L.A. Connaissance
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Title: L.A. Connaissance
Author: Jennifer a.k.a. "Jenn"
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I wish I owned Michael Vartan but alas it is not to be… at least not in my dreams. When it IS my dreams… he's usually waiting for me… completely salivating for me of course.
Summary: I wanted to get away from the dramatic Post "The Telling" storylines (despite the fact that I wrote one of those…) and write some light, romantic, AU, and hopefully slightly humorous.
For all the drama-ridden S/V lovers out there. This is for you as well as therapy for me.
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2.
Okay. Now I know that there is something wrong with me.
Think I'm exaggerating? I beg to differ. I grovel to differ. I defy and laugh in your face because I DIFFER. Because unless there is something SEVERELY wrong with a person, he/she cannot look at Arvin Sloane and think about sex.
And oh God, I am.
And no, I'm not deranged enough to suggest or even give a moment's thought to (shudder) sex with Arvin Sloane. No, no, no. Haven't you been paying attention? Oh, you haven't? Well let me spell it out for you. Michael. MICHAEL. M-I-C-H-A-E-L. It's him that I'm having tumble-down thoughts about.
It's him that I'm… making… up my own expressions for… (what the hell is a 'tumble-down' thought?!?!?!)
Okay, away from the tumbling and the down-ing. I'm listening. I swear to God I'm listening.
Czech agents. Mmhm, okay. Yeah… stolen files, missing identities. Now this is right up my alley. This I can do with my eyes closed. Well, maybe not closed but I can do this a lot more…deftly… than I cashed that check.
I close my eyes and inwardly sigh and shake my head at myself. Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. Be glad that you were only taking over the position for Marcy today and that you're not a real bank teller. Give thanks. Every day. All the time. Really. You would be a disgrace to the banking population.
(I know that I'm being confusing so I will comment on my thoughts. Weird. Anyway, in case you forgot… Marcy is the Marcy from Boston who caught cold and went home sick into the open arms of Rob from accounting… oh yeah. And his Chicken Noodle and condoms. Not together. There were no chicken noodle condoms. You're sick.)
"Sydney."
"Yes?" I look up, trying to look professional despite my flaming face.
"I need you to stay after to discuss an extra little thing that you will be doing."
"Of course."
See? I can formulate my own sentences thank you very much. I don't have to stutter. I didn't have to stutter.
(Did you forget how I stuttered? Can't believe I'm reminding you but this was when he said hi to me sigh… he said hi to me… he recognized my existence and the only dignified response I came up with was the EXACT SAME THING. And add a stutter in there. He thinks I'm retarded. But he's also in love with me. He just doesn't know it yet.)
At least Sloane's impressed.
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I dutifully stand outside the door until he looks up at me, smiles, and motions me to come in. "Sydney."
"Mr. Sloane."
He perches on the edge of his desk and looks at me for a moment while I sit down. It's kind of creepy but I don't really pay attention to it because… well, you know the 'because' part of this already. (Because I'm lusting after Michael if you haven't caught on).
"I need you to do something…"
I figured.
And so he proceeds to tell me that the larger, non-secret, branch of the CIA is keeping files from him and that, though he has utmost respect for the powers the be up there in CIA domain, they simply do not understand how much he needs this information.
So he needs to borrow it.
Hmm… well, I can understand not being understood. Though that's mostly my fault right? God I wish I could turn back time. But it's probably good that I can't, I would probably make the situation worse. God, can you imagine me actually managing to say syllables the correct way on the first try only to… I don't know, spit on him or something? Let out some Freudian slip or some kind?
"Oh, well thank you for using our services, Mr. Vaughn. I must say that I really enjoyed all the sex - er- I mean your business… with the bank…not with me because you didn't have any business with me… personally… though if you would step into the bathroom I would love to ravage you sometime in the near future." Ha, that's not a Freudian slip… that's more like a Freudian-outright "I want you oh baby oh baby" line.
Good old Freud.
Back to the point.
God, for a government agent, I really digress a lot.
Whatever squeezes my lemon right?
And you know what you should do when life hands you a lemon. Make grape soda and let the whole world wonder how the hell you did it.
Oh, you like that don't you?
Squeezes your lemon does it?
Guess whose lemon I want to squeeze right about now? Or maybe I'll just stop talking before I embarrass myself with innuendos that I don't even understand myself…
Digressing again.
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Strolling in through the doors.
"Hello, may I help you?"
"I'm with Credit Dauphine and I have a meeting with Mr… Mr. Vaughn."
Whoops. Forgot to do my research did I? And what did I do? Did I use a generic name that a million CIA agents or personnel might have? No. I didn't say Agent Smith or Mr. Bob.
I really need to learn to compartmentalize. Seriously. Maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. You know, besides the whole "I'm a spy" thing.
"You mean Agent Vaughn?"
"Yes." Hmm. There's an Agent Vaughn. Now wouldn't that be dandy? Haha, I won't let myself get carried away. Probably because, now that I think about it, Vaughn isn't exactly the rarest surname to have. Just the sexiest. Well, better than Bristow. For some reason, when I hear "Bristow", I think of chicken. I don't know why. Don't ask.
"I'm sorry but I don't see an appointment listed here."
You wouldn't.
"Are you sure?"
"I can call if you would like."
This lady is stupid. Doesn't she know that if I were some sort of enemy to the US, then I could say yes and then confirm the names of agents and then go berserk and kill them or something??
Well not all of them. I would probably save Agent Vaughn. You know, unless it was like his father… or grandfather… then I would let him live… just… yeah. I really need to just stop.
Shut up and talk to the stupid lady, Sydney.
"Sure. Do that please."
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"Hello Agent Vaughn? Are you scheduled for a meeting right now? With who? Ummm… hold on," she turns to me and raises her eyebrows.
"Credit Dauphine."
"-Credit Dauphine. Is that your- oh, it is your bank? Were you expec- no? Do you want me to send her aw- no? Who? Yes it's a her- why? Is her name Syd-I don't know? Do you want me to ask her if-no? Yes she is standing next to me. Is she a brun-don't say this out loud? Well… would you like to talk to her-no? Ummm… I don't understand. What is it exactly that you want me to do?"
Hmmm… she gets cut off. A lot. And this Agent Vaughn is a very inquisitive man. Interesting.
She looks at me with wide big eyes full of confusion and tears that are about to explode off her face and hands me the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
Umm… this isn't very professional. I don't think I'm good at my job anymore. And maybe it's just me but his voice really sounds like Michael's. You know… judging from the four to ten words I heard come out of his mouth.
"Who is this?"
"Hello, I'm a representative from Credit Dauphine here to speak with you about some very pressing financial matters."
"Is this about my account?"
Hmm… I think I have encountered a problem. See, I was supposed to get a meeting and then go into a corridor and slip away and borrow some files you see. The poor jerk wasn't actually supposed to expect me to come…
About his account?? Umm… sure… perhaps. "Yes. Yes it is."
"I'm sorry, but were we scheduled for a meeting or is this about the check I cashed in yesterday?"
Check? Cashed in? YESTERDAY? Agent VAUGHN?
Oh. My. God.
TBC…
Hey, no one ever said that stories have to be realistic.
But it's kinda funny right?
No matter. I think it's funny. Mo thinks it's funny. I'm having a blast writing this and now life is good. Haha.
Leave me love!
-Jenn