Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.
Ersatz Liaison
Chapter 3________Irony
Don't you think we're all feeling crazed,
In a world, where nothing's as it seems,
Paved with broken dreams,
I found truth.
-the Calling
Thank You
__________xxx
She wakes up from another dreamless sleep, her cheek pasted to her pillow with an adhesive composed of salty tears and unwashed skin. Her eyes are bloodshot to match the deep impressions along her arms—remnants of her refusal to take the easy way out. The cuts are mostly healed, almost to the point of having never existed, but the impulsion for her deliberate injuries surfaces occasionally.
She pulls the covers off the bed, tries to cover the new scar on her upper leg. In the heat of the moment, she'd tried to reform the gash he'd given her months ago, delirious and under the impression that time would go backwards for her. It's an inflamed red around the healing skin, another souvenir, another thing to be ashamed of.
The packets of tea are missing, as are several items of clothing and pieces of furniture. Just a minor revamp of the apartment, intended to help eliminate the memories that still lingered. Even as she steps into the shower, she can't make herself forget.
Sydney stepped beyond the dimpled glass, welcoming the deluge of water. Her sore limbs and muscles ached as they worked the shampoo into a lather. The smell of lavender drifted through the bathroom as the mirror fogged up.
She had her eyes closed as she washed out the shampoo, didn't notice the shower door as it slid back and received another occupant.
"You smell lovely," he said, running his hands down her bare sides. She froze, at first, but recognized the accent and the gentle touch and allowed her guard to fall.
"May I?" he asked, pressing his erection into the groove above her buttocks. Sydney pivoted on her foot, turned to look at him with a raised brow. She brushed her hand over his libido and breathed heavily. He immediately took the initiative and lifted her to him.
She wrapped her legs around him, tucked her feet in between his thighs, and felt his hands drop her on the small jut that held the bar of soap. He pushed the hair from her forehead, leaned down and quietly sucked the drops of water off her lips, then moved further down.
"You're beautiful, Sydney," he said through the patter of the shower. She stared directly at him, smirked and drew a line from the corner of his eye down to his collarbone.
"I bet that's what you tell all the ladies," she replied with a hint of a groan as he took her breast into his mouth. He pulled away, stood to his full height, and placed his hands at her hips.
"No. Just the beautiful ones," he said, bending down to kiss her again. They shared a laugh between puckered lips, and then he was inside her, thrusting and accommodating the speed to her moans.
Her nails dug into his back, left bloody impressions, but the pleasure outnumbered the pain and he barely noticed. She arched her chest forward, tipped her head back as she reached her climax, uttered his name like an omen. He kissed her neck, thrust again and found himself pressing his hands against the shower walls for support. Sydney slipped off the soap receptacle and into his arms, rested her head against his collarbone.
"A good way to wake you up in the mornings," he commented as he ran his palms from her shoulder blades to her rear.
"Very good way," she said with a smile.
"So how about another round?" he asked.
"I'm already way ahead of you," she replied, pulling him towards her.
She lets the cold water wash away the smell of alcohol even though it no longer lingers on her skin. Neither does his blood, but she insistently rubs her skin raw, until it glows a bright red. She wants to remember his face, regrets their secrecy, which never allowed for an opportunity for a public appearance. No tokens of their relationship adorn her table at work—no keepsakes are stored in her apartment, and the spare key is missing. Her dreamless slumbers are as much punishment as the nightmarish visions of Vaughn's gruesome death. The onslaught of water sprays down on her, makes her forget whether the liquid that falls off her chin is of her own creation, or of the shower's.
__________xxx
The white washed hospital walls are bright, much brighter then her apartment's been for the past week. It makes her feel a level cleaner then she really feels, although the smell of rubbing alcohol and antibiotics is somewhat nauseating. The agents posted outside his room allow Sydney fifteen minutes to talk to Vaughn.
She can see his chest slowly rising as she leans against the door's frame. She should be happy, excited even, but she's not. His presence satisfies some part of her—not the part that she wants to be fulfilled. Her confidence begins to falter, but the sound of a faint click-click somewhere propels her towards his bed.
She walks farther into the room, takes a seat in one of the nearby armchairs, and leans forward to examine his profile. The only observation she makes is how the spotted white hospital gown clashes with his black and blue skin.
"Michael?" she whispers, pulling the seat towards the bed. He rolls to the side, faces her, but his eyes stay closed. She places her hand on his cheek and grazes her thumb across the field of stubble across his chin. The succinct movement beneath his eye lids lets her know that he's slipping out of his slumber. She doesn't expect his hand to grab hold of her wrist and twist.
