Title: Two weeks

Summery: Vaughn's been pushing Sydney away. Post Ressurection.

A/N: So the summery sucks but I can't think of what else to put. I'll change it later...maybe. Anyway, this has swearing, lots and lots of swearing. If you think that I was bad with it before, you're in for a surprise. I bleeped out all the words, so it's still PG-13 in my mind, but this isn't for the weak of heart. And yeah, it's very dark and moody. Call it black sheep fluff if you will. lol. Black sheep fluff is fluff that is angsty and moody and that is what this is.

Ship: Sydney and Vaughn...what else?

Disclaimer: I don't own them or Alias or anything you recognize. Take the wine for example, I own that and the couch and the glass and all that good stuff.

Rating: PG-13, again cause of the bleeped out swear words.

It was raining again. All it ever seemed to do was rain. Every morning, there was the aftermath of rain. At lunch, my only time out of the office, it would be wet and muggy. During the slow rush home, there would be a little drizzle. After dinner, the drizzle would turn into a steady rain. Around midnight, the steady rain turned into a thunderstorm. And then the whole cycle would be repeated the next day.

For two f------ weeks, it's been raining.

For two f------ weeks, I've had to go to be bed alone and wake up just as alone.

For two f------ weeks, he's been distant and moody.

For two f------ weeks, I've been lost.

A single bolt of lightning illuminates my room. Just for a second then is gone. Strangely the lightning reminds me of him. He gave me hope, just for split second and then took it away just as quickly.

The sound of thunder rumbles a couple seconds after the flash of lightning. The storm's getting close, almost right above my small, crappy apartment. So close, in fact, that some of the dirty dishes sitting on the counter or the table or in the sink or wherever the hell I've left them because I do give a s--- about cleaning them rattle loud enough for me to hear them in my room. Nevermind that door is wide open.

I don't know why I have the door open. I hate sleeping with my bedroom door open to the world. It's hard to explain why. I just feel exposed when the door is open when I sleep.

But it's open.

The f------ door is open.

It's been open for the past year. Ever since I came back from the dead, it's been open.

Deep down, I'm hoping that he will walk through that damned open door, so quietly that I won't even notice and close the door behind him, softly, just enough to alert me to his presence. He won't say anything and I don't want him to. His eyes, his beautiful green eyes will tell me that he's sorry and that he needs me.

My wish doesn't come true.

He doesn't come in.

The door doesn't close.

He's not here.

I have no idea where he is and that scares me. I used to know him. I used to know where he was all the time. But the second that he married that backstabbing traitorous b----, I lost him. Some people would probably say that I lost him when I "died". They're wrong. He still had me. I still had him. Then that woman came along, put that f------ ring on his finger and ruined it all.

She's dead now.

But she's still ruining things.

He blames himself. For everything. For her betrayal, her wrongdoing, the CIA's inability to see what was going on, for my "death", for my pain, for my heartbreak, for supposedly having ruined my life and his.

What he doesn't realize is that he's ruining my life by staying away.

Staying away is what makes her betrayal and wrongdoings and the CIA's inability to correct such a problem seem like they're better than us. That his staying away is what hurts me, what causes me heartbreak, what's ruining my life.

For two f------ weeks, he's been blaming himself.

For two f------ weeks, I've had to watch him deteriorate away because he blames himself.

For two f------ weeks, I've know the true meaning what self-destruction is. I thought I learned that last year. I couldn't have been farther from the truth.

The glass of wine I held in my hand shook slightly from another clap of thunder. I smiled lightly. This was the worst storm yet. The sudden sound of beeping indicating a severe thunderstorm warning being flashed across the screen of the TV in front of me only emphasizes my point.

I don't ever remember such a horrible storm.

Or such a lonely night.

The more it rains, the lonelier I feel.

I don't know why he's doing it, pushing me away, refusing to even look or talk to me. The kiss we shared two weeks ago in Palermo seemed so healing, so comforting, so loving. But the second that we stepped onto the CIA plane for the trip home, he pulled away.

He refused to speak.

