Title: Old Habits
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Genre: Hangst — Humour Angst
Rating: PG-13 for language
Archived: SD-1, FanFiction.Net, and Cover Me
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of Story. No wait it's not! Also, there's spoilers up through 3.03 "Reunion." You've been warned.
Summary: Lauren's thoughts during Syd's mission to Mexico City. 3.03 "Reunion" spoilers ahead. A Dream Writer Experience.
Old Habits
He stares so intently at the screen that I think he's trying to will it into spontaneous combustion.
My eyes dart back and forth between the monitor and him nervously, knowing that he's just itching to take a headset and run, barking orders as he goes. I see the concern in his eyes, so overwhelming his features that I, myself, begin to feel the emotion radiating out from him. I yearn to be the doting wife, comforting him with a kiss and a hug, maybe even a demure shoulder rub and an "Everything's going to be all right, honey." But: A) I don't know that, and B) Hey, where's he going…
He's running towards the agent at the computer and demanding a headset in his "no nonsense" tone. I struggle to hide my wince. This can't be a good sign.
I've read all the reports, all the dossiers. Everyone loves Sydney Bristow, is practically singing her praises. I'm surprised she doesn't have her own talk show. She's smart, intuitive, adaptable, creative, and she sure as hell gets what she wants. I don't know if I completely buy into it. Sure, it was a pretty neat trick, taking pictures of the photos in the mirror, but look at the trouble it got her into! She's being threatened by at least two guards and is pointing a gun at a guy who is pointing another gun at an innocent little girl. And what's she doing? Demanding things of him! Doesn't sound very smart or creative to me. Sounds like she wants to get that little market square shot up.
And what does she get as a reward?
The full attention of my husband.
What a bitch.
There he goes, barking his orders into her ear like they were the Bristow/Vaughn team of two years ago. Old habits really do die hard, I guess. I've heard the stories about them. They're legends, really: larger than life action heroes. I really feel that sometimes they should have their own comic book and wear fake glasses and change into tight leather costumes in phone booths. (Although I'm sure they have over their lucrative careers.) I've heard the stories so often that I feel I could write a book. Every time their names are brought up it's, one of the same four sentences:
"Oh, they worked so well together."
"They were so valuable to the Agency."
"They were such a cute couple!"
"Are they going to be teamed up again soon?"
Frankly, I'm getting kind of tired of it. I've eradicated water cooler and break room time from my day entirely. I don't know if either of them hear it as much as I do, but I'm willing to bet my marriage that if Sydney did, she'd break down in a bout of self-pity.
What a self-centred bitch.
He's reminding her about a mission in Thailand…I wonder what that's about. Probably some ditty that isn't really important for the general public to understand; as long as she knows what he's saying, it's fine. Great. Just great. Now they're reminiscing about a past that I'm not a part of. Right over the comm. links. Right in front of everybody we work with. I yearn to scream, "That isn't helping our little love triangle, Michael!" But I don't think he'd notice if I started stripping in the middle of the Ops Centre at that moment.
At least I know what they'll be saying behind my back at the water cooler tomorrow.
Note to Self: bring bottled water tomorrow.
Scratch that. For the rest of the week.
Because somehow he just helped her get out of the situation. Alive. And the little girl? Yeah, she's alive too: I can hear the mother's happy yelps in Spanish through Sydney's comm. link.
Damn.
How the hell did that happen?
That makes her a lucky self-centred bitch.
Michael flings away the headset and lets out the breath that he's probably been holding for the last five minutes. I can practically see the adrenaline leave his system as he comes down from his post-operation high. He turns around to face me, and I have to quickly regain my composure. Again I'm back in the role of the doting wife as he hugs me hard, harder than he has in a long while. I can't help but think if it's really me he's hugging.
I pretend that I didn't see the array of emotions that has just played out. I pretend that his intuition and creativity and intelligence impresse me. I pretend that I'm happy with the outcome of the mission.
I have a feeling that I'm going to be pretending a lot from now on.