| Title: Oblivion Author: automatic_badgirl Ships: Syd/Vaughn Rated: NC-17 Timeline: S3.18: 'Unveiled' Summary: What if it had been Vaughn to see Lauren in the club? Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit is intended. Author's Notes: After experiencing Goth!Vaughn and his affect on my panties, I figured this had to be written…I know I am a rude bad girl and one day soon I hope to have a Goth!Vaughn of my very own to molest. All Hail Robert Smith of the Cure to whom this fic owes whatever Gothicness it has—especially that song "Fascination Street". Most of the credit for whatever polish this fic has is due to my two fantastic betas Lunasky and Bellamomma. Thanks for all the reads and edits ladies. | ||
The three youths saunter into the street, leaving the safe haven of the
café doorway they had been lounging by. They wait for the two garishly
dressed figures heading down the darkened street towards them; alcohol and
tender age fuel their confidence, puts a swagger in their steps and a sneer
in their voices. Their leader, a vacant looking boy with blonde hair, makes
a crude suggestion in German as to what exactly he might find under the short
black dress the woman was wearing. "I can't tell which one is the girl and which one is the boy, you both wear so much make-up...Fucking Goths." His companions snigger, punching one another in the arms, a prelude to the violence they anticipate. Vaughn stiffly pushes past Sydney to challenge the boy. When he speaks his German sounds cold and precise, sharp contrast to the loud and drunken slurring of the boys. "Get out of our way—we won't tell you again." Sarcastically the boy raises his hands in surrender and backs away, pretending to be scared. The beer has dulled his senses—otherwise he might have noticed the tension in Vaughn's forearms and the way the streetlights glitter off of the many silver rings as his hands clench and release mechanically. Sydney's warning hand on his shoulder is shook off. The cleats on his boots scrape metallic notes on the pavement as Vaughn moves in front of her. Her face as she turns—black-ruby lips curved in a mocking smile when she aims the gun. "Oooh I'm scared. What will you do Dracula? Bite me?" The boy grins, coupling this droll example of teenage wit with a rude gesture as he cups his groin suggestively. "Maybe your girlfriend might like some of this too..." Sydney rolls her eyes and shoots him her best Oh please look from overtop of the Chanel sunglasses. The blonde boy is busy focusing his taunts on her so he doesn't see Vaughn's fist until too late—it cuts him off in mid-laugh. The meaty impact of fist to flesh seems very loud in the stunned pause. The boy drops to his knees holding his now broken nose and squeals in pain. His teary eyes are wide and disbelieving as the blood drips down through his fingers onto the street; this is not how things are supposed to go. Vaughn stands over him shaking his hand—the blood is there too—coating the bright metal of the rings. He flicks it off and watches indifferently as it flies in an arc onto the face of the boy kneeling before him. This is the second time tonight he's had someone else's blood on his hands. He reaches for the boy again as his companions race off into the night, having just remembered that discretion is the better part of valor. "Vaughn stop!" Sydney's voice snaps at him. He halts but doesn't turn to face her. Despite the disguise the eyes behind the make-up are familiar—dark glee fills them when she sees the hacker clutch his throat and realize he's going to die... "Let him go, he's just a kid..." Even though she's speaking English the boy can understand a reprieve when he hears one, he scrambles to his feet and stumbles after his friends. "What the hell was that about Vaughn? What's wrong with you?" Her voice isn't angry, just very quiet. Could he hear sympathy in it? He rolls his shoulders, physically shrugging off the implication. "Nothing let's go." He stalks away to the car. He can't be sure but he thinks she looked straight at him. No softness or dissembling now—the veil falls from his eyes as his wife stands revealed for a second before she turns and disappears into the crowd—blood from the man she had just killed slips hotly over his fingers and each beat of the dying man's heart coats his hands with blame and accusation... **** Vaughn wishes his German counterparts had thought to stock the safehouse with some good old U.S. of A cheap blended whiskey or bourbon as he cracks the seal on some expensive single malt and slugs one down straight from the bottle. The smooth heat in his belly is not at all what he deserves to feel; an eyes watering, harsh burning in his throat kind of experience is more his speed right now. He tips the bottle once again; the amber liquid sloshes gently when he holds the bottle out to Sydney. "Care for some?" His voice is tight and controlled but his hand is trembling so he clutches the neck of the bottle more firmly. She shakes her head and looks at him as she leans against the kitchen counter; the reproach in her eyes is exaggerated by the heavy make-up. He shrugs and drinks again—the ring in his lip clinks softly against the glass mouth with every swallow. "Vaughn...what's going on?" He spins the cap closed on the bottle and carefully sets it on top of the fridge and turns to face her. The alcohol has smoothed off the ragged edges, he feels almost calm when he meets her eyes. "Felt like a drink—that's all." His shoulders lift and fall in studied unconcern. The cockiness he had felt in the club creeps into his voice, his hands hook into the heavy belt—keeping them anchored so they don't slam and smash things like he wants to do. He lounges back against the fridge, and cracks some of the stiffness out of his neck. "So badly you couldn't be bothered to use a glass, just swigged one straight from the bottle?" She pins him with her oh-so-gentle voice, it makes him angry. He glares at her refusing to open, denying her the chance to offer her sympathy with its undertones of righteousness. He feels like he might need another drink, and when that bottle's done he may just have to crawl into another bottle or three until he's drank so much that the pain in his head drowns out the pain in his heart. She searches his face and finds only resentment and petulance at her nagging; he's hiding the important things too deeply and she's out of practice at pulling them out of him. Sydney pushes away from the counter. "Fine. Whatever. Do what you want. I'm getting out of this outfit and going to bed. We can upload the data from Cipher's PDA in the morning..." Her mention of the shooting victim fills him with weariness and he presses his hand over his eyes. A childish gesture useless for blocking the memories that hollow him out inside. His bowed head stops Sydney, she brushes her hand down his arm. "Vaughn please. Tell me what's