Title: Anatomy of a Handbag

Author: Kira

Genre: S/V fluff

Summary: Sydney reflects while waiting.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, never will.

My first piece of fluff. Be nice! And review!

~::~

He always was such a fool.

Not that she enjoyed undercutting him in the least. It was a simple, stated fact that she found herself repeating as she sat in the cold, molded plastic chair, the raised lip biting into her thighs. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, if one even existed, but the shock of cold plastic caused her legs to involuntarily retreat back to their former, warmer position. She groaned, reaching for her purse and something – anything – to keep her mind occupied.

Old receipts. A glance at the date showed them to range from just yesterday, when she frantically ran to the store for some cherries – a sudden craving she couldn't understand but had to feed – to over a year ago. The times and dates varied, never more than a week apart, from the same four stores, all local convenience shops and the large grocery store three blocks west of her home. All for ice cream of some kind; she was almost positive it was anything but coffee. Variation was the key to a well-rounded pallet, but even her roommate had her limits.

Sydney Bristow never considered herself an overly nostalgic being. She kept more than most, photographs, ticket stubs, napkins at occasion when a night was more amazing than the normal one she spent. She kept a few matchbooks from exotic cities and hotels she'd been to in her travels, and was known to keep some accessories from her outlandish disguises much to the annoyance of their rightful owners. They kept her on her toes when out casually on a day off.

It must have been some odd segment of her subconscious that kept these miscellaneous receipts in the side pocket of her purse. The same part must have kept her things in there; she changed location so many times in her life, she was sure she would have lost these long ago.

She didn't believe herself to have a personality prone to obsession, so why did she, for a fleeting second, think about putting these all in a scrapbook to show to her children one day? And why was she thinking about children at all? But the scene of two young, darling children before a fire, looking through a scrapbook of receipts (receipts, of all things!) didn't seem odd to her.

Oh, screw it! She could handle the cold of a molded plastic chair made before she was born, she'd been subjected to worse. Plus, her leg was beginning to fall asleep. The plastic was cold, uninviting, just like the room she was sitting in. It all seemed to fit.

Shoving the receipts back into her purse, her fingers brushed another object, thin, plastic, the edges cut with expert precision. She played with it, but never brought it out of her purse. She knew what it was.

[I]

"Where do you keep it?" she'd asked with the naivety of a four year old. He'd smiled at her, a hand running through her hair distractedly.

"Hidden."

"Really? Wow. I wouldn't have thought they'd want you to keep a CIA ID badge [/I]hidden[I]," she deadpanned. His laughter surrounded her, replacing the warmth lost when his hand left her hair.

"Well, think about it this way," he replied, his tone taking that of a teacher. He reached around her to his briefcase, pulling out his own. "You have to wear it to work, right? So, keep it hidden until you get in the building."

"And if someone steals my purse before I get there?"

"Well, then I'd imagine you're in a good deal of trouble. I usually keep mine in my pocket, so, if, say, I disappear – "

She'd made a face at that.

"You're such a protective beauty. Anyway, if I don't make it to work, I can get rid of it before it's discovered." His arm encircled her, bringing her closer to him. He was always so warm.

"You've thought this through."

"I've had time. Plus, Weiss lost his once. It was a huge deal, he was suspended until it was found."

"Let me guess, his sock drawer."

"Close," he smiled. "Junk drawer. Apparently, he'd thrown it in there after a night at the local bar and had forgotten the entire night completely. I'm surprised he's still employed."

"After that, I think he is, too."

[/I]

The plastic card just reminded her that she had been on her way to work, not that she wore it inside the building anyway. Just flashed it at the guard and went on her way, tucking it back into the depths of her purse where it belonged. [I]Hidden.[/I] She tucked it away under her thick black wallet.

The ID tag didn't stay there for long; she ended up pulling her wallet out and unsnapped the clasp. There had to be *something* stuck inside that would keep her mind occupied for the next, well, however long she was stuck out here. Her legs shifted back to where they'd been before, but the plastic had already grown cold, only a tinge of heat remaining.

Ugg, her driver's license picture was horrible. Her hair was straggly at best, her eyes half-closed. The woman taking the photo believed her to be influenced by drugs at the time, shaking her head and clicking her tongue through the mock-up of the Spanish Inquisition called Reconfirming Your Information. At the end of it, the woman had leaned over the desk, motioned for her to meet her halfway, and whispered in her ear.

