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Awakenings
By: Souris
Feedback: Yes, please! souris@vartanho.com
Rated: PG-13
Category: Drama/Angst/Romance
Author's Note: Because one post-ATY reunion fic simply isn't enough....
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Taipei, Taiwan
"Mom?" For a moment, Sydney simply stared at the woman in front of
her, emotions coursing through her far too quickly to be identified. There
was too much to feel, too much to think about.
"Sydney. I've missed you." Irina smiled.
Sydney opened her mouth, but nothing came out. After imagining this
moment for so long, she could think of nothing to say. What could she
possibly say? She had wanted little else for weeks, had been driven beyond
reason to attain it, but now, she wondered why she had cared so much. What
did it matter, really? What could it possibly change? Somehow, she had
thought that seeing her mother would have a profound effect on her, would
magically alter something deep within her. But it didn't. She just felt ...
empty.
"I know you have questions. I've wanted to see you again for so
long, my dear, but this wasn't how I wanted us to become reacquainted."
Irina touched Sydney's cheek softly.
The gesture filled Sydney with both sadness and fury, and she
finally found her voice. "You didn't see me as your prisoner? How did you
see it, then, Mother? Did you think I would embrace you? I'd rather
spit in your face."
A look that might have been called hurt flashed across Irina's
face, but it was masked far too quickly to be sure. She withdrew her hand
and moved away. "Ah, Sydney, there is so much you don't know. So much you
don't understand."
"I understand that you lied to my father, betrayed my
country. I understand that you abandoned me. I understand that you
murdered people, good people, people with families. You killed the
father of somebody I ... I care about. And now he's dead, too, because of
you." Her voice cracked, and she took a deep breath, willing the tears not
to fall. She wouldn't cry, not in front of her.
"That's a fine picture you paint of me, Sydney. It was not as
simple as you believe. Things are never simple, not in this life. I think
you know that."
"I do. I also know that it's no excuse for what you did."
"I don't make excuses," Irina shot back, and the edge in her voice
almost sent a chill down Sydney's spine.
"What do you want from me?" Sydney demanded.
"Right now, nothing. You have become a remarkable woman, and though
I did not want you to have my life, now you do. I've watched you from afar,
Sydney. We are much more alike than you realize." Irina laughed softly. "I
see you don't think so."
"I'm nothing like you," Sydney spat out, sickened at the comparison.
"We shall see. Our goals are actually quite compatible. In fact,
one day we may find ourselves working together. I would like that very
much." Irina walked over to a table and picked up a box from its surface.
"I had hoped we would have more time to talk. There are things you should
know. But you have created quite a bit of trouble for me, you know. There
are many things I have to take care of now, and quickly. In one moment, you
destroyed years of my work. Important, vital work. I should be furious with
you. But strangely, I am more proud of you than anything." Sydney's eyes
widened as Irina opened the box and pulled out a syringe and a vial of
liquid. "You are my daughter," Irina said as she filled the syringe.
Her mother wouldn't hurt her, Sydney thought. But how could she be
certain that this woman, her mother only by genetics, wouldn't hurt her?
And, yet, somehow she was.
Irina smiled gently as she inserted the needle into Sydney's arm.
"I knew you wouldn't flinch. Remember my gift," Irina whispered, and then
blackness overtook Sydney.
* * * * *
Vaughn's head pounded, and the smell didn't help matters any. He
felt like he did the morning after the last time he'd gone out drinking
with Weiss. Damn tequila. He tried to move his head away from the pungent
smell which seemed to be directly underneath his nostrils, but it followed
him. What in God's name was it?
After a sudden fit of coughing, he forced his eyes open. A figure
stood in front of him, blurry, vaguely familiar and yet not. "Sydney?" he
mumbled in confusion. He tried to reach out to her, but his arm wouldn't
respond. What was going on?
"Not quite." Even in those two words, he could hear an accent.