going on?" He looks beaten, tears gleam in the smudged raccoon eyes. Vaughn wraps his hand around her wrist and tugs her to him. His mouth roughly meets hers, the ring bites into the soft flesh of her lip, their teeth click awkwardly until they remember how this works and adjust; then it's long fluid moments of whiskey flavored breath and tongues. She doesn't resist at first, only drinks the taste of him in. A few breaths are urgent moans until she fits herself against him as she used to—limbs familiar and easy with his. Then she pushes herself away—shock and need makes her swallow hard. "We can't—Vaughn we can't do this. What about Lauren..." Her name fills the space between them, crowding everything else out. His mind is only too willing to replay that smile—the one Lauren saved for her victims and had never shown to him before tonight. His voice is harsh. "Fuck her. She's doesn't matter now—she's..." Vaughn's hands toy with the slender cords Sydney has twined her hair into; her lipstick has smeared across her mouth. In the darkened kitchen it looks like blood. "She's not the woman I thought she was. Not the woman I love." He doesn't tell her everything—he's not sure if it's because he can't or won't. Right now he doesn't care, he only longs to lose himself in the flesh of the woman standing before him. Only oblivion matters, he waits for her to decide. Sydney notes the vulgarity, the dismissal. Unconsciously her hands seek his skin, tracing the line of his collarbone as she plays with the links of the dog collar wrapped round his throat. He's never seemed so alien before—a raw and angry man—she can't deny the excitement this causes her to feel—her hands tremble as she loops the chains in her fist. She knew what her response would be long before tonight. "Oh God Vaughn...I've missed you so much." The brokenness in her voice, the pain and longing hurts him even as she pulls him to her and offers her lips to him. Lust tempers the hurt making it hard and bright and heated. He pushes her back against the fridge, fingers yanking and ripping at the laces of her corset dress. She holds him close, one hand clutching the collar, not caring when the links dig and pinch her skin, intent only on the taste of him. Impatience causes him to pull the knife he's stashed in a back pocket. Her eyes widen when he flicks it open and slices at the cords keeping her skin from his, roughly pulling the top of her dress down. The dark look in his eyes when he sees that he's nicked her, brushes her insides with heat. He lowers his head and licks the bead of blood from her skin, eyes locked on hers. She watches as his tongue slides across her breast, up over the place containing the hot cage of her wild hammering heart. Sydney finds herself wishing he had an actual tongue piercing to go along with the ersatz ones in his nose and lip. The thought of that cold nub of metal—elsewhere—makes tiny cries leak through her bitten lips. She closes her eyes to him—it's too much, furious chemicals of desire racket through her veins, rev up her body. His hand cups the clean line of her jaw and tilts her head back, her neck arches and the mad pounding of her blood is accentuated as it beats against his tongue. His greedy mouth sucks at her skin marking her. It's painful and she cries out, he drowns out her noise with pleased sounds of his own. When he releases her she nearly collapses, he braces her against his thighs holding her still. Her fierce look as she rubs the already bruising spot on her neck drives his desire to a sharper pitch. She looks cross and bitchy and utterly fuckable. "What's with the damn hickey?" He shrugs, cocksure cool and gives her a "Why not" look But because it's her and he knows she won't let it go he tells her. "Bruises last. Especially on your skin, I've seen you have one for weeks. Now every time you see that—you'll think of this, of us. And you'll remember how much I've wanted to be with you... He nuzzles her ear, guiding her hands up under his shirt to lie flat against the hot skin of his stomach. "How badly I've wanted to touch you...to fuck you...Always." "Always?" Her hands curl around and find his back, nails pricking a warning. "Always...it was always you Sydney." She sweetly kisses him and that takes some of the sting out of it when her nails rake down his back and make him hiss in pain. "Now you'll have something to remember me by too." She sounds so prim, so at odds with the half-naked mussed wild child he has pressed against the fridge. The contradiction is pure Sydney. Rage fills him then. He's kept himself from this—from her—by holding fast to meaningless vows. Vaughn wonders if he'll be able to keep himself from killing Lauren. The fury is so overwhelming that it locks him up; the small dense core of hatred is a black hole sucking him in. He looks away to keep her from seeing. Sydney misinterprets—she thinks he feels guilt, reticence. Her hand is gentle on his chin as she tilts his face back towards her and offers him an excuse. "We can stop...we just got carried away for a moment—" Her words trail off when she sees the disgust in his face. "Vaughn I'm sorry. I never meant..." He shakes his head denying her words, trying to stop her from taking the blame for this. He grips her hands and pins them above her, he leans over her hoping to quell the anger that's making him sick inside. Hoping that by telling her the pain will stop eating chunks of his soul. He can barely get the words out. "Lauren. I saw Lauren. She was at the club. She was the shooter...She's Covenant." Now that it's out—it's real. And the guilt fills him, welling up like blood. Sydney is staggered for a moment, she jerks her hands from his and pushes him away. "What! We have to notify Dixon—the CIA—" "Syd...She's still my wife." Misery and shame fill his voice. Sydney slaps him then. Her hand stings from the blow she lands on his face, a reddened outline rises on Vaughn's skin—a mute accusation of his failings. The silence stretches between them as they square off in the kitchen of the safehouse. **** Time spins out for the length of one indrawn breath. The anger does awful things to her face, makes her a demon with her dark eyes glittering at him. "You make me sick! Tonight was about what exactly—a quick fuck to drown your misery until you ran back to her? To that lying bitch!" He stands silent and miserable under her wrath. His unquestioning acceptance of her scorn and humiliation drives her crazy. She rounds on him like an avenging devil. "Say something Godammit! Vaughn she's a traitor! And if you don't turn her in I will—" She grabs her purse, rummaging for her cell phone. Inside some tightly wound part of him finally gives and lets go. He moves then and grabs her wrist, she tries to jerk free and he yanks her back to him roughly. His voice is low and savage. "No." He pulls hard on her wrist to make his point. She winces