Again, thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has ever reviewed and to new reviewers...stick with me guys I promise this fic WILL NEVER BE ABANDONED ME... EVER! Cheers for reading thus far and enjoy! - Love always, Dani xxx
He dug his heels into the soft sand of the beach, its cold and malleable texture briefly distracting him from the anxious flutter of his stomach. He looked up from his seated position to the view before him, his fingers twiddling half-heartedly in his lap.
This is where he buried her. This was the place he watched the only evidence of Sydney Bristow's existence and their love disperse into the air and officially become nothing. He remembered the claustrophobic feel of the suit he wore, every part of his body aching with grief- even his skin seemed to hurt as he watched the man he thought one day would reluctantly become his father in-law deliver a soul destroying eulogy. Vaughn looked down at his palms now dusted with a fine layer of gritty sand reminiscing how it felt to hold the urn of Syd's 'ashes' in his shaking hands, the dry sides grating against his tender and aching flesh as he let the contents disappear.
He remembered the distraught line they stood in- the six men of her life, the only ones who now remained. He frowned sadly at the painful memory of Jack's cracking composure, and the way he saw him shake with grief. Vaughn looked up the beach recalling how he saw the dark figure of the woman he had loved and lost's father slowly disappear into the distance, his black suit clashing against the warm white gold of the Californian sand. That day Jack had rightfully become the second man whose heart had been broken by Sydney Bristow. Both were inebriated beyond recognition with grief, hardly hearing the seemingly empty of words of the people around them. Vaughn and Jack didn't speak that day- not one single word or look was exchanged between them, their pain magnified when they realised what the other had lost. Jack was well aware of the pain the young man was feeling, the sting of his mending heart reminding him of a similar loss. But for some reason he knew the pain he had felt at Irina's death did not reach the agony of the younger agent, realising the excitement and young love between the boy and his daughter would taunt the young man for the rest of his existence. He had wanted to embrace the man he thought would be his son-in-law and tell him how sorry for his loss he was. Even though he would never admit it to anyone, he found it so cruel that he had to chance to spend so much time with his daughter, and Vaughn so little. He hated himself for the fact that he had countless opportunities to be with her, as a child and a young woman, while Michael had to fight and struggle just to catch glimpses of her and her extraordinary beauty. This wasn't meant to happen. Fathers were not meant to outlive their daughters. Lovers weren't meant to be parted so prematurely. Life wasn't meant to be this cruel.
Vaughn closed his eyes momentarily, trying to remember against the blur who it was that stood next to Jack. His eyes opened as it came to him. Dixon. Since her resurrection, Vaughn and Sydney had been made partners once more, and even though it was awkward as hell, every moment was relished. Sydney truly was a spectacular spy, espionage coming as easily to her as skating did to him. He almost cringed at his clumsy analogy, his grace on the ice nothing in comparison to that of hers in the field, and in life. No. Espionage came to Syd as easily as loving her did to him. Being in love with Sydney Bristow was effortless- everyone she met would tell you that. Everyone had a soft spot for Sydney.
While Vaughn a majority of the time had never been as lucky, Dixon had had the privilege of knowing Sydney as both a spy and a person. Dixon was not only a much cherished friend to her, but an older brother figure- someone she looked up to. He coached her, taught her the tricks of the trade, as to a certain extent she did for him. Dixon was her anchor, a friendly face where she needed it the most in a place he could not be. Dixon, like Vaughn could anticipate her seemingly spontaneous actions and adrenaline fuelled impulses, also lucky enough to see both the hardnosed spy, and the venerable woman. After losing a mother and a wife, the Dixon family was further bereaved by the loss of an extraordinary woman. They, like many others assumed she would always be there- they too took her presence for granted, seemingly forgetting the endless close calls both Dixon and himself had willingly helped her out of. Vaughn knew how much Dixon prayed Syd had realised how proud of her he was, and that the regret he felt from never telling her swam through his veins-the feeling as heavy as lead. Upon remembering this Vaughn realised he too was yet to tell Sydney how proud he was of her. He made a quick mental note of this trying to also remember not to make the compliment seem too condescending- he hated when he was like that, as did she he remembered with a fond smile.
Vaughn gently swallowed the cool liquidness of the air, which in return engulfed him into its blackness. For no reason in particular he rubbed the tip of his nose against the shoulder of his t-shirt twice, looking down at the sand with a depressed exhalation. He was sat on the damp sand; his knees bent up towards the dotted abyss above him -his arms rested on the cartilage of his kneecaps and his hands were loosely clasped. He lifted his head listening to the therapeutic hissing of the sea. He mused at how it reminded him of their first night together as friends at the pier.
Michael closed his eyes momentarily as he visualised the row of men he had barely noticed that day seeing who was next in the morbid line-up. Kendall. He had never really gotten the full disclosure from Sydney or indeed anybody on what she learnt of her missing two years, only managing to steal quick glimpses of her report from where his desk sat beside hers in the rotunda. What he did know however was that Kendall proved to be her only contact from her life before, the sinew that hopelessly tied her to the skeleton of her previous existence. Ethically, Kendall was an ass, but Vaughn had accepted it was his job and his duty to act in such a manner. It wasn't until that moment shivering from the cool oceanic breeze Vaughn realised Kendall didn't need to be there that day- he wasn't obliged to come and represent the agency at the funeral of another fallen agent. He was there through choice, through respect.
