Charleston in Pink * : Charleston, West Virginia : Early afternoon. Sydney stood in the small motel room, wondering if it was safe to stay the night (I wonder if we’re far enough away), questioning her surroundings. Double bed. (Hmm.) Couch. (There’s gonna be problems here.) Rocking chair in the corner. (That’s definitely weird.) Pale pink walls, bathroom to her left, pale pink carpet, small window to her right, pale pink curtains, bags on the floor behind her. Hmm. The room was too… lively. Okay, so maybe shitty was a better adjective, but it didn't change the fact that the décor wasn’t right. It didn’t fit the situation. It was too… Too pink? Sydney thought wryly. She smirked, moving to the bags and boxes on the floor. It’s too pink for *any* situation. She rummaged through the bag of clothes, finding a decent, clean shirt for herself, and one for Vaughn, as well as some pants. (Thank you Weiss.) She was dirty, messy. She felt grimy altogether. It had been such a long way… They’d ditched the car in the next town they’d reached, “swapping” it for a blue Toyota. A note left in the empty parking space had simply said, “Take the Mercedes. Keys are in the ignition. Sorry about the blood.” The next town over, they’d stopped at the hospital. Nurses had run frantically to Vaughn, and when they’d asked what had happened, he’d said it was a “late-night hunting accident”. (Hunting us.) An hour, a blood transfusion and three Styrofoam cups of disgusting coffee down Sydney’s throat later, Vaughn had emerged, stitched up, looking slightly worse for wear. (But only slightly.) He'd been trying harder to look healthy in the car, though – less pale, more sure. And now, eight hours after they’d left Lawrenceville, here they were in a frighteningly pink motel room Charleston, West Virginia. Whole place empty save them, and so little energy left . Sydney sighed as she sat down on the couch, thinking. Vaughn was in the shower. No. She shook her head as she sank back onto the uncomfortable cushions. Don’t you dare think about this now. Save it. She closed her eyes and breathed out heavily, listening to the water running in the bathroom. It was sporadically hitting the shower floor in a larger splash, obviously from Vaughn moving out from under the water, and Sydney berated herself for imagining him in … *situations* like this when she had more pressing things to think about. No. Bad. He’d only been under there about five minutes, but she was already close to going crazy just listening and visualising… She sprang up from the couch and stalked over to the boxes. Looking at the food, she realised there was little there they could actually eat unless they wanted to pig out on potato chips. She sighed again, thinking about Weiss and his yo-yos… Why couldn’t he be just slightly more practical? She shook her head. Yeah, well, Weiss and being practical… not likely. She decided she’d have to get takeout. They’d passed some little place on the way in… Chinese, she remembered. (Oh, but wait. We can’t go anywhere, can we?) She sighed again. She pulled out two bottles of semi-cold water, and then realised there was no fridge. Of course. She busied herself, (anything to keep my mind off Vaughn…) shoving the boxes and bags to the wall, ripping the sheets off the bed and shaking them, which only caused her to sneeze. She was trying to make the place more liveable. She opened the window a crack, letting in a bit of air through the torn mosquito screen. The air outside was cool, but it seemed almost stiflingly hot inside, and Sydney wondered if it was just her, or the heating was up high… No, wait. They don’t have heating. So, just me then. Light still filtered in through the small window, but the light by the bed was turned on, giving the illusion of late afternoon or early evening. Sydney re-sheeted the bed, arranged the bags in the corner nicely, and then stood back for a second to admire her handiwork. And Vaughn was still in the shower. She closed her eyes and breathed, trying to focus on something other than what was happening in the bathroom. She knew she was overreacting – he was just in the shower. But then again… (It’s Vaughn) She was ready to storm in to the bathroom and jump into the shower herself when the water stopped. Sydney started to breathe easier, and then mentally chastised herself for being so pathetic. She heard Vaughn pull aside the shower curtain, heard his wet footsteps on the cold, tiled floor. The thought of the clothes lying on the couch came to mind, and she picked them up, walking over and knocking on the bathroom door. God, I am so transparent. “Mmm?” Vaughn called from inside. “I have clean clothes for you. If you want them.” Sydney stood outside the door, biting her lip expectantly. A few seconds later, the door opened and Vaughn stood there, towel around his waist. (In all his glory…) Her eyes were drawn to the new stitches on his right shoulder, the area around them slightly red and raised. He