Title: A Father's Revenge
Author: Dream Writer 4 Life
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Heavy Angst
Archived: , SD-1, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!
'Shippers' Paradise: S/V, V/L, allusions to J/I
Spoilers/Timeline: Season 3. Timeline anywhere during "The Two" or "Succession" (3.01 and 3.02)
Summary: Spy Daddy confronts Vaughn. A Dream Writer Experience
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait a second! No it's not! Keep reading!
Author's Note: I hope no one has done one of these yet. I thought of this after "The Two" but didn't have time to finish it until this week. Hope you enjoy! As always, leave feedback. Constructive criticism is welcomed.
A Father's Revenge
You have to find him.
She has pleaded with you not to, says she has taken care of it, has hashed it out with him already and does not need to tear open the finally scabbing wounds.
It's not that you do not trust her to take care of herself when it comes to her feelings, because you do. And you certainly do not want to hurt her anymore. You don't think she has anything else to hurt, either mentally or physically.
But you need to do this for you.
It was not that hard to track him down; you helped with concocting his new identity. You even called in a few favours to get him that teaching job. He said he was completing your Sydney's dream. But that was before you discovered the tape, before you knew that she was alive. Then you did not care much about anything except finding your Sydney; former Agent Michael Vaughn was the last person on your mind, even though he should have been your first.
You did contact him one time. You sent a delivery man to his house with a copy of the tape and a note; a risky move, to be sure, but you thought he would be interested in the fact that your Sydney might still be alive. You never thought he would send the entire thing back unopened. He must have decrypted the return address and immediately stuffed it back into his quaint little suburban mailbox.
But why? Why would he pass up the opportunity to investigate your Sydney's now-disappearance, even if it did mean coming back to work with the CIA? Then you would not have been the only one they whispered about, the only one who received looks of mixed sympathy and apprehension. You would not have been the only man in the world who believed. Why didn't he even open the package?
You didn't know that he was married.
If you had, you would have done this months ago. You would not have hesitated to jump in your car, drive over there as fast as it would allow without spontaneously combusting and…
But you are getting ahead of yourself.
You're not even in the car yet.
Oh, wait. You are. How did that happen? You shake your head quickly and blink hard; you must get a grip on yourself if you are to go through with this. The key is somehow already in the ignition, and all you have to do is turn it, press the brake, shift into reverse, pull out, press the brake again, shift into drive…You've never thought about how complicated driving could be.
The road in front of you expands and contracts, elongates and shortens, warping right before your eyes. You blink furiously, trying to turn the focus knob on your brain to sharpen the motion picture playing out across your corneas. But objects continue to contort in ways not normally possible, the street and sky switching places every so often. You begin to think a good stiff drink would calm you down — a Scotch on the rocks, Irish whiskey, tequila, even gin — and long for your rather large liquor cabinet. It needs to be restocked, you remember suddenly; you have nearly run out of genuine Russian vodka. The only bottle was tossed back almost a year ago when you had your last meeting with Irina. She was the one who gave you the damn thing in the first place. It was intoxicating, addictive — like her, like she used to be, like everything she touched and smelled and saw and did…
You're there.
Somehow you have pulled into the driveway of his quaint little suburban home and are staring through your windshield at his quaint little suburban garage door. A perfectly manicured lawn that you wouldn't even classify as small stretches towards a perfect sidewalk. The path from driveway to barely there porch is edged with perfect bushes. Even the paint job on the latticework and banisters are perfect. You are willing to bet your life savings that he is not the one responsible for all these utter perfections. Because if you couldn't do it when you were his age, he certainly can't. He is just not that type: the homey, do-it-yourself, workbench type. He's more the international, lying, bastard type.
All the same, the perpetual spell of utter perfection this area seems to be under is nauseating you. Especially since you do not know if everything is exactly what it seems or if it is all just a façade. For someone could have Ph.D. in game theory, you sure can't figure this one out.
Your body seems to be acting of its own accord. Your soul is parked in a Lay-Z-Boy in the middle of your chest, kicking back with one of those nice stiff drinks to watch the events as they unfold. It is no longer manning its post at the controls. It has been gone for so long, now, that you suppose those controls sport a nice layer of dust. Fingers of opposite hands fumble with your keys and the latch on the door, neither of them completing their respective task as deftly or with as much grace as they have before. Somehow your right hand has extracted the keys from the ignition, but your left insists on tangoing with the handle. Again, without any coaxing, the right crosses your body to steady the left, reassuring it almost before they force the latch together.
As soon as you step out of the car, the world screams into sharp focus, slamming into your chest like a bullet and short-changing your breath.
You are really here.
You are really doing this.
You are really sure about this.
You are really strolling up the walk…
Hey, your mind exclaims. Whoa!
That little blob in the Lay-Z-Boy chair is struggling to man his post — and runs smack dab into a glass wall. You guess it isn't time for your emotions to rule the roost because he does not put up a fight and slinks back to his chair, slightly disappointed.
You are at the front door, finger poised over the bell. Passively, you note it is shaking almost imperceptibly. You stare a moment, willing it to cease and desist. It does, and immediately after, it darts forward to hurriedly ring the bell.
