Without Transgression by Celli Lane Feedback: Positive or negative both welcome. celli@fanfic101.com Category: Angst, challenge fic Rating: PG-13 for language and themes Spoilers: All of Season One. Summary: "What kind of justice did you get, in the end? What kind of truth does the CIA provide?" Archiving: Credit Dauphine and my site (www.fanfic101.com); otherwise just tell me so I can come visit. Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, and various other people with lawyers. Sadly, this means Vaughn will never be mine. But he's nice enough to take me with him on his guilt trips. Notes: Thanks to Gail and Jen for betaing. For Alexandra.

"Justice is truth in action." --Benjamin Disraeli

Michael Vaughn walked slowly through the grass. It was the Memorial Day
weekend, and soon Los Angeles National Cemetery would be filled with military
widows and children. But he always came early, before the dew on the grass
could evaporate, and he was alone with the stones and his thoughts. He passed
the directory without even looking at it; he could find this particular grave by
muscle memory.

William Vaughn
Captain
US Army
Vietnam
May 25, 1944
Aug 21, 1977

He placed his flowers in the container by his father's name, then settled
himself in front of the headstone, moving carefully to avoid jostling the sling
on his right arm. He pulled a blue notebook out of his jacket pocket. He
leafed carefully through the pages of coded scribbling in his father's
handwriting, the handwriting Michael had inherited.

November 27, 1976

Mikey turned eight today. Missed it again--London on Company business. It's
always London, Paris, Milan with these people. Why can't I have a mission in
Peoria? Houston? How about Memphis? I could call home while my family was
awake for a change, maybe buy him an Elvis record for his birthday.

Lost three good men. Nothing I could have done. Still. Selberg and I served
in 'Nam together, transferred into the Company together. He has twin girls.
They're six.

Screw time zones. I'm calling my boy.

He traced his nickname with one finger. He shifted position slightly as the
damp grass made itself felt through his slacks--

--and his breath choked in his throat. Suddenly, he was back in Taipei, with
water rushing past him and around him and into him, forcing its way past his
eyelids and into his mouth. He thrashed his arms out, closed his fingers on the
edge of--something, he couldn't see what--and screamed, sucking in even more
water, as a piece of Rambaldi's machine crashed into his arm. He fought to keep
his mouth closed, fought to get a grip with his unbroken arm, fought to stay
alive--

--Michael opened his eyes and stared blankly at the white stone in front of him.
He was panting, the harsh breaths searing an already abused throat. He dropped
his head to the cool stone and let the tears come.

After a long time, he opened the diary again. He turned to a blank page towards
the end of the notebook, pulled out a pen, and began carefully writing, pausing
now and then to recall parts of the code.

May 25, 2002

I was drowning, Dad. I could feel the water in my lungs. I knew I wouldn't
make it. And I thought, shit--sorry, Dad--I don't want to die for my country.

I still don't. I don't want to drown in Taipei, I don't want to be shot by a
sleeper agent, I don't even want to have a heart attack over classified
paperwork. I don't want--I'm sorry, I don't want to be you.

On my eighth birthday, when you called in the middle of the night, I asked you
why you didn't quit your job. You told me that justice is truth in action. I
didn't know what you meant. I do now, but I still don't understand it. What
kind of justice did you get, in the end? What kind of truth does the CIA
provide?

I believe in the cause if not the people sponsoring it. I will stay until SD-6
is destroyed. Until my agents are safe. Until the woman who killed you is
dead.

And then I'm going to the Delorme vineyard in Fleury to live the rest of my
life. My family will bury me in a small-town graveyard with no flag draped over
my coffin. Any children I have will cry at my funeral.

Happy birthday, Dad. I miss you every day. That's my truth in action.

Mikey

He stared at the page for a long time, then wrote one line at the bottom--
uncoded.

Sometimes the truth hurts.

"I am righteous, but God has taken away my justice. Should I lie concerning my
right? My wound is incurable, though I am without transgression." --Job 34:5-6

Photos used without permission.

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