Title: The Brit Author: Diandra Hollman E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org/ Date Finished: 6/5/2004 at freaking MIDNIGHT (shakes fist at muse) I haven't had a decent night's sleep in three days! Rating: NC-17. I guess. Classification: Vark. Sort of. Keywords: Vark UST, Vaughn/Other slash Spoilers: Do you even know me? Disclaimer: Michael Vaughn belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, ABC and Michael Vartan. The other person who shall remain nameless in this story belongs to himself. That is all. Archive: If I didn't send it to you or post it in the group your site is affiliated with, e-mail me and I'll think about it. Summary: "Realization slammed into Vaughn with staggering force. 'He reminds me of Sark.'" Dedication: To LMichelle for being my beta, raflesia for helping me with the title and Gin for...well, for general reasons. Also to the fangirls and BarbieShippers. May they never find out where I live. ;P Author's Notes: My muse hates me. That's the only explanation I can come up with for why she would just come back out of freaking NOWHERE and *demand* that I write this instead of the half-dozen or so other stories I have started. She wouldn't even let me sleep! >8-I Anyway, this story is *technically* a crossover between Alias and a particular fandom of RPS. However, if you don't recognize any of the clues I've left as to who the mysterious man is, then you can just assume that I made him up and no harm no foul. It doesn't really matter - I just needed somebody who bore at least a slight resemblance to Sark. 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," Vaughn offered, attempting a kind smile while his inner voice berated him mercilessly for his behavior. The Brit returned his smile and responded in kind. 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 the Brit 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 the Brit'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. The Brit 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 the Brit 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. The Brit'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. THE END