To Someone Who Will Listen
By: chatnoir
rating: err... G?
Disclaimer: the usual. it's not mine. it never never has and never will be (darn!). if it were mine, Lauren would be dead.
Ship: S/V
Category: angst, romance
Distribution: sd-1, ff.net, others: please ask

special author's note: this idea was based on something Jasmine said to me in November. She doesn't know I wrote this... err... so... yeah... she said "what if syd was really there..." and it got me thinking. This also has influence from angelbleu and she doesn't know either.... I don't remember what we were talking about... but it sorta just came together in the end. I wrote this back in November... (well.. the first part of it), then totally forgot about it. I pulled it up a few days ago because I was considering throwing it away. Gabs read it and told me to continue it... so I did. yup... from last night to right now... (almost 5 AM! and I have yet to sleep... so if the story doesn't make sense... heh... I wonder why)

A/N: thank you to Gabs for the quick beta job. Especially so early in the morning! When we both haven't slept. hehe.

one more quick message: SPOILER FREE ZONE, please! On the chance that this relates more to what's going to happen (which I really don't expect it to), I don't want to know if I wrote anything wrong or right... I want it to be a surprise









Anxiety weaves through your entire body. Every pore expels waves of uneasiness and tension. Thoughts tumble in your brain, fighting to come out. Your brain battles with your heart. You have to find someone to tell what you think you are remembering. But you are afraid. Your ideas are beyond belief…against what you have said to Vaughn. And you don't want to believe it. You don't want them to be true.

Sitting down, you remember something Vaughn said… My father used to keep a journal… Should you start keeping one? Your heart give a resounding "yes!" while your mind dictates the dangers of writing your thoughts. But you know your heart and brain are working overtime to keep you from going insane with worry. Compartmentalizing—something you learned so long ago—was not working anymore. Your psych can only take so much, and it seems as if you have reached your limits.

Writing down what you fear is what you're going to have to do.

Pulling out a tattered unused notebook, a gift from Vaughn when you returned from the dead, you begin.

You wonder how you should start. "Dear Diary" is something that was used in third grade, "Dear Journal" seems too overwhelming. You think about addressing it to someone you know: Vaughn, your father, Eric, Dixon, Will. You look at the list and realize that they are all men. You also realize that so much has happened in the past two years that you feel disoriented with your place in their life. Then you thought about writing it to someone who has passed away: Francie, Danny, Laura Bristow. But that doesn't seem justified either. None of them understood the complexity of the life you have. None of them were here to hear the truth of it all. Francie and Danny both thought you took way too many business trips. Your mother died when you were six. Addressing it to Irina Derevko doesn't seem right either.

So you start with "To Someone Who Will Listen." It's simple enough and seems to fulfill the void left when there isn't a header.

This is what I know. I know that I'm missing almost two years of my life. I know that during those two years, I was still working in espionage. I know that when I came back, I found him married. I know that my father was in solitaire. I know that Irina Derevko is nowhere to be found. I know I was known as Julia Thorne.

And this is where it gets tricky. This is when I start going into the "I assume" and "I don't knows." I would love to believe that I was taken away from my life two years ago—a life that was so near perfect, and in fact, as perfect as life has ever been. I had everything I wanted and needed. I had a boyfriend who stood at my side and I think we loved each other. At least, I know I was (and still am), and he claims he was. When I came back… it all disappeared. The agency thinks that I was taken away by a group of people.

Except… I don't know. I'm starting to get these flashbacks. They happen randomly. Yesterday it happened as I was walking down the JTF corridor. Except, I don't understand why they still use the JTF. We're not working with the FBI anymore or Derevko. Today, the flashbacks happened four times. Once when I was pouring coffee this morning. Another during a meeting with Dixon, then when I was talking to Marshall. The last time, it was the clearest of all. I was working at my desk when I smelled something that reminded me uniquely of Vaughn. It pulled me back… and it seems as if I couldn't stop the flashback. I began panicking. I woke up on the floor. Someone said that it looked like I was having a seizure. But it couldn't have been. If the flashbacks were real… it would mean that my brain was having a hard time keeping everything stored. If a ton of information were to have flooded out so that I remembered… It has been told that when amnesia patients regain their memory, they blackout and come back remembering everything. I would like to think that this is what is happening to me. But, I have barely regained any memory. The other option is that I have a case of MPD… of course, I would rather think not.

I'm afraid those flashback were real. Because if they were, it would alter what happens here.

You put your pen down. Unsure if you want to continue.

You close the book, but you watch it slowly drop from your hands as you fade into black once more for the fifth time today. The last thought you have is, "something must be triggering them…"

["Sydney… you're back," Vaughn slurred his words together.

"Vaughn… please, you have to stop drinking."

"But I want to keep seeing you… I miss you. And this is the only way I know how."

Tears run down your face. You reach a hand up and caress his cheek. "Sometimes, Vaughn, you just have to let go."

"But I don't want to let you go. I loved you, Sydney Bristow. I'm sorry I never told you. I love you. I still do… and I don't ever want to let that go."

You pause. Letting the words drift through you. And you relish them, knowing that he will never say them to you again.

"Vaughn…" you drag out his name. But you didn't think about what you would say next so it hangs in the air. Untouched. "I know," you finally decide.

He nods his head. "Good. Because I'm going to be saying it for a long time."

You sigh, heavily. "Michael… I don't think I'll be back." In fact, you know you won't. You have a flight booked for Tibet that leaves in four hours. And another after that to go to Rome. All under the name 'Julia Thorne.' The plans have already been set a long time ago. You just weren't informed of it until they threatened him. All you want is to stay in his arms, but if he died because of you, you know you wouldn't be able to live with that. You have tried to stay away from Vaughn, but you keep coming back. You had hoped he would mourn and grieve. But never to this degree. You underestimated him, and you want to take it all back. You can't. 'This is for him,' you remind yourself.

