See Prologue for notations and headers.
Chronic Vertigo
Chapter 8c
He pulled her aside as the meeting let out, keeping out of Kendall's field of vision as the director turned off the projector and reflected upon the discussion as part of some odd post-briefing ritual. Unemotional bastard he might be, but Kendall, thrown into this as an outsider, did a good job of keeping everyone in line and focused at the task at hand. Unfortunately, it also meant he frowned upon shows of personal relationships inside his castle, something Jack himself could oddly respect as his hand pulled on Sydney's elebow.
"Hey, dad, I – "
He grabbed her arm and gently led her away from prying ears, bringing the pair to a secluded corner of the JTF's main floor. Whilst they no longer needed a bug-killer inconspicuously masked as a pen to communicate, it didn't mean someone wasn't listening. Shielding her from sight, the pair stood to the side, wallflowers in a rapidly moving world.
"I want you to go with Weiss and Dixon on this mission," he said promptly. Sydney frowned – where was his support in the meeting! - and gave him a quizzical look.
"Why? What's up?"
"Whatever Sloane is after is related to your mother, not this computer we're chasing around the world," he said, voice soft and terse, as if anyone walking by might be working for the enemy.
She learned early on not to question her father's astute sense when it came to matters concerning her estranged mother. She attributed it to the years he'd spent as her husband, and while he might now have strained relations with the woman, their relationship was the kind that left him wounded yet open to any news concerning her. Sydney suspected during those years, when he thought Laura had simply died and before he found out the truth, he'd jump at anything, letting his blind intuition guide him. And now, after he'd discovered the truth, found her alive – come face to face with her – he let it be his compas when it came to her. Part of him, Sydney, the ever-hopeful child, though, cared for her in such a way he would put himself on the line for a gut instinct that might result in her protection.
Hands on her hips, the solitary daughter of Jack Bristow mulled over his statement in her mind. Knowing her father, a fan of giving her down time between missions, he wouldn't be asking her if he did not feel the matter required immediate attention.
"And you want me there to protect her interests?" she asked, incredulously. "C'mon, dad, not even you care that much."
"I want you to take it," he said quickly. She paused, a deer in headlights.
"You want me to take what they find and keep it from the CIA?" Her voice was a dangerous whisper, angry and heated. "Are you insane? I can't just come back empty handed!"
"Make a copy," he directed, pulling a disk out of his pocket, "when you're retrieving the information for the CIA."
She glanced at the disk in his hand, apprehensive.
"I'll take care of Kendall," he added as an afterthought. Sydney nodded, took the disk, and put it in her pocket, thankful her dress pants had pockets today for once or else she wouldn't have anywhere to conceal the disk as she walked away from him. She opened her mouth to say something, but proptly shut it as four agents, Weiss included, dashed past, running full out with ties flying in the air behind them like in cartoons. She reached out instinctavely and grabbed Weiss' arm.
"What's going on?" she asked. Weiss gave her father a second glance, eyes narrowing just a bit as he wondered what was going on here. Jack shot back his own glare, a figurative punch to the face.
"It's Vaughn," he said, breathing heavily, result of running from his office. "He went in to interrogate the Mute and, well…"
"Well what?"
"The Mute attacked him," Weiss finished, turning to watch the retreating backs of his fellow officers. "I've got – "
Sydney was already running flat out in the direction of Medical Services.
//
"But daaaaddy, I want to stay outside and play!" the spry child stood and whined, his voice's volume not seeming to match his small size. At the age of 7, little Michael wasn't one to be seen bullying other boys. His frame was small and delicate, a gene of his mother's he'd picked up to the infinite dismay of his father.
At 6'4", William Vaughn was a large man. His parents, natives of New York, were strong independent people, his father supporting his family as an ironworker. His frame was large yet athletic, partly attributed to his daily 10 mile run - his way of greeting the sun. He'd expected his son to be like him – tough, strong, intimidating even. Instead, it appeared as if Michael (he would never use his wife's name for his son) would be a runt, if that term applied, never growing as tall as his father.
At least he'd thought that last year.
The boy was growing into his skin, slower than his father would have liked, but growing nonetheless. He'd shot up a few inches over the last summer, William's absence and subsequent return making this growth more apparent to his eyes.
But he was missing his son grow up.
"C'mon, Mike, it's getting cold outside," William laughed. The boy, it seemed, would not be swayed, and stood tall with little fists balled at his sides.
