Chapter Two: Belie
Part A

"I'm glad you two could make it," Kendall remarked as the pair walked into the JTF conference room. Vaughn wondered if the FBI man was ever going to return to his respective branch of the intelligence service, or if he was considering a career here at the CIA. Wasn't he the only FBI man here? Other than that small team of them who moved in a group and never associated with the rest of them, there were none. And here, Vaughn had no office, no desk, just a workstation. Not that he was around that much anymore to use it.

Jack, as always, set his gaze on them as they took their respective seats, analyzing every part of their movements for anything he could use against them. At least that's what Vaughn thought, as he decided that Jack was the most observing of all the fathers he had to deal with over the years. That, and Vaughn was sure if he did something even remotely wrong, Jack would certainly have no qualms over killing him, or at least hurting him severely. That line of thought most often kept him in line, though he'd never say it aloud.

"We have intel," Kendall started in a tone that suggested he was glad everyone had finally decided to show up, "that Sloane might be looking for more pieces to the Rambaldi puzzle." He clicked the remote to the computer set up like a slide projector to bring up a series of pictures. It was Sark, as clear as day, walking in a hotel. Sydney leaned forward in her seat. Sark wasn't sloppy; he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly where the camera was. So why did he want them to know where he was?

Kendall obvious didn't know Sark as well as she did, and continued. "He's sent Sark to Copenhagen to see this man." He clicked the remote again. "Sjon Jenson, a lawyer at a prominent Dutch law firm. Apparently, Jenson is an avid art collector who has come in to possession of this." Another click. Up came a piece of artwork, something modern and abstract that didn't seem to fit in with Rambaldi's era. It was certainly ugly, with colors juxtaposed against each other for no reason.

"It's ugly," Vaughn observed, snapping forward to the table with the assistance of his chair.

"Thank you for your articulate observation, Agent Vaughn," Jack commented. Vaughn casually glanced at him, but didn't respond.

"Actually, according to our intel the painting is hiding a page from a Rambaldi manuscript under this layer of paint,. Sark is going to make a move for it while Jenson is giving closing arguments on a major case," the director continued despite the extra comments. "Agents Bristow and Vaughn, you'll be going to Copenhagen to obtain the painting before Sark and you will also be tagging him with a passive tracking device."

"I'm sorry, but Sark isn't that stupid. If he finds out we're there, he'll get out of there," Sydney said.

"Then you'll have to make sure he doesn't know you're there," he said to her as if it were that easy. "You leave in two hours. I suggest you prepare."

Kendall always vacated the room quickly after the briefings concluded, to do what, no one knew. A silence hung in the room in his wake, the tension between Sydney and Vaughn almost tactile. Jack cleared his throat, the sound acting as a knife between the pair. Sydney knew they had a mission to prepare for, that there was no time for this childishness, but that didn't mean she didn't still hold some anger.

"I suggest you two stop this and go prepare," Jack announced.

"I can't believe you won't tell her!" Sydney suddenly exploded, swiveling in her chair to sit face to face with Vaughn. There was that heat in her mannerisms that came whenever she was angered about something, that made her argue her point of view no matter who she was arguing with. Vaughn leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. Jack stood off to the side, a silent observer.

"She doesn't need to be burdened with it," he breathed truthfully, pulling his head up to look at her with hardened eyes.

"Burdened? Burdened? How would this burden her?" she asked forcefully.

"Do you understand what she went through, finding out what he did for a living? Or what happened when he died? Trust me, Syd, I'm *saving* her by keeping this from her."

"Saving her?" Sydney asked incredulously.

"She's come to terms with the lies, the half-truths and still loves him. I'm not about to tell her that her husband messed with my head!" Vaughn's voice rose finally, and he stood, his palms flat on the table. "It's my choice, and I choose not to tell her." Giving a slight nod of acknowledgement to Jack, he walked out of the room at a brisk pace, the doors swaying a bit from the force even after he was long gone. Sydney looked to her father, her eyes almost watering. She wasn't going to loose Vaughn to this again, not after all she'd gone through - all they'd gone through - to get him back before.

"He said her husband," she said softly. Her father nodded.

"I know. I'll talk to him. Just get ready for the mission."

