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Appearance and Reality
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: #3.13, 'After Six'
"Well, aren't you like a cat with a mouse? You know that the mission was only ever reconnaissance. Tippin isn't officially regarded as a threat to the Covenant. His removal would be considered . . . an extravagance."
"Extravagance is your style, not mine."
"Don't be so sure, love."
*
He sat on the hood of his car, which was parked in the corner of a nondescript lot. It was a much dented and abused replica of the truck he'd sold to cover his debts three years earlier. He'd driven it across the country from Wisconsin, and it was now looking even worse for wear.
He squinted in the bright sunshine, his head aching slightly for lack of sunglasses. He didn't even own a pair of sunglasses anymore; they were barely necessary for Wisconsin summers. He didn't even wear his prescription glasses much anymore; construction work was significantly less taxing on his eyes than staring at a computer screen until 2am. He watched a man wearing a suit and sunglasses stride across the parking lot. The glare and fog of downtown LA combined to make him feel slightly hazy and unreal.
He felt too much like Will in this city. In any other city – Eau Claire to Vienna – he could be Jonah, who carried a gun and could probably escape a whale's belly if he put his mind to it. Jonah, who'd lost three teeth in a random mugging; Jonah, who fell at a work-site once and sliced open his abdomen; Jonah, who hadn't ever been in love.
Jonah was unlucky; Will was something else entirely.
He had met with Sydney the previous day; by the oil fields, in dry, dusty heat. In the bright sunshine, she had looked strange and faded: like a magazine cover left too long in direct sunlight. The truth, it seemed, hadn't so much hurt, as punctured like a sharp needle point. Will was used to her sadness, coloured into every fake smile and nonchalant glance, but the way she seemed to deflate – shrinking and unravelling before his eyes – was new and irreconcilable.
She had hugged him, and that, too, was alien. Her hugs before had been frequent and almost sisterly. Now, she simply clung to him, her arms squeezing too tight around his neck. It was as if she wished to sear herself into him (to find a piece of herself in him; or to take a piece of him for herself?).
"Oh, Will . . ." She had whispered his name as he held her; hot breath clinging to the patch of skin beneath his ear. Only days earlier, another woman had whispered a different name, and he had laughed as her breath had tickled his neck. She had left tiny blue smudges of paint where her fingers roamed, and sweet kisses across his lips.
Raised above Los Angeles, the paint washed off his neck and shoulders, Will had found that he couldn't laugh for Sydney anymore.
He had received the S.O.P. that morning. The blank envelope had been pushed under his motel room door. By the time he checked the hallway, it was deserted. Take that, conspiracytheorychick.com.
In the parking lot, Will waited an extra 5 minutes, feeling an irrational urge for tardiness. He didn't want this life anymore; the suspicion, the second-guessing, the cloak-and-dagger bullshit. He swung his legs down onto warm concrete and walked slowly to the covered parking garage.
The elevator opened, and Vaughn stared blankly through him. A rush of stale air and the hint of a familiar cologne; the metal doors slid closed. Vaughn yanked the emergency brake, and the elevator ground to a halt. Will's throat swelled with a restlessness that he couldn't entirely attribute to claustrophobia.
Vaughn's automatic smile was strained. He looked tired – worn; torn apart and reassembled, in a way that Will recognized acutely. The silence between them was a pulse too long, before Vaughn said, "Hey Will."
They shook hands awkwardly.
"Hey, how have you been?" Will asked stupidly.
"Good," Vaughn replied, and Will recognized the answer for what it was: shorthand for a story he didn't wish to tell. "I'll cut to the chase: the CIA needs to bring you in for further debriefing. We're looking for any possible leads on the Covenant." He paused. "They want to offer you your old job back." He smiled again, mirthlessly. "With retroactive pay."
Will's breath was short and uneven. "No. I won't come back. They can ask me their questions and run their tests, but after that I go home – to Wisconsin."
Vaughn smiled once more, with significantly more warmth. "This is the part where I'm supposed to give you the hard sell."
Will grinned, and they fell into an easy silence.
