Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride
Epilogue: Reception at Last
Even before the last echoes of Eric's exclamation were absorbed by sand or sea, the couple had made it all the way to the house, running up the path hand in hand and giggling like schoolchildren. They paused on the porch and kissed again, only their second kiss as husband and wife, their new status somehow adding a sweetness to the other's lips that had never been there before, but would be forever more. Neither of them could seem to get enough of the taste. Car engines began to turn over, finally breaking them apart: the guests were beginning to make their way down the road to the small restaurant where the reception would be held. Pretty soon the gravel driveway was devoid of all cars except for the dilapidated pick-up; its bed looking more and more inviting the longer Syd stared at it.
Suddenly grabbing her hand, Michael began tugging her into the old house. His eyes had that mischievous glint that he only got when he wanted to— "Come on, Syd. We're alone, the house is completely empty, and you look so sexy that I've lost all power of speech."
"You sound pretty good to me." He threw her a Look under his eyebrows, eyes narrowed in lust and need. Despite her attempts at keeping her face straight, a smile was sliding of its own accord across her face and her feet began to shuffle upon the worn floorboards. "Michael…We-we can't…The restaurant is literally two minutes away. If we're late, they'll know what happened."
"They're all expecting it to happen. If we don't show up late, they'll be sad. And so will I."
"My dad will kill you," She replied slowly and pointedly, trying desperately to regain control of her feet as he tugged her towards the back staircase. "Even though you're family now, he'll have no reservations about killing you."
"Come on! After three yeas of engagement, he's gotta think that we've had sex at least once."
"He knows, but that doesn't mean he has to like it."
"Syd!" He was now pouting like a small child in a toy store who wasn't getting his way. She half expected him to stomp his foot in protest. Instead, he roughly tugged her to his lips, one hand on her waist and the others slipping the zipper of her dress ever downwards…
She broke their embrace with a muffled laugh as she pushed off of his chest. When she opened her eyes, he was still poised in the air expectantly, lids shut and lips pursed, waiting for her to reengage contact. She thrust her fists into her hips and shook her head incredulously. "You are incorrigible. Just like your dog. Although he only tries to hump my leg once a month."
His eyelids flew apart and his arms dropped. Before he could make another move, she bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time with him dumbfounded at the foot of the flight. He quickly regained ground, though, when she detoured into his mother's room to grab her sandals, but she reached the front door before he even reached the top of the front staircase. Each of them paused, daring the other to move without words.
Finally Syd gave in, holding her hands up above her head in surrender. He smiled slyly and began sauntering down the stairs, but she waved a finger in the air, signaling him to stop. "Not so fast, my dear husband," She murmured, her voice dropping down an octave and sounding more smoky and sultry. "I'll give you a little of what you want." Gathering the skirt of her silk dress in her fists, she lifted it up quickly to only reveal her slip with the nameless colour and darted out the door to his truck, the gravel poking sharply into her bare feet.
By the time he reached his truck, she was already in the cab with the doors locked and laughing like each giggle would be her last. He tapped her window in faux annoyance, eyes narrowing dangerously. But he couldn't fool her; she knew he couldn't possibly be too peeved at her mere minutes after making her his wife. She blew a playful raspberry at the glass and began sliding her sip up her bare leg. His hand flattened against the pane and his forehead connected with the glass in interest as the hem finally exposed the decorative black and red garter. Secretly laughing at his lust-filled face, Syd propped her leg upon the dashboard, inadvertently sending the material cascading down to her hip.
Her eyes were watering with the unshed laughter burning in her lungs. She'd never teased him to this extent before, and she was enjoying the superiority beyond belief. Noting the state of the setting sun (the last sliver was just slipping into the sea), she judged that they'd been stalling for a good fifteen minutes: definitely enough time to start rumours and to spark Weiss's motor mouth. Using the hand crank, she rolled the window down an inch, pressed her lips through the opening and said, "You better get rid of your little problem, dear husband, or else people — namely Weiss — will talk."
His face drooped ever so slightly as his hand dropped from the window. "Little problem? Is that what you really think, Syd? I didn't know you felt that way. Wow. That is a huge ego blow."
Pressing her forehead against the glass, her eyes casually glanced towards the centre of his hips and nodded in satisfaction. "There we go; all better. And I didn't even have to mention the time that you saw Eric in his Speedo."
