Title: The Brit – Extended Edit Author: Diandra Hollman E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com Website: http://diandrahollman.tripod.com/index.html Date Finished: 4/27/06 Rating: NC-17. I guess. Keywords: Vark UST, Vaughn/Other, slash, real person crossover, mission, capture, torture, angst Spoilers: Hell no. Disclaimer: Michael Vaughn, Sydney Bristow and any other character from "Alias" belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions and ABC. Orlando Bloom belongs to himself and I am in no way implying that he is homosexual in real life or that he would ever do anything like this. Considering the other characters in this story are fictional, it should be obvious that this is totally made up. Archive: E-mail me and we'll talk about it. Summary: "Vaughn had known being a CIA spook would get him killed one day, but somehow he had always pictured his death as being more heroic. Being taken down in a hail of bullets, maybe...Instead here he was kneeling in front of his kidnapper, knowing he had condemned an innocent man to death all because he couldn't turn down an opportunity for sex." Dedication: To Michael Vartan and Orlando Bloom with my most sincere apologies. Author's Notes: I had this idea for an angsty VARK (Vaughn/Sark) story, but then I smoked some crack and wrote this. ;) You might want to suspend your disbelief before entering. Don't worry, you'll get it back when you're done. This takes place somewhere in the back half of season 2 of Alias, but the timeline is fuzzy. Just go with it. The Brit By Diandra Hollman It wasn't often that Agent Michael Vaughn had a night to himself. No CIA; no emergencies. He wasn't really sure what to do with himself. Hence how he ended up at a local pub in Los Angeles, drinking his weight in club soda and drawing random patterns on a cocktail napkin for amusement. It was there that Vaughn met him. He was young. Mid-twenties perhaps. Wearing jeans and a Harley Davidson T-shirt. He kept his face carefully hidden beneath a bright yellow hat emblazoned with the words "3M Automotive." Vaughn found it ironic that someone who seemed to be trying to blend in would wear something that so obviously stood out. He sat next to Vaughn and ordered a scotch. Vaughn snorted softly. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking hard liquor?" The man shot him a sideways glance. "I don't see how that's any of your concern," he said lightly, a distinct lilt to his voice. "You're British," Vaughn noted. "And you're American." "French technically, I suppose." The Brit laughed. "So what, is this the part where you insult my taste in food and I pop you one?" Vaughn smiled. "Only if you want a broken arm," he joked. The Brit laughed again. There was a lengthy silence while the two men sipped their drinks. "So what's a guy like you doing here alone if not to get pissed," the Brit finally asked. "I don't know," Vaughn answered truthfully. "Why are *you* here?" "Laying low," he replied. He squinted at Vaughn. "You're not a reporter, are you?" Vaughn laughed. "No. Insurance." It was his standard cover story. The Brit gave him an odd look, but didn't say anything. They talked for over a half an hour about varying topics. At that point, the Brit glanced to the side and muttered a curse under his breath. "Can we go somewhere else?" "I guess," Vaughn said warily. He gazed in the direction the Brit had just been looking and saw two young women watching them and whispering to each other furtively. His brow wrinkled in confusion. The Brit picked up his pen and scribbled something on his napkin. "Meet me here in twenty minutes," he murmured. "Room 47." He crumpled the napkin and subtly dropped it next to Vaughn's glass. Then he left without another word. 'The kid should be an agent,' Vaughn thought ironically. 'He's already got the cloak and dagger thing down.' He looked at the napkin. On it was the name of a hotel. Vaughn stared at the napkin in shock and wondered if he'd just gotten a proposition from a hustler. He couldn't think of any other reason why somebody he had just recently met would invite him to meet in a hotel room. Surely the guy didn't want to talk about insurance quotes. But something didn't track. The hotel the Brit named was a nice, comfortable one, not one of the pay-by-the-hour, roach- infested variety usually preferred for such 'business transactions'. At any rate, why did the concept sound oddly appealing to him? He had never found the need to pay for sex before - if that was indeed the case here, which he was beginning to doubt. Something about this particular man must be drawing him, but what? All Vaughn knew so far was that he was young, British, slightly cocky with a quick wit... Realization slammed into Vaughn with staggering force. 'He reminds me of Sark.' He had tried to deny his desire for the British assassin every time they crossed paths. But somehow, Sark had managed to worm his way into Vaughn's dreams - waking or otherwise. It had been a long time since he had been able to jerk off without Sark's face lurking in the forefront of his mind. He shook himself from his reverie, paid the bartender and left in a rush. He just needed some time alone. Someplace private where he could sort things out. ****** Twenty minutes later, Vaughn stood before room 47, his fist hovering an inch from the smooth wooden surface hesitantly. He dropped his arm to his side and blew out a breath. Then, with renewed determination, he knocked. The door opened promptly. The Brit had abandoned his hat, giving Vaughn a better view of his warm brown eyes and nearly shoulder-length brown curls. He stepped aside almost shyly to let Vaughn in, then shut the door silently and locked it. He turned to Vaughn. "I'm sorry if I was a bit presumptuous, but..." Whatever else he meant to say was lost as Vaughn closed the distance between them abruptly and captured his lips in a rough, demanding kiss, swallowing his gasp of surprise. It wasn't until later, when they were both naked and the Brit's legs were wrapped around his waist, that reality finally caught up to Vaughn. He barely noticed the slight flinch and tiny noises of discomfort when his fingers roughly stretched the younger man, but when he started to thrust brutally into the body beneath him, he met resistance. "Stop for a moment," the Brit gasped, his voice tight with pain. The voice was soft, but it made Vaughn hesitate, and in that moment of hesitation the face of the man beneath him came into sharp focus. He was not Sark. Vaughn pulled away abruptly and fell on his back on the other side of the bed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled in the general direction of the ceiling, too embarrassed to look at the young Brit. "I've never done something like this before." He laughed humorlessly. "I don't even know your name." "And I don't know yours," was his reply. "Michael," Vaughn offered, attempting a kind smile while his inner voice berated him mercilessly for his behavior. The Brit returned his smile. "Orlando." There was an awkward pause and then Vaughn sighed. "I should probably go..." He moved to leave the bed, but a hand on his wrist stopped him. Without a word, the younger man straddled his lap and slowly, gently impaled himself on Vaughn's hard length. Vaughn opened his mouth to protest, but Orlando silenced him by pressing two fingers to his lips. He gripped Vaughn's shoulders and rocked slowly in the agent's lap, hissing softly at the residual discomfort. A low moan escaped Orlando's lips as Vaughn raised his knees and tilted his hips obligingly, meeting the young man's downward thrusts. Their movements sped gradually until the bed's heavy wooden frame started to creak. Orlando groaned in frustration. "More," he gasped. Vaughn obliged by flipping them over and adjusting his angle so that he slammed into the younger man's prostate with every thrust. He was rewarded with a sharp cry of pleasure and a thrashing of long limbs. He reached between their sweaty bodies and wrapped his hand around the Brit's cock, pumping it in time with his fast, punishing thrusts. It wasn't long before Orlando came, his body quaking beneath the tall, dark-haired agent. His wordless shout of completion rang in Vaughn's ears as the older man found his own release. When the world came back into focus, Vaughn contemplated the man before him. His initial resemblance to Sark had all but evaporated in his post-coital state. His face was relaxed, gentle; his eyelashes just brushing his flushed cheeks. His features were softer than Sark's. He wasn't as jaded and uncaring. And his body didn't bear any of the scars that Vaughn imagined the cold-blooded assassin would surely have. The agent reached out a shaky hand to brush dark curls away from damp skin. Orlando's eyes opened and met his. It seemed to Vaughn as if those eyes could see right through him and uncover the lies and the turmoil. Vaughn disengaged himself from the Brit and turned his back to dispose of the condom. No, he was not Sark. But he might very well be as close to Sark as Vaughn would ever get. A soft, lilting voice drifted up from the bed. "Who is he?" Vaughn looked back at Orlando questioningly. "The man you were thinking about just now." Vaughn winced. "It's not important." "He must be important to you. Is he an ex-boyfriend?" "Look, I really don't want to talk about it," Vaughn snapped. Orlando flinched and he softened his tone. "It's complicated." "It usually is," Orlando replied gently. Vaughn sighed. "No, he's not my ex, and he never will be." "You're not really in insurance, are you?" "What makes you say that," Vaughn asked calmly while he mentally kicked himself. "Instinct. You don't seem the type," Orlando said confidently. Vaughn's lips twitched in a poor attempt at a smile. "What about you? You never told me what you do." Vaughn had found truth in the saying 'the best defense is a good offense'. He wasn't sure what sort of response he had expected, but it certainly wasn't the one he got. Orlando laughed. "You've no idea how great it is to hear that. I thought I would never be able to go unrecognized again." Vaughn frowned at Orlando in confusion. "Should I recognize you from somewhere?" "Oh, just some magazine covers...movie posters...a couple advertisements." "I don't exactly keep up with pop culture. What did you say your name was?" "Orlando Bloom." Something clicked into place in Vaughn's brain. He still didn't recognize the young man, but he knew he had heard that name before. Shit. This was just great. Of all the people he could have met at a bar, it had to be someone high profile. He had probably risked blowing his cover just by talking to him in public. God help him if any reporters found out where they were. "Oh...yeah...what movie was that again?" Vaughn wasn't really interested in the answer. He was just trying to distract the young Brit with conversation while he checked the room for bugs. He made vague noises as Orlando said something about a ring and a fantasy novel written in the 40s. "Are you running from the police or something," Orlando finally asked suspiciously. Vaughn would have laughed had he not been so busy