Everything's the same...
This Chapter: Vaughn's POV
Suggested Soundtrack: same songs, "House is Not a Home" by Luthor Vandross, "Here I Am" by Ron Isley, "Split Screen Sadness" by John Mayer (lyrics are used), "Field of Innocence" by Evanescence, and "Don't Leave Home" by Dido at the end
Author's Note: Enjoy!
Video Doomed the Government Agent
Chapter Two: The Perfect Excuse
All you need is love is a lie cause
We had love but we still said goodbye
Now we're tired, battered fighters
And it stings when it's nobody's fault
Cause there's nothing to blame at the drop of your name
It's only the air you took and the breath you left
You careen out of your complex's parking garage still seething. It's a wonder you don't hit a stop sign, let aloneevery single pedestrian strolling down Fifth Street; they all seem to have targets on their backs, just begging youtostrike at their bull's eyes. But somehow you resist the urge to commit mass murder and continue racing downstreetafter street, weaving in and out of traffic and neglecting turn signals, shaking an invisible tail. What is tailingyou?Lauren's words, malice, misconceptions, misunderstandings…Her hate. You reproach yourself sternly for taking her shit as long as you did.
How could she think those things about you?
How could she honestly believe you would sink to that level, would compromise your moral character for one last hurrah?
And tape it?
How could she not trust you to be you, could not have faith in you?
How could she think you still feel that way about Syd?
How could she be so right?
Suddenly you slam on your brakes and swerve to avoid a cat that randomly shot out of the alley in front of you. As you curse loudly the cat trots by, unscathed and unaware that its life was nearly snuffed out. When it reaches the other side of the street you continue on to—
You halt again abruptly, squealing tires and burning rubber causing the motorists behind you to lean on the horn and call you names that wouldn't come out of even a sailor's mouth. Ignoring them, you grip the wheel with knuckles whiter than paper. A thought has struck you and will not leave until you resolve your problem.
Where are you going?
It is a thought that wipes your brain clean like a stove in a Brawny commercial. You realize that the route you were taking would have led you to her old apartment, a place that you promised to leave behind the day you married Lauren.
Just like Syd.
Promises are not always kept.
Knowing that this destination is unacceptable for too many reasons to count, you take a sharp right down the next alley and start heading towards Weiss's complex, which you blissfully forget is also Syd's complex. When the realization caroms through your ears and into your brain, your brakes shriek for the third time in as many minutes; you are grateful the alley is deserted, or your tidy little compact car would now be a tiny little compact cube of metal. You vaguely remember Weiss mentioning Syd's new address the last time you played hockey together. More information comes back to you; his exact words were, "Now I have a drinking buddy that only has to drag me up a few floors when I get wasted."
Shit.
If Lauren found out that you had gone over to that complex, she would automatically assume that you had gone to drown your woes in Syd's bed.
But wait a second. Aren't you already in the doghouse? So what would this hurt? In for a penny, in for pound. If you have already dug yourself a hole, why not go all the way to China?
We share the sadness
Split screen sadness
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight
You crush the accelerator and shoot down the alley.
Arriving on Forty-Second Street so quickly that you deem the passing time an instant, you pull into a parking space, get out while lugging your backpack with you, and feed the meter as many quarters as it can handle. Knowing the doorman by his first name helps in this situation; with the way your mind is working at the moment, you could not argue your way out of a wet paper bag. Nodding to the old, docile man, you stride into the building only to stop in the middle of the lobby.
You came here with the sole intention of seeing Eric, of sitting him down and making him listen to your plight, hoping to God he would have something semi-intelligent to say.
But now that doesn't seem like the right choice.
He is not suited to deal with this problem. Yes, he only wants what is best for you and has your best interests at heart, but…He's too far away from the epicentre; he doesn't get it.
Syd gets it; she is the only one who truly understands. Maybe you should talk to her about this. It would sure make sense, and you haven't talked to her in so long…
Suddenly you find yourself in front of a door. A big, green door with 4G nailed to it in wood and painted a cheap, flaking gold. You have no idea what you are doing here: Eric lives three stories up in 7D. And just as suddenly you know: this is Syd's apartment. You can feel it.
