Chapter One

Pain.

Not really surprising, as the past four years have accumulated in many ohshit im returning to consciousness moments, ending in a hospital visit or a very nasty looking cell. He has a fifty-fifty chance of waking up safe, so he keeps his eyes shut until he determines that the material underneath his fingertips is indeed standard hospital sheet cloth, starchy and smelling of antibiotics. Safe.

Someone is coming, so he relaxes, hoping the painkillers are coming. As the blackness becomes absolute, he praises modern medicine and lets the numbness wash over him in comforting waves.

Some indeterminate time later, his eyes open in a panic. The fluorescent lights hurt, and he blinks until he can make out the shapes around him. Medical equipment. Shit. Did he borrow Michael's motorcycle and crash it? He was going to get his ass kicked if he harmed the Harley. There's no one in the room with him, so he can only assume Mike doesn't know yet, hasn't stormed in with rage and worry in his identical green eyes. As much as they don't get along, he knows his brother as well as he knows himself. Mike would never allow him to forget it, but he'd only yell because he was worried too.

He dug far into his mind, trying to recall the events that had brought him here. He couldn't remember borrowing a motorcycle… he remembered a car. Fuck! He'd crashed Michael's car! Totaled it, even. Now he'd never see the light of day again, it was only a matter of time before his brother barged in and ripped the IV out of his arm and-

"Oh, you're awake! You had us worried, Michael. How are you feeling this morning?" a woman's voice abruptly ends his hysteria.

Michael. Oh. Right.

He was Michael now.

"Um… I'm ok…."

And then it all comes to him in a rush. Santa Barbara, Sydney, eloping, the beginning of his confession, the crash. Oh god, Sydney!

She smiles. "Good to hear. You were in quite a state when you were brought in. Would you like me to explain your injuries or-"

"Excuse me- where is Sydney, my fiancé? The woman who came in with me-"

"Yes, I know. She's in the room next to this one. Her physical injuries were less extensive than yours, but she hasn't yet fully regained conciseness. We believe this is just a result of shock she mostly likely suffered during the crash. Her condition is stable, however, and we have every reason to believe she'll make a full and swift recovery."

He sighs and nods. "Thank you." The nurse smiles again, and leaves quietly with his chart.

Now that he's established the what, where, and when, he just has to figure out the who. Who he is, who he's going to be to Sydney, the unconscious woman only a room away that will no doubt be pissed at him when she wakes up. Will she see him in a different light? Can she love him despite the deceit?

It isn't that he's been hiding from her, or anyone else for that matter. He's been hiding from himself for fifteen long years, convincing himself that his name is Michael C. Vaughn, Boy Scout, proud American, and all around good guy. Not that the real Michael Vaughn ever was any of those things, in fact, his brother had a dark side that even he had trouble stomaching. But that is beside the point.

Sydney. He needs to worry about Sydney. His plan was to spill it at once, where she was cornered, and make her listen to the entire story. Now she only has "My name isn't Michael Vaughn" and some broken ribs. He'll be lucky to see her dust cloud as she runs as fast away from him as she can. And she sprinted in college. Fuck.

The nurse returns a moment later with a paper in one hand and a serum in the other. "Meds time," she announces.

He turns away as the needle enters his skin. "So… could you tell me my injuries now?"

She nods and throws away the serum, then looks down at her paper. "Well, Agent Vaughn, the accident did somewhat of a number on you. And it seems you have an extensive history of injury so I'm just going to give this to you straightforward. You've suffered a mild concussion. Your left arm is broken; you may have noticed the bandaging."

He hadn't. Now he does.

"In addition, your right light is fractured, which is why it's elevated. Finally, four of your ribs are broken. One of them snapped inwardly, causing what is called a hemothorax. It punctured your lung, filling it with blood. You underwent surgery to drain the blood after you were brought in."

He takes a moment to take all this in before asking hoarsely, "How long have I been here?"

She glances at her watch. "Would be about… 44 hours now."

Two days. No doubt Jack was sitting in Sydney's room, glaring at the nurses every time they looked at his daughter's charts, cursing him to hell and imagining which torture devices would inflict the most pain. And he'd thought Sydney was going to be hard to talk to…he'd have to tell Jack what happened while he was dodging bullets.

Nadia is in a hospital bed too, he remembers. Not a good week for Irina's daughters.

"Can I see Sydney?" he asks, eyes wide. He needs to at least see that she's alive, touch her to make sure she's still there. "Please?" He realized a long time ago the dependency he has on Sydney's well being and doesn't try to fight it. The nurse's eyes are sympathetic, but he can tell she's going to say no. Fucking hospital rules.

"I'm sorry, not today. With all your injuries, we can't risk moving you for at least a couple days." She pats his unbroken arm softly. "She'll be fine, don't you worry. We're taking good care of her."

Days.

Suddenly a coma doesn't sound all that bad. Blissful darkness.

Days.

TBC..