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They are on the tip of your tongue.
You recall the flakes of paint on the ceiling of the lecture hall, the expression on the prof's face when she recited, even the voice of the girl who sat next to you. Still, the words elude you -- which is funny, because you're good with them, and they're good with you, having nurtured you well -- okay, passably -- throughout your working days.
Here, words have already failed you twice.
The first time, you came to ask, not to talk about Sydney, though you can't remember a time when a meeting between you and him was not about her.
Your early warning to him to treat her well (or…what? You were being ridiculous, overprotective, jealous ; you knew it even then, but it was the only thing left for you to do). The Project Christmas investigation (a job for you, a job well-done for him, a job done for Sydney's sake). His visits to your hospital bed afterwards (few and far between, but your memories of those days and nights are shapeless, bloodless, and anyway, you don't blame him; can't blame him because you recall his face, his eyes, the posture of his body, held up by only the force of his denial).
There was talk about the Witness Protection programme for you, but as soon as you could speak again, you were doing just that, and with the tongues of angels, too, trying to dissuade them. You like to think that you were burning with the desire to join the hunt for Sydney's killers, the bastards who'd mocked you with a Francie-that-wasn't; that everything -- even death at Their hands, whoever They were -- would be better than the pain and grief and terror choking you. Of course, the government was having none of that; you were injured and bed-ridden, but your hearing was still keen, keen enough to catch what was spoken behind the glass doors: intelligence officers sneering about "misplaced heroics" (when they were educated, and calm enough to remember that) and "civilians fucking it up" (when they weren't). That left only one person to find out what had happened and what would happen, one you hadn't seen in a while now.
You're not a fool, though, and therefore didn't expect Vaughn to welcome you with open arms to join him in his quest for either Sydney, alive and well, or vengeance, swift and terrible. What you did expect him to do was listen to you and respond to your need to know , if not in the way that he'd answer all of your questions: You were confident that you'd be able to get the information you wanted by reading between the lines.
Turned out you hadn't read Vaughn right. Or at least you hadn't turned to the right page yet, the one that showed him on the sofa, with his head thrown back, mouth open and legs spread, wide enough to accommodate Eric Weiss kneeling in front of him whose head was lowered, who was making low, soft sounds of pleasure.
Shouldn't it have been Vaughn moaning? , you wondered with perfect clarity. And, What sort of CIA agent leaves his front door unlocked?
Just the sort who was draped over his couch as if flung there, perhaps, eyes squeezed shut so that his lashes framed the deep shadows beneath them. The sight of them both -- Vaughn's hips jerking in restless circles, Weiss bent over and intent, one hand moving between Vaughn legs -- was enough to send shivers down your spine, confusion and embarrassment making the ache even sweeter, fiercer. That alone wouldn't have been enough to hold you there, though. But Weiss turned his head a little, lamp-light catching in the tear-tracks on his cheeks, stubbled and more hollow than you remembered them. You could see his other hand, half-obscured behind their bodies, intertwined with Vaughn's so tightly that the tendons on them stood in stark relief, and longing was threaded into your lust: Vaughn had his best friend there with him, giving him comfort in a way you had -- wondered about, yes, but certainly not expected.
That was when Vaughn opened his eyes -- their green even brighter against the red rims -- and looked at you. A fleeting note of surprise, the faint trace of a flush, and he let his right hand drop onto Weiss's shoulder, stilling him. When he said your name, it was without shame or hesitation.
Will.
Weiss had let go, and was looking up at you now, the expression on his face first one of alarm, coiled aggression even, then one of careful scrutiny. You couldn't help but stare at him, struck by his words:
Why are you here?
And, God help you, you couldn't even begin to think of an answer you'd known just a few moments ago, couldn't say a word, your throat working furiously without any sound coming out.
Yet, whatever Weiss saw in your eyes, it must've been the right -- or at least not a completely wrong -- answer as the two of them exchanged glances, and then, slowly, Vaughn moved over on the sofa. Made room for third person. Held out his hand.
And you, you moved forward as if sleepwalking, dreamwalking , and even while you took Vaughn's hand with your left, you bent down and extended your right, feeling Weiss's calloused fingers curl around it, strong and sure. Mirrored by the sudden sparks of heat from their hands, thoughts were running through your head: Electricity. Live energy. A circuit completed , when clothes had been peeled away and you could feel their skin on yours in that tangle of limbs, complicated and messy and simply glorious. At some point, you found your voice again, if only to mutter soft, thankful curses, and if you'd bothered to separate this into two separate piles of sex-with-another-person, the only curious thing would have been the absence of a name called out in the final moment.
The second time, you really came to talk. Not about what had happened -- people do mad, crazy things when they're lost and grieving and really, you were almost ready to put that behind you -- but about her, about all the good times you'd had with her, and the dull void somewhere in your chest that couldn't be filled.
It did help, and it didn't. Vaughn was quiet, listening to most of your stories, only occasionally adding his own comment. When he listened to the recent part of the tale, from your point of view, his hand on your arm halted the flow of your words.
I don't think I've ever thanked you for this -- doing all of this, for Sydney.
You shrugged, suddenly awkward, high school paper editor being praised by the class president and jock extraordinaire again. I just did what any decent person would have done.
Well, yes, said Vaughn, and looked intently at that point above your shoulder, but you and I both know there's a difference between that and what any decent person actually does in such a situation.
At the door, still inside, not yet in reach of the outside light, you turned your head and looked at him, the sharp profile of his face, the way the diffuse light underlined his cheekbones and the worried lines above his brow, and there was a sharp pang of pain and affection again, one that was purely for him, for his loss.
You didn't know if it showed on your face -- if he could even see you properly in the dim hallway -- but he must have seen something there, because he moved, his hands suddenly grabbing you by the lapels of your coat, pulling you closer, his mouth capturing yours, and then you were kissing, kissing with something akin to desperation, and your fingers were clutching at his arms, his stubble scraping your cheek just so that it made you tremble just a little.
When he let go, abruptly and with what may have been regret, you just swallowed hard, and at his soft good-bye, you nodded and turned away, and stepped out into the night.
And now, now you remember.
Lord, it is time. This was a very big summer.
Lay your shadows over the sundial,
and let the winds loose on the fields.
Command the last fruits to be full;
give them two more sunny days,
urge them on to fulfillment and throw
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, will never build one.
Whoever is alone now, will long remain so,
Will watch, read, write long letters
and will wander in the streets, here and there
restlessly, when the leaves blow.
***
A/N:
superslayer18 , you gave me the following:
Characters I wish for: Vaughn, Will, Weiss
Please include: Slash, either something nice or something rough
Please *exclude*: too much angst (a little is fine, just don't over do it), any het or femslash
Maximum rating: NC-17
I'm aware that there is quite a bit of angst in here, but as it's not based on the relationship between the characters portrayed, I hope this is still pleasing to you. To me, this was just about the only time in Alias canon when these three might just be in the right mental and emotional frame to come together without endangering the character voices too much.
The poem is, of course, Fall Day , by Rainer Maria Rilke.
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