Each gave an involuntary shudder.
"Anyone in a Speedo is just wrong. And him…That was practically blasphemous."
"I don't know. I wouldn't mind seeing you in a Speedo. Those suits don't hide anything, and you, my dear, have quite a lot to hide."
A deep, throaty groan made its way from Michael around the window and to her ears. "Syd, if you keep talking like that, we're going to miss the reception and that dress just might end up in shreds."
Granting herself one more peek at the sun, she nodded in consent. "Yeah, I guess we're late enough. I'd hate to have my father kill you before I get to experience my wedding night."
While he walked around the front of the truck, she unlocked his door and strapped herself into the seat farthest away from the driver. He plopped down onto the seat, but before he started the vehicle, he pulled her closer and captured her lips. Their tongues tangoed in each other's mouths until the need for oxygen became too great and they had to break their contact. Upon separation, she immediately felt the need for him build up inside of her, overruling the logical side of her brain. Somehow his hand had ended up near the juncture of her legs, and she could feel it taunting her with its close proximity.
He must have noticed her half-lidded eyes because he commented snidely, "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"
Hitting him playfully she instructed him to drive already, and even unbuckled her seatbelt to inch towards him. Her body wouldn't allow her to be away from his perpetual warmth for too long.
Their two-minute journey was wrought with sexual tension, each of their hands twitching as a result of their attempts to control themselves. When they arrived, the party had already started out on the sand.
The restaurant was a small seaside venture with a private beach and large deck in the back for an "ocean view dining experience." For the reception, the large porch was lit with strings of white Christmas lights shedding a warm glow on a long head table and a few smaller round tables. Candles were the centres of each round surface, guarded by disposable cameras for the guests (they hadn't had room in their budget for a professional photographer). The "dance floor" was bordered by flaming Tiki torches, and unseen speakers that were probably under the wooden deck supplied music. As the couple pulled into the miniscule parking lot, what they saw first were Francie, Will, and Weiss waiting for them outside the front door. They stood up as Michael helped Sydney out of the truck, and greeted the newlyweds with disapproving glares.
Before they could enter the restaurant, Fran took her best friend by the shoulders and forced her to lock gazes. "You had sex in his mother's house, didn't you? Please tell me you did not have sex in his mother's house, Sydney."
Weiss gave Michael a quick once-over with his expertly trained eye. "They didn't, Fran. This is the look of a thoroughly unsatisfied man. We better savour this because I severely doubt we'll get the pleasure of seeing either of them like this ever again."
"Shut up, Eric," Syd hissed menacingly, absentmindedly intertwining her fingers with Michael's. "Now let's make with the food. I starved myself for a week so I could fit into this dress."
"No you didn't," Michael contradicted, smiling even as he shook his head.
Shrugging her shoulders indifferently she replied, "So I exaggerated a bit. The last thing I had to eat was a salad for lunch. I'm ready for some meaty action."
Will and Weiss simply could not contain their guffaws as the five friends filed into the restaurant. Fran glared at them disapprovingly. "Get a hold of yourselves, for Pete's sake! I swear, you two are a hundred times worse together than you are apart, and that's saying something for Eric." Turning on the new husband and wife she added, "And you two better not provoke them. You don't want to give him more fodder for his Best Man Speech, do you?"
That shut each of them up for a good, solid minute.
The dining section of the room was almost completely devoid of tables; the only occupants were the gift table and a buffet line (it hadn't been able to fit outside). Doors were propped open, allowing the cool night air and sweet scent of sea salt to permeate the Italian-smelling inside. The sounds were layered upon one another, creating an odd sort of symphony: the clanging of chefs in the kitchen was predominant, laughing and talking secondary, and waves crashing as the tide came in were the lulling background, the bottom of the pyramid of sound. It was the first song on the soundtrack of their new life, and they wanted to hit repeat.
Syd and Michael lingered around the gift table while their friends went outside to announce the newlyweds' arrival. They poked and prodded at the large, brightly-wrapped boxes and scoffed at the envelopes that most assuredly contained money or gift certificates.
"You know, some people just don't have any imagination anymore," Syd commented, fingering one envelope in particular before replacing it back on a small stack of similar objects.
