A/N: Another unfinished fic... thought I'd throw a little more on my plate :)
So this little ditty is ... how shall I say ... a little more scattered? Anyway, I know some people like to know what's going on and need a little guidance, while others prefer to leave it up to their imaginations. I figure in order to humor both camps, I'd leave my pseudo-summary/explanation at the bottom of the page. (Personally, I like to fend for myself, but whatever toasts your 'smallows.)
Part One
She hears her breath echo in her head, like surround sound speakers thrust into her ears.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The only other sounds she hears are the muted thud of her feet hitting the pavement and the rush of gravel splinters that spray behind her, kicked up unceremoniously and left dislodged. Displaced.
She seems to do that to gravel. To people. Displace them.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Whiz.
She smiles in spite of herself. That sound has always amused her. The sound of bullets nearly missing. Of death eluded. Of life unremitting. Perpetual.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Her grip tightens around the hard plastic disk that threatens to slip through her sweat-soaked palm. Another day, another kernel of information.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Exhale.
…
It had been five years, seven months and eight days. Five years. Seven months. Eight days. Fiveyearssevenmonthseightdays. Three hours, seventeen minutes and some odd seconds. No one could be held accountable for seconds.
It was in seconds, however, that decisions were made. In seconds lives were changed.
In seconds. Seconds. That was where errors lay. Where missteps festered.
It had been in that second of pause, of hesitation, of her eyes meeting his. She should have just left.
In the end, she couldn't blame him. Her actions had been suspect. He hadn't known the truth. How could he have known the truth.
She hadn't told him.
…
She taps her fingers listlessly on the chipped Formica countertop as the background noise dims to a buzz. The sounds of dishes clinking, animal flesh sizzling, water bubbling and customers babbling are no longer distinctly separate entities. They have become one dull, irritating constant.
The all too familiar smell of grease and fat assaults her nose and the crinkling plastic breaks through the din. She throws a pair of wadded bills across the counter and grabs the bag, retreating swiftly out the door she had entered minutes ago.
She briefly scans the hallway before sliding the key into the lock and slipping quietly into the room.
He sits hunched over the table, staring intently at the monitor. His forehead wrinkles deepen as his fingers furiously type. The small drops of sweat shimmer as they roll carelessly down his brow, splashing silently across the keys. An empty water glass sits beside him, the ice long melted.
She slips off her shoes and crosses the room, her feet padding across the golden hued carpet. She feels the grime and filth between her toes, but prefers it to the alternative. Her concern for cleanliness left in year two.
As she passes the table she relinquishes the bag. He takes it and begins to sift absently through its contents, his eyes never leaving the screen.
She continues on course without so much as a word. Wrapping her fingers tightly around the handles, she jerks forcefully upward. The wood creaks and moans, eventually giving out to a nice, stilted glide. The air outside is not much cooler, but the illusion of circulation will help to some extent.
She turns her attention back toward the table.
Did it work?
This question, like so many before it, goes unasked.
Instead, she pulls out the neighboring chair and grabs the remaining Styrofoam container from the plastic bag. Upon popping it open, the heat is released and a thick coat of steam attaches itself to her skin. She wishes she had ordered a salad.
She fingers the food for a moment before closing the lid. She isn't hungry.
He eyes her pointedly.
She wordlessly opens the container and begins to eat. Bite after bite slides down her throat, tasteless. Textureless.
"We're closer," he says after a suffocating and indistinguishable amount of time.
How much?
She nods and rises from her seat, placing the now empty containers back in the bag. She walks to the door, slips on her shoes and silently exits, the crinkling of the bag her sole companion. She needs some air.
…
"I should have told him."
"Don't do that. Don't second guess."
"I could have prevented this."
"No."
"It's all my fault."
"It's not."
"It is."
"We can do this all night."
"I should have told him. I should have told him a year ago."
"What you should have done was leave me there. Then this never would have been a problem."
"You shouldn't have come looking for me. You shouldn't have been there in the first place!"
"You shouldn't have tried to go alone!"
"You shouldn't have cared!"
"Go to hell!"
"Fuck you!"
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"What are we going to do?"
"Run."
"Is that enough?"
"No."
Inhale.
Exhale.
"Are you ready to do this alone?"
Inhale.
Exhale.
"I'm ready to do this with you."
…
She wakes in the night, a mangled ball of sweat and tension. A victim of her sepia dreams. The horrors of the night always exceed those of the day.
She takes comfort in that.
Wiping her tears on the damp cotton sheets, she breathes deeply to allay the shaking and settle her jittering nerves.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The days have been long. The nights longer. She struggles to isolate her memories, to pick her brain for pieces of the past. She longs to remember how things were before, but finds she cannot distinguish between the varying shades of gray.
The form beside her shifts restlessly, a low murmur escaping his lips. A guttural hiss, neither fear nor comfort. She wonders if he dreams in color.
Gently wrapping her arm around his ribs, she pulls herself in tightly. Her chest presses against his back. His skin sticks to hers. A thick and calming layer of sweat forms between them, raising the temperature concomitant with her level of comfort. She inhales his scent and puckers her lips, exhaling a cool stream of air across the nape of his neck.
His hand finds hers and squeezes.
……
Summary -
The events in this fic started when Sydney found Vaughn in The Enemy Walks In. When they have that little moment, and she asks him if he can get home... we start AU from there. Dixon saw them and reported to Sloane, forcing Syd and Vaughn to run for their lives.