AN: This chapter is rated NC-17. If that's not your thing or you're not of age, there is an R-rated version here.
 

Chapter 8 — Now or Then

He returns to the couch and sits. Hopes for her return, to at least tell him where she lives, tell him her name. Tell him there's too much hurt for anything other than friends, but that, at least, would be something.

But he tracks the time on his watch — 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, half an hour — and decides that isn't going to happen. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Resolution, he thinks, doesn't feel like he thought it would. It aches and it stings and it's real, and now that he has it, he hates it. Too late. Too much hurt and too much damage done to salvage it.

It is snowing again, he notices. Big glittery snow globe flakes coming down, and they should be beautiful, but they only remind him of where he is, of what he's lost and given up. Fucking hindsight. He reaches out, presses his hand against the cold glass, watches the snowflakes grow blurry and thinks he's got no idea where to go from here. Knows he is not going to bounce back from this, that moving on will be harder than ever, with her two blocks away and completely distant. Just exist. Just go to work and do the routine, and stay alive, and maybe that will be enough. And maybe some day you'll pass her on the street, and you'll tell her hello and she'll smile a little, and you can go from there. Start again.

A faint knock at the door, and he stands, wants to believe it's her, but it has been almost an hour now. Don't go getting your hopes up because your neighbor got your mail again. Across the room quickly, heart pounding as he opens the door.

Sydney, covered in snowflakes.

"Hi," she says, soft and shy and shivering. Nose red and eyelashes coated with tiny beads of water.

What the hell does this mean? "Do you want to come in?"

She nods, steps inside and waits for him to close the door behind her. There, wet and cold and right in front of him, when he turns around. Chilled fingertips on his cheeks as she pulls his mouth to hers and kisses him, hard and thorough. Something has changed in her eyes, he thinks, when they finally break apart.

"It's time to get this right, Vaughn."

"What do you m— " She kisses him again, shivering under her bravado. It means you got a second chance. Don't fuck it up. Don't ever fuck it up. Ever ever ever. He reaches between them to unbutton her half-soaked coat. "You're freezing cold."

"I took a walk," she says. "I needed to think. Apparently that doesn't work as well here as it does in California. Or, I guess it works, but the side effects aren't so good."

"You're crazy." He cups her chin. "You're here."

"Yes." She leans into him, and he rubs the thin wool sweater over her arms, but he's not going to be enough.

He wishes he had a fireplace — someplace perfect and romantic to warm her. "Why don't I go get you a blanket?"

He starts toward his bedroom, hadn't meant for her to follow, but she does, and when he notices, he picks up her cold hand.

"I never got the grand tour," she says.

"We were a little preoccupied."

"Yes. Yes we were."

They walk into his bedroom and he pulls down the bedspread, lifts the blue fleece blanket beneath it and drapes it over her shoulders. "Is that better?"

"A little bit." She draws it tighter and sits on the edge of the bed.

Nothing to do but join her, and he does, wrapping his arm around her, hand resting on her arm. "Do you want to talk, anymore, about — anything?"

"No." She leans into him, lays her head down on his shoulder. "I'm tired of hashing out the past. Who should have asked and who should have said yes. I don't know what love is, Vaughn, and I'm tired of guessing. I just know I want to be with you. And I think — I think you feel the same way."

"Yes." He slides his hand up, runs his fingers through the wet strings of her hair. "Of course." Always. And now it's out there, and everybody's said it and she's still here. It occurs to him that this might be a perfect moment, that it may not get any better than this, Sydney leaning against him and peace between them. He stays silent, doesn't want to break it. She does the same, and maybe she's thinking the same thing.

"I missed you," she whispers, finally.

"Me too." So much it hurt. So much it made me half-crazy. No need to think about that now. She's here.

"Vaughn, what's your name, now?"

"Michael Henderson." He slides his hand over to her back, rubs in slow, steady circles.

"They kept your first name?"

"I'm told it's very common. What about you?"

"Catherine Murray. Or Cate, with a 'C'." She lifts her head and turns to face him. "But don't call me that tonight."

He's just beginning to process what that's supposed to mean when she sits up and kisses him again. Slow, almost sloppy, overfocused on first his top and then bottom lip until he's groaning into her mouth and he knows exactly what that's supposed to mean. She stops but doesn't pull away, breath on his face and eyelashes fluttering so close.

He's wanted this so much for so long it's scary as hell. "Are you sure? I mean, I want — but it's really fast."

"You and I don't measure time the same way, Vaughn," she whispers. It makes his skin tingle. It's all the reassurance he needs. They won't talk about love anymore tonight, he thinks, but there must be some of that here. More need; he needs her and she needs him and they both need to forget the last fucked-up year and a half. Need to be certain this is all real.

She leans back and shrugs the blanket from her shoulders. Hands beneath the edge of her sweater, now, pulling it up slowly, up over her head, and every inch of bare skin makes him more aroused. She's wearing a black lace bra underneath. Probably not, he thinks, the same one from the truck, but close enough, and for a moment, all he can do is sit and stare.

