Thanks for the feedback! You guys rock!
:) Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life
*~*
Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride
Chapter Four: The Fourth Attempt
Francie was extremely humble for the next few months; everything she did was in service of either Sydney or Michael, especially while Syd's ankle was healing. She was laid up for a week when they realized it was a minor sprain and the gash in her stomach was slightly deeper than they had originally thought. Michael took full advantage of the time, coddling and waiting on her hand and foot until she hobbled into the kitchen and dumped her newly poured iced tea down his pants. After that he backed off, but maintained the habits of pillow fluffing and meals in bed. Meanwhile, her best friend pulled out all the stops on everything she cooked. Syd's favourite dishes began showing up on the table (or tray when Michael was home) at all times of the day: ice cream and lasagna with breakfast and French toast and scrambled eggs with dinner. Even though she was guilty that her formerly passable nutrition was shot to hell, a part of her reveled in the special treatment.
Sydney's best friend's remorse was greater than superficial accommodations. She had confided in Weiss (who passed it to Michael, who told Sydney) that she thought planning that surprise wedding was the worst mistake that she had ever made. "What if I scarred her for life?" She had apparently wailed into Eric's shoulder. "I mean, she got beat up on her wedding day! No one deserves that! And she hated the dress, but I loved it. What does that mean? Are we not supposed to be friends?" According to Weiss, this one-sided conversation went down upon that track for about an hour. ("Total and complete mental breakdown. She now doubts the geopolitical state of Russia and the stability of Alaskan farmers.")
Upon hearing this, Sydney was compelled to take Francie aside and reassure her of…well, everything. "It wasn't your fault," She had consoled her best friend. "The paper trail was a mile wide, and you didn't know that was a bad thing. Hell, I wouldn't have thought about it." (She would have — very much so, in fact — but everything was under Francie's name, which she'd hoped would have deterred him. Obviously he'd proved otherwise.) "He's a very bad, sneaky man. If he wants something, not much can stop him. Luckily, this time he got away with only himself."
"But he ruined your wedding!"
"Do I look crushed in the slightest?"
"No."
"Then you're fine."
"But am I still your best friend?"
"Yes, Francie! No matter what you do, you will always be a best friend." Pausing for a moment she'd remembered to add, "I'm pretty sure there are no farmers in Alaska, and Russia…will be okay."
After that little talk, things were downright pleasant again in the apartment. That is, excluding Weiss's incessant taunts. He'd adopted the habit of taunting Sydney by calling her "Gimpy" in every single language he knew. He unknowingly chided her when she was better, and she began chasing him around the apartment wielding a hot iron. That subsequently prompted Fran to "accidentally" slip an antihistamine into his dinner that night, and when he fell asleep on the couch a half hour later, the two used up a permanent marker drawing lewd things all over his body. Needless to say that he was the one chasing them with the hot iron the next morning.
Unfortunately not everyone was as easy to forgive and forget. After the first bombed wedding, Weiss had been more than happy to take bets as to who would explode first: Kendall, Jack, Michael, or Sydney. The latter two were surprised to find that most money was placed on them; Kendall was a close third and Jack dwindled. Weiss took great glee in this: he himself had placed a large sum on Jack due to his "insider trading information the magnitude of which would make Martha Stewart quake in her homemade boots." And after their third botched wedding, everyone was waiting on the edge of their seats to see who would pop their top.
Once again, the entire agency had grossly underestimated one Mister Jack Bristow. Weiss collected more money in one night than he had earned in his entire life.
Kendall called an emergency meeting that afternoon immediately proceeding their arrival home. The discussion about whether or not to take Francie in for questioning — and therefore introducing her fully to their life — was lengthy and heated. In the end Sydney and Weiss won out over Will and Michael: Syd's one remaining tie to All That Was Normal remained in tact. The four agents made their way to the Ops Centre without a civilian in their midst.
When they arrived and walked in — through the front door, Syd never failed in gleefully noting — they were met with an apprehensive Director of Operations. He had hastily warned them of Jack's proximity and rushed off to conference room 2A to await the debrief. An apprehensive Kendall? Since when did that happen? What could have possibly made Kendall of all people watch his back? The answer was staring at them from across the bullpen. Perhaps she was expecting too much, but as there was no cliché steam spewing from his ears, Syd thought that they might be spared from the Wrath of Jack. She would later realize how naïve she had been.
