Think About It (DWE; 1/1)
Title: Think About It
Author: dreamwrtr4life/ Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Angst/Romance
Spoilers/Timeline: Pre-“Phase One”
‘Shippers’ Paradise: S/V with remnants of V/A
Archived: FanFiction.Net, SD-1, Cover Me, my website, and LJ. Anywhere, just ask and you shall receive!
Summary: When Sydney and Vaughn discover a mutual love for poetry, Sydney decides to play a game that leads up to New Year's Eve. A Dream Writer Experience.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Period. End of story. Wait, no it’s not! Keep reading! The poems are Emily Dickinson’s.
Author’s Note: My first fic! It’s my baby, and I love it like no other.
Think About It
“Is that all?”
“Yeah, I think that just about wraps it up.”
“Good. I promised I’d help Will and Francie start planning the restaurant’s New Year’s Eve party.” Sydney’s eyes became glassy and far away as her nose crinkled as if a garbage truck passed underneath.
Vaughn caught the action out the corner of his eye, and his brow furrowed. If he looked hard enough, he thought he could see the desire to roll her eyes. “Something particularly wrong with New Year’s Eve parties? Or just planning them?” He began the habitual task of weeding out the documents he needed to take home from the ones that needed shredding just to give his hands something to do. He was not paying attention, though; for all he knew, he could have been shredding his paycheck. All of his efforts were focused on Sydney and what she had to say, and the rest of the Ops Center bullpen tumbled away; any mere glimpse into her personal life was like a shaft of sunlight in a thunderstorm.
Sydney shrugged in evasion, shoulders doing an awkward half-rise to different heights, and he could only guess as to why she thought she needed to elude him on the subject. Was she still uncomfortable discussing ‘outside’ topics because of their recent run-ins on the street? Or could it possibly be because of-
She blatantly but politely changed the subject. “So what are you doing for New Year’s?”
“Oh.” Not as big of a subject change as he thought. His eyes rounded with surprise, and his tongue felt twenty times larger than normal as he tried to push out words that should not have been in his brain in the first place. “Well, Alice wanted to do something together. She mentioned once that she had wanted to go out on a boat in the San Francisco Bay and watch the fireworks. But she hasn’t called me in a few days. Or maybe I was supposed to call her-” He knew he was rambling. His last sentence trailed off into an uncomfortable silence in which the only sound heard was that of the papers his hands incessantly shuffled, regardless of what his brain told them to do. Suddenly, his hand alighted upon something thicker than a single slip of paper, but what with the disconnect between mind and body, his fingers kept walking towards the reject pile until she laid a soft hand upon his forearm.
“What’s that? Looks pretty important.”
Even though his concentration was more taken with the feminine hand gracing his arm (‘she’s touching me!’ was all his mind would comprehend), again his muscles took over: his hands ceased sorting, and his fingers trailed over the cover of a leather-bound book, tracing the inset, golden letters as if needing to feel them in order to see them. Realizing she really did expect an answer, his brain turned from the pleasurable sensation of her fingers gently squeezing his arm through his blazer to the less pleasurable task of forming coherent sentences. “This? It was my father’s. My mother gave it to me for Christmas the year my father died. He loved any American who wrote. Huh. I wonder why I even have that here.”
“Maybe you ought to clean your desk more often.” She cracked a small smile before glancing at the cover. “Emily Dickinson? She’s one of my favorites. And Whitman. Don’t ask me why; they’re as different as can be, yet equally extraordinary. Do you like her work?”
“Yeah. I used to read it all the time.” Not really a lie: it had belonged to his father, so of course it held a special place in his world, but other than pouring over it hoping to find clues as to who his father really was, he never sought it out for its intellectual merit. He was never one for extensive reading, and poetry was a special kind of torture he thought better reserved for his high school English teachers. “I’m really surprised I brought it in.” Feeling the insane need to prove his dedication to the literature in his hands, he racked his brain for evidence that he had, in fact, read it at one point in his life. A half-formed poem scrawled itself across his brain, and it tumbled from his lips regardless of the fact that the writing stopped halfway through. “‘Faith is a fine invention for gentlemen who see-’”
“‘-But microscopes are prudent in an emergency!’” she finished for him, smiling widely and unwittingly saving his pride. The two shared a short-lived, bubbly laugh that simmered into uncomfortable silence. Color seeped into her cheeks as he gently placed the thick volume into his briefcase, fingers lingering on the smooth spine, and his dedication to the book suddenly renewed. She turned her wrist to glance at her watch. “Oh gosh! I didn’t know it was so late! I gotta run. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah.” Even to him, he sounded a bit flat. “And happy New Year, if I don’t see you before then.”
She paused in her tracks with her back turned to him. Glancing over her shoulder, she graced him with a half-smile. “You too. Have fun with Alice.” Did she sound sad there? Her voice swept just the slightest bit downward. That meant she was sad, right?
The sharp click of her heels on the granite floor announced her departure; he sighed and collapsed in his desk chair. Another opportunity lost; chalk that one up along with the billions of other missed ones. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he almost slammed his head against his desk in anger. He had made up the story about Alice, why was anyone’s guess. The truth was she had wanted to ring in the new year with a group of girlfriends at her apartment; she had even given him her blessing if he wanted to spend his time at a bar with Weiss. Maybe he had told the lie to try and get her riled up, jealousy flashing in her eyes. What would have been gained by telling the truth? Her pity? He did not want that. What he wanted was something that went against every written rule he knew in the Handbook and complied with every rule he knew in his heart.