panicking. "What makes you think that?" "It's obvious you're hiding something." He watched curiously as Vaughn took apart the hotel room phone and then put it back together. "You're either running from somebody or you're a spy." Vaughn faltered for a second, nearly dropping the phone receiver, and quickly recovered. It was a very minor slip, but one that Orlando noticed none the less. The younger man's smile disappeared and his eyes widened. "Oh my God...you're-" The rest of his words were muffled by Vaughn's hand. The agent quickly herded Orlando into the bathroom and shut the door, turning both the sink faucet and the shower on full blast. He pinned the squirming Brit against the wall and removed the hand from his mouth. "You're a spy," the Brit squeaked. Vaughn ignored the question. "I need you to focus. Did anyone follow you here?" Orlando's breath grew short as his heart rate increased. "I don't think so, I..." "The women in the bar, do you know them?" "No...they're probably just fans..." "Probably?" "I'm an actor! I don't know everybody who waves at me on the street," Orlando yelped. Vaughn stared into the younger man's eyes and decided he was telling the truth. He loosened his bruising grip on the Brit's arms. "Why did you come here? Why did you pick me?" "I don't know," Orlando practically shouted. "I'm sorry. Please...I swear I won't say anything." Vaughn relaxed a bit. The poor kid was scared out of his mind and it was becoming increasingly apparent that they were, in fact, not in any danger. However, Vaughn had learned that it was better to be paranoid than dead. He pushed Orlando to sit on the closed toilet seat. "Relax," he said as gently as he could manage while still trying to get control over himself. "I'm not going to hurt you." Orlando calmed a bit, but still fidgeted nervously. "Who are you?" "My name is Michael Vaughn. That's more than you need to know." "What's going on? Are we in danger?" "Not as long as nobody knows we're together." "I don't understand..." Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the hotel room door. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. "Wait here," Vaughn gruffed. He went back into the main room and retrieved the gun he had carefully hidden in his jacket so he wouldn't scare Orlando. He cocked it and pressed his back to the wall beside the door, cautiously reaching for the handle. "Who is it," he called. "Room service," a male voice called back from the hallway. Vaughn uncocked his gun and stuffed it in the waistband of his pants so it rested against the small of his back. He opened the door and stepped aside so the waiter could wheel the cart inside and moved to finish getting dressed. He was putting his shoes on when Orlando came back into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. "Michael," he whispered warily. "I didn't order room service." Vaughn felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He reached for his weapon again and turned just in time to see the waiter reach into one of the covered trays and remove a handgun with a silencer on the barrel. The waiter turned and aimed the weapon at Orlando. "Get down," Vaughn shouted. Everything happened quickly after that. A muffled shot sounded as Vaughn's body slammed into Orlando's, bringing them both to the ground. The loud crack of a second shot filled the room less than a second later and the waiter slumped to the floor, blood trickling from the wound just above his right eyebrow. In the aftermath, Vaughn was so busy checking the body for some form of ID - some clue as to who he was or why he was trying to kill them - that he almost forgot he had a civilian with him. "You all right," he asked absently as he checked the hallway for reinforcements. He didn't get a response. He looked back at Orlando worriedly and found the young Brit still sitting on the floor, staring at the waiter's corpse in shock. But what drove Vaughn into action was the blood on his hand. "Are you hurt," Vaughn demanded as he knelt next to the shell- shocked man. Orlando continued to stare at the body, his mouth working soundlessly. Vaughn located the source of the blood. The assassin's bullet had grazed Orlando's right shoulder, leaving a relatively shallow flesh wound. It was a painful wound nevertheless...at least it would be once the adrenaline wore off. Vaughn hoped he could get them someplace safe before that happened. "We have to get out of here," Vaughn continued. He gathered Orlando's scattered clothes and shoved them into the younger man's arms. "Get dressed." ****** "Who was that guy," Orlando practically shouted as Vaughn pushed him into the passenger's seat of his rental car and slid behind the wheel. "Why was he trying to kill you?" "I'm not so sure it was me he was trying to kill," Vaughn said bluntly as he started the engine. "What," Orlando yelped. "Why would he want to kill me?" "Because he thinks you're somebody else," Vaughn explained quickly. "Now put your head down." Orlando followed Vaughn's directions, sliding as far down in the seat as he could and lowering the yellow cap over his eyes as Vaughn drove off. ****** It wasn't until nearly an hour later that Orlando felt a burning pain in his shoulder that reminded him of his injury. They had changed cars several miles back. Now Vaughn had stopped by the side of a deserted road and was pacing back and forth outside, talking into his cell phone and gesturing angrily. When Vaughn finished his call, he opened Orlando's door. "Get out," he said in a business-like tone. Orlando stepped out of the car hesitantly and flinched slightly as the door was slammed behind him. "I'm a federal agent," Vaughn began, showing Orlando his badge. "CIA. Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill you?" "I...no," Orlando stammered. "I don't think so..." Vaughn sighed and rubbed a hand over his face wearily. "I'm sorry if I've put you in any danger," Orlando said hastily. Vaughn tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out looking more like a grimace. "I think I'm the one who may have put you in danger. I should never have gone into that room..." "I wanted you to," Orlando interrupted. "Don't apologize. I haven't had a shag like that in years." Vaughn gave him an odd look, a genuine smile starting to tug at his lips. "So what happens now," Orlando asked warily. "We lay low for a while. When it's safe, we'll figure out a way to get you back home. Until then you are not to leave my sight. Is that clear?" Orlando nodded. "I can't know for sure if this car is secure, so just to be safe we shouldn't talk about any of this once we get back inside. How's your arm?" Orlando just blinked for a long moment, still trying to process his new situation. "Oh...ah...I think the bleeding stopped, but it hurts like shite." Vaughn patted his arm companionably. "Let's get to a hotel somewhere and we can take care of it." ****** "Bloody hell!" "Sorry," Vaughn murmured as he dabbed gingerly at Orlando's wound with peroxide from the first aid kit he had found in the hotel bathroom. "Is it safe to talk here," Orlando asked tentatively. "Yeah. I swept the place for bugs while you were in the bathroom. It's clean." "You said these guys think I'm somebody else. Who do they think I am?" Vaughn paused for a second before he started bandaging the wound. "He's a contact of mine. Sort of. He disappeared a few days ago. They might think he's trying to contact me." "Why would they want to kill him?" Vaughn chuckled mirthlessly. "I'm sure there are any number of reasons why somebody would want him dead." Orlando groaned. "And they think I'm him." "That's the thing - you don't look like him. Which tells me that either we're dealing with people who have never met him or they think you work for him and they're trying to send him a message." Vaughn finished bandaging the younger man's shoulder and cleaned up the first aid supplies. "Look...I'm sorry I dragged you into this..." "It wasn't your fault. I approached you, remember? I'm the one who fluffed it up." "You never did answer my question," Vaughn said after a long pause. Orlando turned on the bed to level a questioning look at him. "Why me?" Orlando smiled. "You looked like you could use the company." "No," Vaughn said somewhat nervously. "Why did you invite me to your hotel room." "Ahh..." Orlando smirked playfully. "I'm not sure really. Probably because I've been working so much lately that I haven't had time for anything else. I don't normally pick up some random bloke in a pub, but..." He shrugged. "Aside from being shot at, it's been all right so far." Vaughn smiled, shaking his head slightly as he carried the first aid kit back to the bathroom. The young man seemed almost childlike in a way - talking about the life of a CIA operative like it was a game. Vaughn knew it should annoy him, but it didn't. He found he actually envied Orlando's ability to look on the bright side of the situation - however dire it may have been. Vaughn paused in the doorway on his way back to the bedroom. Orlando was still sitting on the bed with his back to Vaughn. From this new angle, Vaughn could see something he had failed to notice while he had been cleaning Orlando's wound: a long, white scar that ran down the middle of his back. "What happened to your back," he asked softly. Orlando jumped slightly, startled by Vaughn's sudden reappearance. He turned to face the agent. "Oh, that...I broke my back a few years ago. Fell off a drainpipe. Doctors didn't think I'd ever walk again, but..." he waved vaguely at his legs, "here I am." Vaughn nodded thoughtfully. So the kid did know something about pain and dangerous consequences. That would explain why the gunshot wound didn't seem to bother him as much as Vaughn thought it would. Maybe he was wrong about Orlando treating their situation like it was a game. Perhaps cracking jokes was the only way the Brit could think of to deal with the fear and uncertainty. "You should get some sleep," was all the agent said. He crossed to sit on the opposite side of the bed, removing his shoes and watch and placing his gun on the bedside table, within easy reach should he need it during the night. Hopefully he wouldn't need it. Vaughn sighed and mentally cursed the fates for landing him in a hotel for god only knew how long and where the only available room had one bed. "You can sleep under the sheets. I'll sleep on top," he muttered absently. A soft voice sounded almost directly in his ear. "I have a better idea." Vaughn turned, startled, and found the Brit's face less than an inch from his own. He opened his mouth to say something. What, he wasn't entirely sure, but it didn't matter because he never got the chance as the younger man silenced him with a tentative kiss. "Orlando," Vaughn protested, pulling away quickly. "We can't do this." Orlando blew out a frustrated breath. "Why the bloody hell not?" "Because you know as well as I do that we weren't thinking clearly. This can't go any further." "I'm not asking for a declaration of love," Orlando said with a soft smile that was far too seductive for the agent's liking. "It's just one night. We could both use the stress relief." Vaughn opened