Until the End of the World
Last time we met was
a low-lit room
As a bride and groom
--U2
I wake up as the sun streams through the gap in the blinds
and hits my eyes. I
simultaneously become aware of two things – I’m hungover with a splitting
headache, and Sydney Bristow is draped across me with her head lying on my
shoulder, her arm flung across my chest, and our legs tangled together. It’s one of the most amazing sights
I’ve ever seen, and suddenly the headache no longer bothers me. The scent of us together in bed
washes over me, and I can’t help but smile.
Her face is so innocent in sleep - yesterday’s tension has
drained off, and she looks unexpectedly young, untouched by the plotting of
her parents. I could spend
forever like this, just watching her sleep.
Yesterday was bad.
Another string of evil truths that would have broken most people long
ago, but somehow Sydney still finds the strength to move forward. I don’t know how long she can
continue to keep this up. How do
you push on when the foundations of your being, your very soul, are
continually betrayed?
And yet, here she is in an exhausted but peaceful and
trusting sleep that I know does not come to her very often. I would like to think that I have
contributed to her relaxed state, but I am more inclined to believe that
reason is the alcohol, which we used like a drug. As I watch her, she stirs and a slight smile spreads
across her face. She half
mumbles, half moans something in her sleep. “Michael.”
Did I mention how I’d love to see this sight every morning? That’s only the third time I have
heard her use my first name, and it sounds so intimate. It makes my heart skip a beat.
Syd lets out a deep sigh, nuzzles her head against my
shoulder, and tightens her arms around me. Her breathing changes; she’s beginning to wake up. I can feel her tense up as the many
revelations of yesterday come back to haunt her. I hope she isn’t embarrassed – I don’t want her to regret
our actions last night. I don’t
want her to think what we shared was only a drunken moment because she means
so much more to me than that. I
am afraid her spy instincts will kick in, that she will jump out of the bed
and run away, avoiding this, avoiding us. I realize that I am holding my breath, waiting for her
reaction, when she does something I don’t expect. She tightens her embrace, clinging to me, and absorbing my
strength as if I were her lifeline.
Then she exhales again, forcing away yesterday’s tension.
“Syd?” She lets out a hum in her throat against my
shoulder. I rub one hand in
soothing circles up and down her back, and brush away the strands of hair
that have strayed across her face. “You awake?”
“No,” she says in a throaty morning voice that goes
straight to my core, and she tries to bury her head deeper into the crook of
my arm. She reminds me of my
sleepy-headed niece playing opossum on a Saturday morning.
I trace the line of her jaw and gently shift her face back
to me. “Today is a new day.”
“I’m not opening my eyes.” She says a little harshly.
“Why?”
“Because I am afraid that if I open up my eyes, I will
find that what we shared last night was just a dream.”
Dirty Day
It was a
dirty day, dirty day.
Looking for explanations I don't even understand.
If you need someone to blame, throw a rock in the air, you'll hit someone
guilty.
-- U2
I’m sitting here at my desk avoiding work, but not ready
to go home. It’s late and most
of the agents have already left.
I should too, but something keeps telling me to stay a little
longer. Something is going to
happen tonight, and she is going to need me. I feel someone watching me, and I turn, expecting to see
Alma, our motherly cleaning lady. She usually gives me a disapproving look and says, “You’re
just like my son – you need to find a pretty girl to take care of you, so you
won’t work so many late nights.”
But it’s not Alma, it’s Sydney, and something’s very
wrong. She’s just standing there
dazed, a beautiful mess, looking like a lost little girl. I don’t hesitate – I head straight to
her and gather her into my arms, hoping that I will be able to get her
through this latest betrayal. At
first, she is tentative and stiff, but then she crumbles into my embrace and
cries her heart out. It hurts to
see her like this.
After a while she calms down to a whimper, her chest
hitching. She takes a deep
breath and looks directly into my eyes.
“Vaughn, I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
“Hey, Shhhhh. It’s okay.” I place a gentle kiss on her
forehead. Her skin is icy cold
to my lips, and she is shivering.
I run my hands up and down her arms, trying to instill some warmth in
her.
Her eyes are filled with so much pain. This is a woman who first walked into
the CIA beaten, tortured, and missing a few teeth, but refused all medical
attention, instead intent on giving her statement. The physical pain she can push aside, but this mental
anguish is undoing her. As we
stare into each other’s eyes, her pain softens as she recognizes my
concern. She tries to pull
herself out of this state to reassure me, but I see right through this
attempt, and she knows it. In this
silent conversation, our arms are still wrapped around each other, and we’ve
slipped into a vacuum, away from our surroundings. I know we should break this moment - we’re not safe
here. This is not the place to
open up our secret other feelings; but I don’t quite know what to do
next.