* * *
Sydney Bristow slid gracefully into the driver’s seat of her car but did not put the key in the ignition; she was too distracted to drive at the moment. What was this feeling she had? Rage? Sadness? Jealousy? She could not figure out which carefully planned compartment it fit into; it had no name. After wrestling with it for at least ten minutes (and earning some interesting stares from passersby), she finally decided that she was tardy enough and started the vehicle. Pulling out into the street, she began to replay the entire conversation, picking out exactly when and where she had gone completely insane. When she came to their brief discussion of Emily Dickinson, she had a sudden epiphany that erased most of her frustration. Whipping her cell phone out of her coat pocket, she dialed the familiar number.
“Francie? It’s Syd. Sorry I didn’t call earlier; I got held up at the bank. . . . No, not literally! Since I’m so late, I’m just gonna go home and get dinner ready. And I’ve got some really important paperwork to do, so I might be at the library for a little bit. I’ll see you later. Bye.”
* * *
“Vaughn.”
“Joey’s Pizza?”
“Sorry. Wrong number.” Vaughn stared at the phone as the click ushered in silence then shot a blaring dial tone back at him. Usually he was on the other side of that brief exchange. Something big must be up for Sydney to call him. Could it be- He did not even finish the thought before he clicked off the TV, closed the leather-bound book (and dictionary. And Poetry for Dummies) he was reading, and threw on his shoes and coat. Right on cue, Donovan came waddling up to him, leash in mouth, eyes sparkling with expectancy.
“Sorry, boy. We’re not going for a walk right now. Syd’s got an emergency.” His dog seemed to nod and trotted away just as happily as before, his spirits not dampened in the least. Vaughn practically raced to the warehouse, averaging at least thirty miles over the speed limit for the majority of the trip despite the rush hour traffic. He flew through the door but adopted a hurried walk soon after, not wanting to appear too eager or enthusiastic (or mind-numbingly worried). Half-expecting to see a puffy-eyed, sobbing Sydney, he received a rude awakening when he was greeted by . . . no one. After checking the rafters twice and even strapping himself down to wait twenty minutes in case she got caught in traffic, he sighed in defeat. Maybe there really was a Joey’s Pizza and someone really had called for them and it really was a wrong number.
Just as he was about to leave, something on the table caught his attention. It was an old piece of paper. It appeared to be yellowed by age, the edges frayed, blackened, and torn. The script on the page was scribed with a calligraphy pen in writing that seemed familiar but then again . . . did not. It read:
‘“Our lives are Swiss, -
So still, so cool,
Till, some odd afternoon,
The Alps neglect their curtains,
And we look farther on.
‘“Italy stands the other side,
While, like a guard between,
The solemn Alps,
The siren Alps,
Forever intervene!”
‘Think about us it.’
There was a word scratched out between ‘about’ and ‘it’ that looked suspiciously like - “No.” His soft whisper echoed in the empty warehouse. “No way. No fucking way.” Not daring to touch the paper a moment longer lest it disintegrate in his very hands, he dropped it onto the table unceremoniously. He needed some help on this one. So he called the greatest interpreter who ever lived.
“Weiss? Get your ass down to the warehouse; I need some help.”
* * *
“Well, what do you make of it?”
“I don’t know.” Weiss circled the table for what seemed like the hundredth time. He finally threw his arms in the air before slamming his fists onto the already dented metal surface. “Man, you’re the smart one! What the hell did you call me for? What made you think poetry is anywhere near my realm of expertise?!”
Vaughn sighed, perching himself on the edge of the table. “Because you’re the womanizer. I thought . . . maybe you could tell me what she meant.”
“A woman sent you this?”
Vaughn nodded carefully, mentally kicking himself for slipping in the real reason for his impromptu call. Why couldn’t he have pretended national security was at stake instead of his love life? At least he had enough presence of mind to purposely neglect to tell his best friend which woman.
“And you’re getting all worried over a woman? Aw, my little Mikey is growing up! I feel so proud!” He slapped an arm around Vaughn’s shoulders, which the latter shrugged out of with a withering frown. Sobering, Weiss handled the piece of paper again and sniffed it suspiciously. “Tea. Whoever she was used tea to get it to look like this. She burned the edges with a lighter, too.”
“I guessed as much, Eric.”
Weiss sighed in thought. “Did Alice give you this?”
Vaughn shook his head, trying to appear as innocent and knowledge-free as possible.
“I could have guessed that. That woman doesn’t have the brain cells to pull off something as deep as this.”
Vaughn rolled his eyes. He knew Weiss had a deep dislike for his pseudo-not-really-girlfriend but was in no mood to deal with an anti-Alice harangue at the moment. There were more important things to deal with at the time. Namely this poem.
Eric sighed heavily again. “I have no idea what it means, Mike. I don’t like poetry. I don’t even like reading!”
“Yeah, I knew you were a long-shot. Thanks anyway. I’ll see you later.” Refusing to put a crease in the piece of paper, he walked out of the warehouse with it in hand, not bothering with a second glance at Weiss.
When Vaughn reentered his apartment, he immediately darted towards his bookcase. He took out every single poetry book he owned and stacked the three of them by category in alphabetical order. After re-writing the poem in his own hand, he just stared at the original copy, willing the hidden messages and symbols to come out of the woodwork. When he could no longer ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, he abandoned his task to warm up some spaghetti leftovers from a week ago. He leaned against the stove, thoughtfully slurping up the rubbery noodles, not caring if the red marinara sauce splattered all over his white work shirt.
A thought had just occurred to him.
Why did he care so much about this poem? Why was he obsessed with cracking Sydney’s secret meaning? Was he looking for the romantic message that he hoped she returned? The thought that he feared most broke upon him last: was he deluding himself? Maybe this was to quash his feelings for her, to subtly tell him that she did not return his undying love and affecting. He did not even knew for sure it was from her! Tossing the half-eaten spaghetti into the already cluttered and crusty sink, he hurried back over to his desk to pour over the poem one more time. He held his head in his hands, wondering why for the life of him he could not seem to get a breakthrough; he had cracked harder codes that this before, so why was this any different? Because it could possibly involve his love life?
