Yeah, it's another Vaughn POV Post-Telling fic in second person. If you're getting sick of reading them, believe me, I'm getting sick of writing them. But that Plot Bunny keeps biting me! And it hurts!

This story was motivated by a single snippet of prose - the first line of the fic, actually. This is my take on why Vaughn moved on.

This is a loose sequel to "Pain".

TITLE: Independence Day
SUMMARY: "You'd never wanted to disappoint her." Learning to live again, moving on, and release. A Vaughn POV Post-Telling second person fic.
RATING: PG/PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. All JJ"s, except for the excerpt from the Book of Common Prayer which belongs to the Anglican Church [or one branch of the Christian Church. I'm really not too sure.]
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fic's really all about the S/V, despite the references to the V/L. It's almost S/V viewed through a V/L lens, although vice versa could also apply depending on how you look at it. And as for the title - well....It was either "Independence Day" or "Disappointment". And I just liked "Independence Day".
SUGGESTED SOUNDTRACK: "Something Beautiful" by Robbie Williams, and "Independence Day" by Mel C [or one of the Spice Girls. It's on the "Bend it Like Beckham" soundtrack.]


You'd never wanted to disappoint her.

You'd never wanted to let her down.

But you know that what you do now, what you do in those late nights when Weiss has given up babysitting you, what you do with the bottles of whiskey and vodka and tequila.....what you do with the alcohol that has so quickly become your only release....

You know that it would disappoint her.

But you're too drunk to care anymore, on the alcohol and the pain that blinds your senses more than the most powerful drink ever could.

It's all a blur now.

And secretly you like it that way.

Because it's simpler that way.

And when you see her in your dreams, her voice is quieter, and you can't quite see her clearly.

Living in a blur is easier than living with the razor sharp shards of reality that haunt you in your sober hours.

The pain is still there, but at least when you're drunk it's just a dull, all encompassing pain that hurts everywhere equally.

It's not the stabbing sharpcrystallinehardenedheartbreak that knocks you senseless every time you come up for air.

And for that you're grateful to the bottles of such fragile glass that give you such a merciful release.

*

You stopped hearing her voice long ago.

You don't know why.

Just that she stopped talking to you one day, stopped answering your questions, continuing your conversations.

You think that maybe she saw what you had become.

Saw who you were without her.

And maybe she was disappointed by it.

*

So you try to pick yourself up again.

Pull yourself back together.

It's like trying to put together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle with only half the pieces.

The pieces you have fit together perfectly.

[Because you're still alive]

But there are still pieces missing.

[Even though you're empty]

She had been a part of you.

[Half of you]

And now she was gone.

And you were broken in half and torn to pieces….and there was nothing you could do about it.

Because she had died six months ago.

She was gone.

*

You accept this now.

She's cremated, not buried, a clause she'd included in her will.

She wanted her ashes to be spread at sea.

And so they are, your tears mixing with the dust and ashes that were the only remains of the life that she was, runningtogetherentwining.....together.

Your tears, her dust.

They should have formed something beautiful.

Because everything that you had ever had with her had been beautiful.

She was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

And what you had together was the best thing that had ever happened to you, the most incredibly magical thing that had ever happened to you….the most incredibly beautiful thing that had ever happened to you.

Your tears and her dust should have formed something beautiful.

You had never talked about children, but there's no doubt in your mind, none whatsoever, that if she had lived, if she hadn't left you here with your pain.....there's no doubt that you would have had children.

They would have been beautiful.

What you had formed, what you had had together….it had always been beautiful.

But now you can only watch as your tears, flowing down your cheeks in clear, salty torrents mix with the dark, grey soft [sosoft] ashes [all that was left of her] as they blow back into your face off the sea where you had poured out everything that you had left of her.

You can only listen helplessly as the priest Jack had organised to speak went through the motions of burying her, listen as he intones solemnly words which no longer have any meaning for you.

[In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Sydney, and we commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make His face to shine upon her, and give her peace. Amen.]

