Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.
Chapter Four\\ Ipse Dixit
Part A
Ipse Dixit: An assertion without proof.
So, you're saying that the toys from Burger King are superior to
those from McDonald's? Eric Weiss asked from his perch on the edge
of Marshall's desk. The tech nodded, albeit distractedly, as he scanned
his screen full of fast images and lines of text. Weiss shook his head before
taking another bite of his big mac, wishing for once he could have a normal
sit-down-and-eat lunch hour. Of course, most people with that weren't waiting
for a CIA team operating in Columbia against international law to come off radio
silent. No, this wasn't stressful at all.
He put the burger down on the wax-coated paper it came in and wiped his hands together. No, that's not right, man.
Well, if you think about the endorsements and contracts that have to be drawn up and, at this point in his ramble, he swiveled in his chair to face Weiss, well, they just have contracts with different movie studios and networks, and I must say, Burger King got all the good ones. Which is odd, because that's a British company. You wouldn't think that they would get the good toys instead of an American company. Did you know the first one was in Des Planes, outside Chicago? They have these, these cardboard people inside, and he started posing as if he were cardboard, that just stand there to make it look all real? It's not open or anything, but there's one across the street that y-
Marshall, take a breath, buddy, Weiss grinned, nabbing a fry from the tech. He'd finished his ages ago, which was important to remember, since Marshall's were now cold. Ice cold. Weiss made a face and slowly chewed it, his mind full of wonder at how Marshall could stand eating cold food all the time. Of course, he probably had some sort of invention to make it warmer. Or, he simply had a mini microwave around here somewhere. Now the key to taking the rest of his fries was finding it and using it as soon as possible.
An easy task to do, since Marshall had lost interest in the conversation once again, and was facing his monitor, working on God knows what. Weiss frowned and moved to finish off his big mac, only to be surprised by Marshall rushing out of his chair, a piece of paper cluched in his hand. He muched down on the burger, uneffected. He was used to this by now.
. .
Thank God he was wearing his vest.
Yeah, let's thank God, because if he weren't around, this could have ended a lot worse.
Don't remind me.
Mark Hutchensen was feeling a little better, the cool air of the air conditioning blowing on his face as he lay on top of a pasty bedspread in a commercialized hotel on the edge of the city. Over him stood two of his teammates – friends since they'd been assigned to LA – discussing his current condition as if he was so gone, he wouldn't be able to hear him. His last comment, however, had alerted them that he was indeed awake, and their conversation died down. Wasn't it supposed to work the other way around?
How are you feeling? the fair-haired one, Kane, asked of him. He shrugged as best he could in his lying position.
I just had a small knife jabbed into my leg. How do you think I feel? he retorted sarcastically. Kane laughed, only to be hit by the other, Litovich, in the shoulder.
C'mon, man, he chided.
So, am I going to live, doctor? Hutchensen asked of the pair. This time, both grinned, no chiding necessary.
You were a distraction, Marky. We bandaged you up – but you're gonna ache like a mother for the rest of the week, Kane informed him. Hutchensen sighed.
At least we were all kind enough to aim for areas we knew were protected by the vest, Litovich added as an afterthought.
Yeah, so see? It could have been worse, Kane smirked. Litovich frowned and moved to push his shoulder again, but Kane successfully dodged it by moving to the side just a bit.
Here's what I don't get, Kane continued, sitting on the edge of the bed. Hutchensen had flashbacks to those chick flicks his wife always made him watch, where the concerned lover would sit on the side of their injured partner's bed, hoping they'd wake up. He suddenly wasn't so happy with their current arrangement, and shifted himself into a sitting position, wincing with every move. Damn. His chest was going to hurt for a week, at the least.
he asked, once he'd propped himself up on the tall headboard.
That guy – okay, wait, did we just run across the runway of a Columbian airport? Because I'm pretty sure we shouldn't have done that.
You think?
So we're just random terrorists? Litovich asked, serious when he should have been joking.
