Others in series:
1. Definition: Harangue
2. Definition: Blitzkrieg
3. Definition: Prolepsis
4. Definition: Prolusion
5. Definition: Brisance
Title: Definition: Evanesce
Series: Definition
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG...Whoa...What happened to me?
Genre: Angsty fluff
Archived: SD-1, here, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!
'Shippers' Paradise: DW4L/V...Oh you mean the story! S/V
Spoilers/Timeline: AU; my version of the Mole Finding and Eradication
Summary: Moving beyond. Sixth in Definition series. A Dream Writer Experience.
Disclaimer: If I was profiting from this, said work would be published, and my second Forensics event would be set, therefore eliminating any need for going on a mad-wild search for the Perfect Prose Piece. Instead, I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!
Suggested Soundtrack: "October" by Evanescence (heh, heh...Get it?)
Dedication: To Alias424 (yes, this is the missing fifth point), because whether she knows it or not, she's the one who inspired me to write this entire series. If anyone has read Rhapsody, the glittering sequel to the multiple award-winning Wrestling Emotions, (and if you haven't, leave now and read; you're missing out) you'll remember the definition of the word at the beginning of the story: tick-mark number one. And of course her beyond-description literary skills, which continue to make me strive for that brand of perfection. That's what got the ball rolling. Well, that and my English teacher last year telling us to yell "harangue" every time she went off on us. But that story didn't seem as good.
Author's Note: At end. Enjoy!
Definition: Evanesce
Ev·a·nesce, verb [intrans]: [poetic/literary] pass out of sight, memory, or existence They start out slowly at first, like the grinding start of a steam engine locomotive. When it chugs to life, the beginning is slow, long, and heavy; the conductors must labour to collaborate and calibrate all the bells, whistles, and gears. Sometimes it's rocky, with mistakes and misreadings and miscalculating the amount of attention necessary. Such is their relationship in its second infancy: small tiffs, scuffles, misunderstandings as they relearned the intricate waltz composed before her disappearance. Their passion burns like a green branch on a pine fire: lengthy and deliberate, in complete contrast to their first attempt at forever. All they need to keep their locomotive running is a good amount of fuel.
And their stockpile cannot be depleted.
The entire first year is hard; there is no use denying that. Doubt and uncertainty and unfamiliarity bumble through their relationship, disturbing the surface but never even rippling the depths. The tracks continue winding uphill as the first months fly past in a plethora of shades and colours and patterns. But as they begin to crest that hill, two seemingly innocuous bumps nearly derail their happy train.
First is the three-year anniversary of her disappearance.
Second is the one-year anniversary of his first marriage.
Both are spent at home comforting each other with deeds rather than words. Long, flowery proclamations are not necessary for the two of them; their hearts communicate incessantly so their minds do not have to.
After they hurtle over those two obstacles, they think it must be all downhill from here. They see their future laid out before them on the countryside beside their tracks, and they race towards it as fast as humanly possible.
Moving in together.
Marriage.
They're even planning their family — a child.
Or four, as he insists.
They just bought their first house — complete with a backyard "just in case." And as they sit on their back porch looking out over their small lot in their small suburb, they can't help but think that life is perfect, even with its imperfections. They still work for the CIA; the Covenant still exists; Sloane, Sark, and Irina are still at large; Nadia is still AWOL. But they know they can deal with it — roll with the punches life delivers — as long as they have each other. To love. To comfort. To hold the glue. To help create their own shade of normal. It's all relative, really. If a bullet grazes his shoulder on a mission, she's always waiting in the doorway at home with a first aid kit and Jell-O, a food that always cheers him up (and she knows how to make). If Sloane slips out of her grasp yet again, he'll allow her to smash one glass (they 're cheaper than plates) and then absorb her dishware-smashing fury with a hug and box of chocolate. Those ying-yang moments are the quirks each of them cherishes.
Their unhappy history fades behind the caboose like darkness before dawn: not present, but not out of mind, either. The train runs fabulously with just enough coal to keep the fires stoked, and the pistons chug away with oiled precision. All they can see is happiness sprinkled about the landscape in vibrant pinks and blues, and the tracks before them present no hidden surprises...
...Until another hill springs up out of nowhere and forces their path to swerve away into a forest wrapped in forbidden, morbid mystery. Its grotesquely gnarled and twisted trees whip at the train; vastly tangled undergrowth discourage travelers on foot and creep across the tracks, causing the train to lurch, hobble, and slow its speed. The canopy above closes off any lingering twinklings of sunlight and hangs unbelievably low, creating a feeling of claustrophobia. It's horrible, it's suffocating, and it's all too familiar.
After what was supposed to be a routine mission, Vaughn comes home slightly different than normal. As usual, he hangs his coat in the closet rather than the coat rack (that's reserved for guests); he hangs his suit jacket upon the banister; his briefcase falls against the wall outside the office in its usual place; he exchanges his shoes and socks for bare feet; he throws his tie on the kitchen counter before untucking and unbuttoning his blue dress shirt. But he ignores the flashing button on the answering machine and Post-its littering the refrigerator; he neglects the bottle of beer cooling in the fridge. Instead, he pads out onto the back porch in the waning evening light, startling his wife. She had been somehow reading, writing, eating Chinese from the box, and drinking bottled water at the same time, and when she hears the screen door slam shut behind him she drops her meal and the book, only catching two of the three before they hit the wooden deck.
