Hi! Okay, Dani told me to post this here, so here I am. Enjoy. Next part up tomorrow at the latest.
Title: Sunlight at the End of the World
By: Kira
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Vaughn’s trip to the edge of his world uncovers a project he’d rather have left in the past
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams and ABC. Not me. So please don’t sue me, okay?
Author’s Note: Won’t be long, promise. I’d like to thank Beth, who gave me the motivation to go with this story, and who helped me conceive the beginning. Jen, for giving me an open mind and giving support that was worth more than feedback. And Laura amy, who’s silly antics and prompt reading helped me go on when I was stuck. You three are the reason this fic has been written.
This story was originally intended for Cover Me’s February Challenge. However, the fic grew too long to be included in that challenge, so you will see elements of that challenge reflected here.
Heavily, well, totally inspired by the Coldplay song “The Scientist.”
(only timeline note: after first season. Before phase one. That’s it. Mostly stand-alone.)
“You need not fear the demon hosts around you; it is most important to tame your mind within.”
-The Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa
Part 1a
The dream was always the same. Well, as alike as dreams could be. There was always something, something that was different – the color of a balloon, the words of a passer-by, maybe someone had a different color shirt or hair color. But the content, the content of the dream was constant; like a drum that beat to its own rhythm, never relenting despite the cries, the pleading.
And that’s what he would do to stop the dream. Never vocal, though. His cries were a deeper kind, a kind unheard by the world. They couldn’t know what he dreamt, what he knew. It was a pain he would not wish upon another human being, a pain he held close to his heart.
There was some time that the dream stopped, that he was without the terror, the fear of sleeping. And while at first he felt blessed – that finally his cries had been heard – he felt broken. As if a piece of him was missing. For awhile, he dealt with it, finding other ways to make up for this lack of feeling that had begun to consume him. He lived on the edge, doing everything he could to feel alive, to reassure him that life was here, worth living.
And then it returned.
It was almost a comfort. But he realized he would never be completely free, that he must live with it for the rest of his days, and nothing short of death would free him. So he learned to deal the best he could. And it helped him keep some hold on his sanity.
It always started the same – that never changed.
There was the sound of the ocean, oh, how calming the ocean was! It was early morning, he could tell by the streaks of sunlight rising and falling with the small waves crashing onto the beach. He could never see the sun itself, no matter how many times he had tried to lift his head to see it, he could not. Like a movie, his eyes were directed towards the end of the boardwalk; ;a boardwalk that had appeared out of his mind, under his feet. At the end, he could make out a lone figure, a tallish man leaning against the railing, his mind on things other than the people passing him.
A child walked by clutching the string of a red balloon. Or maybe blue this time. Her mother smiled and held her other hand, keeping her only child close to her side. They couldn’t be separated, they were enjoying the day together, joy written plainly on their features. For a moment, he thought the woman looked like his own mother, but she passed too quickly. Never base anything on uncertainties, he told himself.
The figure at the end of the boardwalk pushed off from the railing and turned his way. His expression was unseen from this distance, and the dreamer found himself running in the man’s direction, his feet moving without being told to do so. But it were as if he were simply running on a spinning wheel, and no matter how fast he ran, he never reached the man, never got any closer than he was. And his head would try to snap up to the sky but he could not look into the quickly falling sun. His feet kept going, his mind willing him to run faster! Look for the light! And while these directions were ordered, the man at the end of the boardwalk would disappear down the steps at the end, gone from view.
Sound would come into the dream at that point, a rush of chaos that swept him off his feet and seemed to throw him around. The sensation was much akin to that of falling when one first goes to sleep, when the room will tilt off edge and for a moment, one fears slipping off their bed into oblivion. The sun was gone, the sound of crashing waves filling his ears. They were so loud! And in the distance, he could hear a gunshot. He knew that was coming. He had known for years. It was what happened next that he feared. And sometimes, he – -
“- - and I said, that can’t be right.”
“Things like that just shouldn’t happen.”
“No. All right, it’s a somewhat overcast morning on this glorious Monday, the 25th of April -- “
Generally pissed at the necessary yet hated electronic prompted the early morning ritual of slamming the snooze button with all weight and force possible. Now, this often depended on the level of exhaustion being battled at the moment, making the hand miss on a few occasions. It did not miss this morning. Groaning, Michael Vaughn, government employee, rolled onto his back in the mess of covers and pillows, arm coming to shield his eyes in a most clichéd manor. Generally, when waking up from a particularly bad dream, he’d let his mind clear a bit before starting with his morning routine, and, consequently, swearing at the fact that the sun was still asleep.
