"I'm so sorry, baby," He said through suppressed spurts of laughter. "I wish there was something I could do. I really do."
"I don't want to be here, Michael!" She exclaimed, forgetting for a moment to keep her voice down. "We don't even go to church, damn it! Why do we have to be married in one? Isn't that sacrilegious or something?" She offered a choked little sob. "Get me out!"
"As much as I want to, I can't," He sighed, voice muffled slightly; he was toweling off his face. "Weiss and Will have me under lock and key. They're being threatened by Francie with getting shaven in…unfriendly places."
Despite the tears welling in her eyes, Syd laughed. "I'm sorry. I've been unloading all my problems without any concern for you. What's going on over there? What're you wearing?"
"Under normal circumstances, that question would turn me on. But not when I'm wearing a top hat, tails, white vest, bow tie, and cumberbun. I don't think men have dressed like this for at least a hundred years. I feel like I should be wearing a monocle and carrying a walking stick."
Her laughter reverberated throughout the bathroom as she cracked her first real smile of the day. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one whose clothes will serves as fodder for humiliation in years to come. But to put yours in perspective: at least you can breathe."
His chuckle was added to hers. "Well, I can also tell you that the colours are pink and purple, and the flowers are roses and carnations."
Sydney froze. "You're kidding."
"Not at all. Those are the only flowers I can recognize without help."
She felt like banging her head repeatedly against the sink. "Those are her favourite colours! Doesn't she remember that I abhor roses and carnations? Are you sure you didn't see any orchids or tiger lilies or baby's breath?"
"Those are the ones you like?"
"Yeah."
"Then no."
"Damn it!" She swore, beginning to pace across the small space in her stocking-clad feet. "Is this our wedding or hers?"
"I believe that would be the Question of the Day, my dear."
A sharp rap on the door startled Sydney. It was followed by more broken orders to 'get out of toilet so girls can do hair and nails.' She sighed and her shoulders began to slump. "Mini Francie wants to get me all beautified and shit."
An expectant silence followed.
"This woman Fran hired to, I don't know, oversee the rest of my attendants. I have to go. Hopefully I'll see you soon and we'll be alone for more than five seconds."
"I second that motion."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Hanging up, Sydney inhaled as deeply as the dress allowed, unlocked the door, and was immediately barraged with said nail files and curling irons.
All in all, it took about four hours total to do her hair and nails. She finally stood in front of the mirrors an hour before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Her hair was swept up into a bun on the top of her head with a circlet of pearls upon which hung the veil that trailed the same length as the train. Two ringlets hung down to frame her face. The tiara was perched on her crown, diamond sparkling proudly back at her in the afternoon light. If she had been one for extravagance, elegance, and high society clothing, she'd be in heaven. As it was, she almost found it pretty.
Suddenly France appeared over her friend's shoulder, tears congregating but refusing to fall. Fixing the position of a rosebud she whispered, "You look so beautiful, Syd. Like the bride of my dreams."
A shadow passed over her face, and she turned around to confront her friend. "Um, about that—" But gunfire cut her off.
A single shot.
Then silence.
Syd's eyes doubled in size, and she grabbed Francie by the shoulders. "Stay here. Do not leave this room under any circumstances, do you hear me? Lock the door and don't make any noise."
Francie's face contorted in confusion as she fought to stay by her friend. "But why? What's wrong? What's going on, Syd?"
"Just do it!" She was already running down the hall with her skirt bunched up in her hands, remembering the path she had taken to get from the front doors to her dressing room. When she came up to the last corner, her footfalls became silent even as her speed remained the same. Rounding it, she peered down the corridor and her worst fears were confirmed: there was the CIA guard that was usually sanctioned for special events. He was dead: a single bullet to the head.
He'd found her. Sloane had tracked her down and had planned on interrupting her happiness one last time. But she wasn't going to let that happen.
Knowing it would slow her down, she removed her tiara and veil and tore off the majority of her train. She then proceeded to stalk towards the entryway to the actual church. What she saw made her heart jump into her throat.
