Title: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Fluff
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.
Author's Note: Special thanks to KarenB for the beta, and Amylee for the read-through.
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Chapter Nine: Nine Ladies Dancing
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
"Last year? It involved his mother and a sprinkler."
The clock over the stove blinked midnight just as the group exploded in a roar of laughter, Vaughn's arm around me tightening on my shoulder, his hand giving it a good squeeze. I could feel his fingernails digging into my skin, and as I tried to shrug him off, he kept his hold. He was a bit upset.
"It was nothing, Syd," he said down to me, his left hand patting my other side.
"Nothing?" One of the men huffed. "Nothing! Why, he was the star of the office for a week!" Of the office? Which meant that all these people worked with them?
"The office?" I decided to ask up to Vaughn, looking at him like the doting, adoring girlfriend I was.
"Mark and I work together at arms control," he replied smoothly. I nodded. It was probably a lie he'd said a thousand times when meeting new people, longing, as boys do, to tell them how cool his job really was yet unable to. Arms control sounded dull and boring, but when faced with an automatic weapon, his extraordinary knowledge on the weapon wouldn't come as a surprise. His keen sense while on assignment, a gun aimed at the back of his head, made sense, and I was sure he took his cover as seriously as I'd taken mine as a banker. How I wished there was some way to dump useless information from my head, such as the inner workings of an international monetary transfer, but with my luck, I'd need it just as soon as I got rid of it.
But his answer simply told me that Mark worked with him, or used to, and had been one of those talking about him last year after the event happened. Knowing the social structuring of the CIA offices, the story must have spread like wildfire through the entire building and Vaughn had been mocked about it for weeks. Which would be why he didn't want the story re-told.
It must have been really bad. And incredibly funny.
"It all started with this woman named – " Mark paused, looking to the others gathered around for a clue as to the woman's name. Oh great. Just after confessing my discomfort with the mention of Vaughn's ex-girlfriend, I get to hear about yet another just one year ago. Right when I found something enjoyable about this gathering, something else has to rise to the occasion, crushing my high spirits.
Come to think of it, it seemed as if life itself was constantly working against me.
Dejected, the fun of torturing Vaughn through the recanting of last year's absurdities no longer as fun, I leaned up against him, pressing my back flush against his. His hand slipped down from its perch on my shoulder and rested on my hip, my arm tingling from the brief contact between us, and thoughts from earlier in the night came rushing back. Why couldn't we be at home, instead of standing in the middle of Weiss' kitchen surrounded by people I didn't know who were going to tell me about Vaughn and some other woman?
"Ann," Vaughn finally supplemented, the rising of his chest to expel a deep sigh dragging me from my slightly impure thoughts.
"Right," another man said, taking a long drink of hard lemonade. "But that wasn't her first name."
My cheeks started to glow.
"Yeah. Middle, right, Michael?" a third member of the circle asked. While Vaughn's first name always seemed to fumble from my mouth like a bad pass, it flowed around the room naturally, a flag of his normal life away from work. And me. I wasn't surprised he went by his full first name, and other than Weiss' usage of Mike, he had everyone else pretty much conditioned.
He nodded. I could tell, as his chin hit me on the top of the head each time it dipped down. But I wasn't concerned with that right then, since my middle name is Ann. By the way Vaughn was rubbing his thumb along my side just over the exposed flesh between my jeans and sweater, I got the clear idea that this story was about me.
"Anyway," Mark seemed to bounce as he got started telling the story, his beer swishing around in its dark brown bottle, "Michael here comes in last year totally down. I mean, head literally dragging along the ground as he walked in. Now, we can't have people being sad here – "
"This is a Weiss party, after all," someone interjected.
" – so naturally, we got him a drink," Mark continued.
"Don't you mean drunk?"
"Shut it, Bryce. I gave him a drink. As in one. How did I know there was the spirit of an alcoholic raging in there somewhere?"
Bryce laughed and punched Mark playfully in the shoulder. "Just get on with it."
"After about, what was it, 8? 10?"
