And Their Scent is That of the Ones The Children Used To Know
Archive: Persuaders, anyone else just ask
Fandom: Alias
Status: Potential Series
Feedback: Greatly appreciated, to gryffindor@bettelyrics.com
Spoilers: "Reckoning" and "Colorblind"
Summary: Vaughn thinks there's something familiar about Bristow...
Disclaimer: Alias is the property of J.J. Abrams, Sisyphus Productions, Touchstone Television and ABC in the U.S. No infringement or harm is intended by the use of these characters. The dialogue in the opening is taken from "Colorblind".
Warnings: Consensual Discipline. Vaughn, Jack Bristow. No slash.
Note 1: This is my first discipline story, but I've been reading it for ages, so I hope it's alright!
Show Summary: Since Alias is a fairly new show and probably not available in many countries, here is a brief summary. Sydney Bristow (Jennifer Garner) is a double agent for the C.I.A. and the evil SD-6, which trained her as a spy. Her emotionally truncated father, Jack Bristow (Victor Garber) is also a double agent. He was a father in absentia for much of Sydney's childhood and remains an enigmatic figure, always a step ahead of his hurt and frequently vindictive daughter. Michael Vaughn (Michael Vartan) is Sydney's C.I.A. operative. He meets Sydney in secret places and gives her her orders and often acts as a warm shoulder.
Note 2: Photos taken from "Colorblind" (from whence comes the opening of the story) can be found at http://www.vartanetc.com/alias/photos/episode7.html courtesy the wonderful Vartan, etc. site http://www.vartanetc.com
"I'm a freak," he thought, and he knew he should be thinking something else, like self-defense, because Jack Bristow had him up against the wall with a gun in his neck, and all he could do was mutter his name while thinking that this was Sydney's dad and wondering if this was a normal dad thing to do. He certainly didn't remember his father pulling a gun on anyone, but he'd died so long ago he hardly remembered anything about him anyway. The only thing he truly remembered about the man was the way he smelled after he came home from the field. Dust and sweat and something else, which he couldn't identify until he was grown and out there himself. Fear, adrenaline, and victory. He could smell it on Mr. Bristow. Except the fear wasn't part of Bristow. That was coming from his own body. Mr. Bristow pushed him again and he muttered,
"I'm Sydney's CIA liaision."
Bristow released him and sat down at the small table. Vaughn took the seat opposite. He thought perhaps he should pour the tea, but he didn't trust his hands to be still. He found himself listening, with a sinking stomach, as Bristow calmly patronized him. ("One thing you are not, and this is something only time can provide, really, is wise.") It wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, if he didn't smell like his dad. He rubbed the table cloth between his fingers and tried not to look like he minded. More disconcerting was the fact that Mr. Bristow, besides being a dad, was in fact Sydney's dad, and the fact that he smelled like Vaughn's dad, although he certainly didn't look like him, with his salt and pepper curly hair, thin nose, and eyes that flickered with subdued emotion within a head twice the size of Vaughn's . Vaughn wondered if there wasn't something pseudo-incestuous about his interest in Sydney.
So he snapped when Bristow raised his eyebrow and asked if he thought Sydney woke up every morning because of him.
"What's your problem with me?"
And that ended it. Mr. Bristow knew that he'd pulled his files at Sydney's request. Of course he did. It was foolish of him to think that Bristow wouldn't find out. Bristow was a double agent, after all and with twenty years experience on him. But Vaugn couldn't stop himself from retorting,
"What were you doing checking up on me checking up on you?"
He sat and stared at the tea after Bristow left. He had wanted him to say "because I wanted to know who was in my daughter's life" or something personal like that, but of course Bristow said nothing except that the meeting was over.
After the meeting, days after, Vaughn pulled the file again. Not for Sydney this time. He wanted, no, needed to see it. He balanced the folder on his thin fingers and slid into the space between the wall and the filing cabinet. He knew he didn't have to hide. No one would ask what he was doing. It was embarrassing, though, that he'd taken the file out because of the meeting, and because he couldn't access his own father's file. He wondered what Sydney would say, if she would think that he was trying to usurp her father. Sydney hated Bristow anyway, or said she did, so maybe he shouldn't worry. He closed the file and put it away. Sydney was due back from Morocco in a few hours. She needn't ever know.
He went to the warehouse early, as usual. He sat on one of the crates and waited. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he looked to its source. A shadow passed over a box a hundred yards away. He gripped his gun and followed. He glanced around the corner, ready to fire. He lowered his gun and stepped out when he saw Mr. Bristow. Bristow nodded at him and pulled his suit jacket off.
"Good evening, Mr. Vaughn."
"Mr. Bristow? What are you doing here?"
Bristow didn't reply for a moment as he hung his jacket on a bent nail. "You've been checking up on me, again, Mr. Vaughn."
Vaughn's jaw went slack. Bristow's "Mr. Vaughn" was packed with all the calm innuendo inherent in his mother's voice when she used his middle name.
"Close your mouth, son."
"You would only know that if you were checking up on me, Mr. Bristow."
Bristow smiled, a slight tug at his lips. It almost distracted Vaughn from his hands, which were undoing his belt. Vaughn squinted as Bristow pulled the belt from his slacks.