from the pain. "No, you won't call—no, you won't say anything to anyone...not until I'm done dealing with her. Until then, you'll do nothing." He grips her chin and leans in to make his point. "And as for this being ‘just a fuck'. If that's all you think is between us, then leave now, because that makes me sick. I've never stopped loving you. Never. Not once in those two years you were gone...not then—not now." He kisses her brutally, unmindful of her cries of pain. She bites his lip to make him let her go. He steps back, one hand touching his bloody mouth. He smiles sardonically as he pulls the ring free and lets it fall to the floor. The tiny ring chimes and clinks to a stop—the only other sound is their harsh breathing. "Vaughn..." The anguish in that single sound; one tear paints a dark track down her cheek. And because all the lonely nights—her only satisfaction what meager joy she can find in memories and her own touch—are still very much with her. Because she knows how betrayal disconnects, she moves towards him and grabs a hold of him anchoring him with her body and her mouth, her heat and her love. He loses himself in her. **** First there is only frenzy—anger still overrides all. Mouths punish, hands seek flesh only to tighten painfully when they find it. Vaughn lifts Sydney and thumps her back up against the solid weight of the fridge. She hooks her legs around his waist and props herself up; her fingers twine in his hair and jerk his head back until his eyes are locked on hers—so pretty with the black streaks of eyeliner. Her smile is wicked and terribly sexy as she bends her head once more to his mouth. He lets her control the kiss; deepening it gradually until they both cry and moan from it. His hands roam underneath her skirt—the open weave of the fishnets she wears tightens on her thighs sectioning the soft skin into plump diamonds. He brushes his fingers along the damp flesh exposed on either side of the thong she's wearing, the strands of the fishnets slip and catch under his thumbs. He hooks some up under his fingers, feeling them dig in as he rips open the seam running between her legs. It's easy work to shift the slippery satin of the thong to one side and slide two fingers inside her. She groans and bears down on his hand as he works them slowly in and out of her cunt—not satisfied with only that. "What's the matter baby? Doesn't that feel good?" His voice is so low and knowing by her ear, his teeth find her lobe, she thinks he might be laughing. She wraps her legs tighter and draws him closer. He has to pull his fingers out to steady her; she feels the sharp edge on one of the rings stab and scratch the tender skin of her thigh as she does. The pain feels good. She licks at the charming mocking mouth and croons to him. "Fuck me Vaughn. I need you to fuck me...it's been so long" She feels the soft plosive puff of his breath on her cheek—the air driven out by his excitement when he hears her coarse command. Sydney stretches her hands up behind her and grips the edges of the fridge to hold herself up so he can free himself for her. She knocks the bottle of scotch over and it tips and rolls to the edge balancing precariously. He unbuttons his fly—he hasn't worn any underwear—and she smiles when she sees that. He pauses holding her legs open, then slides into her slowly, in one long lovely movement. All of her arches forward towards him—body starved for this, for him. He doesn't waste time only begins rocking against her hard. The sweat gathered on the small of her back sticks to the cold metal of the fridge door, she curls one arm about his shoulder and feels the muscles bunch and flex under her palm as he moves. The motions shake the fridge and sends the bottle of scotch tumbling to the floor, where it shatters; the explosion a vivid counterpoint to their own dark urgent sounds Glass flies everywhere and Vaughn's boots skid and slip in the pool of whiskey—he grips Sydney more firmly, holding the back of her neck with one hand while he braces with the other. She can feel the effort in his shuddering arms, his quivering back. The rich smell of single malt fills the air with the smoky scent of peat. "godgodgod—you feel so good—so fucking good..." Each word Vaughn says is emphasized by the slam of her back into the door, the convulsive clenching of his hand on the back her neck. Sydney is beyond words—wild rhythmic cries are the sounds she makes that echo within the kitchen. They cloud his brain and spur him on. "Oh love I'm close...I want you to come first. Come for me Sydney..." He calls to her, coaxes her, she can't resist. "Love you, love you, oh I love you so much..." She shudders and tenses, the cords in her neck form sharp shadowed lines in the dimness. All pleasure coalesces, nerves singing with the light of a thousand impulses rippling within her, finally dissolving into a wash of brilliance. Sydney loses herself in the bright bloodlight beating a pattern behind her eyes. Lost even to Vaughn's climax as he comes, groaning his bliss into the corded tangles of her hair. He sags against her—muscles burning and jumping with the exertion. Carefully he helps her stand. They rest quietly, not speaking, leaning into one another, tasting the salt of their lovemaking as they kiss softly and catch their breaths. She follows a bead of sweat with her finger as it trickles down his chest. He presses his lips to her forehead, holding her close. They both sense that the uneasy peace between them can't withstand words so they say nothing. It doesn't matter. They've been overheard regardless. **** Lauren prides herself that her hands remain steady as she dismantles the parabolic antenna and directional microphone. She switches off the tape and plucks the tiny cassette from the recorder. It lies on her palm—all the evidence of Michael's inevitable betrayal and exposure of her double agent status. Violently her hand clenches, breaking the tape, causing shards of plastic to slice into her palm. A few drops of blood drip onto the floor of the car. Her throat aches from keeping the shrieks of rage from escaping. Her hand starts shaking wildly now so she flings the tape at the windshield. On impact it flies apart, brown ribbon spills across the dashboard. She calms herself and smoothes back a few stray wisps of her hair. Composed, she opens the metal case on the seat beside her and threads the silencer onto the heavy gun within it I'm sorry that it's come to this my love. But I simply cannot risk exposure of any sort. And despite your dammed honor you still couldn't stop yourself from betraying your wedding vows could you? Because you were once mine, I may kill her after you—spare you the pain of watching Sydney die—She loads a clip into the gun and chambers a round. Her face is stone, the only sign of life is the killing hate in her eyes—but I wouldn't count on it... She opens the car door