Title: There But For The Grace Of You, Go I.
Rating: R
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.
Notes: Forgive the long silence but Real Life had me in her grip and refused to let go. This chapter is short, I am aware of that, and considering the time lapse between chapters I'm sure many are cursing me that I am still 'teasing' you with what's to come, but you would not believe how tricky it was to write this without it being complete dreck, as it stands I am still unsure as to the dreck content of this chapter. Console yourself with the promise that I have not forgotten this fic, in fact I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking which would be the best way to write what and phrase that. You can also console yourself with the fact that the next chapter is already half written and you will get definite answers in this one. So before the notes become longer than the chapter...here goes
Chapter 2
The Waste Land
April was indeed the cruelest month. A month where the ever-present ache of loss and regret, raged into a searing hyper-awareness. Memories of moments lost would parade through his head relentlessly; of missed birthdays -so many of those-; of happy childhood parties -achingly few of those- and most of all, of holding the soft bundle that was his newborn daughter, and knowing utter peace.
Perhaps that's why there was such symmetry to it all.
But perhaps it only made a fucked-up kind of sense because his vision had been whiskey-soaked for the last hour -or three. The last time he dove of the wagon was after Sydney told him that Laura -Irina- was still alive. He had enjoyed jumping off with a vengeance that time. This time however, he wanted to dive of the edge of the world, and no amount of whisky could help him accomplish that.
The bartender eyed him speculatively. The very nature of very job brought her up close and personal with the human face of tragedy and misery far more often than she liked, but the man in front of her, he scared her - actually, she found herself scared for him. Here was a man teetering on the edge- the edge of what she wasn't sure and frankly she didn't want to know.
Tending bar was her 'thing', not listening to life sagas or playing mother therapist. The last time she had, the guy had rambled on about conspiracies, truth and other 'spookiness', which would have been easier to shrug off if he hadn't been shot later, or if the bar hadn't closed due to the extremely dead, decomposing, old man found in the stockroom; at that point she had packed up her bags, and left DC, hoping that LA would be a different story. She should have known that her luck would automatically preclude any hope of that.
Looking at the man in front of her however, actually made her long for her old friend 'Spooky'. He had been at the end of his rope; this guy, he wanted to wrap that end around his throat and pull.
Without asking she poured him another shot, and without looking he downed it in a swallow.
She wondered if tonight would follow the same pattern as other nights. Usually about an hour after the man came in, a younger man would follow, join him and then proceed to drink at least a bottle each of very expensive vodka with him, in complete silence.
It was unnerving to say the least, but she couldn't help but watch them. Maybe it was the faint traces of the art student still left in her, but their grief was awe-inspiring. It was not showy, or flamboyant, rather, it was indelibly marked on -and into- their faces. She often wondered whom it was they mourned. What sort of person could inspire grief that no amount of time could heal?
Wrapped up in her thoughts, she missed seeing the younger man join his 'drinking buddy' but she didn't miss his refusal, when offered the first customary shot. It was so out of their normal routine, she couldn't help eavesdrop on the conversation. It went against everything she had been taught, but she felt compelled to know what made today different.
"Are you sure you won't have something?" There was a definite note of surprise in the older man's voice, and this alone made his question significant. From what she knew, it was nearly impossible to surprise him.
"Not tonight, I can't afford to be sloppy tomorrow."
"Bullshit Michael." The calm tone did nothing to mask the importance of his words. She found herself, holding her breath waiting for the younger man's -Michael's- reaction.
A tiny upward movement of his mouth was, she guessed, a smile. Or as close to a smile as they ever got.
" I just don't think it will work tonight Jack." He - Michael- finally replied to his companion. "And, tonight, I don't think I want it to." The admission had obviously cost a lot to actually say out loud, and a convulsive flash of sympathy, empathy and a thousand other emotions she couldn't name, passed across the older man's face.
"She would have been thirty-one tomorrow." The sentence had all the earmarks of a non-sequiter to her, but it obviously didn't to Michael. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, she had to look away; his grief had a brilliance to it that blinded her.
"I don't want to do this tonight, Jack. I don't want forget her tonight. I've looked down too many bottoms of bottles to know that it just doesn't work that way. There's never a time I don't see her, and tonight, tonight I just can't pretend...I don't want to. Tonight, I just want to remember Sydney. I owe her that. We both do."
It was the most that he had ever spoken in front of her, and his passion was the most terrifying thing she had ever witnessed. She found herself praying devoutly that she never loved a person as intensely as Michael had and did so obviously love his 'Sydney'. Still, there was a tiny part of her, which mourned as much as the rest of her rejoiced. No one had ever loved her like that, no one ever would.
As they left the bar, she somehow knew for certain that she would see neither man again. How she knew, she couldn't say, she just did. She was spooky that way.
