When Sydney died, and I forgot how to smile, I used to drink. It took me a few months to realize alcohol was the cliché thing to do. If I was going to wallow in self-pity, I might as well be creative.
Now, I usually wind up in the car, circling a neighborhood. Any neighborhood, really. As long as it's not mine. I figure it's better for my liver. It's too bad that drowning one's sorrows in gasoline and meditating to the lull of the engine is such an expensive habit these days.
I didn't get to go to Cape Town with Sydney and Weiss. The way I said that, it sounds as if I wasn't chosen for the middle school baseball team and now I'm feeling sorry for myself. I think a better analogy would be a party in high school, one of those parties that everyone went to, but I wasn't allowed to go because my mom found out there weren't going to be parents there. So while I was sitting on my worn green sofa drinking Pepsi and watching a hockey game, my friends were out with the cool girls having fun.
Wait. Maybe that's not a good analogy. There was nothing fun about that mission. And Sydney got hurt. She always gets hurt. I used to think she got hurt more than anyone else, but not anymore. Now I think it's equal.
They put me in charge of base ops. I guess they thought that by doing that they could avoid saying what they really wanted to, which is "Since your wife and her young, British boy-toy recently tortured you and left you for dead, we're not really sure you're quite ready to get back out there."
So they made me stay and work at the office and sit at one of those computers in the rotunda with Marshall, double checking security systems and fail safes and the infrared satellite surveillance system and whatever else we usually do at base ops. Someone has to do it, I guess. And I was okay with it because I still get to talk to her through a com and a secure satellite connection. Except that she's spent the last 25 hours on an airplane, incommunicado. And she doesn't want to talk to me. Because she hates me now, or at least she's trying to.
For the past day, while she's been 35,000 feet up in a cushy government jet, I've been on the ground, suffocating in smog, looking up at the sky and wondering.
Will she still be mad when she gets home?
I had to doubt her when she told me my wife was a traitor. It was stupid, but I had to. And when she'd forgiven me for doubting her, I had to beg her not to search out her sister. I had to.
After all, if Sydney Bristow dies again, no amount of alcohol or aimless driving is going to numb the agony that will surge through my veins, directly into my heart. So I told her what not to do, which is exactly what she wanted to do. And now I think she's given up on me.
It's 12:15 in the morning and I'm still driving. The little orange fuel light is about to start shining, but I'll drive until I can feel the fumes powering the engine, and then I'll stop at Texaco and pay $1.96 a gallon to feed my habit.
My phone rings. It's the call I've been waiting for. It's Weiss. "We're home," he announces.
"How is she?" I ask.
"She's fine, Vaughn. Don't worry." I can tell from the tone in his voice that he's lying. But I accept the lie because it's easier that way. Hell, I might as well add another lie while we're at it.
"I'm not worried."
"See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah." Tomorrow is Saturday. We both know we'll end up at work.
It's 12:45. I don't really know how that happened. Wasn't it just 12:15? Didn't he just call? I guess time flies when you're absorbed in memories of a tall brunette with deep brown eyes and a smile that would make Julia Roberts jealous. But that can't be true, because if it were, the last five years would have flown by. She is, after all, the only thing I've thought about since the day we met.
I guess I just lost track of time. And now the orange light is shining and I can hear the engine scratching and maybe a little unleaded would solve this problem.
I don't want to stop the car. I hate stopping the car. When I stop driving, whatever thoughts I was sorting out stop being sorted and they simply cascade over me and drown me and it's hard to breathe because I can only see Sydney and think about Sydney and breathe Sydney. And she hates me.
So somehow I've become one of those men who can stand at a gas pump at 12:47 in the morning and think only about some woman he doesn't have.
When did that happen to me?
Actually I can tell you exactly when it happened. Just like I can tell you exactly the way she smells, exactly the way she grins while she's brushing her teeth and white foam is seeping out the corners of her mouth and she doesn't even care because she knows she looks beautiful anyway, exactly the way she twirls her hair in her fingers when she's at work and she doesn't know anyone is looking, exactly the way she used to whisper my name when I woke up next to her.
It's 12:52. I'm driving again. I don't remember having returned to my car, or turning on the engine, or pressing the accelerator and entering the road. That scares me a little bit.
And suddenly I'm parked in front of a house I've never had the privilege of entering. She's probably home by now; her house isn't far from the airport. I want so desperately to knock, to pretend like nothing has changed. Maybe she'll feel the same way. Maybe she'll let me in.
I'm scared, because after all this driving I've come to one conclusion. This really is my last chance. Sydney's been resurrected and my marriage has decomposed and if she were to let me in it would just be us. Just like before, except profoundly more sad.
I'm leaning against my car now. It's 12:58. Since I stopped the car, all those thoughts are back. The ones that starve me for air. At this point, her front door is my only life preserver.
I take out my cell phone and press speed-dial number one. Sydney was always number one. Lauren used to be number two. Now number two is blessedly empty.
"Hello?" she answers, barely whispering.
Thank God she answered, I tell myself.
"Sydney," I manage to respond as I shuffle to the front door.
"Good night, Vaughn," she says flatly. I know she is going to hang up. She can't hang up. She can't.
"Sydney, wait!" I half-shout into the phone. "I'm at the door. Your door. Do you think you could let me in?"
____________________________________________________________
Sorry about the amount of time it took for me to get this up, I kept waiting for something juicy to happen on the show that would completely invalidate my story, but nothing yet. I also apologize for any typos in this chapter; it's really late and I'm really tired. I hope you liked this chapter. Thanks for reading and for all the reviews for the last chapter. If you guys like this, I should be able to write the ending soon! Thanks!
