A/N: Part three is not cut up into parts. I'll post part 4 when I finish
posting the parts at sd-1.
Part 3
He could feel his stomach up in his throat, his elevated heart beat, his intense apprehension; all things he shouldn't be feeling. How many time had he gone to see this woman before this night? It was no different no matter how many times he had gone in to face her - his hate would always kick in a minute or two in, instantly calming him down. What kind of justice did he receive from her being there, helping them? As the twin gates rose, he attempted to collect himself, pull himself into some sort of recognizable human being and not the confused and conflicted being he had somehow become in the last five hours. There were things he could not hide, though, that would give him away at a moment's glance. Such as his red, tired eyes, or the bruises he'd noticed while sitting silent on the drive here, sustained while he beat up his best friend and closest confidant.
He was falling apart at the seams.
With a clang, the gates locked into position above his head, assuring him that he could proceed to see the prisoner. Attempting once again to collect himself, he took the first steps towards saving himself. By making a deal with the devil.
She was staring off into oblivion as always, a thoughtful look on her face as if she were working out some complex philosophical problem. Her window showed no trace of the on and off rain plaguing the city, only a whiteness that could never be mistaken for the real outdoors. A tactic she must have learned long ago came into place as Vaughn centered himself in front of her glass cell, letting him stand there and wait until she would move, then speak. He would not allow her to unnerve him, to push him off his game. She was not in control here, he was. Or was he?
"Agent Vaughn, I was not expecting you," she said slowly, gracefully pulling herself up from her previous position. Brown hair tied in a ponytail swung behind her as she moved toward him, as close as she could be given her location. Her visitor was thankful for that, any closer and he was not sure he could be held responsible for his actions. His best friend! How could he do such a thing!
A foot shot out behind him to unconsciously catch himself as he brought a hand up to his slightly lowered head. It was warm to the touch, a shot of pain traveling through it at the thoughts of his earlier transgressions.
"Are you alright?" Irina asked of him. He growled under his breath. How could he have done that, let her see him at a weak point! And his head, why had he lowered it in her presence? He rose it quickly, almost too quickly, and tried to hide his wince as the headache intensified. His eyes leveled with hers, boring into her as they never had before. Irina recoiled only slightly, the resemblance causing her to believe she was facing a ghost.
"I want to know how," he said, enunciating each word he spoke. A cough trailed, a short warning against his health should he continue to act so self-damaging. He was normally a very reasonable, logical man; a man who stuck to the facts and his undying love to figure out the puzzles put before him. Logic had long since flown out the window.
"How?" Irnia asked playfully, a smile threatening to break free from her tightly controlled emotions. "Ahh," she suddenly said, realization dawning in her mind, "You want to know how your father died. I would have thought that would be in his file."
"You'd be surprised," he bit out. A file could tell you cold, hard, indisputable facts. Cold facts that could only tell him so much, and from that, he could only stipulate what happened to some extent. But a file would never be able to tell him what had happened before the file started, or what the people involved felt. A history of exposition couldn't be completed because the party involved was dead. Was he frightened? Was it an accident? The journal entries ended before his father's death, no mention of his murderer in the pages before that still unread final entry. And what of her? He was sure something must have happened involving his father's cover before the murder occurred, blown somehow. The file told of the mission he was one, what he was to be doing. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a man's picture in a file grouped together with 24 others who died at her hands.
She was laughing at him on the inside - he could tell that simply based on her expression, the slight twinkle she had in her eyes. They mocked him from the other side of the glass, mocked his devotion, his ignorance. Never his innocence, for that was taken from him when the news of his father's death had first floated into his small ears. No, innocence was reserved for those who had happy childhoods, those of family picnics in the park and smiling parents at birthday parties. His had ended at age eight, stolen from him by a nameless, faceless monster for reasons unknown to him.
"No information is free, Agent Vaughn, no matter what pretense," she spoke slowly, the words rolling through her accent. "Are you in a position to bargain for the answer to your questions?" He could almost hear Jack's voice in the back of his head warning him against accepting any deal from her. Vaughn shook his head, the voice disappearing as he did so, and he asked himself:
What price would he put on his sanity?
"I am," he answered promptly. He knew if he held back he would never sleep, or at the very least, sleep with nightmares of an unanswered mystery eating away at his conscious. "I can't speak for the agency, though, just myself," he quickly added, just to be clear. The last thing he wanted was a meeting with Kendall and this woman's ex-husband concerning some kind of bargain he made on his own, an obligation they'd have to fulfill. He couldn't burden them like that, this was his fight alone, and he only wished he had something she would want in return. Though he was afraid what that might be.
"You don't have many luxuries, do you, Mr. Vaughn? As a government employee you can't make much money. Why do you do it, then?" she asked. Vaughn's heart beat faster as he stood, separated only by glass, his mind crying out for her to simply answer him, to tell him what she wanted so he could finally hear the truth. Why couldn't she see that all he wanted was to know what he had come in here asking for, and nothing more? Why couldn't she stop playing her damn games and give him a straight answer!
"That's none of your business," he gritted out between clenched teeth, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His head was swimming, almost so much that he was finding it a little hard to calculate how much time had elapsed since he last consumed a swig or two of cold medicine. The numbers kept looping in his head, or, were forgotten as he moved on to another stage of his calculations. It was at least time for another dose, he could assume that. And this woman across from him, with all her games and hesitation, wasn't helping to make that happen any time soon.
