Title: Uxorious

Author: CroweFan (Penny)

Spoilers: Do I ever write anything spoiler related? Once in a blue moon, this isn't one of those onces.

Classification: AU; Sci-Fi; borderline fluff

Rating: G/PG

Author's Note and Disclaimer:

First off, I don't own Alias.

Second off, this will only be posted here until the sd-1.com boards are back up, which as of now, looks like never - I can't even get into sd-1.net.

Third Off, here's my own personal flame and soapbox rant of this fic: I "stole" the plot from a movie. And I am [b]ashamed[/b] of it, but I did. I abhor when this happens, and I abhor myself for doing this, however, the damn idea will not abscond. It's blocking all other creative thoughts -- INCLUDING SNAFU -- and I feel compelled to stray from my principles and venture on this acid trip. In doing this, I will endeavor to make this fresh, add a twist and make it "my own" yet still pay homage to the original. Because I refuse to make this a "paint by number" fic.

As for the movie, I am not revealing it. If I reveal the movie, you will automatically know what's going to happen and this fic would be pointless from my point of view. However, I trust me, I am disclaiming right now the movie plot is not mine. Oh, and if you darlings figure out the movie, please do me a favour: mums the word!

Oh-kay… HAHA… that's just going to make you want to read on! Let's just bite the hand that feeds me! LMFAO.

Suggested Soundtrack: "Good Day" Luce; or "Even Better Than The Real Thing" U2.


Chapter One

Vaughn's POV


This is exciting.

Cotton-balls for clouds accent the clear blue sky of the picturesque day. We follow a moving van around the winding backcountry roads of the New England. I had forgotten how lovely this area of the country is; the seasoned dairy farms with the sagging barn roofs settled in ledge filled grazing pastures and pine filled thickets.

I laugh to myself, I'm really rather poetic today.

The left turning signal on the white, dust and dirt covered (ha, I'm just playing with you; okay: think Hemingway thought. Let's restart). The signal on the moving van alerts Sydney and I to turn left into the new neighborhood. And what a neighborhood.

It's not that I've never been some hot-to-trot, fancy-do neighborhood before, because I have; I've broken into a couple of these shacks as well. However, there was something different about this one. The houses are cookie-cutter in an Edward Sisssorhands manner, except the houses were worth three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, instead of fifty. The lawns were all clean cut and weed free. The driveways had one of the five top luxury cars parked outside, prime for washing, and some had two.

But this isn't what made the neighborhood so overwhelming. We pass-by a three-story, yellow colonial that is having its shutters reprinted forest green. The man on the latter might be mistaken for Johnny Depp's stand in. Let's put this on the record: I am a very content hertosexual, who's in love with a goddess among the mortals. Nevertheless, even I am taken-aback at my neighbor's psyche, moreover shocked he is reprinting his house in nothing but a pair of tight cyclist shorts. And it only got stranger, as this sight of live-action Playgirl became more frequent. A few houses down Mr. Jude Law rounded the corner of his garage in just a Speedo.

I am worried. Will I make friends? I didn't bring my Speedo. (And don't get any ideas, I'm being contemptuous.)

The moving van backs into our new driveway. The movers get out to unload the boxes. Sydney and I pull up beside it and I turn off the engine to our black BMW Z4, because we too, have to keep up with The Jones. The goofy grin plastered upon my face only grows as I look over at Sydney. She's flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine she picked up at the airport.

Looking up at me, her beautiful face turns a pale shade of rouge, and she returns the goofy grin. "What are you staring at?"

"You. You're so beautiful."

I think she scoffs, and she definitely rolls up her magazine and playfully whacks me on my arm. I wink at her and get out of the car. She is still chuckling as I open the passenger door, and reach for her hand.

Sydney purrs, "Always the gentlemen."

"Always." I kiss her, but she pulls away. "Not in public, what will the neighbors think?"

Is there going to be a way I'll get through this without failing to pieces? Probably not. "Oh, who cares about the neighbors!" I whisper in her ear.

She shakes her finger at me. I roll my eyes. She leads me -- teasingly -- up the walkway to the front door of our new house. It's a rather comic scene, us unable to keep our hands off each other, acting like the fools we are. Fumbling with the keys, I conversationally ask, "Do you know how the tradition of carrying the bribe over the threshold started?"

Sydney shakes her head at me, (over) acting intrigued.

"Well in Rome they would cover the floor with fragrant oils to welcome the newlyweds, and the husband would carry the wife across so she wouldn't slip." I inform in an omniscient, professor-like manner.