"Nine," Vaughn said, "and my liver still hurts."
He seemed in higher spirits, that's for sure, his other hand sliding around to rest flat on my stomach. The group shuddered with laughter after his comment, the boisterous sound drawing Weiss like a fly to a bright light. He put a hand each on Mark and Bryce's shoulders and leaned in, his beer threatening to spill down the front of Bryce's shirt.
"What's going on here, kids?" he almost slurred. Oh, he was such a lightweight despite his attempts to appear like a frat boy who could drink with the best of them. I'm sure I could drink him under the table.
"We're just reliving Vaughn's show from last year," Mark answered. I saw that mischievous glint in his eye, and watched as it transmitted over to Weiss, who pushed himself through to join the circle. He pointed at Vaughn with the hand still clutched around the neck of his beer, and laughed.
"No, Eric," Vaughn bit out, "you're sworn to secrecy."
"Haha. Get on with the story, I'll be quiet, really quiet," he replied, quite loudly, actually, even when he 'attempted' to whisper the last part, which came out even louder than the rest of his sentence. He slumped against the island behind him, and crossed his arms ready to watch the show.
This wasn't going to be good. Which is why I wanted to hear it that much more.
"Okay, nine drinks. So he's slurring and waving his arms all over the place going on and on about this girl Ann and how he loves her but can't be with her and how she's got this friend who she's always with, this guy, and he hates this guy because he wishes he were him," Mark let out in one whoosh. "I have no idea what he was really saying," he explained after his confusing run-on sentence. "I dropped French when I was a junior in high school – the girl I was in it for decided German was a better language."
"Weren't you stationed in Germany for awhile?" Weiss asked.
"Yeah, with her," Mark replied shallowly as if to say 'duh'. Weiss took that for what it was and downed half his beer. "Anyway, it was muddled and I only remembered my pronouns. Him, her, and something about love. I always remember that, my wife loves it."
"Ugg, please, Mark," Weiss interjected after a burp. "No stories about the wife."
"Thought you already puked once," Bryce asked over his shoulder. I could guess what Mark's job was at the CIA because he looked ready to knock the pair of them off their asses like it was taking a walk down the driveway to get the morning paper. He was held back not by his own devices, but Vaughn, who put a hand on Mark's shoulder and attempted a last-ditch effort to steer the conversation away from him and his immature antics.
In all honesty, I have no idea what he said or did to get Mark to start storytelling again. My mind was stuck on the fact that last year he'd come to Weiss' party and gotten drunk because he was in love with me at the time, and couldn't stand to see me go home to Francie and Will to spend a nice, normal Christmas with them. I frowned, wondering why, when drunk of all states, he'd start rattling off things in French, and turned up to look at him.
"French?" I mused. He almost jumped before gazing down at me, brow wrinkling.
"Yeah, Syd you – "
"Haha!" came a bout of Weiss' obnoxious laughter. "She doesn't – you never told her, eh?"
"Told me what?" I asked him, a futile act, I know. He motioned vaguely in the air with his bottle as if that were an explanation in and of itself, smiling at me when he finished as if I understood what he'd said. I just shook my head and sighed. Vaughn threw a refrigerator magnet at him, hitting his friend clear in the center of his forehead, and turned his attention back to me. Good.
"I thought you knew," he started cryptically, and I wasn't going to be able to handle it if he told me he was some kind of space alien that knew every language in the world.
Woah. How much have I had to drink?
But really, think about it. How would you react if your boyfriend were a space alien? With my luck, the moment he confessed this little part of himself, he'd either be recalled to his home planet or killed by some shady government agency for revealing that top-secret fact. Oh God, he works for a shady government agency! Would Weiss suddenly drop the 'drunk' act and shoot his friend point blank? Or were both of them aliens?
I put my drink down on a nearby counter and started scoping out the room for pretzels.
"No…"
"He's an alien," Mark stated dryly, still sore from being held back before. I would have swayed on my feet if Vaughn's hands weren't planted firmly on my hip and stomach.
