Mystic Chords of Memory Chapter 4: pt 4, an alias fanfic

A/N: Thank you so much to Jasmine for pushing me to write and for looking over the logical order of my story. And thank you to yumytaffy for betaing the story… and for answering some questions relating to the show.

Sorry this chapter has taken so long to write. 20 units and continuous midterms really eat up a student's time.

This chapter contains some S3 and S4 (mainly "Tuesday") spoilers. Enjoy. There's another A/N at the end of the chapter.

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You walk past the picket fence and the fallen foliage near the tire swing. Its knot was clumsily made, but it will hold for the next few years. The air in front of you forms ghosts as you breathe in and out. Inhale; exhale. You try to keep your calm, but your finger shakes as you press the doorbell. You haven't been so scared since one of Sydney's last missions. You're not sure why. You've met countless informants, but the urge to hyperventilate has never been so palatable. Inhale, exhale, you remind yourself. And mostly, since a few months after Sydney's death, you've almost be void of emotions or at least those to the eye. Only when you are at your most vulnerable have you truly experienced emotions you thought you never would experience again.

You wait ten seconds. Seven more, and you finally hear footsteps approaching the door. You ready yourself mentally.

"Yes?" A young man answers the door. His posture is one of ease.

Studying him before replying, you see a flicker of recognition and hope flash behind his eyes before he hides it away. He has sandy blond hair, much like yours, and a build of a runner. He is not a desk jockey who shuffles papers around. Rather, he's a field agent, and you get the feeling that he's damn good at his job. You should have pulled his file, too.

You wonder what this man and his wife know that would be useful to you. They seem too young to know anything but innocence. But you remember back to what Sydney endured, and behind her apparent innocence laid a woman with too many hopes dashed. Youth did not always mean that they're naïve to the gravity and heartaches of life, you remind yourself.

"I'm looking for Catherine Stepankov. Are you her husband?" you hear yourself ask with courtesy even though you're in turmoil. You've waited years for information on Sydney. You still doubt this young couple can give you information that's worthwhile and not outdated, but that flicker in the young man's eyes tells you you've found something.

"Yes, I am, but you already knew that when you pulled both our records. Jonathan Ambler," he says good-naturedly as he reaches out to shake your hand. He has a firm grip, you realize, which means he's probably a good shot. Both their records? Weiss must have pulled his and forgot to send it to me. You push that thought to the back of your mind.

"Michael Vaughn."

He nods and turns around. "Catherine! Agent Vaughn is here."

You haven't been called Agent Vaughn in so long, and you want to correct him, but you realize that he very well knows that you are no longer an agent. If he knew that you had Weiss pull their records, then he knows that you're no longer an agent. You just don't know why he'd call you by the title. He knows you're CIA and not simply State Department. So was calling you by a long ago title to pacify you or keep you on your toes?

He just gives you a wink when he turns back around and sees your expression.

"I'm coming!" you hear her call back.

She rounds the corner, and you see her. She's not what you expected, but then, you weren't sure what you were expecting. Her brownish-blonde hair is piled up on her head, and her gray eyes are sharp with intelligence. You might have expected to see the professional lawyer. What you are not prepared to greet is the young mother. In her arms is a child not much older than 3 years old with green eyes. You realize that they complement the murky green of Jonathan's eyes.

You feel drawn to the child. The anger you've always felt toward children is burning in your throat, but you feel yourself responding to the child in a way you've never felt before. He is dressed in jeans and a baseball T-shirt. It's been a trend lately among the younger children you've noted; this kid is probably wearing it no doubt from Jonathan's influence.

"How old is he?" The question tugs on your heart as you ask.

"He's almost three," is the reply you receive. So you were correct with your guess. "You want to hold him?" Catherine readjusts the kid so that he would be at the perfect angle to transfer to your arms.

You nearly choke on air and swallow your surprise. You know your eyes flash with hidden resentment. "No, that's fine. I don't know anything about children."

She gives you an odd look.

No, I don't know anything about children, but then, I was never really given the chance now, was I? And having children or carrying other children who are not yours or Sydney's doesn't appeal to you at all. You give quite the opposite reaction than normal people. You want to turn and move away from all of them. However, you feel you can deal with just seeing the kid in front of you for just a little while longer. There's something about his eyes that haunt you.

"Is something wrong, Agent Vaughn?" Catherine glares at you. It's as if you offended her for not wanting to hold the child.

