Vaughn sighed, stretching carefully and luxuriously without opening his eyes. He was so tired, and the IV didn't help… light enough to allow him to stay awake if he really fought to do so, but otherwise successful in knocking him out in short order. So he spent the majority of his time dozing, unaware of his surroundings, and trusting the US Marshals guarding outside the door to warn him if needed.
Which is why he almost fell off the bed when Jack Bristow suddenly spoke from right above his head.
"I see now how you ended up in this condition," Sydney's father said, carelessly leaning on the side of the cot and looking down at him.
"Jack - " Vaughn stammered.
"You've got much to learn, Mr. Vaughn," Jack interrupted drolly. "Such as not making idle threats you are not immediately able to carry out."
"Jack - "
"Further endangering your health by coming into Operations without authorization from the hospital - "
"Jack - "
"Interrupting your superior - "
Vaughn gulped and fell silent.
"Risking your life in the first place!" Jack's voice hardened. "Listen up, Mr. Vaughn. You're only going to hear this once."
Vaughn braced himself. The man sounded like he was going to ask for last words.
"You belong to my daughter," Jack told him icily. "That means, Mr. Vaughn, that your life is not yours to risk, because my daughter's happiness would end with your death. And when she's not happy, I…" he trailed off.
"Jack - " Vaughn blurted, astonished. Was that… does that mean…?
"Do so again," Sydney's father railroaded. "And I'll kill you myself, understood? Sydney will at least have a concrete answer regarding your fate, which is more than you were willing to give her."
"Jack!" Vaughn groaned, trying to participate in the conversation.
But the elder Bristow responded by reaching over and turning up the sedative feed. Unable to fight the effects, Vaughn relaxed instantly. The last thing he heard was Jack's voice.
"Sleep and recover. That's an order. I'm going to extract my daughter, and I will need backup to do so. Like it or not, that's you."
Jack waited a few more moments, watching to insure that his daughter's love slept peacefully. Satisfied, he gathered his jacket and then strolled toward the door, nodding politely to the ever-present bodyguards standing outside. Yet another detail he had ordered… Sloane's cruelty and fascination with Sydney meant that Michael Vaughn would forever be a useful tool to him. Only the most foolish would have allowed him to remain without protection while he recovered.
With one final backward glance at the boy, Jack turned on his heel to head down the hall… and walked right into a shorter blonde woman. Again. But unlike the NSC Agent, this one looked up and speared him with sharp green eyes, meeting his look without blanching.
"Who are you?" she demanded, fearlessly. "What business do you have with my son?"
Jack's eyebrows shot up. So this is William's wife. "Jack Bristow," he introduced himself carefully, wondering if she would recognize his name.
But not a spark of recognition entered her eyes. Chilling, that. She stood next to the husband of her husband's murderer, but her son had clearly taken his Agency oath to heart and never broken the Bristows' confidance. Jack's respect for the younger agent grew.
"Amélie Vaughn," she said, accepting his proffered hand. "Do you work with Michel?"
"I'm his manager," Jack lied smoothly, uncertain of Vaughn's cover story.
She nodded, a look of sheer innocence on her face. "I had no idea there were this many lawyers in Los Angeles," she said, her accent adding to her seeming obliviousness. "It seems everyone on this floor, visitors and patients, are in that field."
"Yes," Jack said. What could he say to that? "I wanted to check on Mr. Vaughn's condition, but I should be getting back. To the firm."
He stepped past her carefully, started down the hallway…
"Mr. Bristow!"
He turned. Amélie shook her head at him, suddenly appearing years older.
"Because of Michel's dreams, I know exactly who you are," she said quietly. "If I had things my way, you would not be allowed within 10 yards of my son and myself."
He frowned but remained silent.
"But I know what my son means to you, and what you mean to him," Amélie continued. She rubbed her forehead, running an exhausted hand through her hair. "And as long as that continues… I'd like for you to come back."
Jack nodded, his respect for the firecracker of a woman in front of him growing in spades. "Well, thank you," he said, somewhat dryly. He didn't need her permission to do anything… but he understood that what she said to him could have been far worse.
"You're welcome."
"Well," Sark said, watching as Sydney rose from the nearly headless body and wiped splattered blood off her face. "I'd say you just blew your cover."