At the same time, Michael examined an unassuming gift wrapped in newspaper. It had no markings on it other than the smudged lettering, no indication of who it was from. But each of them knew immediately who had offered the crude present. "Eric," They moaned simultaneously, and Sydney rounded the table to stand next to her husband. "Should we open it now?" She added, voicing the unspoken question that was foremost in each of their minds. They locked eyes and exchanged reluctant and worried glances. Finally he nodded, and they each began to peel away opposite corners of the newsprint.
They slowly revealed a nondescript cardboard container roughly the size of a magazine and the depth of a dictionary. Together, they slowly lifted the lid, hearing the cracking of the spine as it went. It revealed things that made Syd want to run out onto the beach and kill Weiss in the quickest way she knew how. The box was divided into two sections: the left (labeled "before") and right (labeled "after"). The former sect contained bright red square packages with the Trojan condom logo branded onto each. Strange thing, though: each seemed to have been pierced through the middle with some sort of sharp object, rendering them completely ineffective. On the right side were cigars wrapped in cellophane, each paired with either a pink or blue flag. The couple glanced quickly at one another quizzically, unsure as to what he was trying to say. Upon looking at the underside of the lid, they sighed in exasperation.
'Thought you crazy kids could use some "protection". Crank me out a little niece or nephew soon, would ya? P.S.: This box has a trick bottom. The real gift is underneath.'
There was their answer.
Lifting up the bottom (spilling the condoms and cigars in the process), they revealed over a thousand dollars in assorted crinkled and folded bills. The same thought entered into their minds conjointly: 'The winnings from the office pool.'
Just then Fran poked her head inside, her arm also making an appearance as it beckoned them forward. "Come on! People want to get their food so they can toast you! Get out of the way!" As she finished, she was shoved inside by a mass of people that Sydney couldn't possibly believe had come from her wedding alone. Michael and Sydney squeezed their way out into the soft glow of the Christmas lights and to their seats at the Head Table. They'd arranged to have their food waiting for them when they arrived just so they wouldn't have to deal with that mess (and possibly soiling her dress in the process). They simply ate quietly while the tables in front of them became occupied, holding one another's hand on top of the table and remembering a time years ago when the action would have been forbidden.
Bus boys bustled about with bottles of champagne clutched in their young fists, topping off some goblets and refilling others. Everyone had barely seated himself or herself when Francie rose ceremoniously, holding a glass of bubbly in one hand and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her dress with another. She cleared her throat — effectively silencing the room — and began to speak. "As the Maid of Honour, best friend to the bride, stalker of the groom, girlfriend of the Best Man, and the only female going to give a speech, I think I'll go first." Weiss leaned forward, looking down the table at her, and childishly stuck out his tongue. She responded by flicking him off while casually pretending to rub the corner of her eye.
"I feel like I've known Sydney since the day she was born, but in reality, I've only known her since about high school or freshman year of college; the exact date doesn't matter. And in all that time, I've never seen her happier than when someone mentions Michael Vaughn's name."
Syd couldn't contain a smile from stretching her lips and caving in her cheeks; her left hand was squeezed as well, a friendly reminder that he was still there.
"I would bet my life on the idea that they've been reincarnated thousands of times, and in each lifetime they've somehow found each other. They truly are one person: one mind, one body, and one soul; so all that crap they said about them belonging to each other was completely unnecessary and really obvious. They already do belong to one another. They're goddamn near inextricable. I may not know the minor details — where exactly they work, what the hell they do at late-night 'meetings' — but I do know this: Juliet has finally found her Romeo. And this time, there will be a happy ending. That I'm sure of.
"And," Fran added, tone promising that it would be on a lighter note, "I would just like to say that although I've known you for about three and a half years, I don't know you that well, Michael. In other words, you definitely ain't safe from me. If I hear anything — anything — about you mistreatin' my girl, here, I will come find you wherever you may be and beat yo' ass 'til it ain't cute no more." Michael scooted his chair farther away from Francie, causing small chuckles to ripple over the gathering.
Smiling and turning back to the group at large, Fran raised her glass and continued, "That being said…To Sydney and Michael."
"To Sydney and Michael," echoed the group, all taking a sip of their champagne in unison.
Then Eric Weiss stood up, proudly puffing out his chest like a three-year-old who had just used the toilet by himself for the first time. The couple cringed automatically, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he was going to embarrass them to an insane extent. Boy, were they surprised. "I just don't know how in the hell I am going to follow that up," He began sarcastically. Seeming to loosen, he took up a more relaxed stance, shoving one hand into a pocket of his pants.
