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so i let crazy take a spin.
Mwahaha! Have written stuff. It's a miracle, really. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thepodsquad's awesome-as-whoa Sarkney fic inspired me.
I was doing the whole write-drabbles-based-on-song-titles thing, only it morphed into ficlets. And I only have two. But may do more. Because Tori's got some inspirational song titles, and all.
Anyhoooo. Yes.
Alias. Early season three.
Resurrection is a painful process. Sydney has grown tired of the looks that trail after her like inconsiderate phantoms, doubting, awed. She is suddenly acutely aware of being touched; hands and fingers belonging to so many people (people she’d barely known, people she’d loved another lifetime ago) all seem unable to keep away completely. Touching her, Sydney has come to understand, is not an act of compassion so much as proof of sanity. Dixon’s hand finds her shoulder comfortingly as he passes her in the hall. Marshall’s fingertips press against her palm, awkward, as he hands her a camera shaped like a tube of burgundy lipstick. Weiss drives her home and walks her to the door nearly every night, and his hand barely grazes against the small of her back as though she needs to be led. Her father is something of a stranger to her, with his smiles and unnecessary hugs and a softness in his voice that is somehow more broken than the harsh tones she’d been accustomed to. She wanders through this new wasteland day after day, always being reached for, always overwhelmed by that lingering need for assurance that surrounds her. She’s solid, flesh and bone, just the same as she’d been before. (She pretends to ignore the scar on her stomach.)
Vaughn has not touched her. He casts fleeting glances her way, seeking justification in every exchange and stumbling awkwardly over the foreign second syllable of her name. She can’t quite train her eyes not to dart automatically to his left hand, and in these moments she almost thinks that it’s okay. She doesn’t want him to touch her. Not after what he’s done.
(He hasn’t done anything, of course. It’s just that she’s irrational, and usually hides it well.)
She goes home at night and sits alone in her unfamiliar living room, curled up on a couch that doesn’t feel quite right as Patsy Cline barely breaks the silence. She likes to keep the volume on the stereo down low. That way when it spills out her secrets, at least it has the decency to whisper. (‘You walk by and I fall to pieces.’)
Sydney knows that she isn’t a ghost, and so does everyone else, by now. She’s inexplicable, an uncomfortable mystery, but at least she is alive. Unquestionably alive, and this can’t be argued. Lady Lazarus. And her father and Marshall and Weiss and Dixon, and the people she’s left behind – they know this. It’s true, and real, and accepted. They aren’t mad, though the world might be.
Vaughn has not touched her, and a darker part of her hopes that he’s going at least half as crazy as she is.
Alias. Season four.
Sydney mourns her mother without knowing why.
She envies Nadia a little bit – the naiveté and the repose. Her sister believes she’s extracted revenge, and she’s lamenting the loss of a woman that she never even knew. When she asks about her, Sydney doesn’t know what to say. Irina Derevko cannot be explained or described (or understood). When it comes to the black and white of the matter, Irina is – was a terrible person. Murder and deception and manipulation and lies, so many lies that Sydney can’t sort through them. Even without her, Irina lingers in a thousand things: Bill Vaughn’s death; the shape of Sydney’s hands; a permanent darkness in her father’s eyes. Sydney finds herself dreading Thanksgiving because something twists in her stomach at the mention of turkey.
And still it breaks her just a little bit. She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror one Monday morning and begins to cry while lining her eyes. Inexplicably. She’s careful to be quiet; Nadia knocks on the door and orders, teasing, that she hurry up before they’re both late.
Her sister smiles a little bit whenever Weiss is mentioned. (Sydney can remember, acutely, going through this stage with Danny – things seem so much more blurred with Vaughn.)
‘He’s cute, don’t you think?’ Nadia says as they step out the door on a Thursday, and Sydney does not reply that their mother nearly killed him once upon a time.
On the nights that she can’t sleep, she has taken to rereading Tolstoy because if she doesn’t, her mind wanders. It still does, sometimes. Your mother wanted you dead; it is subtle, barely spilling from the pages of Anna Karenina.
Sydney has every reason to hate Irina Derevko; to take the few shining memories of Laura Bristow and tuck them away somewhere, quiet and bittersweet, and erase all the rest. Because she knows that she isn’t supposed to have loved Irina. And maybe she hadn’t.
She works on forgetting tears and seemingly genuine smiles and fingertips pressed against glass; one embrace with the air chilled around them, and conversations about toasters. Sydney thinks that she can almost remember the way the sundaes tasted, prays to forget her mother laughing.
‘Tell me one thing about her,’ Nadia requests, glancing up only for a moment as she flips through a stack of black and white photographs.
Sydney can tell her a thousand things, all sharp enough to sting and maybe scar. Instead, she forces a smile. ‘She would always tuck her hair behind her ear,’ she ventures lightly.
