And Their Scent is that...

by Michael Arianna

Vaughn thinks there is something familiar about Bristow...(spoilers from Reckoning through The Confession)

Title: And Their Scent is That of the Ones The Children Used To Know
Author: Michael Arianna
E-mail: gryffindor@bettelyrics.com
Feedback: Greatly appreciated here or to the address above, especially since this is my first Alias fic.
Distribution: Okay to Credit Dauphine and Debriefing, anyone else ask and ye shall receive.
Disclaimer: Alias is the creation of J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot Production and is property of Touchstone Television and ABC in the U.S. No infringement or harm is intended by the use of these characters.
Summary: Vaughn thinks there's something familiar about Bristow...
Status: Complete 1/1 including prologue
Spoilers: "Reckoning" and "Colorblind" in Prologue, "Spirit" and "The Confession" in main body.
Rating: PG
Classification: Vaughn Angst, drama, intimations of Syd/Vaughn shippiness.
Thank you to my wonderful betas Hillary and Marifel who made this story so much better than it was.


_Prologue: _

"I'm a freak," he thought, and he knew he should be thinking about something else- like self-defense, because Jack Bristow had him pinned against the wall with a gun pressed against his neck. Jack's low "who are you?" rumbled down Vaughn's spine on a wave of hot breath that filled the hollow of his ear and blended into the steady beat of Jack's heart against Vaughn's C.I.A. issue suit jacket where the bigger man's body met his like a brick wall. So this was Sydney's father. He knew from the moment Bristow stormed into the private dining room and ignored his outstretched hand that civil protocol was not part of his game. He hadn't expected to be grabbed and thrown, though. That had taken him by surprise. The man was well and truly pissed. Vaughn made a mental note: Do not schedule anonymous meetings with Jack Bristow. The cold metal of the gun paralyzed him and all he could do was mutter "uh, Vaughn. I'm Agent Vaughn" while wondering if bodily restraining a person at gunpoint was a fatherly thing to do.

He certainly couldn't remember his father ever pulling a gun on anyone--but in the twenty-three years since William Vaughn's death the few real memories he once held had blurred with the stories his young mind had fabricated to fill in the blanks until fact and fiction were indistinguishable. Such incongruities existed, primarily, because his mother was unable or unwilling to answer his questions. She still couldn't speak of his father without excusing herself from the room while dabbing clandestinely at her eyes. The only thing he truly remembered about the man was the way he smelled after he came home from the field—the way he would barely have closed the door before Michael had launched himself into his father's outstretched arms, giggling as his father swung him up. He would wrap his arms around his father's neck and rest his head there and inhale. Dust and sweat and something else--something he couldn't identify until he was grown and an agent himself: fear, adrenaline, and victory. He could smell it on Jack Bristow. Except the fear wasn't part of the older agent. That was coming from his own body. The older agent pushed him again and he muttered,

"I'm Sydney's CIA liaison."

Bristow released him and sat down at the small table. He folded his hands in his lap. The slight twitch in the corner of his left eye betrayed the coiled tension winding through his body that made him dangerous. Even the cast iron chair seemed intimidated beneath his form. His gaze was cool and demanded an explanation. Vaughn took the seat opposite, his hand gripping its back as he slid into it without breaking eye contact. He sat straight so his thin body would not seem cradled by the stiff chair that was far too large for his comfort. He hoped that since the issue of his identity was settled, they could get down to business. The muscles in his cheeks burned pleasantly as he regrouped his senses. However, he scarcely said five words before Jack was in his face again, albeit from across the table. He found himself listening with a sinking stomach as the other agent calmly patronized him. ("One thing you are not- and this is something only time can provide, really- is wise.") It wouldn't have been so difficult, perhaps, if his scent hadn't reminded him of his father. It forced him into a silence which might, he knew, be mistaken for acquiescence. He rubbed the tablecloth, scratching the cotton grains over his soft fingertips and increasing his pressure on the rough fabric as he pushed himself towards the distraction of tactile sensation. He cocked his head and tried to disguise his vexation and disappointment with the ongoing badgering with a mask of nonchalance.

A plate crashed on the other side of the door. This was followed by another and then rapid swearing in an Indian dialect. There was a momentary lull, and then the soft murmurings of the dining parties resumed. The tea kettle in the center of the circular table steamed and smelled of raspberries and mint. Vaughn looked at it as he held the tablecloth between his reddening fingers. He considered pouring it out, but he didn't trust his hands to be steady. It was disconcerting to him that simply being in the presence of Sydney's dad caused a deluge of foggy memories of his own father. Bristow certainly didn't look like William Vaughn with his salt and peppered curly hair, thin nose, and eyes that flickered with subdued emotion (aggravation, at the moment). Vaughn wondered if there wasn't something pseudo-incestuous in his interest in Sydney. Had he even noticed her as a person--aside from the clownish red hair--before she began pouring her soul out with tales of her miserable childhood and emotionally truncated father? Was it jealousy that drew him to her rather than attraction or even duty? A need for a father satisfied vicariously through tales of paternal failings. He would think that if he were going to leach onto a paternal figure by proxy, he might choose one with a better reputation, but what did he know? As Bristow was currently informing him, the answer to that question was "very little." Mystery perpetuated by silence. That was the lone commonality between the two fathers. Perhaps that was the draw. Still--he was annoyed that he might use Sydney in this unseemly manner. So he snapped when Bristow raised his eyebrow and asked if he thought Sydney woke up every morning because of him.