"I'm not an alien," Vaughn countered with a playful tone, now resting his chin on my head. Since when did I become a headrest? "I'm a duel-citizen."
"Potato," Weiss started. "Potato."
Except he said it the exact same way both times. The group exploded with laughter, a few leaving in search of other conversations, leaving gaps for new people to join. Social situations are just like cars while you're speeding down the road and trying not to get in an accident – people moved in and out of lanes at the rate it took a normal person to blink, their appetite for conversation changing with the ticking of the clock.
Or, say, how much alcohol they'd consumed.
Vaughn had been right about the possibility for police arriving soon. The music, which had started the night at a nice, background level, had become almost deafening with the deep, booming base and stringy treble pouring from speakers settled on either side of his television. "Boxer" was now lounging in a plush armchair in front of one of the massive speakers, and pockets of guests could be seen gathered in small circles as they conversed, voices loud as they attempted to speak over the melody.
"Yes, Michael here has not only the looks, but the French side to win over women and steal them from us," Bryce spoke up. He sounded a bit angry about that, but he was thin and nerd-looking; probably a tech rather than a field agent. No threat.
Weiss tapped him on the shoulder. "I took Nina, not him."
"Oh, right. Sorry."
Vaughn shrugged and took the opportunity to reclaim my discarded drink, downing a healthy amount punctuated with a satisfied sigh. He placed it on the counter nearest himself before letting his head settle on mine once again, this time with both hands settled on my stomach, his thumbs snaking up and under my sweater. Oh, how glad am I the fabric is loose around my middle? The idea that the men standing around us could see just how effective the simple movement of Vaughn's thumbs were on me wasn't a comforting one. But oh my, how nice did that feel?
I leaned into him more, laughing as his back thudded against the refrigerator and his fingers faltered for just a second. He shifted behind me, finding a more comfortable position, and resumed his previous activity.
"Weren't you telling a story?" a newcomer asked.
Mark snapped his fingers and smirked. "Yes, I was. So there he was, sitting on the couch, shouting away in a language half of us don't understand, and drinking more than, well, I've ever seen him drink before.
"So I turned to Bryce here and asked him if he knew what Michael was going on about, and he said no, and then Weiss came up and said something about a girl at work and – " he paused, narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side as he scrutinized me. He clicked his tongue and smiled. "You're Ann?"
"Sydney Ann, yes," I replied, holding out my hand for him to shake. He took it, his grasp firm, and shook it up and down vigorously while keeping his smile plastered across his face.
"I can see why you were so distraught," Bryce commented off-hand. "She's a looker."
A hand left my stomach to whack Bryce on the shoulder, but soon returned to where it had been sitting comfortably and most appreciated atop my midriff. We were all happy and laughing, taking in the simple things in life, when Weiss stepped forward and assumed the storyteller hat from Mark, making more vague hand motions that went along the lines of showing he was actually taking the hat off Mark's head and putting it on his own.
"Okay, Markie, you suck at this. So Sydney, he's all drunk and has a little too much to drink so he manages to make it to my bedroom before passing out."
"Him? Pass out?" I asked, genuinely surprised. Weiss nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes. Out like a light."
"So we have loud music – "
I interrupted Bryce with a deadpan interjection of my own. "I can tell."
" – and the neighbors don't like it so much, so the cops were called. We don't have the…best reputation with them, so Weiss headed into the bedroom to wake Michael up from his slumber," he finished without missing a beat.
"Except he was out cold," Mark commented. "And apparently, Weiss' barking and naturally obnoxious nature was unable to wake him up."
"So we did what any man would do to help his fellow man when in this situation," Weiss announced complete with a winning smile, his chest puffed out like I was going to give him an award of some kind.
"Oh?" I voiced.
"Threw him on the front lawn and activated the sprinklers," Weiss beamed, mimicking the turning on of the sprinklers with his hand. Bryce and Mark laughed, in on some secret joke, and I swear I could feel Vaughn shooting death glares their way.
