Not Every Woman
Author: Chshalogrl aka Ellie
Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone. Alias and its characters are
the property of JJ Abrams, the lucky people at ABC, and Bad Robot Productions.
Rating: PG
A/N: Happy Friday, all! Okay, here it is. This is the Syd POV to "Every Man". But don't get too excited. While "Every Man" literally just poured through my fingers (it
was a creative accident), this one was a little more forced…I think because I
had certain expectations of how it would turn out and it's not quite what I
expected. But for those of you who are
writers, you know that sometimes fics just write themselves. It's not quite as natural as "Every Man",
but I hope you'll enjoy it just the same.
It's really been a burden on my mind for the last few days so I'm glad
to get it done. Hope you enjoy it. Happy Reading!
~Ellie
I have this crush. On this guy.
Strange thing though. The guy is my husband.
Not every woman can say that.
Is that normal? To have a crush on your husband, I mean. For as long as I can remember, the concept of holy matrimony has been directly followed by a connotation of the proverbial ball and chain. Immobility. Loss of freedom.
I've never felt freer.
My husband is better at these matters of the heart. He speaks to me about his intense feelings and emotions while I sit gaping at the sincerity of his tone. How did I get so lucky?
Good question.
Oh, the irony of it all…He says he's the luckiest man in the world.
How's a woman supposed to respond to such a heartfelt statement of emotion?
This has been my dilemma. They say that relationships are a constant teetering of give and take. It seems impossible that I could possibly give as much as I take from him. I love him. When I look at him, I'm overcome with a rush of warmth. Of desire.
Not just the sexual kind.
Something deeper.
I crave him. And when I think about him, my reaction is an involuntary upward tilt of my chin, a slightly exaggerated sway of my hips, and a rising of rose behind the deep dimples that only he can unveil.
Michael Vaughn.
I'm blushing right this very moment.
Every morning I wake up and lower myself from my bed expecting the shock of contact with the frigid floor. Every morning I'm momentarily shocked when I discover the layer of cushy wool that serves as a barrier between my skin and the floorboards.
Socks.
A seemingly meaningless gesture perhaps, but one that warms me to the core every morning. The mornings are a quiet time. While Michael sleeps for an hour after I wake up, I go about my usual routine. A cup of coffee to hold me over until Michael brings me my daily soy latte, a quick glance at the day's headlines, and the task of readying myself for another day as Agent Sydney Bristow.
Black pantsuit, nylons, heels, and cosmetics.
Check.
Giving myself a last once-over in our full-length mirror, I never miss the opportunity to crawl back across the bed and arrange myself within Michael's grasp while placing butterfly kisses across his face. It is at this time that he usually begins to stir. Staring at me with a look of bleary-eyed adoration is my savior.
I am intrigued by those emerald eyes.
I'm seated at my desk for about an hour before he makes his daily appearance in the doorway of the office. And every day it's the same thing. Carrying a cardboard tray with paper cups nestled precariously inside, he shoots a tilted grin at me before approaching my desk and greeting me.
"Morning, babe."
"Good morning, sleepyhead." I respond in kind. I can't help but take a shot at his constant look of disarray…even if I do find it to be alarmingly sexy. He sets my latte on my desk for me and leans over to squeeze me into a work-appropriate "side-hug" as he ignores the frowns of those employees who are nursing their Styrofoam puddles of pseudo-caffeine.
They should really get a Vaughn.
Sobering for a moment, I send him what I hope is a heartfelt smile that implies how much he means to me and I feel a tingle when he grins at me in response. Watching as he makes his way to his desk several feet away, I can feel a girly blush staining my cheeks and, in that moment, I know.
I know why love is always pink.
Nearly every working person looks forward to their daily lunchbreak. A chance for off-the-clock relaxation and a way of creasing the day down the middle so that it seems just a bit more tolerable. It's become a habit of mine to move through a cycle of glances from the moment of Michael's arrival to the instant the clock strikes noon. Computer screen, Michael, clock, computer screen, Michael, clock. Same glances, same order, every day.