"What's your problem with me?"

And that ended it. Mr. Bristow knew that he'd pulled his C.I.A. files at Sydney's request. Of course he knew. It was foolish of him to think that Bristow wouldn't find out. He was a double agent after all and with twenty years experience on him. But Vaughn couldn't stop himself from retorting:

"What were you doing checking up on me checking up on you?"

He sat and stared at the tea kettle after Bristow left. He had wanted him to say "because I wanted to know who was in my daughter's life" or something personal like that, but Jack said nothing except that the meeting was over.

Days after the meeting, Vaughn let himself into the cavernous fluorescent-lit room that housed the C.I.A's archives and pulled Bristow's file again. Not for Sydney this time. He wanted--no--needed to see it. He wasn't even certain what he was looking for, but he knew Jack Bristow was the key to unlocking his past and the truth about his father. He thought that if he could demystify him he could make certain adjustments for his father and hit upon a paradigm that would fill in his lost memories. He balanced the folder on his thin fingers and slid into the space between the wall and the filing cabinet. He knew he didn't have to hide. No one would ask what he was doing (well, aside from a curious, "what are you doing squeezed into that dark crevice, Vaughn?"). It was embarrassing, though, that he'd taken the file out because of the meeting and because he didn't have access to his own father's file. Even so, he glanced over his shoulder periodically and huddled himself deeper into the corner just in case--in case Bristow happened to enter and catch him blatantly disregarding his orders. Flipping gingerly through the file, he strained his ears for the sound of the spy's heavy step that he fooled himself into believing he could identify. He wondered what Sydney would say, if she would think that he was trying to usurp her place in her father's life. Sydney hated Jack anyway, or said she did, so maybe he shouldn't worry. He closed the file and put it away without learning anything he didn't already know. Sydney was due to return from Morocco in a few hours. She needn't be told about this.

He went to the warehouse early, as usual, sat on one of the crates and waited. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he looked to find its source. A shadow passed over a box a hundred yards away. He gripped his gun and followed. He glanced around the corner, ready to fire. He lowered his gun and stepped out when he recognized the form of Jack Bristow. Bristow nodded at him and pulled his suit jacket off.

"Good evening, Mr. Vaughn." His voice held a wry amusement tempered with disapproval. He glanced at the gun in Vaughn's limp hand and shook his head minutely, the physical manifestation of a "tsk."

"Mr. Bristow? What are you doing here?" Vaughn's voice was abnormally high-pitched to his ears, but steady. He holstered his gun and allowed his shoulders to droop slightly in semblance of relaxation.

The other man didn't reply for a moment as he hung his jacket on a bent nail. "You've been checking up on me, again, Mr. Vaughn."

Vaughn's jaw went slack. Bristow's "Mr. Vaughn" was packed with all the calm innuendo inherent in his mother's voice when she used his middle name.

"Close your mouth, son."

"You would only know that if you were checking up on me, Mr. Bristow."

Sydney's father smiled, a slight tug at his lips. "I've told you previously, Mr. Vaughn, that I don't appreciate you pulling my file, even if it is to clear my *good* name, which I suspect it isn't. I need to know that you won't do this again."

"And if I do?" He stared at Bristow, at the jacket swinging idly behind him.

The double agent stepped forward, and Vaughn's fingers fluttered to his jacket. He worked the buttons closed.

"Drop what you're doing, Michael, or I'll have you permanently removed as Sydney's handler."

Vaughn's eyes flicked to Bristow's hands, slack against his thighs. Removal. He'd guessed it. Right on target. He wasn't CIA for nothing.



"Michael."

He glanced to Bristow's face. The way he said his name--disinterested and tender at once--he scuffed his shoes on the ashen concrete flooring. He didn't know the man knew his first name. He felt stupid. Of course he would. He probably knew everything about him.

"What happens...if I don't say yes?"

The larger man shrugged. "I think you know. You don't get my trust. And believe me, Mr. Vaughn, that is something you will need."

"Your daughter doesn't trust you," he said, snapping the words at him in a linguistic smirk.

"But you do," Bristow said calmly, dismissing Vaughn's implication as to who his daughter *did* trust and effectively immobilizing the paltry strike at his Achilles' Heel.

Vaughn nodded. Jack hadn't lied to him, not really, over what he'd done, if the C.I.A. records were accurate. And he wanted, suddenly, to tell him that he was a legend at the Academy, that every professor had a story about Jack Bristow and his singular interpretation of code and justice. That sometimes he envied Bristow's independent resolve and wanted to rip up his textbooks rather than drown himself in black coffee as he memorized them by rote.

