Category: Angst, baby!
Rating: PG
Spoilers: The Two
Summary: sleep wake hope: Sydney would rather be a figment
of her own imagination.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various
other people with lawyers. Le sigh.
Thanks to Lyra, Shelley, and Jayne for various betaing and
handholding help. 'Specially Lyra, for not killing me.
***
Figment
by Celli Lane
***
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream
--e.e. cummings, "anyone lived in a pretty how town"
***
Two years later. She refuses to believe it.
They couldn't fake everything, could they?
One person, maybe. Or two. But somewhere between Carrie's
pregnancy and her father's beard, Sydney begins to doubt
it.
Hypnosis maybe. Some of the more experimental drugs out
there...she could be strapped to a bed somewhere, talking
to figments while Sloane's men suck all the CIA knowledge
out of her brain. She worries over that one for a while.
Okay, a long while.
Okay, it's all she thinks about.
There's no way to find out. They don't have to know all the
details of her life--her own brain will conveniently
provide them, filling in all the blanks for whatever they
suggest. Sight, smell, feel--it could only be real to
*her*, she thinks, as the sedan explodes in front of her.
The blast of heat that washes over her could be coming from
nowhere but her own fevered imagination.
She imagines Francie's double standing over her and
laughing at her imaginary mission, and thinks briefly that
if this guy stabs her...if she lets him kill her...well, at
least maybe she'll know.
If nothing else, maybe she could start over with a better
hallucination.
But her body carries on the battle without her, and she
goes on.
She doesn't want to go on. What's there to go on to?
***
"That was kind of harsh," Weiss says.
Sydney shrugs and goes back to the report Marshall prepared
on everything that happened while she was...away. It's
light on current events and heavy on the latest Buffy
spinoff, but having something tangible comforts her. She
couldn't make up all of this on her own, could she?
"I don't necessarily blame you." This is the Weiss she
remembers. Or the Weiss she's remembering. When he has
something to say, he says it. "It's not your job to bless
his marriage. Let the man feel guilt, it's probably good
for him."
"Thanks for your support." She turns a page and notices the
sports rundown. Will the sight of hockey scores ever be
painless? Probably not. She keeps turning.
"Syd."
She looks up.
"If you want to make Vaughn your verbal punching bag,
that's fine. But when you're done, remember that the rest
of us buried you too." His eyes are troubled, but they
never leave hers. "We all lost faith."
No, you didn't. No, you couldn't. She fights the words
away, knowing that arguing with him about reality and faith
will only harm her position, whatever that happens to be.
"I--I have a meeting with Marshall. Something about a tech
update--"
"Go ahead." His hand is warm on her upper arm. Could she be
making him up? Would she? "If you need anything, Syd--"
She needs two years' worth of...something. "Thanks, Weiss."
***
What she needs, she decides some time after seeing herself
on grainy tape slitting a man's throat, is proof.
If it's real, fine, she'll slog through it and find out
what happened and then...well, whatever happens next.
She'll probably go to jail, which doesn't sound as awful as
it might.
If it's not real, then she has a reason to get free. Get
back to her life.
So how to prove it?
During a sleepless night in the safe house (if she sleeps,
when will she wake up?), she decides that she needs to do
something completely unexpected. Something hypnosis and her
own memories can't compensate for.
Killing someone is out, although according to that tape,
it's not new and unusual. But if she's wrong and this is
reality...okay, no.
She could go somewhere she's never been, but...too time-
consuming.
Quit the CIA and--no. She's tried that.
She could seduce Marshall. The thought sends her into a
spasm of giggles, until she has to stick her head under her
pillow to avoid being heard by the guards. That would be
unusual, definitely. Unpredictable. But poor Carrie. Even
in a hallucination, she can't wreck Marshall's life.
As she lies there, still giggling intermittently, it hits
her.
"Perfect," she tells the ceiling.
***
"Weiss. Weiss."
He snores. Sydney tries not to giggle. "Weiss," she
whispers again, shaking him.
He sits bolt upright, nearly knocking her off the bed.
"Whatthehell?" He shakes his head once, hard, and squints
at her. "Syd? What are you doing here?"
That's a good question. "You said if I needed anything..."
She trails off.
"I did, didn't I?" He scratches the scar on his throat.
"Well, I didn't quite expect you to break into my house to
get it, but okay. How can I help you?"
She launches herself at him, and realizes only when she
hears his muffled grunt that she's thrown them both back
into the headboard. His mouth is firm, and a bit rough from
the stubble around it, and he's not kissing her back,
dammit. She fumbles for one of his hands and puts it firmly
on her breast.
