Title: Compromised
1 Authors: labyrinthine and Thorne
Email: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com and akathorne@hotmail.com
Rating/Classification: R, NC-17 in its entirety/angst, smut, the best things in fic.
Summary: Sydney is caught by her own lies.
Author's Notes: This is us being mean to Syd and Vaughn. Or, as Hil the support staff so eloquently stated: "Betrayal in the dark: how this story was supposed to be nothing but porn but has gone right back to PG-13 angst." But really – we've had a blast writing this, thanks to the server 5 stalkers for encouragement, and stay tuned for part 2.
*****
So this is what it feels like to be stabbed in the back, Vaughn thinks.
Funny, he thought it would hurt more. He remembers the Saturday morning cartoons he would watch as a boy, the characters who were blissfully unaware of any impending doom until they looked up to see a thousand pound anvil hovering in air, about to crush them to the ground. He feels the dull calm of acceptance, knowing that any minute his apartment door is going to open and the figurative anvil, weighted with lies over lead, will drop for good and finish him off. He should never have looked up.
So now, his eyes are closed. He sits on his couch, in the dark, a precaution from accidentally viewing the scene spread about his coffee table. Vaughn is slowly realizing that this makes no difference - what he has seen, has read, has come to believe, has been imprinted on his brain, and can not be erased.
He didn't want to believe it at first; it didn't even cross his mind that it could be true in the beginning. Vaughn had received two phone calls in his office earlier in the day, a voice he didn't recognize insinuating they had compromising intel on Sydney's loyalties and would be willing to share. He immediately suspected Haladki; the thought of entertaining the calls as was not given a moments consideration. That Haladki denied the charge when confronted only made Vaughn assume he was behind the twisted joke. Even when he arrived home at the end of the day to realize there were piles of classified folders perched on his living room table, his first reaction was to check for missing valuables then to consider the provided information as fact.
Vaughn remembers all of this, and thinks it is only another shining example of what a fool he becomes where Sydney is concerned.
He doesn't need to open his eyes to see the pile of lies resting in front of him. Nor does he have to read their contents to remind him of the acrid disillusionment and utter despair that accompanies their pages. He realized for the first time that what was in front of him was not propaganda but truth. The woman he trusted implicitly for months on end had knowingly deceived him.
Calling her was the bravest and stupidest thing he'd ever done. No 'Joey's Pizza', no meeting location designations, no double entendres. Just Michael Vaughn calling Sydney Bristow at home, on an unsecured line, telling her to meet at his apartment, now. He had never taken such a risk before, and knew after the night was over he'd never have to take such risks again. His emotions cloud over with the thought of this most probably being their last meeting, until he reminds himself of who she really is, and he no longer feels remorse.
So now he waits in the dark, not moving a muscle, waiting for the anvil to fall.
*****
Sydney uses the reflective glass at the end of the apartment complex hallway to check behind her for tails as she reaches Vaughn's apartment. She's been on edge since he called; her entire ride across town was made on nervous dread. He had been curt on the phone, just on long enough to tell her to meet with him, that it was imperative. She couldn't even conceive of what would make him call her under his own name - she hoped to god her phones weren't tapped.
There was no doorbell, so she used her knuckles to rasp lightly against the door. No response. She tries the doorknob to find it unlocked, and her initial apprehension gives way to dread as turns the handle.
The door opens soundlessly to reveal a space enshrouded in shadow. She has never before visited his apartment and this first impression, with only moonlight invading from a far window to light her view, is disconcerting. There is something in the air, heavy and expectant, and as Sydney makes her way into the room she is afraid to even search for a light switch in fear of disrupting this attenuated balance. As her eyes adjust to the dim surroundings, she is able to make out his form, sitting on a couch, motionless.
"Vaughn."
No response. She moves closer; his features still obscured in shadow but with her nearness she can more clearly see his figure, hunched over, head cupped by his hands.
"Is everything alright? I was worried, I thought something had happened." She waits for a response, an indication that he notices she's there at all, with no avail. The rush that carried her across town makes way for bewilderment. Sydney stands, biding her time, expecting any moment for him to get up, laugh, and explain himself. But he does nothing.