You see the doorbell; you know you should use it — the polite thing to do. You are dropping by uninvited and (probably) unwanted with a backpack full of clothes and asking if you could possibly spend a few nights with her. Pressing a little plastic button is the least you can do.
But it's not the Vaughn thing to do.
The old Vaughn would just barge in without any warning, completely secure in the fact that she would be happy to see him; or better yet even use his key.
Diluting that Vaughn, you decide to simply knock.
Immediately after, you hear a muffled crash and sharp swear. She giggles loudly as if right next to the door, the knob turns, the green wood falls away…
And there she is, hair pulled back in a French braid and wearing pajama pants and Lycra tank top. The smile frozen on her face slowly disappears, the corners of her mouth crawling towards her chin but stopping halfway in an emotionless daze. You have never failed to notice that, despite the passage of time, the contours of her face remain the same: the curve of her lips, the depth of her dimples, the smoothness of her forehead. The only thing that has changed is the vacuous vacancy in her eyes. It kills you to know that you are the reason it is there.
Suddenly she is gone, and you are facing green and gold again.
She slammed the door in your face.
Not an unexpected reaction to be sure, but not exactly the one you wanted.
You hear a familiar deep chortle/laugh from inside the apartment, and the door opens up again.
"Syd, I know you ordered a safety pizza, so don't try to cover it up by breaking the nose of the delivery—"
Weiss.
Eric Weiss.
He's the one standing in Syd's apartment, answering the door like he is her—
No. You will not allow yourself to think of the word. His face is unreadable for a moment, and then his eyes take in your backpack, the circles under your eyes, and the general haggard state of your appearance. He moves aside and opens the door wider, gesturing for you to enter. Cracking a smile at last he says, "Hey, you're not a delivery boy! But you don't happen to have a pizza in that backpack, do you? 'Cause I think our dinner's officially six feet under."
You briefly mirror his grin, but it disappears as you look beyond him. She is leaning on the counter by the sink on the island with her elbows locked and head down. It looks like she wants to throw up something terrible. The stove behind her is issuing some disturbing sounds, and as your gaze shifts to it, Eric gasps and scuttles over to turn off the burners. Popping on a pair oven mitts, he bends over to extract a smoking, crisp, almost on fire object and sets it next to the pot on the stove. After fanning away the billowing smoke and coughing, he made a show of going over to the sink and dumping out the pot that was on the stove. Through the hissing and steam, you hear a tersely whispered conversation between the two.
You know they are arguing about you.
You know she wants him to make you leave.
You know he is refusing, because you know he would never do that to you or Syd.
He knows she really doesn't want you to leave.
He knows you want to stay.
He knows he should go home.
Depositing the pot in the sink, Eric gently rubs her bare shoulder as he passes to the other side of the island and to a barstool with his coat draped across it. He raises his eyebrows at you and nods towards the stool's twin. "Come on in Mike. Let your hair down and sit a spell."
You remain at the door with your feet planted firmly on the welcome mat and clutching your backpack like a child on his first day of kindergarten.
Eric frowns briefly at the rejection, but then scoops up his jacket, extracting a set of keys from a pocket. "And that's my cue to exit," He says, striding towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Syd. And Mike…" He stands beside you facing the door and speaks out the corner of his mouth. "I don't know what the hell you did, but don't do anything to make it worse." You nod once and he exits, leaving you alone with her.
We share the sadness
Split screen sadness
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight
Silence reins for what seems like an eternity.
You stay rooted at the door, your eyes transfixed on her still form.
When she garners the guts to look up from the floor, her face blows you away yet again. Her façade is the perfect mask of even, calm emotionlessness, juxtapositioned perfectly by her slightly shaking arms and the single tear poised in the corner of her right eye. Her stare seems to bore straight through your skin and into your mind, your heart, your soul. She has always had this disarming affect on you, but since she has been resurrected, you haven't had the opportunity to see if it was on the same level as Before.
You had hoped it was less.
But when her gaze pierces you quicker than a hot knife through butter, you know its power has grown exponentially.
