Do What You Have To Do
By: Souris
Rated: PG-13 for naughty words
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.
Category: Angst; S/V, natch
Feedback: Yes, please!
Summary: Action!Vaughn and TakeCharge!Weiss deal with the events of "The Box, Part 2" in a time-honored manner.
Author's Note: Though not a song-fic, it was very inspired by Sarah McLachlan's "Do What You Have To Do."
Vaughn stared into his (third) beer moodily. The bar that Weiss had found was a complete dive, but he couldn't have cared less. It had alcohol, and that was all that really mattered.
"We are getting drunk. Now." Weiss had strode into his office and ordered. After four hours of reports and debriefings, Vaughn had not even considered arguing, even if it was after two in the morning.
"Here's to Haladki getting reamed a new one from Devlin." It was about the fourth time that Weiss had made the same toast.
"Son of a bitch," Vaughn replied again.
"God, I loved the look on his face when Devlin told him he was suspended for a week for blowing off your call."
"He's just going to hate us more now, you know."
"Let him. We are *so* going to take that weasel out. One of these days in the parking garage...." Weiss trailed off, lost in blood-thirsty, alcohol-fueled fantasies. He didn't see Vaughn flinch.
I could do it, Vaughn thought bleakly. I did it.
I killed somebody.
His hands were still steady as he lifted the glass to his lips for a long drink. He wasn't sure whether to be proud of that fact or sickened by it.
He'd had to file a report about the shooting, too, of course. Devlin had barely glanced at it, brushing it aside as a minor detail in the entire evening's story, perfectly justified and in the line of duty.
Duty? There had been no thought in his mind except survival. He had been fighting for his life, driven by a primeval ruthlessness that blotted out everything else. Him or me. He had done what he had to do. And when the man had slumped against the van and to the ground, his first reaction had been not horror but a heady surge of victory.
Only then had there been a moment of realization and shock at what he had done. He had killed somebody. A terrorist, a bad guy, sure. But a person. He had pushed the confusion aside almost immediately, intent on getting into the building and finding Sydney. There was no time for thinking about it. He barely even felt the man's dead weight as he hoisted him into the van.
He hadn't even gotten any blood on his hands.
He'd have to go see Barnett again, damn it. Standard CIA procedure. Shoot somebody, get your brain picked. How do you feel about killing this man? Well, Doc, I'm glad he's dead and I'm not. And I would've killed a dozen men to get in there if I'd needed to. Is that more or less scandalous than buying your agent a Christmas present?
Had Sydney ever killed anyone? he wondered. Even with all her years in SD-6, he somehow got the impression that she hadn't. He hoped that she never did. He never wanted her to feel this cold.
"You have got it so bad, man."
Vaughn's eyes shot to Weiss. "What are you talking about?"
"You're thinking about her right now, aren't you? You get this look on your face every time you're thinking about her. Which, just FYI, is a hell of a lot."
Vaughn was far too tired to pretend ignorance of which "she" Weiss was talking about. It would be pointless with Weiss, anyway. So he didn't say anything.
"She was impressed. I could tell."
Vaughn gave a dismissive shake of his head.
"You went into a building full of terrorists by yourself to save her. That's gotta make a girl hot for you."
For a moment, the image of Sydney Bristow gazing up at him with passion in her eyes seared his mind, but he pushed it aside ruthlessly, pushed aside the inexplicable certainty of how incredible they would be together, how amazing it would be.
Though perhaps it wasn't so inexplicable. After finding each other at SD-6, they had fallen into step immediately, perfectly meshed, perfectly synchronized, as if they had worked together forever. He had felt again the connection between them, as he had so often since she had appeared in his office with her swollen jaw and shocking red hair. Had it been only a few months ago? He felt as if he had known her for years.
"I wanted to save everybody."
"You are so full of crap. Admit it. Would you have gone into that building if Sydney hadn't been in there?"
Would I have? Vaughn thought. He sighed. "Probably not." He took another large swig of beer. He was going to need another one soon.
He wondered if he'd ever be able to watch a hockey game again and see it as simply that and not as some meta-statement for their lives. So much skating around. So little scoring. So many blocked goals.
Hockey can wait, he'd told her. Did she have any idea just how much he *didn't* want to wait, how much her invitation had meant to him? There were no guarantees. They might never take down SD-6. They might never get to go to that hockey game. He might never get to sit with her in a bar like this, right at the same table, and lean over and kiss her and not care who saw. They could live their whole lives without facing each other in public.
But at least she would be alive. He could think of nothing more important than keeping Sydney Bristow alive. And to do that, he had to be her handler. He couldn't trust her life to anyone else. Not Lambert, not Haladki, not even Weiss. Just him.
Devlin had given him one last chance with her. He was back on her case but on "administrative watch," a bureaucratic way of saying, "One more incident and you'll be writing training manuals for the rest of your career." So that meant no more inappropriate displays of concern at the CIA. No more presents. No more suspicions and suspensions. No more fodder for the rumor mill. No hockey games. No crushing his lips against hers in the middle of a mission briefing. Nothing that would endanger his position as her handler.
You do what you have to do, he thought. Even if it means ripping your heart out in the process.
