Disclaimer: If I owned them, would I be sitting here at 2:30 in the morning
writing fic? I don't think so.
Every time I think my life could not get more complicated, it does. I went from just being a government agent to finding out I actually worked for the bad guys and turning double agent, which considerably complicates things. Then I realized that I was starting to fall for my handler… very bad move for a girl who wants a simple life. Oh, and did I mention that my mother killed his father? Uh huh, I can see you shaking your heads and mouthing "psych eval." And that's not even touching what's been happening the last few days… but let's start at the beginning.
When Vaughn showed me that sketch, I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. How could a man who died 500 years ago have possibly drawn a picture of me? Then I reminded myself that this was the same man who prophesied to the minute when his clockmaker friend would die… if I believe in this stuff, which I don't.
But the problem is that apparently some people do. When it was just a matter of answering questions, I didn't see what the harm was. After all, the CIA had already done all the psychobabble tests on me and obviously I'd passed. But then they wanted to actually run physical tests, and I balked.
I'll admit it, I was afraid. The thought that Rambaldi had written something that apparently had these people so curious and yet almost afraid of me scared me as well. What could they possibly need to do tests for?
But when I spoke to Emily, I realized I was letting the fear control my life and my actions. There was a part of me that needed to know what was going on, exactly what it was that this prophecy supposedly said about me, and the only way they were going to tell me was if I did as they asked and they got the answers they wanted.
Later I realized that I'd played right into their hands by giving them what they wanted without any reassurances from them. If anything, the feeling of nervous energy that emanated from the entire team signaled that if they found what they were looking for, I could kiss my life—complicated though it may be—good bye.
Not only that, but they didn't even have the original code key. When I found that out, I knew I had to get involved. I also knew I couldn't break into the Vatican on my own, and there was only one person who I could trust to come with me—my guardian angel.
In all my messed up life, there is only one thing that makes sense, one person who I can tell everything. That person is my handler, Michael Vaughn. After this week, I was a little afraid that this tension surrounding me had been passed onto him, that he wouldn't want to be there for me as he had in the past. So when I told him I needed a partner, I stressed that I needed someone I can trust. I didn't just mean with this mission, and he knew it. When he started muttering to himself about all the difficulties we'd have to overcome, I was afraid for a moment that he was going to turn me down, so I asked again. This time he looked me straight in the eye and grinned. "Yeah, I'll help you break into the Vatican," he said. I smiled back, letting the relief show in my eyes. My guardian angel wasn't going to let me down.
I wish I didn't have to be so practical sometimes. (Of course, when I'm not being practical, I wish I could be.) I guess it was just my turn. I knew what he was up to when he started talking about Trattoria da Nardi—he was going to suggest that we check it out, just as I'd suggested we go to a hockey game a few weeks earlier. And just as he knew that I'd meant more than just hockey, I knew he meant more than just dinner. Part of me said "GO!! You won't get a better chance to be with him outside of work!" but the other part, the practical part, said "It's too dangerous, what if you get caught." The practical part won. We both knew that his last comment, about the place almost being worth the risk, was just for show. Trattoria da Nardi would just have to wait until later.
When we got home, he was so encouraging. I don't know why the CIA has such a problem with emotional attachments between agents and handlers. Speaking for myself, I need to know that someone is completely on my side, vying for my safety—and not just because of what I can do for the Agency. Once again, Vaughn proved he was that person. For a few brief hours, I left his confidence in me make me feel safe and secure. I went to the club and just enjoyed myself.
Until I saw them. The DSR people were there, they were blocking all the exits. I managed to make some lame excuse to get me out of there and walked away from my friends. Once outside of the building, I was pulled into the back of a van and cuffed with restraints on my arms and legs.
They'd had the code broken right. Part of my mind listened to Dr. Evans ramble off The Prophecy—did they actually believe that this meant I was a threat to national security? The other part watched Vaughn's reaction. I needed to know that he still believed in me, no matter what these nutcases may think. But his reassurances rang hollow and his eyes were filled with an indefinable pain. I held his gaze, hoping that he would tell me something else, but instead he looked away.
So right now I'm sitting in a holding cell, feeling more alone than I have since my father told me the truth about SD-6. The government was afraid of me, my father couldn't do anything to help me without blowing his cover—if it wasn't already blown because of this—and the one person who I thought I could count on had looked away when I needed him most. Oh, I'm sure that he had some reason for looking away, I know deep down that Vaughn is still behind me, but I needed that one last moment of promise. Damn, I wish things weren't so complicated.