Her lips barely move when she speaks, but her voice echoes about the large space, louder than she probably meant it to be.
"What are you doing here?"
You know you have the answer — have the right answer — but for a moment, it gets lost somewhere along the way from your brain to your throat to your lips. It finally pushes past your tongue and you stutter, "I w-was looking f-for Eric, but he w-wasn't in his apartment, s-so I came h-here." You are lying through your teeth, and you know that she knows that's the right answer, but it's not the real answer.
"Bullshit," She states clearly and firmly, standing up straight and facing you for the first time since she answered the door. Her gaze never waivers. "What are you doing here?"
Still not wanting to divulge the truth you try again, "Can't a friend drop by on another friend without being subjected to the third degree?"
She exhales shortly, almost snorting. "Not when said 'friend' is ignoring the other friend for almost two weeks. Not when the 'friend' is harsh and clipped and overly critical of everything. Not when the 'friend' has been anything but." She shakes her head almost imperceptibly as she adds, "You didn't even know that I live here. You guessed."
Now she is reading your mind, too. "How did you know?"
"I didn't. You just told me." She exhales heavily and leans upon the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze averts back to the floor, and you are secretly glad; you don't think you could have taken another second of her close scrutiny. "4G. It was the only apartment open at the time. If you decipher it right you get forty-seven. How's that for irony?" And the gaze is back, even though her head is still tilted towards the wood paneling. She repeats for the third time, "What are you doing here?"
Third time is the charm, and you cannot lie to her anymore. "Lauren and I — we had a fight."
"And she kicked you out?" She counters in a tone that suggests she knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway.
"No," You reply, trying to swallow the lump in your throat but failing miserably. "I left." Her, your heart yearns to add. I left her.
But your mouth doesn't move at all.
She nods knowingly but does not press you further. You are grateful for this, even though it is probably more for her own sake than yours. For a brief moment — quicker than a lightning bolt — you think you see a flicker of triumph illuminate her face. But then it is gone, and she is back to being calm and stoic — eerily reminiscent of her father.
Out of nowhere she states, "We're not together, you know."
"Who?" You ask, feigning confusion even though you know exactly who she's referring to; the burning-hot jealousy sears like heartburn in your stomach.
She perceives your false reaction but answers all the same. "Weiss and I. We're just friends. That's it. You have nothing to..." She trails off. You're grateful for this, even though the realization that she can still sense your internal reactions hurts even more than the reactions themselves.
You nod slowly to acknowledge you understand her intent.
She launches herself off the counter with effort and circles the island to where Weiss stood just a few minutes before.
Hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her pajama pants, she shrugs her shoulders up to her ears and exhales as she lets them fall back down. "Well, come on in. Shoes and coat go in the closet on your right. You can have the bed and I'll take the couch." Before you can protest, she is heading down the hall towards…something. You have never been here, so you don't really know.
You cannot help but notice her use of 'the'. It's not her bed, it's the bed; it's not her couch, it's the couch. You are not quite sure whether this is because she still does not think of them as belonging to her…or she has momentarily 'forgotten' that you do not share the same bed or couch anymore.
Then she sticks her head out of the corridor, breaking into your thoughts. "You coming or what?" She demands, a twinge impatient. You hurriedly kick off your shoes and coat and follow her down the hall to her bedroom.
Passively, you remember when that could have been said in a more pleasant context.
I called
Because
I just
Need to feel you on the line
Don't hang up this time
And I know it was me who called it over but
I still wish you'd fought me 'til your dying day
Don't let me get away
You can't sleep.
Though not for lack of trying: you have been lying on your back and staring at the ceiling for two hours, seven minutes, and thirty-seven seconds…Thirty-eight seconds…Thirty-nine seconds…Forty seconds…
Giving up, you finally feel your way back towards the living room. The light source ahead of you is casting flickering shadows that sprightly dance to and fro across the wood paneling. She lit the fireplace. You remember she used to love to light fires; she would live for any day below fifty so that she could put her dusty fireplace to use. Which is one thing that disturbed you about her death: you used to mull over the possibility that she was lighting a fire for the two of you before you set off for Santa Barbara when she set off an explosion of some sort. The mere thought of that period of your life brings salty tears to your eyes, but you will them away and continue down the corridor.