Her nose twitches, and then she turns away from me in a
violent sneeze, bringing us back to reality. She’s shivering again, and her teeth are starting to
chatter. We need to go
elsewhere. She also knows we
can’t stay here.
“Take me home.”
Without thinking, I grab my coat, wrap it around her, and
find a hat for her. I take the
keys to one of the department’s unmarked cars and guide her to the parking
garage. It’s still pouring down
rain, and visibility really sucks. I watch for tails, execute a few evasive turns, but
surveillance isn’t likely to be vigilant about their duty in this weather.
We make it into my apartment, and she looks a little
confused. At first I think she
is upset that I brought her here, that she really just wanted to go home to
her own bed, but then it sinks in how disoriented she is. She’s in shock and needs help.
“Syd, you’re soaked; you need to change. I’ll find you some clothes.” She looks down, and it finally dawns
on her that she is drenched. She
follows me blindly as I lead her to my room. I grab my Kings jersey and my best silk boxers from the
dresser and lay them out on the bed for her. Yeah, I admit that I always had a thing for seeing my
girlfriends in my hockey jerseys.
Alice hated the sport and turned her nose up at my jersey. When Sydney asked me out to a hockey
game, I was floored. We hardly
ever have the chance to talk about mundane everyday details, yet Sydney
noticed my pen. Alice had the
opportunity to learn things about me that Syd never has, yet Alice never did
know the real me.
Sydney walks over to the bed, strips off my coat, and is
pulling her sweater over her head before I have a chance to react. She seems oblivious to my
presence. I know she’s not modest
about her body - she wouldn’t be able to play her spy games and wear those
sexy disguises with confidence if she was worried about showing a little
skin. But seeing her in a plain
black bra stuns me like a deer caught in headlights. When she reaches around to unhook her
bra, I force myself to turn my head and mumble that I’ll be in the living
room.
In a few minutes, she comes out, sits on the sofa, and
draws her knees up in front of her.
The jersey is big on her, sliding off one shoulder. Her hair is still dripping, leaving a
wet spot on her back. I drape a
blanket around her and tell her I’ll be right back. After I’ve changed into jeans and a t-shirt, I see that
Syd has draped her clothes over the shower curtain rod to dry. It’s an utterly domestic sight, yet
it still makes me do a double take to see her panties and bra in my bathroom. Before I can stop myself, I reach
over to finger the edge of her soft cotton panties. I jerk my hand back as if they would burn me, and in many
ways they would. I have to put
these thoughts aside; she needs me to steady her tonight. I grab a towel and go back to
her.
“Syd, let me dry you hair.” I sit on the couch facing
sideways, and motion for her to sit in front of me. She turns and sits in the vee of my legs, once again
drawing her knees up under her chin and wrapping her arms around them. I start with the ends of her hair,
gently blotting up the water with the towel, slowly working my way up to her
scalp. Then I rub the towel back
and forth trying to soak up more moisture, but I soon realize that I have
made a tangled mess of Syd's fine hair.
She knows this too, but patiently endures my attempt to take care of
her. I put down the towel
knowing that I need a comb to work through this mess, but I don’t want to let
go of her and go back to the bathroom to find one. I start to comb through her hair with my fingers, gently
undoing the tangles, separating the strands, and then blotting up the
moisture again with a towel.
This takes a while, but I don’t mind – I guess I am just looking for
excuses to continue touching her.
So I keep running my fingers through her hair even though it is mostly
dry, unable to stop myself.
Eventually she reaches back and captures my hands and turns to look
back at me.
“Want to talk?” I test her.
“Yes. No.
Maybe. Not Yet.” She says shakily.
Then she surprises me and says the most confident thing I’ve heard
from her since before she was standing in the hall outside my computer.
“Michael, I want to get drunk.”
* * * * * *
ACROBAT
No, nothing makes sense, nothing seems to fit.
I know you'd hit out if you only knew who to hit.
And I'd join the movement
If there was one I could believe in
Yeah, I'd break bread and wine
If there was a church I could receive in.
--U2
“Sydney, that’s probably not a
good idea.”
“I know, but I am so sick of
feeling this way – I just want to be anesthetized tonight – I don’t want to
deal with this pain.”
“I never get to cut lose anymore
– sometimes I really miss those drunken college moments. When I’m on a mission, I have to stay
alert; or I’m waiting for the next assignment and can’t afford to do anything
that would throw me off my game.
