Author: Rhythm
Rating: R for a little language. For which, I apologize - I don't know what got into me. Well, I do, Will got to me, but still.
Summary: The first meeting between Vaughn and Will goes better than expected, depending on what "better" means.
Spoilers: Very, extremely vague ones for the beginning of the second season. More like speculation, really,and not important or even spoilery. So, I guess, not really?
Disclaimer: Is this not obvious? J.J., Bad Robot, etc.
Archive: Probably - but ask me first, just in case.
Thanks to: Celli, for the beta and for saying that she loves, loves, *loves* my Vaughn. :)
Feedback: You only have to send feedback if you read the story…
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Hospital Room Revelations
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He picked idly at the hospital bracelet around his wrist, as the clock on the wall beside the curtains turned over to 11 a.m. The second day of being held for observation, and he was convinced now, beyond a doubt, that no bedroom of his would ever have tiny pink and blue flowers on the curtains, or handle bars on the sides of the bed. And it wouldn't smell like old people, no matter how old he himself got.
Hopefully, he thought, he would go home tomorrow. There was really nothing wront with him other than a very black eye and a couple of broken ribs. And, of course, the gaping hole in his mouth where a tooth had been until a goddamn freaky non-union dentist yanked it out with pliers.
They weren't keeping him because of the missing tooth; it was that mystery substance in him, courtesy of said non-union dentist, that they were worried about. But it had been more than seventy-two hours, and his neck wasn't even sore any more. He shifted uncomfortably in the bed, wishing that he had one of the cool electric hospital beds that tilt at both ends. CIA hospital rooms sucked.
He knew he was avoiding thinking about her. About what might have happened, about how strange she had looked with red hair in Paris, and how he'd gotten to safely say he loved her.
He was avoiding thoughts of how she wasn't there, and what that meant.
But suddenly the door was open and she was there, and for a second he couldn't breathe. Finally, it was going to end. He was back, she was back, and things would eventually work out.
She was too thin to fill the doorway - and she had gotten thinner since he saw her last - but he couldn't see anything else. Until she smiled brokenly; he realized then that this wasn't a happy ending, but just a respite in a continual nightmare.
He could tell she was hiding something. She met his eyes, but she was guarded, and looked down before he could read too much. He only just had time to attribute this to more spy crap when a man walked in behind her. He was about Syd's height, although maybe she was wearing heels, and his well-chiseled features matched his well-tailored suit and briefcase. Will gave him a hard look - who the hell was this with Syd, and why did he look comfortable standing so close to her? - but Syd stepped up to the bed, blocking him from view.
Her hand was outstretched, but she stopped just short of his hand, the one with the hospital bracelet, and snatched hers back again. She did it again, her hand twitching quickly out and back, then sat abruptly down on the chair by the bed and buried her face in her hands. The man took up position in the corner by the window, and the light between the blades cast horizontal bars across his face.
Will glared again, a pointed question in his eyes, and the man in the suit lowered his gaze, a little guiltily Will thought. He was about to demand a name when he heard Sydney's muffled voice.
"Oh God, Will, I just can't do this," she said between her fingers.
The suit could wait. He took her arm in his hand and pried it away from her face, letting her hand slide into his. She looked up, dry-eyed but guarded. He watched her battle with what to say, and lose; finally, she just patted the hand covering hers and settled for silence. She closed her eyes for a minute, and Will took the opportunity to study her face. It was almost like the first time, he saw everything so differently now.
It wasn't how she looked so much; she was worn completely down, there was an impressive bruise blackening her right cheekbone, and she sat as stiffly as exhaustion would let her, but it looked like Syd. He supposed that he was the one who was different, that it was he who finally understood and saw things for what they were. Through his eyes, Sydney was different.
Different, a little frightening, but still beautiful.
The man in the corner spoke. "Syd…"
"Right, Vaughn, sorry," Syd said, sitting up straight and giving herself a little shake.
"Will," she said as she rubbed her eyes, "Vaughn's from the CIA, and he's got some questions." It wasn't a proper introduction, but she seemed to feel better now that it was done.