AN: Ok, neither of these turned out as I had planned, but hopefully it's still good. I also have another idea in mind…
Every time I think my life could not get more complicated, it does. I went from just being a government agent to finding out I actually worked for the bad guys and turning double agent, which considerably complicates things. Then I realized that I was starting to fall for my handler… very bad move for a girl who wants a simple life. Oh, and did I mention that my mother killed his father? Uh huh, I can see you shaking your heads and mouthing "psych eval." And that's not even touching what's been happening the last few days… but let's start at the beginning.
When Vaughn showed me that sketch, I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. How could a man who died 500 years ago have possibly drawn a picture of me? Then I reminded myself that this was the same man who prophesied to the minute when his clockmaker friend would die… if I believe in this stuff, which I don't.
But the problem is that apparently some people do. When it was just a matter of answering questions, I didn't see what the harm was. After all, the CIA had already done all the psychobabble tests on me and obviously I'd passed. But then they wanted to actually run physical tests, and I balked.
I'll admit it, I was afraid. The thought that Rambaldi had written something that apparently had these people so curious and yet almost afraid of me scared me as well. What could they possibly need to do tests for?
But when I spoke to Emily, I realized I was letting the fear control my life and my actions. There was a part of me that needed to know what was going on, exactly what it was that this prophecy supposedly said about me, and the only way they were going to tell me was if I did as they asked and they got the answers they wanted.
Later I realized that I'd played right into their hands by giving them what they wanted without any reassurances from them. If anything, the feeling of nervous energy that emanated from the entire team signaled that if they found what they were looking for, I could kiss my life—complicated though it may be—good bye.
Not only that, but they didn't even have the original code key. When I found that out, I knew I had to get involved. I also knew I couldn't break into the Vatican on my own, and there was only one person who I could trust to come with me—my guardian angel.
In all my messed up life, there is only one thing that makes sense, one person who I can tell everything. That person is my handler, Michael Vaughn. After this week, I was a little afraid that this tension surrounding me had been passed onto him, that he wouldn't want to be there for me as he had in the past. So when I told him I needed a partner, I stressed that I needed someone I can trust. I didn't just mean with this mission, and he knew it. When he started muttering to himself about all the difficulties we'd have to overcome, I was afraid for a moment that he was going to turn me down, so I asked again. This time he looked me straight in the eye and grinned. "Yeah, I'll help you break into the Vatican," he said. I smiled back, letting the relief show in my eyes. My guardian angel wasn't going to let me down.
I wish I didn't have to be so practical sometimes. (Of course, when I'm not being practical, I wish I could be.) I guess it was just my turn. I knew what he was up to when he started talking about Trattoria da Nardi—he was going to suggest that we check it out, just as I'd suggested we go to a hockey game a few weeks earlier. And just as he knew that I'd meant more than just hockey, I knew he meant more than just dinner. Part of me said "GO!! You won't get a better chance to be with him outside of work!" but the other part, the practical part, said "It's too dangerous, what if you get caught." The practical part won. We both knew that his last comment, about the place almost being worth the risk, was just for show. Trattoria da Nardi would just have to wait until later.
When we got home, he was so encouraging. I don't know why the CIA has such a problem with emotional attachments between agents and handlers. Speaking for myself, I need to know that someone is completely on my side, vying for my safety—and not just because of what I can do for the Agency. Once again, Vaughn proved he was that person. For a few brief hours, I left his confidence in me make me feel safe and secure. I went to the club and just enjoyed myself.
Until I saw them. The DSR people were there, they were blocking all the exits. I managed to make some lame excuse to get me out of there and walked away from my friends. Once outside of the building, I was pulled into the back of a van and cuffed with restraints on my arms and legs.
They'd had the code broken right. Part of my mind listened to Dr. Evans ramble off The Prophecy—did they actually believe that this meant I was a threat to national security? The other part watched Vaughn's reaction. I needed to know that he still believed in me, no matter what these nutcases may think. But his reassurances rang hollow and his eyes were filled with an indefinable pain. I held his gaze, hoping that he would tell me something else, but instead he looked away.
So right now I'm sitting in a holding cell, feeling more alone than I have since my father told me the truth about SD-6. The government was afraid of me, my father couldn't do anything to help me without blowing his cover—if it wasn't already blown because of this—and the one person who I thought I could count on had looked away when I needed him most. Oh, I'm sure that he had some reason for looking away, I know deep down that Vaughn is still behind me, but I needed that one last moment of promise. Damn, I wish things weren't so complicated.
AN: Ok, neither of these turned out as I had planned, but hopefully it's still good. I also have another idea in mind…