his mouth to argue again, but words failed him as Orlando's hand slid up the inside of his thigh to press against the growing bulge beneath his slacks. He felt his brain shut down momentarily, then it kicked into high gear as Orlando's lips brushed his jaw and he frantically searched for an excuse not to give in. "We ah...I don't...have any more condoms." Orlando seemed to hesitate and pulled back from Vaughn, removing his hand from between the agent's thighs. Vaughn closed his eyes in relief only to have them snap back open again as Orlando pressed a handful of condoms into his palm. "I got them from a vending machine while you were checking in," the Brit whispered in his ear. Vaughn groaned. "Lubricant," he tried again pathetically as the Brit's lips trailed down his neck. "Still have some in my pocket. And I'm sure that first aid kit has something we could use too." Orlando's voice turned husky as his hand traced the skin just beneath Vaughn's waistband. Vaughn snatched the roving hand before it could move any lower and turned to face the Brit. "Look, I don't think this is a good idea. You're...emotionally unstable right now." Orlando opened his mouth to protest, but Vaughn didn't give him a chance. "You were shot at. That's a lot to process. It's perfectly normal for someone who's never been in this sort of situation before to come undone at least a little. It's unnerving. But physical release isn't going to solve anything." "Who said it would," Orlando interrupted quietly. "You barely know me. We will probably never see each other again after this is over." "I don't care," Orlando interrupted again. "I don't care whether or not I see you again. I don't care if it doesn't make this shity situation any better. Frankly, I don't care whether or not we have rubbers right now, because those men were trying to *kill* me! I could die tomorrow! And if letting you shag me until I can't see straight is going to help me forget that for tonight, then I don't care about any other consequences!" Vaughn stared at Orlando silently for a long moment. Then he dropped the condoms on the bedside table and took Orlando's trembling hands in his. "I won't let them kill you," he vowed. "Don't bother making promises you can't keep," Orlando mumbled. He pulled his hands from Vaughn's grip and crawled back to his side of the bed, flopping onto his back and staring dejectedly at the ceiling. Vaughn gritted his teeth. He was never going to forgive himself for this. "Which pocket?" ****** The second time was no less brutal than the first, but that was the way Orlando seemed to want it judging by the commands he continually growled in Vaughn's ears. More. Harder. Faster. Vaughn had been reluctant at first, but Orlando was relentless. Even when Vaughn was afraid that he was going too far and possibly hurting Orlando, the Brit responded by arching into him, clawing at him and hissing "more." Vaughn guided Orlando's hands to the headboard and indicated he should hold on tight. He braced his own hands beside the younger man's and began to thrust powerfully, his hips slamming into the Brit's with enough force to bring tears to his eyes. "Yes," Orlando cried, trembling as he tried to meet Vaughn's thrusts while keeping a tight grip on the headboard lest he slam his head into it. Vaughn grunted and let go of the headboard with one hand, reaching down to remove one of the Brit's legs from its loosening hold on his waist and bending it back toward the young man's shoulder, opening him more fully and allowing the agent deeper. Orlando's mouth fell open in a silent scream as he came. His eyes rolled back into his head and his entire body spasmed violently. He fought to keep his firm grip on the headboard as Vaughn continued to slam into him, stimulating his prostate and prolonging his orgasm until he thought he would pass out. He struggled to breathe and whimpered as the waves of pleasure continued to crash over him. Just as the blackness threatened to take over his vision, he felt Vaughn stiffen and heard a distant groan as his bowels were bathed in warmth. "Thank you," Orlando whispered breathlessly as Vaughn rolled off him. Vaughn made a vague noise of acknowledgment and continued to stare at the ceiling. He had no idea why he was letting this guy get under his skin. He should have dumped him off at the first hospital he found and fled. Then he would no longer be in any danger and Vaughn could have... 'What?' Vaughn wondered 'Gone back home?' No, it was clear these people wanted them dead. When they found out their first attempt failed, they would give chase. The room fell silent as both men's breathing slowly evened out. "So what do we do now," Orlando finally asked softly. "We wait," Vaughn said absently. "I'm going to bring you in tomorrow morning...put you in protective custody while we try to sort through this mess." "How long will that take?" Vaughn didn't respond. Truthfully, he wasn't sure they would be able to resolve this at all. He rolled onto his side, turning his back on the Brit. "Get some sleep." ****** Orlando awoke the next morning to find himself alone in bed, the still warm sheets and the dull ache in Orlando's body the only indications that Vaughn had been there at all. The toilet in the adjoined bathroom flushed suddenly and the already fully dressed agent stepped back into the room. "Good, you're awake," he said briskly as he holstered his gun. "Get dressed. We're leaving." He grabbed the keys to the rental car. "We're already checked out. I'm going to sweep the car again. Come on out when you're ready." He strode out the door, leaving Orlando to wonder, again, how he had managed to find himself in this situation. Ten minutes later, Orlando stepped out of the main doors of the hotel and into the muted sunshine. He walked toward the side of the building where they had parked. An uneasy feeling was building in his stomach, but he couldn't pinpoint its exact source. His steps faltered as he turned the corner and caught sight of the car. Vaughn was not there. He paused and looked around warily. The lot appeared to be abandoned. He cautiously stepped closer and stiffened when he caught sight of a dark red smudge on the driver's side mirror. Blood. Orlando felt his heart begin to pound as he turned back the way he'd come, intending to run to the lobby and call 9-1-1. He didn't get far. He saw a flash of movement from the corner of his eye just before something struck the side of his head and everything went black. ******* Vaughn awoke with a groan. He opened his eyes to find himself in almost complete darkness. Judging by the movement and noise - neither of which were doing anything for his headache - he figured he was in the trunk of somebody's car. A small beam of light filtered in from a tiny hole somebody had obviously drilled into the trunk lid. Vaughn didn't know if he should find his captors' thoughts for his well being considerate or disturbing. He tried moving his arms to confirm that his hands were, indeed, bound together in front of him with coarse rope. Vaughn froze when his hands bumped into something soft, eliciting movement and a soft, pained moan. 'No,' he thought miserably. "Orlando?" "Michael," a familiar voice asked meekly. "What happened?" Vaughn closed his eyes and silently cursed himself and whatever fates had allowed this poor kid to get caught up in this mess. "What do you remember?" "Going to the car...you weren't there...I tried to go back, but..." Orlando flinched as the rope around his wrists dug painfully into his skin. "Are you okay? There was blood..." "It wasn't all mine," Vaughn reassured him grimly. "Did you see the guy's face?" Vaughn shook his head, even though it was unlikely Orlando would be able to see it in the dim light. "They were wearing ski masks. What about you?" "No, I didn't see anything," Orlando admitted. "What do they want?" "I'm not sure," Vaughn sighed. There was a lengthy silence. Then Orlando, his voice wavering slightly with fear, asked, "Are they going to kill us?" Vaughn found Orlando's eyes as his vision finally adjusted to the darkness. "I won't let that happen." He reached for Orlando's bound hands and gripped them tightly. "I need you to be strong. Can you do that?" Orlando nodded silently. Vaughn pulled him as close as he could in the cramped space, hoping to comfort him and lend him the strength to deal with whatever they might have to face at the hands of their kidnappers. Both men tensed as they felt the car stop. The muffled sound of car doors slamming announced that they had reached their destination. Seconds later, the trunk opened and light poured in, searing their eyes. Vaughn blinked furiously, trying to see the face of their captor, but all he could make out was a blurred, dark shape before the man sprayed a foul smelling substance onto his face. He lost consciousness almost instantly. ***** Vaughn woke again in a cold, damp room. The pounding in his head had intensified and he gritted his teeth to hold back the agonized groan that threatened to escape. He cautiously opened his eyes and instinctively took stock of his surroundings. He was alone and strapped to some sort of hinged table that was held over a large metal tank of water by mechanized pulleys. Aside from the table, the room was bare. No windows. A door with no handle. The old grey stone walls contrasting sharply with the sterile look of the table. He stiffened as the door opened and a middle aged man in a lab coat entered, wheeling a cart that bore a disturbingly familiar machine. Another, younger man entered behind him. His dark eyes twinkled gleefully as he looked at Vaughn. "Ah, good, you're awake. Now we can begin." ***** Vaughn's back arched as the jolt of electricity surged through him. He fought the instinct to gasp at the pain as the action would cause the water surrounding him to rush into his lungs. He twisted and struggled futilely to free himself from the manacles. Just as he was reaching the point where he didn't think he could hold on any longer, the gears on the mechanized gurney whirred to life and he was raised out of the water tank. He gasped and sputtered, struggling to see his torturers though his blurred vision. "I will not ask you again, Mr. Vaughn," a raspy male voice intoned. "What do you know about The Trinity?" Vaughn just continued to suck air into his heaving, abused lungs. "We know you have connections with Mr. Sark. What has he told you?" Vaughn spat a mouthful of water and saliva in the man's direction. The man's eyes hardened and he wordlessly reached for the button that would plunge Vaughn back underwater. "Your body can only tolerate so much of this, Mr. Vaughn," he said when the agent resurfaced, sputtering and gasping with pain. "Perhaps your partner would be more accommodating." "Leave him alone you son of a bitch," Vaughn growled. The man ignored the impotent threat in the agent's voice. "Who is he? Is he an associate of Sark's?" Vaughn just glared at the man silently. "I will ask you one more time, Mr. Vaughn. What do you know about The Trinity?" Vaughn remained silent, this time taking a deep breath before he was plunged under water and forcing his