"I can respect that," she responded to Vaughn's surprise. But that didn't measure up to what she asked of him next. "Don't you think this glass is a little impersonal?" Was she asking him to come inside the cell of a madwoman? His fists relaxed a bit in his confusion and deliberation over her request, posed as a simple question. She was right, no, why was he listening to her! She was wrong, the glass was there for a reason, to keep him safe. Or was it to keep her safe? If he was intent on going in that cell to hear how she butchered his father he didn't know if he could trust himself in there.
"Mr. Vaughn?"
"Hrm?" came the curt, polite reply. He'd zoned out again, and replied unconsciously to his name being called. He pondered that for a moment, wondering when he'd crossed the line to responding to his last name from his first, from what his mother had called his father on occasion to what she'd called him. Had he really morphed that much, so much that he had become his own father?
"Is this not something that would be better if said face to face?"
"And we're not face to face here?" he said immediately, sharply. His patience was wavering dangerously thin, setting him even more off balance.
"It's up to you," she commented nonchalantly, twisting ever so slightly so her back was to him, showing disinterest. He wanted nothing more than to launch himself at the glass, to press his sweaty palms against it and cry out her name as if she were a retreating animal at the zoo he loved. His expression certainly would have been brighter. But his control, composure, was ingrained in his character so much that behavior such as that would be intolerable.
He shook his head, later attributing his moment of temporary insanity to whatever sickness he was suffering from at the moment. Whatever it was, it caused him to signal to the guards to open the door, fully knowing it would close behind him for security reasons, locking him in with her. This was the price he put on his sanity, though at this point, he wasn't sure he still had any of it left.
"Agent Vaughn, be careful," the guard said through the installed loudspeakers, letting the glass door swing open. He nodded, ducking his head for a moment before taking a step forward into this unknown.
Irina was ready for him, using her half-turned position to gain extra momentum, pushing Vaughn up against the wall just beyond the door as it automatically sealed shut. His green eyes were open wide as her left forearm pushed into his throat, her other hand resting against his stomach, holding him against the wall. She wasn't pushing hard enough to warrant a struggle - and he seriously doubted he could in his condition - something that could change at any moment. Here eyes were fierce, intense, and she knew she'd won. How easily he'd played into her hands!
"There is something you can do for me," she whispered harshly, her breath hot against his face. "I need to know what your father wrote in that silly journal of his for the last week of his life."
His mind zoomed, picturing random entries he'd read over the years, his mind's eye focusing on the dates scrawled hazily in his father's distinct masculine handwriting. Dates ran through his head as Irnia waited patiently, yet not too patiently, for him to respond. It was then that the younger man groaned inwardly in frustration. The last entry! It was the only one from that week, that contained the information she was asking for.
"I don't know," he admitted, eyes conveying no emotion. He couldn't - she would pounce on him if he did. Now she was pushing harder, his last breath caught in his throat.
"Do you want to know what I can do to you? The guards have called someone, I'm sure, but I have all the time I need."
"Put him down!" If he could have turned his head, he would have; but Vaughn already knew who's voice that was. Sydney. Irnia turned to face her daughter, along side two armed guards and Weiss, all four of them holding guns at her. It wasn't bulletproof glass. Her face was expressionless, as if she was disgusted with her actions were it not for the information she needed. Was she questioning herself? How could she be doing that, Vaughn thought, a monster does not question their actions. And if she were, did that mean she didn't kill his father and not regret it afterwards like he'd imagined she had. His face twisted, his energy reserve diminished from the lengthy conversation. Had Irina not been holding him up, it was likely he would have trouble standing on his own. And this was not I-haven't-slept-in- four-days tired. Stress and sleep deprivation paired with the common cold was about to take him down. If Irina didn't do it first.
"Let him go, Ms. Derevko," one of the guards said as the glass door slowly opened, the metal gates behind them finally locked down. The pair of guards advanced, guns held before them; Kendall arriving and standing behind the gates. She leaned into Vaughn, her lips inches from his ear.
"Tell me that and I'll tell you anything you want to know," she whispered, "like how I watched your father burn. How he screamed against the flames."
"Get off of me," he ordered. She sighed, but complied, raising her hands above her head as the two guards stormed in, shoving her violently against the opposite wall. Sydney and Weiss rushed in after them as Vaughn rubbed his throat lightly as he leaned against the wall. His head dropped, eyes sliding closed. It was just going to get worse, now, not better. Was his quest for the truth silly? In vain? Never ending?
Weiss's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "What the hell were you thinking?" Sydney demanded from his other side, arm wrapping around his shoulders to lead him out of the glass cell. He could hear the guards coming out after him, the door shutting with an audible click. It was simultaneous with the sounds of the gates opening before them.
"Yes, Agent Vaughn, I'd like to know exactly what you were thinking," Kendall's voice broke through to him, even though his eyes remained closed. He sighed deeply, thankful he was able to do so once again, but didn't move. He was simply too tired, too drained to do anything other than stand there under the support of his friends. But Kendall was not a man who would give up so easily, and his gaze seemed to bore into Vaughn's head as he stood there, thinking, not thinking - he didn't know anymore. He was living off things told to him, taken at face value, the sources trusted beyond all belief.
And if he'd based his life off these things, did that make his life fake?
"Actually, Director Kendall, he's not looking too well at the - "
"I can see that, Agent Weiss," the director interrupted, "however, he was just attacked for no reason by Ms. Derevko and I'd like to know what the hell he was doing in there."