smiled ruefully, then reached out and took the small pile of clothes from the frozen Sydney, who simply blushed and looked away when his eyes focused on her. “Thanks.” Sydney waved a hand in the air in a gesture of, ‘don’t worry about it’, and Vaughn smiled wider. “I guess you want to borrow the shower now?” Sydney nodded. Come on, say something… Words failed her for a second. “Yep.” Gee, watch the smooth-talking master at work. She was so ashamed of herself. “Okay. Give me a few more minutes.” With that, Vaughn closed the door, and Sydney breathed out quietly. She felt like a teenager in a trashy romance novel… and it was not a feeling she liked. Getting worked up over Vaughn. (Remember – you’re here because you’re being chased. Not to have a flirty week with Vaughn.) (… Just remember that.) Sydney took a deep breath and turned around, strolling over to her backpack to search through it for her newly bought shampoo and toothpaste. Grabbing a towel from one of the brown duffel bags, she sat on the couch next to the clothes she’d chosen for herself and waited for Vaughn to appear. She stood when the door opened, and Vaughn emerged in the clothes Sydney had given him – jeans and an Oxford shirt. Sydney smiled almost shyly (God, what’s wrong with me?) and moved past him to the bathroom, hit with a whiff of Vaughn’s aftershave. (That’s it. I am officially insane.) She almost slammed the door behind her, glad to have a barrier between Vaughn and herself. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she was startled to see just how tired she looked. There were bags under her weary eyes, her shoulders drooped, and she was horribly filthy. She frowned as she placed her things carefully near the sink, making sure she didn’t put her clothes in any wet patches. She stripped and got in the shower, the hot water coursing over her body and helping to relax her tired muscles. She closed her eyes and let the water stream over her face and hair, almost smiling as the water calmed her nerves, her mind. Her thoughts drifted. She wondered about Melissa, about Seth and Gwen… she wondered if they were okay. She wondered about her father, now that she knew he was alive. And she wondered about Vaughn, and why he’d changed so much and yet so little in only two years. She wondered if he’d get out of this whole mess alive. She wondered if she’d get out of this whole mess alive. She lathered her hair with shampoo, enjoying its citrus smell as the foam washed down the drain. She looked at the drain, at the ten little holes with the bigger one in the middle, and wondered more. About her. About Vaughn. About the twisted bastards that had decided to play her life like a game of cards and make her live through this ‘when will I die?’ torture. She wondered if she’d feel better when she finally got rid of Sloane. She’d hoped and prayed he was dead, but, of course, as her luck would have it, he wasn’t. No, he was safe, sound (alive, the asshole) probably with a nice comfortable apartment in Frisco. (And I get a pink motel room. Fucked up karma.) She turned off the faucet and stood in the steamy shower for a moment. She stared at her feet, pink (like the room) from the hot water, ran her finger down the fogged-over tiles, still cool to the touch. She pulled aside the curtain, stepping onto the bathmat, and wrapped herself in a towel, the same pink as the curtains, the walls, and the bedspread. She felt clean again. Cleansed. Decidedly less dirty. She dressed. Scrutinised her appearance in the slightly steamed-up mirror: wet, bedraggled and tired. (Great) She shook her head and left the bathroom, running a hand through her wet locks, her fingers getting caught in a small knot at the ends. She glanced up and saw Vaughn, lying on the couch, eyes closed, his breathing steady. (Wow, I’m in the shower for fifteen minutes and he’s asleep?) Furrowing her brow as a small smile started at the corner of her mouth, she walked closer. She stood above him, her eyes moving over his face, his rising and falling chest, his hair. Every part of her ached to touch him, and her smile faded as she stared at his innocent, sleeping face, so calm in the middle of a situation that was anything but. “Are you going to stand there long?” Sydney jumped back, almost dropping her clothes, her hand flying to her chest as Vaughn spoke. He grinned and then opened his eyes, the green twinkle in them making her smile. “Sorry,” she said, moving away to shove her clothes in the bag near the wall. (I am such an idiot) “That’s okay.” Sydney turned to see Vaughn sitting up, looking at her with beautiful, unreadable eyes. (Now or never.) She stepped closer, words forming in her throat. “Vaughn…” she paused, and he raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue. “I just… (Think, Sydney, think) I wanted to explain. In Lawrenceville- ” The smile on Vaughn’s face disappeared, and his expression became stony. He looked away from her for a split second before cutting her off. “It’s okay.” Straight to the point. He walked past her to the box of food and pulled out a bag of marshmallows. "No, Vaughn, it's really not okay," Sydney insisted, following him back to the couch. Vaughn sat heavily on the sofa before tearing the bag open and stuffing a marshmallow in his mouth. "I didn't mean to offend you." “Well, you didn’t.” Vaughn was pissed off. Sydney could see it. He popped another marshmallow in his mouth, chewing quickly. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Then why are you acting like I did?” Vaughn looked up at her, his eyes drawn together in annoyance. She had no intention of backing off. “Well?” Vaughn shook his head and smirked. “Why do you think, Sydney?” His eyes burned into hers, making her wince, but in return she simply stared at him, not knowing exactly what to say. The silence was thick; they didn’t speak for what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes. Finally, Sydney bit her lip. “I don’t know, Vaughn.” She looked at him imploringly. “Why can’t you tell me?” “For fuck’s sake, Sydney,” Vaughn burst out, standing. “Think about it, would you? You think apologising will make it okay? Well, guess what – it won’t.” He looked her up and down furiously, and Sydney took a step back at the look in his eyes. “God, Sydney… I give myself to you and I get nothing in return. You left L.A. and didn’t even bother to give me a call. I thought you were dead, and no-one knew anything.” He looked away, taking a breath. “You disappeared after everything I did for you, and now you’re here. And I’m just…” he sighed, shaking his head. “You know what? Never mind. You won’t get it, no matter how simply I put it, so I’m just not going to bother.” He shot her an almost disgusted look, and then flopped back down on the couch, staring at his hands. (Slowly. Take it slow.) There was a moment of silence, and Sydney took a chance and moved forward, gingerly sitting on the couch next to him. She sat silently for a moment. “I really am sorry, Vaughn.” She looked at him beseechingly. “I know what you’ve done for me, and God, I’m so thankful for all of it.” She shook her head. “I know I don’t deserve it.” She looked at him intently for a moment. “ I didn’t call you because…” she paused. “I don’t know. I was scared.” Another pause. “I thought about you.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and he seemed to soften as he sighed, standing up and walking towards the boxes again. He tossed the marshmallows in, then turned around. Sydney took another risk, knowing what she wanted. Hoping he wanted the same thing. She stood and walked over to him slowly, her face open, questioning. He looked resigned, tired, drained, and she moved even closer, longing to touch his skin. She lowered her voice. "Vaughn," said in a tone that she hoped would explain everything. All the longing. (I need you, Vaughn.) She reached out and touched his arm, the sparks shooting through her fingertips, and he seemed to waver. She could almost swear she heard him suck in a breath at her touch. He wasn’t resisting. (That’s a good sign) She moved closer, running her hand up his arm as he stood still, only moving his eyes from her face to her hand and then back to her face again. She was breathless as she pressed against him, inhaling his clean smell of shampoo and soap and shirt. He stared into her eyes, and she leaned forward. Her lips brushed against his softly, fleetingly, and her eyelids fluttered as she pulled back slightly, breathing heavier. She looked at him, at his eyes, not daring to read them, and pressed herself into him. She kissed him, harder this time, her hand reaching behind his neck and pulling him closer. He didn’t respond. (No. He has to.) She pressed harder, pulling him even closer, silently begging him to kiss her back, let her know he felt the same. (Please) She was almost ready to give up when he pushed her away. It had hardly been ten seconds, but she felt as though it had been longer – more. But hadn’t been longer, and the look in his eyes told her that it hadn’t been anything more than her humiliating herself. He turned away, running a hand through his hair, one of his nervous gestures, and spoke quietly and harshly. “Get the hell away from me.” Sydney took a step back to put more space between them. There was a line, a barrier, a wall; she’d felt it, and gone through it, not caring about the consequences. Or at least thinking she knew what the consequences were, and that they didn’t apply to her. That barrier between them had been broken during that one pathetic attempt at a kiss. Brought down by her selfishness. Destroyed by her lust. Vaughn had turned away and rebuilt it in seconds. * The room was cold (and still pink). Darkness lingered in every corner, and Sydney lay still on the bed as she listened to the rain on the roof. A glance at her watch told her it was one AM, and she sighed quietly. Vaughn hadn’t looked at her all afternoon. Not