Okay dokie. Here's my first contribution to the Alias Gender Bender Fic Challenge over at clandestine_ops.

Title: Portrait of a Man, Three Feet Down
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Vaughn/Sark
Warnings: I feel like I should warn for Vaughn!Angst. Though at least it leads to him cross-dressing...
Timeline: Post Season 3
Summary: Vaughn tries to find a way to deal with the truth.

A/N: Many, many huge thanks to daera23 and nova88 for betaing this for me. You guys rock. And actually, it was my hubby that came up with the plot. I just put Vaughn in a dress.



When nothing is right in the world, it’s always best to start with something you know.

Apples are red and the sky is blue...

Sitting down in the front seat of my Oldsmobile, after having tossed my gym bag in the back, I happen to glance up into the rearview mirror. I am still as I’ve always been.

Lies are dangerous, but so is the truth…

It feels wrong that I still look normal. I could be just a regular guy, off to the gym after a hard day’s work. I certainly don’t look like a man who recently killed his wife –

But sometimes apples are green…

--even if our life together was based on lies.

And things aren’t always as they seem…

So now, I need to go back to the beginning.

Irina Derevko murdered my dad.

My dad was a good man, and Irina Derevko is an evil woman.

Sydney, the woman I loved, is Irina Derevko’s daughter.

Somewhere along the way, I thought Sydney was dead and I married someone else.

I shatter the rear view mirror with my fist. Right now, I appear as the world has always seen me – the man who believed all those things.

~~~

It doesn’t take me long to drive to the gym, throw my car into park and head towards the locker room.

Inside, it smells like sweat, men’s cologne and honest toil. I breathe in deep so I can refresh my memory.

My locker is the third from the end by the showers. When I’ve got it open though, I reach past my gym shorts, and grab an old baseball hat instead. I trade my gym bag in for a new set of keys and the jogging pants that I put on are baggy.

My old UCLA sweatshirt gives me ample room to hide a small knapsack underneath.

It’s not much of a disguise, but then that’s the point. Aren’t we all what we appear to be?

I catch the haunted look that’s still in my eyes as I move to shut the locker. I slip a large pair of sunglasses on. I’ve learned that the truth is a little bit more complicated now.

I’m still here, but a little bit less. I’m just another man going out for a jog, looking for release.

My dad was a good man and Irina Derevko is an evil woman. She shattered my world twice. Once by killing my father and once by not.

On my way out, I spit in the mirror by the showers.

~~~

I’m breathing more than a little heavy by the time I reach the movie theater. The air conditioning blasts the sweat on my face as I take a measure of relief.

I head towards the staff entrance and I’m always amazed that no one stops a stranger as long as he looks like he knows where he’s going. At least this washroom offers me a measure of privacy as I lock the door behind me. The space is small but then so are my needs.

The water will never be enough to wash away the lies of my life…

Sydney, the woman I loved, is Irina Derevko’s daughter.

…but it does the job on the sweat. The blond wig is tight over my head when I pull it on, and I can already tell that it’s going to itch. I welcome the discomfort and secure it tightly to my head. This is where it begins.

My Adam’s apple bobs nervously as I arrange the fake hair around my shoulders.

The jogging suit finds its way into the trash can and I exchange it for a black business suit. The color does a little to hide my lack of curves and I’m grateful that I managed to find flats in my size. I don’t need to be any taller than I am.

Lauren always was taller than most women though.

I slip the sunglasses back on to obscure my face, and I walk back out into the world somewhere between a man and not.

~~~

The Metro ride is long but I enjoy listening to the hum as the train slides over the tracks. Like the inevitability of reaching the next destination, my life has been on a predetermined track for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be really free.

I find the irony now amusing. And it was always Sydney who waxed poetically about free will.

My reflection in the Metro window taunts me. I am grey and bleak now. It also reminds me of another stop I need to make. I couldn’t bring myself to touch any of Lauren’s make-up. It seems to me that each disguise should serve its own purpose. I get off at the next stop and go to the drug store to buy some of my own.

Besides, she was much paler than I am.

At least the cover-up helps to hide the circles under my eyes, making me look normal.

The blue fake eyelashes on the other hand ensure that I don’t.

You know, the worst image of my wife that haunts me is not the look on her face when I shot her. No. Instead, it’s a make believe image that my mind has conjured up of her on her knees with her mouth wide open, ready to service whatever men she needs to.

Lauren always did have beautiful lips.

All the better to tell lies with, I think.

Not unlike Irina.

The woman who murdered my father. And then didn’t.

Not unlike a wolf in grandmother’s clothing. In the end though grandma is still dead, and so is my father.

I look in the mirror and start at the center of my upper lip, tracing the outline to each corner of my mouth with liner. I don’t know which step is critical, so it’s important that I follow them all to the letter. I then take my lipstick, Lingering Rose, and fill in the color.

I too, have beautiful lips now and I show off my dead smile to the reflection.

~~~

In the department store a few streets over I find a rather nice bustier that will fit around my chest and flash the sales lady a little smile. She smiles back and I think it must be because of the lipstick.

But the bustier has matching garters which is a nice touch. I’ve never really ever splurged on myself before.

But then, I was never really myself, was I?

To be free, you need the truth. I am what I have become.

A fractured man.

Lauren spent countless dollars on her meticulous wardrobe.

The black cocktail dress is simple yet elegant, with a slit down the side that allows me to walk without tripping.

The sales lady suggests a pair of pumps and I decide that if I’m going to do this, I can’t hold back at all. After all, that might be the key to it as well.