"Your decision, Mr. Vaughn?"

Vaughn closed his eyes. Sydney's face swam in the redness behind his eyelids. His hands tugged at his jacket. "Permanently?" He opened his eyes, and Bristow was almost against him, watching him. That smell again. His hand fluttered to his brow, and he kneaded his temples. The concept, the idea, of losing both Bristows at once was overwhelming, an intimidation compounded by Agent Bristow's looming presence and the scent of his dead father between them.

"You understand the concept of 'permanence,' don't you, Mr. Vaughn?" Bristow spoke softly, a confident rumble manipulated to soothe nervous prey before the final pounce.

"I...yes, sir." He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to say that. The man was no better than him, after all, but it just seemed right. Another concession, perhaps. "What will you do?"

"What?" Bristow asked. His eyes flashed guardedly and Vaughn tensed. "You'll be reassigned. Transferred. Not killed." His thin lips twitched into a mockery of a smile. "I see my reputation precedes me. All the more reason for you to leave my files alone."

"Not killed?"

Bristow's lips teased into the shape of a grin. "Not unless you annoy me."

"And what are the chances of that?" He wasn't interested in playing games with his future on the line. He didn't bother disguising his glare.

"What indeed? So you agree? You'll do as I ask?" Bristow said, levelly staring him down.

Vaughn nodded.

"It's about trust, Michael. You have to trust me not to hurt you. You have to earn my trust. Can you do that?"

He took a breath. That scent. Stronger even than in the restaurant where cumin and curry spices wafted in to dilute it. And with it came the sense of duty. Of obligation to his father to obey. To be the perfect son. Except his father was dead. And now this man who antagonized him and frightened him was causing a deluge of repressed desires and memories that overwhelmed him. He wanted dreadfully, desperately, to please him so he could once again know a paternal pride that he sometimes dreamed he remembered.


"Yes sir," he said, the words whispered through a constricted throat.

"Are you going to look at my files again, Michael?" Bristow asked, nudging him towards complete agreement.

"No sir." His fingers darted over the buttons on his jacket. He could barely look at the man, but he raised his eyes towards him.

"Are we all right now?"

Bristow studied him silently. "For now."

Vaughn tugged at his sleeves. Part of him thought there should be more to this "reconciliation", like a hug or something, but then he remembered he was dealing with Jack Bristow, the man who didn't show affection to his own daughter, so it would be a cold day in Miami before he did anything like that for him.

"Thank you, Mr. Vaughn." Bristow said. He squeezed his shoulder, and Vaughn felt a twinge of regret that the first name basis had ended.

"Thank you, Mr. Bristow."

"Now, my daughter should be here soon, so if you'll excuse me..." He gently removed his jacket from the wall.

Vaughn nodded. He'd forgotten about his meeting with Sydney. He turned away, and when he looked back, Jack was gone. He walked slowly to their meeting place. Sydney hadn't arrived. He propped an arm against a stack of boxes and waited. She arrived on schedule, looking harried and driven and *Sydney.* He smiled at her.

"How was Morocco?"

_End of Prologue_

"And Their Scent is That of the Ones the Children Used to Know"

Some things you don't cry over. Some things you buckle down and solve, or get past if solution is out of reach. This was one of those things, and it wouldn't matter if it wasn't because Vaughn had forgotten how to cry. The C.I.A. had taught him that emotion could only be a hindrance to an agent. They forgot to tell him that eagerness counted as an emotion. Not his this time. No, it was Sydney's. She'd been so gung- ho about bringing down SD-6 like she was Wyatt Earp or something. So, he'd given her the extra wire and told her to communicate the numbers of a multi-million dollar Swiss account to the C.I.A. and SD-6 at the same time. It seemed like such a good idea. She'd liked it, anyway, despite the fact that SD-6 would still get the information it desired. But he told her about sacrifices. You can't get a fish without giving a little of the line.

Or letting the worm get eaten.

But he wasn't thinking of the worm then. If he had, he might have pulled her out. He didn't, though, and now she was missing. He didn't notice at first, given as she was to avoiding her spy games on her "days off," but when she missed their weekly liaison he worried. He called Devlin, but the C.I.A. Director told him it was too soon to risk the mission, the "resources," he said, like Sydney was a delayed UPS package. Vaughn found it slightly ironic that if the situation were reversed, if the C.I.A. had captured her, the head of SD-6 would stop at nothing to reclaim her. To Sloane Sydney was a surrogate daughter. No doubt that had saved her life more than once. As he rushed to contact the one person he'd pledged to avoid, Vaughn feared that Sydney's grace period had expired. Daughter or no, if Sloane suspected she was a double agent he would have her killed.

Jack Bristow was nowhere to be found. He'd vanished into the bowels of SD-6. Vaughn waited, helplessly, unable to contact him, to tell him he'd lost his daughter. Then as suddenly as she'd disappeared Sydney was back, telling him she'd been caught, that they knew, but suddenly the tables had turned and her partner was executed in her place. Bristow turned up a day later, looking none the worse for wear and meeting any inquiries into his role in the matter with a level, slightly hurt gaze designed to make the interrogator feel embarrassed for suggesting that he could be involved.