He was suddenly jolted from his deep thoughts by something tugging on the leg of his slacks. Looking down, Vaughn saw Donovan with a packet of papers in his mouth, drooling like they were a slab of steak. Groaning slightly, he gingerly plucked the soaked papers from his dog’s mouth, cleared a space on the desktop, and spread them out to dry. He took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at the pools of drool. When he realized what the papers were, he gasped and forgot to reprimand his dog for . . . being a dog.
“Good boy, Donovan,” he said, the majority of his volume stuck in his throat. The thick packet of papers used to be the CIA book of protocols that he was given the first day on the job. It must have fallen off of the bookshelf in his rush. He opened the packet to the first page: the table of contents. One of the only lines that had not been completely blurred by his dog’s bodily secretions was the sublisting for relationship protocols.
“Holy shit.”
Flinging the dripping packet aside, he pulled the original copy of the poem towards him. Why had he not noticed it before? The words “Swiss,” “Alps,” and “Italy” were all written in different ink: if the light hit them the right way they almost looked green. Donovan nudged Vaughn’s foot with his pudgy snout, prodding his master to think further into the coincidence. Vaughn shifted his gaze to the large pamphlet, trying to find a possible connection between the two writings. Finally, it clicked. Turning to Donovan, he let out a triumphantly exuberant laugh.
“I got it! We are Swiss, protocol is the Alps, and love is Italy! It all makes sense now!” His dog looked on blankly. “Don’t you get it? ‘Our lives are Swiss:’ the Swiss are neutral, platonic. Sydney and I are Swiss right now! ‘While, like a guard between/ . . . /The siren Alps/Forever intervene:’ protocol gets in the way. ‘Italy stands the other side:’ love is just beyond . . . but the protocol keeps getting in the way! Damn it!” He suddenly slammed his fist down upon the desk and causing the small Pit-Bull to jump. “So in other words, we would be together if it wasn’t for the goddamn rules. Well that’s helpful. Leave it to Syd to point out the blatantly obvious.”
He paused for a moment. “Wait a second. Does that mean she loves me even though we . . .” Vaughn trailed off, his eyes widening slightly. Donovan barked in response. “Aw, hell yes!” He pumped his fist into the air as a sign of victory. After a brief pat on the back, he settled down again. How was he going to respond to this? An open declaration of adoration was not going to work; that was what the poem meant. The best course of action, he decided, was to mimic her, play Sydney’s little mind games, despite the fact that he knew he was completely out of his element, both because of the poetry (if it had been prose, he may have stood a chance) and his blind devotion to . . . Italy. He searched out the familiar leather-bound book he had rediscovered that afternoon. If she wanted Dickinson, then she would get it.
* * *
“Hi.”
“Hey.” The two smiled at each other, despite the various onlookers that could be observing their conversation at any given moment.
“You wanted to talk to me about my mother?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. About that-”
“Vaughn!” A voice shouted from behind the pair. They both turned around to see Weiss jogging towards them. “Hey, buddy - Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something important?”
“Um, y-”
“Nope,” Vaughn quickly answered, cutting Sydney off. This was the perfect diversion. Now he would discreetly slip the paper into the folder. . . . “Go ahead.”
“Well, I was just wondering if you ever found out what that poem meant.” His best friend leaned in a bit closer. “It was bugging me all night. . . . Well, not really, but it sounded like the right thing to say.”
Vaughn shook his head while smiling internally. “No. I’m still working on it. You’ll be the first to know once I crack it.”
Weiss nodded. “Cool. Mike, Agent Bristow.”
Sydney cocked her head to one side, regarding her handler as he sifted through a stack of papers. He thought he saw a triumphant (if slightly disappointed) gleam in her gaze, and it made his hard-won victory all the sweeter. “So. You were saying?”
He finally produced a manila folder and handed it to her. “Here you go. This is just some random follow-up work from-” His mind went temporarily blank. He panicked. He went the safe route “-Devlin. Take it home, bring it back tomorrow, and we’ll go from there.”
“But that has nothing to do with my-”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Vaughn stood up and buttoned his suit jacket importantly. He needed to make a clean and speedy escape. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With his signature bashful grin he exited, leaving Sydney alone by his desk. She looked after him questioningly but did not call out.
* * *
“Francie?”
“Yeah, Syd?” she answered from the kitchen. Sydney slogged through the door, lugging her gym bag, purse, coat, and briefcase in her arms. Francie rushed to help, taking her coat and gym bag and laying them on the couch. “What’s up?”
Sydney sighed, drawing from her acting skills to fool her friend. “I have so much paperwork to do for the bank, I’ll still be doing it when you plan next year’s New Year’s Eve party.”
Her best friend bit her lip but shrugged it off. “That’s cool; I guess I understand. I need to get over to the restaurant anyway. We were in the middle of creating a new recipe when I left.”
“Well, when you perfect your latest culinary masterpiece, don’t forget to bring your best friend home a piece/slice/cup/batch.” The two smiled at each other for a moment before Francie grabbed her coat and keys and headed out the door.
Sydney sat down at the desk in her room, slumping on a pile of textbooks. Deciding to forget about her latest dissertation, she extracted the folder Vaughn had given her (rather hastily, in her opinion) at the Ops Centre. It felt oddly thin; when she opened it up she discovered why: there was only one slip of paper inside. Smiling, she smoothed it out and read aloud:
“‘If you were coming in the fall,
I’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
‘If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
‘If only centuries delayed,
I’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting ‘til my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.
‘If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
‘But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing.
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
‘Think about it: with the heart, not the head this time.
‘-M.V.