once. She’d tried to catch his eye every chance she had, but he’d simply turned away, a disgusted look on his face. Talking to him hadn’t done anything, either. She’d stared at his back into early evening, when he finally lay down on the couch and fell asleep. He was on the couch now. Asleep, his face troubled in dreams, uneasy in muddled, muted thoughts. That’s what she told herself, at least: that even when he slept, he didn’t have peace. She’d thought a lot that afternoon. Sitting around in the tiny room had allowed little else. Her thoughts had drifted along many lines, but mostly towards Vaughn. Where had he been? Why had the CIA sent him there? How had he lived the past eighteen months? (And how quickly did he grow a backbone?) She remembered how he used to be – quieter, calmer, always there with a small smile to cheer her up. She’d liked that he’d been there when it counted, that he could be strong when he needed to be, but she’d also treasured how he was so completely different to everyone else in her life because he didn’t need to continually criticise her. He’d always been there. She’d valued how he respected her so openly, as though she was worthy of worship. How everything in her life could be crumbling, but he’d still be there because he looked up to her. Sometimes, she’d hated knowing that, but had somehow ended up loving it. (Loving him.) He was completely changed from the Vaughn she’d known, she realised now. He was stronger, tougher, indifferent. (Bitter) That was the part she didn’t want to know: that after she’d left, he’d become angry and closed off. That the CIA had made him a field agent because he simply didn’t give a shit about anything anymore. That she’d been the reason for all that. Only she’d changed everything now. Everything had been so simple (to a certain point) until she’d thrown herself at him. She bit her lip. Argue. Make up. A seemingly simple equation. (When will I understand that's nothing’s ever simple?) She closed her eyes and thought about the situation they were in. He hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t said anything… how were they meant to do what they had to if he wouldn’t communicate? (I’m not psychic. I don’t know what he’s thinking.) She didn’t know if she could take a silent Vaughn. He was all she had (he’s always been all I wanted), but if he wasn’t going to talk to her… (… Then I’m better off on my own.) She opened her eyes. The ceiling was still pale pink, and so was the bedspread… she turned her head to look at the couch. There was no movement, and she quietly slid to a sitting position, holding her breath. She hesitated. (Is this really a good idea?) She paused for only a second more and then stood, pulling on her jeans and a shirt and moving over to the duffel bags. Glancing at Vaughn, she tried to sort the clothes in them as silently as possible – hers in one, his in the other. The faint light that shone from a streetlamp outside was hardly enough for Sydney to see, but she had no alternative, and grabbing her backpack and the keys Vaughn had left on the rocking chair, she moved towards the door. Better to just leave him than to keep going like this. (Better to just leave quickly.) (… Don’t look back) She turned around. Vaughn’s sleeping face was in a mixed expression – anger, pain and fear were all sketched into his clenched eyes and twisted lips. Sydney walked closer, starting openly, knowing he wasn’t faking slumber this time. She glanced around the room as an afterthought and spotted a pad of paper on the low table next to the bed. Fumbling carefully in a pocket of her backpack, she found a pen and scribbled a note, leaving it on the rocking chair. She walked over to Vaughn one last time, wishing… she didn’t even know what she wished. (Goodbye, Vaughn.) Her fingers gently touched his hair, so slightly and softly that she wasn’t sure her fingertips had actually connected. She took a step back, then finally turned, gathered her bags, and walked quickly out the door. She turned around only when she reached the parking lot. Staring at the run-down motel with it’s faded sign, she wrapped her arms around herself and breathed in the cold air, berating herself for being so sentimental. The rain poured down around her, slapping the pavement and asphalt forcefully, rapidly, perfectly, turning her hair into long wet clumps and soaking through her clothes. She opened the door of the Toyota, throwing the bags in and climbing in after them. With one last glance at the motel in front of her, she started the car, pulling out of the lot. She sped towards the highway, the rain on her face mixing with a single tear as she planned her new, independent route. Planned where she’d go. Thought about the note. Vaughn – I’m sorry. It wouldn’t have worked. You know that as well as I do. Thank you for saving me again. - Sydney She drove on. And she tried to forget. (I’m sorry) * > Elizabeth City < Deliver Me » babblings » home » mail?