She shook her head, not even hearing him. "What happened here, Sark?" she demanded. Traces of blood left on her neck and clothing only served to enhance her anger.
"I know as much as you do," he answered. "Though it seems your Mr. Vaughn is at least back in CIA hands, and possibly even the States themselves."
She nodded, holstering the gun. If only she could get confirmation…
And then her eyes widened. The stet phone!
The last time she had practiced words to say, it had been prom night and William's friends had warned her he intended to propose.
Amélie sat, of course, by her sleeping son's bedside. He had yet to stir after the husband of her husband's murderer had decided to happen by for a visit, probably due to the fact that his sedative feed had apparently turned itself up. Dr. Matthews had remedied that, of course, carefully hiding his amusement. Classic Jack Bristow.
And there she went again. Amélie groaned, running her hands through her hair. She puzzled herself sometimes. Michel Christophé Vaughn, the last gift her husband had given both to her and the world, was not a child. Their son was an accomplished, brilliant, skilled, capable and talented adult, and that didn't even take into account the parts of his life she was not permitted to know about.
Which meant her display to him in the hospital lobby, while well-meaning, had been wholly inappropriate. What was the matter with her? Lost in worry in what had been and what she knew would inevitably come, coupled with memories of losing her husband, she had abandoned control and publicly humiliated their sweet son. How could she?
He stirred, the drug finally wearing off. Taking a deep breath, she reached over and took his hand, smiling in relief when he didn't seem to even feel her. Hours before, her mere touch had been agonizing to him.
"Bonjour," she whispered, leaning over and resting her cheek on his hand.
"Bonjour," he replied, voice scratchy. His head pounded and his tongue was a solid mass of rubber. Had the doctor broken his promise and turned up the IV, or had he somehow gotten ahold of Stoli? Because the last time he had such a tremendous hangover, he had been in college.
And then he remembered. Jack.
Amélie cleared her throat. "J'ai voulu…" she started, then stopped. The best way to show respect to her mon petit was to apologize in the language he had chosen to live by. "I wanted to apologize," she said.
Vaughn's forehead creased, the foreign sound of his mother speaking to him in English was utterly bewildering.
"Maman?"
She laughed, shaking her head. He relaxed at the sound, noting that the room itself brightened and the sun coming in through his window seemed to intensify with warm, soft light.
"I look at you," she said, "and I see your father sometimes."
He froze.
She reached over, smoothing his hair back with her free hand. "You have his honor, Michel. And his beauty, both in and out. I never say this enough, but I am so proud of you!"
He blushed at that, though he glowed at the praise. She laughed again. "When William was embarrassed, his ears would turn red too." She leaned down and kissed him. "That must give you away in the courtroom."
And just like that, the warm mood abated. He swallowed hard, averting his eyes.
She squeezed his hand, sensing his unease. I know you hate lying to me, Michel. "But what I said to you in the lobby was wrong, and I apologize. I just… you just…" she shook her head, abandoning the English language. Not enough words.
"Permettez-vous-même de récupérer! Pourquoi vous n'êtes pas?" she demanded. ("Allow yourself to recover! Why are you not?")
"Maman - " insane though it was, Vaughn couldn't help but feel relieved as the world returned to normal and his mother reverted to yelling at him in Français.
"Je m'excuse de traiter vous comme un enfant. Je sais que vous n'êtes pas. Mais pourquoi l'acte comme celui?" ("I apologize for treating you as a child. I know you're not. But why act like one?")
"Maman - "
"Michel! Pour partir... risquer plus de douleur.. Je ne comprends pas!" ("To leave… to risk more pain… I do not understand!")
"Personne ne m'indiqueraient quelque chose! Personne ne me répondraient!" Vaughn finally exploded. ("No one would tell me anything! No one would answer me!")
Amélie paused. She could count on one hand the number of times her very good mon petit raised his voice to her.
"Yes, I'm injured," Vaughn said impatiently, heatedly, too incensed to notice he had switched languages. "But I am still the same man! My talent is to gather facts and act based on them! It's my job! How can I know how to react if no one tells me anything?"
"Your 'job' is to allow your strength to return!" Amélie shot back, switching with him smoothly. "How can you be a benefit to anyone, including Sydney, when you will not let yourself recover?"