"Thanks, dad."

. .

"Agent Vaughn!" Jack called to the man's retreating back. He paused, knowing it would just get worse if he didn't. Jack caught up with him, and walked him to a corner away from curious ears and eyes. Vaughn was literally backed into a corner with Jack blocking his way.

"I don't know what is going on between you and my daughter, but there is no room for error on this mission and it cannot be compromised because of your immaturity," he told Vaughn.

"Agent Bristow, I have more control over my emotions than you give me credit for," Vaughn retorted evenly.

"I hope so, for Sydney's sake."

"Are we done?" Vaughn asked, slightly annoyed. Jack stared at him coldly, wondering what was going to happen to Vaughn as he grew older here in the agency. Would the younger agent become as cold and compartmentalized as himself, doing what had to be done no matter the emotional value? Or would Sydney somehow save him, as she had started to save Jack himself? He could never be certain, as Vaughn seemed to change all the time. There was one constant, though; the boy always seemed somewhat uncomfortable, somewhat apprehensive. Jack had yet to figure out why, though.

"Yes, we're done," Jack said.

Vaughn brushed past him and said: "Good."

. .

"This," Marshall started on topic, "is the passive transmitter you've got to tag Sark with. It's thin and clear, kind of like those new nicotine patches. Have you seen the commercials for those? The people have these little clear things and they end up showing people where they are, which kind of defeats the purpose of having something that supposed to be hidden. I guess they don't think of misdirection, or they're embarrassed to have the patch but then they go on and -"

"So I have to stick it on him?" Sydney interrupted from her perch sitting on the padded stool, on the edge of Marshall's tech-dream workstation. He nodded, but it was a blocky, awkward motion as he tried to hide his embarrassment.

"Yeah, it's kind of like a sticker. The transmitter is clear and hidden in the patch. He won't even notice it because it'll dissolve onto his skin but it will wash off, so we've got to hope he doesn't take a shower right after the mission. Do you do that? Because sometimes you're crawling in stuff and you get all icky, but you probably don't have time, or maybe you do - "

"Marshall."

"Oh, right, sorry. So, umm, here you go," he smiled, and handed her a clear plastic container with the transmitter in it. She smiled as she took it from him, which made his smile grow larger. After tucking it in her pocket, she glanced around the main JTF room before hopping off the stool and moving closer to him.

"Have you had any luck with that thing I asked you about?" she whispered. Marshall thought for a moment, his hands clasped together awkwardly in front of him.

"Ahh, right! Actually, I did have a bit of luck finding some specs for you, manufactures and whatnot. I can print it off for you if you'd like," he rambled.

"If you could, that would be great. Thanks, Marshall."

. .

The plane was 20 minutes into its flight plan before Sydney and Vaughn spoke. The table between the rows of facing seats was littered with papers from wide-open file folders, all the data on the mission contained on those pages. A few photographs lined the edges of their paper chaos, of Sark, of the hotel he was seen coming from, of the lawyer who had the painting. Why did he buy it? Was he in on the Rambaldi search, or was he someone who had an eye for odd modern art?

The pair sat across from each other, both engrossed in their own research, as the plane cross the country on its way to Denmark. Sydney's hair fell over her face as she read over the initial intel Kendall had sent along with them, Vaughn across from her sat back in his seat, legs crossed as he casually read over another file. He closed it and let it fall in his lap as he rubbed his eyes.

"Tired?" Sydney asked without even looking up. Vaughn's eyebrows raised, wondering how she saw him move without even looking up when he remembered she was a spy. He sighed and picked the file up again.

"No, I'm fine," he responded with his eyes still on the papers in front of him. Sydney lifted her head so that she could look directly at him. He looked tired in the soft light the overhead lights cast on him at this late hour. A night that started with promise and fun was ending with a mission and tension. Normal people didn't have these kinds of nights.

"Maybe you should get some sleep before we get there," she suggested. He stopped reading and looked up at her.

"I'm fine, really. You're the one who will be running around out there; I'll just be sitting in the van."

Touché, she thought.

"What have you found out?" she asked, diverting the conversation to a safer topic.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Why would this man even buy this painting? It's horrible," he stated, leaning forward, his elbows sitting on some of the papers near him.

