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Epilogue (deviation three)
The world comes together slowly, sensations first, then smells, then sounds. The deep burning in her chest seems strong enough to tear her apart; it radiates from her right side. She can feel it throb in time to her heart; and she realizes the warm wetness on her right hand is throbbing too, in time with the pain. Her head aches, and her eyelids seem so hard to open.
She can smell something odd -- blood, perhaps? Gunpowder. And...something else. Something from a distant memory, the kind she would have difficulty placing even without the blackness in her head. Cinnamon? Vanilla? Something oddly comforting.
And she hears. The creak of a door. A muffled voice -- cursing. Sounds -- doors flinging open, glass crunching, thudding feet. And her name -- she recognizes her name.
"Sydney? Sydney? Where are you? Sydney?"
Another door. A sound -- guttural, shocked. Cursing. And lower, harsher, an order. "This is Agent Vaughn. We need an ambulance to Agent Bristow's house right now. We have an agent down." The voice stops, and the footsteps pound again, louder this time.
Then, much closer, a door opens, and the footsteps stop. "Oh, ----" the voice breathes. Running, and a thud of knees hitting the floor, just beside her. A warm hand peels back her own, foreign fingers dabbling in the blood flowing from her side. At the same time, another hand tangles in her hair, smoothing it, running softly across her forehead.
"Sydney? Sydney, wake up."
And she does. Slowly, with great effort, she drags open her eyes and blinks, twice. He is there, head bent almost to hers, forehead creased with fear, green eyes watering, so close to her own.
"Sydney, it's okay. I've called help. You're going to be fine, I promise." One hand pulls away from her side, fumbling in his pocket for a cell phone, dialing with his thumb, not caring that he is smearing blood all over the numbers. "Yes, this is Agent Vaughn. We need two units -- we have two agents down."
"Will," she breathes out, in confusion.
"They're on the way; they'll bring help for Will, too."
He drops the phone to the floor, not bothering to disconnect. His hand returns to her side, and the other continues, running warm fingers over her forehead. "Syd, you're gonna be okay. You are, you understand?"
She tries to nod, but the motion brings back the throbbing in her head. She squeezes her eyes shut, and he slaps her cheeks.
"Stay awake, Syd. You'll get to sleep soon, I promise. Just stay awake until the paramedics get here."
She does, fighting for interminable moments to keep her word. After an eternity, wailing starts at the edge of her consciousness, and grows unbearably loud, followed by red and blue flashing spastically across her room. Two men wearing dark blue appear in the doorway, and she lets her eyes slide shut. She has kept her promise.
The ache is still with her the next time she opens her eyes, albeit in far more comfortable surroundings. The sensations are still the same -- the deep throb at her side, the fogginess, the warm hand holding hers, the fingers tangling through her hair. She pulls her eyes open, and blinks twice.
"Hey," he says, smiling a smile that reaches all the way to his green eyes. She tries to smile back, but isn't sure if she succeeded. Her forehead creases in confusion, and she breathes out a word.
"Will?"
"He's fine. He might need a little more rehab than you, but he's fine. I'll take you to visit him as soon as you're able to get up."
She tries to smile again, and this time knows she succeeded. A sudden thought grips her, a fear. With Herculean effort, she lifts her right hand, dragging his left one with it. She pulls it up just enough to bring it into view, and sees that it is empty, bearing nothing but a watch around his wrist. She lowers both their hands and smiles.
His forehead creases in confusion. "What is it?"
She moves her head, just a bit, the motion substituting for a shake. She smiles. "Nothing." She's not certain herself why she did it -- a fear, a shadow, like a memory from a dream.
He smiles back, a warm, genuine expression. "Okay."
She can feel sleep pulling at her again, the sense of relief and the effort of moving were far too much. Blackness creeps in at the edges of her vision, the fuzziness in her head growing stronger. But she manages one last surge of energy, forcing her eyes wide and her mouth to move.
"Vaughn?"
"You know, you can call me Michael." The teasing tone is back, but she does not have time for that.
"Vaughn?"
"What?"
"Can we -- go -- to Santa Barbara?"
He raises her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips. "As soon as you're out. I promise."
She gives him a broad smile, lips parting. The air rushes from her lungs in some imitation of a sigh. This was important, though she couldn't articulate the reason. She's relaxed enough now to let go, her eyelids sliding shut. She can hear his voice, his breathing, and the words he whispers.
"I love you, Sydney. You know that, right? You know that."
And she does know -- she knows she has found the things she needed: Retribution. Success. Freedom. The certainty, the relief, floods through her, even though her sleep-starved mind cannot fathom the reason why. But she knows these things -- and she knows something more. Something greater.
She is loved. Truly, deeply loved. She knew it mattered, but only now realizes how much. With that knowledge, she welcomes the coming sleep, welcomes the coming days. She focuses what remains of her attention on his whispers; they continue without pausing. His voice follows her as she drifts off to peaceful dreams.