"Personal business," was what Vaughn found himself saying despite knowing that was what he shouldn't be saying. Kendall rubbed the top of his head.
"Personal business? And what may that be?"
"Listen, you can all have your discussions and questions answered later. Right now, Vaughn needs to get some sleep. Then, he'll talk," Sydney broke in, stepping in front of Vaughn and Weiss, placing herself between them and the fuming director. His mouth opened as if to say something, then shut it. Sydney's eyes told him no more words would be exchanged, and he certainly wasn't going to be speaking with the agent any time soon. Kendall backed down, taking a step backwards.
"Fine, fine, but I expect a full report on my desk as soon as you return. Understand me?"
"Perfectly," Vaughn relied sarcastically as he pushed off Weiss's hand. Why did they all feel they needed to get involved in his personal life? They were coworkers, yes, and with that came the abridged knowledge of each other's lives. But that was it. So why, now, were they all here asking him questions, demanding answers he didn't want to give. They wanted him to sleep, fine, he'd go sleep. And stay home to rest, fine. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and he doubted they were tracking his movements. He'd just have to find another way.
. .
Weiss took him home, the shiner on his eye as dark as ever. He winced each time he blinked (which was quite a lot) but didn't say a word, simple kept his eyes on the road as he traveled the crowded roads of LA. That wasn't going to last long, Vaughn though, Eric can't stay quite for more than thirty minutes, tops. And that's if he's livid.
"Okay," he finally broke, turning to his friend as they sat at a red light only two blocks from Vaughn's small apartment, "what was going through your head when I came over earlier? Hrmm? Or later, when you staged a jail brake?"
"I'd hardly call leaving my own apartment a jail brake," Vaughn quipped, staring straight ahead at the cars turning in front of them.
"And the cause for this?" Weiss inquired, pointing to his darkened eye. "I've known you for years and you'd never been that violent, at least, not towards someone you know." The light changed, but the car didn't move.
"The light - "
"Explanation."
"Eric, didn't we do this already?"
And the car did not move. Of course, by now, people were honking at him, cursing through their windows at the driver that wouldn't move. Vaughn slumped back in the seat, arms crossed like he was a rebellious teenager being yelled at by his father. Not that anything like that happened when he was younger - and the pressures of having only one parent created an over striving spirit inside that kept him from misbehaving.
"Fine, fine, just move the damned car already," Vaughn huffed.
"Woah, someone woke up from their nap cranky," Weiss cooed as if speaking to a small child. Vaughn shot him a look - a futile effort on his part as Weiss was beyond the point of allowing his friend's glares get to him. It was a valiant effort, but effect less none the less. "Oh, c'mon. You've gotta have something on your mind if you don't laugh at the baby voice."
"Have I ever laughed at the baby voice?" Vaughn challenged, raising an arched eyebrow. Weiss shrugged.
"Probably not, but that doesn't mean it's not funny," he countered, the scenery having slid by during their conversation. Weiss slid comfortably into Vaughn's apartment building's visitor's spot. The only upside to this slightly narrower space was its close proximity to the elevator, guaranteeing Weiss never had to walk far to reach his friend's place. Avoidance of exercise - that's what he was all about, and the five feet to the elevator helped him do just that. He was also glad for it at the moment, its closeness would make forcing his friend upstairs just that much easier.
"Has anyone laughed at it? Ever?" Vaughn replied, pulling himself out of the car. Weiss slammed his door, the sound reverberating through the deserted garage, his face a dangerous mask of mock-anger.
"Someone did, once. Awhile ago. I believe it was you, or your drunken alter- ego," he huffed. Vaughn scoffed, joining Weiss in front of the elevator. The button was lit up, already depressed by the visitor, but the elevator had yet to arrive. Vaughn groaned in frustration, a hand coming up to slap his forehead.
"This elevator takes *forever*!" he released with a held breath. Weiss simply smiled.
"But waiting here is a great way to meet women," he admitted sheepishly. Vaughn shook his head.
"I'm taking the stairs," he stated, beginning to turn towards the door to the adjacent stairwell, but was quickly stopped, grabbed by Weiss and forcefully pulled back.
"Nope. You're with me until I find out what's going on, buddy."
"Pushy, aren't we?"
"Look who's talking." He paused taking a deep breath. "Listen, I'm just worried about ya, Mike. I've never seen you like this. Violent, going inside Derevko's cell - what's going on?" If he'd been animated, Weiss would have been tapping his foot, his arms crossed as he looked down expectantly at his prey in an almost humorous way. Instead, he stood somewhat slouched, his arms hanging at his sides as he awaited some - any - response.
"It's nothing, don't worry about it."
"Sorry, already worried. Why do you gotta keep everyone out and deal with whatever it is alone?"
Third time that day. He was going for a record.
. .
He could feel it slipping, as if his mind had become liquid and could seep out of his ears at any moment. As a child, he would claim his schoolwork was too hard, and his brains were going to explode, burst out of his ears and ruin her walls. A patient woman to the core, his mother would smile at him over some housework and give her support. As well as mention that she did indeed have a bottle of cleaner under the sink that could take those brains right off the walls. He would nod after a laugh or too, his spirit strengthened by her mere presence, and start on the work again. He never noticed how sad her eyes would become as soon as his attention was back on the schoolwork, or how she'd pause, just a second or too, as if there were something more she wanted to say. She never did say it, though, and would leave to clean in another room, claiming to respect his request of silence while he studied. Maybe that's when she started slipping, or somehow, she clung to him like a life preserver in this sea of life.
