Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]/kiraboshi
Genre: Angst! Major S/V Angst!
Rating: It's pretty safe, PG? PG-13?
Summary: He is no longer your guardian angel.
Author's Note: My mother actually came up with the main idea for this fanfic, and since she's not writing it even though I've asked her to, my muse woke up this morning and made me write it.
Second Person POV, in a world where, yes, the third season has happened.
It wasn't your fault.
Whilst the power of words is astounding (a topic discussed during your studies, pulled from the mist that was your love for literature), they offer little comfort. You feel hollow, your head hung, eyes closed, repeating those words in your head over and over again, dried blood on your face keeping you from frowning, crying, as if the dried lifeblood were a mask through which no one could see.
It wasn't your fault.
Your hair would fall into your face if it weren't tied up in a braid, the stray hairs that would normally be tickling your cheeks even staying away, tucked securely behind your ears.
More blood.
For a moment, you feel as if you're going to be sick, a slowly rising feeling starting in the bottom of your empty stomach that rises as your mind repeats your mantra, infecting every fiber of your being as you begin to shake, the first tears falling from your tired, red-rimmed eyes. They snake through the blood, a river of clearness and innocence through all that is wrong in your mind, dropping off onto the cold concrete floor below. Dust shifts as the moisture hits it more and more, faster and faster, cries choked back as to not make a sound.
A sound could be seen as guilt – admission.
Confession.
But it wasn't your fault.
The sobs slowly subside, controlled by will-power alone, pushed back just as the bile that reached your mouth was. The heat is overwhelming, suffocating, threatening to take away your breath.
If you had any breath left, that is.
Your mind strays to those thoughts you've had many nights before, sleepless, moonless nights of self-doubt and longing, of the desire for something more than this. This life. You laugh sometimes, at your own naiveté, at how you had at one time thought this a fun venture. Something to give your life meaning and purpose, something to keep you from books and solitude. To give excitement to an otherwise boring, extraordinarily boring existence. Thoughts of leaving, of finding something normal, boring, sane even. Away from lies and contempt, from hardship and heartache.
It wasn't your fault.
You find your heart is still filled with that longing, with that solitude; that everything you've done to change your life around and find some kind of meaning has been taken away from you, pulled out from under your feet just when you felt it was right, when you felt it just simply fit. The old wife's tales said things fall in threes, that the other shoe would drop.
It has been raining shoes since that day your freshman year in college. Shoes of sadness and destruction that follow you as if you were a Goddess over them, expecting them to accompany you wherever you went.
You bring a hand up to your face; wiping the tears from your lashes, blood smearing past your nose. The moisture has brought it back to life, the stench causing you to cough and cringe as if you'd never smelt it before. But this blood is different.
It's not yours.
You cry out, pained, crushed, the situation catching up with you, pulling you down to reality in a heap of limbs. You wonder why this hurt.
You open clenched eyes to find you've fallen from the generic, cold metal chair to the floor, curled up as you sob again, not caring anymore. Guilt. Confession. Sadness.
It wasn't your fault!
What could you have done?
Your mind races, going over everything that happened; every aspect of the mission flying back to you from the first briefing to last minute changes in the van before deployment, trying to find the hole, the gap that allowed this to go horribly wrong. It fragmented, the memories rushing at you out of sequence, one flashing after another, shifting events. You don't even know what's real anymore, or if your eyes played tricks on you, filtering out the events that you didn't want to admit.
Was it your fault?
You stiffen at this new alteration of your mantra, your eyes opening and focusing on stained walls of gray. Was it? You've always felt remorse when those men died in Berlin, sobs keeping you from running when the guards finally caught onto the mission. Those who have died because of things you could control but didn't.
Or were they things you couldn't control, but felt you could?
You've never felt the distinction, never cared. If there was anything you could do, no matter how crazy and outlandish they sounded to others, you would try to do them. To save them. To spare others the pain you'd felt in your life, fully aware that death spread, crumbled families and love, hearts and minds, infected them all like a disease with no cure.
Are you this cure or the disease?
Does death follow you around, a shadow lurking behind the corner?
Another flash. A man, a gun, behind the corner of the building, slinking, hiding. The gun held in a death grip, sweat falling from his brow, the heat suffocating him as well. You can see him standing there as clear as day, his eyes almost blending with the leaves of the garden's trees as you hide as well, your mind foggy from the heat.
Oh my God, was it your fault?
A breeze dances across your face, the high window giving the only fresh air in this small room. You glance up at it, the sounds of trees flowing in the wind comforting as if cleansing your soul. Dancing for you, just beyond your reach, beckoning for your return from solitude. But the wind is cold, the trees far. You can reach for them, for happiness, but never reach it. Your fingers may brush against it, but you'll fall like all the times before, fall to the ground painfully, the trees only viewable, never to be touched.
