Title: The Trouble with Double Agents
Author: wolfish (seriously, don't ask)
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and the monkeys at ABC. Do not assume I own any of it...unless you want to.
Time: A few months after 'A Dark Turn'
A/N: Please be kind and (no! not rewind) review! Reviews verify my existence and make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Pretty, pretty pweeease?
Chapter One
Love and Hate
The trouble with double agents is that they have flexible morals. It's a vital quality that keeps them sane after all the lies, but that same ability can turn on the hand that holds them. They've already switched sides once...so what's stopping them from doing it again?
In retrospection, all the signs were there; he should have seen it coming, but at the time he had been too preoccupied to look for them. That's what hindsight is for.
He woke up that morning the closest to heaven he will ever get: in Sydney Bristow's bed. He became aware of the tantalizing feeling of someone planting kisses down his chest, and his eyes fluttered open.
"Morning," he rasped, maneuvering slightly so he could see the crown of her head hovering scarce inches above his skin.
"Morning," she answered, and he got a flash of her face from behind the curtain of her hair as she leaned in to brush her cool lips across his breastbone.
In response, he merely raised his eyebrows at her, and when she caught the gesture, she stopped in her pursuit to copy it, three delicate lines forming in the center of her forehead in an imitation of his own. "What?"
The edges of his mouth curved up in that irresistible way they always did when she was around, "You know I hate it when you start without me."
With a flashing grin, she braced a hand on either side of him and pulled herself up along his upper body, "And you know I hate it when--"
The alarm cut through whatever she was going to say, filling the air with its frustratingly insistent beeping, and she collapsed on top of him with a groan, the mood ruined. "Five more minutes."
"No," he asserted firmly, as he felt around blindly for the button that would shut the alarm off. "We have to get up. We have a flight to catch, remember?"
She reluctantly levered herself into a sitting position, and he began to wiggle out from under the rest of her, but she moved quickly and pinned him before he got far, her fingers cutting into the flesh of his arms as she pushed him back into the sheets.
"Wait," she breathed near his ear. "I have something to say first."
He repressed his natural instinct to fight when trapped, relaxing his muscles forcibly and plastering a fake smile across his face. "Can it wait until after my shower?"
"No." She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling him and setting his nerves on fire.
"Syd, if this is about--" he began, realizing by the tone of her voice that he wasn't going to escape a serious conversation.
"It isn't." She placed a gentle hand on each side of his face and her eyes roved across his features like she was searching for something. "I love you, Michael Vaughn."
That should have been his red flag; he should have known at that exact moment that something was changing--fast. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they never voiced their feelings. Life was dangerous enough already, especially since they had chosen to spend it together, and somehow saying those words would bring doom crashing instantly down on them.
But all he registered was the fact that he couldn't leave her hanging by herself like that, with her emotions naked in her eyes. If she was going to take this uncertain step, he wasn't going to let her take it alone.
"I love you, Sydney Bristow."
"Good," she said more brightly, bouncing up and off the bed. She grabbed his wrist and tugged him along after her. "C'mon, lazy. I need someone to wash my back."
* * * * * * * * *
He had a right to his worries, he consoled his conscience as he watched Weiss shy away from him after he snapped at him for maybe the fourth or fifth time since they had arrived in Mexico City. He had spent months of sleepless nights, working through numerous contacts to finally pull this project together, and the mission had to go off without a hitch; since the investigation on him had blown over, everything he did had been under scrutiny and any failure on his part would arouse suspicions of his loyalties again. The truth was that Kendall would have never allowed him this responsibility if Sydney hadn't been a pivotal part of this operation.
As if she could sense the course of his thoughts, he felt her eyes on him from across the utility room they had set their equipment up in. He lifted his head and gave her a tiny smile, which she took as an invitation to come stand beside him. When she positioned herself at a distance next to him acceptable to protocol, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, enjoying that intimate motion while still keeping the embrace out of view of any one who would be looking on. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Me?" she asked, inclining back more as he began to trace his thumb in slow lines up and down the rough material of her suit jacket. "I'm fine with this." It was a blatant lie; of all people, she was best at lying to herself.
If he could have, he would have kept her out of this, but it was impossible not to involve her. In exchange for the information on Sloane that they wanted, Irina Derevko had requested three things: safe passage, a Rambaldi manuscript, and a meeting with her daughter. Usually the Agency wouldn't have allowed even their most composed agents to put themselves in a situation like this with Irina's betrayal still so raw, much less Sydney, who had a history of being emotionally unstable. Sydney, though, had insisted on meeting her mother's demands because she believed that bringing Sloane to justice was more imperative than her personal conflicts.
His only consolation was that he would be there with her when it was over, when she allowed herself to break down piece by piece.
"If anything happens, I'll be right her if you need me," he reminded her lightly, tapping his ear to indicate her comm.
