Post-ep S/V fic.
This is what comes of TWO snowstorms and being sick. A angsty-schmoopy S/V post-ep. You've been warned.
Title: A Thousand Gaps
Ship: S/V
Rating: G
Summary: "A hundred gaps, a thousand places in his life where Sydney should have been, but never was. It became habit, after a while, to fill her in."
He never bought a ring.
Ask him in the right moment, when his guard is down, and he'll tell you this much: he never bought the ring, but he wishes he had. Ask him in the wrong moment, and he’ll look at you strangely and ignore the question altogether.
He had hired the chef, though, and reserved the presidential suite. That much was true, that much he didn't have to improvise. He'd planned the trip to the Biltmore, ordered a four-course meal with matched wines, even bought the tickets to the zoo. Some of this, he doesn't need to imagine.
After the fire, after she was gone, it was never the time they spent together that haunted him. It was the time they didn't. A hundred gaps, a thousand places in his life where Sydney should have been, but never was. It became habit, after a while, to fill her in. She was scent, or light, or fog, something that filtered into his memories everywhere, filled every empty space. Sometimes, in his less sober days, he forgot which memories were real and which were only imagined. He'd find himself flipping back through a date book, a calendar, a PDA. He knew the date of the fire, would try to remember the date of his memory, and match the one to the other. It was the only way.
He invented the ring months later, a little flourish on the memory. It needed something, just a little something more, to make it perfect. In his dream, he saw her smile. He saw her face light up when they arrived at the hotel, hands running over the silk bedding, laughing as she drew a bath in the jacuzzi. He walked beside her on the beach, barefoot, of course, stopped at a tiny stand for tacos and bought two-dollar flip flops for the walk back to the hotel. They'd stayed out much longer then they'd planned.
He walked with her at the zoo, watched her laugh like a child, tried to remember the last time he'd seen her like this, tried to remember the last time they'd both felt this free. He was getting nervous by then, pulse speeding up, feeling the weight of the ring in his hip pocket. It was getting heavier.
She grabbed at his hand when she laughed, nails digging into his skin, unaware that she even did such a thing. She made him stand for ten minutes watching the monkeys, made him stop to buy a disposable camera to snap more pictures. He offered to buy her a cheap plastic mold out of the machine, and she actually thought about it a minute before refusing.
She was holding the camera while she stood to watch the giraffe, repeating some inane giraffe joke from her childhood, from a time when she laughed easily. He doesn't even remember the joke now. He only remembers her laughing and the giraffe ducking, reaching out its enormous crooked neck for food. And he thought she looked beautiful, and thought the moment was perfect, and he reached out and slipped the disposable camera out of her hand.
She gave him a strange look, asked him whether he wanted a picture of the giraffe, too, and he could only shake his head. He slid the camera into his pants pocket and slid out the tiny wooden box. He pressed it into her hand, and gave her a crooked smile, and her eyes went wide.
"We have a four-course dinner back at the hotel--"
And that was as far as he got, because the box was open and her eyes were wide and a tear was sliding down her cheek.
"Is this--?" she asked, because that was all the question she could muster.
"Yeah," he said, because that was the only word that seemed to be left in his vocabulary.
And then he hugged her and she kissed him, and she cried and he laughed and some kid in a Spiderman t-shirt tugged at their clothes and asked Sydney if she was okay. And then she laughed, and he laughed harder, and he decided the grand speech he planned out would just have to wait.
They were late to the dinner, and wore their zoo clothes. The waiter gave them a look, but didn't say a word, and they sipped wine on the balcony in their flip-flops and t-shirts and he smiled, and apologized, and told her all the things he would have said.
Sydney said she wouldn't have it any other way.
She said it to him a hundred times, a thousand, late at night and into the day. She said it to him when he was drunk, mostly, and occasionally in his dreams. When he was asleep, he dreamed of ashes, pungent smoke and flashing blue lights and the sound of phone calls made too late. When he was awake, he dreamed of warm sand and the smell of good wine and crooked-necked giraffes. It was the only way to smooth the surface of his life, too fill in all the should-have-been's and meant-to-be's.
His life was littered with a thousand gaps, places where she should have been. It seemed natural to plug each one with some dream, some imagined memory. It seemed right, somehow, to bring her with him, to let her live the life she never had, to have the future that was surely meant to be.
Catch him in the wrong moment, now, and he'll still have trouble sorting it out; he'll still pause for a split second, straighten his collar, and pretend to take a breath. He'll say it plainly, without emotion or embellishment, tell you what really happened. He'll never tell you what he was thinking, the things only he can remember, the memories that were surely meant to be.