‘PS: Damn the Alps; embrace the Italians.’ So Agent Vaughn has decided to play my game.” She was whispering to herself: her throat was obstructed by something. The fact that he had picked that particular poem tore at her heart. She wanted to jump into her car, race to the warehouse, and accost Michael Vaughn with her entire being. The Italian in them needed to be expressed, and if this was the only way they could do it . . . well, she wasn’t doing the Cabbage Patch, but it was better than nothing. Sighing dreamily, she slowly sat back into her chair, closing her eyes to reality and opening them to her dreams, in which she and Michael could be together without the entire Alpine Mountain Range standing in their way. When her eyelids fluttered open and she drifted back down, Sydney realized she was shaking with rapture. It was amazing how profound an affect this one man had on her entire being, entire life. She had not felt this way since . . . since ever.
‘This man is not only my guardian angel; he’s my soul mate, my hero, my savior.’
But after their mutual silent confessions of amour, how were things supposed to go back to normal? How were they supposed to conduct themselves around others when all they wanted to do was touch, kiss? How were they supposed to talk to the other person without worrying that the wrong words could come spewing out at any time? Abruptly, she knew that she did not want things to go back to normal. Normal meant not having feelings for her handler, not having this exhilarating feeling, and not playing this wonderful game she created. Speaking of which-
She had almost forgotten to make her next move. Opening the top right-hand drawer, she removed a book and started flipping through the pages.
* * *
A folder suddenly appeared an inch in front of his nose. “Done.” He looked up to see a slyly smiling Agent Bristow with the outstretched folder. “Here you go. Anything else you want me to do?”
“No, that’s all. You can go home.” He cautiously retrieved the papers. His thumb accidentally ran over the back of her hand, causing twin sets of goosepimples to rise over both of their arms. “It’s the day before New Years; if you don’t get called in to SD-6, then there’s no reason for you to be here. Take the next few days off, until further notice. If you have an emergency, you know the number.”
She nodded, tucking an errant stand of hair behind her ear. “Alright. Happy New Year.” For a moment, he believed she would make her exit without a backwards glance, and his heart dropped like a rock in disappointment, but looking over her shoulder at him discretely, their gazes caught. She winked before turning the corner.
Trying not to seem too eager, he opened the folder and found his same poem staring him back in the face. Had she been leading him on? Was there some sort of twisted ulterior motive to her seemingly harmless game? But he was jumping to conclusions; turning over the sheet, there was another muddled concoction of rhymes that made him want to chase her down. He read:
‘Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,
And mine the distant sea, -
Obedient to the least command
Thine eyes impose on me.’
‘And were you saved,
And I condemned to be
Where you were not,
That self were hell to me.’
‘I envy seas whereupon he rides,
I envy spokes of wheels
Of chariots that him convey,
I envy speechless hills
‘That gaze upon his journey;
How easy all can see
What is forbidden utterly
As heaven unto me!
‘I envy nests of sparrows
That dot his distant eaves,
The wealthy fly upon his pane,
The happy, happy leaves
‘That just abroad his window
Have summer’s leave to be,
The earrings of Pizarro
Could not obtain for me.
‘I envy light that wakes him,
And bells that boldly ring
To tell him it is noon abroad, -
Myself his noon could bring,
‘Yet interdict my blossom
And abrogate my bee,
Lest noon in everlasting night
Drop Gabriel and me.’
‘Think about it. Don’t give up on fantasy, but don’t forget about reality. Don’t let the Alps (or any other “a”) influence your heart or your actions.
‘-S.B.’
He frowned. ‘Or any other “a”?’ What did she mean by that? There was no other - ‘Oh. Shit!’ In the past few days, he had forgotten about Alice entirely, too caught up in the blithe, blissful action that was being loved by Sydney Bristow. But now that the time came, the decision did not seem all that hard to make; it was as if the decision had already been made without his knowledge.
But Vaughn had left his Emily Dickinson book of poems at his apartment. Damn! How was he going to reply with his answer to her implied question? Settling back into his chair, he weighed his limited number of possibilities. He could pull the Joey’s Pizza thing. ‘No. Too predictable.’ Write a poem off the top of his head. ‘Uh, no! Let’s not even go into how badly I write!’ How about - ‘Yes! I’ll do that!’ He mentally slammed his fist down on a table. It was settled. And he only had one day to prepare.
* * *
“Syd? Are you ready? There’s only five minutes left ‘til midnight! Aren’t you so excited?” Her best friend squealed to her as she breezed past, dancing with some guy she had met that night. Sydney nodded her head, plastering a fake smile on her face before taking a sip of her champagne. There she was, alone again, less than five minutes ‘til the new year. That did not bother her as much as the fact that she had not heard a peep from Vaughn since the moment she had given him the last poem. Had he really chosen Alice over her? That skinny, weak, twittering girl with a penchant for turtlenecks?! ‘Relax, Sydney,’ she told herself. ‘Maybe he just needs some time to decide.’ But that did not stop her from worrying.
One minute. One minute and this custom-made hell would be over. One minute and she could go home . . . even if it was to an empty apartment. Sighing, she set her empty glass onto a table and backed her way to a wall. Somewhere around forty seconds, an arm slid around her waist and pulled her into the corner behind a potted plant. Her eyes lit up and she tucked away her battle-ready elbow as she realized who it was. “Vaughn! How-” He silenced her by placing a finger against her lips. She smiled brightly against it. As the clock wound down, their lips gradually became closer and closer until -
“One . . . Happy New Year!” The cry rose up from the crowd, and everyone grabbed someone else for that coveted kiss. But Sydney and Michael had begun five seconds early; they were not able to wait any longer. They had been waiting for nearly two years. As couples around the room began to break apart, the traditional “Auld Lang Syne” rose up over the noisemakers. But Sydney and Michael still held on as if depending on the other to live. As the old year was ushered out, a new, earth-shattering relationship had started, the story of which would be the stuff of legend: two spies, one love, one hope for a better, safer future.