"I think the bigger question is why Sark would put himself so out in the open," Sydney asked in response. "Look at this intel; we've got pictures of him all around the hotel."

"And Sark's smart enough to know where the cameras are."

"I think it's a set-up," Sydney confessed, looking over at the photos at the edge of the papers. Across from her, she heard Vaughn shift the papers around, putting them back together and on top of the folders they belonged in. He felt it to, but didn't say anything.

"We can't afford to loose the painting if it isn't."

"What are you thinking?" Sydney asked, sensing there was something else underneath his comment. He paused. She didn't usually ask what he was thinking, she was the one with all the answers, not him. He always asked the basic questions, the ones everyone else could figure out the answers to. Plus, he was feeling a little rusty, being asked once again to do what he had for years before she'd been assigned to him and didn't like making errors in front of those who respected him. But Sydney sat across from him, waiting for him to speak.

"What if the painting is real and Sark is going after it for real? We know he can't contact us through regular channels, so what better way to set up a meeting than to bate us?"

"But why would he want to meet?"

"A distraction?" Vaughn answered. "An exchange of information? Or, the simplest explanation could be he wants a challenge."

"A challenge?"

Vaughn smiled and leaned on his arms. "What fun would it be if the great Sydney Bristow wasn't there to thwart his plans?"

Sydney grinned, but she didn't completely believe Vaughn's reasoning. Sark wouldn't sacrifice a mission just to see her, she knew that much. But he had, in the past, asked her to come work with him. He wouldn't do that now, would he, knowing how much she hated his boss? So what did he really want?

Or was he really getting sloppy?

She pushed that thought out of her mind, it was really silly to think that of her adviserey. Whatever Sark's reasoning was, they would still need to formulate a plan in order to obtain the painting. The intel confirmed that the painting was a valuable asset, which warranted the mission (and also meant there was no room for failure). She yawned.

"Go to sleep," Vaughn ordered her, having picked up a different file, this one filled with floor plans for Jenson's law office and his personal office where he had hung the painting. He seemed intent on reading and re-reading the information, analyzing it as always to make sure the plan was foolproof, having learned from his mistakes. Sydney thought it was sweet, but always worried about him at the same time. With his mind always focused on her, on the mission at hand, when did he have time to think about his own needs?

"Fine," she replied lightly, pushing her hair behind her ears. She stood, stretched, and scooted out from behind the table. She expected Vaughn to follow her with his deep green eyes, but they didn't move from the papers in front of him, his mind clearly on something completely different. She considered calling him on it, but after the night's previous words, she reconsidered and settled for a light brush of her hand against his shoulder. A hand absentmindedly came up to hold hers, then moved down to turn the page.

Vaughn felt her leave the main cabin for the bathroom to change. The nicest thing about these planes was the size; of the bathroom, of the seats, of the cabin. And they were quiet, empty, serene. The papers in front of him had long since shifted out of focus into a blur of black spots against white, moved around simply to keep his hands busy as his mind wandered. He'd have to call his mother when they returned to smooth things over, to make sure everything was okay - he couldn't loose her! But he wouldn't tell her, he'd spare her the feelings he'd felt after finding out what had been done.

He slammed the file closed and leaned his head back, his eyes closed. Did Sydney realize how crazy it made him when she shared those hushed conversations with her father? Or called him dad in front of him? Sure, it was crazy, and lots of people had fathers, but he wished, oh, he wished so much that he could have that relationship, that she?? could be around him all the time.

At first it didn't bother him, but after his father's killer was found, after she was there, it got worse. He always thought apprehending his father's killer would relieve this huge pressure on his shoulders, but it didn't. He just felt - empty, and that constant reminder of what he didn't have filled it in. Okay, Michael, calm down, you're just being irrational and projecting.

The door to the bathroom snapped open. Vaughn leaned up and reopened the file, wanting to make sure he had everything covered. Sydney settled into a reclined seat a few rows behind him, shifting back and forth a few times before finding a comfortable position. For a full minute, Vaughn sat at the table looking over things, but soon found himself lying next to her in the dark, aching for her comfort but never vocalizing the need.