Around Francie, I’m afraid I will get careless. It’s so hard to find girl chat when I
can’t tell her about the things I really care about let alone where I was the
night before last. With Will, he
knows what I do and at least I don’t have to lie to him outright, but there
are still so many details that I can never tell him.”
“I’m so sick of this game. I put up barriers against my friends
and family, but when I try to be open, I get burned. I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen to you
about my father. I was just so
tempted by the illusion of my recent friendship with him; I feel like a fool. I should have known you would not
betray me. I know I am safe here
with you.”
I want her to know that I will
always be here for her, but I can’t hear these words without feeling pangs of
guilt. I may not have ensnared
her in this deceitful double life, but I do prolong her stay in it.
“Syd, it’s still not a good
idea.” But the pleading look in
her eyes is so desperate that I find myself walking over to my bar and
assessing our liquor choices.
Anything to alleviate her pain tonight. Shots would fit this dark mood. Quick, strong, and pack a lot of kick just like Syd.
Tequila. If you want to be knocked-on-your-ass
forget-your-name shit-faced, tequila will always work. So I find the
saltshaker and cut up some limes.
I go back to her and set up the first shot. We slam it down. She wipes her mouth and immediately
asks for another, not giving us a chance to absorb the first shot. So we go again.
This time I savor the shot,
tasting the bitterness of the salt, the golden alcoholic bite of the tequila,
and the sweet citrus of the lime.
It goes down thick, warms my throat, and queasily hits my stomach. Then I feel the rebound in the back
of my throat, and the second shot leaves me short of breath. The lime is a refreshing relief to
the initial rush. It slows the
reaction down, giving me time to focus on the pleasant sensations as the
alcohol flushes my skin and trickles up to my head leaving a hazy buzz. I look over at Syd, and she has
closed her eyes. She is allowing
the tequila to take away her responsibilities, and it gives her a sated
blush.
“Vaughn, You’re the only one I
trust. You’re the only one who is not trying to manipulate me.” She sounds so
forlorn. I hate to contradict
her, but I have manipulated her, and I hate myself for it.
“Syd, I don’t want to do
anything to betray your trust, but you must know, I manipulate you all the
time.”
She turns sideways on the sofa
facing me, grasps my hands in hers.
“What are you talking about?”
She asks me in an impatient tone that tells me she thinks I’m losing it.
“On every mission, I manipulate
you. I convince you the best way
to get intel for the CIA. I
persuade you to execute my counter missions despite your fears and
protests. I’ve convinced you to
use your friendship with Emily, to deceive Dixon, to even accuse your father
of being KGB.”
She slides over and leans
against my shoulder and sighs, so I wrap my arm around her. “Well, yeah, you do that, but I think
manipulation is too strong of a word for the duties of your job. You ‘handle’ me; I am your asset. I may not always like the directions,
but they have purpose. I know
you would not put my life in danger. Your intentions are never selfish or malicious - I’m
not a pawn to you.”
“Syd, how can you trust my judgment? You would not have
started interacting with your mother if I had not let Kendall convince me it
was necessary. When you came
back from Barcelona, you were adamant about not having anything to do with
her. You recognized the viper in
her, but I persuaded you to talk to her; I told you that I had faith that you
could compartmentalize your feelings. It was my actions that set these latest
events in motion.”
“Vaughn, that’s unfair. You had no control over what my
mother would say to me or how she deliberately turns every conversation to an
emotional level. You could not
have predicted my dad’s insanely desperate reactions. He has no boundaries between truth
and deceit when he thinks his way is right.”
“I want to be worthy of your
trust.”
“You have my trust - it has been
cemented by a thousand little everyday actions. Whether it’s a smile to pick me up when I’m low, or a
reassuring voice on the comm link, or the care I know you put into my counter
missions. It’s your integrity
that I trust, the same values that led you to work for the CIA. Your beliefs stand for something.”
Her words make me blush. They make me believe our bond is
strong enough to entertain dangerous thoughts about transcending the
boundaries of protocol.
“With my father, I just don’t
even know why I am fooling myself.
I guess it is a beautiful myth to think that he will ever be a real
father to me. He always has a
hidden agenda. I doubt he will
ever be completely honest with me.”
“Did your dad come clean about
Madagascar?”
“If it were only just Madagascar
- but there’s so much more to it than that.”
She pauses in conflicted
thought, trying to find the words, so I wait patiently. I know she’ll tell me, but it needs
to come at her own pace. I hate
to encourage this, but I pour us another shot. This one does go straight to my brain and I start to feel
light headed. Syd is also
starting to relax more. Her
pupils are slightly dilated and unfocused, and I find myself staring into
their wounded depths.
