**Author's Note**: I am extremely sorry to say that this will be the last chapter. I would have dragged this out as long as I could and written you some breathtaking action scene in which Vaughn rescues Sydney, but unfortunately I am completely inept at said scenes. So I decided to make them human instead of superheroes, and I hope you can accept this meager morsel as an adequate ending. If you don't like it...well, just pretend I wrote something wonderfully dashing and romantic and we can call it even, okay?
As this is the last chapter, this is also my last chance to say thank you to all my reviewers who were moved enough to take the time to leave me a few encouraging words. A special dedication of this chapter goes out to neumy, who has been persistent and persistently flattering. In your generosity, you are a constant reminder of the reason I wrote this story--for the simple enjoyment of anyone who reads it. For your words, your encouragement, and your positive nature, I can never thank you enough. I am in the debt of all of you.
-wolfish
Chapter Fourteen
Beautiful
* All through the night I'll be watching over you
All through the night I'll be standing over you
And through bad dreams I'll be right there, baby
Holding your hand, telling you everything is all right
And when you cry I'll be right there
Telling you you were never anything less than beautiful
So don't you worry
I'm your Angel standing by *
--Angel Standing By, Jewel
In those seconds that he had thought were his last, with the chilly barrel of the gun slowly thawing against the heat of his skin, one of those vague, half-realized images that had flashed through his mind was France. He had felt a nebulous, dull regret that he would never again have an occasion to see the beauty of the place he had once called home. Now, with the help of Jack Bristow and little bit of luck, he would spend the rest of his life there. He didn't interrogate Jack as to where he found the unremarkable farmhouse located advantageously in the middle of nowhere, or about the origin of the money placed in the bank account for him. He had a nagging suspicion that it had come from Irina's own private funds, and if it hadn't been absolutely vital to his survival, he wouldn't have touched any of it.
They say that peace and quiet is good for the soul, but they never mention that it can be poisonous as well, when taken too much at a time. He had been there a mere three weeks, and already the humbling splendor of the open green fields had been transformed before his eyes into endless, empty nothingness. He missed Los Angeles, he missed his home, the unbroken cycle of life and the constant buzz and the incessant bustle. He had never felt alone in the city.
He had fought when Jack had first told him that he had to stay there in France, that he couldn't aid in Sydney's rescue; he had reasoned and argued, screamed and raged, seethed and bristled, and come damn near to weeping, until Jack had finally and simply solved his dilemma by locking him in the house's small bedroom. The door now bore some notable dents from that one fateful day and night he'd spent trapped in there, but he had eventually come to his senses. He couldn't ever go back. He was too noticeable, too widely known; even if he could have changed his appearance, every mask has to come down sometime, and more than likely there would be someone there to see it fall and recognize him. He might have saved Sydney, or he might have jeopardized them both in the process. Jack, on the other hand, had somehow weathered the storm with his staunch reputation intact and unquestioned, and he had all the opportunity and all the possible resources he would ever need to do what Vaughn could not.
Underneath, though, he knew that his disputation was only a token quarrel to cover an ugly emotion he refused to admit to. It was beyond his comprehension how he could love her unreservedly as he did and still hold something as terrible as a grudge, that he could ever wish her current lot on her, even for the shortest stretch of time. Yet something within him seemed unable to forsake that anger as he waded through a world filled with the echoing silence of the bare house; he was a man with no family or country, not even able to lay claim to his own name, and it was all because of her.
He had become almost philosophical in the past few weeks. He had found an old bookshelf in the tiny, cramped basement filled with books by all the classical philosophers, and their words had occupied his time lately. He had started his foray into their works in hopes he'd stumble upon a phrase or two that might begin the unraveling of his complicated predicament, but it only led him farther and farther into the tangle. Perhaps he was just never meant to understand.
