Title: Mystic Chords of Memory (1/?)

Author: chatnoir

Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be. ::jumps into JJ suit and mask and glasses:: Now I own them. ::slips out of suit and mask:: Now I don't. However, Very Bad Robot owns them too. ::puts on Robot costume:: I own them. ::takes it off:: Now I don't; wow, it's hot in there.

Distribution: SD-1, , anywhere else: ask me first.

Rating: G

Summary: When truths are proven false what do you fall back on?

Genre: Angst. I figure... there are gonna be a lot of fluff fics today. So why not write an angst fic? ;)

Timeline: Phase One never happens. This is set a couple of months (8-10 months) after the Getaway. But let's pretend that Vaughn broke up with Alice sometime in the Getaway.

A/N: Jasmine, you need to update. thanks to Demon and Jasmine for betaing. Happy October everyone! Title is taken from Robert Jager's Mystic Chords of Memory. My favorite measure in that piece? A few measures before the end where you hear the piano play the Star Spangled Banner that cues in the flute solo. hehe.. and btw? This idea came to me in February while I was playing that solo. Yeah.. it took me quite a while to begin.

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"Agent Vaughn, thank you for attending this meeting," Devlin says paternally as you open the conference room door. It might have been the voice of an adult addressing a young child had there been a slight hint of a reprimand in his tone. Agents look up from paperwork as you move across the room to sit next to Jack Bristow. There is an eerie silence that pervades the room while knowing eyes exchanged glances of pity. Jack is dressed in a somber black.

A feeling of uncertainty washes over you. There is something wrong with everything that has happened since the moment you entered the room—that, you know. Devlin with his more than usual mild manners, who should have directly chastised you, should have been your first clue. But you overlook it because you were in a rush to get to your seat. It seems so important at that moment to not get in any more trouble than being late to a meeting. The agents that are not concentrating on their work, instead taking valuable time to be compassionate, should have been your second. You misinterpret their sympathy as the constant spreading of rumors that normally happens near the water cooler but has moved into the meeting room that day. The rumors about the lack of a professional relationship with Sydney that the Agency is suspicious of—but that you are very aware of.

Jack, wearing a funeral black, is your third strike. If you even care. You know he wears a lot of black; that's who he is—a depressed man with a lot of hidden anger and a deep love for his daughter. But the dreary black contrasts against his jaded eyes, resulting in a man that you instinctively know did not sleep much the night before. These thoughts whirl around in the back of your mind, but never seem very important. Rushing to your seat does. As you look back, you wish you took more time getting to your seat and concentrated more on your environment. Maybe you would have been more prepared, less caught off guard. It would have postponed the news. And maybe, you would have been able to just live a few more precious seconds.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't realize there was a meeting until my secretary told me," you reply as you sit down. You take out a legal pad from your briefcase and the Kings pen from your shirt pocket, ready and anticipating the thrill of brainstorming a new countermission for Sydney.

You've been away for a week to France to visit your mother and had let Weiss design Sydney's countermissions. You have had no connection to the CIA for the past week and feel a bit out of the loop. But after a week of refocusing your mind, you're eager to jump back into your one goal: save Sydney so that you can have a future together. Your reasons for being a CIA agent have changed over the years. You joined the agency to avenge your father's murderer, but ever since you met Sydney, your world has turned right side up. Slowly, the missions that you carry out no longer are for your father's memory; they've been for Sydney.

Your wishes began to change October 1st, that day she walked into the CIA. While you might have been a lady's man in college, you've grown out of that phase and moved on to long lasting, stable relationships. There was no excitement or danger with Alice. You were a paper pusher with a great girlfriend. You were in your comfort zone. But once you met Sydney, it all changed. You wanted the excitement back. You wanted a relationship that had ups and downs and that you knew would be incredible, and you were willing to wait for that. You were willing to fight to get that chance. She became the reason why you wanted to get things done at work, and to work your hardest.

"Then I believe you have not been able to catch up with recent events."

He's correct. You haven't even touched the file folders on your desk before your secretary came by and tried to flirt with you. You just asked for your messages that have obviously accumulated over the week you were gone. After reading past the third message, your secretary had come back and said that you had a meeting that began five minutes ago. As she left, you suspected that she told you about the overdue meeting as a punishment for not responding to her advances.

You settle for nodding. "Yes, sir."

"The first thing you need to know is that we did everything that we could. Many people looked over Agent Weiss' countermission. We thought we had fooled proofed it."

"Sir?" You feel disconnected. Your heart starts getting chills as adrenaline wraps itself in your veins. The ground you stand on feels bottomless, and your stomach is dropping.

"Agent Vaughn... we're sorry to inform you that Agent Sydney Bristow has been killed in action."

You understand now. The fatherly behavior. The looks. Jack Bristow's attire. They're in mourning, and they're waiting for your reaction. You half expect yourself to run to the restroom and have your stomach pour itself out into a porcelain toilet, but you force yourself to remain calm. You don't cry and you won't become hysterical. There will be a time later for all three of those actions. Right now, you have a duty to your country, and an even more important one to Sydney, and you don't want more rumors going around about how you are a lover hell-bent on revenge. Even if that is what you feel inside. The only visible reactions are a flicker in your eyes as you start comprehending the information you just received, and the whiteness of your knuckles as they clutch at the Kings pen. You hide your pen under the table in between your lap, and continue to grasp at it, as if you are trying to choke the ink out. You are sure that Jack and Devlin were the only people that saw the flicker in your eyes.

Enough time has passed that all the other agents have lost interest in your lack of response to the news. Maybe they think you are in shock or disbelief, but you prove them wrong when you rather quietly say, "When? How? What happened?" They might have heard the disappointment in your words if they listen closely.

"The day after you left, Sloane had her sent to Manila in the Philippines. Apparently a vial of retroviruses had been manufactured. There was a rumor that they were going to sell it to the North Koreans. We don't know what happened in the laboratory. It seems as if she was injected with something—maybe by a guard. We did an autopsy on the body—"

You blanch. It is impossible to concentrate on what they did to her body. You remember the glow of her skin as you both lay naked on a bed with covers kicked off. The feel of her skin as water droplets streamed down her back after a shower. The softness of her kisses. The warehouse. The frame you gave her as a Christmas present. Your father's watch. The first time you told her you love her. You remembered basking in her love for you and yours for her. You remember the second time you made love was in the warehouse against the chain-linked fence, her body under yours—just because she couldn't wait for you to make sure things were secure and then bring her to your apartment.

You're afraid of replacing the youthful and beautiful image of her with one of a gray body. A lifeless body with its body cavity wide open.

You are not ready to deal with a life without Sydney.

"—there's also something else. When the pathologist ... examined... the body, they discovered that she was around two months pregnant."

Silence.

Your mind stops altogether.

And then it jumbles together with questions and possibilities. Did she know about the baby? If she did, why would she continue going on missions? It'd only been two months—she probably didn't know about it. You were about to be a father.

You look around the room. Apparently, all the other agents knew before you and are looking at you for your reaction again. Shock doesn't begin to describe the feeling you feel. Jack's face, however, shows that he didn't know that fact either. He meets your gaze and stares you down. You nod and he knows. You expect anger to spark on his features, but he quietly accepts the fact and shows pity for you.

And the overall thought going in your head: I just lost the both of them. Where is my life now?

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23 years later

"Michael Vaughn?"

"Yes, this is he. Who is this?"

"Hi, my name is Catherine Stepankov. I believe you know a Sydney Anne Bristow?"

Your voice gets caught in your throat.

"She died over 20 years ago," you say flatly. Hurt and regret fill your voice.

"You might want to come down here. It looks like we need to clear things up."