“Vaughn, he programmed me. He took away my choices. He predestined me to be a spy.”
There’s so much pain in her voice, and I realize I must be seeing a glimpse
of the hurt she felt the first time her world was turned upside down - when
Danny was killed.
“I always knew I was good at
what I do, that I was an elite agent, but I never really stopped to think
about why. When SD6 recruited me
in college, it gave me direction.
Before that I had just been drifting, but the work and training I was
doing at SD6, it made me feel important, like I had found my perfect talent –
what I was meant to do.”
I have seen her in action on her
missions and know what she is talking about. It’s amazing to see her in the middle of the adrenaline
rush. She’s so on - it’s instinctive, her fight moves
flow automatically, like they’re a forgone conclusion. It’s very sexy to see her in the
middle of that high.
“When I was in Vienna and saw
those kids executing drills in that classroom, it was like an echo in my
brain. When we raided Kholokov’s
in Buenos Aires, I recognized a puzzle on his coffee table; I was drawn to it. I know I am good at spatial problem
solving, but I knew where every piece fit without hesitation, like it was
like a memory that I knew was there but just couldn’t access. It was just like those kids
assembling and disassembling their guns.”
“So when I returned I had the psychologist hypnotize me. I had to find those hidden
memories. During the regression,
I saw my father. Training me. He
was developing a his own next generation weapon – Project Christmas.”
“Jack used you?” I see the horror in her eyes as I put
these thoughts to words. She
looks so defeated. I think it is
time for another shot.
“Did I ever have a chance at a
normal life? For the longest time, I thought I had joined SD6 of my own free
will. Now I know I was just
fulfilling my training. He pimped
me into this life. Spying is in my genes; it’s how I was raised. The
arguments for both nature and nurture are against me.”
“And I don’t know what role my
mother played. She was spying on
him, but did she run her own tests on me? I feel like the only reason they even had me was to be
their lab rat and test their projects.
And what if Sloane was knew?
Is that why he is so possessive of me? Was I one of his spy kids?”
“Oh Syd.” She’s worked herself into a state and
is on the verge of tears.
“Who would I be today if my dad
had not programmed me?”
“Syd that’s like saying what if
Irina never killed my father. Of
course I want to undo that. But
it also made me who I am. And
without the past, we would not be here today.”
At the mention of the demented
point where our histories intersect, she loses it. Some days she wears the guilt of her mother’s sins against
me like an open wound. She
doesn’t want to admit how much she still wants a mother; how she wants her
approval. I know; I grew up
without a parent too. Eventually,
her sobbing subsides as I rub her back, but we do not leave these dark
thoughts.
“I must sound so ridiculous when
it comes to my mother. One
minute I am hot and the next I am cold.”
“No, you’re just confused, and
with good reason. Every day you’re learning new facts about a woman who
abandoned you twenty years ago.”
There’s something she wants to
ask me about Irina, but it pains her to think about asking me of all
people. Something she would
never dare ask me sober, but the tequila has given her a desired reprieve
from her inhibitions. I know it
will cut me, but I nod my head, silently giving her approval to ask her
question and tear me down.
“Vaughn, do I look like my
mother?”
* * * * * *
MOFO
Lookin' for to save my, save my soul
Lookin' in the places where no flowers grow.
Lookin' for to fill that God-shaped hole
Mother, mother-suckin' rock an' roll.
--U2
She pierces my heart with her question, and the look on
her face tells me that she can’t quite believe she gave voice to it. Her expression is somewhere between
the horror of being associated with her mother’s sins, and the longing of a
little girl playing dress up, desperately trying to emulate her mom. But she asked with such timid
sincerity that I know I owe her an answer.
“No, it’s weird to explain – when I look at her, I do see
you in her. As if you are the
embodiment of a path she chose not to take.”
“But when I look at you, I don’t see any apparitions of
her - she’s the farthest thing from my mind.”
“I’m worried that I am doomed to become her.”
“Syd, you have to remember that we all have choices. We choose to be who we are by the
choices we make every day. And
you make the right choices daily by standing up for your friends, your
country, the people you love.”
“Are you sure?
Vaughn, sometimes I feel like you are the only moral compass I have.”
“Syd, you know right from wrong - I don’t doubt that. You sought out the truth; you came to
the CIA for justice.”
“When I came to the CIA, if I really want to be honest to
myself, it was for revenge. To
give Danny’s death meaning. To
make SD6 pay for taking away my future.
Saving innocent people from SD6 was not at the top of the list.”
“It’s hard Vaughn.
I don’t know if I am doing any good. Some days all I want to do is walk away and never look
back.”
“I know Syd.