That's what the plan was, Sydney's voice floated in from the doorway, the interconnecting room on the other side visible beyond her narrow frame. A few other members of the team could be seen mulling around, one with a bandage on his ankle. Hutchensen relaxed; he wasn't the only one not walking away completely unscathed.
Really? That simple? Kane asked of her. She nodded, her ponytail flopping on her shoulders as she did so.
Simple works. Just don't plan on taking a vacation down here any time soon, she continued, a small smile tugging on her lips.
She was feeling much better, the knowledge that Hutchensen was fine relieving her of all that anger and sadness. And the fact that he was awake and talking just improved her dismal day ten fold.
Sydney didn't think she'd be able to live through another CIA death because of her foolishness. She already had several on her conscious.
Hutchensen smiled as well as Kane and Litovich started to argue over him.
. .
He's fine?
Sydney walked around to the edge of the old double bed and fell down onto it next to him, falling to her back, arms spread wide away from her sides. They sat that way for a moment, until Sydney scrunched up her face like a child and reached up to take the ponytail holder from her hair, allowing it to spread over the horribly patterned bedspread in a long wave of chocolate brown. Vaughn turned his head, cocked to the side as if he were analyzing a priceless piece of art.
And in a way, she was one, at least to him. But he could see her scars, her internal ones, as clear as if they were marring her skin. Long, deep, jagged ones he wished he could cure with the wave of a hand. And over time, he'd seen some shrink and disappear, content with being there for her when she needed him the most.
He wondered, briefly, if she could see his.
She looked up at him, a smile on her lips, mischief in her eyes. A hand came up to his bicep, pulling him down to the bed next to her, the arm used to pull him down behind his sweaty neck. He sighed, looking up to the drab, cracking ceiling, wishing he didn't have to be here, now. Wishing he could run away, if only for a moment.
He wanted it all to be over. For life, at least his, to return to normal. For there not to be this huge weight hanging over his head, ready to drop at a moment's notice. At least now he knew exactly how Sydney had felt for all those years as a double.
Wouldn't it be great if we could just go out and enjoy the city? Sydney asked suddenly, her voice playful. Vaughn smiled and flipped up onto his side, facing her, a hand moving up to brush some hair from her face.
It's ironic, isn't it? he asked of her. Her smile faltered for a second.
What is?
Rome. Remember? I was going to take you out when this was all over. And now that it is, we're still stuck in a hotel room, wishing we could go out.
But this time, she responded, moving to lie on her side now, facing him. It's because of international politics and not affiliations.
True. It's funny how the world works, that's all, he observed, falling back onto the bed.
How's that ankle feeling?
I'll live.
Remind me to give you some special care when we get home, she grinned. Vaughn's eyebrows raised as he laughed.
I'm going to remember you said that, he smirked. She grinned down at him.
I'll make sure of it.
. .
Whoah, slow down, slow down! Director Kendall called out to a running Marshall, half-afraid the tech would crash into something – someone – or fall. There was no need for him to be running through the halls here, and while Kendall was well aware of Marshall's performance in the field, he still didn't trust him to be completely safe while in a room full of people and expensive equipment.
Director Kendall! Marshall called out, skidding to a practiced stop in front of the FBI director, surprising the taller, balding man. So Sydney and Eric asked me to pull this file they'd been wondering about and find what information I could find about that computer thingy and everything. I couldn't find any information at first, which was a bit discouraging and such, so I tried searching through back channels – I know I shouldn't have but I mean, this was for a friend, or rather two, and I had to – you know, it was –
My patience is growing thin; get to the point, please, Kendall almost groaned in frustration. Marshall thrust out his hand, almost shoving the piece of paper he'd been holding into Kendall's face.
I've found out why Sark was in Columbia.
Kendall's eyes widened just a bit. You have?
Marshall nodded, and opened his mouth to begin explaining, but Kendall held up a hand to stop him. A long, rambling explanation was not needed nor was it acceptable at that time. He needed the *reason* and he needed it right then, while the team was still in Bogata.
Marshall sobered a bit, then said to him with downcast eyes. He was –
. .