You stop abruptly as soon as you cross the threshold. She is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her back unnaturally rigid. She has no book, no paper; nothing to keep her occupied. All she does is merely stare straight into the crackling flames.
It is then that you notice the bags under her eyes. The bags that are like horse feed because they hang down so. The bags that you know she spends a bottle of make-up per week to conceal from the world. The bags that instantly make you sick.
Out of nowhere, your stomach growls loudly; you haven't had anything to eat since your granola bar at lunch. She looks up in alarm and your eyes lock. "What are you doing up so late?" She asks softly, her voice sounding at least a mile away.
You cock your head slightly as you reply, "I could ask you the same thing."
She sighs and looks down at her lap, rubbing her eyes with one hand. "I haven't slept much since — well, you know. And hardly at all since the nightmares started."
Concern floods your system, and you stride towards her, perching yourself on the coffee table across from her. "What are they about? Do they help you remember anything?"
Avoiding your searching eyes she answers, "No. They're just fragments, really: just sounds and voices and pictures. But every once in a while there's a really vivid one and—" She shrugs "—I can't sleep for a week."
Something about her even keel and calm tone disquiet you. It is almost like she's merely taking it all in stride, as if it is some everyday occurrence, when you know in your heart that it is anything but. You know immediately that you need to hear this information, that you must force it out of her because you have a stake in her memory as well. "Syd, what happens in them? Is there a recurring theme?"
She closes her eyes for a moment to make it seem like she is dredging the dreams out of her memory, when in fact you know she remembers them like the back of her hand. "Of course the name Julia gets thrown around a lot. There are chimes — lots of chimes. They almost sound like church bells. And there's a stone statue of an angel that's backlit with white light — Actually, I know that one. I had an apartment in Rome, and the skylight above my bed framed a church with that statue on it." She pauses as if she is done, but you feel that there is something she's holding back from you.
Raising an eyebrow you prod, "There's something else, isn't there? One of the more vivid ones. Come on, Syd, you can tell me; I can take it."
Shaking her head slowly she whispers, "But I don't know if I can."
You are getting a glimpse of the old Syd, the Syd that never hid things from you or kept secrets or lied. She is breaking down, deteriorating before your very eyes. Forgetting what her father warned you against, you clasp a hand over one of her own and squeeze it reassuringly, feeling what little strength you have flow out your appendage into her.
She closes her eyes again — this time sincerely — and takes a deep breath before beginning. "I wake up on a gurney in what looks like a hospital room. I'm wearing a hospital gown, but there's a part that's stained red with blood. When I stand up, there's a sharp pain in my side, and when I lift up the gown, there's a gash in my side with a tube sticking out." You are grateful that her eyes are still shut; it's better that she does not see you wince. Her voice becomes choked and frantic. "I open the cut wider and start pulling out the tube. It hurts so much, Vaughn, but I keep pulling and pulling and pulling, and it never seems like there's an end to this tube, and soon there's feet — hundreds of feet — of tubing just coiled up on the floor in a puddle of blood. I finally reach the end, and I just collapse against a wall because I'm so scared. It hurts so much, Vaughn. It always hurts so much…" She trails off, and you can tell she is fending off tears.
Even though your brain is screaming for you not to, you cross the gap between your bodies and envelop her in one of your infamous Support Hugs. You clutch her to your chest as she chokes back wet sobs; you stroke her hair as her tears slide down your neck. How many times have you done this in the past; and how many times did you think you would be doing this in the future.
As if remembering the stipulations on your situation, she pulls away suddenly, biting her lip to keep her cries at bay. Gaining courage when she succeeds she whispers, "We can't do this. You're married. I don't want to put myself in a situation where I could jeopardize that."
You tilt your head so your eyes meet. "Being a friend to you won't jeopardize my marriage."
You should not have used that word. Her momentary insecurity is gone, replaced by that Bristow vivacity you know so well. "Really? I didn't get that impression these past two weeks. Ignoring me, avoiding me, switching operations with other agents just so you didn't have to work with me…Yeah, that's a true friend there. That's a man who's loyal and trustworthy. That's a man who's worth my time."
