Title: The Chauffeur
Author: CG
Feedback: Would love to hear what you have to say. If criticism, please make it constructive.
Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot productions. And as much as I adore the song, I also have no claims to the lyrics of 'The Chauffeur' by Duran Duran. Lyrics are in bold.
Spoilers: None that I know of.
Summary: His primary job is to be at their beck and call, transporting them to their desired destinations. With what he witnesses in these drives, it's no wonder he additionally considers himself a connoisseur of their lives.
Ship: Sarkney
Rating: PG-13 for a little language.
Distribution: Cover Me, Dark Enigma
Out on the tar plains, the glides are moving. All looking for a new place to drive.
As the chauffeur glances down at the familiar name and address scrawled on his itinerary, jitters rumble in a steady flurry throughout his stomach. It's been so long, he thinks, I wonder what I'm in store for this time. He snaps back at attention just as his car crosses the broken yellow line and immediately swerves back into his own lane. Shit. He didn't even realize he was holding his breath until a faint lightheadedness clouded his head enough to nearly force him off the road.
Along with the original symptoms of eagerness he feels just reading the name, Romanov, the unmistakable few extra beats of his heart – the off ones thundering like a bass drum – convey what this pending visit means to him. His body's reaction he notices, but the long stretch of highway he's driving on passes with little attention. Also the fact that his foot is depressing on the accelerator – pushing him beyond the road's posted limit – completely escapes his notice.
He's more than excited about the prospect of seeing them again. Not that he knows them or has any sort of personal stake in their lives. They probably don't even know his name.
Still, his enthusiasm is evident in the pre-show hum brewing in his body. Which is fitting since the only comparison the man can make to his upcoming clients' collection is that of sitting back in a preferred choice of furniture on the night a favorite television show or move is scheduled.
He hopes, as usual, that he won't be left disappointed.
Minutes away from his destination, he locates the specified road and obediently takes the turn. Slowly, he makes his way through the gated community, a place where a limo picking up clients is par for the course.
He estimates six months has gone by since they've required his services. The hiatus, he notices as he pulls up to the drive and spots them exiting the premises, has changed them. Updates not only in their appearance – his hair in a short crew cut now and her with a healthier glow compounded by a few extra pounds – but also in their demeanor.
Cool, as per norm, but strained – their movements a bit jerky and unnatural.
Last time he was sent here, the dealings were close to normal, which for them was an anomaly. There were no abrasions, no visible bruising splotching pristine alabaster. The chauffeur can't help but wonder if the same would ring true tonight.
You sit beside me so newly charming. Sweating dewdrops glisten freshen your side.
She slides across the black leather in her tailored suit, quickly reaching the opposite side of the long bench before her partner even sets foot in the vehicle. Although she's quick, the chauffeur notices the telling markings of another bad evening.
Years ago, when he was first sent to them, he fingered the lacerations proof of spousal abuse. He got to feeling sorry for the woman who seemed so alone even in company, and consequently annoyed at the arrogant younger man who would just sit next to her and pay those injuries no mind.
Back then, at forty-two, the chauffeur thought himself a veteran in life. He, the one who would brag about his knowledge of worldly things, found himself simply a pup in company of the likes of these two. Only once he installed the pen camera and microphone in the rear did he learn bits of the truth.
They would never share details, but the nuggets they dropped gave the chauffeur just enough to use his imagination.
"I told you I had the situation under control. I could have finished the job and gotten out of there if I'd had more time."
"Right. And I suppose that bruise covering your cheek is not only proof of that, but a lovely parting gift."
"I would have been just fine without your help."
The first year he drove them produced conversations exactly like those. Curt and always direct – with just the barest tint of bitterness.
Yet, the chauffeur remembers the night when it changed, or to be more precise the morning after the transformation.
And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind. The front of your dress – all shadowy lined. And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart.
The night in question was normal, a trip to and from a celebration downtown. The young man's appreciation of her, of her barely there glittering black gown, didn't show, just as her appreciation of his impeccable taste in tuxes didn't. They had even returned to the hotel somewhat early, the woman complaining of fatigue.
But by the next morning, the day of their departure, something in the air changed. That morning, the chauffeur thought neither would talk, and he was right, until minutes before they reached the landing strip.
"If you need to talk about it –"
"No. There's nothing to say. It was the champagne… I drank too much, and got carried away in the moment. And you…you were listening, almost acting human. Like…like you had a soul. We need to forget –"
"Fine. We'll play your memory game. Nothing's changed. We'll just keep working together like they want us to."
But the young man was wrong. Things did change after that. Not all at once, that would be too easy of course, but gradually. Drive after drive the small changes were noticeable, a brief smile cast in his direction here, a look shared that spoke volumes above words there.
To this day they don't even appear intimate. Their mutual façade of coolness and the pretense of a working relationship belie the vigor the chauffeur knows is between them. Sparks that have never escaped his knowing eye in his many years of experience with hundreds, if not thousands, of patrons, fly around them like fireflies.
Then again, the public isn't witness to those entirely feminine lips that on occasion show her partner how just his presence is appreciated or that muscle twitching in his jaw, popping out of his skin when his teeth are clenched in a fury more passionate than angry.
Or of how sometimes he eyes her when she's not paying attention, uncomfortably looking like a man who has no clue as to how he got so fortunate. Or her, when doing the same to him, but her expression laced with sorrow. Almost as if she waits for the day he will betray her, or worse, she'll have to betray him.
There's definitely more than work going on here.
If given the opportunity, the chauffeur figures the young man wouldn't be the type to rush and open doors for her or pull out a chair when she sat. Probably wouldn't even casually drape his arm around her shoulders and show his ownership. Then again she'd likely throw the arm off anyway.
