Snapshots

An Alias fanfiction (because a long time ago, I was in love with Alias). The story is mine, Alias is not. The lyrics aren’t as well. “Snapshots” – an isolated observation. The briefest of memories made still, forever captured by an observer.

Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn


I.

“How did you find me?” She asked as he sat down on a bench, their backs to each other.

“You told me a couple of months ago that when you feel the need to disappear you go to the observatory. But, the observatory was closed. Then I remembered you said the pier calms you down, but you weren’t there. And you weren’t at the bluffs in thePalisades, either.

“You didn’t really go to all those places…”

“Yeah, I did. And then I remembered you like the train station, too. Normal people go to their normal jobs.”

These fragile bodies of touch and taste.

“I can’t believe you remembered all that.” She whispered, awed. A faint smile playing on her lips.

“Well.. I did,” he softly answered.

This fragile skin, this hair like lace.

Spirits open in the thrust of grace.

Silence.

Never a breath you can afford to waste.

“Listen,” he said. His voice foreign to his ears – almost hesitating, “when you’re at your absolute lowest, at your most depressed,” he paused, unsure if he should continue. “I’m in,” he finally said. Finishing what he believed she already knew. His voice no more than a whisper. “If you need me.”

Worldly sounds of endless warring were, for a moment, silent stars.

Worldly boundaries of dying were, for just a moment, never ours.

II.

He looked at her. Remembering the person she had been thirty years ago. The woman he loved, and as circumstances had permitted it, had grown to hate. Her wife. Or so she was in the pretentious illusion of their marriage.

“I missed you,” she gently said as she pressed a palm in the cold glass that separated them. She sounded sincere, and she was. She smiled when he kept his silence, knowing instantly and almost painfully, that he had not believed it.

She watched him. Unflinching for the thousand time at his cold gaze. He was a façade of intrigue and detachment. An embodiment of irony, and, to her, of freefall. Unwanted defeat.

I stood on the edge tied to a noose.

“Thank you,” he replied. His tone not losing its note of doubt and sarcasm. As if burdened that he had even said that. Hesitatingly, he lowered his eyes to meet her stunned gaze. “I missed you too.”

And then silence. Always silence. They stood there facing each other. Her, inside a chambered room which was her prison. And him, in momentary annoyance and loathing. Lost in the thin line that bordered between love and hate. The captor and the convict. He frowned, unsure if he should say the words that had crossed his mind before he had stood in front of the woman who so betrayed him.

And I stand and smile and breathe.

Nevertheless, he said it.

“You’re right. Technically, we’re still husband and wife.”

At that place, at that time,

And slowly, he stepped back and walked away.

I knew you better than anyone.

III.

He stood as the black sedan swerved across the driveway and halted to a stop. As if on cue, the door on the driver’s seat swung open, the glint of the dimly lit driveway giving it an almost solitary glow as a woman came out and slowly walked towards him. For a split second, he gazed at her but as circumstantial acknowledgments would have it, he looked away.

She stopped five feet away from him. “Hi,” she greeted. A polite smile on her face.

He raised his eyes and looked past her. “Hi.”

I know you can’t be knowing for me

They were back where they had started: Him at her side. And her beside his. But never too close. Momentary consents through stolen glances. Through every brush of hands, every clash of gazes, every word none of them ever dared say. But never stepping on solid ground.

and I hope that you’re not hoping for me.

“Yesterday,” he began, breaking the silence between them that hung only seconds ago, “when you told–” But she cut him short.

“No. You don’t have to explain.”

Sweet thing.

He flinched, offended by her callousness. Nonetheless he continued. “Yesterday, when you told me—”

“Seriously,” she said yet again. Almost a demand. “Don’t explain.” She remained looking down. And as if knowing he would not say anything this time, she looked at him. A sad smile in her eyes. “Lie to me,” she whispered. Her voice threateningly fragile.

with hopes like that

He raised his eyes and met hers momentarily lost in its turbulence.

you’re going to need help avoiding the fact.

“Everything will be alright.”

IV.

The sky never looked as ugly as that night. In the darkened corner of an abandoned alley lay the shadowed figure of a man. Silent and still save for the deep breathes he took every now and then. He crouched; his head bent forward as he held in his arms the unconscious body of a woman.

It’s always you, or some reflection of you.

“I’m sorry,” he quietly said. Almost wishing that she could hear him. Slowly, he held her closer to him, the handgun by his side and the gold ring that he wore in his finger long forgotten. Two years had passed since he last saw her. A lot has happened, a lot has changed. But, as unwanted as it may be for him then as it is now, she still mean the same things to him as she did years ago: freefall, intricacy, torment. An accident waiting to happen.

Carry every wish we never dared make.

He sighed, lightly brushing her hair that hung delicately in her shoulders. And, surrendering to the moment, he gazed down at her unconscious form. As if longing for something he had never had.

“I love you,” he whispered knowing that she would never hear.


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One thought on “Snapshots

  1. Pingback: Hercules took all the muses away « attempts to rule the world

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