"The only part of this shebang that I was supposed to be able to plan was the bachelor party, and as I severely doubt its occurrence after this shindig, you all get the pleasure of hearing what I was going to say there. Hopefully it'll still come out right even though I'm not even the teeniest bit drunk yet.
"I don't believe there could be a happier person on the planet than me to see you two finally tie the knot. Unlike most people here, I've been privy to almost every single event in your relationship. And despite my initial, ahem, objections to the pursuit of this, I couldn't be happier that my buddy Mike completely ignored my advice, and then listened when I told him to go after her. Unfortunately, I was there when they first kissed, and when he proposed…I was about to say 'yes' for the girl; she took so damn long.
"They're so utterly perfect for each other that it very nearly makes me sick, especially when they finish each other's sentences or start getting all touchy-feely. He reminds her of the rules before they shamelessly break them without a second thought; she makes his loosen up, even persuading him not to iron his underwear from time to time. The way they balance each other out…they've definitely had at least one lifetime to work out the kinks.
"I'm not ashamed to say I'm jealous. In this crazy world, this crazy line of work in which lies and betrayal are dealt with as regularly as a broken pencil tip, they've managed to somehow carve a slice of peace for themselves. It's rare — so painfully rare. Every time I find myself starting to resent either of them, I remind myself of that fact, and then I'm glad that two of the people that I love most in this world have found themselves a corner of Heaven on Earth.
"So I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you, Sydney, for marrying my best friend in the whole world, therefore becoming one yourself. You've saved me the task of having to; I knew if you'd said no, he'd never go after anyone else, dooming us both to life in a single's apartment complex. Thank you for giving me occasion to double my sexual innuendo dictionary and quadruple the opportunities for teasing.
"And Mike…watch your back buddy. Now that I've successfully schmoozed your wife, she'll be more than willing to aid me in my obscenely complicated schemes. She can get you at times that I really wouldn't want to get you. All I gotta say is 'heh, heh, heh.'
"So here's to Syd and Mike. May he handle her better than he did last time, and may she think about me every time she squirts crazy glue on the toilet seat when he doesn't put the lid down. And may their life together be teeming with bliss and cheesiness; they sure as hell deserve it."
The majority of the crowd mumbled an uncertain consent while those who knew Eric Weiss well heartily agreed as they raised their glasses. All Michael and Sydney could do was shake their heads and chuckle in bemusement.
After he sat down with a plop, the gathering began to eat, adding the layer of silverware clinking to the soundtrack. The newlyweds talked amongst themselves and their friends, each both physically and verbally berating the Best Man and Maid of Honour for their oh-so-wonderful speeches. By the time everyone was finished and the bus boys were clearing the dishes, Michael and Sydney wanted desperately to just leave. Francie obviously noticed this.
With a sidelong glance in her best friend's direction, she stood and clinked a random fork against her champagne glass to round up everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will now make with the throwing of the non-existent bouquet and the very-there garter. These two want to get on with their wedding night, if you know what I mean. So if you all could just kinda…separate…then we could get started. Oh! And if someone would be so kind as to gather a bouquet of flowers, that would be great."
When everything was situated (and dirty looks ceased to be thrown between Syd and Fran), the bride stood on a chair in front of the Head Table facing the restaurant. A group of non-married girls (including Francie) were congregating behind her, each in a crouch and ready to spring up into the air. Syd laughed as she fingered the purple ribbon around the stems (taken from her Maid of Honour's dress), letting the lithe material slip languidly in between her fingers. Upon a shout of encouragement, she catapulted the flowers over her shoulder and into the squealing, pecking, moshing pit of hyenas. When the victor became known, Eric groaned loudly in discomfort: Fran had emerged from the fray, complete with tousled hair, shallow scratch marks, and her dress slightly torn in one or two places and brandishing the blossomless flowers.
For the garter tossing, Syd seated herself on the chair and awaited Michael patiently, her hands clasped around her right knee to keep them from shaking. As he kneeled before her and began sliding both dress and slip over her smooth leg, a part of her consciousness remarked to itself that her father must be seething at that moment. His daughter was sitting and being practically stripped by a man that worked under him; the fact that they were husband and wife now probably had no affect on anything whatsoever.
