Title: The Art of Retrospection (Chapter 5)
Author: Agent Otter
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I hereby officially disclaim. Amen.
Spoilers: Anything up through "Firebomb" is fair game, I suppose, though I don't think there's any major plot points given away or anything.
Author's note: Work? What's that? Also, what's both sad and funny and probably shows about this story is that I have no idea where I'm going with this. Ah, well.

Sydney crouched among tall stalks of sugarcane, covered in heavy tactical gear but soaked to the bone by a constant and unceasing downpour, and wondered just what she was doing in Martinique, lurking outside a tiny aircraft hangar just beyond Saint-Joseph.

Technically, she knew why she was there -- to provide support the tactical team and bring in Vincent Chirac -- but that didn't mean it made much sense to her. For the past several months she'd been stalking Sark and Vaughn around the world. Paris was a bust; the men had never been there, and the manuscript never had either. The guards who'd been charged with its transport had been in Sloane's employ all along, and had delivered it without event into his hands. Things went just as poorly for every other opportunity that presented itself: in Hammamet they were a full four days too late, in Ust-Kamenogorsk the building they raided had long been abandoned, and it didn't seem that Sark or Vaughn had ever been in Quito or Korsholm at all.

But Martinique had nothing to do with that mission or that vendetta. It was standard work tracking arms dealers that any of the Agency's field teams could've handled, and she had to wonder why her father, of all people, had insisted that she take this op.

The situation made even less sense when she heard motion in the field behind her, turned, and saw Michael Vaughn standing behind her in the rain.

Her first instinct was to hug him, and kiss him, and tell him how glad she was to see his face. But, she reminded herself, it was only his face before her, and not the man himself. Her second instinct was to kill him, so she thought she'd try for that instead.

He didn't seem to be expecting the attack, so when her right hook caught him across the cheek, he stumbled and slipped to one knee in the mud. She closed in and tried to knee him in the face, but he blocked the blow and surged forward, catching her in the stomach with his shoulder and bearing her to the ground. She landed hard, the breath rushed from her lungs, and suddenly there was a hand clamped over her mouth and a gun pressed into her cheek.

"Don't move, Sydney," the voice hissed in her ear. "Don't make a sound. I'm not going to hurt you, and you're not going to hurt me. Fair?"

She grunted her assent, and was very tempted to sink her teeth into his hand.

He let her go, tentatively, backing away with a slithering crawl through the mud until he was far enough from her to find his feet. The gun remained trained on her head as she pulled herself from the muck and stood as well. "Jesus," Vaughn muttered. "I know Jack likes his secrets but he really shouldn't have been so greedy with this one."

Her fingers twitched, dangling near the butt of the pistol that was strapped to her thigh. She wondered why she hadn't thought to use it earlier. "I'm going to give you one chance to answer this question," she said. "And once chance is all you get. Where is Michael Vaughn?"

His gun hand didn't waver, but he sighed. "He's standing right in front of you, Syd." The hair was longer still than it had been in the surveillance photo from two months ago; it dangled in his eyes now, and was plastered down and darkened by the rain. She thought she detected something hard in his eyes that she hadn't seen there before, and she thought maybe that was the real man in the fake skin, the stranger who'd taken almost everything she'd cared about.

"Vaughn wouldn't point a gun at me," she argued.

"He would if he was afraid you'd kneecap him," Vaughn countered. "Which he is. But as good as it is to see you, Syd, we don't have a lot of time before both of us are missed. I have something for your father."

She tensed when he reached for the courier bag that dangled from his shoulder, but he handed the whole thing to her. When she flipped open the top flap and peered inside, she saw three parcels, wrapped in brown paper.

"Give Jack my regards," Vaughn said. "And tell him that he needs to tell you what the hell's going on before you end up shooting me."

He kept the gun trained on her as he backed away into the cane field, but when he turned and bolted, she pulled her own sidearm and gave pursuit. The radio in her ear, which had silenced at his approach, suddenly burst back into life; she guessed he had a signal jammer somewhere on his person, and that its effectiveness decreased the farther away he moved.

"This is Red One to Red Team, target acquired bearing south southwest through the cane field," she reported. "Target is armed. Abort previous mission and pursue."

"Red One, confirm abort," a voice answered through the commlink.

"Confirmed; there's nobody in that hangar, it was just a dummy mission to get us here. Pursue target immediately!"

The affirmative reactions of her team were shoved to the back of her mind as she followed Vaughn's path through the cane. When she suddenly emerged onto an access road running between fields, she saw Vaughn's back as he started up a motorized dirt bike. She fired four shots at his departing back, and the bike swerved sharply, fishtailing on the wet and muddy track; something clattered to the ground, but she didn't think she'd hit him. He disappeared into the falling rain, and she ran after him only a short distance before abandoning the chase entirely. She reached down and picked up the object he'd dropped, just as the rest of the team burst out of the field.

Dixon was breathing heavily when he approached -- having sprinted from the opposite side of the hangar -- but he managed to gasp out, "Sark?"