But this morning, like many others he’d experienced in his lifetime, left a bad taste in his mouth. One that would not go away. Yet years of practice had made it so he would not show his bad experience, and as the memory faded away, the radio clicked on again, focusing his energy and attention on something completely different. The bad music pouring out of the small, otherwise placid device. Why it was set on this station was unknown to him – it was still on the factor preset position. Oh well.
Heaving himself out of bed, he stole a glance out the window. Why did he have to go into work so early? He was sure, no, positive, that there were people out there with the same amount of education as him, the same talents, who were making twice what he made and could sleep till a reasonable hour. He was also sure that these same people had normal business hours, hours that wouldn’t cause rifts to form in interpersonal relationships, be the focus of countless arguments, and cause sleep deprivation on more days than not.
And he couldn’t even flaunt the perks his job presented. He had top secret clearance (in most cases), but could he tell anyone? No. Working for the state department, as he was told to tell everyone, was not glamorous. Nor did it bring in a large amount of money, which he was reminded of as he pulled a clean suit from his small closet. His mind said small since he was in one of those flux periods with his attachment, Alice. When the relationship was on, it could be signified by the closet changing from small to inhumanly sized to fit this many garments, half of which do not belong to the closet’s owner.
He was glad it was just small. He needed to get some new clothes.
Yet despite the short-comings of his job, or of his apartment, there was one thing that brought him joy this crisp fall morning. And as he put on his suit coat and check his appearance one last time in his small mirror, a slight smile could be seen on his face.
He’d been woken up before the worst part of the dream.
- -
Vaughn really liked his office. He enjoyed the semi-darkness the dark woods provided, and rarely switched on the overhead lights. The small lap, placed so perfectly on the desk, provided all the light he needed. Outside his door, people ran from office to office, their lives caught up in a whirlwind of activity, of secrecy and patriotism. But in his office, in his office all was calm. He could control the elements inside the four walls. Nothing was beyond his grasp.
It was nothing like the Joint Operations Center, where chaos seemed to live and have a throne room somewhere in the hidden upper levels. It was disorganized, hectic, and giving a lot of the agents stationed down there ideas of finding new assignments. And there were no windows. They were inside a closed capsule, completely cut off from the outside world, the very world they were trying to protect. Information came in as digits, assembled by the computers, and given to them because, frankly, seeing something with their own eyes wasn’t something they could do.
It wasn’t like the intelligence world he’d read about in his father’s journal.
Like a bedtime story, the opening lines described the perfection the writer/main character lived in. A darling wife, an adorable son. The writer longed only for the disclosure to live an equally perfect life, one without the shroud of secrecy around it. But just as he had a duty to his family to be there as much as he could, he felt, no, believed in the duty to his country that so many of his fellow Americans had turned their backs on in favor of capitalist gain. Personal gain.
The worn pages, gone over so many times by the son who survived him, told the story of a man struggling with his life, with the lies of the past and those of time yet to be. When Vaughn was younger, he was thrilled by the sketchy accounts of missions gone by, the only let-down was the fact that the passages were dominated by his father’s feelings and opinion instead of the action he wanted to read. As the days wore on and the pages more filled than blank, the father wished to be freed from his ever-growing contradictions. Was patriotism supposed to be like this? What had ever happened to the men the father had seen as a boy, men that had pushed him in this direction?
The reader found it humorous that, one day, after reading a few passages while waiting for a program to come on TV, that he had started asking the same questions of himself.
It was then that the journal became some kind of instruction booklet for how to handle his life. And then the irony came, the irony that he had an instruction booklet for life that no one else had, handed down by a dead father.
“You’re staring way to intently at that picture, its freaky.” This, of course, caused Vaughn to snap his head up, surprised by the sudden burst of exposition. The surprised expression on his friend’s face caused Eric Weiss to laugh, and saunter farther into the office.
“What’s up?” Vaughn asked, swiveling his chair back to face the large desk. At Weiss’ raised brow, he turned his attention to the thin file sitting on his desk, undoubtedly placed there by the group assistant while he was staring off into space. Great, budget reports. Under his cost number. And they didn’t pay for long distance, despite the fact that the CIA operated outside the United States.