body to relax, riding out the waves of fire and pain coursing through him. The man was right. He couldn't take much more of this. He stopped struggling and slumped in his bonds when they pulled him out of the tank once more, weakened from exertion and excruciating pain. "Take him to his room," his interrogator's voice ordered. Two guards stepped forward and unstrapped him from the gurney, roughly dragging him away. ****** Vaughn groaned as he was thrown to the floor of his new cell. He remained still and listened as the guards left the room, the door slamming behind them loudly enough to make Vaughn wince. A small, tentative voice drifted from the corner of the cell. "Michael?" Vaughn clenched his jaw slightly, cursing his captors for putting him in the same room as Orlando. The kid didn't need to see what these people were capable of - he would know soon enough as Vaughn wouldn't be able to stall them for long. The Brit rushed to his side and tried to help him sit up. Vaughn let out an involuntary yelp as Orlando's hand brushed the spot where one of the electrodes had burned his skin. "Fuck," Orlando gasped. "What happened?" Vaughn sat up painfully and shook his head at Orlando. He crawled to the nearest wall and propped himself against it, shivering as the cold air in the room chilled his damp skin, barely covered by his now tattered shirt. Orlando followed him silently and removed his own thin T-shirt, tucking it around Vaughn's shoulders. Vaughn smiled softly at him. Orlando sat as close to Vaughn as he could get without actually making physical contact. "Who are they," he asked in a whisper. "What do they want?" Vaughn shook his head again. Honestly, he didn't know the answer. He had no intel on The Trinity and he didn't recognize any of the people he had seen so far from the database of known terrorists. But he could make predictions based on what little he had seen and heard. They suspected that Sark had information they needed, but they couldn't locate him. So they had gone after Vaughn on the assumption that Sark would try to contact him. If these people found out that Vaughn knew nothing about The Trinity, they would probably kill him as he was not any use to them. And if they found out who Orlando really was, they would definitely kill him to avoid exposing themselves to the general public. Vaughn reached out to take Orlando's hand, drawing it into his lap and squeezing it tightly in his right hand as if to offer support. He needed a way to communicate the dire nature of their situation without arousing suspicion. He had no doubt these people were at least listening, if not watching them carefully. "You'll be fine," he said slowly and deliberately. "We'll get you out of here..." Orlando tried not to react as he felt Vaughn's left forefinger begin drawing patterns surreptitiously on the back of his hand. It took him a moment to realize they were letters. He pretended to listen to the words Vaughn was saying while he focused his attention on making out the real message Vaughn was communicating. ...LL KILL YOU IF KNOW WHO YOU ARE...LIE OR SAY NOTHING Orlando tried to control his panic. A knot of dread was forming in his stomach. He tried to convince himself that it would be no different than acting, but his life had never depended on his ability to put on a good performance. He was terrified that he would fail and then both he and Vaughn were good as dead. Vaughn saw the expression of fear in Orlando's eyes, even though he hid it well. "Do you hear me," he asked softly. 'Did you get the message,' his eyes implored. Orlando nodded, squeezing Vaughn's hand to indicate that he understood. "It's okay," Vaughn murmured soothingly, trying to ease the fear that shone in Orlando's eyes despite his valiant efforts to hide it. "I'll get you out of here," he promised. As he fell into a fitful sleep later that night with Orlando curled beside him, he wondered if that was a promise he could really keep. ****** Vaughn was awoken hours later when the door to the cell crashed open and men surrounded him. He was instantly awake and moving to fight them off, trying to ignore the aching in his body. It took him a moment to realize that he was not the one they wanted - his eyes met Orlando's confused gaze as two burly guards forced the younger man to his feet. "No," he shouted uselessly. "Leave him alone!" The blow to his head came before he could even try to rescue Orlando from them, although in his weakened and outnumbered state he had to admit it would have been a futile attempt at best. Vaughn collapsed to the ground and shook his head slightly to ward off the threatening darkness. He looked up in time to see the panic on Orlando's face as he was dragged out of the room, the door slamming behind him with a resounding thud, sealing his fate. Vaughn picked up the shirt Orlando had given him, which had been slightly torn and dirtied in the scuffle, and clutched it in his fists as he sent a silent prayer to whoever would listen to save the poor kid from this nightmare. ***** Some agonizing hours later, the door reopened and Vaughn jumped to his feet, biting back a cry of outrage when he saw Orlando. He had clearly received the same treatment as Vaughn, judging by the damp hair and angry burn marks. However, Vaughn had been trained to handle various forms of torture - Orlando had not. The Brit appeared barely conscious, the two burly guards on either side of him seemingly the only thing keeping him upright. The guards threw him roughly into the cell. Vaughn rushed to catch him before he hit the unforgiving concrete floor, nearly dropping him when Orlando cried out in pain. Vaughn gently lowered him to the ground, awkwardly tugging off his button-down Oxford with one hand and wrapping it around the Brit's trembling frame. Orlando reached desperately for his hand. Vaughn took the trembling hand in his own, gladly offering comfort. He quickly realized that comfort was not what Orlando was looking for when the Brit drew his hand between them, beneath the folds of the shirt, and began tracing letters on the back of it. WILL ARCHER Vaughn stared blankly into Orlando's surprisingly lucid eyes for several moments before he understood what the Brit was trying to tell him. Their captors had asked Vaughn for his "partner's" identity; Orlando had given them a name. He had given himself an alias. Vaughn smiled inwardly at the younger man's show of strength and determination. "It's okay, Will," he murmured in acknowledgment. "It's over now...just try to relax." Orlando breathed a small sigh of relief. Vaughn had gotten the message. He curled his shivering body closer to the agent and passed out. ***** "You're telling me neither of them knows anything?" The interrogator flinched. "No, boss," he rasped. "One of them has the information, I'm certain, but neither is willing to talk yet. Just give me a little more time and I promise I will get them to talk." "I hope for your sake that you are right," the elder man said icily. The interrogator merely blinked calmly at him. Before he could respond to the implied threat the door to the room burst open and one of his guards rushed in. "Sir, I think you should see this." The guard handed the interrogator a newspaper. The elder watched as the interrogator's calm façade was replaced for a moment by a look of equal parts shock and rage. The expression melted off his face just as quickly as it had appeared and the interrogator smiled, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. "I believe Agent Archer has just provided us with the answer," he cooed mysteriously. "Give me just a few more days and I will have the information." ****** The room was bare, save for a wooden table and one lone chair. Orlando took a deep breath and tried to remain calm as the guards shoved him into the chair and strapped his arms to it. He couldn't let these people know he was afraid. Will Archer would not be afraid of them. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that this wasn't any different from any other acting job. He could become Will Archer for as long as he was in their presence. He opened his eyes as the interrogator entered the room. His black overcoat accentuated his slick, dark hair and sharp- angled features, giving him a strong, imposing appearance. He walked slowly to Orlando's side and stood silently staring at him for a long minute. "I will give you one more chance," he finally said, his voice condescendingly authoritarian. "Tell me who you are." "I already told you, my name is Will Archer and I work for the British government," Orlando said calmly. "I won't tell you anything more." He gasped as the man lashed out suddenly, his fist catching Orlando's right cheekbone, snapping his head to the side violently. "Tell me your real name," the interrogator demanded. "Will Archer," Orlando repeated. The interrogator's eyes bore into his unnervingly. "What do you know about The Trinity?" "That it has something to do with the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost," Orlando spit, not at all surprised when this earned him a blow to the other cheek. "What is your relationship to Agent Vaughn," the interrogator asked as he began to pace the room. "I just met him yesterday," Orlando said honestly. The interrogator laughed loudly, the harsh sound bouncing off the walls. Orlando just barely managed to keep himself from flinching. "We've been watching you, kid. You two are closer than most married couples." He leaned closer until Orlando could feel the man's breath brush against his ear. "Tell me the truth and no one has to suffer. Who are you and what is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Vaughn?" Orlando stared unflinchingly at the wall ahead as he calmly repeated "My name is Will Archer and Mr. Vaughn and I met yesterday." The interrogator's face hardened further. He straightened and snapped his fingers at one of the guards, who promptly handed him a folded newspaper. The interrogator slapped the paper violently onto the table in front of Orlando. Orlando felt a cold stab of pure fear in his stomach as he saw his own face beside the headline "authorities searching for missing actor". All he could think about was the urgent look in Vaughn's eyes as he traced the message on Orlando's hand; WILL KILL YOU IF KNOW WHO YOU ARE. "Did you really think we wouldn't find out," the interrogator asked. "Who hired you? Agent Vaughn?" "Nobody hired me." Orlando hated the way his voice trembled now that he had dropped the role playing. "Everything else I've told you is the truth. I met Michael yesterday and I don't know anything about a Trinity." "You have hardly proven your honesty to us so far, Mr. Bloom," the interrogator sneered. The sound of a gun being cocked ricocheted loudly through the room and Orlando's eyes widened as he felt the cool metal of the barrel press against the base of his skull. "What is your relationship to Michael Vaughn?" "Please, I already told you. We met yesterday in a bar in Los Angeles." He cried out as the interrogator ground the barrel deeper, bruising his skin. "We had sex," he yelped. "That's it, I swear!" The interrogator paused. For