Hello everyone!

Only I would be stupid enough to start another WIP when I have two fics with no ends in sight ["Memory" and "Pretense", in case you're counting. ]

But enjoy this anyway, because it might even be somewhat fluffy in parts. Maybe.

TITLE: Black and Blue
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. All JJ's. Lyrics quoted are from "Black and Blue", by Counting Crows, and are not mine.
TIMELINE: Mid-Season 3.
SUMMARY: Vaughn helps Syd pick up the pieces, and in the process exorcises some of his own demons. S/V/L, S3, angst, romance, hurt/comfort.
SUGGESTED SOUNDTRACK: "Black and Blue", Counting Crows, "Here Comes the Flood", Peter Gabriel, "Hallelujah", Jeff Buckley, "Deliver Me", Sarah Brightman, "Give You Back", Vertical Horizon, "Monsters", Something for Kate, "Elevation", U2, "Electrical Storm", U2.
AUTHOR's NOTES: Lyrics in this section are from "Black and Blue" by Counting Crows. This will be a Vaughn POV fic, although the prologue is in third person.

Prologue

It was supposed to be a routine mission. In and out. Go to Prague. Meet with Sloane. Come home. She'd carried out the same mission countless times before in the six months since her Lazarus-like return from the dead, without a single mistake. They had no reason to suspect that this mission would be any different to any of the others.

But somewhere along the way, Sydney Bristow disappeared. And somewhere along the way, she ended up in one of Sloane's still intact hideouts, Sark and Sloane's prisoner.

And somewhere along the way she was broken.

They found her, of course. They always did, didn't they, even if it was just in the nick of time normally? She's no stranger to seeing rescuers come in through the door of a torture chamber with guns ablaze just as the bad guys started to torture her.

But this time they were too late. This time they'd started to torture her before they got there to rescue her. This time they finished torturing her before they rescued her.


Chapter One

"Mike, we've got her. We're about 5 minutes out from the hospital. But….but she's pretty beaten up, okay?"

"I'm on my way."

*

The first thing that goes through your mind at the sight of her, arms wrapped around her father and Eric, unable to stand by herself?

She looks like she's been through a war.

The second thing?

Sydohgodsydwherehaveyoubeenloveyouloveyouloveyouwherehaveyoubeenwantneedholdyou…

The third thing?

What have I done?

*

You twist your ring, around, and around and around, and around, and around.

And you take it off.

And you put it in your pocket.

She doesn't need to see it, be reminded of everything that's changed between you two.

Not now. Not when she's this badly hurt.

And you remember how when you'd heard they'd pulled her out, all thoughts of Lauren, all thoughts of your marriage, all thoughts of anything except her had flown straight out the window.

[This is more important than your marriage right now.]

*

She's been badly hurt before.

You've seen her bruises before, kissed them better, traced the delicate lines of her scars with your fingers, over and over again until you think that you've memorized every inch of the little roads and highways that run all over her.

You've seen her nursing broken ribs, torn shoulder muscles, concussions….every single injury under the face of the sun, it seems sometimes.

But you don't think you've ever seen her like this.

Her face is a mess of black and blue bruises, and there are cuts all over her face, some of them raw and bleeding, others of them older and improperly healed.

But it's not so much the physical injuries that scare you.

It's the emptiness in her eyes, the nothingness that lurks behind her normally expressive irises.

There is nothing there.

No pain. No fear. No relief. No emotion at all.

And that's what scares you the most.

She looks like brittle crystalline glass that's been worked for too long, and all you can wonder is whether or not a breath would shatter her into too many pieces to ever be picked up again.

[Fading everything to black & blue
You look a lot like you'd shatter
In the blink of an eye]

*

She tries to tell you that she's fine. She tries to tell you that she's all right. She tries to tell you that she's going to be okay.

[But you keep sailing right on through]

But you know better. Because you know the signs. You've looked into a mirror and had eyes as empty as hers stare back at you.

[You just look a lot like me]

You know she's not all right. That she's not going to be all right. Not unless she opens up. Not unless she starts to talk about what happened with Sark and Sloane.

*

She won't talk to you. She won't talk to Jack. And she definitely won't talk to Barnett.

But you still sit silently at her side every day, in and out, as she stares at the ceiling of her government hospital room.

It's bland, colourless. People die in rooms like this everyday. And you're afraid that she's dying in this one right now.