"My guardian angel," she smirked as she tested the words on her tongue again. "The Archangel Michael." She ducked her head, making sure that no one but Weiss could see them, before she captured his mouth in a brief and very unsatisfactory kiss.
He reached out to pull her back to him, but caught the activity of more people entering the room out of the corner of his eye and released her instead, stepping back. "Be careful." Like everything else he said to her, it couldn't be taken at face value, there were hundreds of layers of meaning underneath those outwardly simple words.
She nodded her understanding as an agent called her name, indicating it was time for her to leave for the warehouse down the street where she would exchange the Rambaldi for Irina's information on Sloane, and she turned away to follow him out.
Weiss sauntered over to him, casually shuffling a pile of papers as he collided a little ruthlessly against Vaughn's shoulder to attract his attention. "Stop that," he hissed under his breath.
"What?"
"Smiling like a fool."
"Oh." The smile slid away. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." Weiss half-turned to see the way Sydney had gone. "No man ever has to apologize for something like that. Just try to be a little more, ya know, discrete. I won't always be here to cover your ass."
Vaughn followed the direction of his gaze, "She will be fine, won't she?"
"Sydney? She'll be great. She can do this kind of stuff in her sleep." He shrugged off the sharp glare that his friend sent him, "What? You didn't say you wanted the truth."
Any remark he could have made in response was interrupted by a polite touch on his shoulder as he was offered his headset and nodded towards the two screens displaying the surveillance footage. He sank down into the chair left for him, scanning the images in front of him: one showing Sydney fidgeting a bit nervously inside the building, and the other, a dark car coasting down the narrow lane outside.
"Mountaineer, we have a car approaching from the southeast. No identities verified."
The car rattled to stop on the pitted pavement, and after an excruciating pause, the door opened. The first to appear were two guards, visibly carrying semi-automatics, but then she appeared--Irina Derevko--accepting the arm one of the men offered her with her perfect, boneless grace.
As the sun revealed the face of his father's murderer, he felt an old hatred stirring in him, a childhood flame of loathing that burned with enough heat that it seemed it could scorch his soul; her presence itself had the ability to bring about a darker side of him. He took a cruel sort of satisfaction in the knowledge that not only was the Rambaldi an adeptly constructed fake, but there was also a team waiting to extract her after the meeting. Criminals like Irina rarely kept their promises, so why should he keep his?
"We've got four confirmed people: two guards, a driver, and Derevko."
The two armed men spread out as they entered the warehouse, and Irina walked between them, looking neither left nor right, only at her daughter. The first words they spoke were terse and deliberate, their flashing eyes and tense bodies communicating more that they ever could. It didn't take more than a few minutes for their conversation to turn venomous, though, their hand flailing angrily and their words coming more rapidly as they argued over some point.
For the first time he wished they had audio as well as video, but Sydney had contended against it, pointing out that anyone could pick up the frequency, and they had listened to her.
He watched intently as their countenances calmed back down, the two women reaching some sort of agreement, but a demanding hand on his shoulder suspended his attentiveness, "Vaughn, you need to take the phone call."
He fumbled with the phone, dividing his concentration briefly, "Vaughn here."
"Tell Sydney not to give Derevko the Rambaldi."
"Wha--Why?"
"There was a switch, a mix-up. It's the real thing. Do not let Derevko get a hold of it!"
He ended the call without another comment, switching hastily over to his headset, "Whatever you do, do not give Derevko the Rambaldi. There's been a mistake; it's the real one. Just keep her talking for a few more minutes, and we'll have the team in to take her into custody."
He could only watch in horror as Sydney drew the briefcase out, laying across some of the crates, and gingerly unwrapping the bundle from the water-resistant covering. "Mountaineer! Did you hear me? Do not give Derevko the Rambaldi!"
Her focus unwavering, she placed the documents in Irina's outstretched hands, and the older woman cradled them gently for a moment, a dark fervor entering her posture for a moment before she replaced it in the bag and entrusted it to one of her guards. Satisfied that it was safe, Irina focused on Sydney, grasping her daughter's hand in her own--and Sydney let her--as she began to lead her compliantly out of the building, like one might a small child, their shoulders leaning together like they were supporting each other, a world-weariness dropping suddenly over both women.
"Sydney!"
She stopped short of the door when she heard his voice, every muscle going rigid abruptly. She spun around with reluctance, as if something was paining her, and for a long, breathless instant she stared directly into the camera, her brown eyes large and intense like she was trying to see through the equipment to him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she raised a hand to her ear and turned her comm off.
A bullet exploded into the air, shattering through the camera, and the screen before him went blank.
He could feel her name ready to spill out a second time, but he swallowed it instead, sensing it burn its way down his throat. He wouldn't say it again, it was already to late to call her back; she was gone.
