Circles

By She's a Star

Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams. If it were mine, Lauren certainly would not have gotten shot repeatedly while Syd and Vaughn made out. Which, you know, may say something sick and twisted about me. But who knows, really?

Author's Note: I've been wanting to do this for awhile, as I have developed quite a fascination with Lauren since she was killed off. This is pretty much her point of view of the time she spent in the hospital waiting for Vaughn to wake up in Repurcussions. Very interesting stuff. Or not. I hope I've written her plausibly here – the way I perceive her character, I think that she was in love with Vaughn, but she never quite realized it, and when she began to suspect it, well, she got angry.

Which she kinda does in this. Very much.

And I will honestly shut up now.

-

There are two of us talking in circles

and one of us who wants to leave;

In a world created for only us,

an empty cage that had no key.

-Circles, Sarah McLachlan

-

            Beyond all else, she was tired of the sympathy.

            It had become very clear over the course of the last hour that everyone felt positively dreadful for her; the concern etched into their faces every time they looked at her was enough to make her want to scream. Oh, that poor dear, she read in every set of eyes. So worried about her husband.

            If only they knew, she thought, and allowed herself a wry smile.

            The doctor had finally let her be – thank God for small mercies – and she allowed herself to enjoy the solitude of the room; the silence fractured only by the deadened, rhythmic tones of the heart monitor. It was the closest thing she had to quiet, and it was driving her insane.

            God, this was ridiculous. She wanted to be at home, to run a hot bath and maybe enjoy a book or a rerun of Friends on TV. It was tiring, all of this – pretending to love him, to be the sweet and attentive wife.

            Beep, beep, beep, sang out the heart monitor dutifully, and she briefly entertained the thought of shoving a pillow over her husband's face, watching the jagged green waves flatten into a neat line. Maybe if the noise was continual, it wouldn't be quite so annoying.

            But of course, that was just a silly fantasy on her part.

            Not that there wasn't time for silly fantasizing at the moment, she concluded. After all, there was nothing to do here.

            She sighed and reached for her coffee; it was barely lukewarm by now, and her fingernails sliced into the Styrofoam. She rolled her eyes and took a sip. Disgusting.

            It really figured.

            Michael stirred a little – mumbled something – but didn't wake. She watched him. It was all such a twisted soap opera, everything to do with him. He was a dreadful liar and for the most part a complete idiot – she'd known the second that she'd met him that he wasn't over Sydney Bristow, that he never would be, that his life had fallen apart and there were some things that simply couldn't be repaired.

            And now here she was, his darling wife, sitting here and drinking bad coffee and, so far as anyone else knew, praying desperately that her beloved husband would be spared.

            She listened to the sound of his breathing, wished it would drown the damned heart monitor out, and remembered another time – over a year ago, before they'd married.

            It had been a Tuesday, she remembered, and they had decided to go see a movie. He'd called her in the morning, uncharacteristically cheerful.

            "What would you like to see?"

            "You."

            "Well, yes, I'd figured – anything else?"

            Those kinds of instances had always been strange – the rare moments where he seemed to forget all about Sydney and was simply a man who was in love with her.

            They'd never lasted long.

            That evening, she'd stopped by his house only to find him alone, sitting at the table and staring at a bottle of sleeping pills; the air was sharp with the scent of alcohol; his fingers were wrapped around an empty glass.

            It was then that she'd first thought perhaps she was getting into something far darker than she'd ever imagined.

            "Michael?" she'd asked, tentative.

            "I can't do this," he'd said. He hadn't looked at her.

            And something in the words had stung, in a way she'd never thought they would. None of it was real, after all.

            "That's all right," she'd said, approaching him slowly. Overcome with a sense of foreboding that she could still recall perfectly as she watched him. "We can stay in tonight, if you don't feel like—"

            "I can't do any of this," he'd cut in.

            And she'd looked at the sleeping pills, too, and wondered exactly what kind of ghosts he was harboring; what sort of endless nightmares lurked within the shadows of this room.

            "I understand," she'd said, very quietly. A lie. Not the first, nor the last – merely one of thousands that she'd told him.

            He'd stared up at her, his eyes a broken man's. "I'm sorry."

            She'd nodded and, feeling ridiculously brave at the time, kneeled down next to him – she'd taken his hand in hers. "I love you. Please know that."

            Even then, she hadn't bothered to acknowledge them as lies. She still didn't. Because they were, of course. That much was simple, and obvious, and didn't even need to be remarked upon. Of course she didn't love him. She needed him, in a way, but it was a sort of heartless necessity that didn't mingle with any sort of feeling.

