Equilibrium — Chapter 1

Sometimes, Sydney Bristow has delusions of being normal. Of going to classes and bars and movies, and forgetting about "work," which to her friends is a bank and to herself is the hell that makes her very much not normal.

Not normal includes wearing vinyl pants, a dog collar, and a blue wig. Not normal includes having a nice Mother's Day conversation with your long-thought-dead-and-turned-out-to-be-alive-and-evil mother. Not normal includes being moved to this very creepy room after said conversation. Not normal includes wanting to close her eyes and sob, trying to close them and seeing —

— another thing that makes her not normal.

No delusions today.

She has been taking in the room in small doses, regulating exposure and understanding. A long, narrow galley, metal shelving and locked glass cabinets. No convenient windows or air vents, and the door is solid steel. She's tried it with her shoulder a few times already, to no avail. The floor is cool concrete, with two circular drains on either end. Walls jade green tiling, tiny little squares that she has been tracing with her eyes for a while now.

It reminds her of a morgue, but she suspects everyone that comes in at least starts out alive. This is her reality, now, because her mother offered her a deal and she refused to take it. Thought about it a bit, about betraying her country, about tossing ideals in an old rusty metal trash can somewhere and walking away.

Thought about her father. Thought about Vaughn. Thought about Vaughn's father. Told her mother to fuck off. A strange thing to say to your mother, on Mother's Day no less, but she found it felt good as it left her mouth.

Until they brought her here. She wonders if it is just an idle threat, her mother giving her some more time to think it over, wearing her down, using time to her advantage.

Time is not the greatest advantage in this. That is the large steel table in the middle of the room, flanked by the drains, bolted to the floor. Metal loops, bolts, locks and cranks where hands and feet and necks should go. It is the last step of her regulated observation, and it takes everything remaining in her to keep it from prompting panic.

This is when the door clanks open. She snaps to standing and balls her hands into fists. Her study of the room hasn't turned up anything that could reasonably pass as a weapon, and so they are all she has.

Then there is a moment of wonderful bliss when she realizes she does not need them.

"Vaughn?" She relaxes her fists, starts to run to him. "You're — "

Alive, yes. Thank God. Alive, dry, dressed in the same black shirt and pants from the club, minus the leather coat. A little tousled, perhaps, but nothing worse. Unharmed, then, also.

And something else. There is a look he gives her sometimes, one she catches most of these times. Brief, eyes in a quick up-and-down over her body — swift admiration before he anchors focus at her face. It is mostly noticeable to her because she does the same thing to him, albeit a little more subtle.

This time, there is none of that, and what she gets instead halts her. His eyes smolder, drag obviously across her body, before boring into her own. She was expecting gentle, concerned green, and smoking black is a jarring shock.

Those eyes — the gentle green ones, not the ones from her new, uncomfortable reality — are supposed to tear up a little. He is supposed to reach out his arms to her. Embrace her for awhile, let her enjoy the change in the status quo before they work together and find a way to avoid whatever is scheduled for them in this room.

He is not supposed to stare her down, make her feel like a helpless little vinyl smurf, make her feel the need to take a step backwards.

"Hello, Sydney." He is not supposed to say that. He is not supposed to use a voice that is even more shocking than his eyes. Confident inhibition that reminds her of too many men at too many bars with too much liquor in them and some misguided sense of being able to steer her toward their intentions. She wonders if she would enjoy being steered by Vaughn. Not steered. Handled.

He seems to meander as he approaches her, steps slow and deliberate. Enjoying the journey, the tension rising in her spine, futile attempts to slow her breathing as he comes to a halt, barely two feet away from her. Hold your ground. This is Vaughn. You can take him. But you won't have to. This is Vaughn.

"Vaughn, are you okay?" This is Vaughn. In spite of herself, she steps back. Those are not Vaughn's eyes. One step, two steps. Three, four, five, until her back hits the table with a slight clank. "Did they do anything to hurt you?"