"Damn reflexes," She curses, setting the bottle and Chinese box on the table next to her before doubling over to grab the book. "At least I got what matters, right?" She smiles up at him and swings her legs off the glider to accommodate him as she relocates all her belongings to the table. "You're home early. I was going to try this new recipe for Jell-o cake I found in a magazine, 'cause, you know, I heard it's nearly impossible to burn or mess up in any way—"
He silences her with a sudden, passionate kiss, startling her for the second time in the same amount of minutes. When he pulls away and sits back on the glider with his arm on the back behind her, she takes a moment to regain her bearings before asking guardedly, "What's up, Vaughn? What happened?"
By the way he sighs she knows he's fighting himself. One part of him wants to tell her everything like he always does; the other just wants to sit there and enjoy being co-master of their domain. "It's...It's nothing. Really."
She nods placidly. "All right. Now that you've got the bullshit out of your system, want to try the truth?"
He sighs again, staring down the railing on the porch. "During the mission, I saw Sark. We got into it, and long story short, he said Lauren's still alive."
Not exactly what she expects to hear. A minute passes as she absorbs his statement, then she reclaims her book and opens to the dog-eared page. "He's lying."
Vaughn turns on her. "What?"
"That's what Sark does, honey; lie," She repeats without looking up. None of what she reads is absorbed.
"But...why would he lie about this?"
"Why wouldn't he? Nothing is off-limits for him." When he continues to stare at her like she's suddenly sprouted four heads and a South African accent, she puts her book down again, turns to him, and folds her hands over her stomach. "You told me when I woke up in the hospital that you shot her. And I believed you. I saw the pictures. Hell, I saw the body. She's dead."
He will not let the subject drop. "What if you didn't destroy the only plans for Project: Helix? What if there were two Laurens out there and I only killed one of them?"
Swallowing patiently she replies, "That was a large explosion, Vaughn. Believe me; I was there. I destroyed it pretty good."
Backpedaling he asks, "But you of all people know that those who die in the spy world don't always stay dead."
"Even her body's in custody. I think someone would notice if she just got up and started walking around."
He reclaims his arm from behind her shoulders and uses it to prop himself off the back of the glider. "Why are you playing Devil's Advocate?"
"How can I play Devil's Advocate when there's nothing to play Devil's Advocate to?" They both sigh and avert their gazes as the tension in the air diffuses and blows away on the sea breeze. Her hand finds his intrinsically, and their gazes lock again. What she finds in his eyes surprises her: nervousness, worry, fear. She almost laughs at his seriousness as she runs her thumb over his knuckles. "Vaughn, look at your informant. Sark never tells the truth; he only says whatever will benefit him. He was just trying to get a reaction out of you, and just look at you: you want to smash a glass, now, don't you? C'mon, I just bought some new ones that are sure to shatter very nicely."
She nods toward the kitchen door, but he does not move. Instead he grips her hand tighter and asks, "How come you're not more upset about this?"
Pausing to think for a moment, she averts her gaze to their beloved backyard. The setting sun filters through the newly planted tree, casting ever-shifting shadows on the grass. She shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe I'm not insecure anymore. Maybe I've learned to stop treating every rumour like it's already been verified by Echelon. Maybe it's the hormones." This evokes a smile, and he pulls her closer so he can rest his own hand on her stomach. She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder, still peering out over the yard. "Why'd he have to do this now? We're just starting to get over this."
"Hey," He murmurs reproachfully, garnering her gaze. "I'm fine: cried a river, built a bridge, got over it, and bought a t-shirt to boot. I'm just worried about you. If she is alive — which, I admit, is slightly not possible — she would go after you, and I don't want that to happen. My family is my life and...well, I don't want to have to turn this place into the JTF."
"Don't worry: we can take care of ourselves. Right Jamie?" She speaks to their hands, her stomach, and the small life beneath.
He wrinkles his brow in confusion. "I thought we decided on Chris."
"No, you decided on Chris," She replies matter-of-factly. "Jamie's a better non-gender-specific name; there's too many ways to spell Chris that can be interpreted as declaring whether it's a boy or girl."
"I though we decided not to refer to him or her as an 'it'," He reminds, chiding her.
"And I though we were going to stop with the 'him or her' stuff. That's why we went with the neutral names."
"But I never okayed Jamie—"
As they continue to argue, their steam-powered locomotive finally chugs out of the foreboding forest, on around another corner, and towards the sunset, the darkness finally passing out of sight.
END
Yep, that's all of 'em. Now I can finally focus on the rest of my life. Oh wait, writing is my life. Thanks to all who left feedback throughout the entire six-story series, and to those who only reviewed once: eh, it's okay, but please review this edition, as it is the final one. A big shout-out to all those who followed this crazy ride through to the end. Hope you expanded your vocabularies! Oh, and had fun too. Don't forget the fun. Thank you for making this experience enjoyable.
Toodles and snickerdoodles. (I've always wanted to say that.)
:D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life