TITLE: "Spilled Milk" ("Like This" part three of ?)
AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@hotmail.com
SPOILERS: "The Telling"
DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1, Allies. If you'd like to post it anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail.
SUMMARY: A fiberglass jungle and a sea of white.
WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story.
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters. If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith.
NOTES: I've lost my keys. Where are they? Again, this one is really all over the place.
Didn't your mother ever tell you not to cry over spilled milk?
Actually, no she didn't. Not that you remember at least. So perhaps that's why you're sitting in a puddle of watered-down white and broken glass. Sobbing.
The man behind the glass occasionally sneaks a glance at you, likely wondering whether it's time to call for more meds or if this warrants a straight-jacket. The least he could do is call for a clean-up, but he averts his eyes and makes no move to do any such thing. What did you expect? This is the CIA, not the Ritz-Carlton, and the Feds never have been known for their customer service skills.
After you've had a good cry-the most recent of several-you pick yourself up and walk around, careful to avoid the shards of glass. It doesn't matter anyway--you're physically numb. You'd never know the difference if one of those pieces were to lodge itself in your palm or in your bare foot. You wonder if it's a side-effect of the medication, but that train of thought disappears quickly, which is probably a side-effect of the medication. You sigh and try not to think about it.
It's been three days-not that anyone here tells you anything-since you came back from Hong Kong. You visited briefly with your father, emotionally distant as ever. You think you saw Vaughn through the glass yesterday, but it could be your mind playing tricks on you. You can't really blame him after what happened the last time he made contact with you. You'd like to apologize for that, but for some reason you don't feel obligated. The doctors have come and, of course, Kendall and his cavalry have been here, but no headway has been made. That's probably why you're still stuck in here. You can say what you want about your mother, but she had to have the sanity of a saint to stay in here for months.
Your mother.
You wonder what she's doing, where she is, and how much of the blame for what's happened to you can be placed on her shoulders. Did she know where you were? Could she have put a stop to it? If she could, she didn't. Mothers are supposed to be there for their children.
And that thought sends you another wave of tears. Another bout of misplaced guilt, you tell yourself.
You tiptoe back through the puddle and curl up on the cot and try to sleep. You imagine that through the glass you resemble a tiger at the zoo, perched in her tree, trying to pretend that she's in a real jungle and not one made of fiberglass. You remember a couple of trips with your parents to the Santa Monica zoo-happy days-and the memories of animal crackers, red kool- aid, and prairie dogs are the last things you remember before you fall asleep.
It's not a peaceful sleep. You dream of rings. And hat-shaped lamp shades. And meowing cats. And the smell of week-old rice.
And the crying.
You wake up, startled, the baby's voice-a girl?-ringing in your ears. And you start to sob again.
That's when you realize that he's watching you. From inside the glass. Standing in the middle of the half-dried puddle, his arms folded across his chest and his forehead furrowed.
And all you can do is stare. And hear the crying. And stare. And hear the crying.
He moves slowly--as if expecting you to bite off his hand like the crocodile on that Discovery show--and takes a seat next to you. You turn and look at him.
And she cries. Loudly. Desperately.
"Sydney," he whispers.
You answer by wiping your nose with your sleeve. Bad manners, but your mother never told you not to do that either.
"What happened?" he asks.
You want to explain that you were reaching for the glass of milk and knocked it off the tray instead. But as you search for the words, he looks you up and down, as if questioning why they'd put a glass anything in the room with a girl as crazy as you. His forehead is wrinkled again, just as you remembered it.
And that's when she cries out to you again.
And that's when you cry out again.
"Sydney?" he whispers.
"What?" you manage to answer.
"What happened?"
He looks down again. And so do you.
The front of your shirt is soaked. And she's crying again.
You're up and pacing. Wanting to escape your fiberglass jungle. You have somewhere to be.
He stops you with two hands firmly on your shoulder, pulls you close, whispers in your hair. Desperate.
"What happened?"
You cling to him, a pang of realization hitting you in the gut. And although you don't know who she is, there's only one thing you know to say. You bury your face in his neck, crying without tears.
"She doesn't have a name, Vaughn."
His once-warm arms are now nothing but cold comfort. Because somewhere out there, there's a baby with no name crying.
