[b][u]Chapter Four[/u]
Alcohol, Altoids and Aeros[/b]
When Will returned to work, he had found a massive stack of papers on his desk. He had forgotten that Vaughn wanted him to look into some things. He would be here a lot longer than he would have liked. Oh well, he thought, at least it was worth it. I guess I'd better get started on these papers then. As he opened the first manila folder, his stomach wrenched. It was Sydney's debriefing from her mission the night before. He knew he shouldn't read it, but he couldn't help himself.
He fought with his conscience, only one could give. But it wouldn't be on his desk if he wasn't supposed to read it. But it wasn't supposed to be on his desk. But it is here, and you want to know what happened to her. But it's confidential and none of my business. Sydney is your best friend, of course it's your business. No. Yes. It isn't a crime to read a document that ends up on your desk. I guess not but-. No buts, why shouldn't you read it. No reason really. Well then read it. I will.
And he did.
As he read through it, he was struck by a number of things. He had never read anything Sydney had written before, and this read like a best-selling novel. It amazed him that her skill at writing was so great, and yet she didn't write for herself, she wrote the briefings. Of course, he reasoned, she wouldn't have managed to get her degree in American Literature if she had been a crummy writer. But it still caught him off guard.
The second thing he noticed was the writing. It was the same writing he saw scribbled everywhere in her house-the shopping list, the notepad by the phone, the crossword-but it was odd to see it here, like this. She had written the entire multi-page debrief by hand. There was not one fault, no bumps in the writing, no jolts. Yet he assumed that she had written it on the plane. Normally documents of this length were typed on computer and printed, but Sydney had written it all out. He wondered why she had done that, and made a note to ask her, but then scratched it when he remembered he shouldn't technically have the document in front of him. He felt a pang of guilt, but it quickly evaporated as he read further.
It had been quite a mission. Sydney had gone in alone, Dixon had been left on the perimeter to monitor the traffic in and out of the market place. As she was about to retrieve the Rambaldi manuscript, one of the guards had caught her uncharacteristically off guard. She had managed to recover, and fought back. Sydney had given a blow by blow account of how the fight had occurred. She had included even the most unnecessary details. Will was becoming ensnared in the story, because that is what it had become. It was an amazing story at that, only every word of it was true, and it was all about Sydney. When he got to the part where the guard had shot her in the chest, he felt the life ripped out of him, but kept reading only to find that she was wearing a kevlar vest underneath her sari, which she was wearing as a disguise. Still, he wanted to rip the gun out of the man's hand and beat him across the head with it.
Although it would seem Sydney thought the same, because she did whip him around the head with the butt of his own pistol. She left him lying unconscious on the floor, and snuck out only to find another guard waiting for her. Only this time he was armed with a large bowie knife, and he slashed at her arm, cutting through the sari, and injuring her quite badly. She called for extraction, and was eventually rescued from the market place. She had been under the care of the CIA's doctors overnight so they could treat her wounds, and ensure that her arm did not become infected.
When Will read about this, he was glad he was there to carry her suitcase, and to ensure she took the afternoon off. She must have been exhausted and in pain, but she didn't let it show. She never let her pain show, but that's how she was trained. Sometimes he could see her mask slip. Even though it was only briefly when she thought nobody was looking. But he was always looking at her, to see how she was, to make sure she was hanging on. It was so hard just to hang on sometimes. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to just let go, or scream out loud. When he saw her with that look upon her face, he wanted to hold her, and help her, and be with her forever. Make her smile, just for a minute, just for a moment, so she wouldn't die inside.
He didn't know how he could help her. All he wanted to do was help her. To be with her. To be allowed to care for her, and have her care for him the same way. He wanted to be with her, and do nothing or everything. It didn't matter to him. But he put on a brave face, and masqueraded as her best friend. He let her see other guys. He hoped that maybe one day she would notice what she had with her the whole time. That he was the steady thing she needed. For now, he let her go, but he was always there for her. She always came back to him, even when she didn't realise she was ever gone. When she left, it tore him up inside, but when she came back, it was worth it to see her again. One day, he told himself, one day she'll know I was always here for her, and she'll know that I am the one she belongs with. I'll never let her down, I'll never let her fall.
Will was overflowing with emotion, and his thoughts had come so fast that they were clouded, and he couldn't read them anymore. So he sat behind his computer and listened to the thoughts swimming in his head, so loud that he couldn't hear them. Yet he heard every one of them. It echoed his ears, and it stoppered his vision. It got louder, he couldn't cope with it. Dumbly, he got up from behind his desk, and went to his car, in the parking garage. He popped the trunk and took out one of his bottles. The clear liquid sloshed around in the unlabeled, half empty bottle. He brought the it up to his lips, and drank a little. It burnt, but it felt good. The burning numbed the pain. He needed something to numb pain.
When he had finished the bottle, he put it back in his car, and went to the glove box. Opening it, he took out a bottle of mouth wash, and swished it around, spitting it into the gutter. Then he took a spearmint Altoid, and popped it into is mouth. He sat in the passenger seat of his car, and turned on the CD-Player. 'Meteora' was the disc in the player at the moment, and Will skipped to the last track, 'Numb'. He lost himself, and he could feel the song. He had finished his Altoid, and grabbed a mint Aero from the box he kept in the trunk. Locking up the car he headed back up to the office, munching on his chocolate bar and humming the tune. He needed to turn over that file before anybody found out he had read it.
