Title: There But For The Grace Of You, Go I.
Rating: R
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.
Notes: If you want to feedback, feedback. Either way, this is just to get this damn idea out of my head. If you want to archive this, please ask. As this is un-betaed, I claim all responsibility for any mistakes. One thing I really should stress though. I am not a review-oriented writer. Don't get me wrong, I like them as much as the next author, but I will not be swayed by threats, pleas, or general berating reviews. I write for myself. First and foremost, and only when I can, which fluctuates a lot. I really cannot set a schedule for when this will be finished, except to say that I always finish what I write, even if it takes me a while to get there.
PS Gear yourself people, I think this tale has every intention of becoming a monster epic. Think Tolstoy long ;)
******************************************
Prologue
The air of suppressed jubilation in the office didn't touch him. He scarcely noticed. And his work mates all made sure not to get too close to him. Michael Vaughn was not someone you wanted to get close to even if you wanted to.
He was respected enormously and feared even more. As far as everyone could tell he had only one friend. Well, only one person that could even come close to classifying as a friend. Jack Bristow.
Older agents with long memories and too much time on their hands often used to talk about Michael Vaughn ...'before', as they termed it. Before, he became one of the most feared agents in the CIA, before he spent at least nineteen hours in the office -even on holidays-, before he'd openly bring in his customary vodka to daily briefings...before the death of Sydney Bristow.
Scuttlebutt claimed that for the first few months after her death, most of them expected Agent Vaughn to follow. But all anyone really knew was that Vaughn had disappeared four months after Sydney Bristow had died, and reappeared a month later. Fit and burning to get back to work.
He became Devlin's worst nightmare.
Whereas before, when necessary, they had been able to get him to toe the line, the new Vaughn was a complete maverick. Almost to the point of being considered a rogue agent. They would have fired him if they could, except it couldn't be done without him. They all knew, from Devlin down, that Vaughn was going to be integral in bringing down SD-6 and possibly the Alliance.
The hate driving him gave him an edge; it was pure as mercury and just as lethal. They may have questioned his methods often, his sanity even more often, but they never questioned whether or not he got results. When Vaughn set out to do something. It was as good as done. And on the day he had come back to the CIA -after Sydney's death- he had told them he wanted to do only one thing. He wanted to see all the guilty parties pay. And if the CIA wouldn't help him, then he was prepared to go rogue, to mete down his own brand of justice on them. Long term goals, and national interest could go fuck.
And Jack. Jack turned into his staunchest ally. Together the two of them began an all out assault on the Alliance. Dixon was recruited six months after Sydney's funeral, Devlin was only told after Dixon had successfully completed his first mission for them. Whilst the CIA may have been content to chip away at the Alliance, Vaughn and Jack wanted to blow it to pieces, and they did. Sometimes even literally.
Which brought them to now.
The eve of the final assault on SD-6.
Both Vaughn and Jack had deliberately left this cell for last. They had wanted Arvin Sloane to suffer as much as possible. They had wanted him in a constant state of fear, they wanted him looking over his shoulder all the time, they wanted him never to have a moment's peace. They wanted him to live the life he had condemned Sydney to, for all those years.
When every detail had been checked and checked again, when all the agents had repeated where and what they would be doing tomorrow to their satisfaction, Vaughn and Jack retreated to an old office with a bottle of Finlandia. Dedicating each shot to an absent friend or a remembered failure.
"To Weiss, for being too damn good a friend." His voice was gravelly, as though it had not been in use for a while, who was there to talk to really, anyway.
"To Marshall. For wanting to help so much." Jack answered.
"To the years The Alliance stole from us all." The burn of the vodka eased the Vaughn's constant ache, if only for a moment.
"To all the people who have tried to kill me. After tomorrow I'll promise not to duck." The clink of shot glasses was the only sign of tacit approval Vaughn gave to Jack.
"To my father, who died for something he didn't even believe in."
Jack had been floundering for what to toast next. He had so many failures to choose from, but Vaughn's words reminded him of whom he had to thank most.
"To my darling wife. May she rot in hell." Their salute to each other was unconsciously sychronised.
"To Arvin Sloane. May he spend the rest of his life in pain. Lots and lots of pain." Vaughn grinned at the thought. An ugly grin; more a feral baring of teeth.
Jack sloshed more liquid into both their empty glasses, finding they had drunk a whole bottle and this was their last shot. He would have laughed drunkenly at the irony -because he was pretty sure they were both drunk-, but he felt no inclination to. Jack had stopped laughing years ago.
"It's the last." He informed Vaughn quietly, indicating to the empty bottle.
"Then lets not waste it." Was all the reply he got. Jack didn't expect anything more. He didn't need anything more.
They both knew what they were dedicating the last shot to, what they were dedicating tomorrow's raid to, what they had dedicated the last couple of years of their lives to.
"To Sydney." There was no bitterness to the toast. Just an ache for the woman they had both loved, and both lost.
End Prologue
Author's notes: Finlandia is rather expensive vodka. James Bond uses it (sorry I had to throw in the inter-spy reference). Oh and yes. Sydney -in person- will be appearing in this story. How you ask, well read it and find out. Chapter One should be out soon
***********************************
Rating: R
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.