Vaughn would have been happy to drop the matter. Sydney was back, shaken but unhurt. Vaughn's world could continue as planned. Except Sydney didn't see it that way. Her partner Russek was killed, she said, for something that she had done. So Vaughn pulled his files and told Sydney that the man wasn't the angel she thought he had been. She argued that her partner's role as an original member of SD-6 hadn't given her father the right to execute him. That was the other thing--her father. She asked him repeatedly what he had done. The innocent stare he employed so successfully on everyone else did nothing to sway her. She kept asking until it almost seemed like he wanted to tell her, but then he would shake his head and deny it all again. Of course he didn't have Russek killed. Of course he was worried about her. Of course he was glad to see her back. Of course.

His denials only served to infuriate and frustrate her. Double agents don't like not having all the answers. Perhaps this was what compelled her to bring the books to Vaughn. They were old and from Russia with markings in the margins on many of the pages. She handed them to him.

"My father used to buy these for my mother. I think this is how he got his orders from the KGB. This could be the proof we need. This could be what we need to bring him to justice."

Vaughn wanted to ask why she should want to bring her father to justice. The man had killed for the C.I.A. and no one was complaining about that. But he kept quiet and took the books. He didn't tell her that he had promised Bristow that he wouldn't pursue anything about him anymore. He pretended he'd forgotten. Then Sydney told him that when she was a little girl her father told her Santa Claus was real, and she hated him for lying to her. Vaughn wondered if she hadn't given him the books to get her revenge for being loved. He wanted to tell her that she was lucky to have a father around to tell her anything, lie or not, but he didn't. He suspected she might say the same thing to him about having a mother.

He put the books in his desk. And he thought about Jack and Sydney Bristow. When Devlin assigned handlers, he requested Jack Bristow. Perhaps it was time for him to ask the questions himself. He waited in the surveillance truck for the double agent to arrive, pointedly sitting, and not thinking of how things had ended the last time they had met. When Bristow slammed the door, he barely raised an eyebrow at Vaughn.

Vaughn reacted with an equally vacant expression.

He recited the mission. Go to Cuba. Find the man called Hassan and bring him back. Tell SD-6 he was killed.

Bristow listened, his disapproval growing increasingly evident. "You're making a huge mistake, trusting a man like Hassan."

It was this that pushed him over the edge and reminded him why he had requested the spy in the first place. It was his turn to ask.

"I got a copy of Russek's transmission. I know you fixed the transmission and made it look like it was Russek by altering the signal's point of origin and changing the message content." It was just a guess, really, as he hadn't gotten a copy at all, but he didn't know how else to go about it.

Even beneath his greatcoat, Vaughn could see every muscle in Bristow's back tense. When he turned, his face was a mask of amused darkness. Through sheer willpower--and by virtue of the wall being directly behind him--Vaughn managed to look properly bored as Bristow said, his voice dripping with venom:

"Whoever the hell you think you are, checking up on me, pulling my file, second guessing my choices, let's just both face the facts: You are not that person. Neither your experience nor your intelligence has earned you the right to question anything that I do." He stepped towards him. "I'm going to make two suggestions. One, that you stop. And two, that the next time they assign you to be my handler, you kindly decline."

As Jack neared the smell returned, the one so uniquely him. The one so like Vaughn's father. The only thing Vaughn remembered about him. Bristow's anger did nothing to mute it. If anything, it augmented it. Vaughn rested a hand on the computer monitor to allay a swooning sensation that pervaded his brain.

"Russek never transmitted a thing, did he?"

Bristow eyed him coldly. "We've discussed trust before, Mr. Vaughn. Are you in need of a reminder?"

Vaughn wondered how much of a "reminder" he would receive if Bristow knew that he had not pulled his file but had lied instead.

"I don't believe so, Mr. Bristow."

For a moment Vaughn thought Bristow might threaten him with removal again, but he simply buttoned his coat. He barely glanced at him as he said, "You need me, you know. You won't bring SD-6 down without me."

"I know. Your work has been phenomenal..." He stopped as Bristow glared at him.

"I don't need a lesson in what I've done, Mr. Vaughn. What I'm wondering is how I can continue to be such a stellar departmental example if I don't know that I can rely on the people supposedly employed to assist me."

Vaughn remained silent.

"Tell me, Mr. Vaughn, if someone you didn't trust, someone you didn't feel was looking out for your best interests, told you to go into a foreign country and commit a federally sanctioned crime, would you do it?"

Vaughn scarcely moved his head, but Bristow accepted the gesture. "Nor would I. So you see the predicament I'm in, Mr. Vaughn. I can't have you pulling my files. You are far too young to understand what they hold."

"Sydney..." Vaughn said, his voice barely a croak.

