Title: Le Vrai et le Faux

Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Angst with a tinge of Romance later

'Shippers' Paradise: V/OC, S/V

Spoilers/Timeline: Post-"Telling"

Archived: FanFiction.Net, Cover Me, and SD-1. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!

Summary: "She was secured to a chair in a stuffy, dusty cargo bay on a plane and instead of being tortured with the normal devices, she was being told how much the world didn't miss her." Post-"Telling" fic with a Dream Writer Twist. A Dream Writer Experience.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading! There's a very specific line from "Whisper" by Evanescence in here. See if you can find it. By the way: Le Vrai et le Faux = The Truth and the Lie.

Author's Note: [jumps on bandwagon] Dear Reader: I am writing this to you from my camping ground on the bank of De Nile. It really is quite lovely this time of year; if you haven't already, I suggest you hop a plane and get your ass over here. :)

*~*

This Chapter: Syd is extracted and both have some questions.

Suggested Soundtrack: "Hello," "Whisper," "Everybody's Fool," "Going Under," "Last Breath"…okay, basically anything off of the Evanescence CD. Goin' for angsty here.

Le Vrai et le Faux

Chapter 1: Questions

2 years.

24 months.

112 weeks.

730 days.

17,520 hours.

1,051,200 minutes.

63,072,000 seconds.

Not accounting for the exact day or leap years.

'Has there been a leap year?' She could not seem to recall. Oh, yes; 2004 had that extra day in February. 'Now that throws off all of my calculations!'

How she was able to compute that in her head that quickly feeling that overwhelmed was worthy of note; the question "what was the point of that?" popped into the back of her mind, probably somewhere near the base of her skull, because that's what was tingling at that moment. Whether that was a good thing was yet to be seen: the last time her head had tingled was two years ago right after she shot Francie — 'Allison' — and subsequently blacked out. Maybe it would happen again, she would pass out for another two years, wake up in Paris, and Vaughn would be divorced, ready and willing to marry her instead…

She could not tear her eyes away from the knothole in the floorboards where her gaze had rested. His voice had sprung tears in her eyes; she was fully aware that it was a voice that no longer belonged to her. His particular voice pattern had been the key to her heart, whether it be on a mission telling her where to go or merely saying his patented greeting of "hey". But now… now she had no idea how to treat him. He had a ring on a very specific finger, they were halfway across the world, and two years of her life were just gone.

Few four-letter words evoked strong emotions. Granted, there's love, good, evil, hate; but she never thought of "gone". At least, not until something — or someone — was gone. Then…Well, then it seemed somewhat like a swear or curse, damning everything to Hell with four simple letters. Language could mask the emotion: That Word in Spanish, German, French, Chinese, Arabic, basically in any other language, That Word sounds more elegant, more full, than it does in English. In her native tongue it just sounded…gone.

"Syd? Syd? Syd, say something. Please. I need to know you're really here."

'No you don't!' She felt like screaming. 'Obviously you didn't those entire two years, twenty-four months, whatever that I was missing! You didn't need to know where I was then!' But she had more composure than that; instead she palmed her eyes with the butt of her hand, attempting to smooth over the tears, pretend they were not there. Her vision clouded up again immediately after she lifted her lids. She licked her lips with a tongue as rough as sandpaper: her entire body — let alone mouth — was parched and dehydrated. She had poured every bodily fluid into her tears, willing herself to shrivel up like a sun-dried prune in order to save herself from the awaiting agony. It was ebbing onto her consciousness, but when she turned to face it head on, it retreated back into the darkness. She had no protection against it. He used to do that for her. 'Not anymore. He's someone else's protector now.'

"I'm here."

That was not her voice. Her voice was usually strong, confident, assured, even, stable. That…That was the voice of a small child, unsure of her place in the world, unsure of the 'why' of it all. It was more primal, more gravely, yet still sounded innocent, small, and far away — as if she were commenting from behind a wall or a door. Like she was viewing this as a third person. Which was how she wanted things.

No first person.

It would hurt too much.

Too much for words.

She could feel his eyes on her; she always could. Whether it be across a crowded room, a conference table, or half-way around the world, she knew every time without fail when his eyes were trained on her. They made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her heart both stop and pound like a jackhammer at the same time. Whenever he looked at her, she felt like she was an ant and he was a seven-year-old with a magnifying glass, tilting it at just the right angle so that she would be set ablaze. But not this time. This time the ant had a mode of protection: a mirror. It reflected the intensity elsewhere to spare herself; she was numb. Therefore there were no prickled hairs, no goosepimples; her knees were solid and heartbeat steady. She was subconsciously wrapping herself in a thick blanket of smog taken directly from the skies above Los Angeles. It filtered and sifted through things and acted like a bouncer, deciding what was suitable for admittance and…well, what wasn't.