It's go time.
The person who answers the doorbell is a woman. You know immediately it is his wife. Her blonde hair explodes away from her face and is expertly messed, giving you the impression that she has experimented with this style before. (Or she has just gotten out of bed.) Her bright eyes dance with merriment, but dull a little with confusion as she sees you standing there. And she is smiling: something your Sydney rarely does anymore. You instantaneously resent her for this and itch to punch that insidious grin off her face. But you never hit a woman; not unless she gives you good reason to. You cannot decide whether being Michael Vaughn's wife is reason enough.
You are struck with the fact that she looks nothing like your Sydney. In guise or demeanor: she is short and sprightly while your Sydney is tall and sleek.
You cannot decide whether this is good or bad.
She clears her throat; her smile has grown nervous and expectant. You must have paused longer than you thought. Clearing your own throat, you shuffle your feet and straighten to your full height. "Is Mister Michael Vaughn at home?"
The same confusion remains as she nods slightly. "May I ask who's inquiring?" You merely glare at her, your infamous blank stare bearing down on her. Her grin disappears almost entirely, and she does not even invite you in as she backs down the hall and yells over her shoulder, "Michael! There's someone here for you! He looks like he's from the school board."
A noise of assent is made from the second floor, and as she rounds a corner, the ceiling begins to shake and someone beings to pound down the front staircase. The casually dressed Michael Vaughn bounds into view, eyes concentrating on the floor in front of him until he reaches the doorway, whereupon he glances up with a grin that quickly dissipates. He recognizes you instantly, and you see the fear explode into his eyes, living in his very tears.
Fool.
A good agent never, ever betrays his emotions. He becomes a front, a hollow façade that cannot be rattled.
Good thing he got out of the business when he did. Otherwise he would be dead, and your Sydney would be even more of a wreck than she is now. As it stands, you do not know what to make of his return. It probably will not be beneficial for the Agency, you have decided. Anyways, he probably only came back to torture his soul with what he denied himself. Another rookie mistake.
"Jack."
You reply with silence.
He sighs, anticipating what you have come for. "Not here, Jack. Not when Lauren can hear."
You consider for a moment, unsure whether or not to grant him this small concession. Nodding once you answer, "The warehouse. Nine o'clock. Be on time: not early, not late." With a swish of your trademark black trench coat, you're gone.
You know by the grimace on his face as he joins you that he saw Sydney leave the warehouse. He closes the chain link fence behind him and stares at the floor as he walks towards you. You know he saw her, saw her leaving, saw her drive away from her meeting with you.
You bet he wonders what that meeting was about.
It is also even odds that he is kicking himself for arriving just that fraction of a second early.
Well, you warned him.
"What did that look mean?"
You had been giving your pre-planned speech a once over in your mind as he scuffed the floor. Now you are not quite sure of his meaning. Had you been looking at him funny? "Excuse me?"
His eyes still do not meet yours as he expands, "That look you gave me on my first day back…What did it mean?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." That's almost like saying you don't want to strangle Arvin Sloane with every thread of your being: it's just not true.
Unfortunately, he knows this too. "Don't pull that bullshit on me, Jack. You know exactly what I'm talking about. That look — I couldn't read it. I just wanted to know what you meant by it."
Your eyebrow raises and the line of your lips is thrown slightly off-kilter. Slowly and evenly you state, "If you can't tell that, Agent Vaughn, then you're not cut out to be in this business."
Now he gets your message loud and clear. Your conversation is at a standstill as your eyes bore into his forehead, daring him to look up. Instead he scuffs at the floor again, shifting his weight from foot to foot with his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit. You passively wonder if he donned this attire merely to seem more professional in your eyes. It just makes him seem more like a juvenile playing dress-up.
In the silence you suddenly think you hear a grunt. It's just the blob in that Lay-Z-Boy: he has fallen asleep, and he snores something terrible You suppose the speech you spent most of the night before planning would be sufficient to fill the void, but he has other ideas.
"What is this about? Why do you want to talk to me?"
You don't even bother to disguise your scoff as a cough. "I can't imagine, Agent Vaughn. But I really think you should reevaluate your career choice if you need to ask all these stupid questions." He glances up quickly, but when he meets your blazing eyes, he has to look away. That fear is back. Capitalizing on this you ask, "Why did you go to meet Sydney in Hong Kong? I'm sure Agent Weiss or Director Dixon could have done an equal if not better job and would have caused less emotional harm."
He flinched but brought his eyes closer to your face. "Agent Weiss was on assignment and Dixon was needed here in L.A. When the Agency contacted me…I didn't think they were serious. They showed me surveillance photos and I — I broke down. The next thing I knew I was on a plane to Hong Kong. I came back only to reintroduce Syd—"
"No," You cut him off, as coldly and as sharply as a slap on cold skin. "You do not have the right to call her that anymore."
His eyes dart to yours defiantly. "Since when do you have the right to tell me what I can and cannot do?"
You reply without thinking. "Since I'm your superior, not only at the CIA, but both physically and mentally. And especially since you gave up on my daughter and decided to honour her memory by screwing another woman. You broke her heart. How do you go on living every day with that guilt?"