Not of her injuries, no. The doctors have said that she'll be fine, that her bruises will heal in time. She's too strong to die from physical pain, you think.

No, it's not the visible scars and bruises and cuts that will kill her. It's the ones that no one can see, the ones that she's spent her entire life covering up, the invisible ones that scar her head and her heart that will kill her.

You can't even begin to describe the room that you're in, the room that's suffocating her so slowly.

It is devoid of any emotion, any happiness, any joy, any fear or pain. Devoid of anything.

There are no paintings or pictures of any sort on the once-cream walls now made grey by years of use. Nor are there are windows to allow the patient a glimpse at the world that goes on without them. It is a self-contained world, a little bubble of desperation and fear and worry existing on its own and affected by nothing else.

It is lit only by a faintly buzzing fluorescent light that casts the entire room in a harsh slightly green tinged light.

She lies there comatose on the bed wearing a government-issued hospital gown, lying in a government-issue bed with government-issue sheets. She stares at the ceiling, at the cream tiles, barely breathing.

But there is nothing else that she can do in this hellhole of a place.

A person could die in here from the sheer emptiness of it all.

You wonder whether or not you should speak, whether or not you should disturb her in her rest, her silence, her peace. You open your mouth, and then shut it again, wondering what you should say, how you should say it – whether you should say it at all.

But it's too hard to see her lying there, somewhere between life and death, caught in some sort of grey purgatory. And so you speak, opting for humour in the hope that it might wake her from whatever nightmare she is reliving.

"I gave up counting after about 5,000 tiles," you offer lamely, trying to provoke some sort of response, something that will let you know that she's still alive in there under all her pain.

She snorts quietly, almost under her breath, and quickly looks away, trying to hide a smile.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why am I counting the ceiling tiles?"

"You know what I mean, Vaughn."

Yes, you know what she means. You know what she means all too well.

She wants to know why you're here.

Why you're not with your wife.

But you don't know how to answer that question yet.

"Because I care," you say softly, knowing that it was the only thing that you could say, even though it says nothing and she won't believe you and she wants to know more than that.

"Where's Lauren?"

"I'm not sure. Home, maybe."

You sit in silence for a little longer, watching her watch the ceiling restlessly.

"Vaughn?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you- could you get me a glass of water? They're just over on that sink there."

"Sure."

You stand and walk over the counter with the glass, washing out the old water and pouring in some fresh water straight from the tap.

You walk back over the side of her bed and offer it to her. She takes it with visible effort, her arm trembling slightly as she sips from it gently.

"Thanks. I needed that."

She offers it back to you, and as her hand meets yours, as they wrap around the glass, fingers entwining, meeting, burning, she asks you the one question you had hoped she'd never ask….and the one question you wanted her to ask.

"Vaughn….where's your ring?"

You freeze.

Do you lie to her, when she's in this state?

Or do you tell her the truth, that ever since she's come back nothing's been quite the same with your wife, that you feel like you're just going through the motions of being married, that the emotion, the love you once felt just isn't there anymore?

But where do you go from the truth?

The truth changes everything.

You pull out your ring from your pocket, and you look at it, wondering how one simple band of metal and the ton of emotional baggage it represents could cause so much pain.

"Can…can I?" she says, offering you her hand shakily. You stare at it for a few seconds before you drop it onto her flattened palm.

She fingers it lightly, tracing its contours, its grooves and ridges. She's fascinated by it, and you watch her intently as she plays with it, rolling it back and forth between her thumb and index finger.

And you can't help thinking that she should have worn the mate to your ring.

That in a perfect world none of this would ever have happened.

But you don't live in a perfect world, do you?

She gives you back the ring, and sighs softly.

You go back to your seat, realizing with a jolt as you sit down that you'd never actually answered her question.

You actually sigh as you see your wife through the clear window of Syd's room.

And you can only wonder when you started to feel disappointed when you saw your wife.

*

"Michael, what on earth do you think you're doing here?"

You sigh inwardly, realizing that this is one of those moods again.

You try to appease her, to calm her down, hoping that it might postpone another temper tantrum for awhile.

"I'm sitting with my friend while she gets better!"

"Damnit, we've spoken about this before, Mike!"

"We've spoken about what, Lauren?"

"Your relationship with Sydney!"

"Sydney and I are friends!"

"You weren't always "friends", though, were you?" Her voice has taken on a dangerous tone, and you know you'd better try to appease her now before you're powerless to do so.

"Look, a lot has changed since then."

