She flicks off the television to silence the incessant gurgle of the laugh-track in the background.
She's always hated laugh-tracks.
She hates the way they simultaneously insult the mental capacity of the human race and manipulate their emotions. The viewer is fully capable of laughing when the joke is funny without hearing anyone else laugh; or crying at a sentimental scene without hearing a chorus of oo's and oh's.
Using canned responses to provoke the desired reaction is only slightly less subtle than a brightly lit sign flashing the word "applause" at appropriate intervals.
Neon letters flash in her mind. F-O-C-U-S. Focus, Sydney, focus.
Her mind is insulting her intelligence. It has come to this.
That's it… she's got to get up. She pulls herself upright and attempts to blink away the throbbing behind her eyes. Or…not.
She surveys her surroundings and feels the heat begin in her neck and spread to her cheeks bearing with it a flush of shame. What has happened to her?
From the safety of the hole in her couch, the place to which she had fled like a wounded animal only days before, she strains her neck to view the carnage, to survey the chaos that is her living room. Tissue strewn in disarray, trashy paperbacks tossed across the table, empty water bottles, a smattering of half-eaten food – or at least she thinks it's food. Either that's a slice of turkey or a severed piece of human flesh.
She briefly runs her fingertips across the expanse of her exposed skin…her face, her arms, her feet…
It's turkey.
She again tests the resistance of the feathered pillows surrounding her. Extracting herself from the weight of the down – or is it her heart – is starting to look like a Sisyphean labor.
Her eyes land hesitantly on the answering machine. The red light holds steady. Of course it does, she berates herself. He wouldn't call here.
The phone rings.
On the second try she manages to find the floor with her feet. On unsteady legs she wobbles the three feet to the telephone and answers with some degree of trepidation.
"Joey's Pizza?"
There are times when fate gently nudges you in the right direction. And then there are times when fate slaps you upside the head, gives you a good shaking and hands you a map. Apparently, fate was opting for Plan B.
"Wrong number."
""
"Upstairs, I have an inn… and tonight," the maitre d' continues as he places a key on the white tablecloth, "you are my guests. Please take your time. Merci."
They eye each other suspiciously until Vaughn breaks the silence.
"Did you ask him to do that?"
She shakes her head. "There are so many issues with this I don't…"
"Hold on a sec," he interrupts. "I think we should have an open mind about this."
"An open mind," she repeats self-consciously.
"It'd be rude to overlook such a generous offer without proper consideration."
She can't contain the grin that spreads across her face at his attempted rationalization. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Okay." The grin is contagious.
"But there are clearly issues," she states halfheartedly with her last shred of sanity.
"Yes, I don't disagree."
"Okay."
Her eyes meet his. He wants this. Maybe even as much as she does.
A precarious silence envelops them as they climb the stairs and make their way to the room. The cool metal of the key burns her palm. How did she end up with the key? She hesitates only a moment before unlocking the door and walking into the room of no return.
Of no going back.
"Syd," he begins on an unsteady breath.
She shakes her head, "I know."
He starts to unbutton his shirt, "If they find out about this, about us…"
"I know," she says again, wondering if that phrase is all she is capable of speaking in this moment. She should be able to form the words that would put a stop to this. The words that would seek reassurance for the future. But right now she finds that task impossible. Her rational mind is screaming at her, begging her—but there is something about his proximity that draws her instinctively closer. And with each step she takes toward him the sound of his breath and the pounding of her heart grow louder, until they completely drown out the last stains of reason that once prevailed in her head.
His lips hover millimeters from hers and goose bumps begin to prickle across her body.
"Just this once," he breathes.
"I know," she repeats before closing the final gap.
""
It had, in fact, been only once. One night of unbearable ecstasy and unimaginable pleasure. One night followed by weeks of unending torture.
In all of their infinite wisdom they had decided that the best course of action was to pretend it didn't happen. Which was, not surprisingly, as hard as they had imagined.
Work-related conversations were minimal. Personal conversations were non-existent. They were clipped with each other, cold. Weiss knew something was going on… even Kendall suspected. Not surprising that their friends, or even mere acquaintances, could crack such a precarious façade. But there was little to be done about it.
The pair would have to maintain some semblance of propriety until the time came when the Alliance crumbled, when Sloane was shot in the chest, when the bonds between them were broken, blah, blah, blah; and when hell froze over.
Yes, it would have to remain that one perfect memory… marred only by the fact that said perfect memory resulted in her current state of discord.
"Agent Bristow," he snips curtly as she slides back the chain-link fence. She remembers not long ago when he would slide it back for her.
Gingerly, she perches on a crate. She mentally ticks through the array of possible methods to elicit the specific canned response that she seeks. "Vaughn," she attempts a warm smile.
Something shifts in his eyes. He doesn't bother hiding his thoughts. What are you doing? This isn't part of the plan. He attempts to shake free and distance himself from her blatant disregard of their rules of engagement. He seeks refuge in the safety of their routine.
"Your father informs us that Sloane will be going…"
She doesn't let him finish. "We need to talk about something."
"Of course, Agent Bristow," he clenches his jaw and she believes she can see the beat of the pulse in his neck, visible proof of the effort it takes him to maintain a careful veneer of calm. "What is your concern?"
"Vaughn," she finally sputters, "we've had sex." She takes a deep breath as she gathers her composure. "When we're in private you can call me Sydney."
The agent dissolves into the man. A very irate version of the man.
"Syd, what the hell are you doing! You know full well that it will only make this more difficult. I'm trying to maintain professionalism for both our sakes and you're playing games with me. Furthering this relationship will only make things more dangerous!"
She attempts to laugh as if she's not about to destroy everything, but the sound is strangled by the lump in her throat and instead reverberates off the walls as a groan. "You can't even begin to comprehend difficult."
His green eyes are lined with confusion. He shifts his weight uncomfortably—afraid to ask the question. But he does anyway. She's thankful for that. "What do you mean?"
She doesn't respond right away, torn as to how best to form the words. She imagines herself in a television show moments before the big reveal. Here she has her single viewer, emotions at the ready. Does she cue the laugh track? Does she prepare the oo or the oh? Any emotion can be drawn from him at this point… it's up to her.
She opts for silence.
Clear, unadulterated silence.
The seconds ticking by are longer than the weeks that preceded them.
"Vaughn," she begins faintly.
End 1/1