"Don't care," he retorted, his lower lip sticking out as a precursor to tears. "It's not cold, and the sun's still up!" He pointed a finger at the falling sun as if his father had not seen it until now.
"It'll get cold when the sun's gone," his father tried. "We've got to go inside."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do we have to go inside?" he asked, voice raising at the end of his question. William sighed, walked over newly fallen leaves and sat at his son's side, pulling him into his lap.
"Because sometimes, we have to do things we don't want to do," he explained. Michael's brow furrowed in confusion. From the window, a watching Amélie laughed as her son perfectly imitated his father's bemused expression. Dinner, she decided, could wait a few minutes longer.
"Why?"
William looked down across the fading light over a dying lawn. In two month's time, his family would be in France visiting ageing relatives while he was away, off around the world fighting for a cause he felt a faltering devotion too. The house would be locked up tight, pictures hanging on the walls for no one to see.
"Because we have to; because sometimes, we do things for others," he continued. The boy stopped squirming and twisted in his father's lap to look right at him, green eyes perfectly reflecting in his father's.
"Mommy says we should do things to help people," he said.
"Your mother's a wise woman; you should always listen to her."
"But how does going inside help someone?" Michael asked innocently.
His father shifted the small boy on his lap and hugged him close. "Because your father isn't as young as he used to. I'm sure dinner's ready by now, anyway."
"But I want to play with you before you leave again," the boy pouted.
"I know, sweetheart, I know. Daddy will come back to play again soon."
"No. You can't leave again! Mommy will get sad and I'll be alone!" Michael protested, his small fists thumping against his father's chest.
"I'm so sorry, Michael, I am. But I have to make things safe for you. One day, you'll understand."
"No! I won't! You'll just leave me again and never come home!" The boy jumped up from his father's lap and ran off towards the house, the door opening as he neared it with his mother standing there, worried. He wrapped his arms around her leg and cried into it.
"William," she said softly as he approached. "How much is enough?"
"What do you mean?"
"Look," she said, motioning down to the crying boy. "He misses you!"
"I know he does. Damn it, why can't you both understand what I'm doing. I'm doing it for you!"
"Yes, William, but at what price?"
He awoke with a gasp.
It was a horrific sound, his gasp for air, the new oxygen rattling as it cascaded down his throat. His eyes opened wide right away, thankful for dimmed lighting over the –
Oh. The pink couch.
Groaning, he threw an arm over his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He'd give his right arm for a tub of aspirin to beat back a pounding headache; he was sure whatever jackhammer making its way through his head would soon reach the other side, leaving him without the ability to even think.
He moaned again.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Sydney's voice bit out at him from the dim darkness, causing him to turn his head in her direction. He cursed silently as the movement caused his head to hurt even more, and found her sitting in one of the office's abandoned chairs, legs crossed and perfectly still.
"What? Syd?" he asked, blinking. "Is there any way I can get some aspirin?"
She didn't move.
"Oh God, Syd, I don't need this right now," he groaned, twisting his head back to a more comfortable position staring at the ceiling. His arm fell back to his side, eyes finally acclimated to the lighting after his 'nap'.
"No, Vaughn, you need this right now," Sydney finally said, mincing her words. "First, I find out you've lied to us, to me. Then, you considered finding this out...this location on your own. And right when I thought you couldn't get any more stupid, you go and do this!"
"I was only doing my job," he muttered in response, her shrill tone wrecking havoc oh his already-pounding head.
"Since when does your job come first?"
"Since always!" he yelled back, rubbing his temples in a circular motion.
"Remember what I said before? How you used to be the one I went to? What happened to you coming to me?"
"Forgive me if I don't lean on someone; I'm not used to depending on others," he remarked icily. Sydney huffed, considering vacating her chair and walking out of the room right there and then, leaving him to suffer in silence as he wished too. But there was something in his tone, something pained, that led her to believe leaving him was exactly what he wanted. She had to appreciate his gall; even she wouldn't wish her anger on herself at times. And while she did enjoy having some level of sarcasm from him, as she'd had in the early days of their friendship, it was out of character now, his usual kindness gone from a normally smooth voice.
"Kendall had requested me, anyway," he commented offhand, bringing her attention back to the present.
"Well, there's a man of considerable intelligence," she scoffed, leaning forward in her chair. She could just make out his profile in the dim light, the arch of his nose and edge of his jaw sticking out against the light invading through the blinds behind him, and even from a distance she could tell his eyes were closed. "What don't I know about the op?"