Notes: If you want to feedback, feedback. Either way, this is just to get this damn idea out of my head. If you want to archive this, please ask. As this is un-betaed, I claim all responsibility for any mistakes. One thing I really should stress though. I am not a review-oriented writer. Don't get me wrong, I like them as much as the next author, but I will not be swayed by threats, pleas, or general berating reviews. I write for myself. First and foremost, and only when I can, which fluctuates a lot. I really cannot set a schedule for when this will be finished, except to say that I always finish what I write, even if it takes me a while to get there.
PS Gear yourself people, I think this tale has every intention of becoming a monster epic. Think Tolstoy long ;)
******************************************
Prologue
The air of suppressed jubilation in the office didn't touch him. He scarcely noticed. And his work mates all made sure not to get too close to him. Michael Vaughn was not someone you wanted to get close to even if you wanted to.
He was respected enormously and feared even more. As far as everyone could tell he had only one friend. Well, only one person that could even come close to classifying as a friend. Jack Bristow.
Older agents with long memories and too much time on their hands often used to talk about Michael Vaughn ...'before', as they termed it. Before, he became one of the most feared agents in the CIA, before he spent at least nineteen hours in the office -even on holidays-, before he'd openly bring in his customary vodka to daily briefings...before the death of Sydney Bristow.
Scuttlebutt claimed that for the first few months after her death, most of them expected Agent Vaughn to follow. But all anyone really knew was that Vaughn had disappeared four months after Sydney Bristow had died, and reappeared a month later. Fit and burning to get back to work.
He became Devlin's worst nightmare.
Whereas before, when necessary, they had been able to get him to toe the line, the new Vaughn was a complete maverick. Almost to the point of being considered a rogue agent. They would have fired him if they could, except it couldn't be done without him. They all knew, from Devlin down, that Vaughn was going to be integral in bringing down SD-6 and possibly the Alliance.
The hate driving him gave him an edge; it was pure as mercury and just as lethal. They may have questioned his methods often, his sanity even more often, but they never questioned whether or not he got results. When Vaughn set out to do something. It was as good as done. And on the day he had come back to the CIA -after Sydney's death- he had told them he wanted to do only one thing. He wanted to see all the guilty parties pay. And if the CIA wouldn't help him, then he was prepared to go rogue, to mete down his own brand of justice on them. Long term goals, and national interest could go fuck.
And Jack. Jack turned into his staunchest ally. Together the two of them began an all out assault on the Alliance. Dixon was recruited six months after Sydney's funeral, Devlin was only told after Dixon had successfully completed his first mission for them. Whilst the CIA may have been content to chip away at the Alliance, Vaughn and Jack wanted to blow it to pieces, and they did. Sometimes even literally.
Which brought them to now.
The eve of the final assault on SD-6.
Both Vaughn and Jack had deliberately left this cell for last. They had wanted Arvin Sloane to suffer as much as possible. They had wanted him in a constant state of fear, they wanted him looking over his shoulder all the time, they wanted him never to have a moment's peace. They wanted him to live the life he had condemned Sydney to, for all those years.
When every detail had been checked and checked again, when all the agents had repeated where and what they would be doing tomorrow to their satisfaction, Vaughn and Jack retreated to an old office with a bottle of Finlandia. Dedicating each shot to an absent friend or a remembered failure.
"To Weiss, for being too damn good a friend." His voice was gravelly, as though it had not been in use for a while, who was there to talk to really, anyway.
"To Marshall. For wanting to help so much." Jack answered.
"To the years The Alliance stole from us all." The burn of the vodka eased the Vaughn's constant ache, if only for a moment.
"To all the people who have tried to kill me. After tomorrow I'll promise not to duck." The clink of shot glasses was the only sign of tacit approval Vaughn gave to Jack.
"To my father, who died for something he didn't even believe in."
Jack had been floundering for what to toast next. He had so many failures to choose from, but Vaughn's words reminded him of whom he had to thank most.
"To my darling wife. May she rot in hell." Their salute to each other was unconsciously sychronised.
"To Arvin Sloane. May he spend the rest of his life in pain. Lots and lots of pain." Vaughn grinned at the thought. An ugly grin; more a feral baring of teeth.
Jack sloshed more liquid into both their empty glasses, finding they had drunk a whole bottle and this was their last shot. He would have laughed drunkenly at the irony -because he was pretty sure they were both drunk-, but he felt no inclination to. Jack had stopped laughing years ago.
"It's the last." He informed Vaughn quietly, indicating to the empty bottle.
"Then lets not waste it." Was all the reply he got. Jack didn't expect anything more. He didn't need anything more.
They both knew what they were dedicating the last shot to, what they were dedicating tomorrow's raid to, what they had dedicated the last couple of years of their lives to.
"To Sydney." There was no bitterness to the toast. Just an ache for the woman they had both loved, and both lost.
End Prologue
Author's notes: Finlandia is rather expensive vodka. James Bond uses it (sorry I had to throw in the inter-spy reference). Oh and yes. Sydney -in person- will be appearing in this story. How you ask, well read it and find out. Chapter One should be out soon
***********************************