His continued silence leaves her unnerved. Coupled with his utter lack of acknowledging her presence, and her assurance that he is in fact unharmed and not in immediate danger, her initial wariness is replaced with anger, and she lets her short temper have free reign. "Vaughn. What the hell are you doing? You called me on an unsecured line, telling me to just show up at your apartment with no notice. The only reason I agreed was because I thought you were in danger…this could blow my cover! I mean, what's so important that-"
"I think it's a little late for that, don't you?"
His voice catches her off-guard. She is unprepared for the simmering hostility, the…rage, contained behind his words.
"What? Vaughn, this isn't funny." This is getting scary, she thinks, and she never gets scared. He wouldn't take a joke this far, and she can't read him at all.
"I never said it was."
Aside from the utterance, Vaughn remains unresponsive, still motionless from his position on the couch. Fuck it, she thinks, as she scans the walls and strides purposefully towards the discovered light panel near the hallway. Without a glance in his direction, she flicks the switch.
The room is flooded with over bright light from a ceiling fixture, and it takes her eyes a minute to adjust to the harsh white that now surrounds her. She turns around, prepared to grill Vaughn on what was so important he had to call her for-
And stops in her tracks when she presented with the scene before her. She can see him clearly now, compact and tense, looking ready to spring off the couch with a moment's notice. But it is the tableau of disarray on the coffee table next to him that fixates her attention. Grainy black and white surveillance photos. Audio tapes. Typed transcripts. Reams of paper, classified dossiers, some crumpled and strewn around the floor.
"Oh, no…no…" She backs up, halting steps, distancing herself from the damning pile presented before her. This can't be real, she thinks. This cannot possibly be happening. Her sweeping gaze focuses on an enlarged photo of her and Sloane, an action shot of her placing a manila folder into his outstretched palm. Her eyes start to burn, and she seeks out Vaughn, the only familiar spot in the room. He has since raised his head and as she swivels back to face him, their eyes meet. She is taken aback; Sydney thinks she has never seen such anger. It radiates off him in waves, a tangible presence in the room that is more threatening than any flesh and blood enemy.
"Have you enjoyed it? Have you had FUN?" The pure undiluted malice in his voice is too much for her to bear. Her mind is overwhelmed, trying to process the situation presented before her; she thinks irrationally her brain might stall and hang up.
"Where did you get this?" Spoken softly, using effort to keep her voice level and controlled. Neutral, as if there was ever any neutrality in this whole situation. Everyone takes sides. If she could just regain enough to sense to wrap her mind around this…
"Does it even matter?" He gasps out, incredulous. She can all but see the pent-up fury beneath his surface. "My god Sydney, I may be a fool but I know deceit when I see it. I mean, how could I have been so blind?" He tosses his head back, looking away. "You trying to get close to me, asking me on a fucking *date*…does trust or integrity mean a damn thing to you?" The room is spinning, she realizes. The room is spinning, and her heart is pounding so hard, she can't stop it, and god, Vaughn knows the truth, and now he'll hate her, and she has no idea what to do.
She knew, in the back of her mind she has always known that one day this would happen. That the two sides of her life would hit each other head on, and she would be stuck in the middle, crushed between them. But she never imagined it would be like this, in a undistinguished apartment with testimony of her actions strewn around her feet, listening to the misdirected anger of a man who has suddenly become so unfamiliar.
"Where did you get this?" She needs to know. God, let there be a way out…
Vaughn becomes agitated, as if the information is inconsequential and not worth his time explaining. "I got a few phone calls. I thought it was a…a joke, it's not important. All this," gesturing to the devastation surrounding him, "was here when I got home."
A plant, Sydney thinks numbly. He had ignored the calls so someone broke into his apartment and planted the intel to make sure Vaughn was aware. Why would they…realization, what has eluded her the minutes since this discovery, hits her like a pile of bricks. Her vision blurs and she sways on her feet for a moment, briefly losing control of any authority she holds over the rest of her body. She is silent, overcome by the revelation of *why* they sent him this evidence, and she knows that there is no hope left for any semblance of a happy ending.
"And now you have nothing to say? It didn't seem that way last night…" He holds up a stack of paper, defiantly. She has a pretty good idea of what it says. He speaks with unrestrained anger; a part of her wishes he would choke on it, it would make things so much easier. He is still sitting on the couch, she observes, a study in restraint - she doesn't blame him.
