Shadows and Miracles
"Because one miracle isn't too much to ask for, after all."
Another night has fallen on Los Angeles, and once again the neighborhood has settled down to sleep. The moonlight filters through the wispy clouds and plays over the pathway leading up to the same old house. The house remains the same, but so many things within have changed. The same Volvo is parked in the driveway, a big lumbering Land Rover behind it. Slowly, weeks after the night in Hong Kong, the pitiless whispers of the neighbors began to change to idle gossip, and even that has dwindled of late. Happiness just isn't as interesting as personal torture.
The bedroom has changed some. She insisted on a bigger bed, citing "personal space" issues. An idea proved ridiculous by the fact that he awakes every morning with her arm curled around his head and her leg thrown over his hip. But he doesn't argue; if nothing else, the big bed is useful for the inevitable pillow fights and other "recreational" activities. She’s added new curtains to the windows (she calls them functional, he calls them girlie) and a dog bed in the corner for Donovan, who's become quite accustomed to sleeping near his humans. Somehow, they've even managed to squeeze another desk in the room. They both know one of them could use the study down the hall, but there's something comforting about the nearness of each other. His heart still catches in his throat when she's out of his sight, so he tries not to let it happen more often than necessary.
He's lying in bed, dozing, as she works at her desk. His eyelids twitch, his fist clenches around the blanket, and in a swift movement he jerks upright. He chokes out her name, and she twirls in her chair. Fully awake and fully embarrassed by now, he assures her he’s fine and with a wary eye, she returns to work.
His nightmares aren't as frequent, and are nothing like the actual nightmare he lived for nearly two years, when she was gone and his world was upside down. But they still lurk in his sleep, those images of a burning house, of a grave, of the one time he saw Jack Bristow cry. It always takes him a few minutes to remind himself that those horrors are not reality. Not anymore.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and crosses to where Sydney sits. Being near her always helps kill the shadows.
He leans over her shoulder in a natural move, placing his hand over hers and glancing at the work on the desk. His days of tireless searching are over, but hers are just beginning. I need to know, Vaughn. I have to find out what happened to me, so I can stop it from happening to anyone else. Years of hard work and his wife is still thinking of others. Still playing Don Quixote, fighting for the cause that no one else can even see. Still trying to save the world.
His wife.
He sweeps her hair off her neck and softly kisses the nape. Glad to see he's made her smile, he raises his eyebrows in question. Ready for bed? They've always known each other freakishly well, too well to need words.
She gives him a knowing look and without any response, returns to the intel piled in front of her.
Ouch. Denied.
Knowing that he won't be able to sleep without her beside him, he retreats to the other side of the room, to his own work space. Instead of focusing in on the stack of exams he needs to grade, he swivels in his chair to watch her a little longer. His eyes flicker from Sydney to the ring on her hand. She's never taken it off since that night in Hong Kong; not during the ceremony, not at work. He wonders how some people can wear such a thing so casually, this symbol of fidelity, trust, and love. Why settle for a marriage based on anything else but the deepest affection and commitment? Marrying Sydney was easy. Marrying anyone else would be a nightmare.
Great, Syd. You've turned me into a sap.
He turns his chair back to his desk, determined to get some work done tonight if sleep is out of the question. He could let her distract him all day, but that's no way to pay the bills. What good is it having a wife if he can't support her and they end up on the street? Or worse, staying with Eric. He's just reaching for the first exam when a wad of paper is launched onto his desk.
"What now?" he asks wryly, unfolding the ball of paper and glancing back at Sydney, who all of a sudden is suspiciously busy with her own work. "Right. Just try and play the innocent with me, I dare you." His eyes glance at the paper.
By the way, we're pregnant.
He can’t breathe. That's an interesting feeling.
"Syd. You’re serious?" MeSydbabyparentsboy?girl?Ohmygod.
Her cautious, almost scared glance at his face tells him that she's serious, as serious as an M-16. "What do you think?" she asks hesitantly. They haven't talked about kids, not yet. He's wanted to give her time, time to heal, time for her investigation. They haven't discussed it, but he knows what he wants. He wants to watch a gap-toothed boy hit his first homer, and then forget to run the bases because he's waving furiously at Mommy and Daddy. He wants to drive a blonde little girl to ballet class and watch her promptly pirouette into the wall. He wants to see if their children will inherit his eyes, or Sydney's cute dimples, or his father's nose. He wants to stand protectively over a white bassinet, daring any of the lurking shadows to come anywhere near his child.
This is what he wants, and it scares him to death that it might finally be happening. Ten years in Central Intelligence, and he’s frightened by parenthood. He stands and crosses the room in two steps, pulling her up out of her chair. "What do I think? I think it's great!" His hands around her waist, he plucks her off the ground (no easy feat, the woman is almost as tall as he is) and twirls her in a circle. "And I also think you've had more than enough work for tonight, Mrs. Vaughn. The baddies will still be there tomorrow."
She lets herself be pulled to bed, and he shows her just how happy her news makes him. The night gives way to early morning, and he still hasn't slept. He lays there, watching her breathe, thinking about babies and delivery rooms and nurseries, about kindergarten and high school, about the day when his children might find someone they love as much as their dad loves their mom. He has so many dreams for the future. And for once, he knows that these dreams are so much more real than the nightmares of the past.
His sleep comes a little easier now.
~*~*~
Much later that morning, when the sun has settled high in the sky, Sydney awakes to an empty bed. She can still see the indentation in the pillow, but he is gone-Saturday class, she reminds herself. She grins sleepily. At least the CIA gives her a rare weekend off. Slowly becoming more conscious, she realizes that he's left a note and a gift bag on his side of the bed. Reaching inside the bag, she smiles brilliantly and pulls out a perfect little infant-sized hockey stick. Quite predictable on his part, she thinks, but quite wonderful all the same. And after all the hell they've endured, she could use a little lovely, safe predictability.
The note, however, catches her off guard and brings a hint of tears to her eyes.
S -
Because one miracle isn't too much to ask for, after all. I love you.
- V
end
Posted by Carrie on 09:39 PM