Author: wolfish (seriously, don't ask)
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and the monkeys at ABC. Do not assume I own any of it...unless you want to.
Time: A few months after 'A Dark Turn'
A/N: Please be kind and (no! not rewind) review! Reviews verify my existence and make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Pretty, pretty pweeease?
Chapter One
Love and Hate
The trouble with double agents is that they have flexible morals. It's a vital quality that keeps them sane after all the lies, but that same ability can turn on the hand that holds them. They've already switched sides once...so what's stopping them from doing it again?
In retrospection, all the signs were there; he should have seen it coming, but at the time he had been too preoccupied to look for them. That's what hindsight is for.
He woke up that morning the closest to heaven he will ever get: in Sydney Bristow's bed. He became aware of the tantalizing feeling of someone planting kisses down his chest, and his eyes fluttered open.
"Morning," he rasped, maneuvering slightly so he could see the crown of her head hovering scarce inches above his skin.
"Morning," she answered, and he got a flash of her face from behind the curtain of her hair as she leaned in to brush her cool lips across his breastbone.
In response, he merely raised his eyebrows at her, and when she caught the gesture, she stopped in her pursuit to copy it, three delicate lines forming in the center of her forehead in an imitation of his own. "What?"
The edges of his mouth curved up in that irresistible way they always did when she was around, "You know I hate it when you start without me."
With a flashing grin, she braced a hand on either side of him and pulled herself up along his upper body, "And you know I hate it when--"
The alarm cut through whatever she was going to say, filling the air with its frustratingly insistent beeping, and she collapsed on top of him with a groan, the mood ruined. "Five more minutes."
"No," he asserted firmly, as he felt around blindly for the button that would shut the alarm off. "We have to get up. We have a flight to catch, remember?"
She reluctantly levered herself into a sitting position, and he began to wiggle out from under the rest of her, but she moved quickly and pinned him before he got far, her fingers cutting into the flesh of his arms as she pushed him back into the sheets.
"Wait," she breathed near his ear. "I have something to say first."
He repressed his natural instinct to fight when trapped, relaxing his muscles forcibly and plastering a fake smile across his face. "Can it wait until after my shower?"
"No." She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling him and setting his nerves on fire.
"Syd, if this is about--" he began, realizing by the tone of her voice that he wasn't going to escape a serious conversation.
"It isn't." She placed a gentle hand on each side of his face and her eyes roved across his features like she was searching for something. "I love you, Michael Vaughn."
That should have been his red flag; he should have known at that exact moment that something was changing--fast. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they never voiced their feelings. Life was dangerous enough already, especially since they had chosen to spend it together, and somehow saying those words would bring doom crashing instantly down on them.
But all he registered was the fact that he couldn't leave her hanging by herself like that, with her emotions naked in her eyes. If she was going to take this uncertain step, he wasn't going to let her take it alone.
"I love you, Sydney Bristow."
"Good," she said more brightly, bouncing up and off the bed. She grabbed his wrist and tugged him along after her. "C'mon, lazy. I need someone to wash my back."
* * * * * * * * *
He had a right to his worries, he consoled his conscience as he watched Weiss shy away from him after he snapped at him for maybe the fourth or fifth time since they had arrived in Mexico City. He had spent months of sleepless nights, working through numerous contacts to finally pull this project together, and the mission had to go off without a hitch; since the investigation on him had blown over, everything he did had been under scrutiny and any failure on his part would arouse suspicions of his loyalties again. The truth was that Kendall would have never allowed him this responsibility if Sydney hadn't been a pivotal part of this operation.
As if she could sense the course of his thoughts, he felt her eyes on him from across the utility room they had set their equipment up in. He lifted his head and gave her a tiny smile, which she took as an invitation to come stand beside him. When she positioned herself at a distance next to him acceptable to protocol, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, enjoying that intimate motion while still keeping the embrace out of view of any one who would be looking on. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Me?" she asked, inclining back more as he began to trace his thumb in slow lines up and down the rough material of her suit jacket. "I'm fine with this." It was a blatant lie; of all people, she was best at lying to herself.
If he could have, he would have kept her out of this, but it was impossible not to involve her. In exchange for the information on Sloane that they wanted, Irina Derevko had requested three things: safe passage, a Rambaldi manuscript, and a meeting with her daughter. Usually the Agency wouldn't have allowed even their most composed agents to put themselves in a situation like this with Irina's betrayal still so raw, much less Sydney, who had a history of being emotionally unstable. Sydney, though, had insisted on meeting her mother's demands because she believed that bringing Sloane to justice was more imperative than her personal conflicts.
His only consolation was that he would be there with her when it was over, when she allowed herself to break down piece by piece.
"If anything happens, I'll be right her if you need me," he reminded her lightly, tapping his ear to indicate her comm.