That passes, eventually, and he starts at her stomach. She is a contradiction, there, soft skin over hard muscle, and the first sensation of her body under his hands is almost too much. She kisses him again, and he thinks of everything he knows, everything that might make her happy. He'll try it all, if not tonight, then soon. For now, he starts simple, hands exploring, slipping around to the small of her back and then returning to her stomach.

Hands up over her ribs, now, and then at her breasts, and she's arching into his touch. Leaving his mouth, kissing his chin and then his neck. Her nipples are erect — probably more the cold than anything he's done so far, he tells himself, but he'll take it. Take it and try to change it, thumbs running in slow circles around them, over the lace of her bra. She reacts, instantly, to this, with a moan low in her throat, and he can feel it against his neck, through his whole body.

It's obvious he's affecting her, and that makes him smile a little as her hands work a haphazard path down his chest. She wraps them around his sweater and the t-shirt beneath, starts to pull them off and he has to break contact. Sweater and shirt up over his head, tossed somewhere on the floor with hers.

She is staring, he realizes, self-conscious, at the two pink lines running across his shoulder.

"Does it still hurt?" She traces the higher one, and then the one closer to his heart, with her index finger.

"A little. A little more since somebody flipped me out in the parking lot earlier."

"Sorry about that." She leans in and kisses each gently, higher and then lower.

"It's okay. It's good to see you've still got it."

A soft smile, and her hands — warm, now — running down his chest. He struggles to keep his focus, examining her. "You don't even have a scar."

"SD-6 made me see a plastic surgeon. Bullet scars and skimpy dresses just don't mix."

"Oh." Onward to better topics. Or better places. He slips his hands around to her back, traces up her spine until he reaches the clasp of her bra. That, he discovers, is tricky, but he manages, and pulls it down over her shoulders, drops it on the floor.

He doesn't stare this time, but there's one word on his mind and it's beautiful, over and over and over again as he places his hands on her bare shoulders and slides them down quickly. She reacts again, digs her nails into his back; moans, "Vaughn," too loud.

"Easy. Quiet," he whispers. Her heart beats, hard and fast, next to his right hand.

"You checked the bugkiller — "

"I have neighbors." She laughs, a little, until he kisses her collarbone and starts down her chest. Her skin there is soft, smooth, and he breathes deep, takes her in. She smells soft and clean, slightly floral, but nothing obvious. Tiny little kisses, down down down, until his hand gets in the way and he replaces it with his mouth. He experiments, there, with his tongue, until he finds the motion that makes her bring her hands up to his head and snake her fingers through his hair. She moans his name again, softer this time.

He's waited so long, been so unsure, that he wants to take this as slow as possible. Savor her. But he can sense the impatience welling in her, and so he kicks his shoes off, reaches down with the free hand and yanks off his socks. Her boots now, unzipped quickly and gone, and then socks as well. She recovers enough to unbuckle his belt and start on his jeans, quick with the button and then the zipper. She slides her hands between jeans and boxers, but there's no room, and he has to stand with her, reluctantly pulling away from her breasts.

She moves slower now, dragging her hands over his ass, thighs, down his legs. He remembers, oddly enough, watching her once, at the firing range. Gun in each hand, impossibly fast, and he knew it, subconsciously, then. The kind of hand strength you need to do that...

Makes her able to touch you and make it feel so damn fucking unbelievably good. She's made it as far as she can, and he steps out of his jeans, reaches down to grab her wrists and pull her back up to eye level, or just below, now that her feet are bare.

He kisses her, because it's been awhile for that, and he likes the way she kisses. Likes so many things about her, he thinks, so why should that be an exception? But she is still impatient, reaching down for the button to her own jeans before he catches her hands.

"Let me do it." And he does, faster than her, because he's got other plans. Down her legs and jeans gone, and then he stands, has to stare again. She's amazing and she's beautiful, he thinks, and she's so much more than his imagination could ever conjure. Fear strikes him briefly, tight in his throat, that he won't get this right, that he won't get the other things right, the ones coming in the future, and she'll leave him again and that will be it.

She picks up on this. "Hey. Are you okay?" Her voice is husky and he finds he likes it. A whole hell of a lot.

He pushes it away, decides it's going to be fine and if it isn't, he needs to focus on now, anyway. "I'm fine — great," he whispers. "Now lay down."

Out of his mouth and gone before he can even think about it. Rule number one with Sydney Bristow — never give direct orders, you idiot. He braces himself and prepares for negotiations.

But there's a difference between missions and bedrooms, apparently, because her eyes smolder and she keeps them on his as she sits on the bed, swings her legs up and lies back slowly. He places his hands on her knees, spreads her legs apart and kneels between them.

Fingertips only, as light as he can make them, he starts at her ankles. He tries to keep his hands steady, which isn't easy, because they want to tremble. Calves, now, and she's as thin as she was before, he thinks. A runner's body, long and lean under his hands — not a fighter anymore.

"You're so beautiful," he tells her, when he reaches her thighs. "So amazing."

She gives him a slight smile, keeps her eyes locked on his, and he thinks she understands. Thinks she knows he wants to touch every inch of her, and this is just a starting point. He moves quickly over her panties, black lace and satin to match the bra, and meanders across her stomach.