"I've told you previously, Mr. Vaughn, that I don't appreciate you pulling my file, even if it is to clear my *good* name, which I suspect it isn't. I need to know that you won't do this again."
"I won't." He stared at Bristow, the belt now hanging idly in his left hand.
Bristow nodded. "I'm going to need a little more reassurance, son." He stepped forward, and Vaugn's fingers fluttered to his jacket. He worked the buttons closed.
"What did you...what did you have in mind?" he forced the words out. He had a good idea what Bristow had in mind since the mother-tone hadn't left his voice, but surely he wouldn't really be thinking that.
"Discipline, Mr. Vaughn."
Vaughn's eyes flicked to the belt. "Discipline?" Right on target. He wasn't CIA for nothing.
"I want to strap you, Michael."
He glanced to Bristow's face. The way he said his name--disinterested and tender at once--he scuffed his shoes on the concrete. He didn't know the man knew his first name. He felt stupid. Of course he would. He probably knew everything about him.
"Michael?" Bristow pulled the belt between his fingers thoughtfully.
"What happens...if I don't say yes?"
Bristow shrugged. "I think you know. You don't get my trust. And believe me, Mr. Vaughn, that is something you will need."
"Your daughter doesn't trust you."
"But you do."
Vaughn nodded. Bristow hadn't lied to him, not really, over what he'd done, if the CIA records were accurate.
"Your decision, Mr. Vaughn?"
Vaughn closed his eyes. His hands tugged at his jacket. He stepped towards Bristow. "Yes."
Bristow nodded. "Alright, Michael. Take your pants down and bend over that crate." He gestured idly to a wooden box at Vaughn's right.
Vaughn pulled his jacket off. He didn't look at Bristow as he dropped his pants. They pooled around his ankles. Slowly, he lowered himself into position. He felt a hand in his dark blond hair, soothing him. That smell again. Just like his dad.
"Sir?" He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to say that. The man was no better than him, after all, but it just seemed right. Another concession, perhaps.
"What?"
"How...how many?"
The hand traveled down to his back and pulled his shirt up. "Have you been strapped before, Michael?"
"No sir."
"Spanked at all?"
"No sir."
The hand settled on his naked back. "We'll say twenty, Michael, then see how you're doing. Does that sound alright to you?"
Vaughn's breath hitched. It sounded like quite a lot to him.
"It's about trust, Michael. You have to trust me not to hurt you. You have to earn my trust. Can you do that?"
He inhaled. Bristow smelled like his dad. "Yes sir."
He'd scarcely said it when the belt came whistling down and cracked against his buttocks. He yelped and clenched them together, only to find that this made it worse. It wasn't so bad that he was screaming, and he wondered if maybe he should have listened to his mother and eaten a bit more at Thanksgiving so he'd have some padding back there.
"Are you going to look at my files again, Michael?"
"No sir!"
"Why not?"
"B-because you won't t-trust me, sir," he gasped.
The blows increased in force. He clutched the edges of the crate and tried not to cry. He usually didn't have a problem with it, even did it as rebellion in the face of C.I.A. stoicism. But, he didn't think Bristow would approve and he wanted to please him, even if he thought the man should be happy enough with the fact that he was bare-assed over a crate for him.
"It's okay, Michael. You can yell if you need to," Bristow said, pressing his free hand on his back. Vaughn gratefully burst into tears. His body shuddered.
"How many was that?" Bristow asked as he laid down another.
"I...I don't know, sir," he sobbed, lost in mumblings and promises to never displease the man again and always be a perfect agent.
Bristow tsked under the whistle of the belt. "A good agent is always aware of everything, Michael. Even in difficult circumstances."
Vaughn almost laughed. Bristow was lecturing *him* on being a good agent. "Sorry sir."
"It was seventeen, Michael."
"Yes sir. Sorry." His legs shuddered; if he wasn't holding on, he'd be in danger of collapsing.
"Count the last three, son."
Vaughn obeyed, finally getting to three and nearly burying it beneath his choked sobs. He heard the belt slap fabric and looked back to see Bristow pulling it through his belt loops. He put his head on his arm and cried.
"Pull yourself together," Bristow said gruffly.
Vaughn wiped his nose on his sleeve. He straightened himself, groaning, and gingerly pulled his pants up. He tucked his shirt in. He grabbed his jacket and put it on. His fingers darted over the buttons. He could barely look at Bristow, but he raised his eyes towards him.
"Are we alright now?"
Bristow studied him silently. "For now."
Vaughn tugged at his sleeves. Part of him thought there should be more to this "reconciliation", like a hug or something, but then he remembered he was dealing with Jack Bristow, the man who didn't show affection to his own daughter, so it would be a cold day in Miami before he did anything like that for him.
"You did well, Mr. Vaughn." Bristow said. He squeezed his shoulder, and Vaughn felt a slight pang that the first name basis was ended.
"Thank you, Mr. Bristow."
"Now, my daughter should be here soon, so if you'll excuse me..."
Vaughn nodded. He'd forgotten about his meeting with Sydney. He turned away, and when he looked back, Bristow was gone. He walked slowly to their meeting place. Sydney hadn't arrived. He propped an arm against a stack of boxes and waited. She arrived on schedule, looking harried and driven and *Sydney*. He smiled at her.
"How was Morocco?"
The End