"No. Nothing's wrong, but can we just get to why I'm here?" you almost demand, not purposely, but because you had to focus on something other than the boy.

She gives you another familiar glare and brushes some strands of hair behind her ear. Her son had been pulling on her hair, and it had obviously been of some annoyance to her. "Yeah. Have a seat in the living room and get yourself comfortable. I'll go get you a cup of coffee, and this little tyke here will go to his father." She waves her arm in the direction of the living room and goes through a door before you can say anything. You hear the child squeal with laughter as Jonathan tickles him. You realize you never asked what the little boy's name is; Sydney would be disappointed you didn't.

When you came here, you had been hoping for some quick answers, but you realize that this is going to take much longer than you originally thought. Maybe she does have the answers I want, you think. You're just hoping they won't be a disappointment now.

She comes back sans kid but with a chrome travel mug full to the brim with coffee. "Sorry 'bout the cup, but the other cups are in the dishwasher."

"It's fine. Thanks."

There's a lull in the flow of words between the two of you. But then, there really haven't been many. You observe her actions. She's sitting back and watching you watch her. You know you're both looking for any hint of a weak spot in yourselves that would give each other an advantage. She won't scare easily, and you're too stubborn to give her what she wants. She fidgets on the couch and starts pulling at the loose threads of a throw blanket. You finally notice that there's some classical music in the background. Schumann, maybe.

"So you're a bit of a legend at the Langley office, I hear," she starts the conversation and gauges your reaction.

The coffee cup is halfway to your mouth, but you set it down when you register what she said. "I should have known. The law firm doesn't exist does it? Or maybe it does; it's just a front for the CIA," your thoughts skip ahead. "Does your husband know, Ms. Stepankov?"

She smirks at you, looking as if she has you exactly where she wants you. Trapped. "Call me Catherine, and you're wrong. I do work for a law firm, and it isn't a front for the CIA that I know of. I only know because of what Sydney told me."

"Sydney? She never worked out of Langley and you would have been… two, three years old tops if you ever met her. I highly doubt you'd remember a memory from when you were three; so I don't know who your source is, but they're wrong. And you obviously don't have the information I'm looking for." You stand up to leave, angry and disappointed in yourself.

"Don't tell me that a small part of you isn't hoping that I'm correct, right, Agent Vaughn?" You feel like you're in Dr. Barnett's office again being analyzed. "Let me ask you something, Mr. Vaughn. How exactly did you fall in love with your asset?" She stares at you with eyes you recognize but can't place.

"What kind of question is that?" The situation is escalating out of control. You don't want anyone prying into your memories of Sydney, much less a stranger who's playing with your mind. You may be old, but you're not senile enough to blurt out anything concerning Sydney. Your memories are your own.

She knows she went a bit too far with the question; you see it in her eyes. But you also see the pleading written on her face. She might just be a girl looking for answers as well; to what, you don't know. And that's why you don't know if you should trust her, yet there's some familiarity in the way she speaks to you as if for all her life, she's known you. "It's just a question, Agent Vaughn."

You give her a wary look. You're still adamant that she's wrong. Sydney died, and you want her to rest in peace. You don't want to dig up a past that didn't end with a happily ever after. "You don't know Sydney."

"Do you need me to prove it to you? Fine." She pauses to search for a memory you both might share, possibly a memory close to both your hearts. "How about your father's watch? Should I recall that story for you, Agent Vaughn?"

You go still for a moment. You never told anyone else about your father's watch. The last time you ever mentioned the watch was when you said, "I love you" to Sydney at the warehouse just a few days before you lost her. It's hidden away in one of your office drawers. You don't remember which one anymore.

She's searching your face for recognition, but she knows she's on the right path.

She continues, "It stopped on the day you met her. October 1st of 2001. You told her your heart stopped when you met her by way of a story about your father. And let's see… you were a paper pusher after being stationed in India. And even there, you weren't as exposed in the field as you would have liked. Am I correct?"

You realize that you're still standing up, towering over her, but she is still the dominant one in the situation. Do you go or do you stay? How does she know this information? "You know Sydney?" you finally inquire, sitting back down.

She smiles. "I've only met her a few times. Most of what I know comes from her daughter."

