Sometimes
"So sometimes you dream, and sometimes you cry, and sometimes you drive up to the cliffs and look down at the dizzying drop below. But every time you wake up." Sydney POV
"Sometimes, when the wind is warm and the crickets sing, I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for." - Practical Magic
~*~*~
Your breath catches in your throat as you hear the sharp, sure footsteps on the warehouse floor. His face emerges from the shadows, his mouth forming your name. You can't hear his voice, but you know what he's saying: he's missed you. His hands grasp your hips, his lips press against yours, and you let yourself forget. You forget that he's Michael Vaughn and you're Sydney Bristow and this isn't something you should be doing, not anymore. None of that seems to matter. You can't bring yourself to care about anything but this.
Your arms wrap around his neck, holding on to him. This could be the end of the world, and you still wouldn't let go. You can't. This desperation scares you, that your very being could be so defined by this one man. He slams you up against the chain link fence, his mouth warring with yours, and you know he feels it too. He needs you just as much as you need him. It's a heady feeling, and you never want it to end. As he takes you on the cold concrete floor, you feel completeness like you never knew existed. He murmurs that he's always loved you, that he never gave up, not for one second. That you'll never be apart again.
But you wake up, as you always do, to find that nothing's changed. You are in your bed, your only companion a soft velvet bear that was yours as a child. He's not here. He doesn't exist for you anymore, not the way you want him to. His arms are wrapped around her; he's whispering "I love you" in her ear, exactly the way he used to in yours.
Imagining that, torturing yourself with that knowledge, you do that which you swore you never would. You curl into a ball and cry yourself back to sleep. You always thought you were so strong, but as well as you pretend during the day, at night you know the truth: your strength is nothing in the face of a broken heart.
This isn't right, you whisper to yourself. You're goddamn Sydney Bristow. You're not supposed to cower. You're not supposed to let the pain take over.
But you do.
The next night is more of the same, and the night after that. The pier, the observatory, the subway, the train station, all stages for this tragic play you perform in your mind. You sit with him all night, talking and laughing. Sometimes you let him beat you at hockey. Sometimes you dance on a grand floor in an opulent Italian restaurant that you've never even seen. Sometimes you walk that beach at Santa Barbara, toes squishing in the sand, hands linked. Sometimes you argue like you used to, but every time is perfect. Perfect.
Every time, you begin to wake, clawing to stay in that place where Vaughn loves you, where your world hasn't been irrevocably screwed, where you can forget trying to save the world and just be Sydney.
Every time, you wake up.
And in the morning, with puffy eyes concealed by makeup and shattered heart concealed by attitude and months of practice, you go on with the business of living without him. You run and you work and you drink tequila with Eric; you have dinner with your dad and laugh at Marshall's crazy antics. You convince yourself that you can do this. Even when you see him give her a swift kiss on the cheek, when you see the way she gazes at him from across the room, you simply look away and remind yourself that it has nothing to do with you. They have a marriage and a home and it has nothing in the world to do with you.
Sometimes, he is haunted by those same old ghosts. You see it in the longing way he looks at you, that look he used to reserve just for you, that look that told you he wanted you without him having to say a single word. That look is still there. Two years haven't changed that. She hasn't changed that. Time was, you would have pulled him aside and shown him exactly what that look did to you, how it made you want him, all of him. But it's been two years, and that has changed. Now you look away, reminding him that old ghosts are meant to stay in the past. He isn't supposed to look at you that way anymore.
But he does, and try as you might, you can't hate him for it. Neither can you begrudge his moving on. He couldn't wait forever for you; the fact that you would have is irrelevant. It just shows that which is reaffirmed every night, every time you wake up sobbing. You need him so much more than he's ever needed you. He was the one thing you needed. And by some big cosmic joke, he is the one thing you can't have.
You know this. But sometimes, when he looks at you and smiles, you can't help but smile back, even while you're cursing yourself and your fluttering heart and those damn weak knees of yours. Even while you contemplate time- the waiting period for a divorce, the length of a trip to Santa Barbara, the amount of time for two people to disappear completely. The number of years it will take you to be immune to that look, that smile.
Then you contemplate love. The deep, abiding love that landed your father in prison; the friendly love that leads Eric to lend his shoulder, night after night after night; the unconditional love of three people who never chose to be burdened by your mistakes, but never considered not loving you. You contemplate, and you think that even if the universe is determined to screw you over, someone is just as determined to keep throwing blessings your way. Maybe you haven't lost your guardian angel after all.
So sometimes you dream, and sometimes you cry, and sometimes you drive up to the cliffs and look down at the dizzying drop below. But every time you wake up. Every time, you wipe your eyes and conceal the evidence.
Every time, something pulls you back.
end
Posted by Carrie on 12:36 PM