All of the guests were seated already, with the priest, Michael, Weiss, and Will at the end of the aisle. Her father was also by the priest's side, but his position was unwilling. A gunman was poised in front of them, a pistol trained on Michael, but obviously indiscriminate as to whom he shot. There were men in combat fatigues stationed around the room, two to every exit. But Sloane was nowhere to be found. Her eyes locked with her father's and he blinked her a message in Morse code.
'S-L-O-A-N-E-G-U-N-I-N-C-O-A-T.'
She nodded shortly, but upon turning around Francie's voice echoed in the foyer. "Syd, behind you!"
A rough hand gripped her bicep and a gun was thrust into the soft area under her chin. She winced slightly: the barrel was still hot. "Hello, Sydney," A familiar greasy voice drawled. She didn't have to see the man to know it was he. "Fancy meeting you here. I was just coming to see one of my favourite agents get married. Although I don't think that will be happening now, do you?"
Her speech was impaired by the pistol but she grunted, "What do you want, Sloane?"
His laughed was as bitter as ever. "You," He answered simply. Before she could respond, he roughly pushed her through the entryway and to the beginning of the aisle. Michael's eyes immediately locked on to his fiancée's, and on instinct he made a move towards her. The thug in front of him waved the gun threateningly as Sloane wedged the gun further against her throat. "Ah, ah, ah, Agent Vaughn. If you move, you won't be the only one with a bullet to the head."
Michael stepped back in front of Weiss with his hands folded behind his back. Syd could tell by the way they both were fidgeting that they were exchanging guns. Weiss was handing over a firearm to his best friend. Back when they first got engaged, the promised each other that they wouldn't wear holsters of any kind until after the wedding. Their friend, on the other hand, was free to do whatever he wanted. She'd have to thank him later for wanting to tote a gun or two.
Her father also had his hands hidden behind his back. 'Of course,' She chastised herself. 'He wouldn't bring only one gun to my wedding, let alone leave it in his coat. I wouldn't be surprised if he hand another strapped to his ankle.
'Wait a second: coat!'
Sloane, despite her shout in the hall, hadn't noticed Francie's presence yet. Albeit Syd was angry with her friend for disobeying her orders, she was glad she did now. Syd was formulating a plan. If Fran was still quietly observing at the doorway, then everything was set. Somehow she needed to get Sloane to turn around and face the foyer without actually looking at it. Then she'd have to find a way to inconspicuously communicate with her, tell her to get the gun from her father's coat, and somehow convincingly wield it against ten trained Large Thugs, and two gunmen holding her best friends hostage. All without ever handling a gun in her life.
'Can we say "far-fetched" anyone?'
Syd's gaze darted quickly between the three other field-rated agents, trying desperately to convey her plans. The two men closest to her heart immediately understood and began discreetly shifting their bodies so as to get into a better position; they weren't able to provide the distraction, but they were ready and willing to fight.
Weiss was still completely clueless. He stared at Syd blatantly, obviously wanting some form of instructions. And then another idea hit her: she'd be the one to get Sloane to turn his back on the wedding party! While his back was turned, then either her father or Michael could take out the gunman while Eric slipped away through the one entrance that wasn't guarded: the door to the dressing room she had been in! The rest of the guards were more concerned with people coming in rather than the occupants of the room themselves; they wouldn't notice him slink away. Then if Francie had gone back to the room, Eric could convince her to stay put this time. Yes; she'd doubled checked it and there were few possibilities for error. This was the best she could come up with under this kind of pressure. She conveyed it quickly to Weiss.
Sloane started on a worn and lengthy diatribe, intent on convincing both Sydney and Jack to join him in his 'quest for enlightenment.' She tuned out the tired rambling and instead concentrated on digging her sharp heel into her skirt. Feeling the thin material give way to her stiletto, Syd went to work on the worn carpet, snagging any fibers that would catch on her sharp shoe. Finally hitting the hard wood underneath, she was (figuratively) able to breathe easier. All she had to do was wait.
Then it happened.
