Prologue?
How the discovery of Lauren should have gone . . . (note: apply all disclaimers, we don't own nothin') LAUREN BASHING EXTRAORDINAIRE
* * * * *
Michael Vaughn tried not to grimace as Lauren moved in for a kiss.
"I missed you."
His eyes widened as he recalled Jack's words of earlier that day. Lauren's whiny, wanna-be-trying-hard British accent barely registered in Vaughn's brain as he tried to remember the exact phrasing the senior Bristow had used as he berated, er, warned Vaughn.
" . . . bath." Vaughn nearly polka-ed for joy. She was finally done babbling. He knew now. He knew she was lying to him. He knew his "blessed" "darling" "wife" was definitely fucking him. Well, screwing him. Well, screwing him over (and sideways and upside down). Oh. Crap. She was lying to him and that was all that mattered.
He knew something was off, but now he needed proof. He lifted the bed skirt, rummaged through drawers, peeked under floorboards, and even tried to find a hidden panel in the closet. Nothing. Vaughn gazed at the ceiling. *Jeebus. Where the hell would she hide her shit?*
A golden light streamed from the off-white suitcase at the top of the closet. Actually, it was just blocking the light bulb. Vaughn ripped it off the shelf and laid it on the ground. He opened it cautiously. Who knew what an unpredictable woman like Lauren would place in her suitcase? There could be any number of random items just waiting to give him rare, incurable diseases.
It was empty, but Vaughn was too smart to give up like that (that's why he went through super-spy training). He pressed gently along the edges of the bottom until it lifted. *Ha. Ha. Bitch. I win.*
He shifted through the numerous semi-automatic machine weapon parts. He passed over the diseases in small tubes marked with, "malaria", "small pox", "anthrax", "sickle cell anemia" (A/N: inside joke) , and "influenza". He skipped the wigs, fake passports, and sleazy outfits. Then he found it.
Gulping nervously, Vaughn turned the picture over. He saw Lauren's face (as it looks when she was in the middle of faking an orgasm). Next a shoulder. Then some hair. Blond hair. Vaughn looked over at the mirror on the wall quickly. Nope, he was definitely still a brunette. Vaughn turned to the second picture. An after-shot. There she was. There he was, Sark, and there was his . . . well . . . his "manhood". Vaughn laughed at this thought. Sark wasn't much of a man then.
*So I had been mistaken. She wasn't just screwing me. That would explain it.*
"What are you doing?" an overly-fake, trying-to-be-caring-and-sincere-but-just-can't-manage-it voice wafted over to Vaughn.
"Oh, Lauren. Was he the best you could get? Seriously, he's got to be only like 2 inches."
"Two and a half," her snotty accent replied. "And what's it to you? He's a much better lover than you'll ever be."
"Maybe that's because he could actually, gasp, care for you. Something I never did."
"B - but . . ."
* * * * *
Shall we continue the fic?
How the discovery of Lauren should have gone . . . (note: apply all disclaimers, we don't own nothin') LAUREN BASHING EXTRAORDINAIRE
* * * * *
Michael Vaughn tried not to grimace as Lauren moved in for a kiss.
"I missed you."
His eyes widened as he recalled Jack's words of earlier that day. Lauren's whiny, wanna-be-trying-hard British accent barely registered in Vaughn's brain as he tried to remember the exact phrasing the senior Bristow had used as he berated, er, warned Vaughn.
" . . . bath." Vaughn nearly polka-ed for joy. She was finally done babbling. He knew now. He knew she was lying to him. He knew his "blessed" "darling" "wife" was definitely fucking him. Well, screwing him. Well, screwing him over (and sideways and upside down). Oh. Crap. She was lying to him and that was all that mattered.
He knew something was off, but now he needed proof. He lifted the bed skirt, rummaged through drawers, peeked under floorboards, and even tried to find a hidden panel in the closet. Nothing. Vaughn gazed at the ceiling. *Jeebus. Where the hell would she hide her shit?*
A golden light streamed from the off-white suitcase at the top of the closet. Actually, it was just blocking the light bulb. Vaughn ripped it off the shelf and laid it on the ground. He opened it cautiously. Who knew what an unpredictable woman like Lauren would place in her suitcase? There could be any number of random items just waiting to give him rare, incurable diseases.
It was empty, but Vaughn was too smart to give up like that (that's why he went through super-spy training). He pressed gently along the edges of the bottom until it lifted. *Ha. Ha. Bitch. I win.*
He shifted through the numerous semi-automatic machine weapon parts. He passed over the diseases in small tubes marked with, "malaria", "small pox", "anthrax", "sickle cell anemia" (A/N: inside joke) , and "influenza". He skipped the wigs, fake passports, and sleazy outfits. Then he found it.
Gulping nervously, Vaughn turned the picture over. He saw Lauren's face (as it looks when she was in the middle of faking an orgasm). Next a shoulder. Then some hair. Blond hair. Vaughn looked over at the mirror on the wall quickly. Nope, he was definitely still a brunette. Vaughn turned to the second picture. An after-shot. There she was. There he was, Sark, and there was his . . . well . . . his "manhood". Vaughn laughed at this thought. Sark wasn't much of a man then.
*So I had been mistaken. She wasn't just screwing me. That would explain it.*
"What are you doing?" an overly-fake, trying-to-be-caring-and-sincere-but-just-can't-manage-it voice wafted over to Vaughn.
"Oh, Lauren. Was he the best you could get? Seriously, he's got to be only like 2 inches."
"Two and a half," her snotty accent replied. "And what's it to you? He's a much better lover than you'll ever be."
"Maybe that's because he could actually, gasp, care for you. Something I never did."
"B - but . . ."
* * * * *
Shall we continue the fic?