That was how the afternoon found him as its lazy, warm tendrils inched across the stark wooden floor in the living room, seated in what he had quickly dubbed his favorite chair, a volume of Plato spread before him. He read the words aloud from time to time, as if his tongue could better find the meaning than his mind, but other than those brief intervals the only sounds to be heard were the rustle of his clothes as he shifted and the punctual ticking of the clock. He could almost sense understanding creeping up on him, manifesting itself fixedly in the back of his mind as a far-off pinpoint of light, gradually growing larger.
The undeniable noises of a car approaching startled him out of his meditation, and the light blinked out. He slammed the book down on the coffee table, mumbling a few words under his breath that would have been obscene if they had been audible, and lurched irritably to his feet, moving forward to wrestle with the lock on the door. It was really a pointless defense; there were few people who would want to break into his house, and the few that did wouldn't be deterred by something as trivial as a lock. He strode out onto the porch, his bare feet curling contently on the warm surface, and he watched not so much patiently as resignedly while the car jutted and rocked over the gravel drive, coming to a halt a surprising distance away so that he couldn't see the passengers from where he stood.
Irina Derevko, by the simple virtue of who she was and what she embodied, should have looked ridiculous and entirely out-of-place emerging from the old, broken-down Toyota, its silver coat long maimed by filth and age--but by some means she managed to still look completely in her element. That was, essentially, what a chameleon did.
He left the door open and edged back a few steps to make utterly certain that she wouldn't brush him as she passed through the entrance. She covered the distance from the car to the house at a rate much more rapid than he had been expecting, and he barely felt as if he had enough time to catch his breath before she swept ahead of him. She gave the room a brief, cursory glance before taking up residence in the chair he had so recently occupied. He followed a few cautious, padding footsteps behind, leaving the door ajar in case he needed an abrupt exit, and perched uneasily on the stiff sofa across from her.
She smiled graciously at him, as if she were the host of this unusual, impromptu meeting instead of him. "It took us longer than we thought it would." There was no doubt as to who that 'we' implied; she and Jack seemed to be irresistibly drawn back together, especially on matters that concerned their daughter. It was a strange, matchless relationship they shared, and it was inescapably a destructive one. Eventually one or both of them would be vanquished, they would shred apart the pride and the arrogance and the distance they both thrived on, until finally they crumbled, defenseless. Yet they continued their dance, aware or unaware of what they were doing to themselves, like children insisting they will be just fine playing in traffic.
"It always does." She regarded him fleetingly, almost imperceptibly out of the corner of her eye, and he knew that he had given away something he should not have in those few words.
She slanted her head back, slowly inhaling the rustic, pleasant fragrance that pervaded everything. "This will be a good place for her to recover. She needs quiet. Open spaces. Someone to take care of her for once." This time it was impossible to ignore the pointed look in his direction. "But despite our best efforts, there will be scars."
"Scars?" He struggled to grasp the meaning behind her deceptively casual statement, knowing their must be one. "Scars? Is that what you're worried about? She already has so many, what difference will a few more make?"
"Not all scars are physical, remember that. They can transcend the body." She offhandedly hefted the book he had left on the table, thumbing through the dog-eared pages, before depositing it back in its previous position. "Not even Plato can prove the existence of a soul, but if humans do possess such a thing, that is were her scars would lie.
"She was held captive by her own people, those she once called friends. She was tortured for information she gave them readily. Her body, which has so long been her sole tool, was the very instrument they used against her. They used her against her. It has left marks that no one will ever see. She no longer trusts herself."
"How? I mean, she's survived they same treatment so many times before--she was trained to--so why, why not this time?"
"Everyone has a breaking point."
Each ambiguous answer aggravated him more; he needed something solid to help him understand. "Will she ever be the same? No, no, not the same, never the same...but--okay again?"
"What she needs now is someone to believe in her where she cannot, to show her she's not the monster they told her she was. She needs someone to tell her she's beautiful, and mean it.
"You're angry." Irina had, as always, seen past his barriers straight to the heart of the issue. "You still haven't forgiven her what has happened to you. It is...understandable, but I suggest you find forgiveness for her soon."
