Easy Tonight
"Night after night, he sits at this same desk and tries to capture a ghost." Vaughn POV, post-"The Telling," AU.
Summary: "Night after night, he sits at this same desk and tries to capture a ghost. He tells himself that succeeding can't be that hard, since she's not really gone." Vaughn POV, post-"The Telling"
Note: Written before most of the events of season 3.
~*~*~
The city is quiet, almost still. A metropolis like this could never be called peaceful, but this is the closest it ever gets. On a not so unusual street sits a house with a Volvo parked crookedly in the driveway. It seems like an ordinary house, and it would be, but the owner is slightly less than normal. The neighbors take a twisted pleasure in whispering about him over fence posts. He was always such a polite man, but he just hasn't been the same in the past few years. My guess is a woman did him wrong, you know, some men never get over that sort of thing.
The moon refracts through the windowpanes and shines onto the rumpled covers of a single bed. It's a bed that has seen better days, days when its occupant slept soundly. Before the sleepless nights. Before the nightmares. Before the silent echoes of past ghosts lingered in the room.
A man sits at the desk across the room. A single lamp illuminates the paperwork that the man hunches over. He writes diligently, stopping momentarily to take a swig of his coffee and place another Post-It note on the board in front of him. A ring glints in the lamplight as he sets down his cup and starts writing again, rifling through the stack of papers with his other hand. Searching frantically for any clues he might have missed.
It's been two years. And though his hope has dimmed, his passionate search for answers has only increased with time. No longer is this work his profession. He has made it his obsession.
He clearly remembers the day his employment with the CIA ended. For months beforehand, he had become increasingly annoyed with the comments that he should "move on" or "get over it." He had no patience for the menial tasks handed to him at work, when he still had a mystery to solve. And he certainly had no intention of accepting the transfer forced upon him. Los Angeles was all he had left of his past. Of his father. Of Sydney.
The memory of one man sparked his dream of being a CIA agent. The memory of one woman just as effectively brought that dream to an end.
In a twist of fate even he is surprised by, he is now a professor of political science at UCLA. A buddy of his on the board pulled a few strings, and for the past few months he’s been giving lectures, administering tests, and attempting to shape the minds of young, arrogant college freshmen. A scary thought, he muses to himself, since his mind is such a twisted jumble to begin with. Oh well. Such is the nature of anyone crazy enough to teach for a living.
He reminds himself that his jumbled mind is nothing compared to the mess that is his heart.
The job isn't bad. He has some nice colleagues. It's obvious by their glances that the men have a wary respect for him, just as the stares of the women are obvious in their own right. He knows, without any pretension or conceitedness, that he could have any of them in his bed if he wants. But long gone is his desire for just any woman. He wants her. He'll always want her, and he won't stop until he gets her back. End of story.
That's the best part of his new profession. Teach a few classes during the day, grade some papers in the afternoon, and the nights are free for his own pursuits. In a show of genuine friendship, Eric keeps him updated on the news within the Agency. Jack sends him any intel deemed relevant to the search. No matter their history, he will say this: Jack Bristow loves his daughter.
Night after night, he sits at this same desk and tries to capture a ghost. It's an insane game of tag, taking place simultaneously in the past, present, and future. Back alleyways, shady bars, he goes anywhere and everywhere to get the answers that he needs. He tells himself that succeeding can't be that hard, since she's not really gone.
His hand stills and he looks at the gold band encircling his ring finger. She can't be really gone. He won't believe it.
The ring is the result of one too many beers and a midnight stroll past a jewelry shop on Rodeo Drive. He saw it through blurred eyes and knew what he needed to do. The next day the ring was his. Its partner sits, patiently, in the drawer of that very desk. Waiting for its rightful owner. He knows the ring is just what Sydney would want, if she were here to pick it out herself.
He figures that a man married in his heart should have a ring to show for it.
So here he sits, waiting for his breakthrough. He looks up to see Donovan pad into the room. "Maybe I'm just waiting for a miracle," he says to the bulldog, who seems to nod his head sympathetically. The man lifts his head to the ceiling. "Is that too much to ask? Huh? Just one miracle. That's all I need." His voice drops to a gravelly whisper. "Please." He drops his head into his hands, alternately whispering curses and prayers.
Damn you, Sydney. DAMN you.
Please, God, please. You didn't bring Dad back. You owe me.
Sydney, please come back. I'll make you so happy, I swear it. Come back. I need you. I love you. Always have. Always will.
His quiet utterings are interrupted by the sound he hopes for every second. The sound he fears above anything. His cell phone rings shrilly, impatiently, waiting for him to gather enough courage to answer it. He takes a deep breath, wrestling with his fear and hope.
“Vaughn here.”
These are the last words he is able to pronounce in the conversation until its end. “No, I'm on my way. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone in a daze and sits in silence. Nodding firmly at Donovan, he picks up the phone again to book a flight to Hong Kong.
Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s about to get his miracle after all.
He stands up, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. On his way to the door, he pauses, bends down, and slides open the top drawer. He pulls out a small jewelry box, and for the first time in entirely too long, a glimmer of a smile alights on his face.
Posted by Carrie on 12:33 PM