Bristow sighed. "Sydney has a way with men, Mr. Vaughn. It would benefit us both if you would remember that. Surely you don't think you'll win her simply by pleasing her. It's never worked for me." He added the last quietly and as Vaughn wasn't certain if he was meant to hear it, he knocked his feet against the equipment where he now perched and kept quiet, not mentioning that Jack had perhaps not tried very hard to please her.

When he looked up, Bristow was removing his coat. Vaughn stared at his shoes. "Trust, Mr. Vaughn," Bristow was saying. "You've done very little to gain mine. I've tried telling you not to pry into things that are not your business, but we've both seen how well that worked."

"What about you?" Vaughn asked.

Bristow smiled. "Have I ever lied to you, Mr. Vaughn?"

"You keep secrets."

"Of course I keep secrets. I'm a spy. How good a spy do you think I would be if I didn't?" he snapped.

"Not very," Vaughn said. He kicked the equipment again.

"Exactly. And since you have no secrets to keep from me..." He met Vaughn's sudden stare coolly. "Yes, Mr. Vaughn, I know every thing there is to know about you, but then, you shouldn't be surprised by that, should you?"

Vaughn shook his head.

"So should we try this again, Michael?" The tone was back, the one that reminded Vaughn of his mother. He glanced up. Agent Bristow regarded him with his hands stuck in his pockets. He certainly didn't look like he would throw Vaughn to the floor and restrain him if he chose to leave. Vaughn was old enough and experienced enough to know that looks could be deceiving.

"Yes, sir." He flinched and knew that with the 'sir' he had just given himself over to the other man. "You'll give me another chance?"

"Don't try for a third, son. If I practiced the 'three strikes' rule habitually, I'd have died long ago."

Vaughn nodded. He knew that eventually he'd realize Bristow's abandonment would be the worse thing that could happen, perhaps even aside from Sydney disappearing again. "I understand. Thank you."

"Now that we've reaffirmed our understanding, Mr. Vaughn, I'll contact you when I reach Cuba." Bristow shrugged his coat closed around his shoulders. He rested his hand on the door handle.

The return to formality stirred a familiar pang within Vaughn. He thought there should be something to replace it, but he couldn't think of what. Rather than feel grateful, or relieved, he realized that his initial question remained unanswered.

"Russek never transmitted a thing, did he?"

Bristow dropped his hand. "Of course he didn't. If you got the SD-6 transmission, why the hell are you asking me?" And it was back, the superior holier-than-thou super-agent attitude he used so effectively.

"I never got the SD-6 transmission. It was just a hunch." So he'd gone and done it. He'd revealed his lie. He'd never be a spy, that was certain. Not when they reminded him of his dad, anyway. "I...I guess you want to call that strike three." He looked up, finally, when the older agent didn't speak.

Bristow stared at him with a combination of disgust and desperation, but Vaughn couldn't tell who he was truly directing himself towards since he didn't seem to be actually looking *at* him. When Bristow spoke, he barely concealed the tremor in his voice. "I'd just learned my daughter was about to be tortured, Mr. Vaughn. Most likely executed. I had no time to go for help. I knew that altering the transmission was a dangerous gamble. They could have detected a disruption, but it was all I could do. And now you can judge what I've done. I don't give a damn what you do."

He slammed the door before Vaughn could say a word. Vaughn blinked. It was making sense to him, albeit slowly. 'Surely you don't think you'll win Sydney simply by pleasing her. It's never worked for me.' Jack Bristow would sacrifice himself for his daughter. And if she remained displeased with him, then he would allow her to delve into his secrets until she found the one that would put him into prison and grant her heart's sole desire. That was the extent he would go to please her. Vaughn slipped out of the van and walked rapidly to headquarters, his mind entirely elsewhere.

In his office he pulled out Sydney's books. The codes, if they were codes, were in Cyrillic. He stuffed the books in an envelope for the NSA guys to decode. The call came at 9 p.m. Hassan's men had captured Jack Bristow. He knew that Bristow would claim to have everything under control, but still, he wasn't there to tell Vaughn that he should just let things run their course.

Devlin tried to tell him, but after the director's less than motivated efforts to retrieve Sydney, Vaughn felt compelled to take his concerns to another venue. He met with Sydney. She was still spitting flames against her father, convinced as she was that he had killed Russek. Not for the first time, Vaughn found himself defending her father. Sydney was too caught up in her own emotions to notice the uncommon vehemence in his rebuttals.

Finally, when it seemed her head was about to spin off, he interrupted and tried, for once, to put the situation into a perspective she could understand. "What would you have done had it been your daughter or your son...or Danny?" He tossed out the name of her murdered fiancé cautiously, but he had to make the point.

She stared at him, lips moving silently. He moved in for the kill. "Hassan has your father. Devlin has declined to send in a team after him."

"I'll need your help to get to Cuba. To get to my father," she said without hesitation, and he thought that he'd never been more proud of her.

The arrangements were made. A curtain was pulled over SD-6 so they wouldn't question her whereabouts for twenty-four hours, and Sydney was off to Cuba to rescue her father.

