"This is not a good idea."
"Didn't know you cared."
"I don't. But Sydney would be devastated if her partner were brought back in a body bag."
Nomen est omen, Vaughn thinks--the man has the subtlety of a jackhammer. He also has a point.
"So what's your suggestion? I won't give this up; it's my one chance to find out more about my father. I need to--"
Jack cuts him off. "I know. But it's better to retreat now and return to the mansion later."
The key piece to the puzzle of his father's past within reach, and Jack tells him to take it easy? To let the trail go cold?
"Three hours difference. Enough, considering Villeneuve hasn't made us. Yet."
Sufficiently ominous to make Vaughn hesitate before charging ahead. But they are on the grounds already, in gear--literally and metaphorically--so what makes three hours later so special?
"Villeneuve is having a party tonight--friends and business associates from all over the world."
What is it with international crooks and their functions? Vaughn feels his annoyance level rise even further.
"So we fake the invitations and sneak in? Jack, that's never gonna work--least of all on such short notice!"
"No, we go back to the head quarter, change, and pick up my personal invitation."
Right. Don't forget Jack Bristow is not only a motherfucker but a major-league motherfucker who will have had dealings with the biggest and baddest of them all.
"Of course. And both of us just waltz in through the front door with your one ticket."
Lately, Vaughn has found out cynicism a decent life-line.
"No need to start dancing before the music plays. I can always bring my secretary or assistant. Or--as the invitation politely insists--would you prefer to pretend being my companion for the night?"
Turns out the life-line doesn't extend that far.
"Are you kidding me?"
One look at Jack's face: Not so much.
Vaughn knows this can't end well. So why does he find himself nodding grimly?
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"Jack--"
"Peter Strydom, if you please."
It doesn't please Vaughn, no--and neither does the whole set-up. Slowly making his way through a lavishly furnished mansion and a merry crowd of sharks in sharp suits wasn't what he had planned for this quick pseudo-rogue mission to retrieve intel. Usually, when he's out in the field with Sydney, the parties and nightclubs where they mingle are predominantly attended by civilians, the playing field for no more than a handful of criminals gliding through the masses.
Here, everybody is a player.
"Sixty degrees to your right. That's him."
Jack's steady voice next to his ear. For better or (more likely) worse, he's not in this alone. It's oddly, powerfully reassuring that Jack Bristow is with him--or, realistically, he is with Jack Bristow.
Vaughn slowly turns his heads, regards Villeneuve. He knows this man only from file photos with their dour, frozen-for-eternity expressions; strange to see him smile cordially, laugh at something his opposite just said. Fake as it may be, there's something undeniably sunny in his demeanour here, joie de vivre, and Vaughn feels anger uncoil low in his belly. This man has had a hand in the fate that befell his father, and now he's here, talking, looking--
straight at them.
A thrill of fear whips through Vaughn. No matter how good the cover, what if the resemblance to his dad is too strong, and Villeneuve recognises him on sight?
"He'll come over now. Follow my lead, and show no surprise."
Leave it to Jack, he thinks, but his cynicism fades quickly. This is actually sound With a polite nod at his erstwhile conversation partner, the Belgian turns and approaches them.
"Peter--quel plaisir de te voir ici."
The smile on the perfectly tanned face crinkles the corners of his eyes, and somewhere in the corner of his mind that isn't tied in wrath and dread, Vaughn wonders why, of all the international felons, it's always the arms dealers who exude the most amiable air.
"The pleasure is all mine, Adrien. I was honoured by your invitation."
"It's been a long time, Peter--what, six years since the Johannesburg deal?"
"Six years and eight months."
"Glad you could finally make it." Villeneuve's gaze shifts, focuses on him, and Jack answers his unspoken question smoothly.
"Adrien, allow me introduce to you George Davids. George, liever, this is Adrien Villeneuve."
"Ah." The soft flicker of confirmation in Villeneuve's eyes. "A pleasure, Mr. Davids."
"Nice to meet you, too."
Vaughn shakes the hand he's offered, smiles in response. It takes an insane amount of effort, but he knows he's good, good enough to make it look charming still.
When he's gone, Vaughn leans in very close--no fear to arouse undue interest with this any more. "Did you just introduce me as your homosexual partner?"
"Quite obviously."
Vaughn doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Damn Jack Bristow and this particular masquerade. Even though it would have stung, too--what's wrong with an old-fashioned secretary or assistant?"
He asks Jack, whose answer is, once more, cryptic.
"Because I just found out the last time he consciously saw me was during the Johannesburg op."
"So what? You--Jack, you have done such a cover before?"
He can't be sure, but it almost looks like there's a glint of amusement in Jack's eyes.
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"We're here."
Vaughn's pert smile is mostly for the benefit of onlookers; if Jack notices that the it doesn't quite reach his eyes--well. He deliberately steps closer to the other man. In any other situation, such an action would be a flagrant offence, the attempt at physical intimidation, and trying this with Jack Bristow has never occurred to him before. In fact, he can't remember ever having been near enough to take in not only the subtle scent of his aftershave but also the heat of his skin, oddly startling--Vaughn briefly thinks he can lay to rest all these rumours about ice water flowing through Jack's veins now.
He catches himself, tries to calm his racing pulse. Lets his voice drop to a whisper.
"At least as close as we can get--behind this door, in the hallway leading to the kitchens, is the freight elevator that can take us to the upper level offices...according to the schematics."