"Hrmm?" he purred, eyebrows rising.
"Why would he send you instead of a trained officer?" she asked. Vaughn frowned.
"Contrary to popular belief," he started slowly, "I am a trained officer."
"I didn't mean it like that," Sydney backpedaled. "Just that there are people who specialize in interrogations; why wouldn't Kendall request one of them?"
"Like you said, a man of limited intelligence."
She shook her head. "I don't believe that in this case."
Her statement caused him to shift, opening his eyes as he turned on the old pink couch to face her, propping his head up on his elbow. His eyes narrowed, prompting her to continue.
"Unless he didn't know about the needle mark on your neck," she said, eyes connecting with his.
"You don't understand – if I tell him, he – "
"No, I understand perfectly," Sydney cut in, "I understand completely. Maybe that's why I'm so scared. It's exactly what I would do, if I were in your position. You can't let them take you off the case."
"Exactly."
She took a breath. "But, that doesn't mean you don't look after yourself."
Vaughn swung his legs over the edge of the couch, sitting up in one swoop. He swayed a bit, bringing a hand to his head expecting to feel nothing more than his own skull and tuffs of wayward hair, and was a bit surprised to come into contact with something soft. He probed around a bit, sighing.
"Great," he muttered, finally recognizing where the woozy feeling was coming from. He thought it odd, however, that he felt only woozy and not restricted by the pain a head wound should have produced. He'd had enough in his life – an unfortunate side effect of being the more adventurous of two children that never grew out of that 'climbing trees' phase that hit at age 10 – to know how it should hurt.
But it didn't.
The large amount of aspirin didn't seem so important now, though the odd absense of pain set off an alarm bell in the back of his mind. He ignored it as he stretched and yawned as if awakening from a short catnap. "How long was I out?"
"An hour. We moved you in here since Medical Serivces is locked down," Sydney replied, a bit shocked by the change in character. "I've got a plane to catch, so – "
"Where are you going?"
"Its nothing – just following up a lead that Sloane's after a server farm in Kuala Lumpur. I won't even be gone a day."
"You and Dixon?"
She hesitated, trying to gauge his coming reaction. "And Weiss."
"Weiss," he breathed, managing to run a hand through spiked hair around the bandage over his right temple. "Three of you for one intel retrieval?"
"You're not being left out," she said quickly, knowing, if it were here, she would be thinking there was a reason for being intentionally left behind; told to sit out of the action while others did what she felt in her heart was hers to do. "My father asked me to accompany them; it wasn't Kendall."
"Why would he do that?"
"What?"
"Ask you to go with," Vaughn prompted, leaning forward. He had his game face on, the one she'd seen numerous times when she explained missions to him, watching as he churned over them in his mind and formulated a plan to counter those put forth by SD-6. He could think on his feet, both a blessing and, as she was discovering at the moment when she least needed it, a curse. Already, the gears in his head started turning, going over what little information he had, trying to see what she was up to. And he could. The past had proven his intuitions about her right, something that had only improved since they grew closer.
"Unless," he finally said, mimicking a computer printout at the end of a particularly complex equation, "he needed something only you could get for him." His eyes narrowed; the bandage on his temple shifting. "And you've agreed."
His insight was frightening, and Sydney feared it was not his skills but her own lack of such that helped him read her like an open book. The line from their first meeting came back to her with new meaning. I have an instinct about you. And while he had been proven correct, it didn't negate the fact that he was, and constantly continued to be, right about her.
"Weiss said he'd have the blood test results delivered to your office before we left," she commented in response, avoiding his line of indirect questioning. Standing, she made for the exit before he could say anything more, afraid he'd be able to extract from her information hours of torture by the hands of experts could only dream to hear. Her steps, though, no matter how long and quick, were no match for his new found agelessness, and in an instant, he was standing before her, defiant, eyes blazing with the heat of an unknown fury.
"Blood test?" His stomach churned, nausous, and he wavered on his feet a bit.
"Yeah. He injected you with something."
"Who?"
She paused. What was he playing at? "The prisoner, from China."
He looked off, avoiding her now in such a way it seemed uncharacteristic, body loosing some of its tension. Off to the right, she noticed, where the eyes were drawn when attempting to retrieve something from memory.
"Oh, right. Him," he replied, as if in a dream, not quite connecting with reality. "I thought you said – "
"You have friends, Vaughn. We're looking out for you. Just realize we're putting our asses on the line for you."