Wait a second.

Los Angeles. That was her home.

Right?

"My home." It was more of a statement than a question (and, again, where did that voice come from?). She did not bother looking up from her oh-so-interesting knothole in the floorboards.

Vaughn seemed to be caught off guard. He shifted in his chair so that he was leaning forward onto his knees with his hands folded in the space between them. He, too, studied a spot on the floor, unable to look at her but wanting to all the same; he was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. The breath he took in rattled about in his lungs like the last bolt in a metal toolbox. Choosing his words carefully, he took what he hoped was a steady breath and replied, "We can't talk here. The CIA wants us back in the States as soon as possible. There's a car waiting outside to take us to the airport. We chartered a plane for you." Vaughn cringed immediately after he added that last sentence; he sounded hopefully repentant, as if that one stupid plane could erase her two-year absence.

She heard it, too, but did not say anything. At that moment, all she wanted to do was find a bed, fall asleep, and wake up at Home next to Vaughn, the entire ordeal just an extremely bad dream. By Home she meant the warm, fuzzy feeling that bubbled up in her heart when she would walk out of the bedroom in the morning to find Vaughn trying haphazardly to make breakfast. As far as she was concerned, she did not even need the bed and the faux reassurance that it was all a dream; all she needed was for Vaughn to start laughing, throw that evil gold contraption out the window and exclaim, "Ha, ha! Just kidding! It's all a joke. Smile: you're on Candid Camera!" Then the secret cameraman would pop up from behind the door and Will, Francie, and her dad would reveal themselves from the insides of closets or under a chair. As long as it did away with the numbness, the titanic sense of shock that had coated her brain. She just wanted to wake up in love, at peace, and at Home.

"Syd?" Vaughn had risen from his chair and placed a hand on her shoulder; it was the first contact between the two since that decidedly one-sided hug when he first arrived. This seemingly innocent act sent fire radiating from the point of contact, but instead of being red-hot, it was ice cold — so immensely cold that it was hot to the touch. Whether it was her imagination or not was unknown. Syd looked up from her cozy knothole. For the first time in two years she met his gaze. For the first time since she had known him she could not read his emotions, could not tell what he was thinking.

And this scared her. This scared her more than she had ever been scared before.

In the past she had been able to sense everything from one glance, to see herself reflected back at her in those speckled green orbs. And now…Now she saw nothing. Just nothing. Black holes painted green had replaced the warm eyes that she had loved — still loved — and they were a poor substitute. She was frightened by what she saw — frightened beyond words — but somehow, from that one glance, she knew that there was more to come. Much more. She had lost her sense of self (and with it her hope) within less than a second; she could only imagine what learning about the past two years could do to her.

When she did not answer him he ventured again, "Syd? We have to go: the car's waiting for us." He squeezed her shoulder. A big mistake. She cringed and recoiled from his touch, shocking him to the point that he reflexively pulled back his hand. A shadow of remorse passed over her face before it settled back into its previous state of blankness. Rising wordlessly, she waited at the door for Vaughn to lead the way.

* * *

The trip to the airport was three of the most uncomfortable hours Sydney had ever spent. They rode in a black, non-descript van with windows only by the driver's and passenger's seats. In the back, two benches lined the walls and a chair was bolted to the floor in the middle. It was a van that was normally used to transport dangerous criminals: usually the benches would be piled with armed guards in full gear. Now they were empty save for Vaughn, sitting with his back against the driver's side wall. For "precaution" two other CIA agents had cuffed Syd's arms and legs securely to the chair. She could have sworn she had seen them before; probably as interns from Langely, she reminded herself. So as the two others climbed into the front and Vaughn raised the sound- and bullet-proof partition, Sydney sat and searched for the most comfortable position in the lousy excuse for a piece of furniture.

She could feel his eyes on her again. The shock was still firmly cemented in her consciousness, keeping the usual affects of his gaze in check. She wondered what he was thinking about, whether he was condemning her for resurfacing and ruining his new life or kicking himself for not having faith in her. Her numbness cracked ever so slightly, allowing a trickle of anger to seep in. She would show him what he had left behind. She slid her bottom as far back as it would go, straightened her spine, thrust her chest out, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin ever so slightly to give an illusion of defiance, confidence, and independence. Syd could not tell if he was buying her act of changing her composure: she did not exactly want to swivel her head and blatantly stare at him. And anyways, she would not be able to decipher his feelings she remembered, her heart sinking even lower. So she sat with her newly perfected posture wondering whether he was really looking at her or if she was just tricking herself into believing it. She just did not trust her instincts anymore.