When the lonely black and red garter was exposed, Michael quickly took it between his teeth and began pulling it down over the taught muscles of her right leg. "Do you have any idea how much this is turning me on right now?" He asked quietly around the fabric in his mouth.
She didn't respond, knowing that he knew what she felt in return.
As soon as she was free of the material, he stood and gripped it tightly in his fist, looking for a possible candidate. The men were a little less obvious when it came to their eagerness over the meaningless tradition; they just milled around in the same spot, conversing with their bodies angled almost imperceptibly towards the couple. Syd leaned in close to her new husband's ear, whispered something, and pointed over to a man standing at the opposite end of the restaurant's porch, trying his damnedest to make himself blend in with the aged wood. Taking careful aim, Michael hooked the garter around the neck of the man's outstretched champagne glass.
"I swear to God I'll kill you, Michael!" Eric Weiss roared, almost dropping the goblet in surprise. He advanced towards his best friend while brandishing a menacing index finger.
Michael merely shrugged and stepped behind Sydney, rooting her in place by lightly laying his hands upon her shoulders. "Hey, you can't fault a man for liking horseshoes, now, can ya?"
"Sydney Anne, you had better keep that man tied up under lock and key to make sure he doesn't get anywhere near me!"
"You don't have to tell me twice," Syd replied eagerly, grabbing hold of Michael's elbow and beginning to drag him towards the doors of the restaurant. The only thing that stopped her was Francie's own pointing index finger.
"Don't you dare go anywhere," She ordered, a threatening undertone colouring her voice. "You still have the Daddy/Daughter dance and your first spin around the floor as husband and wife."
The couple looked at each other and had to work to constrain their laughter. Theirs eyes communicated what their mouths could not:
'This is Francie's wedding again.'
Shaking their heads in unison, Michael began leading his bride down the rickety stairs to the gathering on the dance floor. He spotted his mother conversing with a still-fuming Eric under a Tiki torch and regretfully parted from Syd, settling for a small peck on the cheek before striding off on the uneven ground. Syd had begun her search for her own parent when she felt his presence behind her. A bittersweet smile spread across her lips as she turned around, her hands not exactly knowing what to do with themselves and ending up clasped behind her back.
Jack looked out of place; he was clad in the same attire as most of the other men, yet had a cloud of apparent discomfort circling in the air around him. His hands also had nothing to occupy them (he had never really cared for champagne, she remembered), so they ended up hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes were everywhere but hers as if searching for a person hidden in the crowd with his cue cards. He must have finally given up because as he cleared his throat his gaze settled on hers. "Sydney…would you, uh, would you like to…Would you like to dance with me?"
Her smile widened genuinely and her dimples allowed her cheeks to cave in. "I'd love to, Dad."
His chest seemed to swell with pride; his shoulders rolled back and his chin lifted almost imperceptibly as he led his only child to the middle of the "floor". As she leaned against him with her head on his shoulder, she could almost feel his thoughts flowing from his heart into her brain: thoughts of loneliness, abandonment, and grandchildren.
Words began welling the in the back of her throat and going so far as to teeter on the tip of her tongue, but they were stuck fast, unable to go any further. She was so preoccupied with forcing them out of her system that her father's voice in her ear came as a total shock to her.
"I'm sorry."
Her head lifted from his shoulder and she peered at him, confused.
Taking a deep breath and avoiding her gaze again he continued, "I'm sorry for requesting those missions for you and Vaughn. I suppose they were a little unnecessary."
'A little?!' Her mind screamed, but her lips remained steadfast and quenched the words before they spewed forth. Instead Syd found herself murmuring, "It's okay, Dad. We knew you meant well." And it really was okay. If he hadn't delayed their inevitable marriage for exactly three years, they wouldn't have had such a wonderful wedding or have such great memories to treasure. And anyways, how many people could boast that they've lived through four weddings with the same person and had only actually gotten married once?
His silent nod affirmed his reception of her unsaid meaning.
The song ended, and father and daughter broke apart after a lingering hug. She began to wedge her way through the crowd, and when she looked back, a most unusual sight met her eyes. Her father, Senior Agent Jack Bristow, was genuinely smiling. His thin lips were stretched wider than they had been in over twenty-three years, spreading from ear to ear 'til his face nearly split from the exertion. Crows' feet crinkled at the corners of his beady eyes, and it suddenly struck her how old her father actually was. It made the sight turn bittersweet with the major emphasis still on the sweet.