He began advancing towards the end of the aisle in slow, measured paces, dragging Sydney with him. But her shoe pinned down her skirt and made the pair of them twist around one hundred and eighty degrees. Syd quickly caught a glimpse of a black blur from the doorway as she collapsed on the floor, feigning a twisted ankle. She cried out, "Coat!" as she clutched her perfectly fine ankle, hoping beyond hope that her friend got something out of the random word. True to her plan, the flash of black zoomed out of view to her right and what she only assumed was some sort of coat check.
Sloane had followed Syd to the floor, the gun now pressed against her left temple, and the people around her began to murmur quietly despite their obvious terror. He either hadn't heard or understood her exclamation as she went down, because he only asked if she was all right, making her want to retch on his shoes. There was a muted gunshot at the pinnacle of the aisle, but what attracted Sloane's interest was the sharp increase in noise from the gathering. Spinning around, he tugged her to her feet and began advancing again down the aisle, wrenching her shoe free and really twisting her ankle. Her yelp of pain was lost, though, in the ensuing commotion.
The one thing she had counted on causing trouble had done so.
Reactions to the gunshot rippled through the crowd, garnering the guards and Sloane's attention. This drew focus onto Weiss, who was halfway to the dressing room door. Mercs from the nearest exit suddenly appeared at his side and flanked him as he begrudgingly trudged back to his spot in the wedding party. Sloane's gun was back under her chin, the barrel now cool, and she could practically hear his slimy smile. "You can't get away that easily. The only way this will end without anyone getting hurt is if both Bristows come with me."
The thought of spitting in his face occurred to Sydney, but she didn't get the chance.
"Not if I can help it."
Sloane spun the pair of them around again, twisting her ankle one more time. It was Francie, wielding the unfamiliar gun like a pro and training it on Sloane. "Look, I don't know who the hell you are," She continued, "but you better get your hands off my best friend."
Her act apparently didn't fool Sloane, though, for he merely wedged the gun further into Syd's flesh. "Ah, you must be Francie. A pleasure to finally meet you at last. Now, why don't you put that gun down; we both know you don't know how to handle it."
That was a challenge. And Francie never backed down from a challenge.
The gun raised ever so slightly, one of her eyes closed, and she aimed. Sydney braced herself for a large dose of pain: Sloane was using her as a human shield, and the only body parts that were exposed were his arms and head. But when the shot rang out a fraction of a second later, the cry of pain did not come from her own throat. The gun at her chin wasn't as tightly held and her arm was loosed. Fran had shot him in the left arm.
From then on, everything was pretty much a blur. Somehow she wrenched herself from his grasp, but then the guards from the nearest doorway were upon her. Ignoring the steadily worsening pain in her ankle, she fended off two of them while desperately trying to make her way towards Francie. The other guards gradually joined the fray, slashing at her gown with knives and delivering swift roundhouse kicks that knocked her to the floor. But just as quickly as the fight began, it was over with one simple word issuing from three throats simultaneously:
"FREEZE!"
Pure adrenaline kept her on her feet as she hobbled towards the gun-toting Michael. He immediately dropped his borrowed firearm as she neared and collapsed into his arms, unable to support her weight on her injured ankle a moment longer. The sleeves of her dress were ripped off and lay on the floor under the feet of the surrendering guards. Her arms were crisscrossed with knife scrapes, and there was a shallow gash across her stomach that was already staining the material with blood where she had failed to get out of the way in time. The formerly beautiful gown hung in limp tatters around her decrepit form, pearls littering the floor like teardrops. Her chin and cheek were beginning to bruise where Sloane's gun and a fist had landed respectively: yellow had begun to creep to the surface.
The pair collapsed onto a pew with her cradled in his arms. She vaguely noticed that all the pews were recently vacated and her father was missing. Her eyes darted around the room and took in Will and Francie joining Weiss in keeping the offenders in one place. But one other person was noticeably absent.
Syd suddenly sat straight up and whipped her head around, attempting to visually search every nook and cranny. "Where's Sloane? Where is he? Where is that bastard?!"
Michael took hold of her head with both of his hands, forcing her to look at him. "That's not important right now. Are you all right?" When her eyes continued their sweep of the room, he sighed in exasperation and commanded her attention with his tone. "Syd!"