She stumbles out of her chair and tilts her body to coordinate with the forced movement of her arm. Her next breath is sharp, a short gasp that relieves some of the pain.
"Michael!" she hisses. The hold slackens and as his eyes compute the severity of his action, he drops her hand.
"Sydney," he whispers, his eyes suddenly wide with surprise. She rubs her palms nervously, then leans forward again.
"Yeah—it's me… How are you feeling?"
"Dizzy. A tad bit nauseous. Confused—What the hell am I doing here and what's going on?"
His voice is the same and the emotional influence on his tone just as it was before—but his dialogue is different. An inkling of doubt begins to conspire, but she blames it on the imaginary alcohol still floating through her blood.
"Calm down—you're fine. Just take a few deep breaths and calm down," Sydney suggests.
"I've been calm for the last seventy-two hours—every time I tried to talk, I was injected with morphine," he argues. "Sydney—what's going on?"
"You were in an accident—but now you're okay. Just, don't worry about it. Dixon and Weiss will tell you everything once we get you checked out."
"And when will that be?"
Sydney briefly makes eye contact, then studies the white tiles on the floor. Her hesitance is created by her insistence to separate his face from Sark's. When she turns to look at him again, her eyes are squinted, purposely blurring the image of the man before her.
His body jerkily sits up, the wires and tubes attached to his body quivering with rigidity, nearly dragging the machines and the humming monitors from the bedside stand. He views her pause as a forewarning of dire news.
"Sydney—when will that be?" he demands again. The bedside monitor briefly distracts Sydney. His heartbeat remains eerily ordinary without the briefest of fluctuations to compensate for his hasty movements. Her gaze flickers back towards Vaughn. His furrowed brow and wrinkled forehead reminds her of Sark. She's caught between a choke and a scream when she speaks again.
"Michael! Lie down!" she nearly yells. "What's wrong with you? Calm down."
He looks suspicious, but finally surrenders to the fatigue running through his veins and collapses back onto his pillow. His stare turns towards the speckled ceiling tiles above.
"They won't perform any tests, will they?" he asks, avoiding eye contact.
"Well—other then the routine check-up to make sure you haven't contracted anything—no—no, they won't. Don't worry, you'll be out of here by tomorrow."
"Good."
His lack of interest in his life's current condition tugs at Sydney's conscience but she discards the observation. She'll have questions and answers for him later, but for the time being, his irking similarity to Sark pulls her to the brink of screaming her throat raw with confusion. She can only cordially pat Vaughn on the shoulder and head towards the door.
"Sydney?" he says before her hand can reach the handle. "I just wanted to say that I love you. It's always been you, you know."
Her head dips down as she prepares for the waterworks that should follow such a poignant moment—but his words have been overdone and no longer hold any significance. She turns towards him as she pulls the door open and smiles. A small smile that holds as much meaning as a customary greeting. She's got all the time left in the world—but no time for him.
__________xxx
Sydney glances at the empty chair beside her father, where Lauren would normally sit. Her last memories of the NSC agent are of her limp body sprawled across the bed, her tousled hair wading in blood. Not the most flattering image of Lauren, she admits, but one that satisfies her. Beside her is Vaughn, already back at work, and as indifferent as he'd been at the hospital the week before. He's staring at Marshall, more of a scrutinizing stare than one of co-worker admiration, and is leaning back in his chair.
Vaughn rapped at her door twelve hours after their meeting at the hospital, next to an ecstatic Weiss. It was nearly midnight, but Sydney hadn't planned on going to sleep. She'd been at the brink of deciding how to best control her obsession with a corpse, with knives or with rope.
"He's staying at my apartment because his is—well, a little messy," Weiss said covertly as Vaughn searched for a bathroom. "We just got back from the hospital and he just finished unpacking his stuff at my place. I was thinking that we could watch a hockey game together, or something. Y'know, just to make him feel comfortable when we tell him about Lauren."
"Yeah, sounds good," Sydney nodded, pulling two bottles of beer from her refrigerator. "Eric—when I was talking to him at the hospital today, he didn't once ask about Lauren. You'd think he would, after going through all of that, wouldn't you?"
Weiss took a long drink, then set the bottle on the counter, rotating it by its tinted neck. "Well, maybe he just didn't want to bring up the subject with you, because of all the chemistry you guys used to have."