He had followed them into the conference room where a composed Kendall, Marshall, Dixon, and others connected to the Sloane task force were waiting in front of monitors. At first things went smoothly: chains of events were laid out, different sides of the story exposed, without anyone coming to blows or even sharing cross words. This was what had worried Sydney. Were the elder men merely waiting for the relatively innocent analysts to leave so that they could uncork their emotions? She hadn't been the only one feeling the tension. The usually ever-present hand on her upper thigh was then concentrating on breaking the armrest of his chair.
Just when Sydney had thought that she was going to need an oxygen tank to breathe, Kendall dismissed the analysts and turned to Michael and Syd, Jack standing beside him. She instinctively moved closer to her fiancé in order to fend off any pencils or coffee mugs that might be hurled his way by her father. Kendall was angry, but Mr. Bristow was positively livid. If their anger had been classified in shades of red, the Director's would have been faded, almost pink; Jack would've had to be a neon so bright that the noontime sun would have been a welcome respite. And the doors' locking mechanism was controlled by the Head of the Table.
It was a long, long night.
Francie, wanting to know just exactly what happened, was silence with three words: "Jack Bristow's wrath." Subsequently she whipped up a delicious chocolate cake for the five of them to share.
After that night, Sloane was conveniently excluded from their talk about the Wedding That Wasn't; the scars (both literal and figurative) were simply too fresh to bring him up in a non-work-related sense. Francie also backed off completely. Syd no longer felt like the entire world was waiting with bated breath for their wedding bells to finally ring. This allowed the couple to finally take things at their own pace. The first thing they did was nothing, a whole lot of nothing. And they made no plans to; no hints of dates or progress of any kind could be found in their wedding journal. Syd supposed that after almost three years of engagement, they had simply got used to it and felt no particular rush to make it official. As long as it was official in their hearts, they didn't need a wedding to prove it to the world.
And that's where Syd found herself in the middle of July. She was lounging at her desk during her lunch hour waiting for Michael to emerge from a meeting; the black olives on his salad were seriously calling her name. Giving in to the temptation, she popped open the Tupperware lid and tossed one into her mouth while carefully tugging at the cover of their journal. (It was practically in pieces, and the ribbon had been discarded long ago for a sturdy rubber band.) Turning to the second to last page, she stared at their last entry:
'So much for "third time's the charm."'
It was his tall scrawling across the entire sheet, gone over so many times that once more would tear the paper. She nodded sadly in agreement and picked up her pen to put her assent in writing, but quickly thought better of it; they had decided to conserve the paper as much as possible, keeping entries short and sweet. This was helped along by the fact that Kendall was then refusing any of Jack Bristow's agent recommendations for international missions, therefore no longer classifying their time together as signs of the coming apocalypse. The grateful Syd and Michael usually just kept it on the nightstand at home, using it as a paperweight from time to time at work as well. But that day she had brought it in. No apparent reasoning behind the action; the notion had just struck her as she was rushing out the door that morning, so she shoved it in her briefcase.
As she let her gaze wander over the page, something near the bottom suddenly caught her eye. It was a short note at the very edge of the page, almost looking like a long ink smudge at first glance. Bringing it closer to her eyes she made out: 'Wedding date picked. Need to discuss. Talk in person later.' This was new; the last time she had gone on a mission was two weeks ago, at least. She searched the page for a possible date but found nothing.
Still staring at it in confusion, she heard a chair scrape across the granite floor to the other side of her desk and Michael took a seat. "You ate one of my black olives."
Retaining the same façade she looked up at him. "How'd you know?"
"I didn't. You just told me." He smiled smugly, grabbed her fork, and began rooting around in the mix of vegetables for another olive.
She rolled her eyes, slid the journal across the table, and pointed to the tiny message at the bottom of the page. "Why couldn't you just write what you wanted to say in here? If you ran out of room, there's this new-fangled thing called loose-leaf paper that you could use."
He continued to eat while he replied. "A: don't you think it's kinda sad that we even have to consider adding extra room to that journal? And b: you know that thing is no longer private. Just the other day Eric asked me if sex on the beach is as good as it sounds."
"Are you sure he wasn't just talking about the drink?"
"Pretty sure, Syd."
"Well…" She stammered. She didn't want to discuss anything as personal as their wedding at work, not knowing who could happen to be listening. (And by anyone she meant her father.) Giving in she asked, "What did you want to talk about?"