I know.” I try to soothe
her, cradling her again in my arms, but she is just getting more and more
agitated. I too question the
effectiveness of our crusade.
All we seem to learn are truths about our parents that we wish we
didn’t know. When do we drop
this quest? I know we continue
at vulgar cost, but which straw will have to break before we’ve had enough?
“You never told me what happened when you met my
mother.” She’s pulling out all
the stops tonight; she’s not giving me any breaks. I haven’t opened up to her about this because the last
thing she needs is one more voice telling her that her mom is evil.
“It’s not good to keep this bottled up. You’ve been my confidant, my shoulder
to cry on – whom do you talk to?”
I used to confide in Weiss, but after Taipei and
Barcelona, he’s been out of the loop, and I haven’t bothered him. So much has happened since then. Weiss disapproved of my attachment to
Sydney before. How would I even
begin to explain what she means to me now? So I just don’t talk about it – I stuff it away in a
corner. Probably not the
healthiest thing to do.
She reaches forward and pours us another shot. Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe her brand of poison tonight is
a good choice. I don’t want to
hurt her, but she deserves to know about her mother. I owe it to her to be honest after
she has bared herself to me.
This time, I’m the one asking for the double shot. I watch as she knocks the latest one
back with quick efficiency, and then distractingly lingers on the lime.
“The first time I went to see Irina, I thought it would be
easy to separate my professional and personal agendas, but I lost that game
with myself before I even stepped in the room. She recognized me immediately – I don’t know why I thought
she wouldn’t. She had access to
intel – and then there was Taipei.”
Syd tenses up at the mention of Taipei. I know what she is thinking because I
am remembering too. She still
has nightmares filled with water and death that she won’t talk about. I take her hand and press it to my
chest, so she can feel my heartbeat and breathing to reassure her.
“For two days we watched as she sat disinterested and
ignored every agent who tried to interrogate her. But with me she was immediately engaged, leaning on the
window, trying to intimidate me just because she could. It was like a game of
cat and mouse, only the cat had already caught the mouse, and she was just
toying with me. It made me sick
to do it, but I played the only card I had – you. It got her attention. After she had given me the information, ‘a gift’ as she
magnanimously called it. I thought
we were done, but she stopped me.
She said, ‘You look just like him.’”
I choke on the memory of her words, and it physically hurts
to talk. Syd clasps my hands in
hers trying to impart some courage into me, so I can continue.
“All this time, I thought that he never knew his killer,
that it was not premeditated.
That it just another spilt second decision on a mission. But now I know different. She knew my father and threw that in my face. People often tell me that I am the
image of my father. I used to
take pride in that, but now I can only hear her words defiling his
memory. You never expect to hear
that from your father’s killer.”
The tears are welling up in my eyes, and I can’t stop
them. Crap. Tonight was about being strong for
her, but now she has turned the drunken confession onto me.
So I give her my vulnerability as a sign of my trust. I offer her this escape from her
emotions, her reality, and she takes it and takes charge. I’m stunned as she climbs onto my
lap, facing me and cups my face tenderly.
“I’m so sorry for the pain she caused you.”
“Syd, it’s not your fault. It’s not your sin to atone for.”
“But she’s my mother.”
“And you are not her.”
My eyes are watering and my nose is running as I think of
my dad. He was a good man.
Principled, I wish Sydney could have known him. I remember him teaching me how to play hockey and to ride
a bike. I remember his briefcase
and suit coat hanging on the back of a chair in our dining room when he got
home from work. Sometimes I
wonder if I idolized him because I was just a kid looking up to his father. What if I knew him as an adult? What sins would taint him that I
could not have known as a kid?
Sydney hugs me fiercely, and for the first time I am
crying in her arms, and she is consoling me. She smoothes my hair, looks into my eyes, and kisses my
forehead, all the while shushing me. She kisses the stream of salty tears
from my eyes, and finally places a feather-light kiss on my lips. She presses her forehead against
mine, wraps her arms around my neck, and intently stares into my eyes. Her eyes are so open; she’s dropped
all her pretenses and offers herself up to me, to share the pain of who our
parents are.
We are so close, sharing the same breath, and I can’t
stand it anymore. I close the
inches between us and capture her lips.
It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and I have forgotten every coherent
thought I had. I am solely
intent on kissing her, tasting her, touching her. The kiss is slow and languid and tender and stays that way
for what seems like hours as we just enjoy the taste of each other. It’s the perfect first kiss, and I
can’t ever remember kissing any one else.