Vaughn stopped. He had never mentioned Sydney's name to his mother. He had wanted to since the day they met, had written and ripped up countless letters talking about her. At first it had just been job protocol that had determined his silence, but then…
How could he say, "Maman, I'm in love with the daughter of the woman that killed Papa"?
And even though he knew Amélie would accept her, because she would do anything to insure his happiness, how could he allow his mother to hurt herself in such a way? Because he knew his maman. He knew that once she knew the truth, the mere thought of Sydney, and him by extension, would cause her pain. And he would never willingly do that. But he should've known better.
"Vos rêves," she told him simply, reading his thoughts with an ability possessed by all mothers.("Your dreams.")
He stiffened, ashen. What else had he said?
Amélie released his hand, folding hers in her lap and looking him in the eye. "Jack Bristow est un homme intéressant. Je me demande quels traits votre Sydney a à lui?" she said, voice carefully neutral. ("Jack Bristow is an interesting man. I wonder which traits your Sydney has of his?")
He paled even more, if that was possible.
"I would prefer that she have more of her father's characteristics - than her mother's," Amélie said in English, taking care to enunciate each word.
And there it was.
"Maman, I - "
"Excuse me."
Beleaguered, mother and son immediately turned their attention to the door.
"Forgive me for interrupting," Kendall said, not even attempting to appear genuine. "But I'd like to speak with Counselor Vaughn alone, please."
"I wanted to thank you."
Hard at work on an extraction report much overdue because of increased determination to spend time with his family, Dixon frowned in puzzlement at the voice. He liked the kid, but they weren't exactly good friends.
"What for, Agent Weiss?" he asked.
"For all your help with Michael," Eric said simply. Echoes of their previous conversation - him calling the seasoned older agent in for covert help before he knew he would actually be cleared to retrieve Mike, just because there was no one else - ran through both their minds. "I know it was an assignment, but - "
Dixon waved the thanks away. "Mr. Vaughn and I have not had much in the way of contact," he said. "And in fact, he is undeniably responsible for the short rift between Sydney and I… she was under orders from him to not tell me the truth."
Weiss nodded. The man had almost had to choose between his life as an intelligence operative and a family man, the least he could do was afford him some time to vent.
"But I understand why," Dixon continued. "And even Jack, a man wary of connections with people, seems to respect your friend. That's enough for me to know he's a good man. I felt privileged to help."
They shook hands.
"And besides," Dixon added. "If he was anything less, Sydney wouldn't let him near her. And I love her like one of my own children. I could never stand aside when something I did could grant her happiness."
Eric smiled, dropping his head. Just as he would do anything to protect his friend, Dixon would and had put his life on the line for Sydney. Not just out of duty or obligation, but out of love, be it friendship or an almost father-daughter relationship. They were more alike than either realized.
"Agent Weiss?"
"Coming," he said. Off Dixon's questioning gaze, he shook his head in exasperation. "The NSC guy, Lindsey, seems to think it's a good time to 'informally question' Mike. All the directors and Jack are going, too. They want me to come with them in case Mike is too shaken to know what's going on, they think if I'm there he'll be more relaxed and able to focus on answering them."
"He probably will be," Dixon agreed. "You two seem to be very close."
Weiss scowled, not hearing the almost-compliment. "Sorry," he muttered. "But I can't see how ambushing the poor guy will help anything."
"Agent Weiss?" Lauren called.
"See you," he sighed, hefting himself off the desk.
"Tell him hello for me," Dixon replied.
"Will do," he said, dredging over to join the auspiciously ranked people as they readied to head for the hospital.
Shaking his head, Dixon turned to finish his extraction debrief.
"Marcus."
He turned. Jack stood there, stet phone in hand. The heavy, oversized object had never left his side since his daughter left. "Take this," the father said. "I don't want to bring it with me."
Dixon did so, understanding why. Sydney.
Nodding to him, Jack turned and left.
"Counselor?" Vaughn asked.
The FBI Deputy Director sank into the oft-used chair beside his bed with a look of amusement on his face. "Close the door, please," he called to the marshals. They obeyed immediately.
"Langley informed me your cover story was an attorney," the director said.
Oh, Vaughn remembered, somewhat sheepishly.
"My compatriots are on their way," Kendall informed him. "But I had some things to discuss with you first."
