Chapter Thirty Seven - Desperate Choices
Sydney couldn't cry.
It was ridiculous, she decided. She'd been through so much. She needed to cry. She needed to expel that energy. But she couldn't.
Was she numb? That in itself was hardly a strange emotion to her. In fact, sometimes she deliberately refused to feel emotion. It was helpful. It was familiar. It was a Bristow trait.
But it was an emotion she had never before experienced when it came to Michael Vaughn.
He was in many ways her antithesis; her bright light in an otherwise grim existence. When everything else went to hell, one flash of his dimples or one scent of his cologne was enough for her to realize that there was still hope. He was her hope.
When she was around him, she lost all her Bristow traits. When she was around him, she was just Sydney, the woman he adored above all else. His adoration made her feel beautiful, and she loved him so much in return it often frightened her.
But right now, she was numb.
She sat in a conference room with her father, Kendall, Weiss, Elsa and NSA Deputy Director Brandon, listening intently to the transmitter implanted in the side of Sark's neck.
By all accounts, things were not going well. Vaughn's uneven breathing was clearly audible.
Hence her numbness.
Weiss shifted in his seat, expression changing from rage to worry and back again. Any anger he had felt towards Vaughn's recklessness was clearly replaced by his raw hatred of Sloane for caring so little about his best friend. She envied him that. At least he could feel.
Her father sat across from her, arms folded on the table. He had known Vaughn's plan, had even helped develop it. She had at first lashed out at him, but he had brought her down to earth. As usual.
I can't believe you! You knew! You knew what he was going to do!
I did. But Sydney, it was ultimately his decision.
If he never comes back, it will be your fault! You didn't stop him! Dad, why didn't you stop him?
He had looked at her, an odd measure of pity and exasperation in his eyes.
He has other reasons, but he is mainly doing this for you, Sydney. He wants Sloane out of your existence. And so do I. If your life is bought with his, so be it. It was his decision to make, not mine.
He hesitated.
If it makes any difference… he earned my respect for that.
And now, she was numb.
No, not numb. She sat up straight at the realization. She wasn't numb. If she was numb, she wouldn't have a cold knot in her gut.
She, Sydney Bristow, the quintessential independent woman, was terrified. Beyond measure. Beyond words. Beyond emotion.
It was a thin line between love and hate, but it was also a thin line between love and protectiveness. For Vaughn, that meant enduring hell so she wouldn't have to.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Maybe it would have been better if she had been numb.
"I need some air," she said briskly, rising. No one batted an eye. With a grace she didn't feel, Sydney rose and left.
"Excuse me!" Marshall called quickly the second he saw her, darting down the hallway. "Excuse me! Ms. Bristow!"
She froze, chilled. Had something gone wrong? Marshall skidded to halt in front of her, jacket hanging open and glasses fogged over from his run.
"Marshall? What's wrong?"
"I… um… I…" he hesitated for a moment. "I…"
"Marshall?"
He shrugged, nervousness causing his eyes to enlarge further behind his glasses. And then he leaned over and enveloped her in a hug, one so tight and unexpected that she fell against him at first, an ooomph! escaping her.
And then she realized that it felt quite nice. Soothing, even.
"I… uh, I know you're busy," he stammered against her shoulder. "But I watched uh, everything - not that I was eavesdropping," he added swiftly, "but I work here. And um, I know that some things have been bad - not that you can't handle that, because of course you can, you're very talented - "
She smiled at his genuine flattery, her first genuine smile in days.
" - but I thought I'd try to help," he said. He stopped to take a breath. "Actually, I was researching - uh, not here," he railroaded hastily, " - and it said music was helpful, but we can't get a band in here and I didn't know what music you like - uh, even though I'm sure it's very good. So then I found something that said hugs can be nice, so I - " still holding her, he shrugged against her, "… I thought I'd try that. Uh, hugs."
She grinned again, pulling away from him gently.
"Oh," he said, concern coloring his words. "I made you cry!"
She laughed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's okay."
And it was. For the first time in a long time, it was.
He shook his head, hand frantically searching his pockets. "Here," he said triumphantly, holding up a handkerchief. And then he looked down. "Oh. It's only slightly used."
She laughed again. Dimples showing, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
"You're sweet," she told him, meaning it. "Thank you."
Cheeks red, he nodded. With a wave, she turned and opened the door to the conference room.
And Marshall stood alone, handkerchief in hand.
"Sweet," he repeated, grinning. "I'm sweet."
His grin remained for the rest of the day.
Vaughn sat up straight in shock, too stunned to notice the pain that caused. "I want to clear my name of murder, not commit one!" His jilted breathing sped up and he automatically doubled over again, lacking the strength to stay upright. The cursed gun remained instinctively in his hand. It was a miracle in itself he was able to hold onto it.
Meanwhile the woman marked for death stood tall and proud in front of them all, no fear in her slight frame.
"Killing a person that so obviously tormented you can hardly be the same as the cold-blooded way Ms. Calfo died," Sloane replied, still leaning lazily against the side of the table. "You asked to work with me, Mr. Vaughn, and I do believe your reason why to be genuine. Had I not, you would have died in that bank. But I need to know you will not revert to standard agent prototype the moment you are able. You firing that gun will answer that question."
Horrified, Vaughn scanned the room, trying to come up with something, anything, that would save him from following Sloane's orders.
"Truth takes time, Agent Vaughn," Irina said, voice quiet. She, along with Sark, had retreated to the opposite side of the table to clear his line of fire.
What an odd thing to say. He scanned them, frowning. Whereas Sloane was almost jovial, both of their faces were studiously blank. Answers all in themselves. He shifted the gun in his weak, one-handed grip, paused to look down at it. The truth began to dawn. One undeniable observation became obvious.
"One would think that a government agent wouldn't have such an aversion to firing a gun," Sark drawled.
Was that a hint?
"Indeed," Vaughn murmured, heart clenching. If he was wrong…
If he was wrong, he certainly wouldn't be the one grieving.
I love you, Sydney. I'll always love you.
With one final glance at the three terrorists, the steaming Diego, and his proud target, Vaughn did the only thing he could do. He reversed his one-handed grip on the gun, aiming it squarely at himself.
And then he pulled the trigger.
- to be continued -
One of these days, I swear I will have time for review responses! I swear!
I do want to give a huge shoutout to all of you new readers, return reviewers and especially my loyal, every-chapter reviewers… you guys are the reason why I love writing. Thank you! I love each and every one of you.
That said, I have a challenge for you. Around 457 readers stopped by my last chapter alone… and I think 15 or so reviewed. If you stop by, review! It'll take you two seconds, and it so makes my day…