"But that wasn't all," Mark rose. He pointed a finger into the air as if to make his point, literally. "No, see, he was still in his nice wool suit at the time, and the water wouldn't reach his skin with that on."
It was starting to dawn on me. His tired eyes. Not knowing if he'd slept or not. Rumpled clothes. Disheveled appearance.
"In our own defense, we were pretty trashed at the time ourselves," Weiss brought up. This party was an overgrown frat party, the pledges and brothers replaced with tight laced CIA officers looking for some release from the regularity of their daily lives, an opportunity to unwind and be themselves for a night. "But we thought it would be most productive to remove the suit, then throw him outside."
Oh. My.
Pushing aside the gorgeous imagery of my boyfriend wandering around the front yard of Weiss' house in nothing more than boxers and a soaked Oxford with waterlogged hair hanging down into his eyes, I could see how this would be a tale you wouldn't want repeated back at the office. But by the way Weiss' mouth was still hanging open like a dog eyeing a stake, I had the haunting feeling the story wasn't finished.
"It backfired," Mark sighed, shaking his head with eyes cast to the floor. "The cops pulled up right then and decided to take him in for the night."
I yelped. Actually yelped and jumped and pulled myself away from him so I could get a better look at his face. It was the deepest shade of red I ever thought possible upon a man's face, running from his cheeks to his wrinkled forehead, past his shrinking green gaze and pursed lips. I couldn't figure out at that second if he was embarrassed or livid, but he was a force to be reckoned with.
I slowly backed away.
"That's not the best part!" Weiss exclaimed a little too loud. A few people from the other side of the room looked over, found nothing of interest, and returned to their own conversations. "No. See, I was a little, well, asleep the next morning and he had no one else to call…"
"Vaughn," I breathed as Weiss' hand clamped down on my shoulder.
So he hadn't been home when I'd called him, or been able to get there. He'd called his mother, of all people, to come pick him up and had been on his way home when I'd called him. That's why there was a different car parked outside the self-storage that morning, and he'd uncharacteristically rushed through his story to get back outside. I thought he wanted to get home after a long night, but it was something completely different.
I started laughing. Deep, loud, honking laughter that only came out when amused to the point of insanity or drunk; feeling both at the same time seemed to make it the perfect occasion to pull it out. I threw a hand over my stomach when it started to ache from the giggles and doubled over.
Long ago, I learned that Vaughn is the kind of man who keeps his emotions bottled up inside, shoving them aside like unwanted vegetables on a dinner plate. Sure, he'll take a bite every once and awhile when his mother tells him to lest he'd be grounded, but most of the time they're ignored green plants on the rejected side of the plate. Imagine my lack of surprise as, instead of punching out Weiss for revealing such a secret or his friends for their less than kind snippets, he swooped down, grabbed me around the middle, and swept me off my feet.
"Vaughn!" I squealed as I pounded on his back with my hands. That didn't deter him, and he continued pounding through the kitchen area like an ogre with a captured princess, each footstep loud and rattling as he conquered the makeshift dining room and entered the small living room. Arms flailing above my head, legs kicking out in every direction, I must have looked incredibly silly slung over his shoulder as he rounded the couch and threw me down upon it.
"You have gotten me in a lot of trouble," he stated pointedly, arms crossed. His shirt, a wonderfully soft cotton, stretched as he did so; the giggles growing again as he attempted to look stern.
"Tro…trouble?" I managed through my fit of schoolgirl giggles. I hadn't laughed like that since Bobby Cullins gave me a wildflower in second grade after a soccer game in gym class. I stood there with all my friends and giggled for minutes over the fact that the most popular (and cutest) boy in school had given me a flower. The fit only ended when the teacher blew the whistle signaling the end of class, and while running back to the doors, someone bumped into me and crushed my flower.
I got back at her that afternoon. Never really liked her, anyway.
He nodded, eyes smoldering, and fell onto the couch next to me gracefully in some kind of insane twist move that landed him next to me, his feet resting upon my own curled up ones.