Russian, he thought, and then he remembered swimming toward a door, a room
with a window, broken glass, tumbling forward in a rush of water, fiery
lungs gasping for air -- and then nothing. Vision and mind cleared, and he
knew with a strange certainty who stood before him holding a bottle of
smelling salts. Again he tried to reach his hands forward, but this time
with a far different intent. "You!" The cuffs holding him clattered against
the metal chair he sat in.
"So, you recognize me," Irina Derevko said, her voice smooth and
modulated, as she slipped the bottle into her pocket. "I know you would
much rather be seeing my daughter. But don't worry. I'm not going to hurt
you."
Vaughn looked up at her, hatred lodging in his already-burning
throat. "I won't make the same promise," he snarled, wondering vaguely what
the hell she was doing here but not really caring. She was the woman who'd
killed his father, and she was standing in front of him. What did he care
about whys?
She smiled, almost serenely. The effect was ... disturbing. "That
isn't necessary. I know you wouldn't harm me, even if you were physically
able."
"Really?"
"You see, I know you, Mr. Vaughn. More than you realize. I know
that our pasts are linked. I know that you wish to punish me for your
father's death. But I know that for you, that justice would involve a court
and not my blood on your hands."
He stared at her challengingly. "Maybe almost drowning changes a man."
"Perhaps. But I also know that you wouldn't do anything to hurt my
daughter. And despite everything, killing me would hurt her very much."
Vaughn glared at her, knowing that she was right and hating her
even more for it. "You seem to 'know' an awful lot for someone who hasn't
been around either of us. Though I suppose you should know all about
hurting Sydney."
For just the barest of an instant, her eyes flickered, and he knew
that he had struck a nerve. But then the serene mask was back in place. "I
know one more thing. And this is why I will not hurt you: I know that you
are far more important than you realize."
His eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean?"
She gave a small, knowing smirk. "You would not believe me if I
told you. Would you believe anything I told you?"
He shrugged with a disinterest that he didn't quite feel. "I'm
kinda hoping that part about not hurting me was true."
Irina smiled again, and he pushed away the thought that her eyes
were like Sydney's in that moment. "Ah, a backbone and a sense of
humor. I like that." She picked up something from a table that he hadn't
noticed, and he saw that it was a syringe. He knew that he should be
afraid, but, strangely, he wasn't. It wasn't that he necessarily believed
that she wasn't going to hurt him. Lying was the least of the evils that
this woman was capable of. Perhaps he had simply used up all his fear of
dying for one day. He regarded her steadily as she approached him. "There
are many times when a job goes against your heart," she said
conversationally as she injected him with a clear liquid. "But you know
that, don't you, Agent Vaughn?" Their eyes locked, and then he saw nothing.
* * * * *
Consciousness returned slowly. Sydney's head rested on something
soft and indeterminate. She sat up far too quickly, opened her eyes and was
greeted with a spinning whiteness. She closed her eyes and waited for her
equilibrium to adjust. Her stomach heaved, and she was grateful that she
hadn't eaten any of Khasinau's stew; it would have ended up on the floor.
Her head felt weighted down from whatever her mother had given her to knock
her out. The thought of her mother almost made her retch again.
She opened her eyes again to a bare room lit by a single overhead
bulb, harsh in its white-yellow glare. Blinking only left her with its
image on her eyelids. She took in her surroundings. She was sitting on a
cold cement floor, and she realized with sudden horror that she was not
alone. Michael Vaughn's lifeless body lay next to her.
She broke.
A guttural, banshee's cry burst from her throat, and this time she
did retch, over and over, her stomach yielding nothing.
She turned back to look at him, wracked with sobs, all her muscles
seeming to quake. The moment was eerily, sickeningly familiar.
Nononononotagainnononono.