Without missing a beat he answered, "This wedding. Or rather lack of one." She sighed and sat back in her chair, waiting for a lecture that would never come. "Sydney, you know I love you more than anything. You know I don't care if we only get a marriage license and skip the church wedding. But I know that you want an actual ceremony. Which is why I want you to let me plan it. Now before you say no," He added hastily, abandoning his lunch completely, "just hear me out. After almost five years, I'd like to think I know what you hate and what you want. The only thing you'd have to get would be your wedding dress, 'cause I don't want the Cinderella on crack fiasco all over again—"
"Michael—"
"—There's this great little eatery just outside of town that can cater so that Francie doesn't have to—"
"Michael—"
"—And I know the perfect spot! It's about two hours up the coast—"
"Vaughn!" This snapped his lips shut for a time while she considered his proposal. "I love you so much. The wedding honestly doesn't mean that much to me anymore, but the little girl inside won't let it drop. Your idea is incredibly sweet—"
"There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"
"—But there's a snowball's chance in hell that you're going to do this alone." Their gazes locked, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Sydney's lips. "We can plan everything together, like it's supposed to be. Like normal people do. It can be a surprise for everyone, and it'll be exactly the way we want it because we did it all." Taking a deep breath she added, "Don't you want that?"
Michael returned the smile full force, reaching across her desk to cover her hand with his. "Sounds great, Syd. I was hoping you'd say that." The magnetic force between their lips suddenly intensified, pulling them tantalizingly closer. Everything fell away until there was only the other staring back with love written in dimples and lines. But a sharp yell behind her shattered their reverie, reminding them of their setting. "So," He stalled as he composed himself, his voice down an octave and huskier than usual. "What do we do first?"
"Um…" She was also trying to squelch the flames that had suddenly sprung up deep inside of her. Giving up, she leaned closer so that only he could hear and whispered into his ear, "First we go home and not leave our room for a good twenty-four hours. Then we'll go from there."
"Sounds like a plan."
* * *
"Ooh, this one's nice."
"Syd, it's ten thousand dollars."
"Not that nice!"
"How 'bout this one?"
"If I fell into a pool I'd drown! You sure that isn't the ten-thousand-dollar one?"
"Why would you wear your ring while at a pool? Wouldn't you be afraid it'd rust or something?"
"You really know nothing about jewelry, do you?"
"Why? What'd I say?"
"Never mind. Just keep looking." Michael and Sydney continued to peruse the locked cases in the zillionth jewelry store they'd been to that day. She originally said she wouldn't be that picky about her ring, that a piece of string with his love behind it would be good enough for her. Unfortunately everything changed the moment they set foot into the first jewelry store: his beloved fiancée morphed into a hunting lioness on the lookout for the perfect ring and any jewelers that could possibly get in her way. Despite his grumbled protests, Michael really couldn't have minded much. This was the last task on their list of things to do (written as carefully as possible on the last page of their wedding journal), and he was drawing it out and savouring the experience as one would a good glass of wine.
They had each found clothing for the day, settled on a cake, caterer, and flowers, and even booked a reception hall. The 'perfect spot two hours up the coast' happened to be the private section of beach owned by none other than Mrs. Amélie Vaughn herself. At first, Sydney blatantly refused, not willing to take full advantage of her mother-in-law-to-be when it wasn't completely guaranteed that her husband's killer wouldn't show up unexpectedly to crash the party. But one look at the blooming wisteria, golden sand, and pristine water and Sydney was swayed to take up the offer. The fact that their reception hall happened to be literally just down the road was the deal-breaker.
"Hey, this one looks kinda nice." His voice snapped her back to the present, and she peered through the smudged glass at where he was pointing.
It was easily the simplest ring in the entire store, and Syd supposed that was how it caught her fiancé's eye. The white-gold band was thin and embodied femininity, yet strong and stylish at the same time. A miniscule diamond was set into the band itself, almost hidden within the glow of the latter. It's companion for the male of the couple was also white gold, smooth and without adornments. It was perfect for him as well.
Gripping his hand tightly, she signaled over a service clerk and asked sweetly, "Do you have this in a nine?"
Upon purchasing and obtaining the rings (the store happened to have each of their sizes in stock; it wasn't a very popular item), they sped away towards the apartment. The couple planned on spending the night in their room with her stereo system cranked, making their own invitations. Francie and Weiss were scheduled to be out as was Will, but Sydney had learned her lesson from their botched eloping: doors would be locked and alibis at the ready; who says that one can't be crafty while practically naked? The music was to 'mask their screams of ecstasy.' If everything went well and they accomplished their task with some time to spare, maybe the music would be needed after all.
They quickly locked the bedroom and lazily began striping down to the bare essentials. This left him in only a pair of boxers; she was clad similarly with only a white spaghetti strap shirt as an addition. They each began pulling materials from every crevice in the room: under the bed, between the mattresses, the top shelf of the closet, in the back of their underwear drawer. Everything from crayons to photos to paints to glitter to lace to patterned paper was spilled onto the comforter, ready and willing to be used to the fullest extent.