Sydney quirked a brow and scoffed.
"Yeah, and he said something else," she began to say. The sound of the toilet flushing and running water silenced her. Vaughn walked out of the bathroom, stopped moving when he saw Weiss and Sydney's blank expressions.
"What?" he asked.
Sydney glanced towards Weiss, then pursed her lips together as she thought up a worthy explanation.
"So I see you found the bathroom—I hope it wasn't too messy," she said with a smile.
"Yeah—your apartment's like Eric's," Vaughn said quickly.
Weiss nodded and shrugged. He gestured towards the couch and turned on the television when he neared. Sydney purposely sat down in the armchair, providing room for only her confidence and her sanity beside her.
"Mike—we gotta' talk about Lauren," Weiss said, bluntly introducing the topic into the conversation. Sydney wanted to smack herself in the forehead in order to make up for Weiss's lack of tact, but Vaughn seemed unmoved by his candidness.
"What about her?" he asked.
"Well—I don't know how else to put this—but she's dead," Weiss said. Sydney held her breath and watched Vaughn's expression turn from indifference—to indifference.
"Hey—Mike? You there?" Weiss waved his hand in front of Vaughn's face, watched as his gaze followed the fingers as they wavered back and forth.
"What am I supposed to say to that?" he asked, his eyes slightly narrowing as he dipped his head down to eye Weiss. "That I'm sorry for myself?"
An awkward silence followed, filled in with the distant roar of ardent crowds jumping to their feet in celebration of a win. Neither Sydney nor Weiss moved to turn off the television or comfort the man who seemed calm enough to comfort himself.
"Well, I'm not. I've just got to move on, all right?" he said, getting to his feet. Weiss stood up with him, placed his hand on Vaughn's shoulder.
"Okay, okay, just calm down, we'll go back to my place. You look like you could use some sleep," he said reassuringly. Vaughn glared at Weiss, slapped the hand away.
"I've been calm ever since I was fucking crated into that hospital room!" he yelled. "She's dead, I get it, let's move on, but I'm not dead, so can you stop treating me like a fucking kid because I get the picture!"
Sydney gritted her teeth together and turned towards Weiss, avoiding any form of contact with Vaughn.
"You guys—should go," she said, ushering them towards the door. Vaughn hesitated, but followed his companion into the hall. Weiss turned towards her before he headed to his neighboring apartment.
"It'll sink in later," he said, with a knowing nod.
"Yeah. Or maybe it already has," Sydney replied, pushing the door closed.
Sydney stares at the man beside her. Even before they met at the hospital, she'd realized that Vaughn hadn't been the one she was trying to keep beside her. But it's too late to change her mind—one of life's little ironies that she should've predicted before hand.
He turns to look at her for mere seconds, but enough to make her feel nostalgic. A different man from a different time. She glances at her watch and then towards her father, who for once, seems worried about other problems. The irking thought that perhaps for once, he might not be able to help her, leaves her feeling powerless.
__________xxx
She's sitting on the toilet seat again, contemplating the touch of cold metal against her wrist. Blood is already leaking from the minor cut, but the blade's barely inserted itself into her skin. She tilts her head at an angle, grimaces as she forces herself to pull away and push at the same time. A knock on the door breaks her concentration and she gasps with the sudden rush of pain. She sets the razor on the sink and frantically searches for something to cover up the cut.
She opens the door, matching wrist cuffs covering the hastily applied bandages hiding the incisions. They're white and striped with black, the ones that she wears when she jogs.
"Hey," her visitor says. "Can I come in?"
Sydney stares at Vaughn, then slowly steps aside and regretfully allows him entrance into her apartment. He brushes past her and sets his coat on the coat rack, as though he's already made himself at home.
"Want something to drink?" she asks, pouring herself a glass of water. He shakes his head and tucks his hands into his pockets.
"Sydney—I came to talk to you about, well, us," he says, taking a step toward her. "You've been avoiding me."
She takes a long drink and sets the empty glass back down on the counter, tries to rest her weight against the edge. Her wrist quakes and she casually drops it to her side, not wanting to look dependent. Her hand drifts to her waist and she places it against her hip.
"What makes you say that?" she asks, busying herself with counting the tiles on the kitchen floor.
Vaughn quirks his brow and grabs her hand before she can react. He pulls down the wrist band and reveals the gauze wrapped haphazardly around it.