With palsied hands, she reached out to caress his cheek, his
forehead, his hair. He was so still, so beautiful. There was no blood this
time. She could feel her heart breaking inside her, the pieces that he had
so carefully put back together crumbling away. She leaned forward and
touched her lips to his, her tears wetting his face.
Toolatetoolatetoolate.
His lips were warm and soft.
She leaned back slightly, staring at his face, confusion warring
with sudden, irrational hope -- and felt his breath on her lips.
She sucked in a great gulp of air, one hand flying to his throat
and the other to his chest. Pulse. Heartbeat.
AlivealivealivethankyouGodthankyouthankyou.
Her hands went to his face again, frantic, stroking.
Wakeupwakeuppleasepleaseplease
wakeuppleaseVaughnwantyouneedyouVaughnplease.
Finally, he stirred, his eyes squinting against the light, his hand
rising to shield them. "Sydney?" he asked, his voice rough, and she pulled
him into her arms, laughing and crying and clutching. For a moment he
stared around them in confusion, before putting his own arms around her.
"Vaughn!" Her arms were a vise around him, and he almost couldn't
catch his breath. He didn't mind. "I thought you were dead!"
"I'm not." For the first time, he allowed the relief to flow
through him, aware of his nerves and muscles to an extent that he had never
quite been before. The sensations were dulled by the drug that Irina had
given him, but they were also somehow more crystalline, more evident. He
was alive, and Sydney Bristow was in his arms. He stroked her hair,
mumbling incoherent things which even he didn't understand. She simply held
him tightly, her face buried in his neck, rocking slightly, as if she would
never let go. Frankly, he didn't want her to.
"Where are we?" he finally asked. "Where's your mother? Sydney, I
saw her --"
"I don't care!" she cried. "You're alive!" She finally loosened her
grip and sat back to look at him. "You're alive," she echoed, this time
softly, and then began to run her hands over his face.
He could only stare at her in surprise, before letting his eyes
drift closed at the butterfly sensation of her fingers on his skin. Oh,
God.... Never before had mere touches sent such exquisite electricity
across his nerve endings. If his fight for life in the water had been hell,
this then was heaven.
Heaven was redefined a few seconds later when he felt the soft
pressure of her lips against his.
The kiss was sweet and nuzzling, almost tentative, their lips
yielding gently before feathering away with mutual sighs. He opened his
eyes slowly to meet hers. She had leaned backward and was smiling slightly,
shyly, clearly a little unsure of his reaction. He smiled in return, his
mind warm and comfortably fuzzy, and reached out to pull her closer again
--
And then the door began to open with a squeak that reverberated in
the still room with almost a physical force. For all their mental
preoccupation, they had enough instinct to react in the second afforded
them. They both managed to shift into a crouch -- their movements slower
than normal -- and prepared to spring into action. Jack slipped into the
room.
"Sydney --"
"Daddy!"
"Are you OK?" Jack surveyed them quickly, then holstered the gun
he'd been holding. "Where the hell have you been?"
"It's a long story," Sydney said, flushing a bit as she rose. "How
did you find --"
"I'll explain later. Come on, we should get out of here. The place
is deserted now, but that might not last for long. I left Will at the
hangar."
"Thank God," Sydney breathed. "Is he OK?"
"A bit worse for wear, but he'll be fine," Jack said, eyeing Vaughn
as he staggered getting to his feet. "Seems to be going around."
Immediately, Sydney put her arms around Vaughn to steady him. "Can
you walk?"
In front of Jack? Vaughn thought. He was damn sure going to walk.
"Yeah, just still a bit woozy there for a second. I'm fine now." He smiled
at her reassuringly, and she flushed again, pulling her arms away just
perhaps a little bit reluctantly. He glanced up into Jack's speculative
stare. There was no way he could've known what had just happened between
the two of them, and yet Vaughn got the unsettling sense that he somehow
knew exactly that. Screw it, he thought, and stared back at Jack. I'm
alive. And I'm gonna kiss her again sometime, too.
THE END
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