When Will returned to work, he had found a massive stack of papers on his desk. He had forgotten that Vaughn wanted him to look into some things. He would be here a lot longer than he would have liked. Oh well, he thought, at least it was worth it. I guess I'd better get started on these papers then. As he opened the first manila folder, his stomach wrenched. It was Sydney's debriefing from her mission the night before. He knew he shouldn't read it, but he couldn't help himself.
He fought with his conscience, only one could give. But it wouldn't be on his desk if he wasn't supposed to read it. But it wasn't supposed to be on his desk. But it is here, and you want to know what happened to her. But it's confidential and none of my business. Sydney is your best friend, of course it's your business. No. Yes. It isn't a crime to read a document that ends up on your desk. I guess not but-. No buts, why shouldn't you read it. No reason really. Well then read it. I will.
And he did.
As he read through it, he was struck by a number of things. He had never read anything Sydney had written before, and this read like a best-selling novel. It amazed him that her skill at writing was so great, and yet she didn't write for herself, she wrote the briefings. Of course, he reasoned, she wouldn't have managed to get her degree in American Literature if she had been a crummy writer. But it still caught him off guard.
The second thing he noticed was the writing. It was the same writing he saw scribbled everywhere in her house-the shopping list, the notepad by the phone, the crossword-but it was odd to see it here, like this. She had written the entire multi-page debrief by hand. There was not one fault, no bumps in the writing, no jolts. Yet he assumed that she had written it on the plane. Normally documents of this length were typed on computer and printed, but Sydney had written it all out. He wondered why she had done that, and made a note to ask her, but then scratched it when he remembered he shouldn't technically have the document in front of him. He felt a pang of guilt, but it quickly evaporated as he read further.
It had been quite a mission. Sydney had gone in alone, Dixon had been left on the perimeter to monitor the traffic in and out of the market place. As she was about to retrieve the Rambaldi manuscript, one of the guards had caught her uncharacteristically off guard. She had managed to recover, and fought back. Sydney had given a blow by blow account of how the fight had occurred. She had included even the most unnecessary details. Will was becoming ensnared in the story, because that is what it had become. It was an amazing story at that, only every word of it was true, and it was all about Sydney. When he got to the part where the guard had shot her in the chest, he felt the life ripped out of him, but kept reading only to find that she was wearing a kevlar vest underneath her sari, which she was wearing as a disguise. Still, he wanted to rip the gun out of the man's hand and beat him across the head with it.
Although it would seem Sydney thought the same, because she did whip him around the head with the butt of his own pistol. She left him lying unconscious on the floor, and snuck out only to find another guard waiting for her. Only this time he was armed with a large bowie knife, and he slashed at her arm, cutting through the sari, and injuring her quite badly. She called for extraction, and was eventually rescued from the market place. She had been under the care of the CIA's doctors overnight so they could treat her wounds, and ensure that her arm did not become infected.
When Will read about this, he was glad he was there to carry her suitcase, and to ensure she took the afternoon off. She must have been exhausted and in pain, but she didn't let it show. She never let her pain show, but that's how she was trained. Sometimes he could see her mask slip. Even though it was only briefly when she thought nobody was looking. But he was always looking at her, to see how she was, to make sure she was hanging on. It was so hard just to hang on sometimes. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to just let go, or scream out loud. When he saw her with that look upon her face, he wanted to hold her, and help her, and be with her forever. Make her smile, just for a minute, just for a moment, so she wouldn't die inside.
He didn't know how he could help her. All he wanted to do was help her. To be with her. To be allowed to care for her, and have her care for him the same way. He wanted to be with her, and do nothing or everything. It didn't matter to him. But he put on a brave face, and masqueraded as her best friend. He let her see other guys. He hoped that maybe one day she would notice what she had with her the whole time. That he was the steady thing she needed. For now, he let her go, but he was always there for her. She always came back to him, even when she didn't realise she was ever gone. When she left, it tore him up inside, but when she came back, it was worth it to see her again. One day, he told himself, one day she'll know I was always here for her, and she'll know that I am the one she belongs with. I'll never let her down, I'll never let her fall.
Will was overflowing with emotion, and his thoughts had come so fast that they were clouded, and he couldn't read them anymore. So he sat behind his computer and listened to the thoughts swimming in his head, so loud that he couldn't hear them. Yet he heard every one of them. It echoed his ears, and it stoppered his vision. It got louder, he couldn't cope with it. Dumbly, he got up from behind his desk, and went to his car, in the parking garage. He popped the trunk and took out one of his bottles. The clear liquid sloshed around in the unlabeled, half empty bottle. He brought the it up to his lips, and drank a little. It burnt, but it felt good. The burning numbed the pain. He needed something to numb pain.
When he had finished the bottle, he put it back in his car, and went to the glove box. Opening it, he took out a bottle of mouth wash, and swished it around, spitting it into the gutter. Then he took a spearmint Altoid, and popped it into is mouth. He sat in the passenger seat of his car, and turned on the CD-Player. 'Meteora' was the disc in the player at the moment, and Will skipped to the last track, 'Numb'. He lost himself, and he could feel the song. He had finished his Altoid, and grabbed a mint Aero from the box he kept in the trunk. Locking up the car he headed back up to the office, munching on his chocolate bar and humming the tune. He needed to turn over that file before anybody found out he had read it.