He shoves her away. She grabs at him for balance, but he's
still pushing, and she lands on the floor. "Ow!"
"I'm sorry. Wait. Sydney, what the hell's the matter with
you?"
"Nothing," she says, hearing the sullen tone in her own
voice.
"Nothing. Right. You've always molested random CIA agents,
I just didn't know about it."
She's not going to cry. She's not going to cry. She's not--
"Please don't cry, Syd."
"I'm not crying!" She sniffs. "My butt hurts."
"I'm sorry. Look, come here." He hauls her up into his lap-
-with no apparent effort on his part; she'd be impressed,
if she weren't too busy dripping tears on his T-shirt.
"Just don't do that again, okay? It was like a reverse wet
dream. No offense."
"None taken." His arms are hard around her, and the
blankets are tangled under her legs, pressing into the back
of her thighs. "Maybe it is a dream. All of it. Maybe we're
both just figments of my imagination."
"Um. Okay."
"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"None. But that's okay. When's the last time you slept?"
"Off and on. I'm afraid--" The sob at the back of her
throat wants to be a scream. "What if I wake up again and--
"
He says something against her hair, but she can't hear him
over the noises she's making.
***
She wakes up slowly, fuzzily, trying to figure out why her
eyes hurt and her throat itches and she's still wearing her
clothes. Did something happen? A mission? Had Vaughn--
It all hits her at once, and she freezes. Oh, God.
"Syd?" Weiss says sleepily. She rolls over. He's on his
side next to her, looking even less alert than last night.
"You awake?"
"I think so. How long was I out?"
"Ten hours, I think."
"Are you sure?"
He cranes his head to check the clock. "Yeah. It's about
two in the afternoon. Good thing you fell apart on a
Friday. I wouldn't want to have to call both of us in
sick."
"I guess." She scoots closer. "Thanks, Weiss."
"Sure." He makes a startled sound when her arms creep
around his waist, but when she doesn't try anything else,
he relaxes and hugs her back. "Anytime. I think."
"Okay."
"Sydney, are you sure you're awake?"
She sighs, just once, and feels his chest drop as he
breathes out too. "I'm sure."
--the end--
Rating: PG
Spoilers: The Two
Summary: sleep wake hope: Sydney would rather be a figment
of her own imagination.
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various
other people with lawyers. Le sigh.
Thanks to Lyra, Shelley, and Jayne for various betaing and
handholding help. 'Specially Lyra, for not killing me.
***
Figment
by Celli Lane
***
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream
--e.e. cummings, "anyone lived in a pretty how town"
***
Two years later. She refuses to believe it.
They couldn't fake everything, could they?
One person, maybe. Or two. But somewhere between Carrie's
pregnancy and her father's beard, Sydney begins to doubt
it.
Hypnosis maybe. Some of the more experimental drugs out
there...she could be strapped to a bed somewhere, talking
to figments while Sloane's men suck all the CIA knowledge
out of her brain. She worries over that one for a while.
Okay, a long while.
Okay, it's all she thinks about.
There's no way to find out. They don't have to know all the
details of her life--her own brain will conveniently
provide them, filling in all the blanks for whatever they
suggest. Sight, smell, feel--it could only be real to
*her*, she thinks, as the sedan explodes in front of her.
The blast of heat that washes over her could be coming from
nowhere but her own fevered imagination.
She imagines Francie's double standing over her and
laughing at her imaginary mission, and thinks briefly that
if this guy stabs her...if she lets him kill her...well, at
least maybe she'll know.
If nothing else, maybe she could start over with a better
hallucination.
But her body carries on the battle without her, and she
goes on.
She doesn't want to go on. What's there to go on to?
***
"That was kind of harsh," Weiss says.
Sydney shrugs and goes back to the report Marshall prepared
on everything that happened while she was...away. It's
light on current events and heavy on the latest Buffy
spinoff, but having something tangible comforts her. She
couldn't make up all of this on her own, could she?
"I don't necessarily blame you." This is the Weiss she
remembers. Or the Weiss she's remembering. When he has
something to say, he says it. "It's not your job to bless
his marriage. Let the man feel guilt, it's probably good
for him."
"Thanks for your support." She turns a page and notices the
sports rundown. Will the sight of hockey scores ever be
painless? Probably not. She keeps turning.
"Syd."
She looks up.