And you're not there to hold her.
AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@hotmail.com
SPOILERS: "The Telling"
DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1, Allies. If you'd like to post it anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail.
SUMMARY: A fiberglass jungle and a sea of white.
WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story.
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters. If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith.
NOTES: I've lost my keys. Where are they? Again, this one is really all over the place.
Didn't your mother ever tell you not to cry over spilled milk?
Actually, no she didn't. Not that you remember at least. So perhaps that's why you're sitting in a puddle of watered-down white and broken glass. Sobbing.
The man behind the glass occasionally sneaks a glance at you, likely wondering whether it's time to call for more meds or if this warrants a straight-jacket. The least he could do is call for a clean-up, but he averts his eyes and makes no move to do any such thing. What did you expect? This is the CIA, not the Ritz-Carlton, and the Feds never have been known for their customer service skills.
After you've had a good cry-the most recent of several-you pick yourself up and walk around, careful to avoid the shards of glass. It doesn't matter anyway--you're physically numb. You'd never know the difference if one of those pieces were to lodge itself in your palm or in your bare foot. You wonder if it's a side-effect of the medication, but that train of thought disappears quickly, which is probably a side-effect of the medication. You sigh and try not to think about it.
It's been three days-not that anyone here tells you anything-since you came back from Hong Kong. You visited briefly with your father, emotionally distant as ever. You think you saw Vaughn through the glass yesterday, but it could be your mind playing tricks on you. You can't really blame him after what happened the last time he made contact with you. You'd like to apologize for that, but for some reason you don't feel obligated. The doctors have come and, of course, Kendall and his cavalry have been here, but no headway has been made. That's probably why you're still stuck in here. You can say what you want about your mother, but she had to have the sanity of a saint to stay in here for months.
Your mother.
You wonder what she's doing, where she is, and how much of the blame for what's happened to you can be placed on her shoulders. Did she know where you were? Could she have put a stop to it? If she could, she didn't. Mothers are supposed to be there for their children.
And that thought sends you another wave of tears. Another bout of misplaced guilt, you tell yourself.
You tiptoe back through the puddle and curl up on the cot and try to sleep. You imagine that through the glass you resemble a tiger at the zoo, perched in her tree, trying to pretend that she's in a real jungle and not one made of fiberglass. You remember a couple of trips with your parents to the Santa Monica zoo-happy days-and the memories of animal crackers, red kool- aid, and prairie dogs are the last things you remember before you fall asleep.
It's not a peaceful sleep. You dream of rings. And hat-shaped lamp shades. And meowing cats. And the smell of week-old rice.
And the crying.
You wake up, startled, the baby's voice-a girl?-ringing in your ears. And you start to sob again.
That's when you realize that he's watching you. From inside the glass. Standing in the middle of the half-dried puddle, his arms folded across his chest and his forehead furrowed.
And all you can do is stare. And hear the crying. And stare. And hear the crying.
He moves slowly--as if expecting you to bite off his hand like the crocodile on that Discovery show--and takes a seat next to you. You turn and look at him.
And she cries. Loudly. Desperately.
"Sydney," he whispers.
You answer by wiping your nose with your sleeve. Bad manners, but your mother never told you not to do that either.
"What happened?" he asks.
You want to explain that you were reaching for the glass of milk and knocked it off the tray instead. But as you search for the words, he looks you up and down, as if questioning why they'd put a glass anything in the room with a girl as crazy as you. His forehead is wrinkled again, just as you remembered it.
And that's when she cries out to you again.
And that's when you cry out again.
"Sydney?" he whispers.
"What?" you manage to answer.
"What happened?"
He looks down again. And so do you.
The front of your shirt is soaked. And she's crying again.
You're up and pacing. Wanting to escape your fiberglass jungle. You have somewhere to be.
He stops you with two hands firmly on your shoulder, pulls you close, whispers in your hair. Desperate.
"What happened?"
You cling to him, a pang of realization hitting you in the gut. And although you don't know who she is, there's only one thing you know to say. You bury your face in his neck, crying without tears.
"She doesn't have a name, Vaughn."
His once-warm arms are now nothing but cold comfort. Because somewhere out there, there's a baby with no name crying.
And you're not there to hold her.