A/N: Hey, everyone. Chapter 3 is here. See Chapters 1 & 2 for all of the disclaimers and such. Again, still Vaughn's POV. No, I don't own the show. Just the DVDs.
Sit back, relax, and, as always, enjoy!
Chapter 3: Breakdown
In my life, my favorite aunts have always been my Crazy Aunt Trish and my Aunt CJ.
Both have a knack for coming into things at the worst time possible.
Obviously, sobbing over the love of your life with brandy in your blood is the worst possible moment for your aunt/godmother to come into the situation.
"Michael? Michael?!? Dear God, sweetheart, what is wrong? Who's in the picture?"
I've never had a problem sharing with my aunt about different things, but this was one of those times that I did have qualms. I quickly dried up my tears, lamely said that it was a picture of Dad, and shoved the photo in my pocket. She offered to take me to lunch, and I eagerly accepted, not only thrilled at the prospect of seeing her again, but also because the airplane food was inedible and all that I had in my stomach was whatever my alcohol of choice was the night before.
"I haven't seen you in months, Mike. Other than the whole sobfest over your father, how are you?" Obviously, my aunt hadn't heard from my mother about Sydney, as evidence by the question. The fact that she asked it so nonchalantly and tucked her hair behind her ear while asking, just as Sydney had so many times before, nearly sent me over the edge.
I gulped down some air. "I'm fine," I responded. I didn't even convince myself, much less her.
"Have you settled down yet? Found a woman that could tame you?"
You could say that. Define the word "settled".
"Settled as in thinking of moving in with her, marrying her, possibly having kids..."
"Dammit! Can everyone in this effing world read my mind?"
"So much for being fine. For the record, you've always thought out loud. You'd think your mother would tell you that before your thoughts got you into trouble."
"She hasn't."
Lunch was uneventful. Had some pasta, silently moped as my aunt continued to ask me questions about work, hockey, Weiss, my dog.
My aunt's most exciting questions were about my dog. Help me.
After the worst lunch in the world (not the food itself; the pasta was wonderful), we went back to the White House.
And that's where it started.
The Pres...er, Jed, was flipping channels on the TV and landed on some "find love fast!" reality show. "This is what this world has come to. Finding love on TV."
"That's not love," I responded.
Aunt CJ looked at me weird. "What the hell would you know about love?"
Jack looked at her, then me, practically anticipating my response.
"Ms. Cregg, I think your nephew knows a good deal about love," Jack put in. I never thought that Jack would ever defend me. Apparently, I thought wrong.
"Oh does he, Mr. Bristow? Tell me, Michael. What, in your infinite wisdom, do you know about love?"
What a loaded question.
"What do I know? What do I know? Love is like a drug. It's absolutely intoxicating. Once you find your drug, usually an amazing woman, you get a high. That high is exhilarating, and you find that you want the high again. So you do. You go on missions with her, you comfort her when she's feeling upset, you do whatever the hell it takes to make her happy, to treat her like the goddess that she is. As you get more and more addicted, you need her even more. To the point that you can't sleep at night when she's not next to you. You buy a ring. You want to keep that high for the rest of your life. And then what happens? It gets stolen from you. The drug is ripped out of your grasp. And then what happens?! I'll tell you. You go through withdrawal. You lose the will to wake up in the morning knowing that she's not next to you. Loss of appetite, incapable of any emotion but pain, you name it, you get it. And the worst part? People telling you to move on. You can't. She's the love of your life, and you'll never get over it, no matter how much you drink, or how much you cry, or how much you pray to God to bring her back."
And then I flee.
While fleeing with tears running down both of my cheeks, I run into a brunette who looks amazingly like the woman I was just ranting and raving over.
Doesn't surprise me. Every brunette these days looks like her.
But this one is different. This one knows my name.
This one is Irina Derevko, Sydney's mother.