Sydney shook her head. "Vaughn." The object in her hands was his pistol, the one he'd held to her head. She slid the clip from the weapon and carefully checked the chamber.

Both were empty.

* * *

There were few things that Jack Bristow genuinely feared. He feared chemical attacks, under which no amount of ass-kicking skills would save anyone. He feared his own weakness for Irina Derevko and what consequences his foolish attraction might one day bring. He had an irrational fear of monkeys that he never discussed, with anyone. He feared losing his daughter and being able to do nothing to save her. He'd always feared for Sydney, but up until then, he had never been afraid of Sydney herself.

He was able to admit to himself that he had thought, somewhere in his foolish delusion, that if she saw Vaughn again she would know that he was the real thing. That Vaughn would explain about Francie, Sloane, the double-agent ploy that had resulted, and everything else, thereby saving Jack from having to do that himself.

But from the look on Sydney's face when she returned from Martinique, he guessed that things hadn't gone quite as he'd imagined.

She'd marched straight to his office and placed three brown-paper-wrapped parcels very carefully and deliberately on his desk. Then she said, "I was asked to give you these. And if you don't tell me what's going on, I swear I will use them to beat your head in."

He called a briefing instead, hoping that avoiding a one-on-one confrontation might strengthen his position. It didn't. He'd briefed Kendall previously, who had agreed that keeping the information from Sydney might be the best course of action. But, Jack was beginning to realize, Kendall believed that keeping everything from Sydney was always the best answer.

The others were more surprised. Sydney paled at the idea that she'd almost shot the real Vaughn -- several times. Will began to tremble when Jack reported that he believed Francie to be the double. And no one in the room seemed to be pleased that he'd kept the information to himself for so long, even if Vaughn's cover was delicate.

"According to the information relayed by Agent Vaughn," Jack explained, "the duplicate of Francie was put in place by Sloane to keep an eye on Sydney's activities. Vaughn himself caught Sloane's attention when he showed up on the Agency's most-wanted list. Vaughn managed what was apparently a convincing story, that he was actually a double agent himself, working within the CIA for The Man. Because of Agent Vaughn's knowledge of Derevko's operation, and the fact that the CIA had him under investigation at the time, any contacts that Sloane has within this Agency would have only been able to confirm parts of Vaughn's story."

"So Sloane recruited him," Sydney concluded, her voice shaky.

"Yes, and Vaughn began passing us intelligence almost immediately. We haven't actually moved on much of his information, because we don't want Sloane to suspect, but the information will go a long way toward destroying Sloane's operation entirely."

The silence in the room was expectant, and Jack knew he'd have more to explain. He hoped that wherever Vaughn was, he was fairing better.

* * *

The first blow was tremendously painful, the second one moreso, and when Sark gripped the front of his shirt and slammed him bodily against the wall, he saw stars.

"It must be true that God cares for fools and children," Sark hissed, his mouth close to Vaughn's ear. "Because you evidently fit into both of those categories. What did you think you were doing?"

"I don't know what you're talking ab--" Vaughn was cut off as Sark slammed him against the wall again, and then again, for good measure.

"Sydney. Bristow. In Saint-Joseph. Ring any bells, you buffoon?"

Vaughn could only gasp for breath, his mind racing as he wondered if this was how and when and where he was going to die.

"I know what you are," Sark whispered. "I know what you're doing. And I swear to you, if you foul it up I will not risk myself to protect you."

Sark gave him one last shake, just for emphasis, then stepped back, smoothing his suit and eyeing Vaughn calmly, as if he hadn't just assaulted anyone.

"I don't know what you mean," Vaughn denied, squeezing the words between clenched teeth and clutching at his stomach where Sark had struck him.

"Irina has briefed me on your situation," Sark said. "I have been ordered to support you, though I couldn't say why Irina is putting her trust in anyone so idiotic as you."

"You backed up my story," Vaughn said, shock written all over his features. "You told Sloane that I worked for The Man. That's why the interrogation only lasted two days. That's why he's trusted me so quickly."

Sark nodded, curtly, and said, "Stay away from Sydney Bristow and the CIA. If you misstep this seriously again, no one will be able to save you, and I certainly won't want to. Do you understand?"

Vaughn nodded, and Sark turned, all grace and poise and deadly refinement, and walked casually out of the passenger lounge and onto the tarmack to board their plane out of Martinique.

* * *

It was only 7:30 a.m., but thus far, Will Tippin was not having a good day.

It had started with his coffee machine malfunctioning and sending hot water cascading over his kitchen countertop. His showerhead broke and he nearly slipped and killed himself on a sliver of soap. Then his car wouldn't start. And, to top it off, the cab that he called for turned out to not actually be a cab.

He didn't notice until they were well underway that the inside door handles at all on the rear doors were soldered shut. But when he did notice that, he also noticed that they were, apparently, enroute to someplace that was nowhere near the "travel magazine" office where he worked.