This, he thinks, is how it should be, how it could have been all along, as he grazes breasts, shoulders, arms and then her own fingertips. He picks one hand up, brings it to his mouth and kisses it gently. Closes his eyes and holds it against his lips as his other hand runs back down her stomach.

When he reaches the seam of her panties, he opens his eyes and releases her hand. She keeps it on his face, running it over his nose, lips, chin, until he puts both hands back on her. It flails, then, and flops back onto the bed.

"You're pretty damn amazing yourself — Vaughn," and a gasp as he starts. Touch just as light as before, lace rough underneath the pads of his fingers, over her hips. Down between her thighs, and she's wet and she's hot and there's nothing better than the bliss on her face and knowing he's caused it.

"Vaughn," she whispers, but it's got an edge to it. A request, maybe even a demand. Her impatience has grown, he knows, and he's not doing much better at this point. So much more left to do, but you're going to have more opportunities to do it.

He hooks his fingers around her panties and she tucks her knees to help him pull them off. His boxers come off quickly, tossed somewhere in the vicinity of the dresser.

He looks down at her for a moment, admires her one last time, then he lowers himself onto her, slow and deliberate, until he can feel her breasts, her toned stomach, warm beneath his chest. She's breathing hard. So is he.

She slips a hand between them, slides it down his stomach, down further to his cock and she takes it in her hand, strokes gently. He has to pause with this, close his eyes and take a deep breath. "Sydney. Oh, Sydney."

They're moving fast now, so fast, he thinks, but there are still things left to work out. "Condoms are in — "

His nightstand drawer, never opened, purchased at the Kroger a little over a month ago, after Lisa, on the conveyor belt right behind his broccoli. Bought for who knows what reason, because he'd never planned anything remotely resembling this.

"I'm on birth control," she says. Normally he would insist anyway, but she, he thinks, is the last stop, and so it's okay. There'll be more sensation, not that he needs it; the sight of her, naked in front of him, the feel of her, trembling under his hands, is almost enough in itself.

But there's still something else. There's all the hurt he caused her and the question of how anything he does could ever be enough after that. And that makes him worry, yet again, that this is going to end disastrously, makes his eyes sting as he looks down at her. Her and the short dark hair, splayed about her face. Real, now, not a wig, and this should have been the first night, he thinks, should have been a long time ago. But you made her go it alone.

He tilts his head, whispers in her ear. "I'm sorry, Sydney. I'm so sorry. Sydney, Sydney, I'm so sorry. So so sorry — "

She stops him, hand on his chin, gently turning his head. A soft kiss and "shhhhh."

Her other hand, still wrapped around his cock, starts again, stroking harder this time, guiding him between her thighs. She's not going to wait anymore, he thinks, and somehow it's all going to be okay. Because she thinks it is, and that can be enough for him.

He grazes her clitoris before he enters her, and that elicits a strong reaction — her eyes rolled back, "oh," and a sharp breath through her nose — and he tells himself to remember it, for future reference. He takes his time, her hips arched and her hands roaming his back. Another perfect moment, when he finally enters her completely, and he kisses her, slow and soft. Perfect because he feels so connected, anchored here, skin on skin.

He never wants to leave this place, he thinks as he starts to move, slowly, which frustrates her. Don't be in such a big hurry, Sydney. Don't you want this to last forever?

Even he doesn't want it to last forever, but he draws it out. Watches her carefully, because this, with her, is all new, and he's not sure where the edge is.

There, somewhere on the horizon, and he picks up the pace, thrusts harder and makes her moan more. It won't take much more of that, he thinks, sliding a hand between them. Thumb on her clitoris, rubbing, because he doesn't just want her to go over the edge. He wants her off the side of the fucking Grand Canyon, falling hard and the best he can give her.

And then she is there, shuddering and trembling beneath him, around him. Her mouth makes a "V" and it's going to be loud, so he covers it with his, lets her scream into this throat. He takes this image and files it away with the old one — happy Sydney at LAX, right before it all fell apart. Sydney with her eyes closed, gasping into his mouth and grasping for his hand on the sheet as she comes. It is more than enough to make him follow her.

Nobody mentions love. But he thinks it, and decides maybe it really was this simple, all this time.

———

He maintains his grip on her hand as he slides off of her, out of her, when they've both recovered and started to breathe normally again. She reacts poorly to the separation, sliding closer to him until her head is resting on his good shoulder and her arm is draped over his stomach, body pressed close against his.

She sighs, and sounds sated, as he traces her back idly with his index finger. "So where do we go from here, Vaughn?"

"Where we should have gone in the first place."

"That's a thoroughly useless answer."

He tries again. "Wherever we want to go." Wherever you want to go.

"I don't want to go anywhere," she says, voice soft. Close to sleep, perhaps.

"Me either."

Her breathing goes shallow and that's it, he thinks, reaching over to stroke her hair and touch her cheek. Soon, he knows — from sleep not nearly as intimate as this — will come the words, endearing and amusing. For now, he watches her, and she is peaceful, so serene and so close the feeling enters him and he drifts into sleep with his hand resting on her hair and a faint smile on his face.