and walks up the path to the front door of the safehouse. **** The barest hint of a smile lingers on Sydney's mouth. She takes in the shattered mess of the bottle on the kitchen floor, the spilt whiskey everywhere. Her dress gapes open to her waist, baring most of her torso to the chilly air. She curls closer to Vaughn, leaning into his warmth. He tucks her in close, head resting on the top of her head. She slips her hand into the back pocket of his jeans and feels the smile threaten to take over her face. No matter how you looked at this situation it was beyond fucked-up, so why was she smiling? "You okay?" He has taken her silence to mean regret. "Yeah. I'm good." She feels an agreeable soreness in all of her muscles. "Going to be stiff in the morning though..." "Yeah tell me about it. My legs are killing me. And my back..." He groans just a little remorsefully. "Next time we find a bed okay?" Her smile grows even wider and she hugs him a little closer with his casual mention of a next time. He looks down at her, "You're all mussed up..." He strokes a finger under one eye and shows her the black smudges. "It's an interesting look, kind of Marilyn Manson meets a rabid raccoon." She laughs softly. "You're one to talk—you look like an extra from the Rocky Horror Picture Show..." He smirks at her and sings faintly, "I'm just a sweet transvestite..." She joins in. "From transsexual....Transylvania...." They giggle at one another. All thoughts of where they could go from here banished for now. Vaughn's hand finds Sydney's and he places a gentle kiss in her open palm. "I've missed you Syd." "I've missed you too—missed this—so much." The doorknob explodes, the metal torn apart by bullets--the door crashes back and slams into the wall when Lauren kicks it open. She strides into the kitchen, gun trained on Sydney and Vaughn, the laser sight dances over their faces, making them squint. "Well, well. Don't you two make the cute couple?" The broken glass crunches under her heels as she steps closer, "Hello Michael, did you miss me darling?" "Sydney! Go!" Vaughn shoves her to one side and charges Lauren. The gun coughs—shots muffled by the silencer—bullets slam into the cabinets, sending wooden splinters everywhere. Some punch through the metal door of the fridge, dull shatters are heard within as bullets meet glass. Vaughn dives low to the ground, sliding through the slippery mess on the floor; he feels a shard of the bottle slash into his shoulder. Lauren takes aim at Sydney, stitching a line of bullets after her running form; Vaughn kicks out at her, trying to trip her. Lauren grunts and goes to one knee—teeth bared in a snarl she chops at him—hoping to smash the gun into the side of his head. He grabs her wrist but she wrenches free. Sydney comes up behind her and wraps one arm about her neck, forcing the gun arm up and back with the other. She twists Lauren's arm hard and she drops the gun. Vaughn snatches it up and points it at her face. "It's alright Syd. I've got the gun. Let her go." Sydney backs off slowly. Lauren is on her hands and knees, panting harshly, she glares up at Vaughn. "What are you going to do Michael, shoot me? Do you even have the guts for it?" Vaughn's finger finds the trigger, feels the tension increase as his finger tightens. His wife's eyes are empty and cold as she waits for death. The trigger has no more pull left; the slightest twitch will send a bullet flying from the gun. Lauren smiles—the same cruel expression he had seen at the club—and closes her eyes. "Sydney?" He sees her look at him, she had tried to cover herself, pulling the ruined dress closed as she stood to one side and waited for him to make his choice. "Do you have handcuffs?" She nods and fetches them from amidst the spilled contents of her purse. "Cuff her then..." Lauren's eyes snap open, her expression incredulous as Sydney roughly cuffs her hands behind her back and drags her to her feet. Sydney's expression is savagely happy when Vaughn says. "You aren't worth the bullet Lauren." **** They march Lauren into the living room and push her into a chair. Vaughn brings some duct tape he's found under the kitchen sink. He tears a strip off with his teeth and presses it over her mouth, gripping her chin hard to hold her steady. Lauren's eyes are furious over the gray tape. He cups her face a moment longer, leaning in close to make his point. "You're beneath contempt you know that? You let two unarmed individuals disable you and you had the element of surprise and superior firepower...can't even get being a traitor right can you? Still going to die for it though...." He pushes her face back and stands up. "Secure her." Vaughn turns his back and dismisses her. He disappears back into the kitchen. Sydney doesn't say anything—he's balanced on a knife-edge—she was positive he was going to pull the trigger and regret it for the rest of his life. She just moves to obey, wrapping loops of duct tape through the cuff chain and round one slat of the chair back. Lauren's eyes seethe with hatred, tracking Sydney's every move. She looks like a dangerous and possibly rabid animal. Sydney crouches down to fasten Lauren's feet, hooking her hair back behind her ear as she does. The bruise Vaughn's mouth had made on Syd's neck stands out, dark against the paleness of her skin. Lauren catches sight of it and bucks and pitches, kicking out at Sydney—thin shrieks escaping through the layer of tape. Sydney wrestles one leg into position and tapes it. Lauren writhes and kicks viciously. One well-aimed try clips Sydney's side. "Fuck! You bitch!" She scoots out of range and prepares to beat her into submission if she has to—and she really hopes she has to. "Syd, wait..." Vaughn has come back with Sydney's phone. They watch as Lauren rocks and struggles on the chair, finally subsiding, breath whistling through her nose from her exertions. "Vaughn. We need to report her..." "We will." He holds up her cell phone, "What made her go nuts though?" Sydney shrugs but he grips her arm, intent on an answer. "I don't know I just bent down..." She drags a hand through her hair as she thinks and Vaughn sees what made Lauren so angry. The dark mark on Sydney's neck showing Lauren exactly where his mouth had been. He puts the phone down and gathers Sydney to him, sweeping her hair back. He shows her. "It's this. This made her go insane..." He pulls Sydney against him, holding her so she faces Lauren. He steps close behind her arms sliding across her stomach. Sydney leans back into him, closing her eyes once Vaughn's mouth finds that tender mark again and sweeps his tongue along it. "Isn't that right Lauren? Seeing us like this...must drive you crazy. Makes you wonder if we haven't been doing this all along doesn't it?" His voice is silky. His mouth keeps finding new places to kiss and lick. His fingertips find the torn slit in Sydney's dress and trail