"Sounds like something Eric would say," he smirked.
"It was something Weiss said."
He nodded vaguely and leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the forehead, lips lingering over her skin not as long as she'd liked.
"Have a good trip."
He appeared as if he'd walk off any moment onto a cloud, just to float up into the sky and, God forbid, the cloud should dissipate, he'd fall without noticing. Preoccupied.
"Vaughn," she tried, curious, "did he say anything to you before he knocked you out?"
"No," he said, voice suddenly strong. "Nothing. I assume I can still monitor from here?"
"Yeah, of course."
He nodded, all business, and left the room, as well as a gaping Sydney, in his wake.
//
"You think that was bad? I had to deal with Kendall."
Eric Weiss sat, or rather, lounged in his cream seat aboard one of the CIA's charter jets, dressed down and relaxing at the CIA's expense. Next to him rested an empty food carton and a large soda which he occasionally leaned over to take a sip out of. The sun was bright outside the windows, casting natural light against the others sitting in the large cabin; Sydney, who sat across from him, a notebook in her lap, and Dixon, who seemed uninterested in their conversation as he went over ops files on the table across the aisle.
"Oh?" Sydney asked, looking up from where she was writing something – Eric had bugged her to no end, but she was a tough one. "What about?"
"Wanted to take Mike off the case on stands of mental instability," he scoffed, sipping on his pop. "Started yelling right there in his office, go – "
"I think he had a valuable point, though."
The pair turned to where Dixon was now looking at them over the files. Weiss frowned, naturally, falling into a protective mode reserved for his best friend.
"All I'm saying," Dixon continued, taking in their less than friendly glares, "is that Kendall wasn't out of line in suggesting that Agent Vaughn be taken off this case. In fact, it was a sound argument. By keeping him in the field, we're only increasing the chances of his knowledge falling into the wrong hands."
"I understand that, Dixon, but if it were you, wouldn't you want to be involved?" Sydney inquired.
"Probably, but I'm sure I'd realize the implications of my continued involvement."
Weiss held up his hands. "Wait, wait a second. You're saying that Mike should sit by and watch us do all the work? You understand this is the exactly why he joined the CIA – to find out who killed his father and why."
"Don't you both think this is something only Vaughn can decide?" Sydney closed the notebook on her lap and clipped the pen to the spiral edge, allowing them to mull over the points of the discussion. "And before you start, yes, Kendall is an objective view that would be great to make the decision for him, but Weiss is also right – this is the reason he's even around."
"You speak as if you've already discussed this with him," Dixon reflected, leaning back in his chair, stretching stiff muscles and bones. Sydney remained quiet – she should have known at least one of them would have picked up the hidden message behind her balanced words; they were trained to do as much. Weiss looked at her with such intensity, she couldn't tell if he were angry he wasn't the one to have that conversation with his friend, or was debating on if he wanted to know Vaughn's decision.
"I did, earlier, when he woke up," she sighed.
"And?"
She would have laughed at Weiss' eagerness if the topic weren't so heavy. "He's not leaving."
"That's his choice, then," Dixon commented, returning to his files. Sydney gave her SD-6 partner a glance, brown eyes holding his image, wondering when the line had been drawn between them. "I don't think any good will come of it."
"Right," Weiss huffed.
"I just have a feeling."
Sydney stared down at the plain, unaltered cover of her notebook. She had learned long ago to trust Dixon's instincts, just as he'd learned to follow hers. The unspoken communication passed between partners had formed after years of working with each other, trusting each other. The implication of his words hung in the air above her head. He had a sense that Vaughn's continued involvement in the front lines of this case would result in something not to his favor, and Sydney felt it too.
Did Weiss?
"What about you?" she asked of him, drawing his attention from the sprawling blue of Pacific Ocean outside the small window.
"Huh?"
"What's your sense about this?"
He sighed, face falling from the childish grin he'd had. "I've known Mike for a long time – we met a year after he was recruited. He always followed the rules to the letter no matter what. For awhile, I thought he lacked, I don't know, the drive needed to get in the field, or really do his job. But I realized it was only a way for him to bide his time until he could get high enough, have enough pull, to investigate his dad's death." He paused. "You want my opinion? I've seen my best friend jump through hoops for this, do all kinds of things, taken shit from his superiors and coworkers for this. So give it to him or else he's gonna die with regrets."