* * * * * *
ELEVATION
High, higher than the sun
You shoot me from a gun
I need you to elevate me here,
At the corner of your lips
As the orbit of your hips
Eclipse, you elevate my soul
--U2
The more time elapses, the more the kiss intensifies, and
soon kissing is just not enough; we must also feel. Her hands start at my shoulders and glide over my back,
tracing the lines of my muscles, trailing over my biceps, testing their
strength, and making me a feel a buzz that is not alcohol related.
* * * * * * *
Hawkmoon 269
When the night has no end
And the day yet to begin
As the room spins around
I need your love
I need your love.
--U2
Stilling reeling from the momentum of our encounter, I
force myself to shake it off and follow her into the bathroom. Her trembling form is hunched over
the toilet, and her hair is threatening to fall into her face as she grips
the bowl. So I hold her hair out
of the way as she empties the contents of her stomach. Waves of nausea hit her as waves of
guilt hit me. This is my fault;
I should have taken better care of her.
I should have made her eat something – she probably hasn’t eaten
anything all day. All those
shots were just too much on an empty stomach.
I slowly rub her back as another wave of nausea racks her
body followed by another spasm of coughing. “I’m okay, really,” she says
between coughing fits desperately trying to deny her body’s weakness. It’s an inelegant moment, but I
wouldn’t trade it for the world.
I cherish these fleeting instances where she allows herself to be
vulnerable. “I hate this.”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk yet.”
When she calms down a bit, I reach over to the sink and
get her a glass of water. She
accepts it gratefully, gulping it down, before I can caution her to take it
slowly.
The water calms her for a few minutes, so she can catch
her breath, but her stomach too soon rejects it. I shouldn’t have filled the glass so full.
There’s nothing left in her stomach, but spasms still rack
her body, trying to bring up the alcohol. This is not good – she needs fluid, but can’t keep the
water down. As the latest wave
subsides, I tell her that I am going to get her some gatorade from the fridge
and will be right back.
When I return she is sitting against the wall looking pale
and exhausted as if she just ran a mile. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.
Tequila is harsh mistress.
We’ve all been there.”
This time I pour only a small amount into the glass and give it to
her. “Slowly this time.” She gives me a weak smile. I continue to parcel out the
gatorade, and she starts to look better, not so pale. The color is returning
to her face.
“Damn it. This is not how I planned this night.” She says
in frustration.
“And just what did you plan to do with me tonight?” I
smirk. I love the idea that she
has fantasized about us. She’s
had a starring role in my daydreams for the longest time.
“Rome always sounded good for this night.” We both smile remembering a certain
conversation in the Vatican.
“That sounds wonderful Syd. We’ll save it for our anniversary.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I grab a washcloth, wet it, and gently wipe her brow and
the tearstains under her eyes.
Her hand closes around my wrist, and she murmurs a quiet thank
you. I stay with her like this
waiting for her cue, that she won’t get sick again. Eventually she stands, borrows my toothbrush, and splashes
cold water on her face.
“Let’s go to bed, Syd.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Exhausted, she leans on me and lets me lead her back to
the bedroom. We get into bed,
but I keep a space in between us, thinking she won’t want to be touched while
her stomach is still reeling.
“You’re too far away. Hold me.”
That’s all the invitation I need. I spoon up behind her, and she quick drifts off into a
sound sleep. As I listen to her
breathing even out, I realize how exhausted I am and a deep sleep soon
follows.
The First Time
I have a lover, a lover like no other
She got soul, soul, soul, sweet soul
And she teach me how to sing.
Shows me colors when there's none to see
Gives me hope when I can't believe
That for the first time I feel love.
-U2
I have a recurring dream that teases me each morning. It lingers around the edge of
consciousness right before I wake up.
In my dream his strong arms surround me; I am molded to him, and our
legs are entwined. I feel so normal and safe, like the missing link in my
life has been found. But today
something is different – it’s more visceral, tactile, permanent. All the little details are
heightened, like the way our skin sticks together, and how his breath blows
through my hair, tickling my ear.
He is hard against my thigh, and I smile and bury my head in the crook
of his arm at the thought of his arousal. As usual, I don’t want to let this fantasy go, and then I
realize that this morning dreams and reality blend.
“Michael.” I
mumble and swear that I hear his heartbeat speed up at the sound of my
voice. I feel him watching me,
and though my mind is cloudy, yesterday’s events filter into my awareness.
I sigh, trying to clear this groggy haze from my
head. Despite his soothing
presence, I’m not yet ready to move forward and face this day. I feel better than I expected –
Vaughn did a good job of taking care of me. My thoughts drift through the intensely honest moments we
shared, but then backtrack to what brought us to them. Betrayal. My father. My
mother. How could they? How could they be so callous and use
me like that? Every time I think
I know what made me who I am, something new comes along and knocks me on my
ass.