- inquiring about something Mitchell currently possesses and had just put on the market, Kendall explained, his voice sounding tinny coming out of the satellite phone. The volume had been cranked up as high it would go, making the usual manageable crackling that came through with the director's voice unnerving, annoying even. The static sound floated through the vacated hotel room, the sounds of the group talking next-door only second to it as they awaited further orders.
What was that? Sydney asked. She was seated on the end of one of the beds next to Vaughn, the phone held between them as if she were sharing a song she liked via headphones. He was absentmindedly pulling on the bandage Tessler, the group's medically trained member, had put on his throbbing ankle, only half-listening to the conversation and Kendall's report.
Sydney cast him a look, which was returned with one of innocence.
Apparently, Mitchell recovered the Caveat Computer –
There's a name for it now? Vaughn asked, the picking of his ankle bandage stopping as he invested full attention on the conversation. Kendall cleared his throat.
Yes, Agent Vaughn. It doesn't help to speak in abstracts all the time, he said quickly. Vaughn sighed.
he asked, prompting Kendall to continue.
Apparently, Marshall was able to track Slone to Mitchell through some, shall we say, back channels. Sydney smiled. Marshall would always do whatever it took to help his friends, something she liked about him. Sark was simply going to meet up with Sloane, we think to help him with transport.
So you're saying, Vaughn started, his head bowed as his hands held it. that Sloane is after it.
It's a very strong possibility that he already has it in his possession, Kendall answered. Sydney closed her eyes, her jaw tightening. There was only one way Sloane would know about the archaic piece of equipment – Irina. And if Irina had told Sloane about the computer, there was an even stronger possibility that she'd continued on with this tale that was spinning wildly out of control. That in order to get the information out of it, he was going to need *someone*. Sloane wouldn't go through the trouble of getting the computer only to become squeamish at the thought of having to kidnap a CIA officer.
In the event that he doesn't have it yet, or that this Mitchell is smart enough to store it off his property, your team is to advance to his estate and apprehend him for questioning concerning this computer and all business dealings with Sloane. We'll be questioning him here in LA, so just get him here. For a ghost, he sure has made a name for himself.
Kendall hung up. Sydney sighed and fanned herself with her free hand, the heat in the room overwhelming. She rose, stretching, concerned, upset, and decided to open the window once again. She spied Vaughn's reflection in the glass of the window, how he sat there, hunched, almost defeated.
She opened the window, then turned, ready to comfort him.
But he was gone.
. .
Michael Vaughn was not the kind of man who let his emotions get the best of him.
When he was eight, he cried. And every time he'd start crying, even if it were over a skinned knee, his mother would collect him into her arms and cry as well. He'd look up at her, his heart breaking to see his mother so sad. He never wanted her to feel sad – he was the man of the house now.
So, when he was ten, he decided enough was enough. If he stopped crying, his mother would stop and be happy again. So, through the summer of skinned knees and a broken arm, he never once shed a tear. It was hard, especially when he did fall from that tree, his bone sticking out at an odd, horrifying angle. But he wouldn't cry, something even the doctor at the emergency room commented on.
His mother, sensing something was wrong with her son, tried to talk to him. It was only after a friend of hers came over one hot, suffocating summer of his 12th year that she realized it was for her, and she cried that night with him, telling him that he didn't need to be so strong for her.
Vaughn, on the other hand, felt he'd failed.
It seemed, by the time he reached high school, that anger, or frustration, was the only emotion he showed. His apparent stoicism continued on through college, and while his mother always chastised him for it, the Agency saw it as an admirable quality.
He'd truly become admonished.
It wasn't to say he didn't feel, or express happiness. He just never let his emotions show. He saw them, especially crying, as a weakness.
Which is why, instead of emptying all his stomach contents or sitting huddled in the corner holding back tears, he was leaning against the sink, water still dripping off his face from when he splashed it there. The light was still off – he hadn't bothered to turn it on when he rushed in there – the only light coming from the space around the closed door. It cast a haunted glow on his strained features.