            And as she looked down at him now, she remembered. His shallow breathing filled her ears, her mind, and she wished she wasn't thinking of him. She took another sip of the coffee, defiantly, yearning to lead her thought process back to how foul it was, how inconvenient this entire thing was. How annoying, that all day she had to pretend to be fighting back tears when really she wouldn't have minded in the least bit if Sydney had just finished him off when she'd stabbed him.

            At least then it would have had a sort of Shakespearean element to it.

            He moved slightly; she watched his left hand twitch. Was haunted by the endless darkness his eyes had held on that stupid Tuesday so long ago.

            "This is nothing," she said aloud, welcoming the sound of her voice as it broke the dire monotony. "It's only a game."

            And yet, as she closed her eyes, all she could see was him staring up at her, at their entwined fingers, at the pills out of the corner of his eye. Thinking she wouldn't notice, probably. He was a fool. She always noticed.

            "You save me," he'd said, and God, she didn't care, never had, and why did she dwell on this? "Every day."

            And wasn't that sweet? That's all she was. The savior, the touchstone, the one thing he would always count on. While he yearned for Sydney and savored the fleeting glances they shared and realized how very much he would always so desperately love her, Lauren sat in the living room and waited to welcome him home from work with a kiss and a smile. She was his savior, but Sydney was everything else. She always had been, even whilst she was nothing more than an echo and the bittersweet memory of scattered ashes at sea.

            God, Lauren hated her.

            She hated both of them, and she was only wasting her time here. And the sick thing, the really ironic thing was that she had to keep wasting her time. She had to sit here until he woke up, not caring about anything at all, drinking shitty coffee and blinking back tears, murmuring to herself, Oh, Michael, oh, Michael, don't leave me, darling, please.

            She wanted to kill him. To erase him completely from her mind and her life.

            But of course, it was hardly about what she wanted right now.

            And suddenly, he was mumbling to himself – she felt overwhelmed with a sort of desperation without having the slightest clue why; she leaned forward, bit her lip, stepped into her perfect façade.

            And then she realized what he was saying.

            "Syd."

            Of course. Of course. She'd been a fool to expect anything else. Of course he'd say her name, because she was all the goddamned son of a bitch had ever cared about, and she was throwing her life away because of it. The whole reason for any of this, for the ring around her finger – what did it matter? She would give up all of it, at that moment, if only to be free of him.

            And then he woke with a start, and his eyes were haunted just the way they'd been before.

            She watched him for a moment; composed herself; figured he would simply think she was overcome with relief. He'd never even suspected her, not for an instant. She supposed he'd instantly believed that she was like this – weak and ridiculous; completely, blindly devoted to him.

            Hardly.

            Still, she fixed a disbelieving half-smile onto her face and reached for his hand. "Hi."

            He stared up at her, still shaken, drinking in the sight of her. Maybe he'd been dreaming, hoping that the woman who had landed him here would be the one to greet him with apologies and tears. She allowed herself a small stab of satisfaction, knowing that, if only for an instant, he wanted her about as much as she wanted him.

            He didn't speak.

            "Sweetheart," she persisted, strangely thrilled by the disappointment written all over his face. There was something delicious in it; this sweet, mild revenge. "You're okay."

            He took a few deep breaths, his gaze unflinching, detached, bemused. She knew all too well what he wanted; knew all too well that he would never ask for it. He required nothing of her right now. He didn't need to hide behind normalcy or pretend that everything would be all right.

            He didn't need to be saved, and she was fully intent upon saving him very well.

            She massaged his hand with her thumb, lightly.

            "Do you remember me?" she asked, broken and tentative, knowing that all he could see was Sydney right now. That he'd completely forgotten her, and didn't care in the least bit.

            But he was such a good man, so principled and ethical, and sometimes all one could do was lie. "Of course." There was a forced sweetness to the words. She wondered if it hurt him to say them.

            She laughed a little; tore her gaze from his and stared down at their entwined hands. "Thank God."

            And then she looked up again, sealing everything as their eyes met. A smile played at her lips; Thank God I haven't lost you, and she painted it in her gaze.

            He understood. Smiled back, weakly. Defeated, and she was all too aware that he knew what she'd wanted him to.

He would never lose her.

            They stayed like that for a moment, both perfectly aware that they were chained to one another. There was something gratifying in it, she decided. At least she wasn't the only one who had to suffer.

            And she smiled a bit more at him, and leaned down to rest her head against his chest. Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her.

            My sweet husband, she thought sardonically, and closed her eyes.

            They were probably a lovely impression of romance, she figured. Treasuring one another, caught in this perfect moment after having suffered such horrors. Or so it may have seemed.

            "You save me," she whispered after a moment, both enraptured and sickened by the irony of it. Wondering how he might reply. "Every day."

            He said nothing; simply kissed her hair. Thinking she wouldn't notice, probably.

He was a fool. She always noticed.