"My guardian angel," she smirked as she tested the words on her tongue again. "The Archangel Michael." She ducked her head, making sure that no one but Weiss could see them, before she captured his mouth in a brief and very unsatisfactory kiss.
He reached out to pull her back to him, but caught the activity of more people entering the room out of the corner of his eye and released her instead, stepping back. "Be careful." Like everything else he said to her, it couldn't be taken at face value, there were hundreds of layers of meaning underneath those outwardly simple words.
She nodded her understanding as an agent called her name, indicating it was time for her to leave for the warehouse down the street where she would exchange the Rambaldi for Irina's information on Sloane, and she turned away to follow him out.
Weiss sauntered over to him, casually shuffling a pile of papers as he collided a little ruthlessly against Vaughn's shoulder to attract his attention. "Stop that," he hissed under his breath.
"What?"
"Smiling like a fool."
"Oh." The smile slid away. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." Weiss half-turned to see the way Sydney had gone. "No man ever has to apologize for something like that. Just try to be a little more, ya know, discrete. I won't always be here to cover your ass."
Vaughn followed the direction of his gaze, "She will be fine, won't she?"
"Sydney? She'll be great. She can do this kind of stuff in her sleep." He shrugged off the sharp glare that his friend sent him, "What? You didn't say you wanted the truth."
Any remark he could have made in response was interrupted by a polite touch on his shoulder as he was offered his headset and nodded towards the two screens displaying the surveillance footage. He sank down into the chair left for him, scanning the images in front of him: one showing Sydney fidgeting a bit nervously inside the building, and the other, a dark car coasting down the narrow lane outside.
"Mountaineer, we have a car approaching from the southeast. No identities verified."
The car rattled to stop on the pitted pavement, and after an excruciating pause, the door opened. The first to appear were two guards, visibly carrying semi-automatics, but then she appeared--Irina Derevko--accepting the arm one of the men offered her with her perfect, boneless grace.
As the sun revealed the face of his father's murderer, he felt an old hatred stirring in him, a childhood flame of loathing that burned with enough heat that it seemed it could scorch his soul; her presence itself had the ability to bring about a darker side of him. He took a cruel sort of satisfaction in the knowledge that not only was the Rambaldi an adeptly constructed fake, but there was also a team waiting to extract her after the meeting. Criminals like Irina rarely kept their promises, so why should he keep his?
"We've got four confirmed people: two guards, a driver, and Derevko."
The two armed men spread out as they entered the warehouse, and Irina walked between them, looking neither left nor right, only at her daughter. The first words they spoke were terse and deliberate, their flashing eyes and tense bodies communicating more that they ever could. It didn't take more than a few minutes for their conversation to turn venomous, though, their hand flailing angrily and their words coming more rapidly as they argued over some point.
For the first time he wished they had audio as well as video, but Sydney had contended against it, pointing out that anyone could pick up the frequency, and they had listened to her.
He watched intently as their countenances calmed back down, the two women reaching some sort of agreement, but a demanding hand on his shoulder suspended his attentiveness, "Vaughn, you need to take the phone call."
He fumbled with the phone, dividing his concentration briefly, "Vaughn here."
"Tell Sydney not to give Derevko the Rambaldi."
"Wha--Why?"
"There was a switch, a mix-up. It's the real thing. Do not let Derevko get a hold of it!"
He ended the call without another comment, switching hastily over to his headset, "Whatever you do, do not give Derevko the Rambaldi. There's been a mistake; it's the real one. Just keep her talking for a few more minutes, and we'll have the team in to take her into custody."
He could only watch in horror as Sydney drew the briefcase out, laying across some of the crates, and gingerly unwrapping the bundle from the water-resistant covering. "Mountaineer! Did you hear me? Do not give Derevko the Rambaldi!"
Her focus unwavering, she placed the documents in Irina's outstretched hands, and the older woman cradled them gently for a moment, a dark fervor entering her posture for a moment before she replaced it in the bag and entrusted it to one of her guards. Satisfied that it was safe, Irina focused on Sydney, grasping her daughter's hand in her own--and Sydney let her--as she began to lead her compliantly out of the building, like one might a small child, their shoulders leaning together like they were supporting each other, a world-weariness dropping suddenly over both women.
"Sydney!"
She stopped short of the door when she heard his voice, every muscle going rigid abruptly. She spun around with reluctance, as if something was paining her, and for a long, breathless instant she stared directly into the camera, her brown eyes large and intense like she was trying to see through the equipment to him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she raised a hand to her ear and turned her comm off.
A bullet exploded into the air, shattering through the camera, and the screen before him went blank.
He could feel her name ready to spill out a second time, but he swallowed it instead, sensing it burn its way down his throat. He wouldn't say it again, it was already to late to call her back; she was gone.