Writing on the Wall by Celli Lane Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome. celli@fanfic101.com Category: Angst, some romance (Sydney/Vaughn) Rating: R for language and violence/sexual situations Spoilers: Everything! Takes place between "Snowman" and "The Solution." Summary: More Vaughn POV, but I got the (censored) out of present tense for once! Vaughn and Sydney have a confrontation that really needed to happen. Archiving: Credit Dauphine and my site (www.fanfic101.com); otherwise just tell me so I can come visit. Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various other people with lawyers. Sadly, this means Vaughn will never be mine. Of course, that also means his angst level will never be my responsibility, so I should stop whining. Warnings: Pretty dark, at least for me.

Faced with a crucial decision
So many ways I can go
Am I a man with a mission to carry on
Or leave well enough alone?

She was in my bed when I came home that night.

Not naked, smiling, and smelling of musk--for Christ's sake, I'm male, I have
wet dreams, okay?--but fully dressed and curled into a ball on top of my covers.

I had two instant reactions. I'm not proud of either of them. The first was
arousal--apparently the naked and musk part isn't necessary. God, I'm pathetic.
The second was an overwhelming desire to run away. To get as far from this
woman and her demons and the people who want her dead as possible.

Some people have a fight or flight reflex. Apparently I have a fuck or flight
reflex. Great.

I didn't get to be an intelligence officer by letting my instincts out to play.
I dropped my briefcase on the floor and sat down next to her on the bed.
"Sydney?"

She wasn't crying. She didn't look sad, precisely. Just very, very blank.
"I'm not supposed to be here."

I know."

"I don't know if anyone followed me."

"No one followed you."

"I didn't check. If anyone followed me, we're both dead."

She had her knees tucked under her chin. She was wearing sandals with no socks
and dark red, almost purple polish on her toenails. My hand was about an inch
from her sandal. I kept my eyes on her feet instead of her eyes.

"No one followed you. Do you want me to check?"

"No."

I didn't get up to look. If denial were an Olympic event, they'd have been
playing the fucking anthem for our team.

Can you give me an answer, my friend?
I don't trust my own mind
Is there some way to open my eyes
When I pretend to be blind

"He's dead. Noah's dead."

"I know, Sydney."

Her father had met with me hours before, while she was on a flight back from
Australia. He had been nearly broken himself. "We knew there was a problem,"
he'd said. "But Sydney needed to believe he was a hero...so I let her."

"I killed him."

"You had to."

She began shuddering convulsively. "He tr-tried to keep me away from the Calder
investigation. He wanted to keep me out of it. He was protecting me and
betraying me at the same time!"

I wrapped one arm around her shoulders and the other around her knees. I felt
for an irrational moment that I was literally holding her together. Her hands
grabbed onto my forearm--small and rough, and they held me in place more tightly
than handcuffs.

"They all do it. My dad protected me by leaving m-me. Danny told me to be
careful and then he made that call. I told him not to tell anyone. I told
him!"

My fingers were digging into whatever flesh I could find so hard that I probably
left bruises. "It wasn't your fault, Sydney. It wasn't Danny's fault. It was
SD-6--"

She shoved me away so hard I slid across the length of the bed and landed on the
floor. On my ass. "Sydney!"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" She was screaming, and I spared half a thought
for my neighbors. We didn't need a domestic disturbance call. But seeing
Sydney so out of control demanded all my attention.

"I'm sorry--"

"I told him not to tell anyone! Didn't you hear me?" She swung out wildly and
connected with a lamp. It went flying into the wall, and the room went suddenly
dim. She was still screaming though, and the anger radiating off her would have
been visible in any light. "He died! I could have died! Why didn't he fucking
listen?"

A crisis of my own doing
No one to blame for the crime
Which truth have I been confusing
To live in fear of all the ghosts in my mind?

I managed to get back on my feet and stepped up onto the bed. She didn't move
as I reached for her, and I thought for a moment it would be okay. I could
handle her--that was what they paid me to do--I could calm her down, I could
somehow make this all right for her.

As my hands closed on her shoulders, she swept a foot at my knees, knocking me
down. But I was halfway prepared for it, and I doubled my martial arts classes
after I watched her take out that guard at the Vatican. I took her with me.
After some awkward grappling and trying to catch ourselves without letting go of
each other, we ended up mostly on the floor, propped up against my bed.

I kept my hands firm on her shoulders--tae kwon do or not, she could still beat
the shit out of me if she wanted. But she'd gone limp again.

"Sydney? Sydney!" Her eyes were open, and she was making these funny little
sounds, like she was trying to catch her breath. Christ, she was going to have
a stroke or something, I couldn't handle this, why did I think I could help her?
"Sydney!"

I have no idea why I kissed her. Well, I've been in love with her since she sat
in my office with blood drying on her mouth and told me she was fine, but...

She stayed motionless for a moment, then started shoving at me. I leaned back,
ready to apologize or beg for my life or something, but she was following me,
keeping her mouth on mine, shifting our combined weight until I was flat on my
back and she was above me. She sank her teeth into my lower lip until I moaned,
then ducked her tongue in to meet mine.

Choosing the lady or the tiger
Will I wind up just as dead?
I need a stronger reminder this time
The answers are all in my head

Something in me pushed her away. I don't know what. Her mouth was still
stretched towards mine, and even disheveled, with tears still running down her
face, in the "bank clothes" she'd probably wearing for two days, she was the
most beautiful thing I could imagine.

"No. Sydney, no."

"Why not?"

"Like this? On my floor? When you've just killed someone you loved?"

I should have just fucking punched her. The look in her eyes was worse than a
bruise. She wouldn't even notice physical pain.

"I don't need any better." She reached for my belt. I slapped her hand away.

"What do I deserve, Sydney?" Maybe I'll regret what I said to her, maybe not.
I have the small comfort of knowing it was the truth. "I've put my life on hold
for you. I've put my career on the line for you. I think at the very least I
deserve to be the man you're thinking of when you take me to bed."

Her chin went up. "Bullshit. Tell me you don't see the woman who killed your
father every time you look at me."

"Sydney. When we find your mother--and we will--when we bring her to trial for
the death of my father--which we definitely will--" I took a deep breath. "I
will look at the woman who killed my father, and I'll see you. How do you think
that makes me feel?"

She stared back at me, her mouth moving soundlessly. "I'll meet you for our
briefing tomorrow," she said, her voice toneless, dead, and walked from the
room.

I stared at the shattered lamp for a long, long time before I moved again.
"Hell," I finally said. It was the only word that could possibly describe the
situation. I had set a course for Hell the day I met her, and I was still
walking--knowingly--into it.

She's going to destroy me. And I'm going to let her.

I see the writing on the wall
But I don't recognize my hand
Am I just another man
Who can't escape the fall
Or read the writing on the wall

Notes: Thanks to my lovely and talented beta-readers, Lizbet and Jen, as always.
Lizbet, in particular, threatened to cut off important body parts unless I kept going. How's that for inspiration?

Thanks to darkstar, for writing such amazing stuff that I feel the need to write
like a genius just to keep up with her. (For the record: no, I don't. But it was
fun failing.)

Title and lyrics from "Writing on the Wall," by Lowen and Navarro, who rock
beyond all description. www.lownav.com

Photos from www.abc.com and used without permission.

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