"Hey, pal, what's going on?" He leaned forward to be heard through the thick plastic barrier that separated the front seats from the back, and that was when he noticed that Sark was driving the car.

The panic was like a riptide; it snared him and pulled him under, where there was no air and no way to fight the current that was pulling him away from safety. He panted and started hyperventilating as he tried desperately to open the doors. He tried to break the windows with his feet. He screamed at Sark to pull over, to let him out, to leave him alone, and when Will started to smell the gas, it was almost a relief to sink into the not-knowing, not-caring bliss of unconsciousness.

* * *

Kendall's morning, by comparison, had started off incredibly well. He'd added an extra quarter-mile to his morning run, and still made it home in time to share a breakfast omelette with his wife.

His day abruptly got worse when he stepped out his front door to head to work and found Michael Vaughn leaning on the railing of his porch, waiting for him to emerge. Vaughn held up a remote detonator, and gave a pointed look to the house, where Kendall's wife was still inside, cleaning up after breakfast before taking off for her own job. Kendall clenched his teeth, raised his chin, and followed without a word to the car parked at the curb.

* * *

Vaughn could think of nothing more boring, or nerve-wracking, then guarding hostages.

Not that he'd done it before, by any means. Maybe if he had, he'd be able to tolerate the accusing glares without such an intense feeling of guilt. None of them had been harmed, but he kept glancing at Will, particularly, and Kendall and Marshall, and wondering if all of them would come out of this okay. What would he do if Sloane asked him to torture one of them? Or worse, execute them? He thought with some dismay that in those circumstances, he'd have to blow his cover; he couldn't allow any of them to be hurt, so matter how many times he'd wanted to beat Kendall into unconsciousness himself.

He was saved from that particular train of thought, at least temporarily, by the arrival of Sark, who informed him that Mr. Sloane would like to see him immediately. Vaughn stood, headed for the stairs that would take him to Sloane's upstairs office in the massive chateau, and left Sark to look after their captives.

Sloane greeted him with a warm smile and offered him an armchair and a glassful of brandy. "You know," the older man said, sinking back into his own chair near the fire. "I knew your father, Michael. He was a good man. A patriot. But there were a few things that I think, to keep them safe, even he would've betrayed his country. You were one. Your mother was another. But you are the very spitting image of your father, Michael, and it makes me wonder. What did you betray your country for?"

Vaughn opened his mouth to answer -- the same answer he'd given during his painful interrogation -- but Sloane waved a hand, silencing him.

"I know what you told me before, about the money and so on. But I know you were lying. A man like you doesn't give up the American dream for something as paltry and inconsequential as money. I respect that my employees have secrets, Michael, but there are some you aren't allowed to keep. If I'm going to trust you, if we're going to see this through, then I need the truth from you."

Vaughn knew that this was one of those moments Sark had told him about, where a misstep would cost him his life. He thought about his answer very carefully, and then decided that truth -- or something approaching that -- might just save his neck.

"Sydney Bristow," he said. "The CIA wouldn't let us be together, but Ms. Derevko had plans to recruit her, and was confident that those plans would succeed. She assured me that my cooperation would ensure a safe, normal, comfortable life for both of us."

Sloane's eyes narrowed. "You betrayed your country to the woman who murdered your father, just because you're in love with that same woman's daughter?"

"Yes."

"But Sydney knows the truth about you now."

He swallowed, hard, remembered the bullet exploding from Sydney's gun, biting into drywall not far from his head. "Yes."

"She despises you."

"Yes." He wondered where this line of questioning was going, but knowing Sloane, the man probably just wanted to twist the knife.

"But you still love her enough to sacrifice everything that you are, just to keep her safe."

"Yes." He spoke that truth to help conceal his lies, and he hoped fervently that that would be enough.

Sloane was quiet for a moment, staring at some distant vision that existed only in his mind's eye, and then he snapped out of it with a visible shake. His eyes strayed toward the mantle where, Vaughn knew, there was a photograph of Emily beaming down at the room.

"That's very admirable, Mr. Vaughn," he said, and there was an honesty in his voice that Vaughn had rarely heard. "Misdirected, perhaps, but I'm sure she'll understand, eventually, that you did it all for her." His smile was a grimace, and Vaughn thought that maybe Sloane wasn't talking about Sydney anymore. Sloane's eyes wandered back to the mantle.

"I've made contact with Jack Bristow," he finally said. "Three artifacts from Langley's vault, in exchange for three hostages. You and Sark will go together, make the trade, and take all the standard security precautions before returning here. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"The exchange will be tomorrow at 10 p.m., in Los Angeles, on the 4th Street bridge. Godspeed."

Sloane's attention turned away from him entirely, and Vaughn took that as his dismissal, but when he reached the door, Sloane's voice stopped him.

"Be careful, Michael," the older man said. "Love can make you weak."

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and replied, "I like to think it makes me stronger."

Sloane nodded and pursed his lips, and he didn't even seem to notice the door clicking quietly shut on Vaughn's exit.

---------------------------------

to be continued...