You hope she's at peace. You hope that she's happy. But you are neither, and all you can do is watch and listen as everything that she was, everything that she had ever been…everything that Sydney Bristow had ever done or said or been….everything- -

everything
is
washed
away
from
you.

And is it all gone.

You're numb, finally. The pain is gone, replaced by blinding hopelessness and despair.

She's gone. She's really gone.

You blink as you watch the water and her ashes mix, feel the mixture it makes impact on your skin.

It's mud.

It's not beautiful.

The magic is gone.

She is dead.

*

This is all you know now.

She is dead.

She is dead.

She is dead.

She is dead.

*

But you're not.

And all that you're doing now is disappointing her.

Or why else would she have stopped talking to you?

*

And so you put away your bottle one day.

And you go and pick up Donovan from Eric's.

You go and buy food, not alcohol.

You clean your apartment.

And you remember that she'd never been there.

Not really.

That all the conversations you had with her in your living room, in your bedroom, in your kitchens…..they never happened.

You sell your apartment.

And you buy another one.

You need somewhere where you won't be haunted by your ghosts.

But there are still days where you wonder if you'll ever have a day when you won't think of her.

You leave the CIA.

You consider a transfer, to somewhere she'd never been, but you know that it wouldn't stop the pain in your gut that hits you so hard every time you plan a mission, every time you review protocol, every time you put on the shoulder holster she had loved so much.

You had become a spy because of your father.

You will stop being one because of her.

And there's a part of you that wonders whether or not you'll ever do anything because of life, not death.

Whether or not you'll ever make a decision in your life motivated by life, by living, by happiness, by love, not death and dying and guilt and pain.

*

And then you realise that that's what you're doing.

You're living.

You're pulling yourself together.

You're not letting yourself be broken.

You think that she would be proud to see that you had gotten back up out of bed.

Proud to see that you'd thrown away the bottles.

That you'd lived.

That you were trying to survive.

Even without her.

And so you think that maybe even though she's gone, you don't have to disappoint her anymore.

*

You meet a woman.

She's nothing like Sydney had been.

It's just as well, really.

You can't replace her.

You could never replace her.

But you know that you need someone in your life. You need someone who cares, someone who will wake up beside you, someone who can maybejustmaybe give you the life that you've wanted for so long.

And maybe she's the one who can do that.

And even if she's not, maybe it doesn't really matter that much anymore.

Maybe it's time you start settling for something that you can have, rather than being obsessed by someone that you can't have anymore.

And you do love her. Not the way you loved Sydney, of course….but you do love her. She'll make you happy, and you'll make her happy. And that's enough for you now.

And so you propose to her.

And she says yes.

*

You're getting married today.

You're going to say your vows to a woman that's nothing like the love of your life, but is as strong and beautiful and smart as she was.

And you think that maybe, just maybe she's happy for you, somewhere up there with all of her own dead. That maybe you've stopped disappointing her.

That you've shown her that you can move on, that you can pull yourself out of the ground and live without her.

You think maybe she'd almost be proud of your strength.

She had moved on, hadn't she, after Danny? She had pulled herself together and lived.

And so for that reason you don't feel guilty on your wedding day, not really.

Because the woman you're marrying may not be her, but she's a good woman and you do love her.

You once thought that you'd never make a decision because of anything else except death.

That your life would never truly be yours to live.

That you would never stop living your life driven only by your ghosts.

Now you know wrong.

This is the day you make a decision. This is the day you start to truly live again.

This is the ring with which you will reclaim your life.

This is the woman with which you will have the future you've always dreamt of.

This is the oath that will bind you to her forever.

But above all--

This is your independence day.

*

finis [1/1]



Well......there we go. Hate it? Love it? Let me know.

I've got two more post-Telling fics in the works - "Black and Blue", a S/V hurt-comfort piece, which may not be finished for quite a while due to length, and Part 2 of "Pretense". The latter should be up within a few days, I hope.


Hope you liked it!

Em