NSA returned the books to Vaughn, all codes broken. At first, Vaughn wouldn't believe what they revealed. Then he thought if he did, he might go mad. So he put the books away, or tried to, because scarcely three minutes passed before he was poring over them again. The codes translated into names. The names of agents. C.I.A. agents killed in the line of duty. Executed. The codes gave explicit instructions for the termination of the listed agents. There could be no doubt. Sydney had been right. Jack Bristow worked for the KGB and committed murder and high treason on their behalf. Vaughn scanned the names again and again, hoping that one would disappear.

William C. Vaughn.

Funny, he'd thought he would be relieved to have a twenty-three year old mystery solved. He wanted to vomit.

Jack Bristow had killed his father.

When Sydney returned, she was all blustery and excited. They'd bonded, she said, she and her father. And for the first time she saw him as the others did. "You should have seen him. Yeah, he was like a pro...he was great! You know how you talked about him once? What his reputation is? I could see it in action. He was...impressive."

For the first time since he'd met her, Vaughn sincerely wanted to walk away. Then she thanked him for showing her that "when somebody you care about is in trouble, nothing else matters." Bile rose in his throat. She stared at him eagerly, expecting him to congratulate her on her new, appreciative relationship with her father.

Instead, he handed her the books. He told her about the codes. About the murdered agents. And, oh yes, that her father was responsible. He watched as her face fell. He didn't tell her that his father was on the list. Perhaps he wanted to save her any added guilt. She was still on a high from the mission, eager to dissuade any accusatory thoughts of her father. He took the books from her.

"I'm gonna report him."

He almost felt guilty for destroying her goodwill, but he had his own agenda for once. He and his mother had suffered too long not knowing. The time for answers and retribution had arrived. Sydney, with all her snooping and angry fingers pointed at her father in conjunction with her mother's death in a car accident, had taught him that.

He avoided Sydney for the next few days to give her a chance to come around. He avoided his mother as well. He was certain that if he saw her he would break and tell her that he knew how his father had died. But the likelihood of Bristow's capture was limited without Sydney's help. For his mother, for himself, he would have it even if he had to resort to unsavory methods to get it.

When he met Sydney again, he was armed with a stack of photos of the assassinated agents, his father's excluded, and a tape recorder concealed in his jacket. He wanted Sydney to do the right thing because she had to, not because she felt compelled out of pity for him. He raised the issue carefully.

"Listen, about your father. I know you're reluctant to do anything--."

"I've been thinking a lot about that..."

He interrupted her hastily, "But you know what we have to do. We have to report him to Langley. Now, I could do it myself, but those are your books. They'll need your testimony to make a case against him."

"He might have been a part of the KGB, but we don't know what role he played in those murders." She was obviously struggling, grasping at straws. It was unnatural to her to insist on a fair shake when her father was involved.

"You're kidding yourself and you know that."

"Let's say he was guilty. The directives are 25 years old!"

"There's no statute of limitations on murder." He snapped at her, suddenly furious that she could trivialize all those deaths so acutely.

"We need him right now. We will never destroy SD-6 without my father." She looked at him, her eyes dilating like they might burst if he didn't see her logic.

He clenched his fist and willed himself to be calm. "Those code names in your father's books, they were people. And they risked their lives. All of them for this country. And yes, it might have been twenty-five years ago, but for each of those lives lost, others were destroyed."

"I know." Suddenly she was close to him and speaking softly like she cared. Like she could pretend to know. He remembered his mother's face at the funeral and the way the representative agent had handed her the folded flag and saluted him as though he were a four foot soldier and not a ten-year-old child. He remembered and exploded.

"No, you don't know because you're not thinking about them. You're only thinking of yourself. You made a connection for the first time in your life and turning him in would mean sacrificing that. I understand. But Sydney, we have proof. You know who the victims are. You're holding them in your hands, and we know who the killer was. And we both know the right thing to do." He stopped before his voice shook too much, scarcely able to keep from sobbing. He stared at her, positive that she would guess that he was one of those whose life had been destroyed.

She didn't give any indication of that, however. She peered at him as if waiting for him to combust. Then she placatingly said, "Yes, my father probably got his KGB orders from the books, and yes, it looks like my father was responsible for those deaths, but what you're asking me to do... I just need some time. Not a lot of time. Not forever. Please. You won't do anything about this without me?" She put her hand on his arm and he nodded before he knew what he was doing.

Then she was gone, off to catch a plane. Off to be a spy again. He pulled the tape recorder from his jacket and turned it off.

If he had any doubts about his proclivities for spying, they were put to bed that week. He walked past Devlin's office with the tape in his pocket so many times he was threatened with a ticket for loitering. Yet he did not go inside. He couldn't betray Sydney. He wished the books had never fallen into his hands. Perhaps Jack had warned him against the wrong Bristow. If he had never met Sydney, this wouldn't be upon him. He found himself torn between wishing he'd left the books alone and wishing that Bristow would suffer the worst death imaginable. He stopped short of desiring that he be the one to exact revenge upon the man who reminded him so dangerously much of his father.