She appeared to have said everything she needed to, rising at her own leisurely pace from her seat and crossing the floor, and he trailed a careful couple of steps after her figure. When she delayed at the top of the steps to deliver her last message though, he didn't notice until he almost crashed into her, producing a distinct repulsion that picked up the hairs on his arms.
"You need her more than she needs you. Don't forget that."
With her warning imparted, Irina took her time as she picked her way back to the Toyota, moving around its bulk to open the passenger-side door. He saw her head materialize first, then the rest of her, blinking and slightly unsteady in the harsh light of midday. He tried not to notice how thin she was--barely flesh pulled over bones--or the way the sun appeared to shine straight through her pale, papery skin, or the angry red scoring that peered out from underneath her sleeve. He tried to concentrate on the spark, the life that still smoldered in the back of her eyes; that should have been all that mattered--not the scorching rage building in him against the people who had inflicted this on her.
Sydney hesitated as she peered at her mother, but Irina took up the intimation and drew her daughter into a hug, murmuring some departing words in her ear. Releasing her after only an instant, Irina slid back behind the wheel of the car, and Sydney, clutching a small bundle of belongings to her chest, began the walk to where he stood, but Irina made no move to start the engine as they both observed Sydney's progression; she was waiting to see how he treated her daughter. He knew without a doubt that if he in any way failed in his new position as protector that Irina wouldn't think twice about snatching up Sydney and distributing her to someone who could care for her better than he. He would only have these first few minutes to prove himself.
Love assumes countless forms, the majority of which are painful. Fierce tenderness awakened in him, spilling over into every corner of his being so that it seemed to press against his lungs, forcing all the air out in an effort to make room for itself. It compelled him to take the four steps down from the porch in one massive stride, to toss her bag hastily aside into the grass in an attempt to wholly absorb her in his embrace.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The apology rumbled up from what part of him he didn't know, nor did he have any idea what he was apologizing for, only that it was imperative that he did. Between his faintly uttered sweet nothings, his lips discovered the bridge of her nose, the corners of her eyes, the planes of her cheeks, the gratifying prize of her mouth. His fingers explored, marking all the places he would have to ask about later, the sites he would have to soothe and watch heal over the coming days. He tasted salt on his tongue, tears mingling with the kisses, his or hers it was no longer important.
Sometime while he held her, the car drove away.
When he came back into his senses, he forced himself to lift his head, then once that was done, to take a pace backwards to ensure he wouldn't give into the temptation, smiling all the while to assure her that his relocation was in no way caused by anything she had done. "Look at that," he accused lightly, jokingly, "you're already distracting me." He reached out and ensnared her fingers in his, holding them reverently, gently, as if she was liable to disintegrate at any second. "C'mon, there's something I want to show you."
He led her around to the back of the house where there was a mid-sized square of rich, dark, freshly overturned soil. He had created it during those many idle hours he'd had of late, weeding and clearing the land in attempt to do something that would make the house seem more like a home, since that was what it would have to be.
"I thought that you could--that you might want a garden."
All the approval he would ever need was shining in her eyes; in them he could see all the flowers she would grow there--snapdragons, daylilies, morning glories, marigolds, roses, poppies, tulips--blooming year after year, expanding and growing, until finally they ran rampant because there was no one left to care for them anymore. A whole lifetime exploding in her eyes.
"It's beautiful," she whispered because the tears were threatening to steal her voice.
"You're beautiful." It didn't embarrass him to say those words, clichéd and sentimental as they might be, because he meant them.
You could have almost missed the shadow that passed over her face or the flash of pain in her eyes, it went by so quickly, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. She didn't believe him.
It was in that moment that he forgave her. Everything that he had given up, everything he had suffered to be here with her, she had given up, suffered just as much to have him here, maybe even more. Home, family, friends, reputation, security--all they had left of that now were this house, this garden, and each other. Somehow he was going to have to make what they had worth all they had given, but as he wrapped his arm around her, he couldn't think of any man who had ever been set with an easier task.