"The CIA want to start the debriefing tomorrow morning. It will probably take a couple of days in all," Vaughn told him. His hand hovered on the EMERGENCY STOP button. His demeanour changed, visibly, and the fake smile returned. "Oh—my wife—Lauren—she was wondering, we both were—whether you were free for dinner. Tonight. Off the clock, of course."
Sydney's voice slurred gently in the back of Will's mind – "I hate her, I mean, I don't, she's nice . . ." The curiosity of his old reporter's sense itched irresistibly.
"Sure. That's sounds great," he said, before he could stop himself.
There was a distant clanking sound, and the elevator began to move once more.
*
Will bought slightly wilted flowers from the gas station, and arrived late to the dinner that evening. It was Vaughn who opened the door, dressed in what Will regarded as a workaholic's approximation of casual clothes (navy blue slacks and a cream V-neck sweater). He smiled, and took the flowers that Will proffered ruefully.
"Come on in," Vaughn said, and with the tiniest flicker of trepidation, Will stepped over the threshold. As they walked through the entranceway, Will found himself greeted by not-particularly-pleasant cooking smells (tinged faintly with burning). Vaughn ushered him into the dining room, before disappearing into what was presumably the kitchen.
Will was aware of muted voices from the other room, followed by the sound of running water and clinking china that he took to be someone putting his flowers into a vase. He eased himself further into the softly-lit, wood-panelled dining room, taking in his pristine, carefully decorated surroundings. Will found himself faintly alarmed at how grown-up it all seemed. It reminded him, more than anything, of his parents' house.
Will had spent the best part of a month debating whether to get a dog (a labrador, maybe), before deciding that it seemed like too much responsibility. Vaughn, meanwhile, seemed to have ploughed headlong into mid-life. He owned (mortgage?) a 4-bedroomed split-level in a good, family-friendly neighbourhood, with a yard big enough for both a dog and some kids. Will was almost prepared to bet that there were at least 3 types of towels neatly folded in the linen closet upstairs (everyday, guest, fancy guest, etc). Will wondered, suddenly, whether, had things been different, it would have been Sydney smiling down from the framed photographs on the wall.
He found it difficult to imagine.
He moved to more closely examine the collection of photos mounted above the fireplace. In one jigsawed montage of pictures taken in a tropical locale (their honeymoon, presumably), Vaughn and "Lauren" were happily engaged in a series of activities: water-skiing; petting a dolphin; laughing on board a boat. Upon closer inspection, Lauren appeared frequently reduced to a blonde blur; either buried in Vaughn's arms, or streaking out of shot.
In the central wedding portrait, she was fixed rigidly in place; a wide smile frozen and painted frosting-pink. Her eyes appraised him coolly. Will felt something clamp over his heart as he was chilled by recognition. Movement behind him registered as muffled and unconnected. He turned, to find her standing in the doorway, Vaughn behind her, looking solemn in her wake.
Will was aware that Vaughn was speaking, but the words failed to register. His brain seemed to click painfully, and her voice emerged from a ringing sensation.
"I'm Lauren," she said. She stepped closer, and he blinked his eyes shut, anticipating the knife at his throat. She kissed him on the cheek, and retreated to Vaughn's embrace. "Michael has told me all about you, Will. It's so good to meet you, finally."
*
For a week, she had been his shadow; a ghost, overexposed or bleached pale by the sun, that filtered in and out of his vision. A corner turned, and she would appear; the blink of an eye, and she was gone. Nonchalant as she sipped coffee on the sidewalk; self-assured as she strode past the construction site.
For a few days, he had wondered whether it was all in his imagination. She was a trick of the light, or a schizophrenic delusion. He had grown used to not believing his eyes. Some of his memories were fake, and even the real ones he didn't like to trust (they fragmented or dissolved under scrutiny). His mind was a web of riddles and contradictions that never seemed to stop spinning.
It was almost worse to discover that she was real.
"Hey Jonah," his work buddy, Steve, heckled him jovially. "Looks like you got an admirer."
He had noticed her immediately, of course: sitting at the end of the bar, legs crossed and hair loose. He had carefully ignored her, as had become his custom; choosing a stool a moderate distance away from her, and angling his vision toward the group of girls talking and giggling in a corner.