His glassy eyes continue to stare into you. Memorizing each feature, committing it to memory. But he's so drunk… you know you should look fuzzy. "No, you'll come back Syd. You always come back."

The words hurt too much, so you distract yourself. You reach for his hand and pull him up, leading him to the couch, away from the alcohol. You sit down first and guide him over, and tell him to lie down, resting his head in your lap. You softly stroke his hair. He used to love it when you did that. He claimed it calmed him, and you hope it still calms him now.

"I was thinking of getting a car…" he starts.

You think this has to be the most normal conversation you've had in a while. "What type of car?"

"A Ford Focus." You blink at the absurdity. He laughs. "Joking." All those times you had to drive that small car… mainly the time he almost got carsick. You joked hours afterwards about that. "I was thinking of something that drives easier."

"You'll find something."

"I want to get it with you."

You don't answer. Instead, you continue to run your fingers through his hair. 'He needs a hair cut again,' you think. His eyes are starting to droop.

"Please say you'll be here when I wake up, Syd."

He drifts off to sleep.

You whisper lightly, "I love you more than you can imagine, Michael Vaughn." After you stare at his face, less tense in sleep although worry lines still prominent, and run your fingers through his hair a few more times, you languidly and cautiously lift his head and gingerly remove yourself.]

You wake up from whatever you just experienced. You don't know how to describe it. You don't necessarily fade to black and then start the flashback. It just starts before your eyes. Although, sometimes it does seem like there is that moment of blackness that's not there other times. When there isn't the blackness, you just see them pass through your vision. Most of the time, they just last for a few seconds. But the one you just experience… It has been the longest one of all, the most concrete. And it scares you because its what you feared most.

You pick up your pen, anxious to get it all out.

I just had a flashback again. They keep getting longer and so much more detailed. In color. So much more real. I was in Vaughn's apartment, a place I've never been. He's only been to my apartment. He almost gave me a key one time, but I doubted him. Maybe we were rushing. Maybe we didn't move fast enough. I don't know. But it was the first time I've been to his apartment. I think. I don't know for sure. I might have gone before that… but that would have to be in my two missing years because I don't know anymore and no flashbacks have occurred about that. But I seemed so familiar with it too. I knew where his couch was.

But what frightens me the most. I left willingly. I wasn't taken. It had been planned for months…whatever that plan was. I can only remember that it was something long and complicated—I don't know what it was about. I didn't exactly leave willingly. Someone threatened me… that they'd do something to Vaughn. But I can't remember why or with what. It's so vague. I just don't know.

You pause to remember what had happened. You want to get this down correctly, and to get your ideas surrounding the matter.

I also knew that I'd become Julia Thorne. It was an alias. I didn't mentally become her or anything. It was just that, an alias. But… oddly enough, it was so traceable. I don't understand that either. Maybe I made it traceable for a reason. But if I was still Sydney Bristow during those two years… why do I not remember anything?

What hurts me the most… is that I told Vaughn that I'd wait for him. But I didn't.

You lift your pen from the jade notebook. You recall that day. The painful conversation in the hallway. You tried to keep your tears at bay, but it didn't work.

You continue to write.

I think I said, "Vaughn, you and I live and breathe madness every day on the job...there is no...rational thought! I can't even pretend to have a conversation about anything else with you. What it comes down to is faith! What I was hoping you would say is, 'Sydney I gave up; I gave up on us. I lost faith.' But what you came here for...was closure...and there is not a chance you are getting that from me! I'm not gonna say I understand...I'm not gonna sympathize with you and tell you how hard it must be for you...But..You wanna know how I am!? I am horrible! Vaughn, I am ripped apart!"

You feel a tear trail down your cheek and splatter on the page. You force yourself to let it all out, to let the conversation flow out onto paper, and your feelings along with it.

"And not because I lost you...but because...if it had been me...I would have waited...I would have found out the truth...I wouldn't have given up on you! And now I realize...what an absolute waste that would have been." It tore me up inside to say that to him, but now that I realize that I instigated this entire thing… that I was the one that had no faith, the one that gave up. But did I really give it up or did I have to do it for a purpose… that still remains a mystery to me. I was supposed to be the one that said 'Vaughn, I gave up; I gave up on us. I lost faith.' And damnit… it hurts. It hurts that I blamed him for something completely not his fault. I urged him on. I urged him to move on, to forget me, to be happy. And he did.

But I came back. I wasn't supposed to come back. That was the plan, I imagine. Maybe during those two years, I saw him happy. I know, that if he's happy, then I'll learn to be happy. That's the way it works. And I want him to be happy right now.

He said, "I love you, Sydney Bristow." I didn't know how much those words meant to me until now, when I recalled them. I had always known, but to have him say it… it gave me a rush of emotion. I don't think I'll ever get to feel that rush again. My only regret is that I never told him "I love you" when he was conscious enough to hear it. Maybe I'll one day tell him. When everything has been figured out.

When this never-ending circle of betrayal and sorrow lessens. I'll take the next chance I get. I promise.

You look at what you've written and realize that no one can see it. If it got into the wrong hands, they would know what might have happened in those two years. The NSC would definitely want to get those memories out. They'd want to know what you were doing… what you were forced to do to save the life of the one you love. It would result in your life being taken away. And your confession of love is also in there… it's something too secret to let others know about still. Especially since it's love for a married man.

You rise out of your chair and go get a match. You place the notebook in the fireplace and light it on fire. You watch as your memories and concerns and love turn into ashes. Only then do you feel safe.

Your secrets are safe.