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remix_reduxTitle: Broken Man (Bearer of Burdens Remix) [Alias, S/V]
Author: Deathcab4buffy
Summary: "You’re broken, Michael, but I won’t let you be permanently fractured.”
Rating: PG
Fandom: Alias
Warnings: Darkish, with whomping and angst.
Spoilers: AU following the end of S2
Title, “Broken Man”, by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
littlehands, found here
When I say your name, you cry out and flinch away. That’s the clue that there’s not going to be a happy ending. But there never is, for people like us.
They’d broken you so thoroughly that the pieces hadn’t come back together as they should. Some were gone for good. You’re Vaughn, my Vaughn, but when I call you that, with all my memories of drowned cell phones and smooth drop-offs and meetings dappled with chain-link shadows softening the name, all you hear is the painbringer coming again. So I have to stop. Have to see the new person—Michael—that’s still the man I loved (love), but different.
I was happy. I was pregnant. Our baby, yours and mine, and we could name her (it was a ‘her’, I knew it was) Clementine or Isabelle or Jennifer or something. Anything. And we’d have—maybe not a house in the suburbs and a golden retriever, but a life that was ours. Not beholden to the CIA or anybody else.
Then you didn’t come home. And no anonymous phone calls were received, no hints dropped. Just wordlessness, day after day after day, until the photos arrived in a spindled and mutilated envelope. My father got to them first, but he couldn’t hide them before I saw them.
When I saw your bleeding face—when I saw the bent shape of your fingers, nail-less—
I couldn’t hold you both, couldn’t care for you both. Maybe she knew. I felt her slip away, and even that was less blood than you had shed.
I can hear you when you dream. I hear you cry, hear you make those noises, whimpers of animal sound that I never heard from you before. I try not to encourage them. We do small soft things before bed, music and light books and tea. But you won’t take your shirt off, and I can feel the stiffness of the scars down deep into your soul, and I know the dreams will come back.
I would come into them if I could, I hope you know that. I would find the big man, the one who spoke only English to you, and I would break every bone of his that he broke of yours. And I would let you watch, so you knew.
You could tell me when you can’t sleep. I would sit with you. I know it’s more nights than not. You only really sleep after we make love (in the dark, through sheets and clothes), and even then the dreams creep in. Weiss is worried, he says you look like hell. He’s the only one who’s said it to your face, though. Marshall suggests soothing scientific journals, Dixon just looks concerned. My father...my father says that healing takes time. I know that. But I also know that wounds set improperly heal improperly.
You’re broken, Michael, but I won’t let you be permanently fractured.
I’ve been broken too, you know that. Not like this, and I would never compare what I’ve been through to what you have, as if it were some great game of one-upsmanship. But we speak the same language, we always have. Do you think I won’t understand?
Do you think I don’t wish it could have been me?
They wanted me. My mother wanted me, wanted me—something. Out of the way, or converted to her side, her cause. When Alison Van Doren failed, she took you instead. Either way, she took my life. You were my life. You still are.
All your pain should have been mine. I should wear your scars, I should have horrible memories, or none at all. This isn’t how it was meant to be, Michael.
I’m my father’s daughter, I guess. It falls on me to carry everything, because there’s no one else strong enough to do it. Or if they (you) are strong enough, I don’t want it to be necessary. For all my sins, for my foolishness and my selfishness and my short-sightedness and because you were the one in that cell and not me—let me bear the burdens that were meant for me.
We’re watching TV. Or at least I am. You’re looking at the screen, but your eyes are distant. Battery-operated pink bunnies and happy families in the sun don’t fit in your world any more. I have to try, have to keep trying…”Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to tell me about it.” I sit down right in front of him, Sportscenter be damned.
He stares like he’s never seen me before, all shadowed eyes and starkly clean-shaven cheeks. “What?”
I am sick of shadows. I stare back. “I want you to tell me about those six months. You need to talk about it.”
“Syd, I…” It’s so dim that I can’t see him clearly, but I know he’s gone pale. He always does when the subject comes up. “I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid, Michael.” Nothing will ever be more frightening than the months of not knowing, except the following months where I knew and was helpless. His hands are cold in mine, and I can feel him shaking. “I’m not scared.”
He has so many scars, visible and invisible, and he tries never to let me see them. I touch one of the ones I can touch, the fine line on his cheek. One of the pictures was how it happened, with the blade the shining center of the shot. But it’s gone, he’s here and so am I. Let me touch you for a while. “I can’t stand to see you like thiis..."
Dammit, I’m about to start crying. I want to be strong and brave, but when he closes his eyes and shuts me out, I feel helpless again.
And then he opens his eyes and looks at me, and his beautiful green eyes are like I remember them—still shadowed, still haunted, but his again. Not lost in darkness, not far-off and frightened. My Michael.
Everything comes out, poison spewing from a lanced wound. All the pain, the torments, knives and mock-kindness and the twisting of his name and self in the cold of a small dank cell. But he’s talking to me. He’s letting it out. He’s letting me help carry it. When he stops, the room is dark but for the flickering muted TV. Not quiet, though, with his words whispering like ghosts all around.
What can I do but speak the truth and drown the whispers? "I love you, Michael, that’s all I have. I can’t make it go away--what you went though. All I can do is love you, and hope that will be enough."
He kisses me, and I can taste relief on his lips. Still broken—pieces never get completely put back together—but mended. And (please God) stronger for the breaks.