He would never do anything of the sort.
His father had been everything to him. A hero, a playmate, a friend. To Vaughn, there was nothing more important than hanging around his father. They would hang out together when he was around, talk about guy stuff, or whisper in their own secret language around mom so that she wouldn't understand what they were saying. When the elder Vaughn would leave for a business trip, the younger boy would shut himself in his room only to emerge an hour later, his eyes strong yet with red still lingering at the edges. He would never cry in front of his mother, not even after he learned his father was never coming home. It was protection to stay detached, and he hoped if he did not stray outside the lines as he learned his father had, death would not come so quickly. Attachment only brought pain.
This strong yet unconventional opinion was only strengthened by the flight of his agent, of the pain she felt as result of these attachments, of this love. Unlike him, she had learned to love after her mother's death, learned how to open up again. Look where it got her! She was miserable for weeks, months, and never seemed to heal. Instead, she re-opened old wounds, allowing herself to be hurt again and again. It was illogical, his mind told him, to do that to oneself. And while he was jovial and friendly, he never found himself close to someone ever again, close enough to share lives and secrets. He had learned how to hide it well.
It was because of this line of thought that he could dismiss Weiss with a wave of his hand, lingering only long enough to listen to the jumbled explination of events that had transpired before.
"I hear something crash and noticed the door was unlocked," he had explained, "you must have forgotten to lock it after getting in."
"I would have done the same," Vaughn had replied, his gaze settled elsewhere as to hide the lie. Would he have? Or was this friendship simply superficial, a friendship of conceived to prevent a loneliness at the office where social relationships flourished.
"Oh! My knight in shining amour!" Weiss had exclaimed. Vaughn shook his head.
"Grow up, man," he replied, and turned to his door. The conversation was over, and Weiss stalked to the elevator alone.
The door to the apartment swung open, but not as widely as normal. Vaughn pondered this for a moment before noticing the broken side table blocking the door's path, the overturned couch, and the lamp shattered in pieces beyond it. He had done all this? Understanding dawned in his mind, Weiss' explanation no longer odd to him. Of course he would have come running - they all lived lives in which something could happen at any moment to threaten the safety of an agent. He angrily kicked the wooden splinters out of the way before slamming the door close behind him.
A breeze tickled his face. His cold green eyes darted to the window, which had opened again. For a second, apprehension gripped his heart, a stickiness developing in his mouth. With four defiant steps, he crossed the room and gripped the window frame with slick, sweaty hands, pushing it down and close. The wind did not stop.
He spun around, eyes examining the other windows in the small living room for the other window that must be open. None were. Instead, the journal sat there, half hanging off the table, the pages turned by an unexplained wind. He fell into the nearby chair, his head resting in his hands. What a corner he had been pushed into! To learn how his father had died, he must read the last entry in the journal. But to do that would be acknowledging a finality that existed beyond the physical realm. Was he ready to kill his father in his mind?
But the dream, the dream would never let him! So was this the key to regaining some grasp on reality? But would this reality be one he would want to face?
"What do you want from me?" he groaned, the sentence elevating into a roar, the end of which was punctuated with the violent toss of a harmless toss pillow. It connected, knocking the journal off the table with a clatter to the floor. No, he would not read it, he would not cut that thin and final string connecting him to his father, to his past. He couldn't. Not as a son, how would he live with himself?
"Stop hiding."
The words were fuzzy at best, but at least they stopped the freezing wind. A sigh escaped parched lips, trembling lips hidden beneath tired hands. He would not cry.
"Stop!"
"Stop?" he asked of the air, of the past, or of the ghost, he was not sure. "You were never there and I needed you!"
The voice did not respond. He snorted, annoyed with the air.
"Exactly. I was all alone, a child all alone. And now, now I'm trapped! Trapped in a place I know there is no way out of. You warned me, didn't you. Never do what I do, Mikey, you'll just end up like me. But I *wanted* to end up like you! I never knew then, no I didn't. I never knew then how full of shit you were!"
He was screaming at the sky now, the sky, the air, the small journal lying on the floor.
"You never hung around me out of love, it was out of duty, of pity for the child you abandoned! Abandoned in more ways than one! All I wanted, all I wanted - " he paused, his voice cracking. Regain yourself! A real man does not cry, does not fall victim to his emotions! But he couldn't. The voices, the lessons from the past and present wove a net of sound around him, screaming at him to do something, anything but this! His eyes slid closed, his hands pressed against his ears, his voice shouting, pleading for them to stop, to leave him in peace. That was all he wanted! He wanted -
"I wanted you to love me! Was that too much to ask?" The voices moved in closer and closer, his own mind's voice tumbling in with them. He never mentioned love in his journal. He never said it to you. He always left you alone.
The others joined in the taunts, the voices unifying into one. Vaughn believed it would be his father's voice speaking to him, assuring him that his assumptions were right and he had never held any love for his only son. But the voices, unified, terrified Vaughn to no end.
It was his own.
Standing there, in the middle of chaos, both of the mind and of his home, he listened as his own voice shouted strong and true at him. That was the result of all the voices, of all the thoughts and ideas. It wrapped around him, the voice softening as if it were a lullaby soothing him to sleep. For a moment, the conscious Vaughn had the mind to fight back, to tell it that he was only doing this to himself, that it wasn't true. The voice was stronger, built for years by doubts and pain and issues never explored. And it over powered him, plummeting him into a dreamless, thoughtless sleep from which the weaker voice would never awaken.
