Title: Intersections
Author: LarasDice
E-mail: Website URL: http: Feedback: Absolutely. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome.
Distribution: CM always, otherwise please let me know.
Disclaimer: I understand that Alias is owned by ABC and was created by JJ Abrams and Bad Robot, not Lara. I do not profit from this work beyond personal enjoyment. I do it because I love Alias, and what I do here is meant to help, rather than hinder, the show's market.
Summary: The story goes back further than Vaughn thought
Rating: R to NC-17 and back again for violence, language, sex, etc.
Spoilers: Set post-Double Agent. Anything up until then is fair game. Some things after Double Agent are paralleled when necessary, but I've tried to avoid it.
Classification: S/V epic. Angst. Etc.
Author's Notes: JJ says they can't be interesting together. I disagree. I should note that I use season two Syd and Vaughn — you know, completely different people from season three Syd and Vaughn. Extra special super thanks to Thorne, who signed on as a beta years ago and has since been saddled with two almost-novels and one for-sure. I am so lucky to have found such a great beta, and, more importantly, such a great friend.

— Prologue —

It begins quietly. But then, he thinks, so many important things do.

The scratch of fountain pen over fine linen paper as it signs a declaration of war. The click of a bullet chambered, assassination yet to come. High squeal of the last vacuum tube screwed into ENIAC. Opening chords of "I Want to Hold Your Hand," circa 1963.

The revolution, he knows, comes long before the guns and the bombs. It comes in the little things that we do not notice until we look back and realize that yes, these were the precursors, these are the things we missed.

But today is not for revolution. Today is for her. For all of them.

Schuuuush. Schuuuush. Schuuuush.

His skis skimming over untouched snow, rhythm steady, calves and lungs burning. On through the broad path bordered by thick pine trees, like a vast, grand hallway through the forest. Past old wooden bleachers dripping icicles from the seats. He is making good progress, here, but this is not the part that matters.

The skis are rented; this the first time he has done this in more than a year. The boy at the lodge had been reluctant to hand them over, until he'd said he was on the '68 Olympic team, here to relive the old days. Not quite in the shape he was then, but he'd be fine, just fine, young man.

Schuuuush. Schuuuush. Schuuuush.

A lie, but he'd told it well.

There, up ahead now, the real reason for this trip. He resists the urge to speed up; he has always struggled with self-control. Slow, slow, slow. He must have enough left to make it back.

Finally, there. He glides to a halt.

He had feared the targets would be in disrepair, riddled with bullets and never replaced, but there is one towards the edge of the field that is largely untouched. He must pick through fallen branches to get there, lifting his skis so high he feels like a horse, prancing.

He sucks down more of the frigid air, beginning to regain control of his pulse. Lowers himself into the snow until he is lying flat, chin tilted up just enough to clear the ground, then pulls the rifle from his shoulder.

The rifle is not rented. He has practiced loading it enough at home that this goes smoothly, left to muscle memory, hands gliding over the gun as he considers the target. The snow is cold beneath him, but feels good; the trip here has left him overheated.

If there were any other way to do this, he would have chosen it instead. Such an elaborate, complicated way to go about it, but a firing range would have drawn attention — look at the old man with the rifle — and that was not an option.

This, at least, is quiet. Quiet and effective, given enough time. He considers the target again, the breeze, his own fatigue. Adjusts the gun and pulls the trigger.

A miss, well wide. But he must not be disappointed. This, after all, is why he's here.

New round. Recalculate. Adjust.

He allows himself a tiny smile at the satisfying ping as the next bullet hits the white metal target. Not nearly the center, but he is getting there. And when he does, he will hit it again, and again, and again, until the center bears the lumpy circle of shot after dead-on shot, like a lopsided flower. Then he will leave, and he will feel ready.

Another bullet, another shot. Closer.

There were plenty of snipers on the market he could have hired, all far more practiced, far better shots than him — only a fleeting consideration. Here, however, the whole thing feels absurd: the gun, and the practice, and the task to come.

Absurd, indeed, the thought of it:

Assassin! As if he does not have more important things to do!

But he cannot trust anyone else, not for this job. He began this mess, and he will end it.

It is nearly time.

— End Prologue —