He laughs, dark and deep, then paints a normal grin on his face. She wants to believe it, but his eyes still smolder. "They didn't do anything to hurt me, Sydney. They didn't make me come to Taipei. They didn't drag me on a mission that almost got me drowned."

Her hands have been resting on the edges of the table, wrapped around the cool steel edges. She leaves them there, but prepares to fight. Ignores the lurching at her stomach, the rapid, intense panic taking over her pulse. You trusted him with everything. What if you can't trust him at all?

"Vaughn, what did they do to you? Did they drug you?" Her eyes dart to his arm, looking for tracks. She finds none in the cursory glance, but this doesn't mean there aren't any there. "Vaughn, this isn't you."

"How do you know this isn't me?" He adds another step forward, and she curses her mistake, trying not to lean back any further onto the table. Sticking oneself with no escape path is amateur stuff. Of course, needing an escape path around this man was nothing she had considered before.

"You don't even know me, Sydney."

"I do," she whispers, racking her brain for examples.

"How do you know that you know me?" His next step makes her fully aware of the heat of his body, hips only a few inches from hers, chest further because she is leaning back now, couldn't help it — too much, too close. His left hand slides from his side, dangerously close as it passes her hips. Headed for her hand; for a moment she thinks it will stop there, and maybe somehow it will feel reassuring.

It does not. The hand rests on the cool steel beside hers, and he uses it for support, leaning fractionally closer. "Tell me. I'm curious."

"You have a dog named — " what the hell was the damned thing's name? " — Donovan. Your best friend is Eric Weiss. You like hockey, the Kings. Your father worked for the CIA, and he was killed when you were young. By — " is this going to hurt, or help? " — my mother. And she is holding us here, and she will kill us both if we don't do something."

It hurts, but not the way she thought it would.

"You don't know a thing, Sydney." His eyes boil now, darken more and narrow into her. "That was all a lie. All lies, invented by the CIA. But I am going to tell you the truth. I am going to show you the truth."

"Vaughn?" He maintains the glare. "Vaughn, listen to me. We are going to get out of here, and we are going to get you help. But you have got to snap out of it."

This hurts more. Everything in him boils over, and his left hand flies at her. She sees it coming, but the table is digging into her back, and no options come to mind in the short time she has. His index finger loops around the middle ring of the dog collar, yanks at it to pull her close.

"Snap out of what, Sydney?" So close his breath is warm on her face. She realizes they have never been close like this, and part of her wants to completely close the distance. The other part of her is still acutely aware of his hand at her neck, his body covering hers without touching it. "Maybe it's time for you to snap out of it and see what you do to me."

His hand slips over hers and she imagines lightening replacing the tension in her spine. It does not feel reassuring. It feels like she has too much pulse for her body to contain. Get away. Just get away.

She snaps her hand away and pushes at him, giving herself enough room to slip to the side. Out in the open now, and no chance she will repeat her earlier mistake. She feels the need to turn her hands into fists.

"Sydney? What are you doing?" His voice is incredulous, teasing, almost. She wants to believe it, but cannot get past the darkness of his eyes. "It's me. You don't need those with me." He looks at her hands, tense little balls at her side now.

He's right. Whatever they've got him on, he would never hurt you. This is still Vaughn. Still Vaughn. She relaxes her hands. He takes a step toward her, but this time she holds her ground. Forces herself to trust those words. Still Vaughn.

His hand reaches out slowly. Grazes over the remnant of her fist, slides past her wrist. His touch is light, delicate, but she imagines his fingertips burning lines up her arm. He stops at her shoulder, fingers wrapped around it. Reassuring, she thinks. Finally reassuring, as his thumb rolls back and forth slightly, drawing out her tension. Still Vaughn.

And then he speaks. "I thought I told you, Sydney. You don't know me at all." His hand tightens around her shoulder as his foot sweeps at her legs. Off-guard, off-balance, she begins to fall, but he catches her. Hands rough on her shoulders, picking her up, throwing her on the table. She hits it hard, harsh cold metal unexpected, as is the scream that leaves her mouth.