Vaughn considered the disbelief in Kendall's demeanour, surprised how he too had took her consistent attendance for granted. He had also foolishly assumed she was invincible, the scrapes she seemed to be constantly clawing her way out of enough to lull them all into a false sense of security, creating a venerable chasm waiting to be exposed at her premature termination.
Marshall. Vaughn chuckled briefly watching the affect of the replacement of the chilled night breeze with that of the moist heated air from his mouth as he did so. Marshall was such a kind and gentle man, and the memory of his grieved stance sobered Vaughn immediately. Michael recalled how Marshall had pressed his hands to his eyes, shielding his tears from the men surrounding him in the non-existent pressure to be strong. The harmonious clash of his sobs and the collision of the furious waves on the rocks behind them imprinted themselves in Vaughn's, mind creating a crude and morose anthem. Grief and suffering surrounded the men, saturating them in the alien sting on the unwanted emotions.
Marshall had saved Syd's life more than anyone had bothered to count. He was responsible for her prolonged survival in the field, and for that Vaughn was silently grateful. Marshall was probably the only member of the taskforce who had considered Agent Bristow's death, his job involving the creation of strategies and contraptions to delay the imminent event. Marshall, Michael realised had never been thanked, and probably never would be. He was a silent and unobserved hero, one of Sydney's many guardians.
Second to last in the line was his best friend, the man that had supported him through his months long fall. He prevented his complete collapse, barely having time to manage his own grief, constantly looking after him, his best friend. It was only in drunken slurs or tearful breakdowns Vaughn had ever really voiced his appreciation to Weiss, never actually categorically saying the words in sobriety or clear sincerity. That day Eric had been respectfully quiet, coming completely out of character for the woman he had loved both through friendship and gratitude for the adoration and devotion she had shown towards his best bud. Vaughn had both appreciated and despised the look of complete pity and desolation is Weiss' face every time he had attempted to make eye-contact, the subjectivity in his eyes reminding Vaughn what had been ripped from him. Vaughn knew Eric was grieving as much for him as for the loss of Sydney but still clung to his best friend for both physical and emotional support as he enveloped him in a manly embrace.
That left him. The first and last man of Sydney Bristow- the one who had suffered most through her cruel demise. Vaughn had never considered himself a religious man, but the clichéd words of the parson on the beach turned him against the world, the manifestation of his bitter grief swallowing him as selfishly as the fire had her. He was last to leave that day, pretending contemplate the events of the past few weeks in his car as the others silently left him to his distraught hungry for any semblance of closure. In truth there was no contemplation, there was to closure. There never was going to be any closer from such a raw and emphasised wound. He knew that then and he knew that now nearly two and a half years later. There was no closure from Sydney Bristow.
Vaughn remembered everything perfectly: he had watched the last car amble sadly away from him and round the corner and pushed open his car door breathing in the stagnant warmth of the salted air. He let a quiet yet frenzied sob leave him and felt the familiar blur of tears blinding him, unappreciatively watching how they created a congealed lens across his saddened pupils. He left his door open as he leant back against the abandoned orange van looking but not watching the sea roll infront of him. He whispered her name and shook his head as he bent down slightly, straightening his arm so it was rigid between his thigh and his ribs, and propped himself up. He literally felt sick. He ran his free hand shakily through his hair, the moisture their causing it to muss due to the ruffled actions on his fingertips. He saw the dusty gravel shift slightly as a salty bead of perspiration mixed with a few discarded tears and fell onto the gritty surface. He wiped his cheekbone with the back of his hand standing straight once more. A throaty and half-coughed sob sliced trough the air as the pressure of his carefully bottled emotion climaxed and broke through in an acidic and angry release.
Micheal recalled how he had stepped from the van making his way down the jagged makeshift steps created by the gust of sea air that had whipped mercilessly against the rock and sand. He stumbled slightly but he didn't particularly care as he loosened his tie with one hand. The discarded or rather hidden memories of the post-funeral events were proving difficult for Vaughn to handle. As far as anyone was concerned he had left the beach when they had- had never told this to anyone. He wanted to be alone to have something of that day just for him and exclusive to him and Sydney's memory. It had stayed that way up to and including this moment. He knew he would some day divulge the memory to Sydney as they collaborated stories of her missing time, but for now he relished in the pain and loneliness of the recollection of what he thought to be a pitiful and masochistically indulgent act if grief.
He had climbed the rock behind where they had all stood as if a little boy, partly regressing to the manner by which he had tackled the tree in their garden in France at his father's wake. He had pressed his knees to his chest wrapping his arms around his shins as he had on the sturdy branch of the oak tree. There his sobs were free to escape him in the knowledge that the characteristically loud roar of the waves would swallow them without hesitation, devoid of the knowing glances of pity and the empty words he had come to detest. When he turned his head he noted Jack's car had gone. He didn't give a damn that Jack must have passed him in his sate of inclusive grief and was too raw to notice the van had also gone. After saying his silent goodbye to his love, he made his way off the giant rock, but half way down had tripped and fallen into the sea. He rose from the lukewarm pacific shaking his head, flicking his hair free of moisture. He let out an unbelieving and melancholy laugh in spite of himself, lifting his arms and inspecting his now drenched black suit. He could almost hear her playful laughter in the current that guided him back to the shore.
"I bet you found that funny" he spoke fondly to nowhere in particular yet somewhere at the same time. He was saddened at the realisation it was the first time he had spoken to her without alcohol coursing through his veins. The thought distressed him, as did the stinging realisation that she was really gone. Sydney had died. It was then the plaguing nightmare became reality, and new type of mourning began. It was then Michael learnt what the pain of grief truly was.