“What’s up with you?” Weiss asked, slipping into a chair. He never seemed to actually sit, instead, he fell, or slid, always an action that was so casual, Vaughn was surprised he didn’t fall right out of the chair. The action was lessened a bit than before, but it was still there. Another Weiss trademark move.
“What are you talking about?” his friend asked, pretending to be interested in the jumble of numbers on the sheet of paper that was the current focus of his attention.
“What am I talking about?” Weiss asked as if the question was ludicrous. “Let’s see. What didn’t you do this morning? Say hi? Grab a doughnut? C’mon, you’re off today, my friend.”
“Off?” Vaughn responded, lifting his head. The yellow light from the lamp reflected off his sharp features, causing him to look more exhausted than he already was.
“Yes, off, as in acting slightly altered, and I don’t, I mean, I hope it’s not an illegal form of altercation,” Weiss commented. Vaughn shook his head defiantly. Weiss raised his palms in mock surrender. “Right, I know, just checking, buddy. Anyway, sure, coming in here might be a little different, but I know you so,” and here, Weiss leaned close to his friend, almost nose to nose, “what’s going on?”
“Weiss,” Vaughn replied seriously, not moving a bit, “nothing is going on.”
“Oh, you are wrong there, buddy. There is a lot going on. Every day. But let’s think of it this way – if you don’t tell me, I’m pulling in Rene.”
“Pull her. There’s nothing to say,” Vaughn sighed, leaning back in his chair. Weiss sat still for a second (only a second), then promptly stood.
“Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. I’ll just go – “
“Weiss, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before. And I am not off. Now get out of my office,” he said, playfully, holding his budget sheet up in the air. “Before this gets to me and I kill someone.”
“I’m off the ticket, right? One near death experience is enough?” Weiss inquired, leaning in the doorframe of the office. Vaughn smirked.
“Yeah, one is enough, or so I hope,” Vaughn responded vaguely, his eyes flickering off to the left. His friend shook his head and resigned himself to leaving, but not before one last remark.
“Fine, fine, you’re hopeless, anyway.”
Title: Sunlight at the End of the World
By: Kira
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Vaughn’s trip to the edge of his world uncovers a project he’d rather have left in the past
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams and ABC. Not me. So please don’t sue me, okay?
Author’s Note: Won’t be long, promise. I’d like to thank Beth, who gave me the motivation to go with this story, and who helped me conceive the beginning. Jen, for giving me an open mind and giving support that was worth more than feedback. And Laura amy, who’s silly antics and prompt reading helped me go on when I was stuck. You three are the reason this fic has been written.
This story was originally intended for Cover Me’s February Challenge. However, the fic grew too long to be included in that challenge, so you will see elements of that challenge reflected here.
Heavily, well, totally inspired by the Coldplay song “The Scientist.”
(only timeline note: after first season. Before phase one. That’s it. Mostly stand-alone.)
“You need not fear the demon hosts around you; it is most important to tame your mind within.”
-The Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa
Part 1a
The dream was always the same. Well, as alike as dreams could be. There was always something, something that was different – the color of a balloon, the words of a passer-by, maybe someone had a different color shirt or hair color. But the content, the content of the dream was constant; like a drum that beat to its own rhythm, never relenting despite the cries, the pleading.
And that’s what he would do to stop the dream. Never vocal, though. His cries were a deeper kind, a kind unheard by the world. They couldn’t know what he dreamt, what he knew. It was a pain he would not wish upon another human being, a pain he held close to his heart.
There was some time that the dream stopped, that he was without the terror, the fear of sleeping. And while at first he felt blessed – that finally his cries had been heard – he felt broken. As if a piece of him was missing. For awhile, he dealt with it, finding other ways to make up for this lack of feeling that had begun to consume him. He lived on the edge, doing everything he could to feel alive, to reassure him that life was here, worth living.
And then it returned.
It was almost a comfort. But he realized he would never be completely free, that he must live with it for the rest of his days, and nothing short of death would free him. So he learned to deal the best he could. And it helped him keep some hold on his sanity.
It always started the same – that never changed.