"So do you have any idea what we're doing?" He asked casually, sitting cross-legged with his back against the headboard.
"Not really," She answered slowly, eyeing the large mess of art supplies. Turning to her stereo system, she began leafing through their compiled collection of CDs.
"Good. 'Cause I do. Gimme your thumb." He waited with his head bent over the supplies, his arm stretched towards her. She looked at him apprehensively, hesitating in the middle of turning a page in their CD case. Never glancing up, he beckoned her hurriedly with his hand and commanded, "Come here! Hurry up! It's nothing bad, I promise." Dropping the page she strolled over, offering her hand to him palm down. He roughly seized it by the wrist and yanked it around so that her palm faced the ceiling. Grabbing the small bottle of red paint, he squeezed a generous dollop onto the skin of the inside of his knee, dipped a paintbrush in and swirled it, then flicked it back and forth across her thumb. When it was sufficiently coated, he pressed his own thumb into the paint on his leg and pulled a piece of paper closer. In the centre of the top he quickly left his thumbprint in two places, the heel of the digit lying in the same place. Pulling Syd's hand down he did the same to her, so that their four thumbprints formed a red flower, contrasting with the baby blue background.
He finally looked up at her, a boyish grin ratcheting up the wattage of the room. "Lesson Number One from Michael Vaughn's School of Art," He said, "never interrupt the muse. The muse is the end all, be all."
She raised an eyebrow playfully. "And what am I, chopped liver?"
"No," Michael answered, a touch defensive as he grabbed a Kleenex from the nightstand in order to rid them of the paint. "You're just a…different kind of muse."
Laughing, she threw the soiled Kleenex back at his face and made her way towards the CDs again. "Just keep on doodling, Art Boy, and maybe this 'different kind of muse' will swing into action." Michael chuckled and shook his head incredulously, already reaching for a calligraphy pen and a broken stick of charcoal. She reached the end of their massive book and sighed: she still didn't know what music she wanted blaring out of her speakers. Deciding to pose the question to her fiancé she asked, "Do you have a musical preference for the evening? I'm sorry but Evanescence, Marilyn Manson, Cold, and Staind just don't seem to fit the mood."
"We have more than that," He replied, preoccupied.
"Yeah," She countered, slightly whiny, "but John Mayer and Jason Mraz are too happy, Incubus and Papa Roach are too hard, 50 Cent and Nelly are too dirty, and everything else is too…something."
"'Too something'?" He repeated blankly, still drawing and thinking away. "Then why don't you turn on the radio. There's gotta be something you like on some station."
Sighing, she did just that and then collapsed into the kitchen chair that had taken up permanent residence in their bedroom. She let her ankles rest on the edge of the bed and slouched down, her hands folded lightly over her stomach.
To watch Michael Vaughn create was to watch his raw soul at work. She'd rarely seen him do it and rarely watched him closely, thinking that it was too personal an act to intrude upon. But this time she couldn't tear her eyes away from him: his toned back arching over his project; the outstretched arm, muscles gliding smoothly under his tight skin, making the tattoo on his left shoulder ripple ever so slightly. His rough hands — the same ones that when placed in the right spots could launch her into the throes of ecstasy — now held a calligraphy pen with only three fingers, brushing it across the page with effortless strokes. From what she could see of his face, his brow was furrowed; eyebrows were knotted together; and eyes were narrowed in the deepest form of concentration. His Adam's Apple bobbed with every swallow as if in slow motion, a tantalizing lump under the delicate skin of his throat, calling out for her to cross the gap and kiss it. Then his cheekbones suddenly became more pronounced as he sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips: he was silently critiquing his work while still on the job.
'Ever the diligent employee.'
His muscular arm darted about the comforter, grabbing this and depositing that, ever at the mercy of "his muse". She didn't have to look at the paper to know that it would be a work of art, something to be laminated and framed for years to come. And his toes were curled. It was the most wonderful sight she knew she'd ever seen, and simply wanted to gaze at him and revel in his presence for hours on end.
But the sudden strains of a familiar song pervaded her senses. The soft clink of a tambourine, the jazz-like swish of a drum brush over a snare head, the twang of a synthesizer, and the occasional plucking of an electric guitar floated over the still air to her ears. Cocking her head ever so slightly she began to listen.
'Come to me now
Lay your hands over me
Even if it's a lie
Say it will be all right
And I will believe
'Broken in two
I know you're on to me
That I only come home
When I'm so all alone
But I do believe…'
"Michael," She drawled slowly, reluctant to break his contact with the muse, "where have I heard this song before?"
