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Figment by Celli Lane Feedback:
Yes, please.celli@fanfic101.com
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Lyra, Shelley, and Jayne for various betaing and handholding help.
'Specially Lyra, for not killing me.
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***
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their
dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their
dream
--e.e. cummings, "anyone lived in a pretty how town"
***
Two years later. She refuses to believe it.
They couldn't fake
everything, could they?
One person, maybe. Or two. But somewhere between
Carrie's pregnancy and her father's beard, Sydney begins to doubt
it.
Hypnosis maybe. Some of the more experimental drugs out there...she
could be strapped to a bed somewhere, talking to figments while Sloane's men
suck all the CIA knowledge out of her brain. She worries over that one for a
while.
Okay, a long while.
Okay, it's all she thinks
about.
There's no way to find out. They don't have to know all the
details of her life--her own brain will conveniently provide them, filling in
all the blanks for whatever they suggest. Sight, smell, feel--it could only be
real to her, she thinks, as the sedan explodes in front of her. The blast
of heat that washes over her could be coming from nowhere but her own fevered
imagination.
She imagines Francie's double standing over her and laughing
at her imaginary mission, and thinks briefly that if this guy stabs her...if she
lets him kill her...well, at least maybe she'll know.
If nothing else,
maybe she could start over with a better hallucination.
But her body
carries on the battle without her, and she goes on.
She doesn't want to
go on. What's there to go on to?
***
"That was kind of harsh,"
Weiss says.
Sydney shrugs and goes back to the report Marshall prepared
on everything that happened while she was...away. It's light on current events
and heavy on the latest Buffy spinoff, but having something tangible comforts
her. She couldn't make up all of this on her own, could she?
"I don't
necessarily blame you." This is the Weiss she remembers. Or the Weiss she's
remembering. When he has something to say, he says it. "It's not your job to
bless his marriage. Let the man feel guilt, it's probably good for
him."
"Thanks for your support." She turns a page and notices the sports
rundown. Will the sight of hockey scores ever be painless? Probably not. She
keeps turning.
"Syd."
She looks up.
"If you want to make
Vaughn your verbal punching bag, that's fine. But when you're done, remember
that the rest of us buried you too." His eyes are troubled, but they never leave
hers. "We all lost faith."
No, you didn't. No, you couldn't. She fights
the words away, knowing that arguing with him about reality and faith will only
harm her position, whatever that happens to be. "I--I have a meeting with
Marshall. Something about a tech update--"
"Go ahead." His hand is warm
on her upper arm. Could she be making him up? Would she? "If you need anything,
Syd--"
She needs two years' worth of...something. "Thanks,
Weiss."
***
What she needs, she decides some time after seeing
herself on grainy tape slitting a man's throat, is proof.
If it's real,
fine, she'll slog through it and find out what happened and then...well,
whatever happens next. She'll probably go to jail, which doesn't sound as awful
as it might.
If it's not real, then she has a reason to get free. Get
back to her life.
So how to prove it?
During a sleepless night in
the safe house (if she sleeps, when will she wake up?), she decides that she
needs to do something completely unexpected. Something hypnosis and her own
memories can't compensate for.
Killing someone is out, although according
to that tape, it's not new and unusual. But if she's wrong and this is
reality...okay, no.
She could go somewhere she's never been, but...too
time-consuming.
Quit the CIA and--no. She's tried that.
She could
seduce Marshall. The thought sends her into a spasm of giggles, until she has to
stick her head under her pillow to avoid being heard by the guards. That would
be unusual, definitely. Unpredictable. But poor Carrie. Even in a hallucination,
she can't wreck Marshall's life.
As she lies there, still giggling
intermittently, it hits her.
"Perfect," she tells the
ceiling.
***
"Weiss. Weiss."
He snores. Sydney tries not to
giggle. "Weiss," she whispers again, shaking him.
He sits bolt upright,
nearly knocking her off the bed. "Whatthehell?" He shakes his head once, hard,
and squints at her. "Syd? What are you doing here?"
That's a good
question. "You said if I needed anything..." She trails off.
"I did,
didn't I?" He scratches the scar on his throat. "Well, I didn't quite expect you
to break into my house to get it, but okay. How can I help you?"
She
launches herself at him, and realizes only when she hears his muffled grunt that
she's thrown them both back into the headboard. His mouth is firm, and a bit
rough from the stubble around it, and he's not kissing her back, dammit. She
fumbles for one of his hands and puts it firmly on her breast.
He shoves
her away. She grabs at him for balance, but he's still pushing, and she lands on
the floor. "Ow!"
"I'm sorry. Wait. Sydney, what the hell's the matter
with you?"
"Nothing," she says, hearing the sullen tone in her own
voice.
"Nothing. Right. You've always molested random CIA agents, I just
didn't know about it."
She's not going to cry. She's not going to cry.
She's not--
"Please don't cry, Syd."
"I'm not crying!" She sniffs.
"My butt hurts."
"I'm sorry. Look, come here." He hauls her up into his
lap--with no apparent effort on his part; she'd be impressed, if she weren't too
busy dripping tears on his T-shirt. "Just don't do that again, okay? It was like
a reverse wet dream. No offense."
"None taken." His arms are hard around
her, and the blankets are tangled under her legs, pressing into the back of her
thighs. "Maybe it is a dream. All of it. Maybe we're both just figments of my
imagination."
"Um. Okay."
"You have no idea what I'm talking
about, do you?"
"None. But that's okay. When's the last time you
slept?"
"Off and on. I'm afraid--" The sob at the back of her throat
wants to be a scream. "What if I wake up again and--"
He says something
against her hair, but she can't hear him over the noises she's making.
***
She wakes up slowly, fuzzily, trying to figure out why her
eyes hurt and her throat itches and she's still wearing her clothes. Did
something happen? A mission? Had Vaughn--
It all hits her at once, and
she freezes. Oh, God.
"Syd?" Weiss says sleepily. She rolls over. He's on
his side next to her, looking even less alert than last night. "You
awake?"
"I think so. How long was I out?"
"Ten hours, I
think."
"Are you sure?"
He cranes his head to check the clock.
"Yeah. It's about two in the afternoon. Good thing you fell apart on a Friday. I
wouldn't want to have to call both of us in sick."
"I guess." She scoots
closer. "Thanks, Weiss."
"Sure." He makes a startled sound when her arms
creep around his waist, but when she doesn't try anything else, he relaxes and
hugs her back. "Anytime. I think."
"Okay."
"Sydney, are you sure
you're awake?"
She sighs, just once, and feels his chest drop as he
breathes out too. "I'm sure."
--the end--