MyGuardianAngel
Cadet
Title: Last Stop
Author: MyGuardianAngel (JoJo, me)
Rating: PG, bordering on PG-13 for language
Ship: S/V
Disclaimer: I am cloning and mass-producing Michael Vaughn. If you believe that then sure, I own the Alias characters...
Summary: One parter, Post-Telling, three months after Sydney arrives back from Hong Kong, she decides she must leave, on her last night, she goes to the pier, where she meets a familiar stranger and they have the conversation they never had.
Review: Please.
AN: I vowed I would not write a Post-Telling fic, but hey, here I am. Um…well, it’s unbetaed, so there might be some mistakes, and I’m sorry. This was just a last minute thing I whipped up, so it’s not very good, but I hope you enjoy anyway.
The waves crashed below her body as the faint music of a bluesy jazz band playing up the pier wove through the air. It was her last night there, her last stop, only stop on Memory Lane. Good memories, they were. Until a figure appeared beside her.
“Why are you here?”
She jerked her head to the side just slightly.
Pause.
He sighed heavily and leaned his arms against the chipped away railing. The lamppost beside them was out, and in the darkness, neither could see each other’s face.
“I heard…” his voice came out as a rasp.
He coughed into his fist, quite blatantly nervous.
“I heard you were leaving tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” she responded with a low voice, almost before he had time to finish.
Pause.
He sighed again.
“I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Then say it,” she replied as if it were obvious.
“Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
Despite the harsh context of her words, they did not seem bitter at all, and perhaps they were not meant to be. More likely than not, they were not meant to be. And it was all the closure he needed. But he couldn’t leave. Not just yet.
So she did.
“Don’t walk away like that.”
“Like what?” she queried, turning around.
“Like this. Don’t let things end like this.”
Pause.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and returned to her position against the railing silently and took a deep breath.
“You see, the problem is, I never ended anything.”
“So why start now?”
“No. I don’t think you understand, I never ended anything. Everything ended for me.”
Pause.
He turned his head to the side, trying to get a look of her face. He didn’t know what he expected. Tears, maybe? Eyes glassed over with a filmy layer of clear liquid? Maybe.
“I missed you, “ his voice was small, like a little boy’s.
Pause.
She sighed again, leaning harder on the greenish-blue railing, water crashing below her.
“Shut up.”
“We’re gonna have to have this conversation sometime. Preferably before our funerals.”
“What do we have to say to each other?”
“A lot, I think.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Don’t tell me that, in these past months, there hasn’t been a single thought that crossed your mind that you would like to tell me.”
“Now you’re just being presumptuous.”
Pause.
“Maybe.”
Pause.
She knew he was right, they would have to have this conversation sooner or later. And she didn’t want to be eighty and standing over his grave when it happened.
“I’m happy for you,” she started, “I truly am.”
She paused a little before continuing.
“I always thought…you deserve more. You deserve so much more than all this spy sh-t, you were always too good for this. Now that…a chance like this has presented itself, I think we both know what’s best for us. I was born into this life of this…Rambaldi spy felgercarb, espionage. You don’t have to live like that. You deserve to have something more. You…you deserve to have breakfast with your…wife and kids in the morning without having to worry you might die the next day. You deserve to go to work thinking about your next client, not your next mission. You deserve to come home from work, loosen up your tie and ask your wife what’s for dinner while you…kiss her on the cheek. You deserve to smile when your kids happily shout, ‘Lasagna!’ You deserve to read your kids stories, and kiss them on the forehead, wishing them luck at their soccer tournament the next day, promising them you’ll be there. And then, you deserve to go to bed with your wife…make love to her…”
She choked out the last part, but continued.
“And then take some time off of work the next day to watch your daughter’s soccer championships sitting next to your wife and son. Take some pictures of her holding up the trophy. Then go to the ice cream parlor and get her the biggest, baddest sundae on the menu. Her name would be Helen.”
He looked sideways at her, surprised that she had almost memorized it. He was about to say something, when she continued.
“I’m happy for you, I am. And I don’t blame you for moving on. It had been two years. That’s a long time. I moved on, I had feelings for you that I shouldn’t have had only months after. So…why would I blame you, when I myself did the same thing? Wouldn’t I just prove myself a hypocrite? I understand why you did what you did. I accept it, and I’m not bitter about it, I’m happy for you.”