Her words cut deep and pour salt on the wound at the same time. Before you can keep your emotions in check, though, your mouth rattles off, "I was doing it for your own good, you know. I didn't want to kill you with my kindness."
She exhales sharply and shakes her head in bewilderment, a wry half-smile spreading across her face. "Amazing. Even after all this time, you're still trying to coddle me. When will you get it through your head that I'm not a child: I can take care of myself. It's not your job to protect me anymore. In fact, you probably shouldn't protect me for the good of your marriage."
"Your father told me to do it," You blurt without warning. This garners her gaze and you shift uncomfortably. Great. Now you have to explain. "See, when we were in federal custody, he explained what I was doing to you. He said that I was destroying you, and that it would be best if I would be distant with you — even hurt you — for your own sanity. I-I didn't think that I could trust myself to be distant around you, so I…I cut off all contact. I really was doing what I thought was best for you, Syd."
You have no idea why you leave out Jack's mistress comment.
She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slumping and letting her spine curve. "That's all? You were taking advice from my father?" She restates, raising an eyebrow in amusement. You nod, not seeing how she can find humour anywhere in this situation. She even laughs once before she continues. "Consider the source. He's my father, Vaughn; of course he's going to be a little overprotective where it comes to me. If I ever wanted you to back off, don't you think I'd tell you?"
Shrugging in defeat you reply, "I don't know, would you?" You can tell this is not the response she expected so you go on, "You never talk to me anymore, Syd. Even before we were together, you used to tell me everything. Why can't we go back to that?"
"Because it hurts too much, Vaughn!" She cries out in exasperation. Running a hand over her hair, she takes a deep, calming breath. "This is what Dad meant — the killing with kindness thing. I know you mean well, but intentions aren't actions. I can't share everything with you because it would be like before. Vaughn, there was never a time when we didn't have feelings for each other. So you see, it would get us nowhere. If anything, being open to you would push us back." Her voice cracks on the last word, and she bites her lower lip to keep it from quivering.
You nod slowly, letting that not-so-pleasant-but-entirely-true information seep into your skull. You had never thought of it that way before. It was stupid of you not to. How could you forget all those days 'window shopping' and those nights spent at the warehouse practically swimming through unresolved sexual tension? How could you forget those looks that lasted a fraction of a second longer than they should have? You open your mouth to apologize, to say something, but then realize that she already knows you're sorry. Your lips shut and you continue nodding, looking slightly like a bobble-head doll on the dashboard of an off-road vehicle.
The silence is back again, and it is as pregnant as it was earlier in the night. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the pink elephant in the room. Of course, it could be just your insomniac mind playing tricks on you. Before you can say anything to make the elephant go scampering, though, she addresses it. "What did you and Lauren fight about?"
And so the elephant stays, now plopped right next to you in front of the fire.
Folding your hands between your knees, you choose your words carefully to protect all parties involved. "She found something of mine from a while back and assumed things she shouldn't have." You stop, having no desire to continue.
But she presses the issue. "It involved me, didn't it?"
Your unresponsiveness is all the answer she needs.
"What was it? A picture? A letter? What could she get from those?"
Raising your eyebrows pointedly you respond, "It was a little worse than that."
Understatement of the Year.
She is still not getting your point though. She repeats, "Well…What was it then?"
You inhale a deep, calming, zen-like breath, fearing her reaction to what you are about to say. "Remember the tape? The one recovered from Doren's bug in your TV?"
Immediately her eyes widen in recognition, and she sits up straight again, almost climbing over the back of the couch in surprise. "You kept that? For all this time? Vaughn…Why? What the hell were you thinking?" 'What do you mean?' Her eyes are screaming. 'Are you trying to tell me something?'
Shaking your head and shrugging your shoulders, you avert your eyes from her harsh, disapproving, almost disgusted gaze. You had hoped you wouldn't have to explain that little tiny detail to her, but now that she has requested, you will have to produce. "Syd, I don't kn—" Stupidly, you look up in the middle of your sentence, catching her eyes. You were completely prepared to feed her a half-truth about the CIA telling you to dispose of it and forgetting it was in your possession. But now that you're in the clutches of Sydney Bristow's Gaze of Truth, you know that she will see through anything that even hints at a lie. Her chocolate brow eyes have grown three shades darker and four times rounder, inadvertently imploring you to give her a reason to hope.