The man pulled up the other chair, and placed it across the bed from Syd. Will had to turn away from her to pay attention.
"We didn't get enough debriefing time at the safehouse," he began, and Will let out an undignified snort at the word "safehouse". The man looked nonplussed, and Syd tightened her grip on his hand.
"Sorry, go on," said Will, and put on his attentive face. The man looked questioningly at Sydney, and continued.
"We have some questions about Paris, and of course even more about Taipei. Are you well enough for this?"
Will started to retort, but the man's eyes were on Sydney. Will turned his head to look at her, and she tried for an encouraging smile. It came out pretty weak, though, and he started to wonder if maybe she didn't need the hospital bed instead of him.
"Hey Syd, you ok?" he asked, and she nodded slightly. The man, though, saw something he didn't, because suddenly he was out of his chair and around the bed and was peeling back the twinset top she was wearing. Will sat up with a protest on his lips, but froze when he saw the blood staining the shirt underneath.
"No, it's all right, she just bled through the bandage," the man said as he helped her to her feet. "We'll just find a nurse to patch you up again," he told Syd, and they made their way toward the door, Will close behind. In the doorway, the man turned around, and, seeing Will, motioned him back to the bed.
"To hell with that, asshole, I'm coming," Will said belligerently. But Syd put a shaky hand on his chest.
"Go back, I'm fine." Seeing his skepticism, she gave him a game smile. "Besides, your gown has no back."
This was inarguably true, and Will could see that resistance would not be helpful. He took a step backward, and let the door close in front of him.
Not good at all.
He sat on the bed kicking the chair with his toe for forty-three minutes. The clock on the wall ticked, softly at first but with increasing intensity as Will's patience wore down. Just as he'd decided he'd had enough - who'd that arrogant snot think he was, anyhow? - the man opened the door. He closed it firmly behind him, looking carefully below Will's stare.
"Well?"
"She's ok. We had to sew her up ourselves the first time, but they'll do it better here."
"And who in hell is 'we'?"
"Her father. And, me."
Will considered. This could be true; Jack Bristow had given him into the care of another agent after trading for him with Sark, he could have gone back out. But who was this?
"And who, the hell, are you again?"
The man stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Agent Michael Vaughn. I'm on Syd's case."
Will didn't take the hand. "One of the good guys, then?" There was a pause. It occurred to Will that maybe he'd overdone it a little.
"I think so," the man said quietly.
Will sighed, then stuck out his hand. "Will Tippin, reporter."
A brief handshake, and Vaughn took a seat.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to jump straight to Paris," he said, opening the briefcase and pulling out a file. "What, exactly, happened after Agent Bristow dropped you off?"
"You mean, what happened before Syd found me?"
"Yes, exactly."
"I got a gun pointed at me, took a long ride in a dark van and sat in a men's bathroom while a nice man shot me up with sodium pentothal and asked me questions."
"How did you know it was sodium pentothal?"
"He said so, that's how. Look, I want to ask some questions too. Such as, why's Syd bleeding?"
Vaughn sat back, and let a deep breath escape him. Will sat back in the bed and folded his arms.
"It was an assignment...that didn't go as planned."
"Interesting. Go on."
"It's classified."
"Yeah? Well, that sucks for you, because my friend got hurt, and I want to know why."
Vaughn shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Syd told me you weren't going to ask any questions."
Will laughed, shortly. "I'm not going to ask her any questions. She's my friend, and I don't want to upset her. But I'm going to ask you all kinds of shit."
"Or you don't answer me, is that it?"
"Yeah."
"Fine." Vaughn flung the folder to the floor, and leaned forward. "What do you want to know?"
"Why's she bleeding?"
"She was shot."
"Shit. Who shot her?"
"That I won't tell you."
"The hell you won't," said Will. "Well, then, why'd they shoot her?"
"I don't know yet. It might have been personal."
"You know what? Fuck you."
