Roundabout

A/N: So here's the thing. As I've mentioned before, this fic was only supposed to be six parts. But after editing and attempting to flesh out this chapter, it became two clearly separate chapters. So we're going to go seven parts instead of six. This chapter is going to take us back to the heart of things: the S/V relationship. Thanks so much for reading. Hope you enjoy!

Part 5—Impasse

It wasn't love at first sight.

He knows that this notion of knowing—of feeling—when you've met the right person is compelling to many. In fact, it's quite a compelling notion to him as well, but it's not the way he would describe his first encounter with Sydney. Some might try to justify a lack of initial passion in their relationships: the atmosphere was wrong, he was having a bad day, she was having a bad day, they just didn't know each other. For Sydney and Vaughn, all of these excuses had been true.

"Who is this woman?" Vaughn hissed to Weiss as they stood just outside the door to the small conference room.

"You heard what Devlin said. She's looking to become a double. I wouldn't suggest screwing this up," Weiss responded dryly.

"Did anyone, I don't know, corroborate this woman's story before letting her in here?" Vaughn jerked a thumb back toward the conference room door. "That woman is certifiable. I'm telling you…"

The click of the door handle sounded from behind them and both men turned as the door opened. The young woman stepped into the hallway and smiled tersely before flinching at the pain of her swollen jaw. "I'm finished."

Vaughn offered a brusque smile in return and nodded. "Fine. Mr. Weiss will show you to my office and I'll take care of your statement."

Weiss gestured down the hallway, but the woman paused. "Mr. Vaughn?"

Vaughn turned and faced the unscrupulous sight of her matted red hair and swollen mouth. "Yes?"

"I wouldn't call the asylum. Not yet anyway."

His mother used to say that given an hour, he could solve the world's problems.

What she was really doing was implying the intensity of his analytical side; his love for solitude and his penchant for self-reflection and analysis. Considering the montage of Sydney that has been running through his mind for the past several hours; he supposes his mother has always been right.

He spent years wondering when he fell in love with her, as though there was one right answer. It's only now, thanks to these few hours of quiet, that he understands.

He's still falling.

Her hand is cold in his.

Her hands were always cold. He smiles briefly when he recalls this seemingly trivial fact as her fingers rest lightly against his palm. It's been five hours. Five hours and twenty-seven minutes of sitting awkwardly on the edge of the armless chair as a kink works its way into the strained muscles of his back. Five hours of reacquainting his fingertips with the satin-smooth strands of her hair. Of brushing her bruised cheekbones with tentative knuckles and pressing kisses to the back of her hand. It's taken five hours for every apology, confession, and regret to tumble right out into the open only to fall upon deaf ears.

He knows that she could wake up at any moment. He hopes that she'll wake up at any moment. But he's also terrified by the prospect of looking her in the eye for the first time in months. As long as she is resting quietly; her hair falling across the pillowcase with her lashes brushing against her cheekbones, he is able to pretend. He can remove himself—and Sydney—from the confines of this hospital room. With his fingers wrapped securely around her cool hand, he can transport them to another place or even another time; lounging in bed on a lazy Saturday morning, strolling the streets of Westwood while munching on cookies from Diddy Riese, or telling jokes to pass the time as they sit on a gridlocked freeway. They're the pastimes that had never seemed particularly spectacular; even after all they had gone through to be together. Funnily enough, they're the pastimes that cause his throat to tighten and his soul to throb. The special occasions aren't the moments he misses. No, it's the everydayness of their relationship that he craves.

He finds himself kneading at the tension in his forehead again and he quickly drops the offending hand to his knee. He's been doing that a lot lately; trying to rub the stress away. It's only now that he realizes just how much those efforts have been in vain. There's only one thing in the world that has ever been able to relax the rigidity with which he has always carried himself. Ironically, she's also the most common reason for it too.

A tiny sigh suddenly escapes her lips and would go unnoticed if not for the rustle of the stiff hospital bed linens. Her eyelids are fluttering and her lips are twitching slightly as she shifts almost imperceptibly. She's coming around.

He breathes.

The first thing she is aware of is the intense glow of the fluorescent light hanging directly overhead. It burns through her heavy eyelids and prompts her to shift slightly from the discomfort of its brightness. It's only now that she notices the feel of her hand being held by another and the comforting hum of a man's voice speaking unintelligible words. She can't for the life of her figure out where she is and her first thought is that she's landed herself in some kind of interrogation room. But then, her interrogators weren't usually inclined to cradle her hand this gently. And they had certainly never whispered such reassurances in her ear.

With a mysterious burst of stubborn resolve, she is forcing her eyes to open through the density of the groggy haze that threatens to smother her. The vivid panel of light pierces her vision with blackness for a short moment before colors begin to fill the objects in her eyeline. Ever the conscientious spy, she is immediately assessing her surroundings. A generically tan ceiling. The infuriating beep of a heartbeat—presumably her own. A needle taped into the back of her hand.

A small yet tiresome movement allows her to survey the environment to her right where her gaze settles curiously on the man who continues to cradle her hand in his. His face is nothing if not familiar and beloved. Armed with the knowledge that Vaughn is here to watch over her, she offers a tired sigh and allows her eyes to fall shut once again.

Suddenly his voice is low and close while his even breaths puff warmth against her cheek. She can't understand anything beyond the rumble of his voice, but she can sense his current state of neediness. She doesn't know where she is or why, but she gives his hand a squeeze. He's here. He's here with her which means that she's okay.

Everything else can wait.