Part 3
He could feel his stomach up in his throat, his elevated heart beat, his intense apprehension; all things he shouldn't be feeling. How many time had he gone to see this woman before this night? It was no different no matter how many times he had gone in to face her - his hate would always kick in a minute or two in, instantly calming him down. What kind of justice did he receive from her being there, helping them? As the twin gates rose, he attempted to collect himself, pull himself into some sort of recognizable human being and not the confused and conflicted being he had somehow become in the last five hours. There were things he could not hide, though, that would give him away at a moment's glance. Such as his red, tired eyes, or the bruises he'd noticed while sitting silent on the drive here, sustained while he beat up his best friend and closest confidant.
He was falling apart at the seams.
With a clang, the gates locked into position above his head, assuring him that he could proceed to see the prisoner. Attempting once again to collect himself, he took the first steps towards saving himself. By making a deal with the devil.
She was staring off into oblivion as always, a thoughtful look on her face as if she were working out some complex philosophical problem. Her window showed no trace of the on and off rain plaguing the city, only a whiteness that could never be mistaken for the real outdoors. A tactic she must have learned long ago came into place as Vaughn centered himself in front of her glass cell, letting him stand there and wait until she would move, then speak. He would not allow her to unnerve him, to push him off his game. She was not in control here, he was. Or was he?
"Agent Vaughn, I was not expecting you," she said slowly, gracefully pulling herself up from her previous position. Brown hair tied in a ponytail swung behind her as she moved toward him, as close as she could be given her location. Her visitor was thankful for that, any closer and he was not sure he could be held responsible for his actions. His best friend! How could he do such a thing!
A foot shot out behind him to unconsciously catch himself as he brought a hand up to his slightly lowered head. It was warm to the touch, a shot of pain traveling through it at the thoughts of his earlier transgressions.
"Are you alright?" Irina asked of him. He growled under his breath. How could he have done that, let her see him at a weak point! And his head, why had he lowered it in her presence? He rose it quickly, almost too quickly, and tried to hide his wince as the headache intensified. His eyes leveled with hers, boring into her as they never had before. Irina recoiled only slightly, the resemblance causing her to believe she was facing a ghost.
"I want to know how," he said, enunciating each word he spoke. A cough trailed, a short warning against his health should he continue to act so self-damaging. He was normally a very reasonable, logical man; a man who stuck to the facts and his undying love to figure out the puzzles put before him. Logic had long since flown out the window.
"How?" Irnia asked playfully, a smile threatening to break free from her tightly controlled emotions. "Ahh," she suddenly said, realization dawning in her mind, "You want to know how your father died. I would have thought that would be in his file."
"You'd be surprised," he bit out. A file could tell you cold, hard, indisputable facts. Cold facts that could only tell him so much, and from that, he could only stipulate what happened to some extent. But a file would never be able to tell him what had happened before the file started, or what the people involved felt. A history of exposition couldn't be completed because the party involved was dead. Was he frightened? Was it an accident? The journal entries ended before his father's death, no mention of his murderer in the pages before that still unread final entry. And what of her? He was sure something must have happened involving his father's cover before the murder occurred, blown somehow. The file told of the mission he was one, what he was to be doing. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a man's picture in a file grouped together with 24 others who died at her hands.
She was laughing at him on the inside - he could tell that simply based on her expression, the slight twinkle she had in her eyes. They mocked him from the other side of the glass, mocked his devotion, his ignorance. Never his innocence, for that was taken from him when the news of his father's death had first floated into his small ears. No, innocence was reserved for those who had happy childhoods, those of family picnics in the park and smiling parents at birthday parties. His had ended at age eight, stolen from him by a nameless, faceless monster for reasons unknown to him.
"No information is free, Agent Vaughn, no matter what pretense," she spoke slowly, the words rolling through her accent. "Are you in a position to bargain for the answer to your questions?" He could almost hear Jack's voice in the back of his head warning him against accepting any deal from her. Vaughn shook his head, the voice disappearing as he did so, and he asked himself:
What price would he put on his sanity?
"I am," he answered promptly. He knew if he held back he would never sleep, or at the very least, sleep with nightmares of an unanswered mystery eating away at his conscious. "I can't speak for the agency, though, just myself," he quickly added, just to be clear. The last thing he wanted was a meeting with Kendall and this woman's ex-husband concerning some kind of bargain he made on his own, an obligation they'd have to fulfill. He couldn't burden them like that, this was his fight alone, and he only wished he had something she would want in return. Though he was afraid what that might be.
"You don't have many luxuries, do you, Mr. Vaughn? As a government employee you can't make much money. Why do you do it, then?" she asked. Vaughn's heart beat faster as he stood, separated only by glass, his mind crying out for her to simply answer him, to tell him what she wanted so he could finally hear the truth. Why couldn't she see that all he wanted was to know what he had come in here asking for, and nothing more? Why couldn't she stop playing her damn games and give him a straight answer!
"That's none of your business," he gritted out between clenched teeth, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His head was swimming, almost so much that he was finding it a little hard to calculate how much time had elapsed since he last consumed a swig or two of cold medicine. The numbers kept looping in his head, or, were forgotten as he moved on to another stage of his calculations. It was at least time for another dose, he could assume that. And this woman across from him, with all her games and hesitation, wasn't helping to make that happen any time soon.