"What?" Jonah asked blankly, as Steve leaned over him, beer in hand.
"Hottie at 9 o'clock. The blonde, she's totally checking you, man," Steve continued, making the encouraging, wide-eyed expression of someone looking forward to vicarious fulfilment.
"No . . ." Will began, his throat swelling.
"Ah, it's okay. I'll leave you to it." Steve exaggerated a wink and strode off, as the so-called "hottie" (shadow/stalker/delusion) slid gracefully from her stool and began walking toward him.
She sat down next to him, and her proximity was almost unbearable. He focused wildly on her hands, folded together and finished with manicured nails. She was talking to the bartender, and her voice was unexpectedly soft and pleasant in his ear.
"A beer, please," she said, and he could hear her easy smile as he stared at her hands. "And I'll have another vodka and tonic." Moments passed, and the drinks were slammed down onto the bar. Her hands moved to lift her drink, and Will found himself staring at dark wood.
"I hope it isn't too forward, buying you a drink. I never do this." She laughed, but it was neither nervous nor spontaneous. "I'm Kate." She extended her hand.
He couldn't help but look up. "I'm Jonah," he said, and grasped her hand lightly, feeling its solid warmth.
"Hi Jonah. I noticed you sitting here, and I thought you could use some company," she said. He released her hand. Lies, all of it. He saw them flash in her eyes. The smaller, whiter ones: because she did do this, he knew instinctively. She was used to picking guys up in bars, leading them on and letting them fall. The bigger, darkest one: that she knew exactly who he was, and it wasn't Jonah.
"What the hell do you want?" Will hissed in a low voice, barely moving his lips (he could still feel Steve's gaze idling expectantly in their direction).
She sipped slowly from her drink. "To slit your throat, and see how much blood there is," she said neutrally, resting her eyes irresistibly on his.
Her gaze snapped away suddenly, and her laughter filled his ears again, this time louder and with a different timbre – she was genuinely amused. "I just want to talk," she mollified him, lacing her sweet tone with condescension.
"Who are you?" he said doggedly, before realising his mistake with the interrogative. "Tell me know you are," he reasserted, trying to summon strength and antagonism through her pale blue-grey gaze.
"You're asking entirely the wrong questions, Jonah. It doesn't matter who I am, or who you are, for that matter. No one in this bar would believe me if I told them that you are Will Tippin." She paused, suckling at her drink. "Would you even believe it?" Her tone was casual, interested; her eyes retained their tint of amusement.
When he didn't react, she seemed disappointed. She lowered her voice and continued: "Did it really matter that she was Allison and not Francie? Did fucking her feel any different?"
Will seized her wrist with such swiftness and force that he surprised even himself. He hadn't even thought of the gun in his jacket pocket; he didn't want a single, unremarkable bullet in her chest, he wanted to break her, snapping each and every bone in her hand until she screamed.
When she smiled, it was with grudging respect. Her breath was quick with excitement as she leaned closer. "Who do you want me to be, Jonah?"
His grip relaxed on her wrist, but he could still feel her pulse fluttering rapidly against his fingertips. Everyone in the room was looking at her. She hadn't come here to blend in, he realized; that was not her assignment. The men in the room stared at the way her skirt crept up her thighs, and the swell of her breasts as she leant on the bar to speak to the bartender. Will couldn't seem to tear himself away from her eyes. He was used to flat honesty waxed onto people's eyes, or ill-disguised petty lies that fluttered across their surface. Allison's eyes had always been a bottomless pit of something else entirely.
"I want you to be a girl in a bar," he said at last. "I want you to be the girl that I meet tonight, the girl that I take home."
The bartender returned with a credit card slip, and Will watched as she signed it: slow, cursive letters forming the name Kate Jones. He twisted her wrist away from the signature, and led her toward to the door.
*
Lauren smiled the wedding-cake-frosting smile that Will recognized from the portrait. Her eyes flickered restlessly, but she looked away before he could see more.
"I'm afraid you'll be spared my wife's cooking tonight," Vaughn was saying, sounding inconceivably calm and casual.
"Hey, I'm a good cook!" Lauren swatted him playfully.