What they have screams of non-tradition. Nothing like what his parents have, a happy marriage that has lasted for more than fifty years. His doting mother with her after school milk and cookies and his stern father – a man who had firm hands for his young sons but softer, caring ones for his wife.
And indubitably nothing like the young couple he fondly remembers living next door to in the days of his youth. The passionate duo, their names long forgotten now, whose public displays of affection embarrassed the romantically inept boy he was at eleven, were the very picture of love and devotion.
Behind closed doors may all together be a different story for the two he drives. But in the three years he's been driving the dark blonde man and his lovely russet haired partner, he has yet to behold one physically exhibition of the affection they share.
Way down the lane away, living for another day. The aphids swarm up in the drifting haze.
The chauffeur watches today's episode unfold on the thirteen-inch monitor beside him with a uniformed insouciance that speaks of his admirable training. Observes in full color their seemingly endless pas de deux, their dance of – he pauses in the midst of his deliberation only to conclude no common words possess an accurate description of what this is. Even one as astute as he, with ten years of witnessing their kind in transit under his belt, cannot write a laudable review of the film noir he foresees playing out in the back of his car.
How can one outline a scene where charged emotions are sensed so acutely, so vividly, they nearly dent the ambiance with cavernous impressions and present it with enough justice? How is it possible when the proprietors of said feelings hide them behind masks of indifference, arrogance, or anger? It's quite not, so he doesn't even begin to try.
He does sense the latter veil covering both of them tonight. Dark as the purest obsidian, and brimming precariously near the surface. One final drop will send the mal emotions cascading down into depths unknown. He's watched many a scene between these two over the years, but none so thickly coated with vehemence.
It's obvious much has happened in the months since he's seen them last.
"What did you offer them?
"It doesn't matter."
"It does matter. Tell me."
She searches his eyes, face contorting in utmost concentration for barely a minute before the answer suddenly dawns on her. Seeing realization slap her like a hand to the face, her companion turns away from her searing gaze, finding temporary interest in the passing cars.
Swim seagull in the sky towards that hollow western isle. My envied lady holds you fast in her gaze.
"If you do this, you will become expendable."
His attention returns to her and she stares unflinchingly into the torrent blue pools of her rival, lover, and even with the grainy monitor, the chauffeur can clearly see the unspoken line hanging between them. 'They will kill you.'
"You have no say in this now."
"Oh, I have every say in this. You bartered yourself for my life."
The young man glances down at her lap and a soft wonder briefly glints his eyes before he dons the mask again, leaving the audience to speculate if they indeed saw a falter of emotion. Whatever he's thinking puts her ill at ease for she turns to look out at the buildings speeding by.
"You shouldn't have done this."
Her lips barely move as she whispers the admonition against the window.
"I had no choice."
As with similar arguments the chauffeur has seen, she wants to argue about the choices they have, what he's sacrificing, or maybe even go off in a tangent about caveman values, but this time she's oddly silent. The young man stares passively out his window, resting his chin on a fist.
"I won't let you do this alone."
"You have to."
He's growing incensed now and, unlike ever before, making no effort to hide it. She's bristling and ready to scream right back, willing to counter his every objection until he understands fully what he's doing.
"I'm coming with you."
"The hell you are."
Sing, blue silver.
"I will not have your blood on my hands, too!"
"I'm doing this alone. You won't change my mind."
He's ended the argument and she knows it. Nothing she says will deter him now from what he feels he has to do alone. The back of her hand swipes at an eye and the breath she expels catches somewhere between and humorless laugh and a sob.
"Then you're a fool."
Silence permeates the stagnant air of the limo, its appearance jarringly similar to the calm after a storm or, if this one escalates to a higher level, the eye, leaving much more tempest to come. She sits with her arms across her stomach now, fingers unknowingly splaying over her abdomen, tear glistened eyes fixing on a point far off in the midnight sky.
Like the intelligent man the chauffeur is, he'll place no bets on this outcome. His odds of winning here are skewed, twisted in underlying tension and the strangest aberration. For this one has added factors that where missing from previous drafts of the same script.
And watching lover's part, I feel you smiling. What glass splinters lie so deep in your mind. To tear out from your eyes, with a thought to stiffen brooding lies. And I'll only watch you leave me further behind.
After what seems like an eternity, she rests the hand closest to him palm down on the expanse of leather between them. The chauffeur holds his breath, waiting, praying that the young man will make his move. Moments later, without even a flicker of noted interest in her direction, he does, placing his own parallel and mere inches away.
The man watching the screen exhales in relief as he spies the male pinky lift from its resting place to curl around its female partner. This small gesture – the first of its kind – gives the other something solid, hopeful, and much needed, to cling on to.
Content, the chauffeur pulls his vehicle into the private airfield, his outlook on the lives of his most fascinating clients again renewed. Just like many before them in difficult relationships, even in their bleakest hour, they'll find a way to prevail.
And if the gentle stroking of pinky against pinky the older man observes with one last glance at the monitor says anything, they're assured of it, too.
Smiling at his peace, confident now that the show is a wrap and the credits are rolling, the chauffeur puts the car into Park and exits to assist his fare. Wiped clean of his elated expression, he places his black cap back on his head and moves to the passenger door.
They exit with the same cold manner that intrigues the chauffeur, draws him in every single time, and he resists the urge to applaud their performances. She gives the stranger she knows only as a driver a faint smile of gratitude, and the young man gives him a more than generous tip before the two walk across the tarmac.
In admiration, the chauffeur stays rooted long enough to watch their retreating backs enter their jet. Until next time.