"I can respect that," she responded to Vaughn's surprise. But that didn't measure up to what she asked of him next. "Don't you think this glass is a little impersonal?" Was she asking him to come inside the cell of a madwoman? His fists relaxed a bit in his confusion and deliberation over her request, posed as a simple question. She was right, no, why was he listening to her! She was wrong, the glass was there for a reason, to keep him safe. Or was it to keep her safe? If he was intent on going in that cell to hear how she butchered his father he didn't know if he could trust himself in there.
"Mr. Vaughn?"
"Hrm?" came the curt, polite reply. He'd zoned out again, and replied unconsciously to his name being called. He pondered that for a moment, wondering when he'd crossed the line to responding to his last name from his first, from what his mother had called his father on occasion to what she'd called him. Had he really morphed that much, so much that he had become his own father?
"Is this not something that would be better if said face to face?"
"And we're not face to face here?" he said immediately, sharply. His patience was wavering dangerously thin, setting him even more off balance.
"It's up to you," she commented nonchalantly, twisting ever so slightly so her back was to him, showing disinterest. He wanted nothing more than to launch himself at the glass, to press his sweaty palms against it and cry out her name as if she were a retreating animal at the zoo he loved. His expression certainly would have been brighter. But his control, composure, was ingrained in his character so much that behavior such as that would be intolerable.
He shook his head, later attributing his moment of temporary insanity to whatever sickness he was suffering from at the moment. Whatever it was, it caused him to signal to the guards to open the door, fully knowing it would close behind him for security reasons, locking him in with her. This was the price he put on his sanity, though at this point, he wasn't sure he still had any of it left.
"Agent Vaughn, be careful," the guard said through the installed loudspeakers, letting the glass door swing open. He nodded, ducking his head for a moment before taking a step forward into this unknown.
Irina was ready for him, using her half-turned position to gain extra momentum, pushing Vaughn up against the wall just beyond the door as it automatically sealed shut. His green eyes were open wide as her left forearm pushed into his throat, her other hand resting against his stomach, holding him against the wall. She wasn't pushing hard enough to warrant a struggle - and he seriously doubted he could in his condition - something that could change at any moment. Here eyes were fierce, intense, and she knew she'd won. How easily he'd played into her hands!
"There is something you can do for me," she whispered harshly, her breath hot against his face. "I need to know what your father wrote in that silly journal of his for the last week of his life."
His mind zoomed, picturing random entries he'd read over the years, his mind's eye focusing on the dates scrawled hazily in his father's distinct masculine handwriting. Dates ran through his head as Irnia waited patiently, yet not too patiently, for him to respond. It was then that the younger man groaned inwardly in frustration. The last entry! It was the only one from that week, that contained the information she was asking for.
"I don't know," he admitted, eyes conveying no emotion. He couldn't - she would pounce on him if he did. Now she was pushing harder, his last breath caught in his throat.
"Do you want to know what I can do to you? The guards have called someone, I'm sure, but I have all the time I need."
"Put him down!" If he could have turned his head, he would have; but Vaughn already knew who's voice that was. Sydney. Irnia turned to face her daughter, along side two armed guards and Weiss, all four of them holding guns at her. It wasn't bulletproof glass. Her face was expressionless, as if she was disgusted with her actions were it not for the information she needed. Was she questioning herself? How could she be doing that, Vaughn thought, a monster does not question their actions. And if she were, did that mean she didn't kill his father and not regret it afterwards like he'd imagined she had. His face twisted, his energy reserve diminished from the lengthy conversation. Had Irina not been holding him up, it was likely he would have trouble standing on his own. And this was not I-haven't-slept-in- four-days tired. Stress and sleep deprivation paired with the common cold was about to take him down. If Irina didn't do it first.
"Let him go, Ms. Derevko," one of the guards said as the glass door slowly opened, the metal gates behind them finally locked down. The pair of guards advanced, guns held before them; Kendall arriving and standing behind the gates. She leaned into Vaughn, her lips inches from his ear.
"Tell me that and I'll tell you anything you want to know," she whispered, "like how I watched your father burn. How he screamed against the flames."
"Get off of me," he ordered. She sighed, but complied, raising her hands above her head as the two guards stormed in, shoving her violently against the opposite wall. Sydney and Weiss rushed in after them as Vaughn rubbed his throat lightly as he leaned against the wall. His head dropped, eyes sliding closed. It was just going to get worse, now, not better. Was his quest for the truth silly? In vain? Never ending?
Weiss's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "What the hell were you thinking?" Sydney demanded from his other side, arm wrapping around his shoulders to lead him out of the glass cell. He could hear the guards coming out after him, the door shutting with an audible click. It was simultaneous with the sounds of the gates opening before them.
"Yes, Agent Vaughn, I'd like to know exactly what you were thinking," Kendall's voice broke through to him, even though his eyes remained closed. He sighed deeply, thankful he was able to do so once again, but didn't move. He was simply too tired, too drained to do anything other than stand there under the support of his friends. But Kendall was not a man who would give up so easily, and his gaze seemed to bore into Vaughn's head as he stood there, thinking, not thinking - he didn't know anymore. He was living off things told to him, taken at face value, the sources trusted beyond all belief.
And if he'd based his life off these things, did that make his life fake?
"Actually, Director Kendall, he's not looking too well at the - "
"I can see that, Agent Weiss," the director interrupted, "however, he was just attacked for no reason by Ms. Derevko and I'd like to know what the hell he was doing in there."
"Personal business," was what Vaughn found himself saying despite knowing that was what he shouldn't be saying. Kendall rubbed the top of his head.