over the soft flesh inside. Sydney shivers from his touch. His eyes are cold as they seek his wife's gaze across the room. "Makes you wonder if I wasn't thinking of her—wishing I was with her—every time we were together..." He pulls gently on Sydney's hair to bring her lips to his. He kisses her deeply, making her moan. They break the kiss and look over at the bound woman, at the angry tears slipping down her face. Lauren's chest jerks and shudders with pent-up emotion. Sydney smiles—casually cruel—as she caresses her lover's cheek. She answers for him. "He was...every single time." **** Adrenaline and desire taste like iron in Sydney's mouth. Her hips roll loose and easy as she turns to face Vaughn. Kissing him, touching him, while his wife sits bound and watching a few feet away is so satisfying—hot feelings of smug superiority and victory bloom within her—dark flowers she won't examine too closely because of what they might reveal about who she really is. Even when Vaughn bares her breast to his wife's gaze and his tongue finds her nipple, Sydney feels no shame. Only the urgent frantic need for more, she looks over at Lauren, the small soft sounds of pleasure she makes tell Lauren this. Her dazed heavy eyes and flushed face underscore it. Her need is so oppressive Lauren has to look away. "Poor Lauren..." Sydney's voice is low and mocking. "Does this make you uncomfortable? I wondered if maybe those drab outfits you wear were part of your cover—that the uptight English bitch routine was all an act..." Sydney smiles when Vaughn snorts derisively. "Guess not—it's too bad really, because you've missed out on some first class fucking. Vaughn is really very good and he loves to play games...Don't you baby?" Vaughn nuzzles her neck and murmurs agreement—Sydney is grateful that he's still angry enough to let her torment Lauren like this, to twist the knife a little; she knows he's too honorable to let it go on for much longer. Right now—he's following her lead. And if the hard press of his cock is any indication, one part of him seems to be enjoying making Lauren suffer as well. But fun and games aside—making love to Vaughn wasn't something Sydney was willing to share even peripherally with this woman anymore. Her hands frame his face and she kisses him softly. The tenderness and love in that innocent gesture wound Lauren more deeply than any of their previous displays, she stares fixedly at the floor, face knotting with rage. "Do you want to call Dixon now?" Sydney knows Vaughn will want to be the one to call. He is slow to answer, lips reluctant to move from her skin. "No—no not quite yet..." He looks at Lauren, "she's not going anywhere soon. Right now I only want to get you in the shower and finish what we've started...then there'll be time for all that—but I want to be with you once more before then." Sydney's smile is gentle as she leads Vaughn by the hand out of the room, casually ignoring Lauren and the acid hate in her eyes. **** Lauren knows that the pain will be excruciating, she lets the rage, the hatred wash through her hoping that it will drown out some of the hurt she plans to inflict on herself. She pictures Michael and Sydney together in the shower. Steam fills the close room, clouds rising above the curtain to condense on smooth chrome surfaces. They help each other out of their clothes—Vaughn tugs the tee shirt over his head and lets it drop, then he crouches and unlaces Sydney's boots and slips them off for her... Lauren braces her foot against the chair rung for leverage; she relaxes her shoulders and lowers her head breathing deeply. Water sluices over their bodies; make-up and hair-dye tint the streams with cloudy darkness until at last all has been washed away. Sydney and Vaughn are oblivious to the change, lost to everything but the feel of mouths on wet skin, eyes closed against the pounding press of the water... Slowly Lauren raises her head, steadies herself and surges forward with all her strength, foot pistoning downwards. The pain rips up her arms as the metal bracelets dig into her wrists. She wrenches fiercely, she whimpers from the effort, a high keening cry barely muffled by the tape. There is a cracking noise. Sydney drops to her knees, tongue licking at the water dripping down her face, sliding into her mouth, and nuzzles Vaughn's stomach, her hands glide up the backs of his knees and find their way up his thighs, stroke the curve of his ass. Vaughn smoothes her soaked hair back off of her face and holds a wet handful at the base of her neck. She smiles coyly up at him, blinking beads of water out of her eyes, and rubs a slick cheek against his stiff cock before opening her mouth to him... Lauren sobs as best she can through the heavy gray tape. Her wrists throb and sing with electric pain, she thinks he may have fractured the left one. She has to hurry she doesn't have much time, but the pain snaps and snarls like a vicious animal. She shifts and her wrists flare with the motion—hurt slams up her arms—squeezing tears from her eyes, but the back of the chair gives just a little bit. She readies herself for agony again. Vaughn's groan is audible over the noise of the shower; he closes his eyes and savors the feel of Sydney's mouth—its heat and wetness—as she slowly takes him into her mouth. One hand wraps around him, her fingers make a tight circle that squeezes gently as he slides in and out of the silk of her mouth. The fingers on the other hand trace patterns on his thigh, fingernails scratching pleasantly. Her head bobs faster as she speeds up; Vaughn grips her hair and urges her along with soft moans—breath coming quickly now. Her clever tongue flicks across the head of his cock and her eyes shine with the purely female power she feels pleasing him this way... Lauren doesn't give herself a second to think about what she's doing. She practically leaps out of the chair, straining hard against her bonds—her wrists are full of broken glass, her vision grays, the pain fills her whole world. She's about to pass out when the back of the chair suddenly snaps and she feels the taped loops sag and slip free. She groans and sits up, fighting the urge to vomit. She rests for a moment, blinking the stinging sweat the pain has wrought out of her eyes. Vaughn can feel it, building in his belly, tightening the small of his back; he's going to come. Sydney can sense he's close—she moans encouragement and takes him as deeply as she can, his cock slick with spit and steamy water. Vaughn's head tilts back and he lets the spray of the shower beat into his neck and shoulders as his climax nears. He cradles Sydney's head as the water floods over her, sleeking her hair down. He closes his eyes and comes... As quickly as she can bear it Lauren slides her cuffed hands down, scooting them under her and down her legs until she sits awkwardly doubled over. This position strains her throbbing