There was the sound of the ocean, oh, how calming the ocean was! It was early morning, he could tell by the streaks of sunlight rising and falling with the small waves crashing onto the beach. He could never see the sun itself, no matter how many times he had tried to lift his head to see it, he could not. Like a movie, his eyes were directed towards the end of the boardwalk; ;a boardwalk that had appeared out of his mind, under his feet. At the end, he could make out a lone figure, a tallish man leaning against the railing, his mind on things other than the people passing him.
A child walked by clutching the string of a red balloon. Or maybe blue this time. Her mother smiled and held her other hand, keeping her only child close to her side. They couldn’t be separated, they were enjoying the day together, joy written plainly on their features. For a moment, he thought the woman looked like his own mother, but she passed too quickly. Never base anything on uncertainties, he told himself.
The figure at the end of the boardwalk pushed off from the railing and turned his way. His expression was unseen from this distance, and the dreamer found himself running in the man’s direction, his feet moving without being told to do so. But it were as if he were simply running on a spinning wheel, and no matter how fast he ran, he never reached the man, never got any closer than he was. And his head would try to snap up to the sky but he could not look into the quickly falling sun. His feet kept going, his mind willing him to run faster! Look for the light! And while these directions were ordered, the man at the end of the boardwalk would disappear down the steps at the end, gone from view.
Sound would come into the dream at that point, a rush of chaos that swept him off his feet and seemed to throw him around. The sensation was much akin to that of falling when one first goes to sleep, when the room will tilt off edge and for a moment, one fears slipping off their bed into oblivion. The sun was gone, the sound of crashing waves filling his ears. They were so loud! And in the distance, he could hear a gunshot. He knew that was coming. He had known for years. It was what happened next that he feared. And sometimes, he – -
“- - and I said, that can’t be right.”
“Things like that just shouldn’t happen.”
“No. All right, it’s a somewhat overcast morning on this glorious Monday, the 25th of April -- “
Generally pissed at the necessary yet hated electronic prompted the early morning ritual of slamming the snooze button with all weight and force possible. Now, this often depended on the level of exhaustion being battled at the moment, making the hand miss on a few occasions. It did not miss this morning. Groaning, Michael Vaughn, government employee, rolled onto his back in the mess of covers and pillows, arm coming to shield his eyes in a most clichéd manor. Generally, when waking up from a particularly bad dream, he’d let his mind clear a bit before starting with his morning routine, and, consequently, swearing at the fact that the sun was still asleep.
But this morning, like many others he’d experienced in his lifetime, left a bad taste in his mouth. One that would not go away. Yet years of practice had made it so he would not show his bad experience, and as the memory faded away, the radio clicked on again, focusing his energy and attention on something completely different. The bad music pouring out of the small, otherwise placid device. Why it was set on this station was unknown to him – it was still on the factor preset position. Oh well.
Heaving himself out of bed, he stole a glance out the window. Why did he have to go into work so early? He was sure, no, positive, that there were people out there with the same amount of education as him, the same talents, who were making twice what he made and could sleep till a reasonable hour. He was also sure that these same people had normal business hours, hours that wouldn’t cause rifts to form in interpersonal relationships, be the focus of countless arguments, and cause sleep deprivation on more days than not.
And he couldn’t even flaunt the perks his job presented. He had top secret clearance (in most cases), but could he tell anyone? No. Working for the state department, as he was told to tell everyone, was not glamorous. Nor did it bring in a large amount of money, which he was reminded of as he pulled a clean suit from his small closet. His mind said small since he was in one of those flux periods with his attachment, Alice. When the relationship was on, it could be signified by the closet changing from small to inhumanly sized to fit this many garments, half of which do not belong to the closet’s owner.
He was glad it was just small. He needed to get some new clothes.
Yet despite the short-comings of his job, or of his apartment, there was one thing that brought him joy this crisp fall morning. And as he put on his suit coat and check his appearance one last time in his small mirror, a slight smile could be seen on his face.
He’d been woken up before the worst part of the dream.
- -
Vaughn really liked his office. He enjoyed the semi-darkness the dark woods provided, and rarely switched on the overhead lights. The small lap, placed so perfectly on the desk, provided all the light he needed. Outside his door, people ran from office to office, their lives caught up in a whirlwind of activity, of secrecy and patriotism. But in his office, in his office all was calm. He could control the elements inside the four walls. Nothing was beyond his grasp.