The tape was burning a hole in his pocket. The burgeoning guilt he felt at simply having the idea of deceiving Sydney threatened to overflow into something real. When Sydney returned, he grabbed her. She wanted to talk about lecherous thugs and ruined missions, but he stopped her. It wasn't why he had called her. He had to get to the point before he lost his focus. He fingered the recorder lying in his pocket next to the folded copy of his father's information.

When she wouldn't stop talking, he played the tape and silenced her. She stared at him, mouth open, accusing. He couldn't meet her eyes. He couldn't tell if he was ashamed over what he'd done or what he hadn't done. It would depend on whether he asked Sydney or his mother.

He rubbed his knees as he attempted to explain himself. "I was going to play it for Devlin, maybe use it in court someday, but I couldn't bring myself to do that." He handed her the tape. "I'm only telling you this because I thought I owed you that for some reason. I know this is a personal thing for you. The idea of reporting your father is a horrible position to be in, but it's a personal thing for me too, Sydney." She stared at him as though his near betrayal had cut her deeper than anything her father had done.

He pulled the paper from his jacket and rubbed his fingers over it, absently mimicking the movements hers made over the tape. "Those files I showed you of the C.I.A. officers who were killed--I left one out."

He handed it to her. She regarded it silently. When she looked up at him, he saw the pity he had dreaded. And guilt. Such guilt that he had wished to spare her. "I made an appointment to meet Devlin on Monday to report your father. Are you with me?" He asked and knew that she would be. He had the trump card now, and she would agree to anything for him because she knew how it was to lose a parent and spend a lifetime searching for answers. She nodded. Then she disappeared and left him alone with the black and white face of William C. Vaughn staring at him from the bent paper in his hands.

He met with her again, briefly, to make sure she was going through with it. And then Monday came. He sat with Sydney in the executive boardroom. She drummed her fingers on the table. He wondered why they couldn't meet in Devlin's office. Then the door opened. He and Sydney watched, first in silence, then with growing concern as the heads of the agency marched in and seated themselves around the table. Devlin entered and Vaughn cleared his throat to speak. Then the door opened again.

Jack Bristow walked into the room. Vaughn scarcely breathed as Bristow walked to the head of the table and seated himself next to Devlin. He felt Sydney stiffen beside him. Bristow looked at them calmly. He introduced everyone at the table. If he hadn't already known the names, Vaughn certainly would not have learned them at that moment. He stared, heart sinking, certain that his father's killer was about to go free.

Bristow sat straight in his chair. His cheek bore the bruised remnants of his outing with Sydney, the mission that had convinced her that he deserved his reputation as the best in the business. "I knew weeks ago that my file had been pulled, and that you were suspicious of my activities twenty five years ago regarding the KGB. When I learned you had scheduled a meeting with Mr. Devlin regarding my history, I knew that it was time. Let me say in advance I'm sorry to make this such a public display. But I thought it was important to do it in front of these people because they already know the truth and because I didn't think that you would believe me otherwise." He paused and looked at them both intently. Sydney met his gaze, but Vaughn stared at his hands.

Bristow continued, "Those Cyrillic codes you found in those books, yes, they were orders from the KGB, and yes, they were orders to kill." Vaughn glanced up, slightly shaken at the way Bristow's words mirrored the ones of Sydney's on the tape that he had nearly used against him. "An agent received those orders and carried them out, murdered officers of the CIA including your father, Mr. Vaughn. (He acknowledged Vaughn with a slight nod.) All this is true. But Sydney, I was not that agent." He leaned back, as though he was trying to distance himself from what he had to say.

"Your mother was."

The silence in the room could have crumbled Jericho. Vaughn stared at Bristow. Sydney sat immobile, hardly breathing. Bristow, though, looked like he'd just cleaved himself in two. Vaughn wondered if this was one of the sacrifices he made for his daughter. Devlin ended the meeting. Roundly and efficiently, he excused everyone. Vaughn and Sydney filed out with the rest. In the hallway, Sydney groped for words, finally settling on "I just need some time," before disappearing. Vaughn expected she would seek solace with her friends, her *true* friends who she lied to about her life as a spy.

Bristow remained in the boardroom. Vaughn hesitated, then went inside. The older agent sat with his head in his hands. He looked at Vaughn dully. "Are you happy, Mr. Vaughn?"

Vaughn cautiously moved closer. He sat on the table, kicking a chair out of the way. "I...I didn't know."

Jack snorted derisively. "That much is obvious, Mr. Vaughn." Vaughn trembled at the unfettered heartbreak and loss in his demeanor.

"I'm sorry."

Bristow shrugged. "That means very little to me Mr. Vaughn, especially as I suspect you are more sorry that I am not the agent you seek than you are at the trouble you've caused."

Vaughn sat up at that. "Sydney asked me to look at the books. I never would have known if not for her."

"Do you think that makes a difference to me?"

"No," Vaughn said quietly. "Not at all. I wish I'd never seen those books."