Nadia smiles back, genuine. Untainted. ‘Like you.’
thepodsquad's awesome-as-whoa Sarkney fic inspired me.I was doing the whole write-drabbles-based-on-song-titles thing, only it morphed into ficlets. And I only have two. But may do more. Because Tori's got some inspirational song titles, and all.
Anyhoooo. Yes.
Alias. Early season three.
Resurrection is a painful process. Sydney has grown tired of the looks that trail after her like inconsiderate phantoms, doubting, awed. She is suddenly acutely aware of being touched; hands and fingers belonging to so many people (people she’d barely known, people she’d loved another lifetime ago) all seem unable to keep away completely. Touching her, Sydney has come to understand, is not an act of compassion so much as proof of sanity. Dixon’s hand finds her shoulder comfortingly as he passes her in the hall. Marshall’s fingertips press against her palm, awkward, as he hands her a camera shaped like a tube of burgundy lipstick. Weiss drives her home and walks her to the door nearly every night, and his hand barely grazes against the small of her back as though she needs to be led. Her father is something of a stranger to her, with his smiles and unnecessary hugs and a softness in his voice that is somehow more broken than the harsh tones she’d been accustomed to. She wanders through this new wasteland day after day, always being reached for, always overwhelmed by that lingering need for assurance that surrounds her. She’s solid, flesh and bone, just the same as she’d been before. (She pretends to ignore the scar on her stomach.)
Vaughn has not touched her. He casts fleeting glances her way, seeking justification in every exchange and stumbling awkwardly over the foreign second syllable of her name. She can’t quite train her eyes not to dart automatically to his left hand, and in these moments she almost thinks that it’s okay. She doesn’t want him to touch her. Not after what he’s done.
(He hasn’t done anything, of course. It’s just that she’s irrational, and usually hides it well.)
She goes home at night and sits alone in her unfamiliar living room, curled up on a couch that doesn’t feel quite right as Patsy Cline barely breaks the silence. She likes to keep the volume on the stereo down low. That way when it spills out her secrets, at least it has the decency to whisper. (‘You walk by and I fall to pieces.’)
Sydney knows that she isn’t a ghost, and so does everyone else, by now. She’s inexplicable, an uncomfortable mystery, but at least she is alive. Unquestionably alive, and this can’t be argued. Lady Lazarus. And her father and Marshall and Weiss and Dixon, and the people she’s left behind – they know this. It’s true, and real, and accepted. They aren’t mad, though the world might be.
Vaughn has not touched her, and a darker part of her hopes that he’s going at least half as crazy as she is.
Alias. Season four.
Sydney mourns her mother without knowing why.
She envies Nadia a little bit – the naiveté and the repose. Her sister believes she’s extracted revenge, and she’s lamenting the loss of a woman that she never even knew. When she asks about her, Sydney doesn’t know what to say. Irina Derevko cannot be explained or described (or understood). When it comes to the black and white of the matter, Irina is – was a terrible person. Murder and deception and manipulation and lies, so many lies that Sydney can’t sort through them. Even without her, Irina lingers in a thousand things: Bill Vaughn’s death; the shape of Sydney’s hands; a permanent darkness in her father’s eyes. Sydney finds herself dreading Thanksgiving because something twists in her stomach at the mention of turkey.
And still it breaks her just a little bit. She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror one Monday morning and begins to cry while lining her eyes. Inexplicably. She’s careful to be quiet; Nadia knocks on the door and orders, teasing, that she hurry up before they’re both late.
Her sister smiles a little bit whenever Weiss is mentioned. (Sydney can remember, acutely, going through this stage with Danny – things seem so much more blurred with Vaughn.)
‘He’s cute, don’t you think?’ Nadia says as they step out the door on a Thursday, and Sydney does not reply that their mother nearly killed him once upon a time.
On the nights that she can’t sleep, she has taken to rereading Tolstoy because if she doesn’t, her mind wanders. It still does, sometimes. Your mother wanted you dead; it is subtle, barely spilling from the pages of Anna Karenina.
Sydney has every reason to hate Irina Derevko; to take the few shining memories of Laura Bristow and tuck them away somewhere, quiet and bittersweet, and erase all the rest. Because she knows that she isn’t supposed to have loved Irina. And maybe she hadn’t.
She works on forgetting tears and seemingly genuine smiles and fingertips pressed against glass; one embrace with the air chilled around them, and conversations about toasters. Sydney thinks that she can almost remember the way the sundaes tasted, prays to forget her mother laughing.
‘Tell me one thing about her,’ Nadia requests, glancing up only for a moment as she flips through a stack of black and white photographs.
Sydney can tell her a thousand things, all sharp enough to sting and maybe scar. Instead, she forces a smile. ‘She would always tuck her hair behind her ear,’ she ventures lightly.
Nadia smiles back, genuine. Untainted. ‘Like you.’