"Right. It was just a problem with the . . . oven." Vaughn laughed easily, and then turned to Will. "We're ordering in. Chinese. I hope that's okay."
"It sounds great," Will said blankly. He thought vaguely of the half-empty Chinese cartons that sat in his own fridge in Wisconsin, and wondered if their lives weren't so different after all. He tried not to remember the way that Kate had eaten noodles in bed, afterwards, twirling them messily around her fingers and then wiping her hands on his chest.
The dinner passed maddeningly without incident. Vaughn was relaxed and talked about sports and travel and people Will had known at the CIA. Upbeat, carefully edited stories. He did not mention Dixon or Sloane. Sydney emerged from the conversation only once, and Will politely said that he'd seen her and yes, she was fine and no, (Lauren's question) he was not staying with her while he was in town. Lauren played the perfect wife with such ease and grace that Will frequently found himself forgetting about their encounter in Wisconsin. But when she told him that rather than go back to a depressing motel room, he should stay the night in their guest room, the facade faded instantly.
*
Sark's voice, transmitted through the air waves, was like cool water.
"Well, aren't you like a cat with a mouse?" Cold laughter, like a jet of icy spray.
Lauren leaned back against the utility room door, pressing the cell phone more tightly to her ear. Her skin prickled with heat in the un-air-conditioned room.
"You know that the mission was only ever reconnaissance," Sark continued, an element of goading in his voice. "Tippin isn't officially regarded as a threat to the Covenant. His removal would be considered . . . an extravagance."
Lauren kicked off her heels, rubbing her toes against the stiletto heels.
"Extravagance is your style, not mine," she said.
"Don't be so sure, love."
*
She was dressed in a nightgown, and stood in the doorway with bare feet. The off-white satin of its fabric glowed strangely in the darkness. The neck- and hem-lines were a concoction of lace and ribbons, in contrast to the simple cut of the gown; as if it couldn't quite figure out whether to be plain or indulgent. She had pinned the front of her hair back in sections, but left the majority to fall prettily down her back. It, too, seemed incongruous.
"I hope the room is okay for you, Will," she said neutrally.
"Thank you, Lauren," he played along graciously, staring hard into her eyes.
She floated nearer, and he was reminded irresistibly of a ghost.
"Did you bring me here to kill me?" he asked, faintly surprised at his own relaxed tone.
"How do you know I didn't bring you here to fuck you?" she replied. The door was still open, and he could hear Vaughn's movements in the next room, but her voice was soft and low.
"There's a reason they're called one night stands," Will said wryly.
"But if I were just a girl . . ." Her fingers curled around his wrist as she pressed herself closer to him. "If I were just a girl . . . asking you to kiss me." She quivered, and he knew it was a farce. Her fingers pushed against his pulse, nails digging into the flesh.
He kissed her as he had done that night, as if there were a knife pressed to his throat. A collision: haste and desire urging his tongue in search of hers. Her free hand slipped inside of his shirt (unbuttoned in preparation for bed), and he still felt sticky as her fingers trailed across his chest. She murmured a word that could have been extravagance, before kissing him with renewed intensity.
A light flicked on in the hallway, and the scene seemed to reset itself. Vaughn's voice travelled from the next room, although Will did not register his words. Lauren stumbled away, pulling at her hair, so that it swung loose into a single, lustrous curtain.
"Goodnight, Will," she called loudly, as she disappeared from sight.
*
Will left the next morning, despite Vaughn's half-hearted offer that he stay an extra night and Lauren's pregnant silence on the subject. Lauren did not meet his eyes over breakfast, and her portrait smile was firmly in place as she nestled into Vaughn's arms at the kitchen table. Will was lulled, once more, back into conviction of their cosy facade.
The slit of the knife was quick and clean. Will barely blinked as the hand reached across his neck from behind. As it turned out, there was quite a lot of blood, pooling and swirling around his body that slumped on the sidewalk. A young blonde man, seen around the scene of the crime, was never identified by police. Jonah was buried in Wisconsin by girlfriend Rebecca. A short piece ran in the newspaper about unprovoked violent crimes, including a small mention of Jonah.
May 2004
Note: written for Saff's Lauren ficathon
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