RADIANCE – Kwayera

The glow of the muted television was bright, flashing shards of brilliant light into the periodically dark hallway; illuminating the path ahead like a torch. She crept, catlike, down the short corridor, careful to test each step before putting her full weight down on the shiny floorboards – it wouldn't do if they creaked, betraying her position. She pulled her hand in front of her eyes to shield them from the seemingly searing light from the television – she didn't want to lose whatever night vision she had already acquired.

You shouldn't be doing this, she berated herself. But, really, what choice did she have? She had discovered a camera in her ceiling light of her bedroom just a few hours ago – it was no surprise that she was...reluctant...to sleep in her own bed tonight. But rather than share with Francie or crash on the couch she had dressed, and almost not of her own volition she was out of the door. She hadn't been sleeping all that well anyway, and her uncomfortable couch wouldn't have helped – jetlag, being a double agent, her conscience and the fact she was still a student had royally screwed her sleeping patterns. Thus, she had ended up here – if she didn't feel safe enough in her own bed, she should feel safe even just being near to the person she trusted most.

Muttering rebelliously to herself under her breath, she paused in her stealthy progress as she reached the threshold of what she supposed was the master bedroom. Swallowing thickly, she stepped inside, careful to keep her gaze averted from the bed as she made her way to the ensuite bathroom, lest she was diverted form her goal. As tiptoed across the carpet she surreptitiously looked around in the semi-darkness – it was a typical man's room, masculine and generally undecorated. She spied a bunch of dying daffodils in a vase on his dresser – wonder who that's from? – and (she fought to contain a giggle) a baseball cap sporting flying hockey pucks. Bit of a contradiction there...Her gaze strayed to the television, and she nodded appreciatively as she lip-read the characters words' on the silent television. "One is the loneliest number." Science fiction station. She smiled.

She reached the bathroom and stepped inside, allowing her eyes a moment to once more accustom themselves to the darkness. She set her backpack down on the tiled floor and frowned at the bathtub, mentally reassessing her plan. It was an awfully small bathtub.

Originally, she had planned to set up camp there, which is why she had brought a comfortable blanket – but it seemed to be rather too small to fit her. What's the point of having a tub if you can't fit in it? Men. She tried hard not to be too pleased by this change in plan. Defiantly (and a little triumphantly) she wrapped up the blanket again and picked up the backpack, slinging it apathetically over her shoulder for the moment as she marched back into the bedroom.

She chucked the bag in a forgotten corner, wincing at the sudden rustling noise it made, and stepped forward.

She swore as she tripped over his shoes, lying haphazardly in the middle of the room. It's a wonder he doesn't kill himself, leaving his shoes out there like that! Ugh. Guys are all the same.

Aside from such a mishap her step went unchallenged as she approached the bed, trying to stop her self from grinning too much at what she laid eyes upon. He was lying on his stomach, and obviously in the midst of a dream – the toned muscles on his back and arms were twitching rhythmically and his breath seemed to be faster than normal sleep. His eyes were dancing under his eyelids, and he was very obviously deep in REM sleep – possibly a nightmare. She stepped closer, a tinge of worry tainting her face – and then whatever was left of amusement died from her face as she caught sight of the awful, vicious scars swept across his back. They were knife scars, curved diagonally down his back as if he had been slashed by a wild animal. Torture scars.

Suddenly, all her dubiousness at his experience as a field agent went flying out the window as she tentatively reached out to trace the scars with her fingertips, feather light – not many who were put through torture lived to tell the tale. She soon realized her mistake as he moaned, his face contorted in pain, and he shrank away from her touch. My god...what happened to him? A sudden urge of protectiveness washed over her and she gently smoothed her hand over his cheek, no longer caring if she was discovered as she whispered gently in his ear.

"Wake up...Vaughn. Wake up. I'm not going to let them hurt you anymore..."

Suddenly he stirred, eyes flying open; frowning in confusion.

"Syd? What...what are you doing here?" he muttered, voice thick from sleep. He sat up, flinching slightly as her hand slid to his chest, instantly worried. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Evidently he didn't remember his dream – nightmare – and was probably now wondering what the hell she was doing here late at night. She smiled, bittersweet, and tried to quell his fears with a small chuckle (it's too hard to forget those scars). "Nothing's wrong. I 't sleep."

His face scrunched up adorably, confused, completely forgetting any security – hell, living – concerns that he should be worrying about. "Any particular reason?"

She sighed before replying, moving to sit beside him on the bed. "I don't feel safe at home anymore. I only feel safe with you." She glanced at him, her eyes silently begging; and he smiled sadly. He didn't say a word; just pulled her to him and tucked her head against his chest; tangling his boxer-ed legs with her flannel-clad ones. She snuggled into his chest as he groped at the bedside table, finally hitting the remote to turn off the muted television – and she was amazed how he knew exactly what she needed (and what she wanted).

She sighed minutely, blissfully, reveling in the way is breath warmed her neck and reassured her – and in moments, both of them were asleep.

She was gone before he woke again the next morning, and although he believed her appearance to be a dream, he was briefly bemused by the odd appearance of a backpack in the corner of his bedroom.

FIN