Sighing he replied with an air of detachment, "It's 'I Shall Believe' by Sheryl Crow off her 'Tuesday Night Music Club' CD."
"How do you know all that?"
"We have the disk, Syd."
"Really?" She mused. "Well, I never heard the song."
"Do you ever listen to anything besides the singles on a CD?"
"Michael," She restated a bit more firmly. He must have been finished — or the muse left him — because he looked up and locked eyes with his fiancée. "I really, really like this song."
A warm smiled spread across his face and he stood, strolled around to the CD player and case, found the desired disk, slipped it in, found the track, and pressed repeat. The same calm, sultry tune flowed from the speakers as he padded over to her and extended his hand. "Will you do me the pleasure of dancing with me, Miss Sydney Bristow?"
Graciously taking his hand and allowing his arms to envelop her, pulling her infinitely closer she replied, "That's the future Mrs. Michael Vaughn to you."
No more invitations were made that night.
* * *
"All I have to say is thank God for Kinko's."
"What are you talking about? I never went to Kinko's."
"What?"
"I just changed the names on the invitation to include all of our friends. They'll know who to invite from there."
"Are you fucking crazy? What if Weiss gets a hold of it first? He'll get it all covered in chocolate or jelly or something."
"Don't worry. I put it in a place that guarantees Eric won't find it first."
"The vegetable bin?"
"Damn straight."
"Well, I hope you're right, Michael. I don't want our only invitation ruined."
"Maybe it wouldn't be our only invitation if you hadn't distracted me last night."
"Well excuse me. Didn't mean to get all different kind of muse-ish on ya, there."
"You were very distracting, you know."
"Just shut up and drive, will ya? You're swerving and I don't want to rear end the famous Vaughn pick-up truck."
It was the day of the wedding, and both were driving (in separate cars) up to his mother's house to prepare. They'd spent the night in separate rooms, albeit a bit begrudgingly, and probably convincing their friends that they'd had a fight. 'Just wait 'til they see that invitation,' Syd thought, taking a gulp out of her travel mug. The couple had been in constant contact throughout their visual boycott, either text messaging while they were shuffling about the apartment before departure or actually on the phone while driving, as they were at that moment. Syd did not want to see her phone bill for that month.
Despite her original protests about alerting their friends in this manner, it really would work out quite well. Immediately before closing the door, she'd smashed two plates, a glass, and a vase that they never used anyway. This had most certainly woken up Francie — who was a light sleeper — and she in turn would rouse Weiss, who would call both Will and Jack when they discovered the couple MIA. Fran would begin to make breakfast, therefore going into the vegetable bin to grab a tomato for her eggs (it was stored there even though Syd insisted it was a fruit) and would subsequently find their lone invitation. She'd scream in surprise, grab the phone from Eric — who would be talking with Jack by then — and exclaim that they only had thirteen hours to get to Michael's mother's house (directions were to be found on the refrigerator) and get ready for her "goddamn crazy best friend and her goddamn gorgeous fiancé's wedding." Then she'd whisk herself out of the kitchen and to her bedroom to get ready, followed by a hurt look from Weiss.
'Besides,' Sydney thought, 'it gives her three hours more notice than she gave us. And she barely has to lift a finger this time. What does she have to complain about? She should be thankful that we aren't making Weiss perform the wedding.'
Syd giggled out loud at the thought, and the sound of a throat clearing drifted through the speakers of her car from the phone mounted to the dashboard. "Are you still laughing at my driving?" He chided snidely. "'Cause I've got both hands on the wheel, and they're even at ten and two."
"No they're not."
"Hey! How'd you know? Are you following close enough to see me? Back off!"
"I didn't know. You just told me," She mocked, sticking out her tongue at the phone.
"Don't stick your tongue out at me, Miss Bristow."
"How'd you—!" She cut herself off and glared a half-mile down the deserted road at the blue pick-up. "Nice try, Agent Vaughn. You're good, but you're not that good."
"Oh, but I am. What was it you said last night? 'That was the best sex I've ever had'? 'Your tongue does wonderful things; is it double-jointed or something?'"
"Shut up if you value your life at all."
He chuckled slightly and replied, "I live to please you, so if you kill me, you're the one who's gonna be hurting." Before she could launch another scathing remark he added, "Take your next left. I'm about five minutes out. Slow down and I'll tell you when it's safe to pull up to the house. I just know you're going to love it, baby."
She sighed as she saw him disappear into a thicket of trees off to the left. Slowing her speed, she also turned off onto the gravel road, kicking up rocks and leaving a cloud of chalky dust in her wake. It was a really long driveway, she soon realized, wide enough for only one car. This path obviously hadn't been used for a while: through the lingering haze left from Michael's vehicle she could see green shoots of grass pushing up through the white stones. 'His mother must ride a bike to the nearest town. That's a good two or three miles each way.'