END
Author: dreamwrtr4life/ Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Angst/Romance
Spoilers/Timeline: Pre-“Phase One”
‘Shippers’ Paradise: S/V with remnants of V/A
Archived: FanFiction.Net, SD-1, Cover Me, my website, and LJ. Anywhere, just ask and you shall receive!
Summary: When Sydney and Vaughn discover a mutual love for poetry, Sydney decides to play a game that leads up to New Year's Eve. A Dream Writer Experience.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Period. End of story. Wait, no it’s not! Keep reading! The poems are Emily Dickinson’s.
Author’s Note: My first fic! It’s my baby, and I love it like no other.
Think About It
“Is that all?”
“Yeah, I think that just about wraps it up.”
“Good. I promised I’d help Will and Francie start planning the restaurant’s New Year’s Eve party.” Sydney’s eyes became glassy and far away as her nose crinkled as if a garbage truck passed underneath.
Vaughn caught the action out the corner of his eye, and his brow furrowed. If he looked hard enough, he thought he could see the desire to roll her eyes. “Something particularly wrong with New Year’s Eve parties? Or just planning them?” He began the habitual task of weeding out the documents he needed to take home from the ones that needed shredding just to give his hands something to do. He was not paying attention, though; for all he knew, he could have been shredding his paycheck. All of his efforts were focused on Sydney and what she had to say, and the rest of the Ops Center bullpen tumbled away; any mere glimpse into her personal life was like a shaft of sunlight in a thunderstorm.
Sydney shrugged in evasion, shoulders doing an awkward half-rise to different heights, and he could only guess as to why she thought she needed to elude him on the subject. Was she still uncomfortable discussing ‘outside’ topics because of their recent run-ins on the street? Or could it possibly be because of-
She blatantly but politely changed the subject. “So what are you doing for New Year’s?”
“Oh.” Not as big of a subject change as he thought. His eyes rounded with surprise, and his tongue felt twenty times larger than normal as he tried to push out words that should not have been in his brain in the first place. “Well, Alice wanted to do something together. She mentioned once that she had wanted to go out on a boat in the San Francisco Bay and watch the fireworks. But she hasn’t called me in a few days. Or maybe I was supposed to call her-” He knew he was rambling. His last sentence trailed off into an uncomfortable silence in which the only sound heard was that of the papers his hands incessantly shuffled, regardless of what his brain told them to do. Suddenly, his hand alighted upon something thicker than a single slip of paper, but what with the disconnect between mind and body, his fingers kept walking towards the reject pile until she laid a soft hand upon his forearm.
“What’s that? Looks pretty important.”
Even though his concentration was more taken with the feminine hand gracing his arm (‘she’s touching me!’ was all his mind would comprehend), again his muscles took over: his hands ceased sorting, and his fingers trailed over the cover of a leather-bound book, tracing the inset, golden letters as if needing to feel them in order to see them. Realizing she really did expect an answer, his brain turned from the pleasurable sensation of her fingers gently squeezing his arm through his blazer to the less pleasurable task of forming coherent sentences. “This? It was my father’s. My mother gave it to me for Christmas the year my father died. He loved any American who wrote. Huh. I wonder why I even have that here.”
“Maybe you ought to clean your desk more often.” She cracked a small smile before glancing at the cover. “Emily Dickinson? She’s one of my favorites. And Whitman. Don’t ask me why; they’re as different as can be, yet equally extraordinary. Do you like her work?”
“Yeah. I used to read it all the time.” Not really a lie: it had belonged to his father, so of course it held a special place in his world, but other than pouring over it hoping to find clues as to who his father really was, he never sought it out for its intellectual merit. He was never one for extensive reading, and poetry was a special kind of torture he thought better reserved for his high school English teachers. “I’m really surprised I brought it in.” Feeling the insane need to prove his dedication to the literature in his hands, he racked his brain for evidence that he had, in fact, read it at one point in his life. A half-formed poem scrawled itself across his brain, and it tumbled from his lips regardless of the fact that the writing stopped halfway through. “‘Faith is a fine invention for gentlemen who see-’”
“‘-But microscopes are prudent in an emergency!’” she finished for him, smiling widely and unwittingly saving his pride. The two shared a short-lived, bubbly laugh that simmered into uncomfortable silence. Color seeped into her cheeks as he gently placed the thick volume into his briefcase, fingers lingering on the smooth spine, and his dedication to the book suddenly renewed. She turned her wrist to glance at her watch. “Oh gosh! I didn’t know it was so late! I gotta run. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah.” Even to him, he sounded a bit flat. “And happy New Year, if I don’t see you before then.”
She paused in her tracks with her back turned to him. Glancing over her shoulder, she graced him with a half-smile. “You too. Have fun with Alice.” Did she sound sad there? Her voice swept just the slightest bit downward. That meant she was sad, right?
The sharp click of her heels on the granite floor announced her departure; he sighed and collapsed in his desk chair. Another opportunity lost; chalk that one up along with the billions of other missed ones. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he almost slammed his head against his desk in anger. He had made up the story about Alice, why was anyone’s guess. The truth was she had wanted to ring in the new year with a group of girlfriends at her apartment; she had even given him her blessing if he wanted to spend his time at a bar with Weiss. Maybe he had told the lie to try and get her riled up, jealousy flashing in her eyes. What would have been gained by telling the truth? Her pity? He did not want that. What he wanted was something that went against every written rule he knew in the Handbook and complied with every rule he knew in his heart.