Rating: R
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.
Notes: Forgive the long silence but Real Life had me in her grip and refused to let go. This chapter is short, I am aware of that, and considering the time lapse between chapters I'm sure many are cursing me that I am still 'teasing' you with what's to come, but you would not believe how tricky it was to write this without it being complete dreck, as it stands I am still unsure as to the dreck content of this chapter. Console yourself with the promise that I have not forgotten this fic, in fact I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking which would be the best way to write what and phrase that. You can also console yourself with the fact that the next chapter is already half written and you will get definite answers in this one. So before the notes become longer than the chapter...here goes
Chapter 2
The Waste Land
April was indeed the cruelest month. A month where the ever-present ache of loss and regret, raged into a searing hyper-awareness. Memories of moments lost would parade through his head relentlessly; of missed birthdays -so many of those-; of happy childhood parties -achingly few of those- and most of all, of holding the soft bundle that was his newborn daughter, and knowing utter peace.
Perhaps that's why there was such symmetry to it all.
But perhaps it only made a fucked-up kind of sense because his vision had been whiskey-soaked for the last hour -or three. The last time he dove of the wagon was after Sydney told him that Laura -Irina- was still alive. He had enjoyed jumping off with a vengeance that time. This time however, he wanted to dive of the edge of the world, and no amount of whisky could help him accomplish that.
The bartender eyed him speculatively. The very nature of very job brought her up close and personal with the human face of tragedy and misery far more often than she liked, but the man in front of her, he scared her - actually, she found herself scared for him. Here was a man teetering on the edge- the edge of what she wasn't sure and frankly she didn't want to know.
Tending bar was her 'thing', not listening to life sagas or playing mother therapist. The last time she had, the guy had rambled on about conspiracies, truth and other 'spookiness', which would have been easier to shrug off if he hadn't been shot later, or if the bar hadn't closed due to the extremely dead, decomposing, old man found in the stockroom; at that point she had packed up her bags, and left DC, hoping that LA would be a different story. She should have known that her luck would automatically preclude any hope of that.
Looking at the man in front of her however, actually made her long for her old friend 'Spooky'. He had been at the end of his rope; this guy, he wanted to wrap that end around his throat and pull.
Without asking she poured him another shot, and without looking he downed it in a swallow.
She wondered if tonight would follow the same pattern as other nights. Usually about an hour after the man came in, a younger man would follow, join him and then proceed to drink at least a bottle each of very expensive vodka with him, in complete silence.
It was unnerving to say the least, but she couldn't help but watch them. Maybe it was the faint traces of the art student still left in her, but their grief was awe-inspiring. It was not showy, or flamboyant, rather, it was indelibly marked on -and into- their faces. She often wondered whom it was they mourned. What sort of person could inspire grief that no amount of time could heal?
Wrapped up in her thoughts, she missed seeing the younger man join his 'drinking buddy' but she didn't miss his refusal, when offered the first customary shot. It was so out of their normal routine, she couldn't help eavesdrop on the conversation. It went against everything she had been taught, but she felt compelled to know what made today different.
"Are you sure you won't have something?" There was a definite note of surprise in the older man's voice, and this alone made his question significant. From what she knew, it was nearly impossible to surprise him.
"Not tonight, I can't afford to be sloppy tomorrow."
"Bullshit Michael." The calm tone did nothing to mask the importance of his words. She found herself, holding her breath waiting for the younger man's -Michael's- reaction.
A tiny upward movement of his mouth was, she guessed, a smile. Or as close to a smile as they ever got.
" I just don't think it will work tonight Jack." He - Michael- finally replied to his companion. "And, tonight, I don't think I want it to." The admission had obviously cost a lot to actually say out loud, and a convulsive flash of sympathy, empathy and a thousand other emotions she couldn't name, passed across the older man's face.
"She would have been thirty-one tomorrow." The sentence had all the earmarks of a non-sequiter to her, but it obviously didn't to Michael. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, she had to look away; his grief had a brilliance to it that blinded her.
"I don't want to do this tonight, Jack. I don't want forget her tonight. I've looked down too many bottoms of bottles to know that it just doesn't work that way. There's never a time I don't see her, and tonight, tonight I just can't pretend...I don't want to. Tonight, I just want to remember Sydney. I owe her that. We both do."
It was the most that he had ever spoken in front of her, and his passion was the most terrifying thing she had ever witnessed. She found herself praying devoutly that she never loved a person as intensely as Michael had and did so obviously love his 'Sydney'. Still, there was a tiny part of her, which mourned as much as the rest of her rejoiced. No one had ever loved her like that, no one ever would.
As they left the bar, she somehow knew for certain that she would see neither man again. How she knew, she couldn't say, she just did. She was spooky that way.