Two arms suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind, making her totter back and forth. She giggled and leaned into her husband, snaking her own appendages around his neck and pulling his head down to rest in the crook of her neck, his steady breath falling on her collarbone. "Since you insist on calling me your G.A., I hereby dub you my S.B."
She cocked her head to the side and offered a lopsided grin. "S.B.? But my name's no longer Sydney Bristow, I am glad to announce."
"I know; it stands for spy bride. You are now my spy bride."
"That is so lame Michael!" She scoffed while blushing; she secretly loved it.
"Well, so is 'guardian angel,' but has that ever stopped you? That one has the misfortune of being cliché as well."
"Just…shut up," She fumbled, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. He released her and turned Syd around so that they were facing one another. The magnetic force between their two sets of lips became glaringly apparent at that moment, and they became closer and closer until—
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!" Francie demanded of the crowd from atop the porch stairs. The couple of honour broke apart instantaneously.
"You've already had it! Leave us alone!" An exaggerated voice yelled, floating up from the back of the gathering; it sounded suspiciously like one Mister Eric Weiss.
She glared at her boyfriend through the dim torchlight but continued anyway. "If you will clear the dance floor, please, the bride and groom will have their first dance." The guests began gravitating towards the Tiki torches, gathering around them in clumps of suits and dresses.
This left Sydney and Michael alone in the middle of the patch of sand, grasping onto each other and glancing around awkwardly; they were accustomed to being invisible, blending into the surroundings. Now, they were painfully aware of everyone else's presence as they forced themselves to relax. It was then that Syd noticed something very strange: they were glowing. Maybe it was the foreign torches, her imagination, or even the effect of their white clothing, but their similarly bronzed skin sparkled with an internal glow that could not be dismissed as a mere cliché. The possibility of sweat flittered across her mind, followed by a more plausible idea.
Love was seeping from their very pores, slathering itself over every inch of their bodies, nooks and crevices alike, until Sydney was positive that she wasn't the only one who could notice their radiance.
Michael slid her left hand to his shoulder as he took up the other, his right hand settling gently but firmly on her hip. As the first strains of the familiar song drifted out to meet them, she smiled at him, rolled her eyes, and shook her head incredulously. Her grin remained transfixed as she laid her head down upon his solid shoulder, pulling him closer as he began to lead them in a slow, simple dance of teetering back and forth.
"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
"That not everything is gonna be the way
You think it ought to be
It seems like every time I try to make it right
It all comes down on me
Please say honestly you won't give up on me
And I shall believe
"Open the door
And show me your face tonight
I know it's true
No one heals me like you
And you hold the key
"Never again
Would I turn away from you
I'm so heavy tonight
But your love it all right
And I do believe
"That not everything is gonna be the way
You think it ought to be…"
A drop of condensation landing on her nose drew Syd's attention away from their dance. Lifting her head off his shoulder she peered Heaven-wards.
The wind had picked up, capping the waves with bonnets of muted grey and increasing their frequency and volume. A sheet of pure black velvet had blocked out the stars and moon that had glinted at them so dotingly at the beginning of their festivities. A sheet that was the splitting in two, its fluid contents cascading down upon the happy couple.
Women — who not seven months ago at a similar event were being threatened with their lives and stayed silent — scampered into the restaurant screaming bloody murder at the tops of their lungs. The men, as well, loped inside to get out of the torrent of rain. Michael and Sydney merely stopped shuffling their feet and laughed in amazement.
"This is crazy!" He yelled over the waves.
"I know!" She replied, voice almost carried away with the galling wind. "Isn't it ironic? Rain on our wedding day! Nothing can even be perfect for us, can it?"
"Oh, where's the fun in perfect?" He answered rhetorically. "If something had to mess up this day, I'm glad it was Mother Nature and not Sark or Sloane shooting up the place and kidnapping you."
"Yeah," She agreed. Their eyes bored into one another's, oblivious to the fact that rain and sea spray had effectively both drenched and ruined their clothes. Wet sand caked their feet and served as natural shoes. His hair was plastered to his scalp, the excess water running down his chiseled façade in rivulets. Reaching up to brush aside a stray lock she continued, "What's a little rain, anyway? All the perfection I need is right in front of me. God, what in the world did I do to deserve you?"