The Lay-Z-Boy is suddenly vacated, left to rock back and forth, empty. The blob is slowly waking up and struggling to remember how to do his job.
He is now infused with nerve and courage. He glares into your eyes with something between malice and incredulity. "The same way you do, Jack! The same way that you went on living with the fact that you programmed her to be a spy, that you kept everything from her, that you pulled away from her after her mother died, when she needed you most. How can you live with that, Jack? The day you admit your guilt is the day I'll even think about admitting I broke her heart. See," He adds, almost as an afterthought, "I can be a stubborn ass too."
Direct hit.
You are livid now, and the blob at the controls is starting to sweat; he is not used to this much action. "We are two very different people, Agent Vaughn."
His head jostles in small, rapid shakes as he disagrees, hands sliding out of their warm nests to greet the world. The gold band reminds you of your objective. "No we're not, Jack. When your wife died you started drinking, you couldn't cope. It was the same with me. Only I was able to move on; you weren't. Out of the two, I'd prefer my method over yours."
The blob issues a small gasp of surprise before doubling his speed.
Extracting your standard-issue M-9 from your trusty shoulder holster, you slam him into the fence, one arm bracing his neck as the other connects the barrel and his temple. "You have no right to bring Irina Derevko into this. You of all people are biased when it comes to her, are clouded with emotions—"
"Oh, don't give me that," He interjects brazenly, taking you slightly aback. He must have grown a pair while you were indisposed; he barely seems fazed by your overt threat on his life. In fact, he conjures the capacity to continue. "We both know you're the blind one when it comes to Irina Derevko. You went to jail for her. After almost twenty-five years, you are still in love with that woman. I will not spend my life like that."
"You didn't have to!" You exclaim as you give his temple yet another dig with your firearm, having Blob pull the 'stubborn ass' card; at least he knows that one well. "I sent you a package through a CIA front company with a coded note and return address. It had proof that Sydney was alive. And you sent it back. Unopened. Face the facts: you didn't want to know the truth."
His voice tremors ever so slightly, straddling the fence between sanity and mass hysteria. "I only decoded half of the message. I thought you were sending me some personal affect of hers they found in her desk or something, and I really didn't want to rehash those feelings after all that time. Things were just starting up with Lauren; I was moving on. I didn't need you and the CIA to traipse into my life to remind me that she was dead."
You sneer at the younger man condescendingly, loosening your grip in pity for the disillusioned young man. "So, in other words, you didn't care."
"Damn it, Jack!" He cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "How can you believe that? I thought she died! That was her DNA! You know, Jack, you were there too. You were grieving right alongside me. I cared for her just as much as you did."
"Obviously not," You reply scathingly, your tongue lashing like a quick leather whip. You give him one final shove into the fence before disengaging all physical contact and holserting your weapon. You are frustrated that he isn't affected by your threats; apparently you've pulled this bad cop routine with him one too many times for him to find it anything but expected or even boring. "Obviously not enough to believe in the possibility that she might still have been out there. Come on, Vaughn! You've been in this business for years! You've seen things no one else has seen! You of all people know who and what is out there, and that they stop at nothing when it comes to destroying your happiness."
He shakes his head slowly, the malice in his eyes possibly rivaling yours. Blob starts really tweaking the controls in order to effectively receive his counter. "Don't give me shit about giving up and not trying. I can take it from her; she wasn't there. But I don't need it from you. I loved her so much."
There it is: the past tense. He loved her. That extra letter on the end of the word taunts you while carving up your beating heart. Even though you know the question could possibly kill Blob and what is left of your soul, one last query forms on your lips. "You loved her then…but do you still love her now?"
His hesitation and subsequent lack of answer is all that you need.
You nod slowly while fixing your gaze to a spot somewhere over his head, hands clasped behind your back. If you were the arbitrary movement type, you would be rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. As it is, Blob is practically melting away the pounds: he cannot remember the last time he put so much effort into first restoring your emotions and then having to keep them in check. "You are in a very difficult position right now, and I do not envy you. I suggest you take a good, long time to think about your inevitable decision. Soberly." You have no idea where this fatherly advice is coming from. You suppose Blob must be getting overly cocky in his newfound fitness. As an afterthought you add, "And remember Agent Vaughn…just because I know you bear a torch for my daughter does not mean life will cease to be a living Hell. In fact, it will probably only get worse."
Your eyes lock again, and this time he does not quail in fear or appear to be enhanced by adrenaline. Pure and simple he states, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Internally you smile; he has acquired so many attributes that remind you of someone you know, but Blob will not allow you to put a finger on who it is. Externally you nod almost imperceptibly. You reply with a forceful undertone, "I trust you will make the right decision."
You know he reads you loud and clear this time.
Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he mirrors your nod before excusing himself from the meeting, falling into slow and measured strides as he exits the infamous warehouse.
Sighing, you stare off into space.
'Those were his exact words. And I do trust him to make the right choice.'
'Is everything going to be all right, Daddy?' He could hear her answering in his head. 'Will I ever be happy again?'
'Yes, my Sydney. I believe you still have a chance.' END