That or the lip pencil, I’m not sure.

~~~

The air in the bar is thick with smoke. It burns my sinuses as I breathe in and makes my eyes water. I blink rapidly to stave off the tears because it wouldn’t do to have my mascara run now - though I’m sure many tears have been shed in bar like this one.

I wonder if Irina ever cried after she prostituted herself out. I can’t imagine that Lauren ever did. Perhaps that gave her more choice when it came to selecting eye make-up.

I get a few once-overs and some fat, sweaty smelling asshole sticks his arms out and starts gyrating his hips rudely as I walk past.

I wonder if Lauren ever put up with gestures like that. Probably, so I do as well, but somehow I don’t think Irina ever did.

I have a bit of trouble finding the man that I’m looking for since the atmosphere of smoke, dim lights and semi-opaque curtains does wonders to hide him as it does the sex, drugs and other transactions that occur within its depths. Eventually I find him sitting at a table in the corner, and I’m pleased to say that he’s surprised when he sees me and doesn’t bother to hide the shock on his face.

But then, that’s thing about men, isn’t it? We always are what we are.

Women on the other hand…

Now I am not what I am, but really I am.

Sark arches his eyebrow as he takes in my appearance fully and I let him. This is after all, the point.

This is what women do and it seems to work for them.

He pulls out an envelope from his suit jacket and tosses it on the table. In return, I pull the small curtain closed around his table, get down on my knees and pull open his zipper.

That’s it. No preliminaries, no pleasantries. I wonder if that’s his concession to my sex or if I’m doing it all wrong. I’m sure Lauren demanded some chitchat. But then again, in my experience, Irina never said a word more than she needed to, so maybe I’m still ok. Irina always seemed to know the difference between business and pleasure.

This is just the way this business is done.

I’ve never sucked a man’s cock before but I can’t imagine it’s that hard to figure out.

I want to laugh when I see that he trims his pubic hair. It suits him, but that was never a piece of intel that anyone felt the need to document. I wonder if that’s a consideration for the ladies or simply his hygiene habits. To be honest, I was almost afraid that he would just try and shoot me when he realized my intentions, but instead he seems content to just sit there and see how this plays out.

This must be part of the special power that women have.

I fondle his dick. The weight and texture is foreign, and though not unlike mine, it’s not mine and all the more foreign because of it. But I know how Lauren used to tease me with her tongue so I swallow tightly and bring my face in.

He smells faintly of soap and sweat and I drag my tongue across his shaft.

“Your tongue is like sandpaper Mr. Vaughn. Are you going to get on with it?” Sark asks impatiently and, though this rebuke makes me want to stand up and punch him, I take it in stride. I imagine that it’s all part of the currency that’s exchanged in these encounters.

My submission for his intel.

My transformation for my sanity.

He’s semi-hard by the time I open my mouth and, once I get past the initial strangeness, it’s not as terrifying as I thought it would be. I suck on him and move my hand on his dick in time with my mouth. As I feel him getting harder, I can’t help but feel myself do the same.

That wasn’t something I was expecting, but then I guess it makes sense. I’m sure Lauren got off on it as well.

And I think that maybe this enjoyment is the source of their power. So I let myself take pleasure in it for a brief moment, where I’m not thinking about the consequences or my reasons for doing this.

I try and enjoy the power of feeling his dick getting harder through my ministrations, but soon enough he’s taking over the pace with a few thrusts of his hips. His hands grip my hair and hold my head in place, removing any vestiges of control I thought I had.

As the sour taste of semen hits the back of my mouth, I want to gag. Instead I force myself to swallow it.

“All the evidence is in the envelope,” Sark tells me as he stands up and fixes his clothing. Without a backward glance, he leaves me feeling horny and used, and walks away.

I’m still down on my knees.

~~~

Without getting up, I rip open the envelope and desperately try to scan the text. I don’t know if I’m more scared of confirming the truth or not.

But, it’s all true. Everything that Sydney found out in Wittenberg is true and now everything that I’ve based my life on has to readjust accordingly.

And I find that perhaps it’s just as well that I’m still down on my knees.

My dad was a good man, and Irina Derevko is still an evil woman.

Sydney, the woman I loved, is still Irina Derevko’s daughter.

Somewhere along the way, I thought Sydney was dead and I married someone else.

My wife was bad, and now she’s dead.

My dad was good, but he’s still dead.

None of these facts have changed.

But now, Sydney is alive. And it turns out that Irina didn’t murder my father.

Sydney did.

~~~

The history and excuses don’t matter, but Jack apparently started training her when she was four. He knew about Irina all along.

Two years later, Irina convinced Jack to let her take control of situation, when something went wrong.

Irina covered up for her six year old daughter and the KGB believed the evidence that she planted and assumed Irina had gone rogue.

Irina lied to me and enjoyed the power she had over me.

In her own way, Lauren did the exact same thing.

And Sydney…well how does one really forget about killing another person?

~~~

My surroundings come crashing down around me once again, and it’s obvious that my façade has failed. I have nothing now except the makeup running down my face and the dress getting dirty on the floor.

And I want to know if kneeling like this ever made Lauren’s knees hurt.

And if the sticky semen left on her hand, ever annoyed Irina.

I want to know how Sydney could compartmentalize and never have the guilt of her lies and betrayals haunt her day and night.

I want to know if the women that always lied to me and destroyed my life ever felt the searing pain that I feel right now.

And if not, why not?

Because it’s not the eyeliner, or pumps, or the matching garters.

I’ve tried all that.

~~~

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