"Sorry?" Vaughn asked, confused. The "sleep encourager" in his arm certainly wasn't helping. "On their way?"
Kendall smirked. "Oh, that's right. You had stepped out when we sent a messenger by. We wanted to give you time to recover, and we certainly won't debrief you until you're officially released, but we did have some questions for you."
"We?" Vaughn remained lost. Maybe, just maybe, he could coax Dr. Matthews into removing the IV while this went on. At this rate, anything would be helpful.
"Myself, Jack, Devlin, NSA Deputy Director Brandon, NSC Director Lindsey, and Agent Reed."
"Oh."
Kendall leaned forward. "I did want to say, Agent Vaughn, that I am glad things worked out to your benefit."
"Thank you, sir," Vaughn replied.
"But I came here to issue you an order. I know that you are probably aware of Agent Reed's duplicity."
He nodded.
"Agent Vaughn, until I say otherwise, you are to keep that information between yourself, myself, Brandon, and Neil Caplan. Do not address it with Lindsey or Reed herself, and do not divulge that today or during your official debrief. Am I clear?"
"Sir?" Huh?
The door opened. Vaughn sucked in a breath as they all began to troop in, Weiss eyeing him worriedly the moment he entered.
"Agent Vaughn?" Kendall prompted.
"Yes, sir," he mumbled.
"What is this?" a new voice demanded. Dr. Matthews joined the crowd, astonished. "I don't know who you all are, but Mr. Vaughn is on bedrest and visitors are restricted to one at a time!"
"Vaughn, where's your mother?" Devlin inquired, ignoring the man.
He looked blank. Weiss scowled at the floor. I can't believe they're doing this now!
"She's probably in the store downstairs… she likes looking at the glass things," Vaughn stammered.
"Excellent," Lindsey said curtly. "Dr. Matthews, I know you have clearance. I'm National Security Council Director Robert Lindsey, and we are here to interview Central Intelligence Agency Senior Operations Officer Michael Vaughn for matters of national security. I'm aware we are disobeying hospital protocol, but I clear this with my own personal authority. You're welcome to report objections to my direct superior. Address any concerns to George W. Bush."
Dr. Matthews fought to not respond. The man's smugness oozed from him in palpable ways.
"We'll be brief," Devlin soothed, noting his unease. The door opened again, Jack and Lauren stepping through.
"Agent Weiss," Lindsey addressed the lowest-ranked operative in the room. "Would you mind finding some chairs for everyone?"
"Pleasure," Eric muttered. Vaughn was still studying his visitors with stupefied bewilderment, a look that tore at his heart. Too soon.
David pursed his lips, even more unhappy than Weiss. He had finally coaxed his patient to relax, and then they pulled this stunt! But what could he do? The NSC outranked even CIA Director Devlin, the opinion of one lowly retired agent certainly wouldn't matter.
"I need to check on his IV," he mumbled, stepping past Kendall. "And then I'll leave."
"Actually," Kendall said, having witnessed the effects of whatever flowed through that needle. "How's about you remove it so Agent Vaughn is not distracted?"
David shook his head. "It's also his painkiller," he said, steaming at the interference. Vaughn frowned as well, he was in the room and could speak for himself, thanks much. David glanced at him, noting his color and confusion, and then smirked to himself and picked up a syringe.
"Doctor?" Vaughn asked warily.
"Something to help you be more alert," he lied, feeding the syringe into his IV before Vaughn could protest. He wasn't frightened of needles, but had seen enough to last a lifetime. Or five.
"Excellent," Lindsey said, already impatient. The last of the needed chairs were dragged in, the agents and directors situating themselves around Vaughn's bed.
He'll fall asleep in about an hour, David thought, satisfied. The chemicals he had just mixed together in the IV would see to that. "Gentlemen, ma'am," he said, heading for the door. "I'll stall Amélie Vaughn, should she come up."
"Close the door, please," Lauren spoke up. He did so.
"Base ops, this is Mountaineer, voice ID number Alpha, Charlie, 710. I need to speak with - " Sydney hesitated. Well, why not? Immediate answer to your question. " - Boy Scout."
Pssst… this chapter was actually longer (this is 9 pages, what I have equals 12 pages), but I only received *6* reviews for my 17-page-long Chapter 47! :sniffles: Was it not liked?