"I found a razor in the trash. Beneath the bloody tissues. You clean up after yourself quite well," he says, letting her hand drop. "I would've brought it up earlier but—as I said before, you've been avoiding me."
She pulls her hand back, nurses her wrist affectionately and walks out of the kitchen.
"So why are you doing it?" he asks, following her.
"No offense, Michael, but I don't think you're the right person I could talk to about this," she replies, sitting down on the couch. She doesn't invite him to take a seat beside her, not yet.
"Well, then who would be?" he inquires, slipping his hands out of his pockets.
"Myself, maybe?" Sydney jokes in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.
He sits down beside her and leans back, tosses both arms along the couch's back and languidly rests.
"Ah. Well, Sydney, first off, I'd talk to someone who knows how to properly wrap a cut," he says, moving his hand from behind her head to her side. He wraps his fingers gently around her upper arm and brings her wrist towards him. He unwraps her makeshift bandage, revealing the inflamed cut.
"You really don't have to," Sydney says, trying to pull her hand away.
"No, I insist," he replies.
She watches as he brings her wrist to his lips, gently runs his tongue across the slash. He moistens the score and sends shivers down Sydney's spine.
She suddenly wants to taste his lips again, the flavor of metallic blood on her lips—but the dream is far from possible and as she realizes that it's Vaughn kissing her wrist and not Sark, the fantasy vanishes. She pulls her hand away and holds the quivering wrist to her chest. Her shoulders rise with a mixture of disbelief and disapproval.
"Sydney, if it's not obvious, I love you," he says, leaning towards her.
"I know. I heard you the first time you said it, at the hospital," she replies.
"So what's the problem?" Vaughn asks, furrowing his brow in the way that he often does.
Sydney's speechless. For a moment, he reminds her of the jock in high school would couldn't take no for an answer. This isn't the Vaughn she knows, but somehow, it has to be.
"What do you mean?" she asks, suppressing her shock.
"Why are you avoiding me?" he asks again.
She wants to roll her eyes but the obvious gesture of impatience would only ignite the fire that is slowly flickering.
"I don't know if it just didn't occur to you or if you're just stupid—I don't love you. And the fact that you're a completely different person doesn't help much either," Sydney says, her temper getting the best of her.
His personality is different, pushier, edgier, as though he's running out of time to live out the rest of his life. She shakes her head and stares at her wrist, still wet with the remnants of his touch.
"What are you talking about?" he asks.
"I don't love you," she says again, her expression as indifferent as his was upon hearing news of his Lauren's death.
"Well—what—what's wrong with me?"
"Michael, you're not acting like yourself anymore. You're different. You were barely effected by Lauren's death, you treat all of your friends like enemies, you're persistent and you don't take no for an answer—"
"Sydney—I can change—"
"No, let me continue—you treat Marshall like he's some sort of crazy scientist who doesn't have a clue what he's doing—"
"It's not like that—"
"Weiss always tells me about how you just don't care about hockey anymore—"
"Just trust me on this—if you knew the half of it, you'd understand. But listen—I can change—"
And I couldn't love you even if you could--"
"I can change! Sydney, I can change," he insists. "Whatever's wrong with me, I'll change. I can't lose you now—after everything, after all that I've had to do."
Sydney clenches her teeth together to keep from mourning over his naivety. She shakes her head and furrows her brow in an effort to look serious and block the tears.
"I was in love with somebody else, Michael," she says monotonously, hastily rewrapping her wound.
"Was—was—you were. Past tense, no longer present," he points out.
"But not by any choice of mine," she whispers harshly.
There's a brief silence as Vaughn can only stare at her in some form of disbelief. Her words hold another, more direct meaning, something that she's hinting at him to guess. He stands up and places his hand to his forehead. He runs his fingers through his hair and tries to scratch his brain out through his scalp.
"Sark?" he demands. "You were in love with Sark!?"
Her throat goes dry and the breath of air she takes in is enough to throttle her.
"How the hell did you guess that?" she snarls, standing up to take a defensive position.
"Considering that he fucking died right next to me and you were there to cry a river over it! I could hear you asking God to spare him, Sydney—but I hoped—I prayed, that it was not that," he yells.
Vaughn slams his fist into the nearby wall and dents it, nearly breaks through the plaster.
"Michael! Stop it!" she yells.
"He was a fugitive! He was—he was an enemy of the state! You were supposed to be hurting him—not fucking him! How—how could you love him?" he asks.