He went to get another beer.
By: Souris
Rated: PG-13 for naughty words
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.
Category: Angst; S/V, natch
Feedback: Yes, please!
Summary: Action!Vaughn and TakeCharge!Weiss deal with the events of "The Box, Part 2" in a time-honored manner.
Author's Note: Though not a song-fic, it was very inspired by Sarah McLachlan's "Do What You Have To Do."
Vaughn stared into his (third) beer moodily. The bar that Weiss had found was a complete dive, but he couldn't have cared less. It had alcohol, and that was all that really mattered.
"We are getting drunk. Now." Weiss had strode into his office and ordered. After four hours of reports and debriefings, Vaughn had not even considered arguing, even if it was after two in the morning.
"Here's to Haladki getting reamed a new one from Devlin." It was about the fourth time that Weiss had made the same toast.
"Son of a bitch," Vaughn replied again.
"God, I loved the look on his face when Devlin told him he was suspended for a week for blowing off your call."
"He's just going to hate us more now, you know."
"Let him. We are *so* going to take that weasel out. One of these days in the parking garage...." Weiss trailed off, lost in blood-thirsty, alcohol-fueled fantasies. He didn't see Vaughn flinch.
I could do it, Vaughn thought bleakly. I did it.
I killed somebody.
His hands were still steady as he lifted the glass to his lips for a long drink. He wasn't sure whether to be proud of that fact or sickened by it.
He'd had to file a report about the shooting, too, of course. Devlin had barely glanced at it, brushing it aside as a minor detail in the entire evening's story, perfectly justified and in the line of duty.
Duty? There had been no thought in his mind except survival. He had been fighting for his life, driven by a primeval ruthlessness that blotted out everything else. Him or me. He had done what he had to do. And when the man had slumped against the van and to the ground, his first reaction had been not horror but a heady surge of victory.
Only then had there been a moment of realization and shock at what he had done. He had killed somebody. A terrorist, a bad guy, sure. But a person. He had pushed the confusion aside almost immediately, intent on getting into the building and finding Sydney. There was no time for thinking about it. He barely even felt the man's dead weight as he hoisted him into the van.
He hadn't even gotten any blood on his hands.
He'd have to go see Barnett again, damn it. Standard CIA procedure. Shoot somebody, get your brain picked. How do you feel about killing this man? Well, Doc, I'm glad he's dead and I'm not. And I would've killed a dozen men to get in there if I'd needed to. Is that more or less scandalous than buying your agent a Christmas present?
Had Sydney ever killed anyone? he wondered. Even with all her years in SD-6, he somehow got the impression that she hadn't. He hoped that she never did. He never wanted her to feel this cold.
"You have got it so bad, man."
Vaughn's eyes shot to Weiss. "What are you talking about?"
"You're thinking about her right now, aren't you? You get this look on your face every time you're thinking about her. Which, just FYI, is a hell of a lot."
Vaughn was far too tired to pretend ignorance of which "she" Weiss was talking about. It would be pointless with Weiss, anyway. So he didn't say anything.
"She was impressed. I could tell."
Vaughn gave a dismissive shake of his head.
"You went into a building full of terrorists by yourself to save her. That's gotta make a girl hot for you."
For a moment, the image of Sydney Bristow gazing up at him with passion in her eyes seared his mind, but he pushed it aside ruthlessly, pushed aside the inexplicable certainty of how incredible they would be together, how amazing it would be.
Though perhaps it wasn't so inexplicable. After finding each other at SD-6, they had fallen into step immediately, perfectly meshed, perfectly synchronized, as if they had worked together forever. He had felt again the connection between them, as he had so often since she had appeared in his office with her swollen jaw and shocking red hair. Had it been only a few months ago? He felt as if he had known her for years.
"I wanted to save everybody."
"You are so full of crap. Admit it. Would you have gone into that building if Sydney hadn't been in there?"
Would I have? Vaughn thought. He sighed. "Probably not." He took another large swig of beer. He was going to need another one soon.
He wondered if he'd ever be able to watch a hockey game again and see it as simply that and not as some meta-statement for their lives. So much skating around. So little scoring. So many blocked goals.
Hockey can wait, he'd told her. Did she have any idea just how much he *didn't* want to wait, how much her invitation had meant to him? There were no guarantees. They might never take down SD-6. They might never get to go to that hockey game. He might never get to sit with her in a bar like this, right at the same table, and lean over and kiss her and not care who saw. They could live their whole lives without facing each other in public.
But at least she would be alive. He could think of nothing more important than keeping Sydney Bristow alive. And to do that, he had to be her handler. He couldn't trust her life to anyone else. Not Lambert, not Haladki, not even Weiss. Just him.
Devlin had given him one last chance with her. He was back on her case but on "administrative watch," a bureaucratic way of saying, "One more incident and you'll be writing training manuals for the rest of your career." So that meant no more inappropriate displays of concern at the CIA. No more presents. No more suspicions and suspensions. No more fodder for the rumor mill. No hockey games. No crushing his lips against hers in the middle of a mission briefing. Nothing that would endanger his position as her handler.
You do what you have to do, he thought. Even if it means ripping your heart out in the process.
He went to get another beer.