* * *
Sydney Bristow slid gracefully into the driver’s seat of her car but did not put the key in the ignition; she was too distracted to drive at the moment. What was this feeling she had? Rage? Sadness? Jealousy? She could not figure out which carefully planned compartment it fit into; it had no name. After wrestling with it for at least ten minutes (and earning some interesting stares from passersby), she finally decided that she was tardy enough and started the vehicle. Pulling out into the street, she began to replay the entire conversation, picking out exactly when and where she had gone completely insane. When she came to their brief discussion of Emily Dickinson, she had a sudden epiphany that erased most of her frustration. Whipping her cell phone out of her coat pocket, she dialed the familiar number.
“Francie? It’s Syd. Sorry I didn’t call earlier; I got held up at the bank. . . . No, not literally! Since I’m so late, I’m just gonna go home and get dinner ready. And I’ve got some really important paperwork to do, so I might be at the library for a little bit. I’ll see you later. Bye.”
* * *
“Vaughn.”
“Joey’s Pizza?”
“Sorry. Wrong number.” Vaughn stared at the phone as the click ushered in silence then shot a blaring dial tone back at him. Usually he was on the other side of that brief exchange. Something big must be up for Sydney to call him. Could it be- He did not even finish the thought before he clicked off the TV, closed the leather-bound book (and dictionary. And Poetry for Dummies) he was reading, and threw on his shoes and coat. Right on cue, Donovan came waddling up to him, leash in mouth, eyes sparkling with expectancy.
“Sorry, boy. We’re not going for a walk right now. Syd’s got an emergency.” His dog seemed to nod and trotted away just as happily as before, his spirits not dampened in the least. Vaughn practically raced to the warehouse, averaging at least thirty miles over the speed limit for the majority of the trip despite the rush hour traffic. He flew through the door but adopted a hurried walk soon after, not wanting to appear too eager or enthusiastic (or mind-numbingly worried). Half-expecting to see a puffy-eyed, sobbing Sydney, he received a rude awakening when he was greeted by . . . no one. After checking the rafters twice and even strapping himself down to wait twenty minutes in case she got caught in traffic, he sighed in defeat. Maybe there really was a Joey’s Pizza and someone really had called for them and it really was a wrong number.
Just as he was about to leave, something on the table caught his attention. It was an old piece of paper. It appeared to be yellowed by age, the edges frayed, blackened, and torn. The script on the page was scribed with a calligraphy pen in writing that seemed familiar but then again . . . did not. It read:
‘“Our lives are Swiss, -
So still, so cool,
Till, some odd afternoon,
The Alps neglect their curtains,
And we look farther on.
‘“Italy stands the other side,
While, like a guard between,
The solemn Alps,
The siren Alps,
Forever intervene!”
‘Think about us it.’
There was a word scratched out between ‘about’ and ‘it’ that looked suspiciously like - “No.” His soft whisper echoed in the empty warehouse. “No way. No fucking way.” Not daring to touch the paper a moment longer lest it disintegrate in his very hands, he dropped it onto the table unceremoniously. He needed some help on this one. So he called the greatest interpreter who ever lived.
“Weiss? Get your ass down to the warehouse; I need some help.”
* * *
“Well, what do you make of it?”
“I don’t know.” Weiss circled the table for what seemed like the hundredth time. He finally threw his arms in the air before slamming his fists onto the already dented metal surface. “Man, you’re the smart one! What the hell did you call me for? What made you think poetry is anywhere near my realm of expertise?!”
Vaughn sighed, perching himself on the edge of the table. “Because you’re the womanizer. I thought . . . maybe you could tell me what she meant.”
“A woman sent you this?”
Vaughn nodded carefully, mentally kicking himself for slipping in the real reason for his impromptu call. Why couldn’t he have pretended national security was at stake instead of his love life? At least he had enough presence of mind to purposely neglect to tell his best friend which woman.
“And you’re getting all worried over a woman? Aw, my little Mikey is growing up! I feel so proud!” He slapped an arm around Vaughn’s shoulders, which the latter shrugged out of with a withering frown. Sobering, Weiss handled the piece of paper again and sniffed it suspiciously. “Tea. Whoever she was used tea to get it to look like this. She burned the edges with a lighter, too.”
“I guessed as much, Eric.”
Weiss sighed in thought. “Did Alice give you this?”
Vaughn shook his head, trying to appear as innocent and knowledge-free as possible.
“I could have guessed that. That woman doesn’t have the brain cells to pull off something as deep as this.”
Vaughn rolled his eyes. He knew Weiss had a deep dislike for his pseudo-not-really-girlfriend but was in no mood to deal with an anti-Alice harangue at the moment. There were more important things to deal with at the time. Namely this poem.
Eric sighed heavily again. “I have no idea what it means, Mike. I don’t like poetry. I don’t even like reading!”
“Yeah, I knew you were a long-shot. Thanks anyway. I’ll see you later.” Refusing to put a crease in the piece of paper, he walked out of the warehouse with it in hand, not bothering with a second glance at Weiss.
When Vaughn reentered his apartment, he immediately darted towards his bookcase. He took out every single poetry book he owned and stacked the three of them by category in alphabetical order. After re-writing the poem in his own hand, he just stared at the original copy, willing the hidden messages and symbols to come out of the woodwork. When he could no longer ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach, he abandoned his task to warm up some spaghetti leftovers from a week ago. He leaned against the stove, thoughtfully slurping up the rubbery noodles, not caring if the red marinara sauce splattered all over his white work shirt.
A thought had just occurred to him.
Why did he care so much about this poem? Why was he obsessed with cracking Sydney’s secret meaning? Was he looking for the romantic message that he hoped she returned? The thought that he feared most broke upon him last: was he deluding himself? Maybe this was to quash his feelings for her, to subtly tell him that she did not return his undying love and affecting. He did not even knew for sure it was from her! Tossing the half-eaten spaghetti into the already cluttered and crusty sink, he hurried back over to his desk to pour over the poem one more time. He held his head in his hands, wondering why for the life of him he could not seem to get a breakthrough; he had cracked harder codes that this before, so why was this any different? Because it could possibly involve his love life?