wrists anew and she is not surprised to see blood seeping out of the deep grooves the bracelets have dug into her skin. Her fingers scrabble at the tape binding her leg to the chair leg, pulling and jerking until she can kick her leg free. Gingerly she eases her locked hands down further and steps through the circle of her arms one leg at a time until at last her arms are in front of her. She is shaky with the pain and adrenaline and fumbles as she rips hastily at the strip of tape on her mouth. She leans over and retches—body heaving from the hurt and stress. She sits head down, breathing deeply until she thinks she's not going to pass out anymore. Finally she stands up and staggers over to Sydney's purse and fishes out the keys to the cuffs and frees herself. The handcuffs drop to the carpet with a muted jangle and her smile is cold as her fingers slip around the cool metal grip of the gun Vaughn has left behind in his haste. She relishes the subtle weight of it as she sights down the hall towards the bathroom. She kicks the broken chair aside and stalks slowly down the hall. Sydney delights in the heated moment of Vaughn's orgasm when he comes in her mouth; the unique bitter salt flavor of him a taste she remembers all over again. She can feel the fine tremors that course through the muscles of his thighs underneath her wet hands as she delicately swallows and licks him clean. Finished she rests her head against his belly and listens to his heartbeat as he catches his breath. The beat of his blood blends into the pulse of the shower and when she closes her eyes the sound of him fills her head. He lifts her chin and pulls her to stand, his mouth searching for a kiss. Before she does she shuts off the water and they embrace, the last rivulets of water gurgling down the drain. He steps out, wraps a towel around his waist and hands her one. There is a thump from the living room... Lauren steps carefully down the hall. The shower has cut off and the bathroom is silent. The eerie quiet fills her with anticipation and dread, the hairs lift on the back of her neck. Her arms ache and throb holding the gun, and she is finding it difficult to keep the muzzle from wavering. No matter, a few shots and this will be over. She'll blast the contemptuous expression right off of Michael's face. She puts her back to the hallway and slides along until she's just outside the door. She reaches out for the knob. Vaughn held his hand up for quiet as soon as he heard the thump. Hurriedly he slips on his jeans, and tosses Sydney his shirt. She pulls it on, the thin fabric clinging to her still damp body. Vaughn pulls the knife out of his back pocket and opens it. "Where's the gun?" he mouths to Sydney. She points to the living room, fear and dismay flooding her gut. The blade seems very small in Vaughn's hand. She searches desperately for anything she can use as a weapon. She grabs a heavy glass bottle filled with bath oil by the neck and flattens herself against the wall; Vaughn takes a similar position on the other side of the bathroom door. Intently they watch as the doorknob turns slowly. The door eases open the barest crack. **** The door stops its inward swing and remains open only a inch or two—it moves minutely as the heated air from the bathroom slips out, a dark figure moves across the open space blocking the light for a moment. Vaughn presses even tighter against the wall and grips the knife tighter in his sweaty hand. There is a silvery glint as something metallic is brought up. Vaughn tries to concentrate over the frantic hammering of his heart. He knows it's not so, but still he feels that it should sound terribly loud in the tiny space. Sydney's eyes are wide, her face tense. Vaughn notices how her wet hair has dripped large dark splotches down the front of his shirt; she raises the bottle higher prepared to smash it down on their assailant. Lauren is prepared this time. She kicks hard at the door and watches it fly open and thump off of a body positioned just behind the door. She hears a grunt of pain as she darts in aiming at the other figure—it's Vaughn. She squeezes the trigger. He does the most unlikely thing and leaps forward knocking into her, the bullet buries itself into the tiled wall behind him. She shoves him off of her and points the gun. A heavy weight connects with her forearm, jarring her injured wrist—she screams with the impact—glass shatters and a thick and cloying smell of flowers fills the humid air. She reels, cradling the gun close to her and staggers back. Sydney squirms out from behind the door, holding a broken bottle dripping an oily liquid onto the floor; her face is twisted into a feral snarl, it looks bizarre coupled with only the tee shirt she is wearing. Deliberately Lauren drops down scooting her back up to the tub. She takes aim at Sydney. Vaughn is leaping at her slashing with the knife; she steadies the gun on her drawn up knees and fires and once again. She sees Sydney dodge back, her bare feet skidding on the oily mess on the floor, when Vaughn plunges the knife into her thigh. She howls and twists away from him, blood spurting onto the white tiles of the floor, her hands fumble with the gun, damaged wrists slow to respond. She crawls towards the door after Sydney, outthrust arm squeezing off another shot. Vaughn grabs her calf and sinks the knife into her leg again, grunting as he tries to find purchase on the slippery blood-smeared floor. He pulls the knife free for another stab. Lauren rolls over, trying to dislodge Vaughn and sweeps the gun around. He knocks her wrist and she wails like a cat as the gun skitters free. He swarms up her body, hoping to pin her as she bucks and thrashes, blindly searching for the gun. Her own blood drips onto her face from the knife he's holding over her. His bared chest feels like a furnace against her skin, his anger and fear heating him up. "Lauren! Stop!" She ignores him and clutches for the gun. Her hands lock around the barrel, the hot metal burns her hand but she ignores the pain and slams the gun into Vaughn's head. He lolls drunkenly against her for a moment trapping her underneath his weight. She spins the gun in her hand, one finger seeking the trigger. Dazed Vaughn shakes his head and grabs her arm just as she brings the gun up to his head and fires. The blast is right beside his ear—deafening him— a buzzy ringing envelops him. She fights him, arm straining to level the gun at his face, her teeth are pulled back from her lips and she looks like a snarling dog ready to bite. Vaughn can see she's cursing him but he can't hear anything since the shot. Insane hate has given her strength, the gun inches towards his head. Vaughn makes his choice. Holding the gun away from him as best as he can one handed, he flips the knife in his grasp and thrusts it up and into her side aiming for her liver and the hepatic vein. He can