Oh, my god last night! I can’t believe I asked Vaughn about my mother. And he let me. He didn’t run or hide. He let me cut into him, dissect him,
all to try to help me. I am
stunned by the depths this wonderful man will go to for me.
I feel his thoughts focus on me - he knows I am
awake. He seems hesitant, almost
scared and is waiting for my reaction.
I threw him for a loop last night when I decided to play the
aggressor. I am glad we got
drunk together. It would have
taken us months, years maybe, to get to this point being too bound by duty
and protocol. I knew I was
playing with fire, but the look of awe and admiration as I climbed onto his
lap was positively delicious. And the kiss. . . .
So I take a deep breath and force away the treachery of
yesterday and tighten my arms around him. If I can just hang on to this moment, maybe the world
won’t be so bad. Maybe we will
have a chance to find happiness and escape this life. His mere presence helps lift the
crushing weight off of my shoulders.
“Syd?” He sounds regretful to disturb me.
I hum an acknowledgement into his shoulder. His hands massage my back, pulling me
away from my reverie. My senses
slowly wake up, and I know I could get used to being taken care of like this.
“You awake?”
“No,” My voice is raw and gravelly hoarse from the alcohol
and our late night confessions.
I can tell he is amused by my reaction. He lifts my face towards him and
says, “Today is a new day.”
“I’m not opening my eyes.” It comes out sharper than I
meant for it to.
“Why?”
“Because I am afraid that if I open up my eyes, I will
find that what we shared last night was just a dream.”
“Then keep your eyes closed; we can stay in dreamland a
little longer.”
“You’re so good to me.”
“Syd, I’m here, this is real.” And it is.
The sounds, the touches, the scents, and the memory of the taste of
his mouth confirm this, but I still deny myself the sight of him.
“You feeling okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of me.”
“Sydney, I’ll always take care of you.”
Keeping my eyes shut, I lay my head back down on his
shoulder. It’s such a tease to
speak in absolutes. We both know
first hand that there are no such promises in life.
“It’s not still morning is it?”
“Well, no. We
were up pretty late.”
“So what do you have to do today?”
“Lie in bed with you.” I like the sound of that.
“No interruptions?”
“None.” His voice tells me that he relishes this release
from our routine as much as I do.
I grin, and he traces my dimples and leans in to kiss me.
“Are you sure I’m not dreaming?”
“No, Syd.”
“So if I do open my eyes, you’ll still be here?”
“Yes, but keep your eyes closed and sit up for me.”
“Why?”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” What an irresistibly intriguing offer.
I sit up and he places his hands at my waist. He strips off his hockey jersey,
exposing me to him. The combination of his heated gaze and the cool air hits
me causing goosebumps to spread across my skin and my nipples tighten.
I welcome his scrutiny. His gaze is so liberating – to know that I can trust him
on such a corporeal level. But I
find myself reaching for him, as I am unable to stand the physical separation
any longer. He complies and
gathers me into his arms so we are pressed torso to torso. The feel of our naked skin is
absolutely sinful.
He inhales sharply.
It’s good to know that I am not the only one affected by our
closeness. “This feels nice,
really nice.”
Our lips search for each other again, and we lose ourselves
in another kiss. What a
wonderful way to wake up. My
senses multiply in response to him.
He pulls away, and I am achingly bereft of his body. I hear a zipper and then stiff
material rumpling. It’s about
time he lost the jeans.
When he returns, he wraps his arms around me, so he can
lay me back down and explore my body.
He nuzzles my neck and starts a trail of wet kisses southward,
reaching my breasts and pausing to give each nipple due attention with his
lips and fingers. He lingers so
long that soon my nipples are overstimulated, raw, and I whimper and jerk
away from his lips.
He continues his journey and burns a trail of kisses down
my stomach pausing to explore my belly button. He nips at the skin on my hips and slides one finger beneath
the edge of elastic of the boxers.
My hips are entranced, and I am making small thrusting motions against
him. I am lost in the
anticipation of his next move.
“Sydney, do you trust me?” His deepened voice betrays his
arousal.
“With all my soul.”
“Lift your hips.”
I comply and allow him to strip his boxers off of me,
baring my all to him. He’s
kneeling between my legs, and it is suddenly very hard not to open my
eyes. I want to see his
expression now that I have so completely surrendered myself to him.
He lifts my left leg so the ankle is resting on his
shoulder, and turns his chin to rub his stubble against my ankle. “You’re scratchy.”
“You’re blushing.”