It had taken him a while, but he had finally made up his mind: this double agent was worth all the trouble.
END.
As this is the last chapter, this is also my last chance to say thank you to all my reviewers who were moved enough to take the time to leave me a few encouraging words. A special dedication of this chapter goes out to neumy, who has been persistent and persistently flattering. In your generosity, you are a constant reminder of the reason I wrote this story--for the simple enjoyment of anyone who reads it. For your words, your encouragement, and your positive nature, I can never thank you enough. I am in the debt of all of you.
-wolfish
Chapter Fourteen
Beautiful
* All through the night I'll be watching over you
All through the night I'll be standing over you
And through bad dreams I'll be right there, baby
Holding your hand, telling you everything is all right
And when you cry I'll be right there
Telling you you were never anything less than beautiful
So don't you worry
I'm your Angel standing by *
--Angel Standing By, Jewel
In those seconds that he had thought were his last, with the chilly barrel of the gun slowly thawing against the heat of his skin, one of those vague, half-realized images that had flashed through his mind was France. He had felt a nebulous, dull regret that he would never again have an occasion to see the beauty of the place he had once called home. Now, with the help of Jack Bristow and little bit of luck, he would spend the rest of his life there. He didn't interrogate Jack as to where he found the unremarkable farmhouse located advantageously in the middle of nowhere, or about the origin of the money placed in the bank account for him. He had a nagging suspicion that it had come from Irina's own private funds, and if it hadn't been absolutely vital to his survival, he wouldn't have touched any of it.
They say that peace and quiet is good for the soul, but they never mention that it can be poisonous as well, when taken too much at a time. He had been there a mere three weeks, and already the humbling splendor of the open green fields had been transformed before his eyes into endless, empty nothingness. He missed Los Angeles, he missed his home, the unbroken cycle of life and the constant buzz and the incessant bustle. He had never felt alone in the city.
He had fought when Jack had first told him that he had to stay there in France, that he couldn't aid in Sydney's rescue; he had reasoned and argued, screamed and raged, seethed and bristled, and come damn near to weeping, until Jack had finally and simply solved his dilemma by locking him in the house's small bedroom. The door now bore some notable dents from that one fateful day and night he'd spent trapped in there, but he had eventually come to his senses. He couldn't ever go back. He was too noticeable, too widely known; even if he could have changed his appearance, every mask has to come down sometime, and more than likely there would be someone there to see it fall and recognize him. He might have saved Sydney, or he might have jeopardized them both in the process. Jack, on the other hand, had somehow weathered the storm with his staunch reputation intact and unquestioned, and he had all the opportunity and all the possible resources he would ever need to do what Vaughn could not.
Underneath, though, he knew that his disputation was only a token quarrel to cover an ugly emotion he refused to admit to. It was beyond his comprehension how he could love her unreservedly as he did and still hold something as terrible as a grudge, that he could ever wish her current lot on her, even for the shortest stretch of time. Yet something within him seemed unable to forsake that anger as he waded through a world filled with the echoing silence of the bare house; he was a man with no family or country, not even able to lay claim to his own name, and it was all because of her.
He had become almost philosophical in the past few weeks. He had found an old bookshelf in the tiny, cramped basement filled with books by all the classical philosophers, and their words had occupied his time lately. He had started his foray into their works in hopes he'd stumble upon a phrase or two that might begin the unraveling of his complicated predicament, but it only led him farther and farther into the tangle. Perhaps he was just never meant to understand.
That was how the afternoon found him as its lazy, warm tendrils inched across the stark wooden floor in the living room, seated in what he had quickly dubbed his favorite chair, a volume of Plato spread before him. He read the words aloud from time to time, as if his tongue could better find the meaning than his mind, but other than those brief intervals the only sounds to be heard were the rustle of his clothes as he shifted and the punctual ticking of the clock. He could almost sense understanding creeping up on him, manifesting itself fixedly in the back of his mind as a far-off pinpoint of light, gradually growing larger.