Catch him in the right moment, when his guard is down, and he'll tell you he bought a ring.
Title: A Thousand Gaps
Ship: S/V
Rating: G
Summary: "A hundred gaps, a thousand places in his life where Sydney should have been, but never was. It became habit, after a while, to fill her in."
He never bought a ring.
Ask him in the right moment, when his guard is down, and he'll tell you this much: he never bought the ring, but he wishes he had. Ask him in the wrong moment, and he’ll look at you strangely and ignore the question altogether.
He had hired the chef, though, and reserved the presidential suite. That much was true, that much he didn't have to improvise. He'd planned the trip to the Biltmore, ordered a four-course meal with matched wines, even bought the tickets to the zoo. Some of this, he doesn't need to imagine.
After the fire, after she was gone, it was never the time they spent together that haunted him. It was the time they didn't. A hundred gaps, a thousand places in his life where Sydney should have been, but never was. It became habit, after a while, to fill her in. She was scent, or light, or fog, something that filtered into his memories everywhere, filled every empty space. Sometimes, in his less sober days, he forgot which memories were real and which were only imagined. He'd find himself flipping back through a date book, a calendar, a PDA. He knew the date of the fire, would try to remember the date of his memory, and match the one to the other. It was the only way.
He invented the ring months later, a little flourish on the memory. It needed something, just a little something more, to make it perfect. In his dream, he saw her smile. He saw her face light up when they arrived at the hotel, hands running over the silk bedding, laughing as she drew a bath in the jacuzzi. He walked beside her on the beach, barefoot, of course, stopped at a tiny stand for tacos and bought two-dollar flip flops for the walk back to the hotel. They'd stayed out much longer then they'd planned.
He walked with her at the zoo, watched her laugh like a child, tried to remember the last time he'd seen her like this, tried to remember the last time they'd both felt this free. He was getting nervous by then, pulse speeding up, feeling the weight of the ring in his hip pocket. It was getting heavier.
She grabbed at his hand when she laughed, nails digging into his skin, unaware that she even did such a thing. She made him stand for ten minutes watching the monkeys, made him stop to buy a disposable camera to snap more pictures. He offered to buy her a cheap plastic mold out of the machine, and she actually thought about it a minute before refusing.
She was holding the camera while she stood to watch the giraffe, repeating some inane giraffe joke from her childhood, from a time when she laughed easily. He doesn't even remember the joke now. He only remembers her laughing and the giraffe ducking, reaching out its enormous crooked neck for food. And he thought she looked beautiful, and thought the moment was perfect, and he reached out and slipped the disposable camera out of her hand.
She gave him a strange look, asked him whether he wanted a picture of the giraffe, too, and he could only shake his head. He slid the camera into his pants pocket and slid out the tiny wooden box. He pressed it into her hand, and gave her a crooked smile, and her eyes went wide.
"We have a four-course dinner back at the hotel--"
And that was as far as he got, because the box was open and her eyes were wide and a tear was sliding down her cheek.
"Is this--?" she asked, because that was all the question she could muster.
"Yeah," he said, because that was the only word that seemed to be left in his vocabulary.
And then he hugged her and she kissed him, and she cried and he laughed and some kid in a Spiderman t-shirt tugged at their clothes and asked Sydney if she was okay. And then she laughed, and he laughed harder, and he decided the grand speech he planned out would just have to wait.
They were late to the dinner, and wore their zoo clothes. The waiter gave them a look, but didn't say a word, and they sipped wine on the balcony in their flip-flops and t-shirts and he smiled, and apologized, and told her all the things he would have said.
Sydney said she wouldn't have it any other way.
She said it to him a hundred times, a thousand, late at night and into the day. She said it to him when he was drunk, mostly, and occasionally in his dreams. When he was asleep, he dreamed of ashes, pungent smoke and flashing blue lights and the sound of phone calls made too late. When he was awake, he dreamed of warm sand and the smell of good wine and crooked-necked giraffes. It was the only way to smooth the surface of his life, too fill in all the should-have-been's and meant-to-be's.
His life was littered with a thousand gaps, places where she should have been. It seemed natural to plug each one with some dream, some imagined memory. It seemed right, somehow, to bring her with him, to let her live the life she never had, to have the future that was surely meant to be.
Catch him in the wrong moment, now, and he'll still have trouble sorting it out; he'll still pause for a split second, straighten his collar, and pretend to take a breath. He'll say it plainly, without emotion or embellishment, tell you what really happened. He'll never tell you what he was thinking, the things only he can remember, the memories that were surely meant to be.
Catch him in the right moment, when his guard is down, and he'll tell you he bought a ring.