Jack turns, a surprisingly slow motion. His lips are hovering by Vaughn's ear, almost touching, making the fine hair stand on end, and--and it's probably just the sensation itself, just his body's unconscious response, but he feels himself shiver.
"This should be correct. What do you suggest with regards to the guard in front of us?"
Biology. Neurons firing away into nothing, that's all. That's all. Vaughn takes a deep breath.
"I've been monitoring his schedule; every thirty minutes, he goes to check the doors to the adjacent ballroom, which takes two minutes--"
"Ninety seconds; but you're right, that's our window."
Jack's voice is smooth and soft, meant to be reassuring and somewhat successful with that, but beneath the aloof partygoer façade, Vaughn feels jittery still. As one, they turn back to the ballroom, sip from their champagne flutes, occasionally sharing glances meant to be affectionate, intimate; while the gender is new, the cover is old, and Vaughn finds it's surprisingly easy to get into character, to keep sending Jack the quick glances--watchful, hoping, proud--learned and practised and perfected with Sydney before she decided it would all be over, seriously, for good, but that they could still be friends and, oh, partners, of course. The flash of bitterness is short, though, fading as quickly as it came.
"It's time."
A cool, sharp burst of adrenaline; Vaughn can't tell if it's the words--past ready and steady, they're at the go stage now--or the fleeting touch of Jack's lips on his earlobe.
They turn, idly, watch the guard's retreating back for a moment, then open the door and slip through. It falls shut behind them with a soft click.
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"Good; now let's--"
Vaughn doesn't get any further than that; mostly because Jack slams him against the wall, but also because Jack's lips are slanting over his, swallowing his words. There's a shock wave racing through him at the sensation, or maybe its possessiveness; Vaughn feels dizzy for a moment, but Jack's body presses against his own--hard planes and smooth muscles under the crisp fabric of the suit--steadies him.
Jack breathes into his mouth--hot, explosive, and something in Vaughn flares.
"Camera. Keep going."
His head is still spinning, but the feeling dissipates when he grips Jack's arm, lets his other hand, the one frantically trying for purchase, come to rest at the small of Jack's back. Impossible to look at the other man; instead, Vaughn lowers his eyes, pretends to catch his breath, and, after only a moment, spots the red, unblinking eye of the security camera above the door.
Of course--monitoring the main pathways through the building, constituting the reason why there was only one guard, only an unlocked door. Why spend money on human security forces that might tell your secrets when you can have ever-silent yet ever-vigilant electronic surveillance?
Jack's head dips down, ghosts along his cheek, towards his ear, and for a moment, Vaughn panics--not because his brain tells him to push Jack away, which it does just as it should, but because his body tells him to pull him closer.
Hands on his shoulder, his hip, holding him in place, and he doesn't hate it.
"Keep going, and keep praying."
Vaughn would have laughed, probably hysterically so, if Jack had let him, but there are lips touching his own again, and there's really no way but to yield unless he wants to blow their cover. Vaughn opens his mouth, expects a hard tongue, insistence, but instead, Jack is slow, gentle, maddeningly so; after a few heartbeats, Vaughn finds himself kissing Jack--hard, and far too good. He manages to slip in his own question.
"Praying?"
"For a surveillance centre guard who's not gay. We want him to turn that camera off, after all."
About time to share with the class--but anger, it turns out, is not much of a turn-off to Vaughn; now that he knows what he has to do, it's even easier to strive for completion of this task. He's nothing if not determined, and Jack, it turns out, puts his heart and soul into every aspect of a mission.
He's breathing hard now, his heart slamming in his chest. Turning away from the cameras, he nuzzles into Jack's neck, satisfied by the short, almost imperceptible shudder running through the other man's body.
"This? Is crazy. You don't even like me!"
I's a relief to see--feel--that even Jack Bristow can be out of breath, be flushed from more than the champagne.
"Which part of Joining you for an unauthorized mission to retrieve intel about your father unknown to the CIA did you miss, Agent Vaughn?"
Vaughn thinks it's horribly inappropriate to mention his father now, with Jack's fingers untucking his starched shirt, with his thumb stroking lazy lines down his side--or horribly appropriate, maybe; but there's a sudden surge of warmth in Vaughn's chest, expanding, and he smiles into Jack's kiss, returns it, tongue slowly tangling with his. To say it's not hard at all would be a lie. He lets his hand drop to the other man's belt, hears his sharp intake of breath--
"Vaughn."
Startled, Vaughn stops, looks up. The red light of the security camera is dead--whoever was watching them, he's had enough and turned the hallway surveillance off.
Vaughn swallows.
"We made it."
We made out, he thinks, mortified, bemused, but most of all, wanting.
"We did." Jack glances at him, then turns abruptly, to the elevator. "Are you coming?"
Vaughn does--and doesn't, of course, hating the latter more than he ever thought possible.
fin
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A/N:
- I kidnapped & abused quite a few clichés and went with a rather unique interpretation. Oh, well; I'm oddly free of remorse. Now, while Posing As A Couple and Sneaking Into A Party is a stock device, all credit for this particular manifestation goes out to Rhien Elleth, whose "Exercise in Control" is the most brilliant example of it, a beautiful story--I'm not worthy. Seriously, I'm not. Go read her and praise her.
- For Anna S., whose Jack/Vaughn hit me like a freight train and made me like it.