Sydney pulls her hand back and sends it reeling towards his face. She feels the after effect of the slap throughout her arm, even her palm burns with the force of the collision.
"I couldn't love you because you had Lauren! She slept with him, did you know that? And you still loved her. That hurt, that you'd choose her over me. So I chose Sark over you, and I don't regret it," she says.
Vaughn stares at her as he briskly walks towards the door.
"You should've told me," he says before slamming it closed behind him.
"Would it even have made a difference?" she screams, although it's pointless. The echoes of their argument console her as she lays down on the couch and nurtures her wrist.
__________xxx
The lush carpet is soft beneath his feet as he treads through his deserted bedroom towards the armoire against the wall.
The thought of leaving his apartment unattended had occurred to him, but he'd opted to continue the payments and eventually figure out what to do with the problems of owner identification later. Some part of him had even believed that perhaps Sydney would have followed the path he'd laid out for her. But of course, something had gone wrong. And the entire operation had backfired.
Irina seemed just as devastated as he was upon discovering that her daughter's interests did not lay with her former CIA handler. She was brief about the bad news, though. The machine had been taken into CIA custody, probably destroyed for the safety of the department, and with the Covenant's lack of faith in a stolen investment, there was no chance for the machine to be rebuilt.
Just don't do anything stupid, Irina had said before hanging up. Not the slightest hint of an apology for the wrong turn her plan had taken.
Sark glances at his face in the mirror, runs his hand down the hooked nose and defined jaw. Green eyes—not blue. Not the blue ones that Sydney had fallen in love with. He pulls out the revolver from behind his back and points it at his reflection.
One bullet—to remove one half of the mistake.
He fires once, the mirror shatters and the pieces fall to the ground. Seven years of bad luck won't affect him, not where he's going.
The revolver feels cold against his temple, but the touch of death isn't rumored for being warm and inviting. The taste of Sydney's blood still rests on his lips, but it's not enough of ambrosia to save him.
Sydney, if only she could see him now. One of life's greatest ironies at its conclusion.
He takes a deep breath, convinces himself that he's killing Vaughn and not Sark, and welcomes the bullet.
__________xxx
Another knock at her door.
Sydney stumbles from the kitchen table, pushes her reading glasses into her hair. She opens the door, half expecting to see Vaughn, but finds Weiss towering before her instead.
"He's gone," he says, breathless, his face red.
"What? Michael?" she asks, a sudden guilt formulating on her shoulders.
"Yeah—I just called his cell—he's not picking up," Weiss nervously replies.
"Okay, come back in five minutes, I'm going to get my purse and get on some clothes and we'll go try and look for him," she reassures him, closing the door as he nods and returns to his apartment.
She walks towards the coffee table and picks up her purse. Before she turns away, she notices the key lodged beneath one of the coasters. She picks it up, holds it in her palm, and realizes that it's the spare key. Sark's spare key, placed there by Vaughn.
Sydney pockets her find and runs towards the door, ignorant of whether Weiss follows her or not.
She finds his limp body halfway between the bedroom and the bathroom. It's Vaughn, but at the same time, it's Sark.
Sydney holds her hair back as she leans over and presses her lips to his cold ones, realizes that the taste of blood still lingers. Not his—hers. She's tasted it so many times that recognizing it is just second nature.
He was there the entire time, but in a twisted way, he wasn't. The decision had been entirely his, but had been brought on by her. So regrettably, she's holding the body of another man she'd loved, cold and unmoving, another con of doing what she did for a living.
She pulls back and gently picks up his head, cradles it in her lap. The blood seeps through her clothes and his cold skin touches her own. She pulls the revolver out of her hand and inspects the chamber. Still one cartridge left.
The irony of the situation never seems to cease, and she finds her finger drawn to the trigger. No more Lauren, or Vaughn, or Sark—her existence remains entangled in the conspiracy that Sark involved himself in.
She has enough confidence to pull it off, the reminders are on her wrists and along her legs. The smell of wood and vanilla urges her to perform the deed faster. The neighboring tenants will eventually realize that the apartment next door is unlocked and the resident, dead. The list of reasons increases with each passing moment and the wound that grows each time she cradles the head of a dying man is bound to kill her any ways.
She asks aloud for forgiveness from her father, and places the gun to her head.
Her finger begins to apply more and more pressure onto the trigger until finally, she's forgotten the taste of regret on her lips.
Fin.
Author's Note: And that ends my first full length Sarkney fic. What drama! What romance! What angst! Blech, angst. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the fic.