A car door slamming and heavy footsteps on wooden stairs pulled her back to the phone. "Everything's set, Syd. God, it's so beautiful. You're going to absolutely love it. But don't come around the back yet! I want to see your face when you take your first drink of my mother's backyard. Oh! Maman!" Garbled French reached her end as mother and son embraced, then clear French protests as the phone was presumably snatched away by the elder woman.
"Michel! Allez à votre chambre! Maintenant!" There was a heavy sigh as a porch door slammed shut behind the woman. "Hello, Sydney, dear," Mrs. Vaughn drawled with a heavy accent. "It is safe now. My son is in the house."
Syd exhaled with a grin on her face. "Mrs. Vaughn, you know you can talk to me in French; I can understand you perfectly."
"Nonsense!" She exclaimed good-naturedly. "I will not have you go out of your way just to make an old woman more comfortable. And call me Amélie, dear."
"But really, it's no trouble—"
"No! Do not argue with your future mother-in-law on your wedding day."
It was no use explaining to the woman that French (as well as Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Mandarin, Welsh, Finnish, Polish, Slavic, Swedish, Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean…she'd actually forgotten how many languages) was almost a second nature to her. She'd been speaking it since her freshman year of college, ever sine her first mission for SD-6 with Noah…'Oh God…Noah…'
Just then she rounded a bend and the trees fell away to reveal a faded blue two-story house with latticework trim. There was a short, squat woman with flyaway white hair, vivid blue eyes, and healthy, tanned skin waiting for her with a phone clutched in her hand next to her son's truck. Another black Sedan was parked beside it, but Sydney thought nothing of it as she parked the car, hung up the phone, and began getting out. Mrs. Vaughn swooped down upon her in a second. "Let me carry your bags for you, dear," She lilted, still in surprisingly good English. "I offered the house to Michael for your honeymoon, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said something about it not being secluded enough. Where are you going, chérie?"
"I — I have no idea, actually," Sydney stammered. In all of their planning, it hadn't once occurred to her to ask where they were going for their honeymoon. Mentally bashing her head with a baseball bat she asked, "Is anyone else here yet?"
The old woman's face lit up as she smiled, crows' feet and laugh lines parading across her features. "Oh yes! Your father arrived a half-hour ago with Ms. Francie, Mr. Will, and Eric. That reminds me: I must go padlock my refrigerator before Eric eats me out of house and home." Leading Syd up the weathered driftwood stairs and into the house, she parted ways with her in the foyer, hanging the garment bag on the banister.
Syd cringed as she heard Mrs. Vaughn announcing her presence. She heard a pair of feet hit the floor followed by a bellow. "SYDNEY ANNE BRISTOW! MARCH YOUR HIND PARTS UPSTAIRS BEFORE I BEAT YOU WITH THIS NICE LADY'S FAVOURITE WALKING STICK!"
* * *
"God, Syd, you're so pretty. Whoever was handing out the looks must've sure liked you a whole lot."
"Thanks Fran. I think. Now for the zillionth time will you please do my hair?"
"Oh! Yeah, sure."
Knowing that Michael Vaughn, her future husband, was literally just across the hall was simply killing her, but knowing that they'd be married in under a half-hour was keeping her together. She was in Mrs. Vaughn's bedroom sitting on the edge of her bed and facing the floor-length mirror against the wall in front of her. Francie was kneeling behind her, plaiting her hair in the French braid she'd been wanting for the past two hours. As she sat there, Syd studied the two of them in the waning natural light floating in through the northern-exposed windows.
Francie was slightly overdressed in her lavender bridesmaid gown from the previous wedding attempt. For some reason, she had kept both it and the matching shoes, probably in hopes that Syd would have another big church wedding where she didn't have to shoot anyone. Upon realizing that this ceremony wasn't going to be a big to-do, she let down her hair and donned matching flip-flops in lieu of those shoes. ("I don't want to sink into the sand and break my ankles while my best friend is saying her vows.")
Syd was in love with her dress. She'd found it on clearance at the same boutique that her best friend had bought the infamous Cinderella-on-crack dress from. Michael had asked what the hell she was squealing about; he was more than a little pissed that he had to spend two hours with his eyes squeezed shut while she tried on wedding gowns (she hadn't wanted to go alone). It was a simple sleeveless sundress made entirely of silk with a plunging neckline and, consequently, a built-in bra. The material clung to all the right places and smoothed over her few flaws. There was a long slit up to about mid thigh in the front, prompting Syd to also sport an off-white-almost-peach half-slip underneath. Her shoes…well, she didn't have any. Both she and her fiancé had decided to go barefoot during the ceremony and only don shoes or sandals if they absolutely had to at the reception. There wasn't a stitch of embroidery or a single pearl on the gown anywhere.