The undeniable noises of a car approaching startled him out of his meditation, and the light blinked out. He slammed the book down on the coffee table, mumbling a few words under his breath that would have been obscene if they had been audible, and lurched irritably to his feet, moving forward to wrestle with the lock on the door. It was really a pointless defense; there were few people who would want to break into his house, and the few that did wouldn't be deterred by something as trivial as a lock. He strode out onto the porch, his bare feet curling contently on the warm surface, and he watched not so much patiently as resignedly while the car jutted and rocked over the gravel drive, coming to a halt a surprising distance away so that he couldn't see the passengers from where he stood.
Irina Derevko, by the simple virtue of who she was and what she embodied, should have looked ridiculous and entirely out-of-place emerging from the old, broken-down Toyota, its silver coat long maimed by filth and age--but by some means she managed to still look completely in her element. That was, essentially, what a chameleon did.
He left the door open and edged back a few steps to make utterly certain that she wouldn't brush him as she passed through the entrance. She covered the distance from the car to the house at a rate much more rapid than he had been expecting, and he barely felt as if he had enough time to catch his breath before she swept ahead of him. She gave the room a brief, cursory glance before taking up residence in the chair he had so recently occupied. He followed a few cautious, padding footsteps behind, leaving the door ajar in case he needed an abrupt exit, and perched uneasily on the stiff sofa across from her.
She smiled graciously at him, as if she were the host of this unusual, impromptu meeting instead of him. "It took us longer than we thought it would." There was no doubt as to who that 'we' implied; she and Jack seemed to be irresistibly drawn back together, especially on matters that concerned their daughter. It was a strange, matchless relationship they shared, and it was inescapably a destructive one. Eventually one or both of them would be vanquished, they would shred apart the pride and the arrogance and the distance they both thrived on, until finally they crumbled, defenseless. Yet they continued their dance, aware or unaware of what they were doing to themselves, like children insisting they will be just fine playing in traffic.
"It always does." She regarded him fleetingly, almost imperceptibly out of the corner of her eye, and he knew that he had given away something he should not have in those few words.
She slanted her head back, slowly inhaling the rustic, pleasant fragrance that pervaded everything. "This will be a good place for her to recover. She needs quiet. Open spaces. Someone to take care of her for once." This time it was impossible to ignore the pointed look in his direction. "But despite our best efforts, there will be scars."
"Scars?" He struggled to grasp the meaning behind her deceptively casual statement, knowing their must be one. "Scars? Is that what you're worried about? She already has so many, what difference will a few more make?"
"Not all scars are physical, remember that. They can transcend the body." She offhandedly hefted the book he had left on the table, thumbing through the dog-eared pages, before depositing it back in its previous position. "Not even Plato can prove the existence of a soul, but if humans do possess such a thing, that is were her scars would lie.
"She was held captive by her own people, those she once called friends. She was tortured for information she gave them readily. Her body, which has so long been her sole tool, was the very instrument they used against her. They used her against her. It has left marks that no one will ever see. She no longer trusts herself."
"How? I mean, she's survived they same treatment so many times before--she was trained to--so why, why not this time?"
"Everyone has a breaking point."
Each ambiguous answer aggravated him more; he needed something solid to help him understand. "Will she ever be the same? No, no, not the same, never the same...but--okay again?"
"What she needs now is someone to believe in her where she cannot, to show her she's not the monster they told her she was. She needs someone to tell her she's beautiful, and mean it.
"You're angry." Irina had, as always, seen past his barriers straight to the heart of the issue. "You still haven't forgiven her what has happened to you. It is...understandable, but I suggest you find forgiveness for her soon."
She appeared to have said everything she needed to, rising at her own leisurely pace from her seat and crossing the floor, and he trailed a careful couple of steps after her figure. When she delayed at the top of the steps to deliver her last message though, he didn't notice until he almost crashed into her, producing a distinct repulsion that picked up the hairs on his arms.