Your mind is racing. If this… girl… in front of you knows Sydney, then that would mean that she was still alive after the supposed murder in the Philippines. How many years have you searched for her? And all along, she has been in a little town in Maryland. Is she well? Where does she live? But most of all… can you visit her? And why did Catherine not call you before? Why does she tell you now that she knows Sydney? What happened? And did Sydney get married? How does she have a daughter?

You'll play her game. You'll pretend that Sydney was still alive after the retrovirus case and the guard didn't inject something into her body.

"Who are you?" you whisper.

Her smile just grows larger. You notice that she looks like a college girl with a secret she wants to spill. "Answer my question first. Just tell me. I need to know this before I tell you anything. Did you love her?"

And you find yourself wanting to tell this young woman everything about your love for Sydney. She might be an enemy agent, and if she is, she's a damn good one, but at this moment, you don't care. You don't know what to say to contradict her and are too weary of life to argue. It's been too many years of contained emotion just waiting for the opportune moment to spill out. Opportune moment or not, they are about to spill out regardless. CIA and the pledge you swore be damned. You don't care about the agency anymore.

"Yes, I do love her. I always have and still do. Even after her death, I did." When you mention Sydney's death, her eyebrows furrow making creases on her forehead. Maybe this is why you're here—to sort out the facts of Sydney's life. She wants information from the time you knew her, and you want information from what Catherine knew of her.

You continue on. Once you started speaking, you can't seem to stop. Right now, you're a very different man from any other moment before in your life. You're not the by-the-book youth or the ideal boy scout of your earlier CIA days. You don't idolize your father. You're still the bitter man, but now you're the bitter man with willing company and with words flowing out of your mouth. "I'm not sure when I fell in love with her, really, but then, no one really is supposed to know when they fall in love. It was so gradual. I don't know… it just...sort of happened. Maybe it was her smile. Maybe it was her innocence that she still retained even in the job we did. Maybe it was because she was strong and yet in need of love at the same time. I don't know. But something about her made me fall in love with her. When I first met her, I thought she was insane."

"Insane? Maybe we don't know the same Sydney after all," she quips. She's very absorbed in your story, and you find yourself glad that she is.

"Maybe. When I met her, she had Bozo hair. It was this shade of pinkish red. Her jaw was swollen from some teeth that had just been pulled out. And she was wearing a black sweater and black pants that were stained with blood and grime."

She chuckles, seemingly enjoying the description of the woman you love. It dawns on you that the description is probably a very different version of the Sydney she knows. "Why was she like that? What happened?"

You recollect yourself. Should you tell her? Why not? Why not have someone else love the memory of Sydney as much as I love her? But at the same time, you want to be selfish and love her for yourself. You make up your mind.

"She was CIA, or that's what she thought she was. But she was really in a highly organized syndicate called SD-6, which was part of the Alliance. She thought she was working for the good guys, and when she found out, she came to us," you skim over most of details. She only needed to know the basics, you reason.

"Oh. I already knew that. I didn't know that's when you met though."

You ponder on where she gets all this knowledge about you. For a person who isn't connected to any criminal organizations or even the CIA, and who believes that Syd is still alive, she is too informed, or too imaginative. It bugs you. You're still trying to rationalize it all out, but without incorporating the fact that Syd is alive, you find it hard to do. She may have gotten a hold of a journal of some sort. She might be insane, which doesn't seem likely, and it still wouldn't tell you how she knows about the watch. Or she might really be telling the truth, and that scares you more than anything. But anticipation is a game, and you're here to sort it out.

"It's your turn to share some information," you prod.

"Who am I? Was that your question?" she asks.

You nod.

"I'm Ms. Bristow's daughter's friend." She sees the question in your eye and elaborates, "I'm older than her by a few years, but we get along pretty well. I'm sort of like her older sister in a way. She was very advanced at her age, so she skipped a few years ahead into my grade. We've been friends since elementary school, you see. I met her mom in fifth grade, I think, and I always thought she looked so sad. Kate explained that it was because she missed her husband."

Your heart pounds, then skips a beat. So she did get married… if it really is her, you can't help but think. You think Catherine paused to get your reaction, but you're not sure. You might have just missed some information and tuned in while she was getting a sip of coffee.

"She was like my second mother. Hold on, let me get my photo album." You watch as she runs out into an adjoining room and comes back with a black engraved gold book.

She deposits the album in your lap, expecting you to look through it yourself.

You lift you hand and run it along the spine, trying to find the courage to open the book. You hope it isn't a fake—full of altered, fallacious pictures. It would be you biggest let down, your biggest disappointment.