Her eyes are the same.

Perhaps a bit puffy and more than a little bit disoriented. But they are the same warm shade of brown and they are honoring him with a trusting glance. Perhaps this woman is Megan Andrews. But these eyes belong Sydney Bristow, there's no doubt in his mind. A veil of confusion hangs over her features as she eyes him with obvious curiosity about her surroundings. He gives her hand the gentlest of squeezes in an effort to assure her that she is okay and smiles when he sees her relax into her pillow. He doesn't even realize that he's already unleashed a string of soothing words until he sees Sydney heave a small sigh and close her eyes. He continues his murmurs for several moments, unsure whose fears they're meant to assuage.

A nurse is almost silent in her entrance and Vaughn is startled by her sudden appearance at Sydney's side.

"Sorry," She apologizes sheepishly as she skims Sydney's chart.

Vaughn dismisses her apology with a shake of his head. "How's she doing? I mean, she was awake for a minute or two, but she went back to sleep."

The nurse nods, "The sedative is wearing off. She should wake up and feel more like herself in a couple of hours." Smiling at the man who is so obviously devoted to the young woman, she makes her exit as discreet as her entrance.

Feeling the persistent kink in his back once again, he shifts slightly in his chair and attempts to find a more relaxing position. Making sure to keep Sydney's hand in his, Vaughn lowers his head to the mattress to rest his eyes.

Thirty seconds later, they're breathing in unison.

The nurse was right.

Vaughn had hoped against hope that Sydney's seeming acceptance of his presence was an indicator that she was happy to see him. And even now, when he feels a hand on his head, he smiles in his sleep as he remembers Sydney's old habit of playing with his hair.

"Syd," he mumbles as he lifts his head from the mattress. He reaches up to catch her hand in his and he's surprised to feel her yank her fingers from his grasp. Fixing his eyes on her fully-conscious face, he fights the urge to cringe.

She is eyeing him with some mixture of confusion, disgust, and hurt. She's managed to scoot her way towards the far edge of the bed and her arms are crossed over her chest in a defiant gesture. She looks exhausted. And not from her physical injuries.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice is sharp and it cuts cleanly.

He is shaking his head as all of the wrong words come to mind. "I had to come, Syd. How long have you been awake?"

"Awhile," she whispers. "And don't call me that."

Despite her withdrawn manner, he finds himself reaching for her hand only to have her jerk it away yet again. He nods in acceptance of the physical distance she is forcing and steeples his hands on the bedside as he begins another explanation.

"I'm sorry, Sydney. I want to be able to describe to you how much I've missed you, how much I've needed you these past few months." His anguish is apparent in his rippled tone of voice and he is suddenly aware of just how horrible his life has been without Sydney. "I let you down. The fact that you felt the need to disappear just proves my failure. You are everything good and beautiful in my life. Without you…"

He sees her body shake slightly from the corner of his eye and glances up to meet her tearful gaze. A short sob rattles her fragile frame and, despite her tears, she burns him with her angry glare.

"Get out."

"Sydney…" He knows his attempts are in vain, but he can't bring himself to stop trying.

"I don't know what the hell you were expecting me to do, but we obviously aren't on the same page here." She pauses and closes her eyes before grinding out the same two words. "Get out."

The quiet nurse chooses this moment to enter the room in her stealthy manner and she smiles upon seeing the conscious Sydney.

Her voice is chirpy and she pats Sydney on the arm. "He's been so worried. He hasn't moved from your side all day."

"I bet," Sydney remarks dryly.

"See?" The nurse turns her smile towards Vaughn. "I told you she would be more like her old self after some rest."

"Yeah," Vaughn agreed with a tight smile as he stands and moves away from the bed. "You were right."

The door doesn't make a sound as falls to a close behind him.

She feels numb. This is funny considering that Michael Vaughn's presence had always goaded her body into sensory-overload. Still, she is filled with a numbing ache.

The doctor says she can go home in the morning, which is a definite relief. She had mentioned her concern for Quentin to one of the nurses during an exam and she had assured Sydney that she would contact one of Sydney's neighbors to look after the dog until she returned. Sydney appreciates the gesture, but she's glad that such assistance won't be necessary. The knowledge that she will be able to resume her comfortable life; to take care of her dog, go back to work, walk along the beach, it's all a relief to her. But a small part of her can't help but wonder if Vaughn's brief presence will ruin the sanctity of her small world.

The bedside telephone ring is shrill and deafening, but the friendly voice at the other end of the line is a welcome sound.

"How're you feeling?"

"Eric," she smiles at the casual familiarity with which they interact. "I've been better."

"I bet. You're supposed to stay between the lines on the road, Syd."

"Fifteen years of driving, you'd think I'd have learned," she responds.

"Anyone special stop by?" If there's one thing Eric Weiss has never been good at, it's beating around the bush.

Sydney rolls her eyes at his implication, "So you gave me up, huh?" She finds herself tracing the rough texture of the knit-blanket spread over her lap.

The snorting sound is almost comical. "Well, the phone call from the police officer didn't help me in my secrecy. Especially when Vaughn answered."

Sydney manages a small chuckle at Weiss' wry tone, but she sobers at his seriousness when he continues.

"Syd, you should know that he came to me before we got the call. He wanted me to help him find you. He's been making his own life a living hell since you've been gone. He was finally ready to pull his life back together. For you."

There's nothing but the fizzy sound of static for several moments.

"He came because he thought I was going to die."

"No," Weiss corrected her. "He came because he wanted you to live."

TBC…