Now, I usually wind up in the car, circling a neighborhood. Any neighborhood, really. As long as it's not mine. I figure it's better for my liver. It's too bad that drowning one's sorrows in gasoline and meditating to the lull of the engine is such an expensive habit these days.
I didn't get to go to Cape Town with Sydney and Weiss. The way I said that, it sounds as if I wasn't chosen for the middle school baseball team and now I'm feeling sorry for myself. I think a better analogy would be a party in high school, one of those parties that everyone went to, but I wasn't allowed to go because my mom found out there weren't going to be parents there. So while I was sitting on my worn green sofa drinking Pepsi and watching a hockey game, my friends were out with the cool girls having fun.
Wait. Maybe that's not a good analogy. There was nothing fun about that mission. And Sydney got hurt. She always gets hurt. I used to think she got hurt more than anyone else, but not anymore. Now I think it's equal.
They put me in charge of base ops. I guess they thought that by doing that they could avoid saying what they really wanted to, which is "Since your wife and her young, British boy-toy recently tortured you and left you for dead, we're not really sure you're quite ready to get back out there."
So they made me stay and work at the office and sit at one of those computers in the rotunda with Marshall, double checking security systems and fail safes and the infrared satellite surveillance system and whatever else we usually do at base ops. Someone has to do it, I guess. And I was okay with it because I still get to talk to her through a com and a secure satellite connection. Except that she's spent the last 25 hours on an airplane, incommunicado. And she doesn't want to talk to me. Because she hates me now, or at least she's trying to.
For the past day, while she's been 35,000 feet up in a cushy government jet, I've been on the ground, suffocating in smog, looking up at the sky and wondering.
Will she still be mad when she gets home?
I had to doubt her when she told me my wife was a traitor. It was stupid, but I had to. And when she'd forgiven me for doubting her, I had to beg her not to search out her sister. I had to.
After all, if Sydney Bristow dies again, no amount of alcohol or aimless driving is going to numb the agony that will surge through my veins, directly into my heart. So I told her what not to do, which is exactly what she wanted to do. And now I think she's given up on me.
It's 12:15 in the morning and I'm still driving. The little orange fuel light is about to start shining, but I'll drive until I can feel the fumes powering the engine, and then I'll stop at Texaco and pay $1.96 a gallon to feed my habit.
My phone rings. It's the call I've been waiting for. It's Weiss. "We're home," he announces.
"How is she?" I ask.
"She's fine, Vaughn. Don't worry." I can tell from the tone in his voice that he's lying. But I accept the lie because it's easier that way. Hell, I might as well add another lie while we're at it.
"I'm not worried."
"See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah." Tomorrow is Saturday. We both know we'll end up at work.
It's 12:45. I don't really know how that happened. Wasn't it just 12:15? Didn't he just call? I guess time flies when you're absorbed in memories of a tall brunette with deep brown eyes and a smile that would make Julia Roberts jealous. But that can't be true, because if it were, the last five years would have flown by. She is, after all, the only thing I've thought about since the day we met.
I guess I just lost track of time. And now the orange light is shining and I can hear the engine scratching and maybe a little unleaded would solve this problem.
I don't want to stop the car. I hate stopping the car. When I stop driving, whatever thoughts I was sorting out stop being sorted and they simply cascade over me and drown me and it's hard to breathe because I can only see Sydney and think about Sydney and breathe Sydney. And she hates me.
So somehow I've become one of those men who can stand at a gas pump at 12:47 in the morning and think only about some woman he doesn't have.
When did that happen to me?
Actually I can tell you exactly when it happened. Just like I can tell you exactly the way she smells, exactly the way she grins while she's brushing her teeth and white foam is seeping out the corners of her mouth and she doesn't even care because she knows she looks beautiful anyway, exactly the way she twirls her hair in her fingers when she's at work and she doesn't know anyone is looking, exactly the way she used to whisper my name when I woke up next to her.
It's 12:52. I'm driving again. I don't remember having returned to my car, or turning on the engine, or pressing the accelerator and entering the road. That scares me a little bit.
And suddenly I'm parked in front of a house I've never had the privilege of entering. She's probably home by now; her house isn't far from the airport. I want so desperately to knock, to pretend like nothing has changed. Maybe she'll feel the same way. Maybe she'll let me in.
I'm scared, because after all this driving I've come to one conclusion. This really is my last chance. Sydney's been resurrected and my marriage has decomposed and if she were to let me in it would just be us. Just like before, except profoundly more sad.
I'm leaning against my car now. It's 12:58. Since I stopped the car, all those thoughts are back. The ones that starve me for air. At this point, her front door is my only life preserver.
I take out my cell phone and press speed-dial number one. Sydney was always number one. Lauren used to be number two. Now number two is blessedly empty.
"Hello?" she answers, barely whispering.
Thank God she answered, I tell myself.
"Sydney," I manage to respond as I shuffle to the front door.
"Good night, Vaughn," she says flatly. I know she is going to hang up. She can't hang up. She can't.
"Sydney, wait!" I half-shout into the phone. "I'm at the door. Your door. Do you think you could let me in?"
____________________________________________________________
Sorry about the amount of time it took for me to get this up, I kept waiting for something juicy to happen on the show that would completely invalidate my story, but nothing yet. I also apologize for any typos in this chapter; it's really late and I'm really tired. I hope you liked this chapter. Thanks for reading and for all the reviews for the last chapter. If you guys like this, I should be able to write the ending soon! Thanks!