"Oof."
"Oof? My feet hit yours."
I threw an end pillow at his head. He ducked, but the lamp behind him wasn't so lucky. It tumbled to the ground in a shower of exploding light and streaks of dark brown, clattering to the carpeting with a dull thud. Vaughn's eyes were wide when he looked back to me, mouth in a huge grin as the music chose that time to stop, the click of the CD changer unable to mask the sound of a broken lamp. Weiss rushed over, stood over it with his hands on his hips like an experienced homicide detective just reaching the crime scene, and shook his head. A cigarette hanging out of his mouth would have completed the scene, but blocked the by drink of beer he took after a moment of silence.
"Did I mention we have to help with clean up?" Vaughn said, raising an eyebrow. I groaned and put my head in my hands, palms pressing into my eyes as if that would cure the headache growing in the wooly area behind my eyes.
"Are we turning out the lights?" someone shouted over the new CD (which was, if possible, louder and more annoying than the first). The loss of lamplight in the living room had attracted the attention of a few of the other partygoers, one suggesting a game of hide-and-go-seek in the dark. I did that once. Ran into a banister and broke my nose. Learned my lesson, though, and never played again.
There was a pitter-patter of sock-clad feet on the linoleum floor, then a snap as circuits were cut and all the lights went out. My ears rang with the residual effects of listening to earsplitting music for over four hours, the silence almost foreign to my tormented eardrums as more feet pattered around and someone started counting completely out of order on the other side of the kitchen. A few people swore, the table legs groaning as they were unwillingly slid across the floor as someone hit its edge. A chair scooted, a closet door opened and closed, a person scuttled and formulated a complex plan with others near my left ear.
What are they? Four?
"Syd?" Vaughn whispered. I felt his hand creep up my side, running along my right arm as he slid over me, his face suddenly hovering inches above mine. His legs were pressed along mine, hands on either side of me as he propped himself up above me.
"Yes?" I asked back, wishing nothing more than for him to kiss me under the cover of darkness, the covert hiders near my head be damned.
"Are we going to hide?"
"ARE YOU FOUR?" I shout-whispered.
"Shh!" he hissed. I pouted and shook my head.
"We're grown adults – "
"Will you shut her up?" someone commanded from the commando group around the area of the low coffee table. I sneered in their direction, but doubt they could see it through the darkness enveloping everyone as the counter continued to bounce around the first 1,000 numbers or so like a ping-pong ball.
And there he was, kissing me sweetly; keeping me from reminding him that he was thirty four years old and the acceptable age for playing hide-and-seek cut off at twelve. And just as things were getting interesting, the throw pillow came back at us.
Guess it wasn't as dark as I thought.
It hit Vaughn squarely in the back, sending him crashing into me. A definite 'oof' situation, and I did so quietly, my exclamation in response to his added weight being swallowed up by his experienced and exploring tongue, which was doing a perfect job of finding each and every spot inside my mouth that brought forth those muted moans I was so willing to share with him.
My eyes slipped closed, thoroughly enjoying a pleasurable end to the evening, when three large bangs hit the front door in rapid precision that came from training or experience, or both. They pounded again, and I heard someone fall out of the hall closet with a swear in longing for the bottle that was now spilled on the floor like the beginnings of a chalk outline around the spot where they fell. Sliding socks on a slick floor, then the click of the front door being opened.
"Whazzat?"
"Mr. Weiss, you should just invite us and save us the trip."
That was a cop. My eyes popped open as Vaughn rolled off me and into the space between the couch and coffee table, someone shouting out in surprise as he landed on one of the commando players. Red and blue lights danced outside the back window, spreading hazy shadows over the main area of the house and those hiding therein. Flickering in an unalterable pattern over and over again over the walls, each and every hiding spot was discovered.
The pounding jarred the counter out of his singsong destruction of counting, and he whirled around, hands over his head. "I can see everyone!"
"What's going on in here?" the cop asked from the front door. Weiss shrugged just as I sat up and answered meekly.
"Surprise?"