Make me be strong too.
Author: Deathcab4buffy
Summary: "You’re broken, Michael, but I won’t let you be permanently fractured.”
Rating: PG
Fandom: Alias
Warnings: Darkish, with whomping and angst.
Spoilers: AU following the end of S2
Title, “Broken Man”, by
littlehands, found hereWhen I say your name, you cry out and flinch away. That’s the clue that there’s not going to be a happy ending. But there never is, for people like us.
They’d broken you so thoroughly that the pieces hadn’t come back together as they should. Some were gone for good. You’re Vaughn, my Vaughn, but when I call you that, with all my memories of drowned cell phones and smooth drop-offs and meetings dappled with chain-link shadows softening the name, all you hear is the painbringer coming again. So I have to stop. Have to see the new person—Michael—that’s still the man I loved (love), but different.
I was happy. I was pregnant. Our baby, yours and mine, and we could name her (it was a ‘her’, I knew it was) Clementine or Isabelle or Jennifer or something. Anything. And we’d have—maybe not a house in the suburbs and a golden retriever, but a life that was ours. Not beholden to the CIA or anybody else.
Then you didn’t come home. And no anonymous phone calls were received, no hints dropped. Just wordlessness, day after day after day, until the photos arrived in a spindled and mutilated envelope. My father got to them first, but he couldn’t hide them before I saw them.
When I saw your bleeding face—when I saw the bent shape of your fingers, nail-less—
I couldn’t hold you both, couldn’t care for you both. Maybe she knew. I felt her slip away, and even that was less blood than you had shed.
I can hear you when you dream. I hear you cry, hear you make those noises, whimpers of animal sound that I never heard from you before. I try not to encourage them. We do small soft things before bed, music and light books and tea. But you won’t take your shirt off, and I can feel the stiffness of the scars down deep into your soul, and I know the dreams will come back.
I would come into them if I could, I hope you know that. I would find the big man, the one who spoke only English to you, and I would break every bone of his that he broke of yours. And I would let you watch, so you knew.
You could tell me when you can’t sleep. I would sit with you. I know it’s more nights than not. You only really sleep after we make love (in the dark, through sheets and clothes), and even then the dreams creep in. Weiss is worried, he says you look like hell. He’s the only one who’s said it to your face, though. Marshall suggests soothing scientific journals, Dixon just looks concerned. My father...my father says that healing takes time. I know that. But I also know that wounds set improperly heal improperly.
You’re broken, Michael, but I won’t let you be permanently fractured.
I’ve been broken too, you know that. Not like this, and I would never compare what I’ve been through to what you have, as if it were some great game of one-upsmanship. But we speak the same language, we always have. Do you think I won’t understand?
Do you think I don’t wish it could have been me?
They wanted me. My mother wanted me, wanted me—something. Out of the way, or converted to her side, her cause. When Alison Van Doren failed, she took you instead. Either way, she took my life. You were my life. You still are.
All your pain should have been mine. I should wear your scars, I should have horrible memories, or none at all. This isn’t how it was meant to be, Michael.
I’m my father’s daughter, I guess. It falls on me to carry everything, because there’s no one else strong enough to do it. Or if they (you) are strong enough, I don’t want it to be necessary. For all my sins, for my foolishness and my selfishness and my short-sightedness and because you were the one in that cell and not me—let me bear the burdens that were meant for me.
We’re watching TV. Or at least I am. You’re looking at the screen, but your eyes are distant. Battery-operated pink bunnies and happy families in the sun don’t fit in your world any more. I have to try, have to keep trying…”Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to tell me about it.” I sit down right in front of him, Sportscenter be damned.
He stares like he’s never seen me before, all shadowed eyes and starkly clean-shaven cheeks. “What?”
I am sick of shadows. I stare back. “I want you to tell me about those six months. You need to talk about it.”
“Syd, I…” It’s so dim that I can’t see him clearly, but I know he’s gone pale. He always does when the subject comes up. “I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid, Michael.” Nothing will ever be more frightening than the months of not knowing, except the following months where I knew and was helpless. His hands are cold in mine, and I can feel him shaking. “I’m not scared.”
He has so many scars, visible and invisible, and he tries never to let me see them. I touch one of the ones I can touch, the fine line on his cheek. One of the pictures was how it happened, with the blade the shining center of the shot. But it’s gone, he’s here and so am I. Let me touch you for a while. “I can’t stand to see you like thiis..."
Dammit, I’m about to start crying. I want to be strong and brave, but when he closes his eyes and shuts me out, I feel helpless again.
And then he opens his eyes and looks at me, and his beautiful green eyes are like I remember them—still shadowed, still haunted, but his again. Not lost in darkness, not far-off and frightened. My Michael.
Everything comes out, poison spewing from a lanced wound. All the pain, the torments, knives and mock-kindness and the twisting of his name and self in the cold of a small dank cell. But he’s talking to me. He’s letting it out. He’s letting me help carry it. When he stops, the room is dark but for the flickering muted TV. Not quiet, though, with his words whispering like ghosts all around.
What can I do but speak the truth and drown the whispers? "I love you, Michael, that’s all I have. I can’t make it go away--what you went though. All I can do is love you, and hope that will be enough."
He kisses me, and I can taste relief on his lips. Still broken—pieces never get completely put back together—but mended. And (please God) stronger for the breaks.
Make me be strong too.
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