About an hour into the ride Vaughn broke the silence. "Syd, we really missed you. All of us: Jack, Will, Marshal, Weiss even. We just…missed you so much."

No answer was offered; she was planning on sticking to her guns and keeping the persona of a defiant rebel as long as this shock and numbness was going to stick around. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her yet again with her guard down. The last time that had happened she lost two years of her life. So no answer for Mr. Married CIA Agent.

He sighed heavily before leaning forward upon his knees and trying again, "I need to ask you a few questions. First, did you know that you've been gone for two years? Do you know who took you? Did you go of your own free will? Do you—"

"First of all," She replied curtly, swiftly cutting him off, "I do not appreciate my loyalties being questioned. You of all people should know that." Syd still stared straight ahead at the tinted partition, keeping her neck inclined at a ninety-degree angle. "Second, if you are going to interrogate me like a terrorist, at least have the dignity to look me in the eye. Especially when you start jumping to insane conclusions." She admired her own brazened bravado in this situation, unsure exactly how long it would last.

Vaughn closed his eyes and ran a hand over his haggard face. After numerous attempts at side-stepping his relocation, he eventually was forced to scoot over to the only seat in front of her; it was usually reserved for the leader of the operation and was located with its back to the partition. Again, she would not answer any questions until he asked them while peering directly into her cold eyes. After a time, Vaughn aimed his eyes at hers and defocused them, unable to actually gaze into her icy depths any longer than he absolutely had to. "Did you know you were missing for two years? Do you know who took you? Do you—"

"Let me save you the trouble," Sydney interjected again, a sadistic grin raising a corner of her mouth. "I've been missing for two years. You told me that. All I remember is unloading three shots into a person I thought was my best friend and then — oh gosh, guess what? — I blacked out. Sorry. That's all I know. End of story. No more questions please." She lifted her chin slightly higher as if to tell him to go away.

Apparently he did not get the picture because he tried to pry even more, causing her to turn her head away and stare at the wall to her right side. He sighed, ran his fingers through his tousled hair, and slid back to his original seat, holding his head in his hands and massaging his temples in an attempt to relieve tension that was internal rather than external.

* * *

Upon reaching the secluded airstrip, the two other agents unloaded their human cargo, keeping her cuffed and at gunpoint. Vaughn did nothing to stop her harsh treatment: she supposed that despite its deserted appearance, it was probably crawling with armed CIA agents ready to strike if the slightest hint of something possibly going wrong occurred. With the agents' assistance, she waddled towards the Concorde-sized charter plane and all four boarded.

Inside was a lush cabin complete with leather couches, tables, plush chairs, and even a small kitchen area. The morbid party continued on through the cabin, kitchen, and a hidden door into a small cargo area, located in the tail of the plane. There was one very small window on one side, another bolted-down chair similar to that in the van, and one crate directly in front of said chair. 'So much for treating me like the valuable, loyal CIA agent that I am,' She thought as they secured her to the chair yet again. Breathing was starting to become a chore for Sydney: the room was stuffy, humid, and dusty, obviously unused for quite some time. She hacked and coughed, her throat dry and scratchy, and even sneezed, having to wipe her nose on her shoulder for lack of anything else.

They had been out over the Pacific Ocean for a while and she had fallen into a light sleep (more out of boredom than anything else) when Vaughn finally joined her. The soft click of the door was what woke her; although if it had not the clatter of the tray he was carrying would have. He offered a genuinely apologetic smile as he reloaded it and set it down on the crate, leaving himself a place to sit as well. All that was on the flimsy metal were two bottles of water and two sandwiches wrapped in saran wrap. After being subjected to her inquisitive glare for a good five seconds he stated, "I figured you would be hungry, and Bronson and Anderson are snoring loudly, so I figured I'd join you. Plus, you really have no other way of eating; no one is supposed to uncuff you."

"Since when have you been one to follow the rules?"

He did not answer as he uncapped both of the water bottles, stood, and crossed the small space between them. Without asking permission, he set the lip of it against her own and gently tilted her chin upwards, coaxing the liquid to flow from the bottle to her mouth. She swallowed it greedily, downing half of the bottle before he even knew what had happened. He let her breathe before slipping her the rest of the bottle and then tossing the empty container back onto the tray.

As he began to unwrap one of the sandwiches she said, "I'm not hungry."

Vaughn paused and looked at her curiously. "But you need to—"

"I'm not hungry," She repeated, a bit more forcefully this time. Sydney had decided to drop the defiant rebel act and keep her options open: whatever personality she felt could possibly get the best results and most information would be used. Vaughn released the sandwich wordlessly and shifted his seated form so that he faced her. They were silent for a time, each trying to concoct the best way to say what was on their minds. Syd won the race. "It's my turn to ask the questions now."