a long moment the only sound in the room was that of the tiny whimpers that Orlando desperately tried to hold in. Then Orlando felt the pressure on his neck ease and closed his eyes in relief as the interrogator sat in a nearby chair, the gun still casually trained on the actor. "Why were you traveling with him?" "Somebody tried to kill me. Michael's been protecting me." "Why?" "I don't know," Orlando spit in exasperation. "Because he's a nice guy?" The interrogator rose from his chair slowly and leaned over Orlando, cupping his chin in a parody of gentleness and raising the Brit's eyes to meet his. "I believe you," he said softly. He released Orlando's chin and uncocked the gun, returning it to its holster. Orlando didn't have time to breathe a sigh of relief before he once again summoned the guard, who handed him a vial and a syringe. Orlando watched warily as the interrogator filled the syringe and tapped out the air bubbles. "I have a message for you to deliver to Agent Vaughn..." ***** Vaughn stopped his restless pacing of the cell when he heard the guards outside. The cell door opened and a shaken Orlando was shoved inside. The door was re-locked again before Vaughn had a chance to react. Vaughn wordlessly guided Orlando to the far wall of the cell and sat beside him on the cement floor, ready to offer his support to the younger man if he needed it. "They know who I am," Orlando began in a small, trembling voice. "My face is in the papers." Vaughn's eyes searched the room as he tried to gauge their situation. If they knew who he really was, why were they keeping him alive? Were they setting some sort of trap? "He said he wanted me to give you a message," Orlando continued. He held out his right arm to show Vaughn the tiny puncture wound near his elbow. "He injected me with something. A poison. He said if you give them the information they want, they'll give me the antidote. If you don't..." Orlando took a deep breath, his eyes filled with fear and dread as they met Vaughn's. "I'll be dead within a week." Vaughn's shoulders drooped. He hadn't anticipated that they might try to use Orlando against him, but it made sense. They knew who he was. They knew that if he died under suspicious circumstances, there would be an investigation one way or another that would pose a security risk to the CIA. Classified information could be leaked into the general public. Vaughn's cover would almost certainly be blown if it wasn't already. The problem was that Vaughn didn't have any information to give them. But he couldn't let them know that. If they knew they had made a mistake, they would likely kill Vaughn and Orlando just to cover their own asses. Hell, even if he did have the information, they would probably kill them anyway. Orlando looked at him pleadingly. "Please tell me you have a plan," he whispered fearfully. Vaughn sighed and drew the quivering Brit into his arms. "You'll be okay," he vowed. "I'll get you out of here." ******** Vaughn didn't resist the guards as they dragged him out of the cell the next morning. He had spent most of the night trying to calm the frightened Brit and Orlando had only fallen into an exhausted sleep a couple hours before the guards showed up. He went quietly, thankful that Orlando was so deeply asleep that he didn't seem to notice the activity around him. He was brought into another room and bound hand and foot to a sturdy wooden chair. Then the guards left, giving him just enough time to test his bonds and assure himself that he could not escape before the interrogator arrived. Vaughn fixed the interrogator with a hard stare as he entered the room, making sure his face betrayed only a passive annoyance. He knew they would only be threatening Orlando's life if they already had reason to suspect it would break him, but he wasn't going to take any chances. "I thought it would only be fair of me to give you one more chance," the interrogator said in a voice that was at once both soothing and threatening. "Either tell us about The Trinity or give us what we need to locate Mr. Sark. The result will be the same, I assure you." "You obviously underestimate Mr. Sark's ability to evade capture," Vaughn sneered, earning himself a backhanded swipe to his right cheekbone. The interrogator leaned closer to Vaughn, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "The toxin that we injected into Mr. Bloom is man-made - specifically designed to mimic the effects of sea snake venom. Do you know anything about sea snakes, Mr. Vaughn?" Vaughn glared at the interrogator silently. The man smirked. "No? Not a surprise, really. The only place they can be found in America is Hawaii. They're harmless for the most part, but they are capable of releasing enough venom in one bite to kill three grown men. Of course, most snake bites are fatal within twenty-four - perhaps forty-eight - hours but the synthetic version we gave Mr. Bloom is not quite so merciful. By this evening, he will have developed a fever. He will become disoriented and confused. Then the pain will start and all his voluntary muscles will gradually become paralyzed. But the worst part about this toxin is the final stage...blindness. Imagine being helpless...unable to move, unable to see...barely able to even breathe. All you can feel is the excruciating pain and you don't even understand where you are or what is happening to you anymore." Vaughn clenched his jaw, imagining all the ways he could kill the man with his bare hands. "Fortunately for you, the effects of the toxin can be reversed at any time during this process if the antidote is administered. All you have to do is give us what we want and you can have him restored to his former, healthy state." The interrogator leaned closer until his lips almost brushed Vaughn's ear. "I hope you enjoyed him while you had the chance," he whispered. "I bet he was a real screamer." Vaughn snapped, straining against his bonds in a determined effort to strangle the man who held him and Orlando against their will and threatened to harm the gentle, innocent Brit. The interrogator straightened and calmly signaled the guards. "Take him back to his room," he said with an air of boredom. ****** Vaughn quickly realized that knowing exactly what the toxin would do was worse than seeing the actual symptoms. It began when Orlando refused to eat the pitiful excuse for food they were given that evening. Vaughn noticed that the Brit had grown pale, his eyes glassy and distant. He sighed as Vaughn's cool hand touched his forehead. "You're burning up," Vaughn murmured. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" "What would you have done," Orlando asked quietly. Vaughn silently clenched his jaw, hating the feeling of helplessness that threatened to obscure his last shred of hope. "You should eat something," he finally said softly. "You'll need your strength when we get you out of here." Orlando smiled at Vaughn's attempts to remain optimistic. He silently accepted the piece of stale bread Vaughn handed him and forced himself to eat a few bites. At least it seemed to calm his queasy stomach a little. Later, Vaughn supported him as he threw up in the dingy toilet that was the only fixture in their cell. Shortly afterward, Orlando began to complain of pain in his arm and abdomen. Vaughn grimly inspected the offending arm and found a patch of inflamed skin surrounding the tiny puncture wound left when their captors had injected him. Vaughn quickly fell into the role of caretaker, soothing his fever with a scrap of cloth ripped from Orlando's shirt and dampened with the meager water the guards offered them. He distracted Orlando from the pain with mindless conversation - learning more about this man's life and career and the acting business in general in one night than he could have in a lifetime. The symptoms seemed to ease after a while, allowing Orlando to drift into a fitful sleep and giving Vaughn an opportunity to think. There had to be some way he could get Orlando out alive, even he had to put himself in jeopardy to do it. 'The whole world is looking for this man, but nobody is looking in the right place.' He beat his fist on the door to the cell softly, purposefully, and waited for the guard to respond, hoping that his face projected the right combination of desperation and defeat. ****** "I hear you are ready to talk," the interrogator said smugly as the guards manhandled him into a chair. They didn't bother restraining him any further - satisfied with the simple pair of handcuffs securing his wrists. The interrogator knew he wouldn't fight or try to escape. He was smart enough to know it would only further endanger Orlando. "I'll give you what you want, but I need some things in return." "You're hardly in a position to make demands, Mr. Vaughn," the interrogator sneered. "A blanket, a pillow and a new shirt," Vaughn snapped. "That's hardly unreasonable." The interrogator seemed to debate this for a moment. "Fine. And in return you will give me the Trinity?" "No. I'll give you Sark." The interrogator chuckled. "A few hours ago you gave me the impression that you didn't know Mr. Sark's location. Why should I believe you now?" "I don't know where he is," Vaughn admitted. "But I know how to draw him out. He's a contact of mine - underground, off- books. I can use our contact protocol to schedule a meet, but I would need Internet access." The interrogator laughed. "Mr. Vaughn, don't insult my intelligence." "Your guards will be watching me the whole time. You will know if I try to contact the CIA. I'm not trying to play you. I'm just trying to save an innocent man." The interrogator shook his head. "Always the hero, aren't you, Mr. Vaughn?" He sighed. "Very well. However, if my men even suspect that you are contacting the CIA, you will be dead before the message even reaches them." Vaughn clenched his jaw. He was not afraid to die. But then they knew that. They also knew that once he was dead, there would be nobody to protect Orlando. And they knew Vaughn would never knowingly harm an innocent civilian. The interrogator's next words confirmed what he already knew. "And if you die, Mr. Bloom will lose his only hope of getting the antidote." "Then I won't give your men a reason to shoot me," Vaughn said sincerely. ******* Orlando was still asleep when Vaughn was returned to his cell two hours after he had left. One guard freed Vaughn's hands and another shoved the items he had requested into his arms before the door was slammed shut, leaving him alone in the room once more with the man he was trying desperately to save. Vaughn dropped to his knees beside the Brit and carefully shook his arm. He hated to wake the poor man, but he told himself that Orlando would sleep better if he was made at least a little more comfortable. Orlando moaned softly as his eyes fluttered open, his expression becoming dazed. "Michael? Where are we?" "I don't know," Vaughn admitted, keeping his voice soothing. "But everything's going to be fine. I'm getting you out of here," he continued as he helped Orlando sit up, removing his worn, damaged shirt and coaxing him into the new, dry one. He shoved the pillow under Orlando's head as he lay back down, wincing as the actor hissed in pain. "Liar," Orlando grumbled. "I'm working out a deal," Vaughn said carefully, as he covered Orlando with the thin, rough blanket. "I contacted Sark. Now we just have to wait." He shrugged into the tattered, dirty remains of Orlando's T-shirt. "Try to go back to sleep." ******* The staccato clicking of heels alerted the guard on morning shift long before the striking brunette rounded the corner. She flashed her badge at him and pressed her hand to the glowing panel next to the barred entrance. He nodded. "Morning Ms. Bristow." She gave him a tight but sincere smile, obviously distracted by whatever pressing matter had brought her to the JOC holding area. She brushed past the gates before they were fully open and walked down the hall, coming to a stop in front of the glass enclosure that had become all too familiar to her. The prisoner turned from where he had been gazing out the small barred window and regarded her with a smirk. "Sydney. To what do I owe this pleasure?" "Somebody tried to contact you an hour ago," she said brusquely. "An e-mail sent to one of your anonymous accounts. We want to know who it is." The man moved with the lazy confidence of a lion circling an easy prey, standing in front of Sydney just on the opposing side of the glass. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific." "This person wants to arrange a meeting. Tonight, at the Griffith Observatory. They didn't give any details, just a code name: Saint Denis." The prisoner stared at her for a long moment. Then a smirk spread across his boyish face. "Agent Vaughn has been compromised." Sydney's eyes flashed with anger. "Sark, if you had anything to do with Vaughn's disappearance..." Sark brushed off the accusation easily. "The name Sydney is rumored to have derived from the Norman French name Saint Denis. It's the code name Mr. Vaughn used on the rare occasions that he contacted me. But Mr. Vaughn knows I'm in the custody of the CIA, so the only possible explanation that I can see for him contacting me is that he knew you would intercept the message." Sydney's mind reeled, her heart beating faster. "How would you confirm the meet?" "I wouldn't. Agent Vaughn made it very clear that I was not to contact him." Sydney fixed him with a hard glare. "If I find out that you had anything to do with this, I will be the first in line to witness your execution." Sark just smiled. "While I am sure my animosity toward Mr. Vaughn is common knowledge, I assure you I have nothing to do with his current predicament." Sydney didn't respond, turning back the way she had come and calling out to the guard. "Open the gate!" If the message was from Vaughn they didn't have time to waste. ******* "Marshall," Sydney barked as she hustled around the corner onto the main floor of the JOC. Marshall Flinkman jumped, startled, his hands coming up off his keyboard in a gesture of innocence. "I didn't do it, I swear! I was just trying to reconfigure the..." "The message sent to Sark's account. I think it's a distress call from Vaughn. I need you to run a backtrace on it." "Vaughn sent a distress signal...to Sark?" Marshall's mind raced. "That's...that's pretty good, actually..." "Marshall, I need you to hurry," Sydney urged anxiously. "Right. On it." Marshall turned back to his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard, the screen turning into a blur of command prompts and scrolling texts. ******* Vaughn paced the cell restlessly, listening to Orlando's labored breathing and cursing himself for being so careless. 'I should have known they would catch up to us. I should have gone straight to the JOC. I should have fought harder.' "Making me dizzy," his companion slurred, his voice small and pained. Vaughn crouched beside him and felt his forehead. "How do you feel?" "Wonderful," Orlando said sarcastically. "Bloody perfect. I'm dying b'cause some...wanker thinks you...have something he wants." "I'm sorry I got you involved in this," Vaughn said mournfully. Orlando tried to shake his head and failed with no little amount of pain. "No. I approached you. 's my fault." Vaughn squeezed the Brit's hand gently. "Try to relax. This should all be over soon." What and how soon, unfortunately, he couldn't be sure. ****** "The signal's coming from an abandoned building off of Highway 15 - I've got the coordinates," Marshall announced triumphantly. Sydney took his head in her hands and planted a kiss on his right cheek. "Thank you, Marshall," she murmured gratefully before snatching the paper out of his hands and running past him toward the conference room to share the information with the rest of the rescue team. Marshall stood frozen in the middle of the bustling operations floor, a dazed look on his face. "Sure...okay, that's... great," he said to the empty space Sydney had recently vacated. ****** (That evening) Vaughn helped Orlando shift onto his side. The Brit was still feeling nauseous, but was too disoriented and weak to move if he needed to throw up. It was a painful process, but Vaughn couldn't risk letting him choke to death. Orlando moaned pitifully and Vaughn pet his hair gently – the only part of his body that Vaughn seemed able to touch without causing him pain – wishing he could do more for the ailing man. It had been over twenty-four hours since Orlando had been injected with the poison. Nearly twelve since he had sent the message to Sark's account. The meeting was supposed to take place in an hour and he wasn't sure how it was going to play out. The CIA had to have picked up the transmission. Unless they were in the middle of a major crisis and didn't have the time or resources to track down a contact whose criminal activity and level of threat to national security were unknown. Either the interrogator and his men would be captured and Vaughn and Orlando would be rescued or nobody would show up, the interrogator would realize he had been duped and they would be dead. Even if they were rescued, they still needed to find the antidote. And from what Vaughn had observed of the interrogator so far, he knew the man was unlikely to just hand it over. Orlando was slipping further away from him. His former babbling had given way to an ominous silence, punctuated only by his heavy breathing and occasional pleas for water. Vaughn nearly screamed when the Brit had complained of a tingling numbness in his legs. Paralysis was setting in. He kept his voice calm as he reassured Orlando, stroking his hair gently and cursing his own helplessness. Inside, he was seething. It always pissed him off when he lost control of a situation that he knew damn well he could have handled differently. So far he had kept a tight reign on his anger for fear of frightening Orlando, but with every new pain or labored breath he felt his self-control weaken. Orlando finally drifted into a fitful, pained sleep. Vaughn paced the cell restlessly, his movements harsh and clipped, his jaw clenched so hard it began to ache. "Son of a BITCH," he hissed, slamming his fist into the unyielding door. He rested his forehead against the cool metal, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He would be of no use to Orlando if he drove himself crazy like this. He froze as he heard a noise outside the cell. A muffled pop and then a thump, like a body falling to the ground. Vaughn's eyes widened, his breathing growing deep as his body instinctively prepared itself for battle. He backed away from the door as the sounds grew louder, closer, and glanced frantically at Orlando, his survival instinct warring with his instinct to protect the young actor. He heard a thump just outside the door and positioned himself between it and the Brit, crouching into a defensive stance, preparing for a fight. He was still weak from captivity and torture but he would not go down easy. He heard the familiar, muffled jangle of the guards keys and moments later the lock clicked, the heavy door seeming to him to swing open in slow motion. He had a government issue semi- automatic riffle trained on him before he even moved a muscle. His eyes lit with relief when he saw who held the weapon. "Vaughn, are you okay?" Sydney's voice was filled with as much relief as he felt. He saw another agent in the hallway behind her, but he couldn't see his face. "I'm fine, but we have to get him to a hospital," Vaughn said as he returned to Orlando's side and checked his breathing. Sydney dropped to her knees beside them, her eyes wide. "What happened to him?" "Bad guys injected him with a toxin. Figured it would get me to talk," Vaughn answered quickly. "I don't know how much time he has - we need to find the antidote." She leaned over Orlando and shook him gently. "Mr. Bloom, can you hear me?" "You know who he is," Vaughn asked stupidly. She was more of a workaholic than he was and therefore, he had thought, even more out of touch with pop culture. "His face is all over the news. There's a lot of people looking for him," she explained hurriedly before refocusing on Orlando's face as his eyes fluttered open and he regarded her with a dazed expression. "Mr. Bloom, we're going to get you out of here. Can you walk?" Orlando just squinted at her, confused and unfocused. "The toxin causes paralysis," Vaughn answered for him. "Somebody's gonna have to carry him." She nodded grimly. "Dad," she called over her shoulder. The agent outside turned and Vaughn recognized Jack Bristow's graying hair and stern features. "Dad, we need help. He can't walk," Sydney explained, stepping aside as Jack entered the room. "Here," Jack said gruffly, thrusting his own riffle into Vaughn's hands. "I apologize for this," he muttered to a barely coherent Orlando before lifting him from the floor, dragging the Brit to his feet and tossing him over his shoulder in a fireman carry without another word. Orlando whimpered softly and passed out. Jack drew his pistol from beneath his flack jacket and addressed Sydney. "Find Keeler. We'll meet you in the van." Sydney nodded and turned to Vaughn as Jack carried Orlando from the room. "Keeler," Vaughn asked, dazed. "Jeremy Keeler," Sydney explained hurriedly, pulling a photograph from the inner lining of her vest and showing it to Vaughn. "From what we can tell, he's the guy in charge. Have you seen him?" The picture was surveillance footage quality, but Vaughn would have recognized the interrogator anywhere. He nodded. "Who is he?" "He was military until a couple years ago when his commanding officer declared him mentally unstable and unfit for duty," she rattled off as she and Vaughn made their way out of the cell and down the hall. "He fell off the grid, but we found evidence that he's been in contact with Sloane recently." "He kept asking for information about The Trinity," Vaughn added. "Do we know what that is?" Sydney's jaw clenched. "No, but I think I might have an idea." "Rambaldi," Vaughn said grimly. She nodded, her eyes darting side to side as they reached an intersection in the corridor. She gestured for him to go left. Vaughn nodded and took off down the hall, Sydney heading in the opposite direction. He clutched Jack's riffle