If I wasn’t before, his words send a whole new rush of blood to my
skin. I am acutely aware of the fact that he is seeing all of me, yet I still
have not seen him naked.
“I want to open my eyes.” Did I just moan that?
“Not yet.”
His fingertips slide along the contours of my leg, burning
me. Closer and closer, his hands
inch up my thighs towards my center.
I suck in and bite my lip as his fingers splay across my thighs. He continues his exploration and
delicately dips his fingers into my arousal tracing slow circles. My hips move with the urgent rhythm
set by his hand.
Anticipation is such a tantalizing thing. Vaughn toys with this moment, drawing
it out and ramping up my desire.
He is bent over me, and I know where this is headed, but he stops
short of his destination and tempts me with his hot breath. After what seems like an eternity, he
lowers his mouth to me with throbbing intensity. His lips and tongue expertly tease, lave, and suck,
causing me to buck my hips and recklessly moan his name. He increases the pressure and speed
until it is unbearable. I stiffen and spasm and bliss out as my whole body
turns to liquid.
When I come back to my senses, he is back alongside me,
holding me.
“You are very talented.” I know he is smiling at the
complement.
He gets up again and I hear him shed the last article of
clothing. I am slightly
disappointed because I still don’t know the answer to the boxers or briefs
question.
He reaches over me, pulls open the drawer of the
nightstand, and I hear a metallic rip of packaging. Even in this moment of sexed up intensity, he is still my
provider of protection. I am
overwhelmed with intense desire and love for Vaughn. I can’t believe we are finally
here.
I sit up unable to keep from touching him any longer. “Let me,” I ask and blindly hold a
hand out. He places the condom
in the palm of my hand and guides me to him. It’s been quite a while since I have performed this
action. He is so strong and full
of life. I wrap my hand around
the silken smooth skin of his erection.
I slide and stroke and stretch the latex over him, and he gasps at the
motions trying not to thrust.
I’m giddy with the knowledge that I have this effect on him.
I lie back down and he covers me with his body. His erection nudges up against my
entrance.
“Open your eyes.”
I gladly do and find myself looking straight into the
depths of his. I see adoration
and a barely restrained hunger, so I shift my hips by a fraction. He slides home, letting his eyes
briefly slip shut in ecstasy.
I’m tight, so tight and full, stretched almost beyond
comfort.
“This okay?
I’m not hurting you?” he asks with concern.
“This is amazing – I’m just tight.”
“Yeah. What can I do?”
“Stay like this, give me a minute to adjust.”
He smiles and brush runs his hand through my hair. “I love you Sydney.”
“Oh Michael, I love you too.”
I finally feel somewhat adjusted, and slowly start to
slide. We stare into each
other’s eyes sharing the delicious sensation of slippery slick heated
skin. He lowers his head to
capture my lips.
Our hips join together in a gentle thrusting, setting a
rhythm and steadily escalating the pace. I drink in his expression and see the cliched wrinkles on
his forehead, which usually betray his upset and concern for me. It’s wonderful to see these wrinkles
in a different type concentration.
Our motions become frantic - we are gasping, going full
hilt, slamming into each other, almost there, almost ready. By the quiver in his thighs, I know
he won’t last much longer, but he is trying to hold out for me. I forcefully grind into his hips
encouraging him to find release.
He shifts and reaches down to find that phantom spot to take me with
him. I didn’t think I could be primed again so soon, but his touch sends me
careening to the edge right along with him. He can’t hold any longer, my eyes assure him that it’s
okay to let go. His touch works
the necessary magic, and I follow him into ecstasy, just seconds behind. Gasping and sated, we collapse
in each other’s arms.
* * * * * *
The second time I wake up today, it is to a weird sense of
déjà vu. This time there is no
doubt in my mind that I have left dreamland far behind. He’s still asleep and it is my turn
to savor this precious moment and observe him. The dark circles, which have appeared under his eyes so
much of late, have disappeared.
Even though we are still lost in the afterglow of our
union, this is a bittersweet moment.
In my dreams, this moment always exists after the takedown when we are
free to live and love and start a new life, knowing that we will wake up like
this everyday.
I know there will be more mornings like this, but for now,
we will have to steal them when we can because in the near future, they will
be few and far between and bought with great risk.
While I have been lost in thought, Michael has woken up
and is watching me.
“You’re beautiful.”
He always knows how to make me blush. I realize now as I did last night, it
is my choice to either worry about our uncertain future or to take advantage
of the moments we’re given.
“Syd, you’re grinning like the Cheshire cat. What are you thinking?”
“Michael, I think it’s time for you to close your eyes.”
FINI
|