You flip to the middle of the album, and you see Sydney with two children. One of them looks like a younger Catherine, and you deduce that the other girl is Kate. They were very cute kids, you relent. But what attracted you the most was the smile on Sydney's face. She was happy.

"She was helping us make cookies. We prepared everything but then went to the living room to play a game. We forgot about the cookies, and when she smelled something burning, she ran to the kitchen. She told us that Francie usually did the cooking. We didn't know who Francie was, and she never told us, but she mentioned her a lot. Kate and I figured out that she had to have been a really good friend that died."

You nod your head and try to rub out the furrows that have been dug deeper in your forehead; you're still unable to respond. You had Weiss check up on Francie and Will once in a while. They had both moved on and finally found happiness between them. Sometimes, you wish you could have let go so easily.

You look down and to the right of the cookie dough picture. Kate and Catherine dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland. You remember that Sydney had told you one time in the warehouse, leaning against the chain-link fence, the first edition of Alice in Wonderland that her mother gave her. You lifted it from her house when she died. It's now sitting on your dusty bookshelf, the pages worn and text smudged from tears.

"That was in the second grade. She had just finished reading Alice in Wonderland to Kate a few weeks before Halloween, and Kate had this idea that the three of us all be Alice for Halloween. And Sydney told us that she had dressed as Alice one time in her childhood. Kate was so excited about it. That was when my parents got a divorce. Sydney and my mother had an agreement that if Kate or I felt uncomfortable being home, that the other mother would look after the child for a period of time. That's why I know so much about her."

You just let her talk, trying to absorb everything she's saying as you're trying to figure out the truth behind her words.

She seems too familiar with Sydney to be faking her acquaintance, and it scares you. Syd's alive. They're the only words racing through your mind right now, unable to be removed for more conscious thought. You start believing it more and more.

And yet, this is the game you two are playing. You gauge her sincerity, and she gauges your reactions, trying to figure out how much you know or how much you don't. And you're uncovering so many hidden secrets you never knew, and how much you wish you knew them and the memories locked away behind them. You missed out on so much of her life, and only now are you shadowing those missing years, too many years late, too changed to do anything, and too cynical for your own good.

Reaching out to a picture, you trace Sydney's frame with your finger. You miss her with so much more intensity now than you've felt in these past few years combined. You want to feel her love for you again, to remove yourself from this state of pure insensitivity. This isn't who you were when Sydney was around, but then, so many things were different when she was around, and you long to go back to the then and stop living the now.

She wouldn't recognize you now. You still don't recognize who you've become. Not a big surprise. You try to live out of yourself, to reduce the pain. You trapped all emotions and drained them from your body. It would take a miracle for them to flood back into you.

And the miracle is in the pages on your lap.

Catherine breaks the silence. "The first time I met her, she introduced herself as Mrs. Eleanor Vaughn, which led me to my finding of you these past five years. She didn't give us, Kate and I, your name until a year ago. She also didn't tell us her real name until last year, too."

"Mrs. Vaughn?" you finally manage after a moment of silence. She took my last name? Why did I not find her sooner?

"Yeah, she was missing you."

You breathe. Exhale. Inhale. You wish you could breathe again. It's getting difficult to remain focused, and your thoughts want to scatter. She was waiting for me. Where did she go? Why did she fake her death? Wait…Did she leave willingly? Did SD-6 find out about her? Why didn't the CIA tell you? Why did they mislead you? Did Jack know she was still alive? Kate. Kate Jones. She might be my daughter. She was a clue. Eleanor—your favorite grandmother's name; also a clue. Why has it taken me so many years to find out she was alive? And she took my name. You want to let them lose the control you've kept them under, buried and protected for years. You finally allow your thoughts to escape to your planned marriage proposal so many years ago. You allow yourself to have a secret smile.

"Why are you smiling?" Catherine asks with suspicion in her voice.

"I was so close to proposing to her, you know. One time, when we were meeting—secretly of course—I had just gotten a ring for her and I wanted to propose to her right there. I knew I couldn't, and I did make myself listen to my head that time, but I would have proposed to her in this dank warehouse. Thinking back, I should have just done it. She caught me smirking to myself, and she asked me what I was thinking about. I just told her that I was a 'mysterious' man," you divulge. "I loved her. I still love her."

She looks at you expecting more. And you're willing to give her more.