He refused to listen.

He refused to look at me.

He refused to even acknowledge my presence.

It was like he had shot me six times and not her.

I couldn't understand why he did it, I still don't. I understand that he had just killed his wife, even if she was a backstabbing b---- that never even loved him. But that wasn't a good enough reason to push me away. Being married or having a girlfriend or simply not interested would be good reasons to push me away. He was no longer married and had no girlfriend and I could pretty much guarantee that he was interested.

The most likely reason I can think of is that he blames himself for all my pain and heartache and he doesn't want to hurt me anymore, so he keeps his distance.

It's sweet.

F--- him.

I swirled the liquid around a little before taking a sip. The wine slid down my throat, bitter and burning. It's some of the worst wine I've ever had. I used to drink about a bottle a week. Lately it's been about a bottle a day.

I learned a long time ago that drowning your sorrows in some form of alcohol is rather relaxing. Last year, I had a drinking buddy in Eric. We had fun, he and I. He made me laugh which was not a common event for me. At first, the sound of my own laugh was so foreign and weird because I hadn't heard it in such a long time but as the time passed, I slowly became used to it again. I even learned to enjoy it a little. Eric's in Europe somewhere now, working on a new lead in the search for my sister and Sloane.

So I drink alone.

Eric told me never to drink alone. It was less fun and depressing. He was right. It is absolutely no fun and very depressing. And yet I do it anyway.

Days are so painful that only drinking dulls that pain.

I gulp the rest of the wine, grimacing at the awfulness of the s---. I should buy better wine but at the rate I'm drinking it, I have to go with the cheap s---. Government pay is really not the best. It should be for all the crap I have to do each week.

I reached blindly towards the nightstand by my bed, fully expecting to find the wine bottle there for a refill. My hand touched nothing but polished wood and air.

Confused, I glanced to the nightstand only to find the bottle wasn't there. I must have left it in the living room or the kitchen or the bathroom. S---

With a heavy sigh, I threw the covers off my lap and heaved out of the bed, the glass still in my hand. I don't know why I bother with the glass instead of drinking straight from the bottle. Maybe I think that if I drink by the glassful that I stop myself from drinking too much. Not that I want or do so.

The closest stop is the bathroom. Nothing but a razor and a can of shaving cream left on the sink from a quick shave early this morning, a few candles by the bathtub, bath salts and bubble bath by the candles, two empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner respectively thrown hastily into the trash –though the conditioner bottle missed and is lying on the next to the trashcan- and a discarded towel. But no wine bottle.

The living room was next. Just my couch and TV and a lamp. I've lived in this s---hole for almost a year and I've never bothered to buy more furniture or anything more than necessary to make this s---hole any more "homey". I suppose that I never really accepted that I'd be staying here for a long period of time. And when the backstabbing b---- was found out, I thought I would be leaving soon. Now that hope is fading by the second. No wine bottle either.

Kitchen. It's in the f------ kitchen. I staggered over there, pausing at the counter to steady myself. The floor started spinning, my vision blurred, and my stomach lurched. Maybe I had a little too much to drink or the s---iness of the wine finally set in. Either way, it was less than pleasant.

I was right, the wine bottle was in the kitchen, just beyond the cordless phone. I stared at the phone for a moment before I got an idea.

Forget the wine.

Grab the phone.

I reached out and picked up the phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. It rang a couple times before he picked up. "Hello?"

"You're a son of a b----, you know that?" I said, immediately.

"Who is this?" He demanded. It must have dawned on him because he added, "Sydney?"

"Yeah, it'sss me you worthlessss pieccce of s---." My voice was slurred a little but I refused to accept that it was the alcohol.

"Sydney, are you drunk?"

"Maybe, what'sss it to you?"

"I'll be right over."

"Don't do that," I protested before I realized the he had already hung up on me. That bastard.

I started laughing, finding humor in the fact that he hung up on me. Shouldn't it have been the other way around? Shouldn't I have hung up on him? He stole my thunder. That bastard.