"There," Francie announced, tying the last loop in the hair-tie. Looking at her friend in the mirror, she smiled genuinely and flashed her pearly whites. "Now all we need is something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue."
She rolled her eyes and sighed melodramatically. "Fran, you know I don't believe in luck."
"Yeah, but I do. Enlighten me, please."
"Fine." She glanced down and around the room, grasping for objects to add. "Well, the dress is new, and the hair-tie is borrowed from you."
"I have the perfect thing for the blue!" Her friend suddenly exclaimed. Darting to the open window, she leaned out and moments later appeared with five little blue wisteria blossoms. She pressed them into the folds of her best friend's braid and stood back to admire her handiwork. "Perfection. I just hope Mrs. Vaughn doesn't mind me picking her flowers."
"Not in the slightest, dear," said a voice from the doorway, now clad in a dark blue sundress and a wide-brimmed gardening hat. Looking at Francie she asked, "May I have a moment with the bride?" Nodding, she ducked out of the room to leave the two generations of Vaughn wives alone. The elder took a seat on the bed next to her future daughter-in-law, clasping Syd's larger hand in her smaller one. "You look wonderful, dear. More beautiful that anyone I could have imagined for my son, both inside and out."
Syd blushed fiercely but didn't look away. Gathering her courage she started, "Mrs. Vaughn, I—"
"Amélie," She corrected.
"Amélie, I love your son very, very much. More than words can say."
"I know. And he loves you. I've never seen him so enamoured with someone before. You must be really special. Which is why I want you to have this." Standing, she crossed over to a chest of drawers. She began digging around in the jewelry box that stood on top and finally produced a simple necklace. The golden chain glinted in the light as it swung from her fist. A small diamond was the only embellishment, looking lonely yet independent as it slid along the chain. Mrs. Vaughn fastened it around a bewildered Sydney's neck. They smiled at one another through the mirror. "I wore this the day I married Michael's father. I've always hoped that someday he would find someone that would make him as happy as his father made me. I want to pass this on to you in hopes that you'll keep love alive and in your heart forever, as I have. And when you two have children, pass it on to them as a reminder of the generations of love and loss and sacrifice behind it."
The only words Sydney could mutter were a choked thank you. She didn't have a chance to muster any more, for at that moment a soft knock sounded from the door. Her father stood there clad in the same suit from her botched church wedding. "They're ready."
Those two small words planted a field full of butterflies in the pit of her stomach. Mrs. Vaughn must have sensed her excitement because she helped the jelly-kneed bride to the door, placing Syd's hand in her father's before flittering off down the stairs and out the back door. Sydney smiled up at her father, having to bite her lip to keep from smiling too widely. "This is it," She whispered, barely audible over the crash of the waves.
He didn't give a verbal response, but his grip on her hand increased almost imperceptibly.
Taking her arm into the crook of his own, Jack Bristow led his daughter down the stairs and through the house to the back door. Before stepping out onto the porch he paused and turned to her. "Sydney," He began hesitantly, not able to look her in the eye, "I'm glad you haven't let…this lifestyle completely take over everything. And I…commend…your choice of a husband. I…couldn't have picked anyone better for you than Vaughn."
She could tell that he wanted to say something more but was too choked up to safely continued, so she tightened her hold on his arm. "I love you, too, Dad."
And with that they stepped out onto the porch and into the sunset.
The sandy path down to the beach was flanked on either side by tall dune grass, each blade bending and slithering against one another in the sea breeze. Where the grasses ended a golden beach began, now dotted with white beach chairs and the colourful clothing of their guests. At the end of the aisle stood the minister (driven in from the nearest town), Francie, Weiss, Will…and Michael. He looked as handsome as ever, making her want to simply cast aside the notion of a wedding march — which was being played by a lone violinist — and run into his arms. He was wearing a pair of hemp drawstring pants and a simple white short-sleeved button-down shirt, which was billowing in the breeze as it was halfway undone. She was going to have a hard time keeping her hands off him at the reception.
After getting kick-started by her father, they proceeded down the sand aisle to the beat of the music. With each step she took, one butterfly would flutter to rest somewhere within her. She had never been so sure of anything in her life as this moment and what they were about to do. Surrounded by friends and family, they were going to profess their undying love for the other and be bonded together for eternity. She couldn't wait.
