Charade
By She's a Star
Disclaimer: Alias isn't mine. Alas, alas.
Author's Note: I've never done an Alias fic before, and I'm not particularly knowledgeable about the show. I've seen the whole third season thus far, and a bit of the first, but that's pretty much all. My apologies for any errors or terrible characterization; this scene was just so lovely (in an extremely bittersweet sort of way) that I felt compelled to do a little fic about Vaughn's point of view on it.
*
It feels safer to watch her when she's sleeping.
He shouldn't be watching her at all, of course. Yes, it is justified on a professional level – she just nearly died, and he is supposed to be keeping an eye on her. But at the same time, he feels almost reckless doing it, because he knows he's never going to be able to look at her the way he's supposed to; like a colleague. Like a friend. Platonically.
Their relationship is a million things, but he's pretty certain that it will never be platonic.
He's grown a bit more used to this, since she's been back. At first, he would hate himself for it; that deep, gut-twisting kind of hate that made him feel sick. He would curse himself mentally and try to call pictures of Lauren's face into his mind.
He knows his wife is beautiful, but it's the kind of classic, cliché beauty that seems to fade all too easily.
Stop it, he lectures himself. You're an idiot.
And he is. He's painfully aware of that. You'd think he'd have moved on after two years; a new job, a new wife . . .
And then Sydney Bristow finds some way to defy death (it seemed very fitting of her) and all of that time might as well have been nothing.
It is nothing, at least to him. Sometimes. In moments like these.
She shifts in bed a little, and he stands up before he can stop himself. He's rushing to her side before it's even really registered in his brain.
Ha. Yes, really, he's completely over her.
He sinks down onto the bed and smiles a little. "Hey."
She smiles back at him; not just a forced half-smile like the ones she's been sporting ever since she came back, either. A genuine, radiant smile – one of those smiles that had made him fall in love with her.
Back when he had loved her.
Which he still, yes, kind of did. A little. But that didn't mean he had to dwell on it.
"Vaughn," she says; her eyes are sparkling. "Help me up."
He obeys, slipping his fingers through hers briefly and pulling her into a sitting position. There's the faintest trace of a spark between them. God, he misses her.
And then, before he can really figure out what the hell is going on, she's kissing him. Warning bells go off in his head, and next to the fireworks that are flying left and right, it's more or less a dizzying situation.
Wrong. Bad. Stop. Now.
And he will. Really. In a second. Because they're really, really not supposed to be doing this.
But he can't figure out how to tell her that while his mouth is still pressed against hers.
And then his eyes are closed and he knows that he's lost.
He wonders vaguely if he's dreaming; it wouldn't be much of a surprise. It wouldn't be the first time he's dreamt of kissing her. But somehow he knows that it's real – he can feel everything more acutely than it seems like he ever has before. The white bed sheets brushing his right hand; her fingers still tangled loosely in his left; her lips firm and delicate and unmistakably real against his.
He raises his hand and gently brushes her cheek. Every ounce of logic that he's got is screaming at him to pull away, but his heart is putting up one hell of a fight. The emptiness that's haunted him ever since he lost her is gone, and he doesn't know if he can ever abandon this moment.
And then logic decides to point out the wedding ring on his finger.
He pulls away.
"Syd."
She smiles at him for a moment before it fades, traces still apparent in her eyes.
"I can't help it," she tells him. "I just miss you."
She reaches over, her hand grazing his face.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that he loves Lauren. He does. After all, he's a smart guy – he knows lots of things; the capital of Montana, all of the presidents in order, the square root of one hundred and forty-four. Yes, he knows he loves his wife.
But, God, right now he can't feel it.
And feeling suddenly seems so much more important than knowing.
He sighs; looks down, but realizes that he can't keep his eyes away from her. Not when she's like this, when she's happy. The way she used to be.
"You know we can't do this," he says, hating the sound of the words as they leave his mouth and hang, far too still, in the air.
"Oh, give me a break." She gives him a coquettish smile and carefully traces his jaw line with her finger. "It's a dream. We can do whatever we want."
And now he realizes what she's thinking.
"No," he says, weakly. He supposes he should be protesting more forcefully, but it's really kind of hard to concentrate when she's running her finger down his face and smiling at him like that.
"Or at least, I can," she continues.
The door swings open, and he feels the rush of magic that seems to surround them fizzle and die.
"Your vitals are normal," Jack says, all business. "You're gonna be fine." He pauses for a moment. "I assume he's told you."
God. God, he doesn't want to look back at her now. He should have told her straight off; he shouldn't have let go just because he missed her.
She makes him utterly weak, and if he's not careful, it could destroy them both.
He risks glancing back at her; the radiance is gone. In its place is the sadness that's possessed her. It doesn't seem right on her face.
"God," she says, an apologetic sort of desperation in her voice. "I . . ."
"It's okay," he lies, mostly because he doesn't know what else to say.
And maybe it is. Maybe in this charade they've crafted, it is okay. He's married, she's had two years of her life ripped away, and it's pretty damn clear that some higher power is intent upon tearing them apart.
(He can't look at her.)
It's okay.