Not enough, you think with another sigh, wishing, as you had a thousand times since her return, that you no longer felt anything for Sydney Bristow.

"Look Michael, you have missions to go on. You have a job to do. You have a wife. You can't just go haring off every time your ex-girlfriend gets herself hurt!"

"Lauren! I am being her friend!"

"Let Eric be her "friend", Michael. Or is this more important than your marriage?" Her voice is like ice now, her accent only emphasizing the anger in her voice.

How do you answer this question? How do you tell your wife that yes, this is more important than your marriage?

"Look, I don't have time for this, Lauren. Syd's doctors are coming back soon, and I'd like to be there when they tell her how long she'll be out of action for."

You begin to walk away, but you're caught when she calls back to you, "Is it?"

"For now?"

She only nods, and for an instant you can see the hurt on her face as she sees your longing to return to Syd.

"I don't know. Maybe." You tell her the truth, because, truth be told, she deserves it. And because she didn't sign up for this when you asked her to marry you.

She nods, the incredible pain in her eyes evident. She only just manages to choke out, "I'm going to Washington, to meet with some NSC directors. I might not be back for a few days. See you when I get back?"

And all you can do is nod in return.

[there is no way that this ends well. there's no way that this ends without pain for at least one of you. and right now all you are, all three of you together with your pain and your love…all you are is three broken people wondering about loss and love]

*

"Vaughn?" Her voice is croaky, hoarse, weaker than normal, her tone questioning, hopeful, almost pleading. She lifts her head off her pillow, the effort even that small movement requires showing on her face.

She needs you, you know. And you need her too, even though your wounds aren't as deep as hers, your scars smaller and better camouflaged.

"Yeah, Syd?"

She sinks back into her pillow, sighing quietly. "You're here…I was so afraid," she swallows, "So afraid you'd left me."

"Never," you vow quietly, sitting back at her side and taking her outstretched hand.

You wonder what you're doing, falling back into the same old rhythms with her, allyrockbestfriendtruthamongthelies. It's too risky, too dangerous…but ultimately too hard to resist.

"Ah, Mr. Vaughn. It's nice to see you again. Can I be correct in assuming that you'll be helping Miss Bristow in her recovery?" Your little reverie is disturbed by the entrance of Dr. Phillips, a middle-aged man that you've worked with here before. He'd be about the same age as Jack Bristow, you think, except where Jack is glares and arctic stares, Phillips is all smiles and bushy eyebrows.

"Yes," you say firmly, cutting off any protests that she might have.

"Very well then! Now, while Miss Bristow's injuries are quite severe, we do expect her to make a full recovery. However, she'll need a lot of rest and relaxation. I'm actually recommending three months paid leave, as well as a month's holiday leave at one of the agencies' overseas properties."

"All right," she croaks from her bed, taking part in the conversation for the first time.

"Mr. Vaughn, I assume you'll be accompanying Miss Bristow overseas to help in her recovery?"

"Yes," you say firmly, before Sydney can reply herself. You can't leave her alone now. Not when she's like this.

Lauren will understand, you think to yourself, knowing that it's a lie. But for some reason you don't really care.

Because Sydney's well-being has always been the most important thing in your life, and that's one thing that hasn't changed in the two years that she's been gone.

"Great!" Phillips says, again snapping you out of your reverie. "You can leave whenever you're ready, although I'd recommend that we get Miss Bristow out of this environment as soon as possible. A good dose of fresh air and rest and relaxation is the best possible medicine for you right now, Sydney."

Lauren might well kill you for accepting the doctor's offer to accompany Sydney on an overseas holidays, but right now you could really care less, you know. Because her well being has always been the most important thing to you, and that's one thing that the ring on your finger hasn't changed.

And even if that wasn't the case, the look on Sydney's face, the look of gratitude and relief and overwhelming love and pain and torment and need is almost enough to make you forget you have a wife.

You're going with her. Whether Lauren likes it or not.

Because you'll always be her ally. And because she needs you now, more than ever before.

*




Well....more? Or should I never touch this fic ever again?

And obviously our good Dr. Phillips is either a diehard S/V shipper or didn't get the memo about Vaughn's marriage.

I love reviews, so please make me happy! Oh, and I also thought that you people might like a fic with a plot for a change, so this is for all of you who were getting sick of my angsty!S3!married!Vaughn rants. Plus, I even threw in some imagery! Aren't you proud?

Em