Title: Bellicose
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Missing scene, A Missing Link
Rating: PG-13, for violence
Summary: Surprise visitors are not always the best visitors.
Author's Note: Jinnie told me to do it. Blame her for all angst/anger felt. All her fault.

Give me strength, reserve control
Give me heart and give me soul
Wounds that heal and cracks that fix
Tell me your own politik

- Politik, Coldplay

Bellicose (adj): An inclination to fight

Eric Weiss stretched his arms behind his head and let out a loud breath, using the momentum from swinging his arms forward to launch him out of the small, cramped space his chair was shoved into. His partner's eyes never left the small, fuzzy, black and white screen in front of him.

"Alright," Weiss commented, giving himself a moment to get acclimated to standing once again. His knees ached from sitting so long, popping as he straightened them out. You're getting old, he thought to himself, knowing despite his childlike nature, age was quickly catching up with him. "I'm going to check the parameter and such. Want anything while I'm out?"

"No," came his partner's distracted reply. Weiss sighed and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"She'll be fine. How many times has she done this? 100? 200?"

Vaughn rubbed the bridge of his nose, gradually hitting his eyes. "It doesn't matter how many times she's done this, if one thing goes wrong, one small thing, she'll be helpless."

"She wouldn't have gone if she couldn't handle it," Weiss replied, his hand slipping to the chair's padded back and the extra support it gave. His friend needed no more weight on his shoulders.

"She still shouldn't have gone. This is dangerous; she's in too deep. What if they ask her specifics from when she was Julia? Did she even think of that!" he exclaimed, letting his hand fall loudly to the tabletop. At a loss, Weiss gave his friend a reassuring pat and put one hand on the door handle, leaning slightly as to open the sliding door.

"Listen, I'm going to check things and get you a nice, well, whatever they have here. And then, you and I are going to eat and get her at the rendezvous point and head home, okay?"

"Yeah," Vaughn replied, distracted, eyes staring at his screen, ears focused on the words coming from his headset. Weiss slid open the door and disappeared into the night, discontent that after all these years, he finally could no longer get through to his partner and best friend.

The door slammed closed with a little more force than necessary, Vaughn noticed, but now he sat in silence, Sydney's smooth, liquid voice filling his ears, his senses as he watched her via the security feed as the men around her doubted her, obviously men who did not know her.

He almost found himself rooting for her, a personal cheerleading squad that only she could hear. And when before he would say something, anything, he found himself deathly quiet, breath held as time ticked down.

God, she was beautiful.

Then, out of nowhere, there was a large bang on the door behind him.

Vaughn jumped, even his honed sensory skills muted as he focused on Sydney and the mission at hand, his surroundings slowly coming back into focus as he groaned and threw his headset to the table before him and leaned back in his chair, a hand moving to grasp the cold metal handle.

"Back already? C'mon, man, you couldn't have swept that well," he whined, leaning back to pull open the door. "Plus, I don't smell any food," he added for good measure, realizing that he was suddenly very hungry, having not eaten anything since getting off the plane.

The door was yanked open, almost pulling his arm out of its socket as he was thrown toward the back of the van, the chair tipping over to throw him to the ground, his head slamming against the metal floor of the van with a resounding thud, his eyes squinting closed as he gritted his teeth in pain. He could hear someone enter after him, his mind screaming at him to take action. Any action! Just move!

Confined to the cluttered interior of the standard issue van, Vaughn was quickly faced with the grim reality of the less than perfect fighting area. Head still spinning, reeling from the hit on the floor, he stood straight, breath heavy as he leaned against the rear door. He fully expected this attacker to come charging at him after that violent entrance, and so, he was surprised when the man simply examined the equipment, the video feed still running on the portable monitor.

"You're CIA!" he screamed, roaring as electronics thundered to the ground, the man's pure rage sending it clattering to the ground.

"What? Who the hell are you?" Vaughn demanded, disregarding the need for silence, the man's barbaric behavior shattering whatever secrecy they once possessed.

The man rushed him like a star linebacker after a quarterback, pinning him to the wall, his breath hot upon Vaughn's face. The agent didn't flinch, struggling to keep his eyes focused through his swimming consciousness.

"Securities supplier; I knew it was bullshit."

Oh, God.

This man would kill him and Sydney both with no hesitation, all because he was seen with her and photographed. It dawned on him that it wouldn't be Sydney's fallacy or weakness pulling down the op and threatening her safety, but his own.

Vaughn's hand brushed against the back of Weiss' chair, shoved aside when he fell back. Slowly but surely, the attacker, no doubt in Vaughn's mind he was part of Simon's support team, grinning over him like a Cheshire cat, his fingers grabbed a hold of the metal standard issue furniture. With a strong hold, he pulled the chair up and swung it in a wide arch at the man's head. He went down, to the side, giving Vaughn a window to escape from behind him, swerving toward the door like a slippery fish, moving now through the air as he'd done as a child in the water, his speed coming from some unknown reserve, the exhilaration of the moment fueling him. The crisp night air a welcoming sensation, he leapt from the table to the door.

Slam!

Metal cracked against bone, pain spreading through his face as he flew back, crashing into the table. Vaughn landed with an anticlimactic thud, sliding down the smooth surface onto the ground, propped up against the askew desktop. Blood ran from an arched cut on his left cheek, his eye feeling as if it were ready to burst from its socket. Super human as he felt he was, it took a moment to clear the spots from his eyes as the second man came into view of the van's overhead lights, a metal pipe dancing in his hands.

He struggled to get up, but was held down by the man's foot, the second man obviously un-intimidated by Vaughn's deep scowl and glaring, piercing green eyes. Amazed at his own weakness, he sat simply, looking for any opportunity to get free, to fight back.

To warn Sydney.

His thoughts were not of his wife, thousands of miles away sitting idly by as he bled in the van, but of her, the beautiful enchantress that had captured his heart so long ago and still held it in the palm of her hand.

She can improvise better than any agent you've ever known.

The foot on his chest retracted, the men satisfied with his incapacitated state. He held back a grin, the space between them large enough for him to jump through, a clear door to the outside world. Weiss had to be around somewhere, returning from his sweep of the parameter. Except that he went to get something to eat. He could be anywhere, Vaughn realized, the warm copper taste of blood sliding onto his lips.

He had one chance.

Vaughn dove.

The men caught on too late, Vaughn slipping between them and somersaulting onto the grass outside, pushing the rising nausea to the back of his mind. How could he have been so stupid? He was field rated - had been for years, and despite his year and a half off from the agency, he'd been diligent in keeping up a health and steady workout routine, too in love with the shape and agility of his body. And now, what good did it do him? He was pulling himself out of a flawless dive, willing his legs to run in a direction - any direction - as long as it was away from his attackers.

But they were already upon him.

Lashing out with his arms, blocking their assaulting punches, he felt for a moment he had a fleeting chance. But the ex-French teacher was no match for two trained assassins, and he found himself on his back again, the foot once again in place, crushing his chest. The man spat onto the ground next to Vaughn's head and turned to his companion.

"Get him his coat," he ordered. "Simon's going to love this."

Vaughn closed his eyes, but forced them open as he was pulled to his feet, a coat thrown at him harshly, all the pockets turned inside out as result of some rushed search. He donned it slowly, letting it hang off his batter frame as the men jostled him in the direction of their jeep.

Please, God, let someone find me. Let someone help me. Let someone help her.