Vaughn rubbed his forehead, and sat for a second with his head in his hand. When he looked up and spoke, his voice was soft. "Look, I'm not trying to make you angry, but there really is a lot that I'm not able or even allowed to tell you. You need to realize that, and also that I'm on Syd's side. And I mean on her side personally, not just professionally." He flattened both hands over his eyes.
Rebuked into silence, Will stared at the man sitting hunched in his chair. It was a little shameful to be giving this man, whom Sydney clearly trusted, such a hard time; the blood had panicked him, though, and he'd been desperate to understand. Panicked Will was not Polite Will, not usually.
On Syd's side was good, although a handsome man on Syd's side personally was a little worrisome. Usually content with his own tall, scruffy good looks, Will found himself looking closer at the man across from him, wondering if certain tall and lovely spies preferred compact and well-dressed to casual and slightly rumpled.
He noticed the good shoes, the tailoring of the suit - it didn't look American, but then Will was a dunce about clothes - the recent haircut and the nice watch around his wrist. All professional, all indicating motivation and discipline and a good work ethic. All things Sydney would like.
Will looked closer at the man's hands, his attention caught by something odd. Around both wrists were ragged circles where something had bitten into the skin, or maybe rubbed hard and long against it. The cuts were deep, very deep in some places.
And they matched Will's wrists. He knew, without looking, that those cuts around Vaughn's wrists, just starting to scab over, looked like the marks on his own, from Taipei.
Suddenly, though briefly, he was back to his own hours of fighting his handcuffs, futilely of course, and screaming when no one could hear. No one could hear. No one could help.
And Vaughn's cuts were far deeper.
Vaughn was keeping things hidden, too.
"Was it bad?" Will hadn't meant to speak, he didn't know how to be solicitous to a man he neither knew nor liked very much, but it came out, and Vaughn lifted his head.
He understood Will, understood that he didn't mean Syd this time, and nodded his head, up and down slowly.
"Nearly as bad as it can be," he replied briefly. He ran a hand through his hair, standing it on end, and leaned over to pick up the file.
"Syd needed to know that you were ok, she really needed that," Vaughn said, as he came back up with the folder. "She needs to spend some time here, too, to take care of the gunshot wound and a couple of other things. And she may take some time off from work."
"Because she's hurt?" Will asked.
"For a lot of reasons," Vaughn said as he pulled a pen from his coat pocket. He wrote a few lines in the file folder as Will watched, feeling much like a boy in for a doctor's visit. But Vaughn's pen trailed to a stop, and with a deep breath he closed the folder.
"Listen," Vaughn said, and he looked at Will with penetrating eyes, "Sydney's had a bad time. Not just about you, although she was - is - torn up about what happened."
"I'm sorry about - "
"No, listen," Vaughn interrupted, scooting his chair forward. "Her mission…when she was…the way she was shot was bad. The contact was…important."
He turned the pen over in his hand, then over again. "She's just going to need some time."
"I understand."
"God, I hope so," Vaughn said. "You can be around her. You can…you can help her."
It was as much a plea as it was a comment.
"I don't know what to do."
Vaughn sat, watching his fingers turn the pen around and around. Then he gripped it tight, and his eyes when he looked up were sad.
"Just hold her. When she needs it."
Abruptly, Vaughn stood, sliding the pen into his breast pocket and handing the folder to Will.
"I'm supposed to give you this. It's information about the witness protection program, in case the people who took you to Taipei are not apprehended soon."
"There's no way I'm - "
"I know," Vaughn said quickly. He took a step backward around the chair, then stopped.
"If we need more answers, I'll…we'll…contact you."
Without awaiting a reply he stepped to the door, opening it and sliding through with a single motion. Will watched him stop on the other side with his hand on the doorknob, breathe for a second, then shut it carefully and disappear down the hall. The silence Vaughn left behind him sounded like regret.
Will, with sudden anger, crumpled the folder in his hand and threw it hard at the wall. It hit the clock on the wall beside the pink and blue flowered curtains, knocking it to the ground with a crash and a flurry of paper.
Underneath the pages, the clock ticked once more, then fell still.
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End
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