"I'll be fine," She answered absently. "My ankle, but…Where is he, Vaughn? I want to know!"
He winced at the slip in his name, but said nothing of it. "He escaped while you were fighting. As soon as Francie shot him, the room disintegrated into chaos, and he disappeared in the fray. Your father followed but couldn't find him; now's he radioing for backup."
"So we lost him. Again," She spat, venom saturating her voice "Why does this always happen? Why can't he just leave me the hell alone?" She stood up, planning on pacing to relieve stress, but her right ankle gave out, sending her back down onto Michael's lap with a soft thump.
"That doesn't matter right now, baby," He reiterated softly, cupping her cheek and stroking a thumb across the rapidly forming bruise. "All that I care about is that you're safe."
Jack Bristow suddenly appeared above the couple with a white first-aid box in hand. He passed it off to Michael wordlessly and relieved Francie of both her gun and position guarding the thugs.
Her fiancé rubbed ointment onto the small cuts on her arms. The gash on her abdomen was large and deep enough to warrant a bandage. He tore away a section of her bodice (under her father's watchful eye) and circled gauze around her midsection, garnishing it with butterfly kisses when Spy Daddy wasn't looking. Proceeding down her body, he wrapped her ankle with medical tape and placed her discarded heels on the pew next to her. He sighed as he retook his seat, leaning all the way back and looking straight ahead. "Look on the bright side, Syd: we don't have to go through with this crazy pseudo-wedding."
It was then that she noticed the top hat sitting slightly askew on his head. Struggling to keep her angry expression she replied, "Yeah I guess. But they messed up my hair, and that was the only thing I liked out of this whole deal."
"What about your nails?"
"Oh. No, they're perfect."
He chuckled in response. After a brief moment of silence, he patted her sore knee and rose. "Come on. Let's get out of here. Let's go home. I don't think they'll ever let us back here again, anyway." When she didn't move he rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Don't make me carry you."
"Fine, fine. I'm up."
The doors were suddenly pushed open and about twenty CIA agents paraded in with full gear and took over the prisoners. Will, Weiss, and Francie joined the couple in exiting the church, and Fran waited with Syd while Michael and Will went to get the cars and Weiss went to 'fashion crutches from tree branches.'
"Good luck to him on finding a tree in this city," Fran said as she helped her friend sit on the front steps.
Syd nodded placidly with her hands folded in front of her. "When did you learn to fire a gun?" She asked suddenly, incredulity and awe seeping into her voice.
Her friend shrugged. "It was a lucky shot. I've never even touched one of those things in my life."
"I could tell. You should never close an eye when aiming: impairs your judgement."
"I'll keep that in mind for the next time I go to the firing range," Fran joked. Turning serious again she asked, "Who was that man, Syd? Why did he want you and your dad? What was he talking about?"
She sighed; she knew these questions would be asked sooner or later. "Remember when I told you about SD-6 and a man named Arvin Sloane? Well, that was him. And without getting into the whole long story, there's a prophecy, I'm in it, my dad was his friend, and he wants to be immortal."
"Immortal?" Fran replied incredulously. "That's impossible…Right?" Her own nervous chuckle was her only answer.
After a few moments of as-near-silence-as-one-can-get-in-LA, Syd asked her last questions. "How did you know to get the gun from my dad's coat? Did you really understand me?"
A funny look met her gaze. "Your dad's coat? I didn't get the gun from your dad's coat."
Syd's eyes widened again. "What? Then where?"
"When you fell down, this woman outside on the steps yelled to me and said for me to take this box. Inside was the gun. She was gone before I could ask any questions."
Her breathing became slightly laboured as she inquired, "Now this is really important: what did she look like?"
Francie thought for a moment before replying. "Long brown hair, round face, brown eyes, wearing all black, your height…Actually, she looked a lot like you. That's why I took the thing in the first place: I thought it was you at first."
'Mom.'
Just then Michael, Will, and Weiss pulled up in the cars, minus the homemade crutches. None of them made any reference to the botched wedding on the way home; instead, they sang along with the radio out of tune and off the beat, supplying fake words when the real ones weren't funny enough.
TBC…