Your face falls.
It was your fault, wasn't it?
You cry no longer – you have no more tears. Stiff muscles groan as you pick yourself up from the ground and fall back into the chair, your hands frantically wiping you face clean.
But you can never be truly free –clean- from all this blood.
You remind yourself you need a clear head, logic must take control. Review what happened. The man, oh, the man!, comes from behind, you see that now; his gun raised as chaos breaks out, shots everywhere.
You were the back up, and you were distracted!
It was your fault.
You see this, and know you've lost. That the trees will no longer be yours to reach for. That this death will be the last you see before your own, even if your body continues to live after it. Strength was never all yours, half of it residing in another body, another being, one that now will no longer give you solace or support, that will no longer breath your name upon impassioned lips.
You have finally lost.
Dry sobs take over your body, your mind screaming to be free of such a fragile being. You shake, your eyes dry, hands trembling as you hold your head, pull through your hair. The rubber band falls to the ground, long brown hair spilling around your dirt and blood streaked face. Your head is bowed, eyes closed.
You can hear steady footsteps approaching.
They stop before you, shift on the ground. A sigh, a deep, rattling breath, the swallow of a sob just like your own. You do the same and look up.
"I'm sorry you're being held, here, like this," they say, looking over your shoulder and out the window. The trees call them to just as they call you.
You hope, for your sake as well as theirs, that one day they can reach them again.
"It's fine," your raspy, strained voice replies, "I understand why."
"I know you do," they say, shifting uncomfortably again, "we just, we just have some things to sort out – to see."
"It was my fault," you remark offhand as you examine you hands. They were such strong hands, and yet they could not protect no matter how hard you tried. They failed you just as you failed all of them.
Just as you failed him.
"I'm – I don't know anymore."
"What?"
"It will always be your fault," they say, voice stiff, insensitive. "No matter what they say, no matter what the investigation's outcome is," they continue, eyes still on the trees (they cannot look you in the eyes!), "I don't care."
"I've failed."
"Yes, Sydney," they say, turning to leave you alone once again. "You have."
Your heart shatters; if it were glass, the shards would be all around you as you are finally broken, a shell of a being. Alone. Lost. Broken. Swirling in this whirlpool that was your life, frantically diving for the sides, wishing for some semblance of control. For your rock, your anchor, your love. And while before it was there, even if you were not with him all the time, even if his heart was split, he was still there for you to cling to.
The steps start again, heading away from you for the last time.
You stop holding it back, and suddenly find yourself on your feet. "Vaughn!" you sob.
He turns, eyes red, face pale and streaked with the same tears you cried. Filled with the same pain you feel. His hands before him, a small golden object passed between fingers unconsciously. Your eyes are drawn to it, then to his, sparkling green eyes that are now dull and lost.
He is, you realize, just as lost as you are.
"I don't know," he starts, choking back a tear, his voice cracking, "I can't – "
"What happened?"
"God, Sydney," he says, surprising you with the use of your full name. His words are heavy, so heavy you fall back into your chair, shoulders holding the weight of the world once again.
"I will always love you," he says, but you cannot see him. "But, but, I can't anymore."
"Why?" you ask, but already know the answer. You laugh in the silence, while you picture him coming up with a civil answer. "Because it was my fault."
And for the first time, he is not there to tell you otherwise, not there with the right words at the right time to make everything better, to brighten your world.
He is no longer your guardian angel.
"She – " his voice cracks again with emotion, "she died ten minutes ago. There was nothing they could do."
"I could have done something, I cou – "
"You were her back-up!" he explodes, his words stinging you as if they were knives. "You were there to keep her alive! And yes, Sydney, you failed. You failed spectacularly."
"I know," you say meekly.
"I've dealt with your death before," he says, spiteful, "And I've dealt with death before – anything I love dies, Sydney, and it's something I have yet to come to terms with – "
"Do you think you're the only one?" you ask, finally looking up. He is finally looking at you, at your eyes, all hope of reaching the trees gone from him. He looks small, broken, just as much as you.
"You do," he states simply. "You always have. You have never seen that we're more alike than you think. God, I *loved* you so much, and you were gone. I *died* that day!"
You sit there, dumbfounded, your eyes locked on his. Today, you muse, is your funeral.
"I've dealt with your death before," he reiterates, "and now, I can deal with it again."
You close your eyes slowly and re-open them, as if this will all disappear and you will find yourself at home reading a book, life perfect like it was before. But it isn't, and you realize in that moment that you are dead to him now, just as you were before.
And as he walks off, the sounds of his heart breaking echoing through the hallway, you realize this life has killed you both.
And you're both cursed to keep breathing.