He hoists himself onto the table, kneeling beside her with his hand on the collar again, index finger slipping through the ring, holding her down.

"Listen, spy girl. You don't have a lot of options here. So let me explain to you how it's gonna be."

He uses the collar to pull her up until she is sitting, face close to his again. His free hand slides around her back, drawing her closer. There is a brief second when his lips brush hers, soft and perfect and wonderful. And suddenly, there is no situation, no drugged Vaughn, only this kiss, and she finds herself responding. Pressing her lips closer, letting his hand roam her back, opening her mouth and inviting him to do what she's wanted for a long time. This is Vaughn.

One kiss is not a large enough dam to hold back the flood of the situation, however, and eventually it comes crashing back to her. She breaks it, and the collar snaps taut against her neck as she tries to pull away. This is not Vaughn. So easy to forget his hand there when his lips are so tender, she thinks, as he pulls her back, brushes them against hers briefly before giving her some slack, drinking in the shock on her face.

"You don't get it, do you, Sydney?" His other hand makes lazy circles on her back, and again it seems right. Until she thinks about the other, still grasping a link in her collar, controlling her position. "I heard what you said to your mother. That wasn't very nice of you." He slips his free hand from her back, across her shoulder, and brings it to her cheek. It traces her jaw, fingertips gentle, as he speaks again. "I really think you should talk to her, Sydney. She can explain it all. She can give you anything you want."

She is breathing hard, trying to ward off fear. He is still disturbingly calm. "Vaughn, what did you want?"

He switches to index finger only now, running it along her jaw. Back across her cheek, over her lips, and she forces herself not to shiver. "I thought that would be obvious."

"No?" She draws it out, turns it into a question, although he is right. It is obvious.

"You, Sydney. I wanted you." The hand at her face skims light down her body, coming to rest on her knee. "I always wanted you, but maybe you were too lost in Sydney Land to notice."

"Fuck you, Vaughn." His hand starts to slip up the vinyl, pace painstaking. Threatening, and you should stop it, knock him on the floor, knock this out of him, but it feels, and it is Vaughn — "I noticed. But there's our jobs. There's protocol."

"Protocol, Sydney, did not involve fucking following you to Taipei." Mid-thigh now, the heat from his hand radiating across her. "And I don't have to worry about my job any more. I have a new job. And the perks are much better."

He reaches her center now, lets his hand linger for a moment, and she becomes angry at the heat that wells in his wake. The other hand, the one at the collar, pushes her back down to the table. He speaks before moving again.

"Everything that happens here, Sydney, is all up to you. You call the shots. Tell me you don't want this, and that's it. But I can assure you that this table was designed for worse things." One hand reaches out, grabs the handle to one of the cranks, turning it once, slowly. And then he is swinging his knee over her legs, straddling her and —

It is Vaughn, pressing into her. It is much more of Vaughn than she was prepared for.

"Tell me you don't want this, Sydney." His hands swipe up and down her thighs, stuttering over the black shine, sliding beneath her, running along her ass, pulling her closer. "Love the pants, by the way."

He kisses her again — aggressive, she thinks, like he is claiming her lips and maybe you should let him — then he starts down her neck, wet mesh everywhere. Mouth dipping between her breasts. Ten feet tall, bulletproof, and fucking Casanova. You have to stop this, because you're the only one who can, and it is Vaughn, oh god it is.

One hand finds the button to her pants, and then peels down the zipper, the heat between her legs becoming unbearable at this. Both hands now, peeling the vinyl down her legs, like she is an orange, and not an agent. Agent Orange. Fucking focus, Syd, because in a second —

She is wearing a black thong, the only option with black vinyl pants, if you choose to go the underwear route at all. His hand is past it in a second, rolling over her. Into her.

Head spinning, room spinning. This is not Vaughn. This is not Vaughn. But it feels so good. So good, but it's not Vaughn. This is not Vaughn. Even if it isn't, you could pretend it is.

"So what's it going to be, spy girl? Are you in or out?"

This is when the distinctive sound of semiautomatic fire reaches them from the hallway.