"You need her more than she needs you. Don't forget that."
With her warning imparted, Irina took her time as she picked her way back to the Toyota, moving around its bulk to open the passenger-side door. He saw her head materialize first, then the rest of her, blinking and slightly unsteady in the harsh light of midday. He tried not to notice how thin she was--barely flesh pulled over bones--or the way the sun appeared to shine straight through her pale, papery skin, or the angry red scoring that peered out from underneath her sleeve. He tried to concentrate on the spark, the life that still smoldered in the back of her eyes; that should have been all that mattered--not the scorching rage building in him against the people who had inflicted this on her.
Sydney hesitated as she peered at her mother, but Irina took up the intimation and drew her daughter into a hug, murmuring some departing words in her ear. Releasing her after only an instant, Irina slid back behind the wheel of the car, and Sydney, clutching a small bundle of belongings to her chest, began the walk to where he stood, but Irina made no move to start the engine as they both observed Sydney's progression; she was waiting to see how he treated her daughter. He knew without a doubt that if he in any way failed in his new position as protector that Irina wouldn't think twice about snatching up Sydney and distributing her to someone who could care for her better than he. He would only have these first few minutes to prove himself.
Love assumes countless forms, the majority of which are painful. Fierce tenderness awakened in him, spilling over into every corner of his being so that it seemed to press against his lungs, forcing all the air out in an effort to make room for itself. It compelled him to take the four steps down from the porch in one massive stride, to toss her bag hastily aside into the grass in an attempt to wholly absorb her in his embrace.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The apology rumbled up from what part of him he didn't know, nor did he have any idea what he was apologizing for, only that it was imperative that he did. Between his faintly uttered sweet nothings, his lips discovered the bridge of her nose, the corners of her eyes, the planes of her cheeks, the gratifying prize of her mouth. His fingers explored, marking all the places he would have to ask about later, the sites he would have to soothe and watch heal over the coming days. He tasted salt on his tongue, tears mingling with the kisses, his or hers it was no longer important.
Sometime while he held her, the car drove away.
When he came back into his senses, he forced himself to lift his head, then once that was done, to take a pace backwards to ensure he wouldn't give into the temptation, smiling all the while to assure her that his relocation was in no way caused by anything she had done. "Look at that," he accused lightly, jokingly, "you're already distracting me." He reached out and ensnared her fingers in his, holding them reverently, gently, as if she was liable to disintegrate at any second. "C'mon, there's something I want to show you."
He led her around to the back of the house where there was a mid-sized square of rich, dark, freshly overturned soil. He had created it during those many idle hours he'd had of late, weeding and clearing the land in attempt to do something that would make the house seem more like a home, since that was what it would have to be.
"I thought that you could--that you might want a garden."
All the approval he would ever need was shining in her eyes; in them he could see all the flowers she would grow there--snapdragons, daylilies, morning glories, marigolds, roses, poppies, tulips--blooming year after year, expanding and growing, until finally they ran rampant because there was no one left to care for them anymore. A whole lifetime exploding in her eyes.
"It's beautiful," she whispered because the tears were threatening to steal her voice.
"You're beautiful." It didn't embarrass him to say those words, clichéd and sentimental as they might be, because he meant them.
You could have almost missed the shadow that passed over her face or the flash of pain in her eyes, it went by so quickly, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. She didn't believe him.
It was in that moment that he forgave her. Everything that he had given up, everything he had suffered to be here with her, she had given up, suffered just as much to have him here, maybe even more. Home, family, friends, reputation, security--all they had left of that now were this house, this garden, and each other. Somehow he was going to have to make what they had worth all they had given, but as he wrapped his arm around her, he couldn't think of any man who had ever been set with an easier task.
It had taken him a while, but he had finally made up his mind: this double agent was worth all the trouble.
END.