"Personal business? And what may that be?"
"Listen, you can all have your discussions and questions answered later. Right now, Vaughn needs to get some sleep. Then, he'll talk," Sydney broke in, stepping in front of Vaughn and Weiss, placing herself between them and the fuming director. His mouth opened as if to say something, then shut it. Sydney's eyes told him no more words would be exchanged, and he certainly wasn't going to be speaking with the agent any time soon. Kendall backed down, taking a step backwards.
"Fine, fine, but I expect a full report on my desk as soon as you return. Understand me?"
"Perfectly," Vaughn relied sarcastically as he pushed off Weiss's hand. Why did they all feel they needed to get involved in his personal life? They were coworkers, yes, and with that came the abridged knowledge of each other's lives. But that was it. So why, now, were they all here asking him questions, demanding answers he didn't want to give. They wanted him to sleep, fine, he'd go sleep. And stay home to rest, fine. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and he doubted they were tracking his movements. He'd just have to find another way.
. .
Weiss took him home, the shiner on his eye as dark as ever. He winced each time he blinked (which was quite a lot) but didn't say a word, simple kept his eyes on the road as he traveled the crowded roads of LA. That wasn't going to last long, Vaughn though, Eric can't stay quite for more than thirty minutes, tops. And that's if he's livid.
"Okay," he finally broke, turning to his friend as they sat at a red light only two blocks from Vaughn's small apartment, "what was going through your head when I came over earlier? Hrmm? Or later, when you staged a jail brake?"
"I'd hardly call leaving my own apartment a jail brake," Vaughn quipped, staring straight ahead at the cars turning in front of them.
"And the cause for this?" Weiss inquired, pointing to his darkened eye. "I've known you for years and you'd never been that violent, at least, not towards someone you know." The light changed, but the car didn't move.
"The light - "
"Explanation."
"Eric, didn't we do this already?"
And the car did not move. Of course, by now, people were honking at him, cursing through their windows at the driver that wouldn't move. Vaughn slumped back in the seat, arms crossed like he was a rebellious teenager being yelled at by his father. Not that anything like that happened when he was younger - and the pressures of having only one parent created an over striving spirit inside that kept him from misbehaving.
"Fine, fine, just move the damned car already," Vaughn huffed.
"Woah, someone woke up from their nap cranky," Weiss cooed as if speaking to a small child. Vaughn shot him a look - a futile effort on his part as Weiss was beyond the point of allowing his friend's glares get to him. It was a valiant effort, but effect less none the less. "Oh, c'mon. You've gotta have something on your mind if you don't laugh at the baby voice."
"Have I ever laughed at the baby voice?" Vaughn challenged, raising an arched eyebrow. Weiss shrugged.
"Probably not, but that doesn't mean it's not funny," he countered, the scenery having slid by during their conversation. Weiss slid comfortably into Vaughn's apartment building's visitor's spot. The only upside to this slightly narrower space was its close proximity to the elevator, guaranteeing Weiss never had to walk far to reach his friend's place. Avoidance of exercise - that's what he was all about, and the five feet to the elevator helped him do just that. He was also glad for it at the moment, its closeness would make forcing his friend upstairs just that much easier.
"Has anyone laughed at it? Ever?" Vaughn replied, pulling himself out of the car. Weiss slammed his door, the sound reverberating through the deserted garage, his face a dangerous mask of mock-anger.
"Someone did, once. Awhile ago. I believe it was you, or your drunken alter- ego," he huffed. Vaughn scoffed, joining Weiss in front of the elevator. The button was lit up, already depressed by the visitor, but the elevator had yet to arrive. Vaughn groaned in frustration, a hand coming up to slap his forehead.
"This elevator takes *forever*!" he released with a held breath. Weiss simply smiled.
"But waiting here is a great way to meet women," he admitted sheepishly. Vaughn shook his head.
"I'm taking the stairs," he stated, beginning to turn towards the door to the adjacent stairwell, but was quickly stopped, grabbed by Weiss and forcefully pulled back.
"Nope. You're with me until I find out what's going on, buddy."
"Pushy, aren't we?"
"Look who's talking." He paused taking a deep breath. "Listen, I'm just worried about ya, Mike. I've never seen you like this. Violent, going inside Derevko's cell - what's going on?" If he'd been animated, Weiss would have been tapping his foot, his arms crossed as he looked down expectantly at his prey in an almost humorous way. Instead, he stood somewhat slouched, his arms hanging at his sides as he awaited some - any - response.
"It's nothing, don't worry about it."
"Sorry, already worried. Why do you gotta keep everyone out and deal with whatever it is alone?"
Third time that day. He was going for a record.
. .
He could feel it slipping, as if his mind had become liquid and could seep out of his ears at any moment. As a child, he would claim his schoolwork was too hard, and his brains were going to explode, burst out of his ears and ruin her walls. A patient woman to the core, his mother would smile at him over some housework and give her support. As well as mention that she did indeed have a bottle of cleaner under the sink that could take those brains right off the walls. He would nod after a laugh or too, his spirit strengthened by her mere presence, and start on the work again. He never noticed how sad her eyes would become as soon as his attention was back on the schoolwork, or how she'd pause, just a second or too, as if there were something more she wanted to say. She never did say it, though, and would leave to clean in another room, claiming to respect his request of silence while he studied. Maybe that's when she started slipping, or somehow, she clung to him like a life preserver in this sea of life.