He was suddenly jolted from his deep thoughts by something tugging on the leg of his slacks. Looking down, Vaughn saw Donovan with a packet of papers in his mouth, drooling like they were a slab of steak. Groaning slightly, he gingerly plucked the soaked papers from his dog’s mouth, cleared a space on the desktop, and spread them out to dry. He took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at the pools of drool. When he realized what the papers were, he gasped and forgot to reprimand his dog for . . . being a dog.
“Good boy, Donovan,” he said, the majority of his volume stuck in his throat. The thick packet of papers used to be the CIA book of protocols that he was given the first day on the job. It must have fallen off of the bookshelf in his rush. He opened the packet to the first page: the table of contents. One of the only lines that had not been completely blurred by his dog’s bodily secretions was the sublisting for relationship protocols.
“Holy shit.”
Flinging the dripping packet aside, he pulled the original copy of the poem towards him. Why had he not noticed it before? The words “Swiss,” “Alps,” and “Italy” were all written in different ink: if the light hit them the right way they almost looked green. Donovan nudged Vaughn’s foot with his pudgy snout, prodding his master to think further into the coincidence. Vaughn shifted his gaze to the large pamphlet, trying to find a possible connection between the two writings. Finally, it clicked. Turning to Donovan, he let out a triumphantly exuberant laugh.
“I got it! We are Swiss, protocol is the Alps, and love is Italy! It all makes sense now!” His dog looked on blankly. “Don’t you get it? ‘Our lives are Swiss:’ the Swiss are neutral, platonic. Sydney and I are Swiss right now! ‘While, like a guard between/ . . . /The siren Alps/Forever intervene:’ protocol gets in the way. ‘Italy stands the other side:’ love is just beyond . . . but the protocol keeps getting in the way! Damn it!” He suddenly slammed his fist down upon the desk and causing the small Pit-Bull to jump. “So in other words, we would be together if it wasn’t for the goddamn rules. Well that’s helpful. Leave it to Syd to point out the blatantly obvious.”
He paused for a moment. “Wait a second. Does that mean she loves me even though we . . .” Vaughn trailed off, his eyes widening slightly. Donovan barked in response. “Aw, hell yes!” He pumped his fist into the air as a sign of victory. After a brief pat on the back, he settled down again. How was he going to respond to this? An open declaration of adoration was not going to work; that was what the poem meant. The best course of action, he decided, was to mimic her, play Sydney’s little mind games, despite the fact that he knew he was completely out of his element, both because of the poetry (if it had been prose, he may have stood a chance) and his blind devotion to . . . Italy. He searched out the familiar leather-bound book he had rediscovered that afternoon. If she wanted Dickinson, then she would get it.
* * *
“Hi.”
“Hey.” The two smiled at each other, despite the various onlookers that could be observing their conversation at any given moment.
“You wanted to talk to me about my mother?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. About that-”
“Vaughn!” A voice shouted from behind the pair. They both turned around to see Weiss jogging towards them. “Hey, buddy - Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something important?”
“Um, y-”
“Nope,” Vaughn quickly answered, cutting Sydney off. This was the perfect diversion. Now he would discreetly slip the paper into the folder. . . . “Go ahead.”
“Well, I was just wondering if you ever found out what that poem meant.” His best friend leaned in a bit closer. “It was bugging me all night. . . . Well, not really, but it sounded like the right thing to say.”
Vaughn shook his head while smiling internally. “No. I’m still working on it. You’ll be the first to know once I crack it.”
Weiss nodded. “Cool. Mike, Agent Bristow.”
Sydney cocked her head to one side, regarding her handler as he sifted through a stack of papers. He thought he saw a triumphant (if slightly disappointed) gleam in her gaze, and it made his hard-won victory all the sweeter. “So. You were saying?”
He finally produced a manila folder and handed it to her. “Here you go. This is just some random follow-up work from-” His mind went temporarily blank. He panicked. He went the safe route “-Devlin. Take it home, bring it back tomorrow, and we’ll go from there.”
“But that has nothing to do with my-”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Vaughn stood up and buttoned his suit jacket importantly. He needed to make a clean and speedy escape. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With his signature bashful grin he exited, leaving Sydney alone by his desk. She looked after him questioningly but did not call out.
* * *
“Francie?”
“Yeah, Syd?” she answered from the kitchen. Sydney slogged through the door, lugging her gym bag, purse, coat, and briefcase in her arms. Francie rushed to help, taking her coat and gym bag and laying them on the couch. “What’s up?”
Sydney sighed, drawing from her acting skills to fool her friend. “I have so much paperwork to do for the bank, I’ll still be doing it when you plan next year’s New Year’s Eve party.”
Her best friend bit her lip but shrugged it off. “That’s cool; I guess I understand. I need to get over to the restaurant anyway. We were in the middle of creating a new recipe when I left.”
“Well, when you perfect your latest culinary masterpiece, don’t forget to bring your best friend home a piece/slice/cup/batch.” The two smiled at each other for a moment before Francie grabbed her coat and keys and headed out the door.
Sydney sat down at the desk in her room, slumping on a pile of textbooks. Deciding to forget about her latest dissertation, she extracted the folder Vaughn had given her (rather hastily, in her opinion) at the Ops Centre. It felt oddly thin; when she opened it up she discovered why: there was only one slip of paper inside. Smiling, she smoothed it out and read aloud:
“‘If you were coming in the fall,
I’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
‘If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
‘If only centuries delayed,
I’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting ‘til my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.
‘If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
‘But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing.
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
‘Think about it: with the heart, not the head this time.
‘-M.V.