“Then why didn’t you let me be your friend?”
Pause.
She sighed, once again tucking her hair behind her ear.
“That’s not fair. Not to me, not to both of us. Especially not me.”
He didn’t know what to say, maybe he was being selfish, thinking only of himself. He couldn’t have anything he wanted, and certainly not everything he wanted.
“I loved you.”
She cringed.
“I did. I need you to know, I did love you. I still do, just not the same way I used to. And maybe I’m being selfish, but I want you to be my friend.”
“You loved me?” it was more of a statement than a question.
He nodded, aware that she probably could not see him.
“But you love her now. More.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
She breathed deeply. She was prepared for it, but nothing compared to the actually feeling of hearing him love somebody more than her. More than he ever…loved her.
Long pause.
He coughed into his fist, surprised at how bitterly cold it was. How the wind lashed out and whipped at their faces. How the cold bit at their skin, leaving marks of their torture.
“Then I think we’ve said all we needed to say,” she said, preparing to walk away.
“No.”
“No?” she asked, caught off guard.
Pause.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded.
"Don't go to New York."
“That’s not fair,” she said again, although this time for different reasons.
“I don’t care if it’s not fair. I don’t care if I’m being a selfish b-stard. I don’t care.”
“If you ever loved me, you would understand.”
“I’m sick of understand, of caring.”
He seemed frustrated. And then, all of a sudden, he exploded.
“You know, g-d-mnit, I’m sick of caring. I’m sick of caring about you. Maybe it’s better if you do leave.”
He pushed himself back from the railing and walked briskly towards the down-ramp leading to the parking lot when her voice interrupted his exit and he came to a halt.
“Scott.”
He didn’t turn around, just stood there dead in his tracks, confused.
“His name would be Scott. Helen and Scott Vaughn. Daughter and son of Michael and Lauren Vaughn.”
He still stood unmoving, unable to move, unable to do anything.
“Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”
And then he walked away.
The End
much luv-
JoJo
Author: MyGuardianAngel (JoJo, me)
Rating: PG, bordering on PG-13 for language
Ship: S/V
Disclaimer: I am cloning and mass-producing Michael Vaughn. If you believe that then sure, I own the Alias characters...
Summary: One parter, Post-Telling, three months after Sydney arrives back from Hong Kong, she decides she must leave, on her last night, she goes to the pier, where she meets a familiar stranger and they have the conversation they never had.
Review: Please.
AN: I vowed I would not write a Post-Telling fic, but hey, here I am. Um…well, it’s unbetaed, so there might be some mistakes, and I’m sorry. This was just a last minute thing I whipped up, so it’s not very good, but I hope you enjoy anyway.
The waves crashed below her body as the faint music of a bluesy jazz band playing up the pier wove through the air. It was her last night there, her last stop, only stop on Memory Lane. Good memories, they were. Until a figure appeared beside her.
“Why are you here?”
She jerked her head to the side just slightly.
Pause.
He sighed heavily and leaned his arms against the chipped away railing. The lamppost beside them was out, and in the darkness, neither could see each other’s face.
“I heard…” his voice came out as a rasp.
He coughed into his fist, quite blatantly nervous.
“I heard you were leaving tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” she responded with a low voice, almost before he had time to finish.
Pause.
He sighed again.
“I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Then say it,” she replied as if it were obvious.
“Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
Despite the harsh context of her words, they did not seem bitter at all, and perhaps they were not meant to be. More likely than not, they were not meant to be. And it was all the closure he needed. But he couldn’t leave. Not just yet.
So she did.
“Don’t walk away like that.”
“Like what?” she queried, turning around.
“Like this. Don’t let things end like this.”
Pause.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and returned to her position against the railing silently and took a deep breath.
“You see, the problem is, I never ended anything.”
“So why start now?”
“No. I don’t think you understand, I never ended anything. Everything ended for me.”
Pause.
He turned his head to the side, trying to get a look of her face. He didn’t know what he expected. Tears, maybe? Eyes glassed over with a filmy layer of clear liquid? Maybe.