He would never do anything of the sort.
His father had been everything to him. A hero, a playmate, a friend. To Vaughn, there was nothing more important than hanging around his father. They would hang out together when he was around, talk about guy stuff, or whisper in their own secret language around mom so that she wouldn't understand what they were saying. When the elder Vaughn would leave for a business trip, the younger boy would shut himself in his room only to emerge an hour later, his eyes strong yet with red still lingering at the edges. He would never cry in front of his mother, not even after he learned his father was never coming home. It was protection to stay detached, and he hoped if he did not stray outside the lines as he learned his father had, death would not come so quickly. Attachment only brought pain.
This strong yet unconventional opinion was only strengthened by the flight of his agent, of the pain she felt as result of these attachments, of this love. Unlike him, she had learned to love after her mother's death, learned how to open up again. Look where it got her! She was miserable for weeks, months, and never seemed to heal. Instead, she re-opened old wounds, allowing herself to be hurt again and again. It was illogical, his mind told him, to do that to oneself. And while he was jovial and friendly, he never found himself close to someone ever again, close enough to share lives and secrets. He had learned how to hide it well.
It was because of this line of thought that he could dismiss Weiss with a wave of his hand, lingering only long enough to listen to the jumbled explination of events that had transpired before.
"I hear something crash and noticed the door was unlocked," he had explained, "you must have forgotten to lock it after getting in."
"I would have done the same," Vaughn had replied, his gaze settled elsewhere as to hide the lie. Would he have? Or was this friendship simply superficial, a friendship of conceived to prevent a loneliness at the office where social relationships flourished.
"Oh! My knight in shining amour!" Weiss had exclaimed. Vaughn shook his head.
"Grow up, man," he replied, and turned to his door. The conversation was over, and Weiss stalked to the elevator alone.
The door to the apartment swung open, but not as widely as normal. Vaughn pondered this for a moment before noticing the broken side table blocking the door's path, the overturned couch, and the lamp shattered in pieces beyond it. He had done all this? Understanding dawned in his mind, Weiss' explanation no longer odd to him. Of course he would have come running - they all lived lives in which something could happen at any moment to threaten the safety of an agent. He angrily kicked the wooden splinters out of the way before slamming the door close behind him.
A breeze tickled his face. His cold green eyes darted to the window, which had opened again. For a second, apprehension gripped his heart, a stickiness developing in his mouth. With four defiant steps, he crossed the room and gripped the window frame with slick, sweaty hands, pushing it down and close. The wind did not stop.
He spun around, eyes examining the other windows in the small living room for the other window that must be open. None were. Instead, the journal sat there, half hanging off the table, the pages turned by an unexplained wind. He fell into the nearby chair, his head resting in his hands. What a corner he had been pushed into! To learn how his father had died, he must read the last entry in the journal. But to do that would be acknowledging a finality that existed beyond the physical realm. Was he ready to kill his father in his mind?
But the dream, the dream would never let him! So was this the key to regaining some grasp on reality? But would this reality be one he would want to face?
"What do you want from me?" he groaned, the sentence elevating into a roar, the end of which was punctuated with the violent toss of a harmless toss pillow. It connected, knocking the journal off the table with a clatter to the floor. No, he would not read it, he would not cut that thin and final string connecting him to his father, to his past. He couldn't. Not as a son, how would he live with himself?
"Stop hiding."
The words were fuzzy at best, but at least they stopped the freezing wind. A sigh escaped parched lips, trembling lips hidden beneath tired hands. He would not cry.
"Stop!"
"Stop?" he asked of the air, of the past, or of the ghost, he was not sure. "You were never there and I needed you!"
The voice did not respond. He snorted, annoyed with the air.
"Exactly. I was all alone, a child all alone. And now, now I'm trapped! Trapped in a place I know there is no way out of. You warned me, didn't you. Never do what I do, Mikey, you'll just end up like me. But I *wanted* to end up like you! I never knew then, no I didn't. I never knew then how full of shit you were!"
He was screaming at the sky now, the sky, the air, the small journal lying on the floor.
"You never hung around me out of love, it was out of duty, of pity for the child you abandoned! Abandoned in more ways than one! All I wanted, all I wanted - " he paused, his voice cracking. Regain yourself! A real man does not cry, does not fall victim to his emotions! But he couldn't. The voices, the lessons from the past and present wove a net of sound around him, screaming at him to do something, anything but this! His eyes slid closed, his hands pressed against his ears, his voice shouting, pleading for them to stop, to leave him in peace. That was all he wanted! He wanted -
"I wanted you to love me! Was that too much to ask?" The voices moved in closer and closer, his own mind's voice tumbling in with them. He never mentioned love in his journal. He never said it to you. He always left you alone.
The others joined in the taunts, the voices unifying into one. Vaughn believed it would be his father's voice speaking to him, assuring him that his assumptions were right and he had never held any love for his only son. But the voices, unified, terrified Vaughn to no end.
It was his own.
Standing there, in the middle of chaos, both of the mind and of his home, he listened as his own voice shouted strong and true at him. That was the result of all the voices, of all the thoughts and ideas. It wrapped around him, the voice softening as if it were a lullaby soothing him to sleep. For a moment, the conscious Vaughn had the mind to fight back, to tell it that he was only doing this to himself, that it wasn't true. The voice was stronger, built for years by doubts and pain and issues never explored. And it over powered him, plummeting him into a dreamless, thoughtless sleep from which the weaker voice would never awaken.