tightly as he opened doors randomly, searching for any sign of a lab or some sort of cooler that might hold the antidote. Unfortunately, all he found was a messy office. A computer sat in the middle of a large desk, running on screensaver mode. The brightly colored fish floating merrily across the screen seemed strangely out of place. Vaughn went to the computer and jabbed at the keyboard, hoping it might contain some clues. A password prompt appeared on the screen, the fish still swimming in the background and Vaughn cursed under his breath. Then he froze as he heard a distinct click. "Drop your weapon." Vaughn looked up to find Keeler smirking at him over the barrel of a pistol. Vaughn quickly calculated his odds of being able to take the man down before he could fire a shot and decided they were not good. His shoulders slumped and he glared at his former captor as he dropped Jack's weapon on the floor and raised his hands in surrender. "It seems I underestimated you, Mr. Vaughn," Keeler said in a self-congratulatory purr worthy of a Bond villain. "You won't get away, Keeler," Vaughn swore. "There are at least a dozen agents outside. Show us you're willing to cooperate and we can make your life in prison a little less uncomfortable. Tell me where the antidote is." Keeler chuckled and stepped closer to Vaughn. "I may have fallen for your games before, Mr. Vaughn, but not this time. Get down on your knees. Hands behind your head." He gestured with his weapon to punctuate his statement. Vaughn ground his teeth angrily as he followed the instructions. "All right. You know what? I don't give a fuck whether you're arrested or not. Just give me the antidote and I can forget I ever saw you here." He was thrown as Keeler responded with amused laughter. "You're a smart man, Mr. Vaughn. Did you ever really think we were going to let the two of you walk out of here alive?" Vaughn's stomach turned as he realized that there may never have been an antidote. 'No,' he thought stubbornly. 'There has to be.' "Not me, no," he said calmly. "But you knew who Orlando was before you injected him. You knew if he died there would be an investigation - even if you did manage to hide the body. You never intended to kidnap somebody famous, and you wouldn't risk leading the press right to your door." Keeler just smirked, inching closer to Vaughn, but being sure to stay out of his reach, knowing that the agent was stalling, trying to distract him while he waited for an opportunity to attack. "Even if there was a chance they could find me, they have no reason." He paused, intending to savor the moment when he wiped that cocky look from Vaughn's face. "In fact, right now they're busy searching for a man who matches your description." His eyes grew brighter as Vaughn's neutral mask faltered slightly. "Seems there were a couple of girls at a bar who claim you were the last person to see him." "There are a lot of guys who match my description," Vaughn said coolly. "Ah," Keeler said with an exaggerated nod. "I suppose you're right. But how many of them were captured on hotel security cameras fleeing a crime scene?" Vaughn let his expression return to neutral. He knew Keeler was bluffing. The call he had made from the side of the road an hour after the incident had insured that the hotel's security tapes were now CIA property, if they had not been destroyed already. "And surely there are other witnesses," Keeler continued. "Guests from neighboring rooms who could testify that they heard the young actor screaming your name." He whistled lowly, mockingly. "Imagine... 'Hollywood golden boy outed – government agent blows cover.' It would be the scandal of the decade." He shook his head, his face a parody of regret as he lined up his weapon, the end of the barrel only inches from Vaughn's forehead. "It's a pity neither of you will be around to see it." Vaughn stared at his executioner without blinking, watching the look of delight play across Keeler's features as he squeezed the trigger. Vaughn had known being a CIA spook would get him killed one day, but somehow he had always pictured his death as being more heroic. Being taken down in a hail of bullets, maybe. Offering himself as a sacrificial lamb in order to save Sydney's life. Instead here he was kneeling in front of his kidnapper, knowing he had condemned an innocent man to death all because he couldn't turn down an opportunity for sex. Before his life could flash before his eyes an explosion thundered from down the hall. Vaughn knew immediately that Sydney had encountered one of Keeler's men and was improvising her escape, but he didn't have time to wonder if she was all right. The fire alarm blared a moment later and the sprinklers in the ceiling erupted, drenching the men instantly. Keeler faltered and Vaughn took advantage of the momentary distraction, wrenching Keeler's gun hand to the side and slamming his wrist into the solid oak desk. Keeler's startled hiss was drowned out by the alarm as he lost his grip, his gun clattering to the floor and skittering several feet away. Vaughn leapt to his feet, only to stagger backward as Keeler's fist slammed into his face. Vaughn barely felt any pain, however, as adrenaline surged through his veins and he easily ducked to avoid the next punch, throwing his own fist into Keeler's unguarded stomach. The interrogator grunted and grabbed Vaughn by the arm before he could pull back, yanking him off-balance and slamming him face-down on the desk, twisting his arm painfully behind his back. Vaughn shouted as he felt his shoulder wrench into an unnatural position. He gasped for breath as Keeler's weight pinned him to the unforgiving wood. "You can't kill me, Mr. Vaughn," Keeler taunted, his lips so close to Vaughn's ear the agent could feel the interrogator's breath on his neck. "I'm your best chance at saving poor Orlando." Vaughn yelped as Keeler twisted his arm higher, sending bolts of pain down his arm and up into his skull, confirming that his shoulder had, indeed, been dislocated. "I thought you wanted us both dead," Vaughn panted. "Yes, well, that was before you decided to make things difficult. I don't particularly care to continue fighting you." "Quitter," Vaughn sneered while his free hand closed around a letter opener Keeler had left lying on the desk. He drew it closer to his body, hoping Keeler would be too distracted to notice the movement. He swallowed a whimper as Keeler jostled his arm. "You actually enjoy pain, don't you," Keeler asked, an amused lilt to his tone. "You probably begged Mr. Bloom to fuck you dry. Did he enjoy making you bleed? Did you scream and beg for more?" Vaughn's fingers tightened around the letter opener. He swallowed his revulsion and hissed "Fuck you, you son of a bitch" before jabbing the letter opener back into Keeler's side. From his angle he knew it wouldn't likely be a fatal wound, but he felt satisfaction as the warm blood trickled through his fingers. Keeler groaned and released Vaughn, staggering back and staring dumbly at the growing blood stain on his shirt. Vaughn lurched awkwardly to a standing position, ignoring the pain in his injured arm, holding the bloody letter opener in front of him threateningly. "Hands behind your head," he barked. Keeler rolled his eyes as he moved to follow the instructions. His leg shot out suddenly and the next thing Vaughn knew he was falling, his head striking the edge of the desk violently, his shoulder exploding in pain as he hit the ground. Keeler ripped the knife from his nerveless fingers and pitched it across the room, where it struck the far wall and clattered loudly to the floor. Vaughn lay dazed while Keeler straddled him, his knees pinning the agent's arms to the ground. Two more punches to the face and Vaughn went limp, seemingly resigned to his fate, turning his head briefly to spit blood onto the floor and closing his eyes against the water that continued to rain from the ceiling. He struggled instinctively when Keeler's deceptively strong hands wrapped around his throat, but in his weakened and injured state he was essentially helpless. 'No,' Vaughn thought dimly. 'I will not go down without a fight.' He bucked and twisted, pained tears springing to his eyes as he felt a bone in his wrist snap from the force of his struggle and the weight of Keeler's body. He kicked and writhed furiously in a vain effort to free himself, but Keeler only tightened his grip, crushing Vaughn's windpipe and grinding his broken wrist painfully into the floor. His struggles weakened further. All noise faded until all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. His eyes fluttered and he noticed ironically that the sprinklers had shut off, allowing him one last view of Keeler's face before his vision began to blur. His lungs burned, straining for oxygen that wouldn't come and Vaughn realized that this was it. He had dodged thousands of bullets, fought thugs twice his size and won, only to be strangled to death by a Rambaldi- obsessed psychopath in some underground lair, leaving behind a dying civilian and a scandalous affair that would no doubt destroy both of their reputations once the press found out about it. He had let the agency down and he had failed to fulfill his father's legacy. He thrashed weakly, one last time, and went limp, his eyes rolling back in his head. It was at that moment that Keeler's grip unexpectedly loosened. Air rushed into Vaughn's oxygen starved lungs so quickly that they ached in protest. He felt something warm splash across his face before Keeler collapsed on top of him, crushing Vaughn's ribcage with his weight. Vaughn struggled to draw air into his constricted lungs, too dazed to try to remove the dead weight from his chest. A second later the weight was gone and familiar, deceptively soft hands were patting his cheeks firmly, wiping Keeler's blood from his face and checking for injuries. He blinked furiously, until Sydney's face swam into view above him. "My shoulder," he gasped, his voice rough and unsteady, barely more than a whisper. He winced as she prodded his dislocated shoulder experimentally. "I'm gonna try to pop it back in," Sydney warned, her voice sounding painfully loud to Vaughn's now sensitive ears. She pulled his arm away from his side with a firm grip on his forearm and placed the heel of her other hand against his shoulder. She didn't give him a warning before she pulled hard, wrenching his shoulder back into place. His back arched at the excruciating pain, his compromised lungs turning what would have been a forceful shout into a pathetic wail. Sydney babbled a string of apologies, her hands hovering over his body, as if she was afraid touching him would cause more pain. He felt her lips press to his forehead, her trembling fingers running tentatively through his hair. "We have to get out of here," she murmured. "You have to get up. I have the antidote." She seemed to add that last statement as an afterthought. He nodded. "Help me," he gasped. ****** Vaughn staggered down the twisting corridors of the bunker, his uninjured arm draped over Sydney's shoulders, feeling the barrel of Jack's gun brush against his skin