And, inadvertently, you give her that reason.
Loosing all your carefully laid plans and throwing caution to the wind you begin anew.
"I — I missed you, Syd. I missed you so much. After you died, it became my solace. On the last day before I left, Marshall helped me get a copy of the tape — I never told him why, but I bet he knew. I-I used to watch it over and over until I thought I'd break the machine or the tape or something. It was the only real, moving, talking evidence of our relationship, and I needed that comfort at the time. I needed to feel close to you.
"But then I moved on, and I needed the tape less and less, eventually putting it in the back of the cabinet. And that's where Lauren found it."
"And she thought we were…having an affair."
"Yes."
That is when you realize you are crying again.
You haven't cried this much since you found out she died.
The tears are coursing through well-worn paths down your cheeks and drop off onto your blue sleep shirt. You close your eyes and attempt to send them away, to will your tear ducts to swallow them back up. The only thing you manage to do is coax more of them to the surface.
Suddenly her hand is cupping your cheek, gently brushing away your tears. Its partner joins it on the opposite side, and you feel the salty liquid evaporate from the heat of her touch. You lean into the gesture, and soon enough you're both on the couch, cradling the other closely, tears mingling and mixing.
Talk about a role reversal.
Your hands find their way to her hips as she pulls you into her lap. The two of your separate abruptly, greatly aware of every single body part and where it is situated. Your eyes lock with hers, and words are exchanged in one of your infamous Silent Conversations. Fear and doubt and uncertainty are manifested in the tears brimming her lower lids, but beyond them you can see the need and lust and unbridled love. You know this because your own eyes convey the same themes.
And a thought strikes you with the speed of a lightning bolt and the repercussions of an atom bomb.
This is the perfect excuse.
Lauren finding the tape, accusing you of infidelity, and driving you away is the perfect excuse to jump into the arms of Sydney Bristow and stay there forever. The hole to China has already been dug; why not dig to India or Turkey or Afghanistan as well? Isn't one hole as bad as fifteen?
Yes, it would be the perfect excuse…
…If you were both stupid enough to take advantage of it.
She is not mistress material, and you are not about to make her one, although the temptation almost overwhelms you. You hear Jack's words ringing in the back of your head, and you know this has gone far enough. You will not stand to destroy your morals let alone hers, even though every fiber of your body, your soul, your being is screaming for you to take her here and now, claim her as your own if only for a night.
"Vaughn, we can't do this. I don't want to come between you and Lauren."
And that's the last straw.
You cannot bring yourself to push past her flimsy defenses and love her like you know she wants you to.
Despite your knees straddling her hips; despite your erection pressing firmly against her heated centre; despite the mutual want residing in both heart and body…Despite the rest of the world screaming to lock yourselves in the bedroom and never look back, she resists the temptation and stays whole.
She is truly the strongest woman you have ever known.
And you would do well to match that strength.
You roll off and sit beside her, breathing heavily as you work to control your libido. Suddenly she turns to you, her burning eyes transfixed on yours. "Vaughn?" She whispers tentatively. You raise your eyebrows questioningly in response. "Can we just — Can you hold me?"
The strength of the temptation has dwindled to the ferocity of a kitten. Knowing that you will both be able to deal with this situation and this position like true, mature adults you consent and take her sleep-deprived body into your arms like you have done so many times before. She leans into you, and in return you feed her a steady diet of your strength, knowing full well that she needs it more than you do at this time. You rub circles on her bare arms, easing away the practically permanent tension. Soon enough, her muscles relax under your fingers, her breathing evens out, and you know she is asleep. Reveling in a peace that you have not felt in a long while, you pull her ever closer and gaze into the crackling fire.
'Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me
So I can say this is the way that I used to be
There's no substitute for time
Or for the sadness
Split screen sadness
We share the sadness
TBC...