"When I went home that night, I thought about the almost proposal, and I decided that when I did propose, it would be a perfect one. I hadn't meant to buy the ring earlier that day. I just came across it while I passed an antique store, and I thought it would be perfect for her. So that night, I was twirling the ring around in between my fingers, and I came to two outcomes on how I could propose to her."

She's looking at you eagerly. You're starting to feel a bit uncomfortable at how affected she is by this story, so you make yourself believe that she's going to be retelling the story to Kate later over the phone. It's the only explanation you want to accept right now.

"Sydney always loved the train station. She went there to watch people. Normal people. And she'd sit there and imagine what it would be like to live their lives," you look over and realize she's not following your story. The words continue to pour out, "I thought I would propose to her there at the train station and give her the normalcy she craved—give her the dream life she wanted in a way. I wanted to give her an out of the espionage life so badly. I wanted her to be happy. If she was happy, I was happy.

"I had it all planned out. I'd call and tell her to meet me at our bench at the train station. After she was waiting for me, I would have pretended to be late and come up and asked her to dance with me. She loved to dance, and I never was one for dancing, but I would have done anything for her. And we'd be off in our own corner, dancing. I think that would be when I'd whisper in her ear and tell her that the Agency raided SD-6, and that she'd be free. Then I'd go down on one knee and ask her." You're lost in your dream. You're glad someone is there to listen to the plans that never happened.

"What was the alternative?" her eyes dance with delight.

You watch her obvious enjoyment. At least now, you know your plan would have been romantic enough although you doubt it would have gone that way. Life has a way for making things not go according to plan, and you know it all too well. "The other option I came up with was to go to Santa Barbara right after her status as a double agent was completely nullified. We were going to eat at La Super Rica our arrival night, and the next day I was planning on bringing her to see the giraffe at the zoo with the crooked neck. She had a soft spot for giraffes. I had two plans for this option. If I got too nervous and didn't manage to propose at La Super Rica, I think I would have proposed to her next to the giraffe. It would have been a little weird, but I think she would have loved it." You pick up the mug and drink from it, then set it back on the table.

She looses herself in the story, but then her eyes refocus on you as she realized whose company she's in. Gone is the happiness in her eyes and gone is the relaxed college girl attitude she had adorned just a few seconds before. Animosity lies in front of you. You realize she remembered a reason to despise you, and you wonder what it is.

You glance over to your cup of coffee and you know something isn't right. You continue staring at it. Finally, you understand. The coffee is prepared exactly as you used to like it, back when Sydney was still alive—two sugars. But you never told her how you like it. She knows more about you than she's letting on. Some CIA agent you are… were.

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A/N: I would like to mention that the train station scene was originally in my head back in 2004. I'm convinced JJ is a mind reader and stole it. Joking. But it was pretty damn coincidental and it was freaking me out. Hence, I edited out most of the original scene and made it passive. However it's still "Tuesday" like, and I did add a few minor spoilers from it. :shrug: Hope you guys don't mind. …. Other than that… I'm still calling that train scene proposal my idea.

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Fair Cate: You should have just gone to bed and written a review in the morning! I hope you got enough sleep. I'm glad you enjoyed the dream sequence. Anyway, thank you so much for reading and reviewing.

PKgirl: Hmm… ;) You know. You should keep with your intuition. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Natalie: Lol. I'm sorry. But if angst isn't your thing, you're not going to enjoy this story very much. The entire thing is going to be angst—possibly until the very last word. Thanks for reading!

Monkey47: That scene is all in Vaughn's head. She's not really there. It's just his subconscious. Thanks for reading.

Catie: Thank you!

Valley-girl2: Lol. Singing there? I'm so sorry it's been so long… well, always, between updates. But school has been… for a lack of a better word, hell. Just way too many exams… or as the professors like to say "midterms" (which is incorrect seeing as they have 3). Eww… I hate the falling feeling while sleeping. I haven't had it in a while, and I really hope it's gone for a while. Hehe. Vaughn should be "you" technically. Things should unfold as he figures things out. They can go both ways… or someone can be lying. Analytical analysis of that last line? It's just for a discomforting effect. And I think I achieved it. ;) Thanks so much for reading.

Genevra: Don't cry… please. It'll make me feel horrible. But here's the next update… only… 40 or so days after you reviewed it. ;) Sorry about the delay. Thanks for reading and reviewing.