It was nothing like the Joint Operations Center, where chaos seemed to live and have a throne room somewhere in the hidden upper levels. It was disorganized, hectic, and giving a lot of the agents stationed down there ideas of finding new assignments. And there were no windows. They were inside a closed capsule, completely cut off from the outside world, the very world they were trying to protect. Information came in as digits, assembled by the computers, and given to them because, frankly, seeing something with their own eyes wasn’t something they could do.
It wasn’t like the intelligence world he’d read about in his father’s journal.
Like a bedtime story, the opening lines described the perfection the writer/main character lived in. A darling wife, an adorable son. The writer longed only for the disclosure to live an equally perfect life, one without the shroud of secrecy around it. But just as he had a duty to his family to be there as much as he could, he felt, no, believed in the duty to his country that so many of his fellow Americans had turned their backs on in favor of capitalist gain. Personal gain.
The worn pages, gone over so many times by the son who survived him, told the story of a man struggling with his life, with the lies of the past and those of time yet to be. When Vaughn was younger, he was thrilled by the sketchy accounts of missions gone by, the only let-down was the fact that the passages were dominated by his father’s feelings and opinion instead of the action he wanted to read. As the days wore on and the pages more filled than blank, the father wished to be freed from his ever-growing contradictions. Was patriotism supposed to be like this? What had ever happened to the men the father had seen as a boy, men that had pushed him in this direction?
The reader found it humorous that, one day, after reading a few passages while waiting for a program to come on TV, that he had started asking the same questions of himself.
It was then that the journal became some kind of instruction booklet for how to handle his life. And then the irony came, the irony that he had an instruction booklet for life that no one else had, handed down by a dead father.
“You’re staring way to intently at that picture, its freaky.” This, of course, caused Vaughn to snap his head up, surprised by the sudden burst of exposition. The surprised expression on his friend’s face caused Eric Weiss to laugh, and saunter farther into the office.
“What’s up?” Vaughn asked, swiveling his chair back to face the large desk. At Weiss’ raised brow, he turned his attention to the thin file sitting on his desk, undoubtedly placed there by the group assistant while he was staring off into space. Great, budget reports. Under his cost number. And they didn’t pay for long distance, despite the fact that the CIA operated outside the United States.
“What’s up with you?” Weiss asked, slipping into a chair. He never seemed to actually sit, instead, he fell, or slid, always an action that was so casual, Vaughn was surprised he didn’t fall right out of the chair. The action was lessened a bit than before, but it was still there. Another Weiss trademark move.
“What are you talking about?” his friend asked, pretending to be interested in the jumble of numbers on the sheet of paper that was the current focus of his attention.
“What am I talking about?” Weiss asked as if the question was ludicrous. “Let’s see. What didn’t you do this morning? Say hi? Grab a doughnut? C’mon, you’re off today, my friend.”
“Off?” Vaughn responded, lifting his head. The yellow light from the lamp reflected off his sharp features, causing him to look more exhausted than he already was.
“Yes, off, as in acting slightly altered, and I don’t, I mean, I hope it’s not an illegal form of altercation,” Weiss commented. Vaughn shook his head defiantly. Weiss raised his palms in mock surrender. “Right, I know, just checking, buddy. Anyway, sure, coming in here might be a little different, but I know you so,” and here, Weiss leaned close to his friend, almost nose to nose, “what’s going on?”
“Weiss,” Vaughn replied seriously, not moving a bit, “nothing is going on.”
“Oh, you are wrong there, buddy. There is a lot going on. Every day. But let’s think of it this way – if you don’t tell me, I’m pulling in Rene.”
“Pull her. There’s nothing to say,” Vaughn sighed, leaning back in his chair. Weiss sat still for a second (only a second), then promptly stood.
“Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. I’ll just go – “
“Weiss, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before. And I am not off. Now get out of my office,” he said, playfully, holding his budget sheet up in the air. “Before this gets to me and I kill someone.”
“I’m off the ticket, right? One near death experience is enough?” Weiss inquired, leaning in the doorframe of the office. Vaughn smirked.
“Yeah, one is enough, or so I hope,” Vaughn responded vaguely, his eyes flickering off to the left. His friend shook his head and resigned himself to leaving, but not before one last remark.
“Fine, fine, you’re hopeless, anyway.”