A hint of surprise exhibited itself in his briefly arched eyebrows, but he did not object. Instead, he again leaned towards her with his elbows on his thighs.

She sat as she had in the van, though this chair was far from comfortable as well. This question was not as difficult, so she allowed herself to lock his gaze. "What happened to my home?"

He held her eyes with his and he answered without hesitation. "It was a mess, a complete disaster area. Will wanted to fix it up and sell, but I convinced him to keep it. I knew he would never forgive himself if he sold it without confirmation that…you weren't coming back. Plus, it was easily accessible. It would have cost too much to fix up your place, buy another, and adapt that to him as well."

Her brow furrowed and her eyes darkened. "His needs? Why? What happened? I seem to remember him in a bathtub and blood…blood was everywhere…lots of blood…" Just like Danny, she did not add.

His eyebrows knotted together and his gaze became distant: he was no longer looking at her but instead into a past that she was not a part of. "Will was stabbed in the stomach by Allison and left for dead. When I found him, he had already lost a substantial amount of blood. He was in and out of the hospital for a good year or more, being subjected to tests or undergoing surgeries. After about a year, a surgery went wrong and they damaged his spinal column. They couldn't repair it; now he's paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair."

Silence dominated for a time while Sydney let the news sink in. Her only best friend that was alive was now scarred for life. Because of her. It was all because of her. But she could not let this get to her yet; there was still too much to learn to get so emotional so soon. So she shoved her guilt over Will's condition aside and moved on. "How's my dad? Is he all right? Is he still with the agency?" Syd was almost hesitant, afraid of the answer that she might receive.

Vaughn's composure relaxed and a smile cracked his serious façade. "Syd, your dad got promoted to Director of the task force to find you. Though he was briefly demoted after the force was disbanded, he was promoted to Director of the task force to find Sloane, Sark, and Derevko."

"So no one's found her yet."

He shook his head. "No, but Jack is doing just fine. He missed you so much."

Syd nodded mutely, biting her lip in dread. She did not want to continue on with her intended line of questioning, but she needed to in order to keep her last thread of sanity in tact. She needed to know what happened to understand why it happened so that eventually — maybe, possibly — she could get over it and get some closure one day. "What happened to Francie's double? Did they ever find the real Francie? Is she alive?"

Vaughn could not meet her eyes, and that was all the answer that she needed. His voice grew soft and strained out of respect. "Francie's double died of blood loss before I got there." He had to take another deep, rattling breath before continuing. "They found Francie less than a year after you disappeared. She had been shot sniper-style in the forehead. Very clean, very fast; she didn't suffer, Syd."

She gave no response save for a dangerously quivering chin and runny nose (which she wiped again on her shoulder). This time, she had to take longer to regain her composure, to compartmentalize her complex feelings so that she could access or tap into them later. She was perilously close to reaching her capacity for hidden emotions, but she did not care. She needed to know. The shock was slowly starting to take over again, numbness whispering in her ear. It was easier to cope with the devastating news with a layer of shock and numbness to protect her. Once she was ready again, she had to think about the wording of her next question. She wanted a sufficient answer without too much unwanted information. Finally she gave up, closed her eyes and inquired, "Who is she?"

Sighing heavily, he began rubbing the back of his neck deftly with his fingertips, contemplating his answer. He, too, gave up trying to spare her details; this was not the time to coddle her. "Her name is Karen. She's from the Washington, D.C., headquarters. We met about a year ago and we've been married for three months."

"You said that you came back…Where did you come back from?"

His eyes glued themselves to a spot on the ceiling above Sydney's head. "When the task force to find you was disbanded, I put in a transfer request and Kendall sent me to Washington. That's where I met Karen." He twisted the ring about his finger subconsciously, twisting her nerves and heart with it. "I was her partner. She was a new recruit who had just finished some time at Langely. We didn't have time for a honeymoon right after we got married, so we were taking one now. That's when I got the call that they found you." He paused, choosing his next words slowly and carefully. "We didn't hit it off right away but I love her, Syd. I really truly love her."

Sydney nodded, having the physical ability to do nothing else. She had reached her limit and wanted to hear no more. She was secured to a chair in a stuffy, dusty cargo bay on a plane and instead of being tortured with the normal devices, she was being told how much the world did not miss her. But she had something else to say, one more thing before the glue had dissolved completely.

"Just tell me one thing: did you bury me?"

Vaughn closed his eyes in pain. "Yes. Yes, we buried you."

She nodded, biting her lip and drawing blood, and looked out the window, silently pleading with him to leave her in peace. He took up the tray of uneaten sandwiches and water bottles and left the room, hesitating at the doorway for a moment when he thought he heard his name.

When the door clicked behind him, she lowered her chin onto her chest and began to sob quietly.