see the shock when she feels the knife penetrate. All the tension in her arm disappears and the gun slips from her hands and falls to the floor. Vaughn can feel her blood oozing out; it feels hot and slick as it wells up over his fingers. He pulls the knife free and holds her down. Panting harshly, he looks down at the dying woman. Her mouth gapes and she tries to make sounds, her hands spasm weakly, open palms pale and white like the tile they lie upon. Vaughn feels warmth soak into the knee of his jeans as her blood pours onto the floor underneath her. She's speaking to him; he shakes his head to clear it and strains to hear her. "...I wish I'd killed you earlier...gut shot you so you'd die slow and in pain..." Lauren laughs weakly and Vaughn sees that her teeth are bright with blood from a split lip. "Oh darling—why'd you have to stab me? It hurts—oh god..." She winces. Her face burns still with lunatic hatred but the light is dimming. "I told you before Lauren," Vaughn clasps his wife close as she bleeds out and the last of her life leaves her. "You aren't worth the bullet." Her eyes roll and lock on his, fleeting rage a brief spark that fades until at last they are only empty and dead. Vaughn stands, feeling about a thousand years old and looks down at the ruin of his wife. She lies sprawled on the white tiles, brilliant crimson blood leaking in an ever-spreading pool, red fingers advancing along the grout lines. Her pale hair is fanned out on the floor and he sees the dampness has made it wave and curl. Her face is slack, all fury gone now. The only light in her eyes is the reflection from the fixture overhead—they are a doll's eyes, shiny and lifeless. Vaughn drops the knife beside her body—he watches it fall for a lifetime—then he turns and leaves. **** "Sydney?" Vaughn leans wearily against the doorframe and looks down the dark hall towards Sydney. She is standing awkwardly, silhouetted in a golden square of light from the living room. "Lauren's dead. I killed her..." She is silent. He can't see her face in the shadows. "Syd? You okay?" She turns towards him one hand supporting her weight as if she is too tired to stand upright. The shadows play tricks because the wet spots from her hair have spread, in the dim hallway they shroud her belly and seem to be creeping down her legs. Sydney's legs buckle and she slides down the wall and lands in a heap. She's not blocking the doorway to the living room anymore and the light floods down the hall; it finds the bloody handprints smeared on the wall behind Sydney and bathes the awful red marks in a cheery domestic glow. Vaughn freezes for an agonizing endless second, hand blindly seeking the light switch; his voice is tiny and small. "Sydney? Talk to me...Syd?" The light clicks on and illuminates horror. The dark stains weren't from Sydney's wet hair—they're bloodstains. He stares dazedly at them and feels time slip away from him; the blood glistens wet and horrid, nasty reminders of the vulnerability of flesh. Vaughn can see a single bead of blood squeeze between the fingers of the hand Sydney's pressed to her stomach, it drops to the floor of the hallway in slow motion, he can see the small red orb shiver as it falls and splatters on impact. Her shocked eyes find his; pain makes them large and luminous. "Vaughn...it's bad...I got hit...she shot me..." She sounds apologetic. Hearing her voice speeds everything up again. "Oh no. God No!" He snatches a towel from the rack beside him and rushes to her side. She is shivering and cries when he cradles her in his arms. Shock is making her ramble. "Lauren—I wasn't fast enough and she shot me..." Vaughn hushes her, rocking her like a child. "Let me see Sydney, I have to put pressure on it until the ambulance comes okay?" He is surprised how calm his voice sounds. Almost like he's in control, like he can save her. She pulls her hand away. The shot was close enough to have put powder burns on his shirt and her belly. The pale flesh seems very white and innocent compared to the ugly black burns. Vaughn gets a brief glimpse of a ragged hole before more blood spills out. He wads up the towel and holds it to her belly. The white cotton soaks through quickly, turning bright red, greedy fibers drinking more than they can hold. Sydney sobs with the pain. "Oh Vaughn, it hurts...it hurts so much." Her lips have a bluish cast and her eyes wander loose and glassy in their sockets. "Hang on sweetheart, hang on okay?" He lies her down as gently as he can and presses her hand to the sodden towel urging her to hold it. "I'm going to call for help, stay with me..." The shivers wrack her body; she doesn't seem to have heard him but her hand keeps the towel in place. He lurches down the hall—crazily knocking over everything in his way as he searches for the cell phone. Now the tears start. They scald as they roll down his cheeks and blur his vision. In his panic he passes by the phone twice until he sees it and snatches it up. He can barely work the buttons. He chokes back a harsh sob when he hears the operator come on. He yells at the bewildered woman in English until he understands she's speaking German. He switches languages and gives her the address and begs her to hurry. He runs back to Sydney. Dropping to his knees he takes her in his arms again, clamping his hand over hers, the blood makes her hand slippery so he squeezes tightly to keep a hold of her, to keep her with him. He shows her the cell phone. "I've called for help. Now you have to hang on, stay with me Syd. Don't die. Please don't die..." He pleads with her like a small child. She blinks when she feels the tears fall from his face onto her forehead and cheeks, one lands on her mouth and she can taste the salt of it when she licks her lip. "Vaughn...it's okay. It doesn't hurt so much anymore..." And it doesn't, everything is sliding away into hazy floating darkness and she is so tired—she closes her eyes. "Sydney! No! Wake-up, stay with me—please you have to stay with me..." She opens her eyes again; the raw hurt in his voice calls her back. She swallows, it's hard to speak, her throat is so dry. "I'm glad..." She stops, her throat working and starts again, gazing up at him. She lifts her hand and wipes the tears from his cheeks, fingers grazing over the stubble, brushing his mouth. She loved that mouth, the way it smiled at her. The feel of his lips as he kisses her fingertips now. "I'm glad I was with you tonight...that I was able to tell you I love you...I've been waiting for so long to tell you that..." She smiles at him. All the love she has for him can barely be contained within her heart, only an ocean of regret holds it back. Her heart swims in a sea of unshed tears. It's almost time to go; she'll linger on the beloved familiarity of his face until it is time. "Sydney...you can't leave me—I can't lose you again. Stay with me, what will I do if you