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Author's Notes: Trying to cheer myself up with some writing after a long week of midterms. :sigh: Sorry I'm such a spastic dork. I'll try to finish this somehow… Pardon the fragmentation; I'm an admirer of Faulkner.
Mere Mortals
* * *
Los Angeles, CA
9:00 p.m.
The docks
Vaughn-
I'm told I owe you my life. Consider this a down payment.
-Will
"You told him about me?" Vaughn asked, running his index finger through the leather bound diary. The initial page, scribbled on by the reporter, Tippin, acknowledged Vaughn's part in saving the man's life.
Sydney shrugged, hooked her fingers around the rail overlooking the still waters and leaned as far forward as she could. "He knew I had to have had some kind of help."
"What'd he get your father? A coaster set?" He asked with a wry smile that was gone so fast that Sydney thought she might have imagined it.
"He asked me what you'd want. So I told him."
Vaughn fingered the thick, coarse material of the book once more in amusement.
"I loved my father, but he was a company man. Always did what he was told. Only in his diary would he say what he could never say to the CIA directors… He followed orders…it killed him."
"Think I'll need it?" he asked carefully, lowering his eyes a bit.
"Hoping that you don't."
* * *
Two weeks before
Los Angeles, CA
5:34 a.m.
"Michael? Michael Vaughn?" The nurse asked, jabbing the forearm of the brunette man asleep in one of the waiting room chairs.
Startled, Vaughn shot out of his seat and with searching eyes, gazed into the kind, brown ones of the nurse.
"Sorry about that."
"You're here for Eric Weiss?"
Vaughn nodded, stretching his cramped arms out. "Is he going to be okay?" he asked, cringing when he heard how weak his voice sounded. The nurse made no acknowledgement of having heard the question, but quietly lead him inside the small, white, sterile room.
"Don't touch anything. I'll be back in a minute."
Vaughn watched as the woman left the room, alone with Weiss at last. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he fingered the report nervously.
"You're going to be all right Eric. Don't you worry. They've got you all taken care of here."
"Are you telling him that or yourself?" A familiar voice asked quietly. Turning slightly, he caught sight of the older man hovering just within his peripheral vision. He shut his eyes and blinked away the dancing white lights.
Damn. Not now.
"Are you naturally this callous or do you practice at home in front of the mirror?" Vaughn asked casually, keeping his emotions in check quite well.
Jack Bristow raised an eyebrow slightly, whether in amusement or confusion, Vaughn didn't know.
"Sorry," he mumbled, looking down at his hands. "You didn't deserve that."
Jack shrugged. "Maybe I did." He took the seat beside Vaughn, a metal armchair, the kind people in laboratory experiments are strapped to. Vaughn shuddered.
"Didn't know you and Eric were close."
"We're not." He replied flatly. "You had a medical evaluation once you got back from France."
Vaughn's eyes darkened a bit, the grim determination never leaving his boyish face. For a moment he said nothing, nudged at Weiss in a child like manner with his fingertips. After a moment he clutched his hands protectively to his chest, hugging himself, as if he were suddenly cold.
"Yeah."
Jack barely heard the reply. Rather uncharacteristically, he took the younger man's hand into his. It was trembling only slightly.
"If you're going to do it, do it now," he gritted out, eyes wavering from the older Bristow's eyes to the syringe in his left hand.
"You have nothing to fear."
Vaughn would have laughed had it been another man before him.
"You're the one holding the needle."
"I'll tell Sydney-"
"Nothing." Vaughn interjected.
The two men locked eyes. Jack nodded.
Vaughn forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, the worried expression that creased the young man's face was gone.
He felt a shooting pain that quickly ran up his arm and blindsided him on the back of his skull.
Then there was nothing. Vaughn said nothing, heard nothing, His eyes rolled back and he collapsed rather nimbly into the other man's waiting arms.
* * *
"Joey's Pizza?"
Sydney's eyes widened a bit at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. "Vaughn?" She whispered, turning to watch Francie exit the living room.
"Not available. This is Agent Mallory, his stand-in."
There was no mistaking the rise in Sydney's voice as she echoed: "What do you mean he's 'not available?'"
* * *
One week before
LAX
7:30 a.m.
"This is crazy Agent Bristow," Mallory declared, eyes wandering out into the busy L.A. traffic. "Tell me your coordinates."
"Tell me where Vaughn is." Sydney snapped back, killing the line before her handler could respond. Frantically searching her bag, she managed to pull out a Florida state driver's license under the name "Pamela James" to show to the woman at the terminal.
After hacking at the computer for a minute, the woman smiled and handed Sydney her ticket.
"Flight 397 to Wales is now boarding on terminal 22. Please enjoy your flight."
* * *
Los Angeles
CIA HQ
4:00 p.m.