Of course, not all of those glances are equally timed.
Love isn't that blind.
Evening is a special time for the both of us. We tend to eat dinner late, so while our meal is cooking, we retreat to our living room to wind down from the weekend's events. We relax.
And fight over the remote control.
Ridiculous as two CIA agents fight over electronics may seem—it's serious business. He likes to watch sports, I like to watch the news. So what always starts as a friendly debate of who gets to choose becomes a game of keep-away. And eventually the game of keep-away becomes physical and sends us tumbling to the floor in a gloriously tangled heap.
Vaughn always wins.
Or so he thinks…
When he cockily alleges my bitterness at losing, I move toward our bookshelf and grumpily select a book. Vaughn attempts to appease me by offering me the narrow space between his body and the back of the couch. I graciously accept.
No one could ever accuse me of holding a grudge.
So I lay sandwiched between the comforts of my couch and my husband attempting to read a Jane Austen novel—or pretending to. Slyly, my gaze shifts from the adventures of Elizabeth Bennett to the boyishly handsome face of my husband and I memorize him. His muscles tense slightly as he flinches at a bad play while his chest rumbles with his cheers at a good one. The flashing of the television screen flickers in his eyes causing them to look fiercely green. Suddenly, moved by the utter beauty of him, I curl my body toward him and sigh happily as I feel his arm pull me closer while he presses a soft kiss to my forehead. I'm capable of just one thought.
God Bless ESPN.
My husband knows how much I love ice cream. He knows how I take comfort in it, how I celebrate with it, that I have to have it when I'm drunk. There are nights when we'll finish dinner that he'll wordlessly grab my hand and guide me to the front door. Ice cream runs. Before we head out, Vaughn will try to convince me to take a jacket and we'll have a 15 minute debate over just how cold 75 degrees really is. I always win and then glare at him to let him know just how much I hate his overprotective nature.
I love it.
Walking hand in hand down our quiet street, we talk about life and laugh at the dhildren who are in their front yards playing hopscotch and kick-the-can. It's not a long walk and we soon arrive at the old-fashioned parlor where we are greeted by the tinkling of the rusty bell that hangs atop the door. A petite brunette high-school girl is working behind the counter and Vaughn grins at me because she is always quite generous with the hot fudge on his sundaes. His noble side sees this as a simple kindness. I don't point out to him that she doesn't extend that same kindness to me.
The girl's got good taste.
After placing our orders, we seat ourselves side-by-side in a booth like a couple of teenagers. When another of the friendly girls brings out our sundaes, she smiles at me. She blushes under Vaughn's gaze and completely crumbles before she walks away. Any woman can see how devastatingly handsome he is.
Imagine if they knew his soul.
We finish our concoctions and head outside to take a walk under the pretense of 'digesting' our decadent desserts. Stopping at a familiar park, we seat ourselves on a bench and take a moment to gaze at the stars.
I take a moment to gaze at my husband.
When he notices the goosebumps that quickly ripple my skin, he is quick to remind me that I should have grabbed a jacket. Gentleman that he is, he wraps an arm around me and attempts to warm me by holding me close to his heart.
I don't bother to tell him that I'm not cold.
Our walk eventually takes us back home where we resume our nightly routine. Nestled in his arms with a wet head of hair and bare feet, I fall asleep quickly knowing that when I wake up, I'll be safe and warm…in his arms with socks on my feet.
Michael Vaughn says he's the luckiest man in the world.
I'm still not sure how to properly respond.
Most women would kill to be in my shoes.
I love my shoes. I love my husband. I love my life.
Not every woman can say that.
I'm glad I can.
Fin.
So there you have it. It just wasn't quite…what I hoped it would be. Let me know what you think. Thanks for your support, guys! You're awesome!