"As do I." He rubbed his head wearily. "I'm tired, Mr. Vaughn." He closed his eyes. "And you have no idea the can of worms you've opened."

"You didn't have to accuse her," Vaughn snapped.

Bristow rose from his chair with such force that it toppled behind him. He hurled himself at Vaughn and forced him onto his back, his hand closing around the younger man's neck. "How dare you," he breathed, "how dare you suggest that I would accuse my wife of anything! She was the agent responsible, Mr. Vaughn. There is no accusation about it. There is only truth." He released his grip and Vaughn gasped. Bristow sat down heavily on another chair.

"Forgive me, Mr. Vaughn. I'm not quite in control at the moment."

Vaughn rubbed his neck. "You could have kept quiet."

"And what would Sydney be told when your attempt to 'bring me to justice' was ignored? It's best that she hear it from me now rather than a stranger later, though she might be more inclined to believe a stranger." He glared at Vaughn. "She'd be more likely to believe it if it came from you. For some reason she trusts you."

"It's my job to protect her."

"It's your job to send her into mortal peril and congratulate her when she comes out alive," he said, tensing again. Vaughn braced himself, but Bristow remained in his seat. He wanted to defend himself, to say that he'd taught Sydney how to beat a lie detector. He'd had at least a small part in saving her life once. But he didn't.

"She was my wife, Mr. Vaughn.," Bristow whispered. "You know this was the first time I ever said it aloud, what she did. The others in the room today learned of her involvement through their own resources. Isn't it ironic, Mr. Vaughn, that it should take my daughter to make me defame my wife."

"You didn't have to," Vaughn said quietly.

"I will not have my wife's memory dragged through the mud. I will not have rumors of her life flying uncontrollably. I made my confessions because of Sydney, Mr. Vaughn. Perhaps it's time she knew the truth. I loved her mother more than you can imagine. I was driving the car when we were chased off the road. Sydney always thought they were after me, but they wanted to kill my wife, not me." He stopped. He rubbed his bruised cheek as though the pain of it would diminish the heartbreak he felt.

"If she was the target, why were you driving?" Vaughn asked.

Bristow stared at him. "Because I loved her," he said simply. "You're young, Mr. Vaughn. You can't imagine what it's like to love someone so much that you would die for her." He stopped short of saying that he was ready to die that night in the car, but the pain was evident in his eyes. Vaughn thought perhaps he did know what it was like to be willing to die for someone.

"I'm sorry," Vaughn said. "But you should know, Mr. Bristow, that all I wanted to do was bring my father's killer to justice."

"Well, good job, Mr. Vaughn," Bristow said coldly. "Well done."

"I didn't know. Do you...do you want to have me, ah, removed?" He stood and twitched his fingers over his shirt cuffs. Bristow raised a hand to stop him. Vaughn flattened his fingers against his pantlegs. Jack dropped his hand onto his knee with a heavy thud.

"This betrayal of trust will have to wait, Mr. Vaughn."

"Would you have preferred that I lie to Sydney? Whose trust am I to honor, Mr. Bristow?" Vaughn asked.

Bristow rubbed his eyes. "Mr. Vaughn, I have just broken my wife's trust and quite possibly ruined the tenuous relationship my daughter and I were building because I couldn't allow her to be misled by a lie you had dug up and convinced yourself was true. Nothing in those books suggested that I was the agent you sought. You simply jumped to that conclusion because you couldn't be patient enough to do the proper research. So I would suggest two things, Mr. Vaughn. One, that you not speak to me at the moment, and two, that you be thankful that I am not taking you up on your offer to relieve a little stress on your ass because frankly, Mr. Vaughn, the way I'm feeling you wouldn't have much of an ass left." He polished the wooden arm of the chair with his sleeve.

Vaughn squeezed his eyes closed. Bristow was quiet. Perhaps they both wished they were somewhere else. The spy rubbed his eyes and Vaughn remembered just why he'd been so upset at what the codes had supposedly revealed. He wanted to tell him that he was glad that Bristow was not the one, but he thought Bristow might consider that an insult to his wife, so he kept quiet. Instead, he sat and watched him.

Finally, the dark haired agent rose. He straightened his jacket. When he looked at Vaughn, it was with a professional, detached gaze. "Did you have anything else to say, Mr. Vaughn?"

Vaughn shook his head. "No, Mr. Bristow."

Bristow nodded. "Good. Go back to work then."

"Okay." Vaughn stood.

Jack put his hand on Vaughn's shoulder and just for a moment the compassion he kept so well hidden crept to the surface, pushing aside the stoicism and pain residing behind his dark eyes. "Listen, when you see Sydney again, tell her..." he paused, obviously struggling for the words.

Vaughn smiled comfortingly. "I will. I...she won't hate you."

Bristow shook his head sadly. "Go on, Mr. Vaughn."

"Yes, sir." Vaughn left silently. As the door closed behind him, Bristow sank into the chair again and dejectedly leaned forward to rest his head on his clasped hands.

The End