Abesse
by Brix, for Bulletproof
The first thing Vaughn can feel is his eyes burning.
When he was younger -- correction, before he trained as an agent -- he didn't think that it was possible to fall asleep with his eyes open. He couldn't believe that there was a degree of sheer exhaustion that would cause his body to collapse in a way that would leave such a vulnerable part of him exposed.
The second thing is that he is tied to a table.
It's not entirely unfamiliar.
The colors fade easily from white nothingness to splotchy, and he wants so, so desperately to blink. And he can't.
That's when the panic rises.
His vision swims and twists again, and he has to focus on a specific ceiling tile before it registers that he's moving -- being spun, really, and raised and he feels like Boris Karloff arising from Dr. Frankenstein's table.
Except instead of a doctor, there is Sark.
Staring at him.
Blinking.
Lucky bastard.
Sark steps up, into personal space -- because he's so fucking good at that, making Vaughn feel uncomfortable wherever he goes, even when he was in the relative safety of Sydney's shadow, only having to worry about warning her to be careful and whether he would be able to keep the earpiece in while he bolted around inside the van.
Before Julia.
Sark has his hands clasped behind his back, and when he steps forward Vaughn can feel his adrenaline surge; can imagine that artificial power rushing through him and snapping his muscles into positions that his brain hadn't approved beforehand. He thrashes against the bonds just once, feels the handcuffs that bind his wrists bite against his skin before he falls back, the sheer effort exhausting him.
How long has it been since he's slept?
How long has it been since he he's been taken?
His entire life is missing time. Sydney thought she had it bad -- he swallows a manic laugh, knows that he will only have to bear Sark talking to him if Vaughn initiates verbal communication, and hearing the man's voice is more than he can take at the moment. Missing time -- missing his father, missing Sydney's mother, missing Sydney -- missed opportunities.
And powerless to do anything to bring them back.
And now what? Now that he is a school teacher, a French teacher, is he any better off? Any safer than he's been, working for the Bureau? Closer to alcoholism and death and insanity and talking to the ghost of a ghost of a woman every night before he can fall asleep?
Sark is right in front of him now, examining his left pupil, his head tilted slightly to the side, like a confused Labrador.
"Does it hurt, Agent Vaughn?"
So much for not talking.
"I'm not an Agent anymore." And it surprises him that his voice is not rusty or cracked or anything but strong and perfect and ready to take the life out of this man with his hands.
Sark takes one step back -- the bare minimum to be able to cross his arms across his chest and glare at his captive, a smirk and a smile and a death wish all wrapped into thirty odd perfect teeth. "I keep forgetting. You'll have to remind me once more, of course. That you're not an Agent."
Vaughn doesn't say anything, because he knows that nothing that comes out of his mouth is going to convince Sark that he's not an agent anymore. He cannot ask how Sark has escaped -- he knows that the Agency will find Sark again, place him back in captivity. Someone will notice that Vaughn has been taken, and a manhunt will begin. He has little time.
"I've seen her."
Sark's expression doesn't change, and Vaughn wonders if he only has just the one. Wry amusement. "Who, pray tell, Agent Vaughn?"
Vaughn ignores the barb. "Sydney. Julia. Whatever you're calling her now -- I've seen she... She's not dead. She's alive. Sydney's alive." He can hear himself talking and wishes he'd been one of the silent types in exhaustion, instead of a babbler. But his luck has never been very strong.
Sark tips his head to the other side, as if the new angle will help him see something he's missed before. "I believe you mentioned that already."
Vaughn still can't blink. Had he mentioned it? Had they already talked since Vaughn's capture? All he remembers is the reports of Sark escaping, and a call from Jack on his cell phone, and seeing Sydney, and then nothing...that wash of white. Nothing at all.
The other man is removing the shackles at his legs now, and Vaughn can feel the increased pull on his arms, and it bites into his shoulders. He wonders how long he's been on this table, tied down by freezing metal and wanting what Sark won't give him.
"I need..." he starts, and doesn't know how to finish.
Sark is rubbing his left wrist vigorously, his fingers mechanical on the skin. "She won't be happy if you're harmed from this, Agent Vaughn."
"...what...?"
"She didn't want me to take you in the first place," Sark continues, not even noting the interruption as he moves on to the other wrist and Vaughn wishes that he had a store of energy saved up -- that he had conserved something for this moment. But he's been thrashing; that much he can see from the marks on his wrists and his ankles feel rough against the legs of his trousers. He's missed something again, but his brain hurts inside and he can't think about what it might have been. "But Jack Bristow was far too much a liability." Sark seems to consider this. "He always is, though. He's getting closer to the truth."
"What truth?" Vaughn demands, his voice crystal and Sark's blue, blue eyes snap down to him immediately. "About Sydney?"
"The only reason you saw her," Sark speaks crisply, and sounds vaguely offended, "is that she allowed you to. The reasoning behind that, however, I am not privy to." And suddenly Vaughn his yanked to his feet. The room swims again, and Sark his standing farther away and Vaughn can't remember when that happened.
"What does Jack Bristow have to do with this?" Vaughn demands, tracking back into the conversation as far as his memory will let him. He can blink now, as if nothing but the metal had kept him from doing so.
"Everything," Sark says with a wave of his hand. "Irina will... Well, but that's for another time, isn't it?" He gives Vaughn a smile that he can only describe as mischievous. "Let's just say that Jack Bristow's loyalties aren't entirely with the CIA anymore. He believes in something strongly enough to abandon his government -- that takes strong character."
"I believe!" Vaughn is desperate, senses that this will be the defining moment. This will decide whether he will stay or go, whether Sark will stop giving him that scornful gaze every time they come into contact. "She's alive, I know it, I've seen her."
But Sark is already shaking his head. "There's too much here for you, Agent Vaughn." He shoves a pair of keys into Vaughn's hand -- one is to a Honda, the other is a common house lock. Vaughn looks from the keys to Sark and back again. "She's done with you," Sark tells him bluntly. "Get out."
"But -- "
Sark is turning now. "You're not what she wanted."
And he has missed it. Again. He has missed the invisible signal -- the test that he has just failed. He has missed his own termination. He has no idea what is going on. He doesn't know why he's been taken, or how long he's been held, or what he has seen. The only thing he knows is that he wants her back, and he's willing to do anything to get her.
"Sark."
The younger man turns, the smile slipping from his face.
"Please."
He seems to consider, and Vaughn watches his eyes, but they don't stray from his own face. Judging him. Deeming him unworthy of the truth. With a minute depression of his shoulders, Sark tilts his chin up slightly, dares Vaughn to take that first step away from the support of the table like a mother bird shoving its chick out of the nest.
"You work with the Agency no longer?" His British accent quiet, for once.
Vaughn swallows, feels the teeth of the keys bite into his palm. "Yes." He takes one step forward, and then another, shaky but gaining strength. "Yes, my loyalties turned."
Sark watches him for another moment, his hands in his pockets.
"No," Sark says finally, and his chin drops, the shadows deepening across his faith. "No, Agent Vaughn, I'm afraid they haven't."
And he leaves Vaughn in the white room, legs shaking, wrists torn and bleeding, eyes sandy and harsh. The door clicks quietly, and the key in Vaughn's hand presses in so deeply that it bruises his bone, and the pain makes him gasp and drop the key.
It clatters on the ground, catching the halogen lighting above him, and Vaughn is missing again.
end
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