"If you want to make Vaughn your verbal punching bag,
that's fine. But when you're done, remember that the rest
of us buried you too." His eyes are troubled, but they
never leave hers. "We all lost faith."
No, you didn't. No, you couldn't. She fights the words
away, knowing that arguing with him about reality and faith
will only harm her position, whatever that happens to be.
"I--I have a meeting with Marshall. Something about a tech
update--"
"Go ahead." His hand is warm on her upper arm. Could she be
making him up? Would she? "If you need anything, Syd--"
She needs two years' worth of...something. "Thanks, Weiss."
***
What she needs, she decides some time after seeing herself
on grainy tape slitting a man's throat, is proof.
If it's real, fine, she'll slog through it and find out
what happened and then...well, whatever happens next.
She'll probably go to jail, which doesn't sound as awful as
it might.
If it's not real, then she has a reason to get free. Get
back to her life.
So how to prove it?
During a sleepless night in the safe house (if she sleeps,
when will she wake up?), she decides that she needs to do
something completely unexpected. Something hypnosis and her
own memories can't compensate for.
Killing someone is out, although according to that tape,
it's not new and unusual. But if she's wrong and this is
reality...okay, no.
She could go somewhere she's never been, but...too time-
consuming.
Quit the CIA and--no. She's tried that.
She could seduce Marshall. The thought sends her into a
spasm of giggles, until she has to stick her head under her
pillow to avoid being heard by the guards. That would be
unusual, definitely. Unpredictable. But poor Carrie. Even
in a hallucination, she can't wreck Marshall's life.
As she lies there, still giggling intermittently, it hits
her.
"Perfect," she tells the ceiling.
***
"Weiss. Weiss."
He snores. Sydney tries not to giggle. "Weiss," she
whispers again, shaking him.
He sits bolt upright, nearly knocking her off the bed.
"Whatthehell?" He shakes his head once, hard, and squints
at her. "Syd? What are you doing here?"
That's a good question. "You said if I needed anything..."
She trails off.
"I did, didn't I?" He scratches the scar on his throat.
"Well, I didn't quite expect you to break into my house to
get it, but okay. How can I help you?"
She launches herself at him, and realizes only when she
hears his muffled grunt that she's thrown them both back
into the headboard. His mouth is firm, and a bit rough from
the stubble around it, and he's not kissing her back,
dammit. She fumbles for one of his hands and puts it firmly
on her breast.
He shoves her away. She grabs at him for balance, but he's
still pushing, and she lands on the floor. "Ow!"
"I'm sorry. Wait. Sydney, what the hell's the matter with
you?"
"Nothing," she says, hearing the sullen tone in her own
voice.
"Nothing. Right. You've always molested random CIA agents,
I just didn't know about it."
She's not going to cry. She's not going to cry. She's not--
"Please don't cry, Syd."
"I'm not crying!" She sniffs. "My butt hurts."
"I'm sorry. Look, come here." He hauls her up into his lap-
-with no apparent effort on his part; she'd be impressed,
if she weren't too busy dripping tears on his T-shirt.
"Just don't do that again, okay? It was like a reverse wet
dream. No offense."
"None taken." His arms are hard around her, and the
blankets are tangled under her legs, pressing into the back
of her thighs. "Maybe it is a dream. All of it. Maybe we're
both just figments of my imagination."
"Um. Okay."
"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"None. But that's okay. When's the last time you slept?"
"Off and on. I'm afraid--" The sob at the back of her
throat wants to be a scream. "What if I wake up again and--
"
He says something against her hair, but she can't hear him
over the noises she's making.
***
She wakes up slowly, fuzzily, trying to figure out why her
eyes hurt and her throat itches and she's still wearing her
clothes. Did something happen? A mission? Had Vaughn--
It all hits her at once, and she freezes. Oh, God.
"Syd?" Weiss says sleepily. She rolls over. He's on his
side next to her, looking even less alert than last night.
"You awake?"
"I think so. How long was I out?"
"Ten hours, I think."
"Are you sure?"
He cranes his head to check the clock. "Yeah. It's about
two in the afternoon. Good thing you fell apart on a
Friday. I wouldn't want to have to call both of us in
sick."
"I guess." She scoots closer. "Thanks, Weiss."
"Sure." He makes a startled sound when her arms creep
around his waist, but when she doesn't try anything else,
he relaxes and hugs her back. "Anytime. I think."
"Okay."
"Sydney, are you sure you're awake?"
She sighs, just once, and feels his chest drop as he
breathes out too. "I'm sure."
--the end--