He cupped her cheek and she nuzzled into the gesture, closing her eyes. "You were born. Now, let's dance." Taking her back into his sopping arms, the newlyweds swayed to the crash of the ocean, the ping of drops on tin; they danced to the soundtrack of life.
* * *
Round spheres of water crashed through the branches of the tree, their paths sometimes effectively barred by its large leaves. The canopy shed a slightly darker shadow upon the sandy soil, allowing her a perfect and natural cover. Everyone was too blissfully happy to even think of seriously checking his or her surroundings thoroughly. And anyways, anyone that would have objected to her presence was inside like spineless asses; the couple that remained out of doors appeared to have no though plaguing either mind but those of the other.
She sighed a smooth sigh that had the same inflections as a sentence, but instead of varying pitch it varied in emotion. It started out happily and content but shifted downwards into a lower register, straddling the fence between bittersweet and longing. She inwardly flinched as she cut short her exhalation; she wasn't supposed to feel, only observe quietly and melt away again into the background to continue with her life on the run. An internal battle that had previously been pacified by a cease-fire flared into a full-fledged war in the pit of her stomach; the compartmentalizing spy senses usually held the upper hand over her mothering nature. But she made a swift change in her emotional demeanor; she decided to screw storing her emotions and opted instead for living in the moment.
She had to admit to herself: the feeling was utterly amazing.
The large drops continued to beat relentlessly down upon the landscape, but she was kept relatively dry by the large maple she had situated herself under. Leaning against the coarse trunk, she dabbled into the World That Might Have Been. If she'd had it her way, she would be inside that restaurant hiding from the squall, probably yelling for the two of them to get out of the rain; they'd catch pneumonia out there dressed in next to nothing. She'd have been the one to give Sydney a silly trinket and advising her to turn it into a family heirloom; she'd have been the first one she told when they first got engaged. She would have been there during their engagement, slapping Jack's hand every time he sent them on those separate missions or even looked at Vaughn the wrong way. Hell, if she'd had her way, she would have been there every single moment of Sydney's life, reveling in her happiness and despairing at her sadness.
But nothing ever went exactly how she planned it. Ever.
Case in point: the night of Sydney's wedding.
Showers she'd never get to plan, dinners she'd never get to host, grandchildren she'd never get to hold…All flashed through her mind repeatedly, a cruel slide show that taunted and laughed at her as if it were a person, alive, well, and standing right next to her.
She was beginning to think that indulging her nurturing side had been somewhat of a mistake. Especially when an unfamiliar stinging sensation began in the pit of her stomach, wormed its way up her throat, and somehow ended at the brims of her eyelids. Immediately after is arrival at her eyes, something teetered on the edge of her lower lid, almost reluctant to go further. Suddenly it fell, sliding in between her long lashes and rolling steadily down the gracefully aging skin of her cheek until it ran out of track and unceremoniously dropped off her jaw to join the damp sand at her feet. What in hell…?
Oh. They were tears.
That explained everything.
And nothing at the same time.
This was the reason she never usually let herself feel; the messes she'd gotten herself into with these emotions of hers…The amount and magnitude would make her former Russian handler roll over in his grave.
Oh well. It happened.
She'd fill her quota for the next twenty years and — of course — get over it.
Her feet yearned to march down the beach, out into the rain, and to the happy couple; her arms itched to hold her daughter in her arms and congratulate her with all the heartfelt words she could concoct in every language she knew. She could feel the Russian expressions forming on her tongue and piling up in the back of her throat, spilling down into the pit of her stomach.
But instead she stood stock still, remaining against the rough trunk of the tree, a silent observer to the festivities that she had dreamt of from the moment Sydney was born.
Life hadn't been fair to her, but maybe it would be to Sydney and Michael.
The couple embraced, leaning into one another as if afraid that if they left any space, a plank would be forced into the space to wedge them apart. Raindrops became less frequent, the wind decrescendoed to a pleasant breeze; the sky began to clear, and the stars and crescent moon twinkled down upon them like long lost friends. Words finally fought their way to her lips but, upon winning the battle, had lost some strength; they flowed out as a mere wisp of breath.
"Congratulations, Sydney. Good luck."
END
*~*
Next story in DSN series: The Wedding Night. Not exactly suitable material for FF.Net, although a PG-13/R-rated version will be posted here with a link to the…not-so-innocent one. Hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did. Review, as always, and constructive criticism is welcomed. Thanks for reading!
:) Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life