Before she knew it, she was at the pinnacle of the sandy pathway, her father had given her away, and both her hands were in Michael's.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Michael Vaughn and Sydney Bristow. Before we begin, if there is anyone here who can give reason as to why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold their peace."
As if they were one, Weiss and Francie turned on the small gathering, daring them with their eyes to object. Both Michael and Sydney bit back their laughter as they turned their attention back to the minister.
"The couple has opted to read their own vows before I read the traditional ones. Michael?"
She could feel his mouth immediately go dry as they shifted to face one another. Her breath hitched in her throat as his eyes drilled into her own. "I paid him to let me go first," He began with a small chuckle, "'cause I knew if I let you go first, I'd be too embarrassed to say even one word.
"You're so smart and so talented and so strong and so beautiful. I know I've said those things a million times, but I still don't think you understand how true they are. All the pain and heartache and suffering you've seen…Anyone else would have crumbled under it all, and yet you not only beat it but always find a way to smile and be happy."
She smiled at the familiar words; a watery smile, as her eyes were ridden with unshed tears.
"From the moment I saw you I loved you; crazy wig, missing teeth, and everything. When I saw you cleaned up, it happened all over again. And when I read what you'd gone through…I didn't know it was possible to fall in love with the same person multiple times. Until I met you. You changed my world, Sydney. There's no other way to put it.
"And for that I pledge to you my love, my life, my body, my mind, and my soul for all eternity. I promise to coddle you until you pour iced tea down my pants; to carry you until you punch me in the face; to protect you from all that would do you harm and to bandage all wounds, both emotional and physical. I promise to always break the rules where you're concerned; to never stop complimenting you as long as I have breath in my lungs. And most importantly I promise to never let Eric Weiss baby-sit. Ever."
Laughing nervously, she blinked hard, sending a single tear sliding down her cheek. He reached up and stemmed its course with his index finger. Weiss mumbled something about actually being good with kids while extracting a handkerchief from his breast pocket, handing it to Michael, whom in turn passed it on to Syd. When she'd finished dabbing at her eyes it was passed back and the minister prodded, "Sydney?"
She took a deep, calming breath before beginning on the most important speech of her life. "You just stole everything that I was going to say, right up to banning Weiss from ever baby-sitting." This prompted a choked laugh from the man across from her, whose eyes were also veiled by a sheet of tears.
"I love you, Michael. We didn't say it for almost two entire years, and now I can't stop saying it! If I began listing everything I love about you we'd be here for another three years, and I don't think Francie and Will and Eric would appreciate that. Let's just say that I love you — mind, body, and soul — and we'll leave it at that.
"Through thick and thin, bad and worse, sick and healthy, crazy and crazier, you've stuck by me, an immovable pillar of incredibly sexy strength. I don't think you fully grasp how much I need you merely to breathe, how much of my strength really comes from knowing that I have your love. It's…it's the greatest feeling in the world.
"And that's why I pledge to you my undying love, my life, my mind, body, and soul. I promise to call you Vaughn only when I'm really mad at you; to let you give me bubble baths until my fingers and toes are wrinkly; to allow you to paint for days on end…as long as you let me watch. I promise to always cherish a day when you smile at me, and to limit my guardian angel compliments to a minimum of once a week, two during holidays. And I promise that Donovan won't steal me away from you."
The two shared a secret smile before forcing themselves to turn back to the minister. He was glowing as if he'd just seen Heaven itself. Perhaps it was because he had. "Now Michael, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others as long as you both shall live?"
"I do."
"And do you, Sydney, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, forsaking all others as long as you both shall live?"
"I do."
"The rings, please." They were handed to each of the participants, each engraved with the same phrase: '10/1: True Love'. "Michael, repeat after me as you slip the ring onto her finger: with this ring, I thee wed."
Swallowing a lump in his throat he repeated, "With this ring, I thee wed."
"Sydney, repeat after me: with this ring, I thee wed."
"With this ring, I thee wed," She parroted softly, her eyes unable to look anywhere but his own.
The minister turned back to the gathering at large as they still gazed into each other's eyes. "Let these bands be a token of your affection, symbolizing the love you have for one another: a never-ending circle of purse gold. I now pronounce you husband and wife. And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Michael Vaughn." Both pairs of young eyes looked up at the old man expectantly, who laughed before adding, "You may kiss your bride, son."
And they kissed for the first time as husband and wife, the end of the beginning and the beginning of forever.
As they embraced before the slowly setting sun, Eric Weiss voiced the one word everyone was thinking:
"FINALLY!"
TBC…There's an epilogue next…