Still not trusting her voice, she walks with careful, measured strides towards his outstretched hand. Maybe if she sees it for herself, she reasons, her mind will wrap around and accept the futility of the situation. Reaching out, her hand just brushes a corner of the paper before it is suddenly thrust against her.
It all happens so quickly, only later can Sydney piece together the sensations. Vaughn's hands against her shoulders, pushing her back, the transcript a crumpled causality against her chest. Bounding off the couch at last, reaching his full height, shoving her against the opposite wall. The feel of her back making solid contact with the surface, the intense feeling of entrapment when he stands completely inside her personal space, taking away any semblance of a protective barrier between them. She is trapped, caged between the unyielding wall against her back and Vaughn pinning her against the front. This is Vaughn, she keeps repeating to herself; she shouldn't be afraid of him. But she is.
The nearness of him, his body pressed against hers, would on any other day be a welcome sensation. She can feel him breathing against her; he is so close. But the waves of hatred radiating from his presence, the hurt she feels so acutely that it must be a tangible force, managed to destroy what vestiges of autonomy she has attempted to preserve. She goes limp in his hold, resistance losing to the lure of shock and introversion.
Sensing this collapse, Vaughn just tightens his hold. "Why?" he spits out, his voice increasing in both fury and volume. "These records go back *months*, do you have any idea how you've single-handedly compromised our entire assault against SD-6? Do you even care? You have put your family, your friends in danger. You've all but signed my death warrant-"
Sydney breaks from his grip slightly, enough to turn her head away from his piercing gaze. "No," she whispers, shaking her head, the barest sound escaping her lips an accomplishment.
"No, what? No, this isn't true?" He leans back, a sliver of space so he can assuage a better perspective. His hands do not lessen their hold against her, pinning her upper arms against the plaster wall; the adrenaline coursing through his body propelling his actions. His anger, asserted through both the physical violation and the heat of his words, makes it difficult for Sydney to assimilate his speech through the haze of her thoughts. "Stop lying to me, the fucking lies stop here. Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't true."
*****
End Part 1.
Brought to you by the letters L and T.
1 Authors: labyrinthine and Thorne
Email: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com and akathorne@hotmail.com
Rating/Classification: R, NC-17 in its entirety/angst, smut, the best things in fic.
Summary: Sydney is caught by her own lies.
Author's Notes: This is us being mean to Syd and Vaughn. Or, as Hil the support staff so eloquently stated: "Betrayal in the dark: how this story was supposed to be nothing but porn but has gone right back to PG-13 angst." But really – we've had a blast writing this, thanks to the server 5 stalkers for encouragement, and stay tuned for part 2.
*****
So this is what it feels like to be stabbed in the back, Vaughn thinks.
Funny, he thought it would hurt more. He remembers the Saturday morning cartoons he would watch as a boy, the characters who were blissfully unaware of any impending doom until they looked up to see a thousand pound anvil hovering in air, about to crush them to the ground. He feels the dull calm of acceptance, knowing that any minute his apartment door is going to open and the figurative anvil, weighted with lies over lead, will drop for good and finish him off. He should never have looked up.
So now, his eyes are closed. He sits on his couch, in the dark, a precaution from accidentally viewing the scene spread about his coffee table. Vaughn is slowly realizing that this makes no difference - what he has seen, has read, has come to believe, has been imprinted on his brain, and can not be erased.
He didn't want to believe it at first; it didn't even cross his mind that it could be true in the beginning. Vaughn had received two phone calls in his office earlier in the day, a voice he didn't recognize insinuating they had compromising intel on Sydney's loyalties and would be willing to share. He immediately suspected Haladki; the thought of entertaining the calls as was not given a moments consideration. That Haladki denied the charge when confronted only made Vaughn assume he was behind the twisted joke. Even when he arrived home at the end of the day to realize there were piles of classified folders perched on his living room table, his first reaction was to check for missing valuables then to consider the provided information as fact.
Vaughn remembers all of this, and thinks it is only another shining example of what a fool he becomes where Sydney is concerned.
He doesn't need to open his eyes to see the pile of lies resting in front of him. Nor does he have to read their contents to remind him of the acrid disillusionment and utter despair that accompanies their pages. He realized for the first time that what was in front of him was not propaganda but truth. The woman he trusted implicitly for months on end had knowingly deceived him.