‘PS: Damn the Alps; embrace the Italians.’ So Agent Vaughn has decided to play my game.” She was whispering to herself: her throat was obstructed by something. The fact that he had picked that particular poem tore at her heart. She wanted to jump into her car, race to the warehouse, and accost Michael Vaughn with her entire being. The Italian in them needed to be expressed, and if this was the only way they could do it . . . well, she wasn’t doing the Cabbage Patch, but it was better than nothing. Sighing dreamily, she slowly sat back into her chair, closing her eyes to reality and opening them to her dreams, in which she and Michael could be together without the entire Alpine Mountain Range standing in their way. When her eyelids fluttered open and she drifted back down, Sydney realized she was shaking with rapture. It was amazing how profound an affect this one man had on her entire being, entire life. She had not felt this way since . . . since ever.
‘This man is not only my guardian angel; he’s my soul mate, my hero, my savior.’
But after their mutual silent confessions of amour, how were things supposed to go back to normal? How were they supposed to conduct themselves around others when all they wanted to do was touch, kiss? How were they supposed to talk to the other person without worrying that the wrong words could come spewing out at any time? Abruptly, she knew that she did not want things to go back to normal. Normal meant not having feelings for her handler, not having this exhilarating feeling, and not playing this wonderful game she created. Speaking of which-
She had almost forgotten to make her next move. Opening the top right-hand drawer, she removed a book and started flipping through the pages.
* * *
A folder suddenly appeared an inch in front of his nose. “Done.” He looked up to see a slyly smiling Agent Bristow with the outstretched folder. “Here you go. Anything else you want me to do?”
“No, that’s all. You can go home.” He cautiously retrieved the papers. His thumb accidentally ran over the back of her hand, causing twin sets of goosepimples to rise over both of their arms. “It’s the day before New Years; if you don’t get called in to SD-6, then there’s no reason for you to be here. Take the next few days off, until further notice. If you have an emergency, you know the number.”
She nodded, tucking an errant stand of hair behind her ear. “Alright. Happy New Year.” For a moment, he believed she would make her exit without a backwards glance, and his heart dropped like a rock in disappointment, but looking over her shoulder at him discretely, their gazes caught. She winked before turning the corner.
Trying not to seem too eager, he opened the folder and found his same poem staring him back in the face. Had she been leading him on? Was there some sort of twisted ulterior motive to her seemingly harmless game? But he was jumping to conclusions; turning over the sheet, there was another muddled concoction of rhymes that made him want to chase her down. He read:
‘Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,
And mine the distant sea, -
Obedient to the least command
Thine eyes impose on me.’
‘And were you saved,
And I condemned to be
Where you were not,
That self were hell to me.’
‘I envy seas whereupon he rides,
I envy spokes of wheels
Of chariots that him convey,
I envy speechless hills
‘That gaze upon his journey;
How easy all can see
What is forbidden utterly
As heaven unto me!
‘I envy nests of sparrows
That dot his distant eaves,
The wealthy fly upon his pane,
The happy, happy leaves
‘That just abroad his window
Have summer’s leave to be,
The earrings of Pizarro
Could not obtain for me.
‘I envy light that wakes him,
And bells that boldly ring
To tell him it is noon abroad, -
Myself his noon could bring,
‘Yet interdict my blossom
And abrogate my bee,
Lest noon in everlasting night
Drop Gabriel and me.’
‘Think about it. Don’t give up on fantasy, but don’t forget about reality. Don’t let the Alps (or any other “a”) influence your heart or your actions.
‘-S.B.’
He frowned. ‘Or any other “a”?’ What did she mean by that? There was no other - ‘Oh. Shit!’ In the past few days, he had forgotten about Alice entirely, too caught up in the blithe, blissful action that was being loved by Sydney Bristow. But now that the time came, the decision did not seem all that hard to make; it was as if the decision had already been made without his knowledge.
But Vaughn had left his Emily Dickinson book of poems at his apartment. Damn! How was he going to reply with his answer to her implied question? Settling back into his chair, he weighed his limited number of possibilities. He could pull the Joey’s Pizza thing. ‘No. Too predictable.’ Write a poem off the top of his head. ‘Uh, no! Let’s not even go into how badly I write!’ How about - ‘Yes! I’ll do that!’ He mentally slammed his fist down on a table. It was settled. And he only had one day to prepare.
* * *
“Syd? Are you ready? There’s only five minutes left ‘til midnight! Aren’t you so excited?” Her best friend squealed to her as she breezed past, dancing with some guy she had met that night. Sydney nodded her head, plastering a fake smile on her face before taking a sip of her champagne. There she was, alone again, less than five minutes ‘til the new year. That did not bother her as much as the fact that she had not heard a peep from Vaughn since the moment she had given him the last poem. Had he really chosen Alice over her? That skinny, weak, twittering girl with a penchant for turtlenecks?! ‘Relax, Sydney,’ she told herself. ‘Maybe he just needs some time to decide.’ But that did not stop her from worrying.
One minute. One minute and this custom-made hell would be over. One minute and she could go home . . . even if it was to an empty apartment. Sighing, she set her empty glass onto a table and backed her way to a wall. Somewhere around forty seconds, an arm slid around her waist and pulled her into the corner behind a potted plant. Her eyes lit up and she tucked away her battle-ready elbow as she realized who it was. “Vaughn! How-” He silenced her by placing a finger against her lips. She smiled brightly against it. As the clock wound down, their lips gradually became closer and closer until -
“One . . . Happy New Year!” The cry rose up from the crowd, and everyone grabbed someone else for that coveted kiss. But Sydney and Michael had begun five seconds early; they were not able to wait any longer. They had been waiting for nearly two years. As couples around the room began to break apart, the traditional “Auld Lang Syne” rose up over the noisemakers. But Sydney and Michael still held on as if depending on the other to live. As the old year was ushered out, a new, earth-shattering relationship had started, the story of which would be the stuff of legend: two spies, one love, one hope for a better, safer future.
END