First stab at Alias 500
Long time reader, first time poster. A little late, but here's my entry for the "Walls" challenge. Any comments and criticism are welcome and encouraged! For those so inclined, this is Sark/Sydney based and implied past Sydney/Vaughan. PG rated, friendly for the whole family!
Sark watched Sydney from her garden as she ran from her car into her house, one hand clutched over her gently rounded belly, the other cupped over her mouth. She sped through the dusky autumn evening and ran into her home, leaving her front door yawning open in her wake and the brown paper grocery bags forgotten and dripping in back seat of her sensible sedan.
She got her morning sickness at night, around 8. He should have guessed that before he ever starting watching her; Sydney never went the conventional route, in any respect. Sark turned away from her bathroom window before she could see him through it. He slid down the side of the house slowly, gray siding digging into his back as he sat on the freshly dug earth of the herb garden. It had already begun to grow chilly at night when she started planting the seeds; why she started a garden when the seeds would die in the soil before they had a chance to grow mystified him. But then, there wasn’t much about Sydney that didn’t mystify him. He wondered if that was the reason he had started watching her like this. He liked to think there was reasoning behind all of this.
His back to the wall separating them, Sark heard Sydney sprint through the bathroom door and her drop to her knees on the wood paneled floor and heave; once, twice. Someone should be there, holding her hair back. He suspected she wouldn’t want anyone there to see her in this vulnerable state, not even her precious Vaughan.
Michael Vaughan.
If Michael Vaughan was a saint in Sydney’s eyes, then Andre Michaux was the devil Sydney never knew. He was the devil Sark knew all too well.
He heard her slide back from the toilet, her sickness subsiding as he pushed himself up from the ground, wiping the dirt from his jeans, and turning his face toward the light of the half open window. She was sitting with her back to his wall, head back, eyes closed. If she opened her eyes she would see him now, looking down on her. But her eyes stayed shut, pressed hard against the glaring fluorescent light above.
Vaughan would have never been able to see her like this. Sark savored this image of her, imprinting it in his memory. He pressed his hand against the siding of the house, a few inches of concrete and wood separating his hand from her back. Looking at her then, his strong woman made so exposed and defenseless, made him want her to have comfort, to find peace. It almost made him wish that he hadn’t ordered the kill on Michaux.
Almost.
Sark watched Sydney from her garden as she ran from her car into her house, one hand clutched over her gently rounded belly, the other cupped over her mouth. She sped through the dusky autumn evening and ran into her home, leaving her front door yawning open in her wake and the brown paper grocery bags forgotten and dripping in back seat of her sensible sedan.
She got her morning sickness at night, around 8. He should have guessed that before he ever starting watching her; Sydney never went the conventional route, in any respect. Sark turned away from her bathroom window before she could see him through it. He slid down the side of the house slowly, gray siding digging into his back as he sat on the freshly dug earth of the herb garden. It had already begun to grow chilly at night when she started planting the seeds; why she started a garden when the seeds would die in the soil before they had a chance to grow mystified him. But then, there wasn’t much about Sydney that didn’t mystify him. He wondered if that was the reason he had started watching her like this. He liked to think there was reasoning behind all of this.
His back to the wall separating them, Sark heard Sydney sprint through the bathroom door and her drop to her knees on the wood paneled floor and heave; once, twice. Someone should be there, holding her hair back. He suspected she wouldn’t want anyone there to see her in this vulnerable state, not even her precious Vaughan.
Michael Vaughan.
If Michael Vaughan was a saint in Sydney’s eyes, then Andre Michaux was the devil Sydney never knew. He was the devil Sark knew all too well.
He heard her slide back from the toilet, her sickness subsiding as he pushed himself up from the ground, wiping the dirt from his jeans, and turning his face toward the light of the half open window. She was sitting with her back to his wall, head back, eyes closed. If she opened her eyes she would see him now, looking down on her. But her eyes stayed shut, pressed hard against the glaring fluorescent light above.
Vaughan would have never been able to see her like this. Sark savored this image of her, imprinting it in his memory. He pressed his hand against the siding of the house, a few inches of concrete and wood separating his hand from her back. Looking at her then, his strong woman made so exposed and defenseless, made him want her to have comfort, to find peace. It almost made him wish that he hadn’t ordered the kill on Michaux.
Almost.