don't stay with me?" His voice is husky but he tries to smile at her, to entice her to remain with him. Vaughn ignores the tears running down his face. In the distance there is the faint wail of sirens. "Love you...so much...Vaughn. Never stopped loving you..." Her weary eyes close. She feels the press of his mouth on hers—tastes the salt of his loss once more. Hears him whisper, "I love you too Syd—I love you so much..." Then the blackness that has been hovering, waiting like an impatient and expectant bridegroom claims her and she passes through that dark door into oblivion. **** The heat is a hammer beating down on Vaughn. Even the sky has taken on a hard metallic sheen; the ubiquitous Los Angeles smog a yellow-brown stain smeared all over this. Vaughn never thought a June sky could look so ugly and poisonous—like the tobacco stained teeth of a pack-a-day smoker. He has been outside, away from the air conditioned comfort of his car, for only a few minutes and already greasy sweat trickles down his brow, gathers clammily in his armpits. His feet grit on the neat white gravel of the small paths winding their way through the cemetery. The buzz saw whine of cicadas can be heard in nearby trees, otherwise nothing stirs in the midday heat of this Tuesday afternoon. Eventually even the cicadas fall quiet, the urge to mate oppressed by the sultry heat. Vaughn notes this only because he has been trained to; otherwise he is on automatic pilot, his feet know the way to this grave only too well. He doesn't bring flowers—he never does. But unlike other visits he does have something to bring today, a nondescript men's wristwatch, the leather band worn and scuffed with many years use. He stands for a minute contemplating the grave then softly places the watch on top. Once the glass face makes contact with the granite the ticking is amplified; the self-assured sound of the watch as it marks each passing second, noting it and letting it slip by, hangs in the air for a few moments until somewhere a groundskeeper starts up a lawnmower and the noise drowns out the small busy sound of the watch. Vaughn hunkers down by the grave, fingers seeking the finely chiseled hollows of the letters spelling out the familiar name. The stone is smooth and warm to the touch; he imagines that it will hold the heat of the day for a while. He stays like that for some time. "It's funny you know..." he speaks aloud as he often does when he's here "ever since Lauren fixed it, that watch has kept perfect time. Seems to me like it should have stopped again, that would have felt right somehow." He gazes over the neat rows of graves—in the distance heat shimmers dance over the roads leading through the cemetery. He can see where he's parked his car carefully under a tree hoping to keep the heat at bay. He stands and puts his hands in his pockets, lost in thought. Everything is very still, the only disruption the wavering drone of the distant lawnmower. "I miss you." Vaughn's voice is quiet. "I have so many questions...so much that I wanted to tell you." He pauses for a moment. "And sometimes I get so angry I can't stand it. I want to yell at you—shout at you and make you tell me why..." He shakes his head and lets it go. "I'm losing it...they've put me on leave at work. They said I've lost 'focus' that I'm 'distracted'...I have to see Barnett now—weekly—she thinks I need closure..." He looks away and tries to let the bitterness go, really tries. Bringing the watch here is part of that, it was Dr. Barnett's idea but despite that fact it made an odd kind of sense to him so here he is, working at "closure". One thing he's learned so far—closure can be overrated. Sometimes hanging onto your grief is the only thing that keeps you from flying apart during the dark times. "Hey—you okay?" A voice rouses him. And sometimes—especially when you ‘re given a second chance—you do whatever you have to do to let the grief go. You don't examine the gifts parsimonious life rarely hands out, you just hold them close and offer your dumb gratitude. He turns to see Sydney standing in the shade of a nearby tree. She is still hospital pale and sweat has beaded on her face. The short walk over here has taken a toll. "What are you doing? You should be in the car." Sydney waves off his concern but he doesn't let up "Syd—those were the doctor's orders, besides this heat can't be good for you." He searches her face anxiously. She comes over and takes his hands, squinting once she moves out into the bright sun. "Yes, mother. I promise to go home and have a nice lie-down soon." She squeezes his fingers when he looks put out, her voice changes, getting serious, "But I had to see how you were, you've been out here for a while...are you sure you want to give the watch back to your Dad?" "Yeah—yeah I do." He is quiet for a second—his brooding silences are more familiar to her now but this one is contemplative—Sydney waits for him to explain. "Actually no. There's a part of me that wants to keep the watch. Needs to keep the watch. Pull it out late at night and think about Lauren—my Dad's involvement with Rambaldi and the Passenger—all of the betrayals and lies...but part of me knows it's time to give it back—let it go." She nods; she's been a witness to some of those nights. He continues. "Not all questions get answered, Sydney...sometimes you just have to believe that—that..." He frowns and hunts for the words. She opens her mouth and speaks—voice a bright ribbon unfurling in the still close air of the afternoon. "And whatever that wild cry was Vaughn looks at her taken aback, Sydney's not one for poetry. Her face is bashful when she explains,"Mary Oliver. It's from the poem, You Are Standing at the Edge of the Woods...I did a lot of reading while I was recuperating in the hospital. Her latest collection was Fed-Exed to me there—no note or return address or anything but I like to think it was from Will..." He's still watching her, an odd expression on his face. "What?" She is suddenly self-conscious now and dips her head to hide the flush rising. "I sound like a loony don't I?" "No. No. You sound...wonderful. The poem is wonderful." She hears the admiration in his voice. "You'll have to read the whole thing to me—all the poems." He pulls her into a gentle hug, mindful of her still healing injuries; aware of her fragility in a way he never was before. The Sydney that's come back to him quotes poetry now—she's changed—they both have. He guesses that might be okay, might be the best and only thing they can do. "C'mon let's go..." Vaughn takes her hand and steers her towards the car. "I'm done here." And he thinks he is done—he really is. Together they walk back through the summer heat, leaving the watch lying on the top of Bill Vaughn's gravestone, its lonely ticking counting out the infinity of hours for no one at all.
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