"If you know something tell me now."
Dr. Barlett said nothing for a moment, allowing Sydney's ragged breathes to fill the empty silence in the room. After hearing no reply, Sydney turned as if to go.
"Sydney. Have a seat."
* * *
Los Angeles
6:00 p.m.
"Sydney, please have a seat," Arvin Sloane told her, signaling to the leather chair adjacent to Dixon.
Nodding, she allowed her eyes to wander over to her father's and resting there, staring daggers at him. Had he been a mere mortal, he would have turned to stone. But he wasn't; only a slight crease over his left eyebrow indicated he even noticed she was looking at him at all. Silently, Sydney took her seat. Diverting her attention back to Sloane, Sydney watched as a gold ring appeared on the main screen.
"Didn't know Rambaldi shopped at Tiffany's." Sydney replied dryly. Marshall chucked, nearly choking on his sandwich.
"Actually Sydney," Sloane replied with what Sydney guessed he thought passed for a smile, "you're not too far off. This signet ring was one of three created by Rambaldi. The first two were found by the Nazis during the end of WWII and have subsequently disappeared."
"The KGB stole them during their raids in Germany." Sydney reasoned.
Sloane nodded. "That's what our sources are guessing."
"But why would they be after the third ring now, after all these years have passed?" Dixon asked.
"Well," Marshall interjected raising his hand slightly like a third grader asking to use the bathroom, "I can answer that."
Sloane nodded, allowing him to continue.
Marshall zoomed in on the ring's surface. On it were strange markings that reminded Sydney a little bit of words in Sankrit.
"Ingrained onto the rings are several chemicals…it is believed that combined the chemicals will create…well…"
"Well?" Sydney asked, raising an eyebrow at Marshall's reluctance to continue.
"We-uh, don't know," Marshall answered with a sheepish grin, "maybe a plague…maybe the 21st century's penicillin…maybe a diet soda that really doesn't taste like diet soda...we don't know."
"The ring was part of a private collection owned by a man named Artur de Silver. Recent financial problems have caused him to sell some of his most…valued pieces. The Rambaldi ring goes on the auction block in 48 hours in Wales." Jack spoke calmly, ignoring Sydney's glances.
"You will switch the ring with a dummy one before the auction starts and bring it back for examination. Sydney," Sloane said, placing his hand on her shoulder, "you're point. Good luck."
* * *
Los Angeles
St. Luke's Episcopal Church
9:00 p.m.
Jack heard the clattering noise of her heels hitting the wooden floorboards marking her arrival before he felt her signaling to him, the fur of her winter coat brushing his hand. Slowly, he rose and entered the priest's chamber in the confessional booths. Sydney, watching him move from the corner of her eye, let a few seconds pass before she followed suit.
"How appropriate that we should meet here," Sydney spoke aloud her thoughts as she entered the dark room and pulled back the wooden slab so she could see her father's eyes. "I'm getting on a plane to Wales in two hours and you are going to give me some answers right now."
Jack's stony face only twitched a little, barely noticeable. "I can't tell you what's happening with him. I can only tell you we're doing all we can for him."
"So it's true." Sydney whispered, her hands coming over to cover her face.
"What did they tell you?" Jack asked flatly.
* * *
Los Angeles
CIA HQ
4:05 p.m.
"During your mission with Agent Vaughn in Taipei, he was submerged in water for the course of several minutes…that is what you said in your statement, correct?" Dr. Bartlett asked carefully.
Sydney nodded. "Yes, that's true." Several excruciatingly long minutes to be exact.
"Well, apparently…that wasn't mere water he was swimming in."
Sydney sat up; distress coloring her cheeks and darkening her eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"The agency is doing everything that they-"
"Don't…don't," Sydney swallowed the rage in her throat. "Don't give me that crap Dr. Bartlett."
"I…I wish I could tell you more…" Sydney's anger abated slightly when she saw the sincere regret in the doctor's eyes. "I'm sorry."
* * *
Los Angeles
St. Luke's Episcopal Church
9:10 p.m.
"That 'doing everything they can' crap I keep hearing," Sydney spoke, eyes never wavering from her father's, "that's all in an effort to…"
She couldn't continue.
"We're trying to keep him alive Syd." Jack finished, suddenly hating the darkness and the walls that separated the two of them.
Sydney felt her weight drop and touched the floor between her fingers.
"Sydney?" Jack called out in a loud whisper. "Sydney!"
"It's all my fault," she replied in a voice that was barely audible.
"Sydney, no…honey, he chose to go with you. He…" Jack couldn't finish his sentence. He was drowned out by the barrel of "no's" Sydney let loose that echoed continuously in the small room.
* * *
TBC…when I'm done with my history paper…which at the rate I'm going…hehe…don't expect an update anytime soon.