Still laughing, I reached for the wine bottle, somehow dropping the glass I still held in my hand on the ground. It shattered, of course. Wine bottle in hand, I crouched down to pick up the pieces.

A sudden knock on my front door startled me and I stabbed myself with a shard of glass accidentally. "S---," I muttered. Who the hell would be at the door? "Go away!" I yelled, reaching for another piece of glass.

He didn't go away. He actually opened my front door and came in uninvited. That bastard.

"Sydney? Sydney?" He appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a flash of terror running through his green eyes when he spotted me couching next to the ground with a wine bottle and bleeding. "Holy s---, Sydney."

He went straight to my side and started picking up the pieces of the glass, taking the pieces I had already picked up from me. I merely laughed and stood up, bringing the bottle to my lips and gulping at the crappy liquid inside. "You don't have to do that."

"God, Sydney, you're bleeding." He pointed to my hand. 'Congratulations, you're a f------ genius.' I shrugged and gulped again. Somehow in that short amount of time, he disposed of the glass and found my first aide kit. At the time, I couldn't even remember where it was even if he'd asked me. Which he didn't. "Give me your hand." He commanded.

"No," I shook my head and drank just a little bit more.

Anger, followed by frustration, followed by concern, followed by worry flashed through his eyes and in the end making a mixture of them all as he reached for the bottle. I laughed and pulled it farther out of his reach. He set his jaw and reached further. He leaned so far that he fell forward with me to break his fall which ended up with me pressed against the counter. I laughed harder as he pressed his body closer to mine in a futile effort to take the bottle from me.

"Sydney, give me the bottle."

"No," I laughed, pulling just a little bit farther from his grasp. He was getting angry and frustrated, more so than before, that much was easy to see. His eyes said it all. He found no humor in the situation so of course I found humor in that little fact. I wasn't going to give into him, not like before. Not ever.

Suddenly, he abandoned his conquest to the bottle from me and decided on something else instead. He peered into my eyes, looking for something. Then having found what he wanted, he leaned forward, his lips lightly brushing against mine. Becoming more daring, he kissed me harder, yet so incredibly sweet and gentle.

That bastard.

F--- him.

That's not such a bad idea.

My lips parted eagerly, and he took advantage of the invite, slipping his tongue into my mouth roughly. It occurred to me somewhere in the back of my mind that he had spent the past two weeks ignoring me and treating me like s--- and that I should push him off. But I didn't as his hands found their way to my hair and face and chest and back and hips and a-- and back up again.

He released me just as suddenly as he had captured me. I was still too stunned to protest when he grabbed the wine bottle and pried it out of my fingers. Only he could have found a way to make me give in.

"What is this?" He asked, lifting the bottle closer to him so he could read the label, "Cause it tastes like s---."

"That's because it is s---," I mumbled.

He turned and tossed the bottle into the trash, "Maybe you should buy something better."

"Maybe when money grows on trees, I will." I snapped. He shook his head and turned back to me. I thought that he was going to kiss me again but instead he just reached behind me to the first aide kit and opened it. "You don't have to do that."

"I know," He answered, taking out the roll of gauze and lifting my hand to closer to his face at the same time. I watched as his brow creased in concern when he looked over my wound. Then he set the gauze down and reached for something else, I couldn't tell what until I felt something metal poking into my hand.

"Ouch! That hurts!" I yelled, trying to pull my hand away from him.

He held on and yanked a piece of glass out of my hand with the tweezers, "That's because you had a piece of glass in your hand." He answered, like I was a child. That bastard.

I waited until he bandaged my hand before pushing off the counter, miraculously staying upright and balanced. "And now that you've done the hero thing, you can get the hell out." I pushed past him and staggered towards the living room, somehow tripping over my own feet and falling forward on my knees. Of course, I started laughing as I flipped over and flopped on my a--. I must have looked like an overgrown child sitting like that. No wonder he treated me like a child.

He wanted to laugh. I could tell but his frustration and concern overrode that emotion. He bent down to pick to help me up but I refused. I didn't need his help. "Leave me alone."