“I missed you, “ his voice was small, like a little boy’s.
Pause.
She sighed again, leaning harder on the greenish-blue railing, water crashing below her.
“Shut up.”
“We’re gonna have to have this conversation sometime. Preferably before our funerals.”
“What do we have to say to each other?”
“A lot, I think.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Don’t tell me that, in these past months, there hasn’t been a single thought that crossed your mind that you would like to tell me.”
“Now you’re just being presumptuous.”
Pause.
“Maybe.”
Pause.
She knew he was right, they would have to have this conversation sooner or later. And she didn’t want to be eighty and standing over his grave when it happened.
“I’m happy for you,” she started, “I truly am.”
She paused a little before continuing.
“I always thought…you deserve more. You deserve so much more than all this spy sh-t, you were always too good for this. Now that…a chance like this has presented itself, I think we both know what’s best for us. I was born into this life of this…Rambaldi spy felgercarb, espionage. You don’t have to live like that. You deserve to have something more. You…you deserve to have breakfast with your…wife and kids in the morning without having to worry you might die the next day. You deserve to go to work thinking about your next client, not your next mission. You deserve to come home from work, loosen up your tie and ask your wife what’s for dinner while you…kiss her on the cheek. You deserve to smile when your kids happily shout, ‘Lasagna!’ You deserve to read your kids stories, and kiss them on the forehead, wishing them luck at their soccer tournament the next day, promising them you’ll be there. And then, you deserve to go to bed with your wife…make love to her…”
She choked out the last part, but continued.
“And then take some time off of work the next day to watch your daughter’s soccer championships sitting next to your wife and son. Take some pictures of her holding up the trophy. Then go to the ice cream parlor and get her the biggest, baddest sundae on the menu. Her name would be Helen.”
He looked sideways at her, surprised that she had almost memorized it. He was about to say something, when she continued.
“I’m happy for you, I am. And I don’t blame you for moving on. It had been two years. That’s a long time. I moved on, I had feelings for you that I shouldn’t have had only months after. So…why would I blame you, when I myself did the same thing? Wouldn’t I just prove myself a hypocrite? I understand why you did what you did. I accept it, and I’m not bitter about it, I’m happy for you.”
“Then why didn’t you let me be your friend?”
Pause.
She sighed, once again tucking her hair behind her ear.
“That’s not fair. Not to me, not to both of us. Especially not me.”
He didn’t know what to say, maybe he was being selfish, thinking only of himself. He couldn’t have anything he wanted, and certainly not everything he wanted.
“I loved you.”
She cringed.
“I did. I need you to know, I did love you. I still do, just not the same way I used to. And maybe I’m being selfish, but I want you to be my friend.”
“You loved me?” it was more of a statement than a question.
He nodded, aware that she probably could not see him.
“But you love her now. More.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
She breathed deeply. She was prepared for it, but nothing compared to the actually feeling of hearing him love somebody more than her. More than he ever…loved her.
Long pause.
He coughed into his fist, surprised at how bitterly cold it was. How the wind lashed out and whipped at their faces. How the cold bit at their skin, leaving marks of their torture.
“Then I think we’ve said all we needed to say,” she said, preparing to walk away.
“No.”
“No?” she asked, caught off guard.
Pause.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded.
"Don't go to New York."
“That’s not fair,” she said again, although this time for different reasons.
“I don’t care if it’s not fair. I don’t care if I’m being a selfish b-stard. I don’t care.”
“If you ever loved me, you would understand.”
“I’m sick of understand, of caring.”
He seemed frustrated. And then, all of a sudden, he exploded.
“You know, g-d-mnit, I’m sick of caring. I’m sick of caring about you. Maybe it’s better if you do leave.”
He pushed himself back from the railing and walked briskly towards the down-ramp leading to the parking lot when her voice interrupted his exit and he came to a halt.
“Scott.”
He didn’t turn around, just stood there dead in his tracks, confused.
“His name would be Scott. Helen and Scott Vaughn. Daughter and son of Michael and Lauren Vaughn.”
He still stood unmoving, unable to move, unable to do anything.
“Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”
And then he walked away.
The End
much luv-
JoJo