Sydney's soft voice came through the door. She opened it slowly, the light spilling into the hollow, cold bathroom. She made a small noise, happy to escape the drenching heat of the outdoors, wondering why she hadn't thought of coming in here sooner.
Wow, it's nice in here, she said, mostly to herself. You disappeared, is everything ok? Sydney tentatively placed a hand on his hunched shoulder. He flinched slightly, but turned, his eyes clear.
I'm fine, just a little warm, he replied, a half-smile dancing upon his lips.
Vaughn, you can't tell me that after that y –
He interrupted her, his arms crossing. After what?
That, Vaughn! her arm motioned to the other room where the sat phone lie. We know Sloane's on this trail now. Can you honestly say you're fine?
Don't Syd me. You've been – different lately, she said quickly. Vaughn cocked his head to the side, his arms still crossed defensively.
Sydney froze. She wasn't going to say anything; isn't that what she told herself? Never going to tell him that his smiles weren't smiles anymore? That he didn't talk to her like he used to? That he was living in his own head, brooding over the future that was to come? The past that had?
You, you just – you don't talk.
I don't talk?
Well, you've never really talked. I was always coming to you with my problems, always telling you what was wrong in my life. And not once did you come to me. No one's that collected, Vaughn.
Just because I don't like broadcasting my problems –
Sydney narrowed her eyes. Broadcasting my problems? Is that what I've been doing? Vaughn sighed, one of his hands moving to rub his chin. Well, I'm sorry if my problems have been such a burden
Her words faded, like the sound was sucked away through a small tube as her mouth kept moving. He didn't need this right now, he didn't need any of it. What happened to his semi-normal life, when he was just the outsider to all these games they played, watching from the sidelines, giving advice when he could? He wasn't supposed to be part of this – this wasn't his life. But now, now he was there, was in the center and the others were telling him what he could do, what he should be doing.
Sloane was going to come after him. If not now, with information from Irina; then later, with information from someone else, and it wasn't going to be a pleasant meeting. How was a man who couldn't remember give Sloane what he wanted? Would he believe Vaughn, or, what would he do in order to satisfy his own desires?
Those photos from his father's file rushed up at him, those charred remains and contrasted x-rays the ultimate reminder of what could happen, would happen to him in this life. But the face in the photos, inserted by his mind's eye, soon morphed into his own, the tears of his mother in the background intensifying. He spun, or believed himself to spin, trying to find her, to comfort her.
Sydney had stopped talking. Vaughn spun, his foot catching on the sink's tall, long leg, the full force of his weight barreling forward across to the opposite wall and the edge of the bath tub. Frantic, Sydney diving forward, her arms coming out to catch him. But she lost her footing as well, tumbling down at the same time, her head coming back to smack into the wall. With a thud, she came down, Vaughn catching himself at the last moment, a strong arm catching the edge of the tub, the other resting on the other side of Sydney. He looked down at her, and for the first time, he looked so confused and afraid, she felt it was a stranger looking down at her.
What happened? she asked, reaching up with her free hand and rubbing the back of her head. Vaughn groaned as he lifted himself up, squeezing in between her and the side of the tub, his knees drawn up to his chest. He focused on the wall across from them, the print hanging above the toilet becoming the most interesting thing in the room.
I don't know, he replied. How do you deal with this? he asked after a moment of introspective silence, a sigh escaping narrowed lips.
With what?
Knowing you've become a target, that you've –
She finished for him. Lost your individuality? It's hard.
I can imagine.
But I get though it, she continued, as if he hadn't spoken a word. I have you.
Her words hung heavy in the small South American bathroom, and for that instant, time and place didn't matter. They existed entirely in a plane all their own, away from bad guys and jobs, identity and classification. The slate wiped clean – it was time to switch roles, for the protector to become the protected, for her to become what he had been to her all those times.
I'm afraid I won't be much help, he laughed. She placed a hand on his arm, his skin warm under her cool hand.
But, Vaughn, you've forgotten. You have me.