"I'm just trying to help you, Sydney." He responded softly, putting an arm under my legs and another around my back, lifting me off the ground. I fought him at first but he held strong. That and the wine was really starting to affect my hold on the conscious state.

I'd forgotten what it was like in his arms.

Perfect, as always. We always fit together perfectly.

F--- him.

Now it seemed like an even better idea.

When my back touched the couch, I wrapped my arms around his neck, keeping him close to me. This time I initiated the kiss. I wasted no time in pulling him on top of me. He came willingly, like he used to and kissed me back, just as willingly. At least at first, he did.

Suddenly, he stopped kissing me and pried our lips apart. Working his way out of my arms, he lifted himself off of me and stood up. "Syd, we can't."

What the hell was he talking about? Of course we can. Neither one of us were married or involved and we were both definitely interested. We were just two people that desperately needed this.

My confusion must have been mirrored on my face because he continued, "Well...we can but you're really drunk right now."

"So?" I asked, sitting up a little, rearranging the pillow beneath me some. "That never seemed to be a problem before."

"It's not three years ago, Sydney." He snapped.

"No s---, Vaughn." I snapped back.

He shook his head and headed for the door, "I should leave."

"You do that. What else will be new?" I muttered, sinking lower into the couch.

That got his attention, "What?"

"You heard me." I answered, picking at my nails idly.

"I'm going to ignore that because you're drunk." He replied.

I waited until I heard him turn the doorknob before answering, "I wasn't drunk yesterday and you still ignored me."

Slowly, he released the doorknob and made his way back to the couch. I looked down at him when he sat on the ground next to the couch, his hand reaching for mine. "I've been busy these past two weeks, Sydney."

He was trying to be nice but playing nice was no longer an option for me. "Doing what exactly?" I didn't let him answer my question before continuing, "My dad used to say that when I younger and would ask him why he wasn't at home with me. And then he would reply that he had work." I stopped and pulled my hand away from him, "And I know that you haven't been working."

"It's complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it for me." I answered.

He didn't respond. Instead, he just raised his hand to his head and rubbed at his forehead. I remembered that motion from three years ago. He only did that when he was struggling with something. No matter what it was from a simple mission debrief to the fact that my mother killed his father, he would rub at his forehead. "I can't."

"Why not?" I demanded.

He didn't answer my question. Instead he laughed lightly. He laughed. Not me, him. There was something wrong with that picture. "We both need a shrink."

"Gee, thanks." I answered, dryly, sitting up. I wasn't finding any of this funny. It's a strange effect alcohol has on you. One minute you're laughing, the next you're pissed off. "If you're just going to insult me, you can leave."

His smiled faded and I had to smile in triumph because of it. "Syd..."

"Just don't." I snapped. I pushed off the couch, fully expecting to keep my balance like before. It didn't happen. I stumbled and would have broken my head on the floor if he hadn't reached out at the last moment and caught me. He opened his mouth to say something but I couldn't bear to let him say anything. "I said don't." I repeated, standing up slowly this time. I stayed standing and wandered over to the front door. Without a jacket or second glance, I stumbled out of my s---hole apartment.

Now he knows what's it's like to be left behind and ignored.

Or he would have, if he hadn't followed me.

That bastard.

F--- him.

Not as great of an idea at the moment, but still appealing.

I paid no attention to the man following me as I made my way down the three flights of stairs, bypassing the lobby and out into the rain. I don't know why I did that. I had no intention of getting wet earlier in the evening and there I was walking in the rain, immediately soaked to the bone.

"Sydney, wait!" He yelled after me. I ignored him and kept walking. Time to taste your own medicine Mr. Vaughn. Bitter, isn't it? I heard the pounding of feet, which I assumed meant that he was running after me. I was right. When I felt a hand on my elbow, I immediately stopped and swung around to punch him. How dare he touch me?

The force of my punch threw me off balance and I stumbled forward. The last thing I remembered was falling forward, him unable to catch me and then the sickening thud of my head hitting the pavement unheeded.

Yay? Nay? Fantastic? Crap? More? Review please!