Title: French Revelations

Author: Duck

Rating: PG-13 just to be completely safe

Genre: Drama/Romance

Summary: Sequel to Los Angeles Revelations. I'm not going to tell you anymore than that.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alias, or anything connected to it. Although, if the world were perfect, Michael Vartan would belong to me.

Authors Note: People have been begging me for a sequel, so here it is! Warning: Most of these characters are not found in the show. The ones that do appear do not play a huge role. This is about Emily, and what happened to her in the last four years. Huge thanks to Amy, my Alias vent and muse and Melia, who has reviewed every fic I've ever done. You've really encouraged me. By the way, if someone happens to have a very good knowledge of Rome, could you email me? I have a few questions regarding a fic my friend is writing.





***

"Madame, this building is absolutely marvelous. You have to tell me what decorator you used," Genevieve Martin gushed. She was excited by anything and loved everything, including her husband of two years, Jack. At least, that's what "Madame" Anabella Marshall thought.

"I've had five people ask me that same question. I didn't tell them either," Anabella replied smugly. People like Genevieve Martin repulsed her. She strode away quickly, looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

Genevieve pulled slightly on her husband's arm whispered in his ear, "What a bitch." All while keeping the bubbly personality she was associated with. Jack smiled down at her before surreptitiously glancing around.

"Darling, do you need to freshen up?"

"Yes, actually I do. I'll be back in a few." Genevieve pecked her husband's cheek and hurried down a flight of stairs. She walked quickly, or as quickly as she could in a tiny black dress and stiletto heels, looking for a door marked "Ronald Percival" A few twists and turns later she was working quickly to unlock the office door. Using a pin from her hair and something she pulled from her purse, the lock quickly clicked, allowing Genevieve to enter. A quick glance at her watch told her how much time she had before the security cameras came back on, and it was plenty.

"Good work Cleo," she muttered to herself, thankful she had such a trustworthy partner. Marcus Weiss, or Cleo, as she liked to call him, was her best friend and partner at the CIA. She had christened him Cleo after reading her mind on several occasions.

The vault she had to open was not state of the art, so it was only the work of a moment before she had an aged document stuffed in the skirt of her dress. It had taken her a year to track down that piece of paper, and it had been well worth it. Now she needed to get back to Jack, or Cleo, without being caught.

She blended well with the crowd, but couldn't locate Cleo. It wasn't like him to disappear during a mission, so she was worried. Turning on her transmitter, she hissed, "Where the hell are you?"

She was greeted by a woman's voice.

"Well well. What do we have here? A young man like you shouldn't be at a party like this. What did you say your name was?" The woman's tone was mocking, but there was an undertone that suggested she had Spanish background.

"Jack Martin"

"Nice to meet you Jack. You can call me Anna. I like you, but I tend to have mood swings, so that could change quickly. You see, Jack, I think we're here for the same reason. But, Jack Martin, that single sheet of paper happens to be missing, and I think you know where it is. So if you would just tell me who has it, I'd be happy to spare your life." Anna's dripped with danger.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tsk tsk Jack. I don't like being lied to. And although I know I could easily break you, by then that little piece of paper will be long gone. So I'm going to ask you one more time. Where is the Rambaldi document?"

"I have no idea."

"Then I'm sorry, Jack Martin, but I have no choice."

Genevieve held her breath. Cleo couldn't die, not like that. A gunshot made her spill the champagne she had been holding, and it took all of her training to keep that bubbly personality active. She slipped out quietly, cursing the tight dress that restricted her from going back in there and kicking some ass. Cleo had been her only friend at the CIA, and he had died being some rich French aristocrat, not the man she knew. Not Marcus Weiss.

Once she had hailed a cab and was safely inside, she pulled off the blonde wig and diamonds that was Genevieve Martin. She emerged from the cab a different person, a real person. The blonde wig had not quite made her eyes shine like her naturally brown hair, and everyone who knew her would agree that Emily Francine Vaughn was natural, not like her many aliases.

It scared her, sometimes, how she could morph into a totally different person with some simple adjustments.

Emily had joined the CIA when she was 18, and was an operating field agent by her 19th birthday. Marcus had trained her, and she'd even been his roommate for a few months when that cushy government salary hadn't quite cut it. Mark introduced her to his father, Eric Weiss, who had been best friends with her father. She'd gotten to learn about Michael Vaughn, which had somehow driven her closer to her partner.

Emily's delicate composure was almost shattered when she saw a feeble light under her suite door at the hotel. She backed away silently, trying not to let her heels click on the marble floor, tiptoeing until she reached the bitter France air outside. Digging out her cell phone as she walked, Emily dialed the familiar numbers that would offer her safety.

"Hello?"

"Hey Dad, I need your help. I need you to send a team to extract Mark Weiss, and I need the location of a safe house in France."

Michael noticed the hitch in her voice when she mentioned her partner, and tried to calm her. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

"Some Spanish woman named Anna caught him, and I heard-I heard her shoot him. I-I managed to get away with the document, but-but someone was in my hotel room." Emily could not control her voice and had to rest her shaking legs at a nearby park bench.

"Listen, I'm going to give you directions to a safe place to stay. When you get there, don't lie about your identity."

Emily listened, puzzled, but mentally noted everything he said. The cab driver was less than pleased when she told him the destination, but relented when she showed him the francs she had withdrawn from a local ATM.

Three cabs and four hours later, Emily stood in front of a small cottage somewhere in Normandy, France. She was still wearing that ridiculously tight dress and the stiletto heels were still strapped to her feet. She feverishly hoped that this person had a change of clothes, because she wasn't going to be able to stand those damn heels much longer.

Although she felt a little guilty at interrupting someone's sleep at one in the morning, she banged loudly on the door. A light appeared, and a few minutes later the door opened to reveal an older woman, probably in her seventies, in a nightgown.

She looked Emily up and down before asking in French, "What kind of person are you to knock at an old woman's door in the middle of the night?"

Emily answered in her flawless accent, "A person seeking safety."

The woman took a step closer. "Who are you?"

"My name is Emily Vaughn. I was told I could find shelter here." Emily accidentally let some of her Canadian accent show through, causing the woman's curiosity to rise. She looked deep into Emily's eyes before a small smile crept over her mouth.

"Yes, yes, I can see it now. You have the Vaughn eyes. Come in child, it's cold out here." She ushered Emily inside and pointed to an old couch. "There are blankets next to the couch. We'll talk in the morning." The woman disappeared into a back room, leaving Emily stranded in the dark. She yanked off the vulgar heels and wrapped herself in a snug quilt. Sleep claimed her quickly.

It scared her, sometimes, what she could forget when she was tired.