"You're too pretty to be doin' that, if ya know what I mean."

Sydney had left with a greater contempt for the DMV than she had ever felt before. Was it her fault that her license had expired while she was out of the country? And that the moment she got back in, she'd been order by not only her employer(s), but her father as well, to get it updated? It was as if they'd all been in communication in order to align an attack on her. The world wasn't going to end if she had an expired license for one day. Something about being in the employ of the government and all the little laws no one paid attention to.

So she looked horrible in her picture. Half-dead would be more like it.

[I]

"I've had worse."

"No, it's impossible," she pouted, hanging her head. "No one in the world has a worse picture than this one." She held up the offending photo, almost hitting him in the face with it. He took it from her and said nothing, just examined it as she sat in nerve-wracking silence. Finally she could take it no longer and raised her head, pulling the license from his fingers.

At least, that was the plan.

Instead, his Superman-like grip on the small piece of plastic was too much for her and her precious balance on the edge of the desk, and the pair went toppling down to the ground, the ID flying off into a corner between bookcases. Stunned, neither one moved.

"Well, this certainly was unexpected. I'm not complaining, though," he smiled down at her, propping himself up on his elbows. "Now, about the picture…"

"Horrid, freak of nature like, am I right?"

"I've still had worse," he said before she could continue. "Really. When I was a teenager."

"Perfect, handsome, beautiful – "

"Hey now," he cut her off. "I'm nothing compared to you."

She swatted his arm playfully. There was no way his was worse, no way in a million years.

And she suspected he would have kissed her right then, if it had not been for the door opening…[/I]

She never did see his – he claimed to have burned it as soon as it was renewed on his 21st birthday as a kind of coming-of-age ritual. But she knew him better than that, and knew he kept everything. His pack-rat-ish ways were something of a troublesome area for her. To be blunt, they scared her. She was sure one day their house would be filled with crap they'd picked up together as well as things she was sure he had in storage for lack of space in his small apartment. Or maybe that was just her perception. Maybe he was just like her, keeping what he could when he could. Projection – she tried to remember the clinical definition from her college days (that were now, thankfully, behind her) and came up a bit short.

Shot nerves, she told herself. Her nerves were completely shot as she sat there, inside the room, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her. Her wallet sat in her lap, just above slack, shaking hands, her eyes set on the ugly painting across from her.

"Wow."

Her head snapped up so quickly she could have sworn she gave herself whiplash. A man had come up next to her, his head crooked to the side to better examine her license picture. She self-consciously moved her hands over the picture, seen easily through the clear ID sleeve in the middle of the wallet, and looked up at him. He straightened, taking a sip of the coffee in his hand. He made a face as soon as the liquid hit his throat and practically fell into the chair next to her. He obviously wasn't as bothered by them as she was.

"I know, I know, horrid," she sighed, brushing an errant piece of hair behind her ear as she raised her head to meet her eyes.

"What? Oh! No, I wasn't looking at that," he smiled, turning to her. Sydney frowned, confused. What else in her wallet could he be looking at? He must have noticed her confusion, because he clarified: "The picture, on the other side. You looked happier than I though people could."

"Oh," she blushed, her hands rising from where they were crushing the wallet to look at it. He was right – there, on the other side of the large, brick-like wallet, was a photo stuck in the photo-slides, something she rarely used.

[i]

"Get over here!"

"We've got another few seconds!"

[/i]

The result was Sydney, standing in the middle of the photo, a large, sparkling grin on her face, her arms wrapped around his arm, pulling him into the frame. His face showed an expression mix of shock and delight, and one could tell he fell as soon as the flash blinded the pair. She'd only put it in there because it had no other place, the edges cut down so it would fit just so.

"It's not posed, or pre-planned. It's just – if you could catch happiness on film, that would be it," he continued, breaking into her memory. He downed the rest of the coffee, his face twisting into some indescribable shape, and crushed the cup to the right density to make a 'basket' in trashcan down the way. "Well, not to sound harsh or anything, but I hope I don't see you again."

With that, he stood, stretched, and walked off, winking at her before he disappeared around a corner.