Calling her was the bravest and stupidest thing he'd ever done. No 'Joey's Pizza', no meeting location designations, no double entendres. Just Michael Vaughn calling Sydney Bristow at home, on an unsecured line, telling her to meet at his apartment, now. He had never taken such a risk before, and knew after the night was over he'd never have to take such risks again. His emotions cloud over with the thought of this most probably being their last meeting, until he reminds himself of who she really is, and he no longer feels remorse.
So now he waits in the dark, not moving a muscle, waiting for the anvil to fall.
*****
Sydney uses the reflective glass at the end of the apartment complex hallway to check behind her for tails as she reaches Vaughn's apartment. She's been on edge since he called; her entire ride across town was made on nervous dread. He had been curt on the phone, just on long enough to tell her to meet with him, that it was imperative. She couldn't even conceive of what would make him call her under his own name - she hoped to god her phones weren't tapped.
There was no doorbell, so she used her knuckles to rasp lightly against the door. No response. She tries the doorknob to find it unlocked, and her initial apprehension gives way to dread as turns the handle.
The door opens soundlessly to reveal a space enshrouded in shadow. She has never before visited his apartment and this first impression, with only moonlight invading from a far window to light her view, is disconcerting. There is something in the air, heavy and expectant, and as Sydney makes her way into the room she is afraid to even search for a light switch in fear of disrupting this attenuated balance. As her eyes adjust to the dim surroundings, she is able to make out his form, sitting on a couch, motionless.
"Vaughn."
No response. She moves closer; his features still obscured in shadow but with her nearness she can more clearly see his figure, hunched over, head cupped by his hands.
"Is everything alright? I was worried, I thought something had happened." She waits for a response, an indication that he notices she's there at all, with no avail. The rush that carried her across town makes way for bewilderment. Sydney stands, biding her time, expecting any moment for him to get up, laugh, and explain himself. But he does nothing.
His continued silence leaves her unnerved. Coupled with his utter lack of acknowledging her presence, and her assurance that he is in fact unharmed and not in immediate danger, her initial wariness is replaced with anger, and she lets her short temper have free reign. "Vaughn. What the hell are you doing? You called me on an unsecured line, telling me to just show up at your apartment with no notice. The only reason I agreed was because I thought you were in danger…this could blow my cover! I mean, what's so important that-"
"I think it's a little late for that, don't you?"
His voice catches her off-guard. She is unprepared for the simmering hostility, the…rage, contained behind his words.
"What? Vaughn, this isn't funny." This is getting scary, she thinks, and she never gets scared. He wouldn't take a joke this far, and she can't read him at all.
"I never said it was."
Aside from the utterance, Vaughn remains unresponsive, still motionless from his position on the couch. Fuck it, she thinks, as she scans the walls and strides purposefully towards the discovered light panel near the hallway. Without a glance in his direction, she flicks the switch.
The room is flooded with over bright light from a ceiling fixture, and it takes her eyes a minute to adjust to the harsh white that now surrounds her. She turns around, prepared to grill Vaughn on what was so important he had to call her for-
And stops in her tracks when she presented with the scene before her. She can see him clearly now, compact and tense, looking ready to spring off the couch with a moment's notice. But it is the tableau of disarray on the coffee table next to him that fixates her attention. Grainy black and white surveillance photos. Audio tapes. Typed transcripts. Reams of paper, classified dossiers, some crumpled and strewn around the floor.
"Oh, no…no…" She backs up, halting steps, distancing herself from the damning pile presented before her. This can't be real, she thinks. This cannot possibly be happening. Her sweeping gaze focuses on an enlarged photo of her and Sloane, an action shot of her placing a manila folder into his outstretched palm. Her eyes start to burn, and she seeks out Vaughn, the only familiar spot in the room. He has since raised his head and as she swivels back to face him, their eyes meet. She is taken aback; Sydney thinks she has never seen such anger. It radiates off him in waves, a tangible presence in the room that is more threatening than any flesh and blood enemy.
"Have you enjoyed it? Have you had FUN?" The pure undiluted malice in his voice is too much for her to bear. Her mind is overwhelmed, trying to process the situation presented before her; she thinks irrationally her brain might stall and hang up.