with every step. Sydney had slung the weapon's shoulder strap across her torso, wearing it like a backpack. Her own riffle was tightly held in the hand not wrapped around Vaughn's waist. Her progress was slowed significantly, despite Vaughn's valiant efforts to keep up, but she was not going to leave him behind while she went for help. Not while some of Keeler's men could still be in the building. Vaughn was in no condition to fight any possible attackers. Vaughn didn't know where he was anymore, having never seen this part of the building during his captivity, so he focused all his concentration on staying upright and keeping pace, letting her guide him through a series of turns. He saw a flash of movement at the end of the hall as they rounded a corner and tightened his grip on Sydney's shoulder instinctively. But she had already seen it and she braced her riffle against her shoulder as she fired one second before the guard did, absorbing the recoil easily. The thug went down, his shot going wide, the bullet embedding itself harmlessly into one of the halls wooden panels. Sydney didn't stop moving, dragging Vaughn with her and kicking open a door at the end of one hall. Vaughn flinched as they staggered out onto a deserted road and headed for the white van that sat idling several yards away, Jack waiting impatiently behind the wheel. It was late in the afternoon, but after nearly two days of captivity the sunlight seemed blindingly bright. Sydney threw open the side door and shoved Vaughn into the van, nearly on top of Orlando, and dove in after him as one of Keeler's men burst from the building and opened fire. A bullet whistled through the air over their heads and ripped a jagged hole in the opposite side of the vehicle. "Go," Sydney screamed and her father floored the gas, the van lurching down the road with an angry squeal of tires. Sydney returned fire until they were out of range, then she tossed her weapon toward the back of the van and threw all her weight against the door, forcing it shut. Vaughn collapsed beside Orlando. "The antidote..." he gasped, but Sydney was already pulling a first aid kit from beneath the passenger's seat and digging through it's contents in search of a syringe. Once she found one she retrieved an ampoule of clear liquid from her jacket and quickly filled the syringe, tapping out the air bubbles and squirting a tiny stream of fluid from the tip. "I've got it," she muttered absently, reaching over Vaughn to grab Orlando's arm and stabbing the needle into the largest vein she could find. Orlando made a tiny, startled noise and Vaughn's good hand flew to his shoulder, ready to hold him steady if he tried to fight her, but she was already finished. She withdrew the needle before the Brit had time to fully register its presence and gently laid his arm across his chest. "It's okay," she assured him. "We got the antidote. We're taking you both to a hospital now." Orlando blinked at her in confusion before turning his head to squint at the person breathing raggedly beside him. "Michael," he whispered, his eyes widening as he took in the agent's state. "What happened," he asked, his voice still slurring unsteadily. "They didn't want me to leave," Vaughn panted, his voice painfully raw sounding. He reached over to place a reassuring hand on the Brit's arm and winced when even that small movement caused pain. Sydney crawled into the front seat next to Jack so she could fill him in on what had happened back at Keeler's lab. Vaughn felt Orlando squeeze his hand and smiled wearily before he finally gave in to his exhaustion and injuries and passed out. ******* Orlando woke in a hospital bed, feeling exhausted but otherwise much better than he remembered feeling the last time he awoke. He took stock of his surroundings as he tried to recall what had happened. His eyes fell on the striking brunette perched in a chair beside his bed. She smiled at him. "Welcome back." "Who are you?" His voice was weary, but at least the slur was gone. "My name's Sydney," she said. "I'm Vaughn's partner." The events of the last couple days came flooding back to Orlando at the mention of the man who had fought so hard to save his life. "You're in a CIA hospital," Sydney explained before he had a chance to ask. She slid to his side and placed a restraining hand on his chest as he tried to sit up. "Take it easy. The doctor said the poison should be completely out of your system now but they're keeping you here a little longer just to be safe." Orlando groaned. "Let me guess. You want to make sure I don't have any lingering side effects that might make people ask questions." The corner of Sydney's mouth twitched. "Something like that, yeah." Her tone became serious again and her eyes met his with deadly intensity. "You cannot tell anybody about what happened. None of it. We'll help you come up with a cover story to explain your disappearance, but until then you can't contact anybody. Nobody can know where you are." Orlando nodded soberly. Then his eyes darted nervously as a horrible thought occurred to him. "Where's Michael?" Sydney smiled. "He's fine. He's right over there." She pointed to the curtained partition separating Orlando from the room's other bed. "He's got a dislocated shoulder, broken wrist and some nasty bruises but he'll recover." "Can I see him," Orlando blurted. Sydney hesitated. She knew both men needed rest more than anything else at the moment, but she also suspected that Orlando was not going to be dissuaded easily. She stood and pushed aside the thin curtain, giving Orlando a clear view of Vaughn's sleeping figure. Orlando sat up, alarmed at the agent's broken appearance but calmed somewhat by Sydney's apparent lack of concern. He stood, intending to get a closer look, and wobbled unsteadily as blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. Sydney was at his side immediately, ready to catch him if he fell. "I'm fine," Orlando assured her, waving dismissively. He held back a sigh as she grabbed his arm and placed a hand on his back for support anyway. "I'm not letting you fall and crack your head open," she said firmly. "I've had worse spills. My skull is too thick to crack that easy." She snorted daintily but refrained from commenting as she guided him toward Vaughn's bed. Orlando sank into the chair beside the bed and winced as he got a closer look at the bruises marring the agent's features. The entire left side of his face was purple. His jaw looked painfully swollen and a thin line of dried blood just left of center showed where his lower lip had been split. His arm was bound to his chest with thick bandages that hid many more bruises if the couple that peeked out from the edges were any indication. His wrist was encased in a plaster cast. Aside from the bandages, he was bare from the waist up. Orlando gently traced the bruises encircling the agents throat, noting the outline of a couple fingers, the shape of their captor's hand. "These look painful," he murmured. Sydney circled around to the other side of the bed. "It could have been worse," she sighed. "I'm just glad I got to him in time." Her hand hovered over his arm for a moment before she drew back, not wanting to risk disturbing Vaughn. "He probably can't feel it right now. They've got him on some pretty good painkillers." "What happened," Orlando asked softly. "I can't tell you all the details, but I can tell you that your captor found him going through his files. It looked like Vaughn put up quite a fight but after days of captivity he was at a significant disadvantage." Her fingers ghosted over Vaughn's hair. Orlando's focus shifted abruptly to her. "I never thanked you. My memory of what happened is fuzzy but I remember you gave me the antidote. You saved my life." She shook her head with a soft laugh. "I found the antidote, but Vaughn saved you." She stared at Orlando intensely. "He risked his life contacting us so we could find you." "Then thank you for finding us," Orlando said soberly. She smiled. "You're welcome." She hesitated a moment and sighed. "You should really be getting some rest." "I'm fine," Orlando protested. Sydney opened her mouth to argue and then froze, her eyes fixed on Vaughn's good hand as it twitched ever so slightly. Orlando followed her gaze and sat up straighter, leaning closer to Vaughn and studying his face for signs of consciousness. "Michael," the Brit asked gently. Vaughn made a breathy noise, his eyelids fluttering. Sydney jabbed the call button almost violently and leaned closer herself. "Vaughn?" "Syd," he slurred in a painful-sounding voice, struggling to open his eyes with little success. She pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder as he began to shift on the bed, wincing in sympathy along with him when his injuries made themselves known. "You're in a hospital. Lie still." "What," he mumbled as he struggled to recall why he would be in a hospital. His eyes snapped open suddenly as he remembered what had happened. "Orlando." "I'm here," Orlando replied, gently squeezing his unbroken wrist. Vaughn sagged with relief and squinted at Orlando suspiciously. "Why?" "What?" "Why are you still here?" Orlando blinked in confusion. "I just woke up... I wanted to thank you...for saving my life." Vaughn faltered slightly, but stubbornly pressed on. "You should leave. Get your cover story straight and get as far away from me as possible. It's too dangerous for you to be here." Sydney frowned. "Vaughn...relax. We're taking care of it." "There were some girls at the bar and some security cameras at the hotel..." "Vaughn," Sydney interrupted. "We're handling it." Vaughn relaxed into the uncomfortable hospital mattress reluctantly. Sydney leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead. "Stop worrying," she continued. "Just focus on your recovery and leave the rest to us." She flashed a subtle, comical eye roll at Orlando. "I'll leave you two alone for a while." She gave Vaughn one last pat on the hand before slipping through the door and disappearing down the hall. "I'm sorry I got you involved in all of this," Vaughn muttered. Whatever else he meant to say was cut off as Orlando's lips pressed against his. "Stop apologizing," Orlando chided. "I don't have any regrets." Vaughn sighed and reached out with his good hand to bat an errant curl from Orlando's face. "We took care of the men who kidnapped us, but there are more guys just like them out there. We can't put you in witness protection. If somebody connects you to me it won't be difficult for them to track you down." "We both know they won't, Michael. They can't risk drawing attention to themselves. Even if they tried, these guys proved that the press will come looking for me. It's one of the few things the press is good for." Vaughn shook his head slightly, marveling at this kid who had been through so much in the past few days. He seemed to have matured several years in that time. He was wiser... more experienced. Vaughn could no longer see him as an innocent civilian. "Besides," Orlando added. "I have you to watch my back." Vaughn smiled for the first time in days. "Yeah." He could live with that. THE END