That was it – she couldn't take this any longer. Sitting here, waiting for a sign, a word. She found it hard to do this once – how the hell did he manage to do it each and every time she left for a mission? She would have bitten off all her nails or gone completely insane if she were him.

[i]

"It hasn't gotten better, you know."

She looked up from the book she was reading to her moving, talking pillow. "What?"

"You, leaving, going off on those missions," he replied, distracted. She shifted, moving up farther along his body, looking into his dark green eyes.

"You're on half of them with me!" she smiled. His gaze came to meet hers.

"Not all the time. God, I worry so much!" he sighed, his hand coming to rest protectively atop her head.

"You don't need to. I'll always come home to you," she told him, stroking the side of his face with her finger. His hand came up to meet hers, holding it steady against his face.

"That doesn't mean I don't worry."

[/i]

She was supposed to have nerves of steel, able to take great amounts of stress with a grain of salt, trapeze through warehouses full of armed men without breaking a sweat. And she did. With startling efficiency, she was able to fulfill her missions to the height of anyone's expectations, quickly rising through the ranks, faster than anyone imagined. So why, when she could do all that without even blinking, was she considering knocking over the coffee machine before rushing through the window at the end of the hallway?

Never mind the fact that she wasn't on the first floor, and that the drop might kill her. Death was looking more and more appealing rather than having to sit in this chair any longer. Did she still have legs? Or had they walked off, deciding to leave for a life of companionship without her and her bad seating choices? She looked down. Yep, they were still there, she just couldn't feel them anymore.

Why did that man she was talking to leave? Couldn't he have stayed for a bit longer, just long enough to keep her occupied? Her purse was running out of items to examine, not because she kept it amazingly clean, but because there was a lot of utter crap. Like lip gloss she didn't remember buying, but had a receipt for in the pile she was putting in a scrapbook for her children. Or some foundation that had long ago dried up, the remains clinging to the sides, waiting for her to use it to cover up bruises or cuts she couldn't avoid yet would never show. A spoon, for ice cream on the fly. A hand mirror used more often than not to check her appearance before a warehouse meeting, just remembering as an afterthought to check for tails.

She fell back against the chair, the lip at the top of the back biting into her shoulder blades just as her thighs were being attacked. Her handbag wasn't a receptacle for items she needed on a daily basis or things she needed once and awhile like most were. No, hers was a mini-shrine of sorts to Michael Vaughn, a roadmap of their relationship from beginning to present day. Every item inside brought up another wonderful memory, another reminder of how lucky she was.

How intertwined their lives had become.  

"Miss Bristow?" a voice asked from her left. She stood, her legs almost giving out. A glance at her watch told her she'd been sitting there for two hours, just mesmerized by something as simple as a purse. She stretched bit, her attention back on the speaker. "Were you sitting there the whole time? Those chairs are terribly uncomfortable."

"I know," she smiled, wishing this woman would get on with it.

"If you can, follow me please," she continued, motioning to the corner the happiness man had disappeared beyond. She turned, her steps echoing on the reflective, polished floor, the silence wrapping around her like an ice cold blanket.

Sydney leaned against the doorframe as the nurse busied herself in a corner of the large room, a strange smile on her face.

"The treadmill, huh?" she asked. Michael Vaughn, balanced on the edge of the bed, struggled with his shirt's cuffs, finding it hard to button them with one of his arms hanging in a sling. She shook her head. Weiss had made it sound so much worse, telling her that Vaughn had been rushed to the hospital after an eventful run in with a treadmill and a wall down in the gym she'd been in only a few times. He didn't look too bad – his left arm was bound in a cast and sling, a large purplish bruise ran down that side of his face. She crossed the room and leaned against the edge of the bed.

"Did I ever tell you I was accident prone?" he asked lightly, finally getting the button.

"No."

"Well, I am. Syd, your boyfriend is a complete and total klutz," he laughed. "Really, one time, I fell over, well, the floor of all things and fractured my wrist."

"Can't say I've ever done that," she remarked. All that stress and apprehension that had overwhelmed her out in the cold plastic room washed away in his gaze. "So, what happened?"

"I can't multitask that well, apparently. One minute I was running and watching the news on a TV above me, the next, I was off my feet and halfway across the room. I don't know what I'm going to do – I won't be able to type *or* write for awhile."

Sydney laid a hand on the shoulder of his good arm and smiled.

"I'll take care of  you."