"Where did you get this?" Spoken softly, using effort to keep her voice level and controlled. Neutral, as if there was ever any neutrality in this whole situation. Everyone takes sides. If she could just regain enough to sense to wrap her mind around this…
"Does it even matter?" He gasps out, incredulous. She can all but see the pent-up fury beneath his surface. "My god Sydney, I may be a fool but I know deceit when I see it. I mean, how could I have been so blind?" He tosses his head back, looking away. "You trying to get close to me, asking me on a fucking *date*…does trust or integrity mean a damn thing to you?" The room is spinning, she realizes. The room is spinning, and her heart is pounding so hard, she can't stop it, and god, Vaughn knows the truth, and now he'll hate her, and she has no idea what to do.
She knew, in the back of her mind she has always known that one day this would happen. That the two sides of her life would hit each other head on, and she would be stuck in the middle, crushed between them. But she never imagined it would be like this, in a undistinguished apartment with testimony of her actions strewn around her feet, listening to the misdirected anger of a man who has suddenly become so unfamiliar.
"Where did you get this?" She needs to know. God, let there be a way out…
Vaughn becomes agitated, as if the information is inconsequential and not worth his time explaining. "I got a few phone calls. I thought it was a…a joke, it's not important. All this," gesturing to the devastation surrounding him, "was here when I got home."
A plant, Sydney thinks numbly. He had ignored the calls so someone broke into his apartment and planted the intel to make sure Vaughn was aware. Why would they…realization, what has eluded her the minutes since this discovery, hits her like a pile of bricks. Her vision blurs and she sways on her feet for a moment, briefly losing control of any authority she holds over the rest of her body. She is silent, overcome by the revelation of *why* they sent him this evidence, and she knows that there is no hope left for any semblance of a happy ending.
"And now you have nothing to say? It didn't seem that way last night…" He holds up a stack of paper, defiantly. She has a pretty good idea of what it says. He speaks with unrestrained anger; a part of her wishes he would choke on it, it would make things so much easier. He is still sitting on the couch, she observes, a study in restraint - she doesn't blame him.
Still not trusting her voice, she walks with careful, measured strides towards his outstretched hand. Maybe if she sees it for herself, she reasons, her mind will wrap around and accept the futility of the situation. Reaching out, her hand just brushes a corner of the paper before it is suddenly thrust against her.
It all happens so quickly, only later can Sydney piece together the sensations. Vaughn's hands against her shoulders, pushing her back, the transcript a crumpled causality against her chest. Bounding off the couch at last, reaching his full height, shoving her against the opposite wall. The feel of her back making solid contact with the surface, the intense feeling of entrapment when he stands completely inside her personal space, taking away any semblance of a protective barrier between them. She is trapped, caged between the unyielding wall against her back and Vaughn pinning her against the front. This is Vaughn, she keeps repeating to herself; she shouldn't be afraid of him. But she is.
The nearness of him, his body pressed against hers, would on any other day be a welcome sensation. She can feel him breathing against her; he is so close. But the waves of hatred radiating from his presence, the hurt she feels so acutely that it must be a tangible force, managed to destroy what vestiges of autonomy she has attempted to preserve. She goes limp in his hold, resistance losing to the lure of shock and introversion.
Sensing this collapse, Vaughn just tightens his hold. "Why?" he spits out, his voice increasing in both fury and volume. "These records go back *months*, do you have any idea how you've single-handedly compromised our entire assault against SD-6? Do you even care? You have put your family, your friends in danger. You've all but signed my death warrant-"
Sydney breaks from his grip slightly, enough to turn her head away from his piercing gaze. "No," she whispers, shaking her head, the barest sound escaping her lips an accomplishment.
"No, what? No, this isn't true?" He leans back, a sliver of space so he can assuage a better perspective. His hands do not lessen their hold against her, pinning her upper arms against the plaster wall; the adrenaline coursing through his body propelling his actions. His anger, asserted through both the physical violation and the heat of his words, makes it difficult for Sydney to assimilate his speech through the haze of her thoughts. "Stop lying to me, the fucking lies stop here. Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't true."
*****
End Part 1.
Brought to you by the letters L and T.