"Of course, that way if he slipped they would fall together."

While chuckling with Sydney her successful attempts to make a funny, I retort to her, "Well, you know what they say, 'When it Rome, do like the Romans do'." And with that I sweep her off her feet and carry her into the house.

Laughing while she protests, she squeals, "VA-(shrilling laughter)-OOON. We are not in Rome!"

Setting her down, but still resting my hands on her waist, I smirk, "But we are newlyweds."

She kisses me. And I kiss her. And she kisses me. And I kiss her. This goes on for quite a time until she responses, but I won't bore you with the details. "Has it hit you yet?"

"I think it will tonight." That smirk -- the one that leads me to believe she is planning something very evil -- materializes on her face. Not say a word, she takes my hand and we begin to explore our new home.

I have to admit, it's rather large, much too big for only two people. The grand foyer exposes the hallway upstairs. If you turn to the right there's a adequate size office with French doors, and if you turn to left the living room flows into the dining room. I assume there's a kitchen in the back; instead of further exploring the first floor, we climb the hardwood stairs. Upstairs there's an assortment of bedrooms and bathrooms, which bore me. We climb another set of stairs. I found it peculiar there was no attic; instead the master suite is a loft on the third floor with a balcony.

I want to know who needs a house this big? "What are we gong to do with all this space?"

"Well, we did move here because we wanted to start a family."

Oh, I love this woman. That comments deserves a kiss and she is amply rewarded. Moreover, I love the way she thinks, she is so clever. "You are incorrigible."

Smiling -- it seems to be contagious today, since neither of us can stop -- she muses, "Can you [b]imagine[/b]?"

"What" I can imagine many things (and many of those things I will keep imagining to myself).

"The look on my father's face if we returned with a little one?"

"No, because I would be too preoccupied with the gun he'd have point at my heart."

"My father?" Sydney asks shocked, "My father would never hurt you."

I'm impressed; she actually got that out with a straight face. I laugh, "Uh huh, 'Death By Jack Bristow' is my biggest health risk."

"Oh pur-lease."

"You father is [b]scary[/b]. And I'm not talking Stephen King scary, I'm talking Ira Levin scary."

And you know Sydney's reaction is? She laughs, long and hard; she pats my cheek, and informs my that she'll protect me from her "big bag father"; she mocks my terror. Well, I guess it is funny if you think about it… Wait, no; no it's not. This is Jack Bristow. End. Of. Story.

The movers appear in the foyer carrying the bed frame. "Excuse me, Mr. Eberhart, where do you want this?"

And with that, Sydney and I suddenly remember we have a mission to complete.

Yup, a mission.


We have a briefing for a new mission in five minutes. I wrap up the conclusion of mission report as Weiss strolls towards me. He's looking more asinine than usual. I wrinkle my forehead at him, perplexed at why he is humming the wedding march.

"Is someone getting married?"

Weiss laughs at me; not a jolly chuckle, but a cutting sneer. "You haven't heard the latest intel?"

I shake my head, "I just got back from Moscow."

I hate Weiss sometimes. He stares at me as if I am the butt of the joke, I do not understand. "The briefing is now, and I hope you have a ring." He lets out a single snort before walking away.

What the hell is going on? I save the report and shut down the computer. Crossing Ops Center to the conference room, I meet Sydney at the door. We say hello, and she asked how my trip was, and I tell her it was fine, and I ask what is going on, and she says she don't know.

Jack, Marshall, Weiss, and Kendall were already seated around the table. We take our seats and Kendall starts droning on. I only pretend to play attention. One minutes and thirty-eight seconds into the meeting a foot begins to stroke my leg, utterly distracting me. Damn that woman; Sydney is being very naughty this morning by adding some spice to our typical boring briefings. I use to think footsy was childish. How wrong I was. Lord, I want her. Every part of her, especially that beautiful, kissable, sinful foot. God, I want to jump her, right here, right now; I don't care if Weiss and Kendall and…


My eyes meet with Jack's and suddenly all my sexual ambitions are destroyed; and I'm talking like the Greeks did with Troy.

All right, I'm going to stop acting like a teenager and start listening to Kendall. It's obvious he's discussing something important, and it's obvious it pertains to Sydney and I since hands us two folders.

"Agent Bristow and Agent Vaughn, because of your [I]notorious[/I] reputation of working together, you have been assigned a long-term, undercover mission."

Syd and I are notorious? You flatter, you bald SOB, I wouldn't call us notorious… Wait? Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice? He was being condescending, wasn't he? Damn, I loathe that man.

"We have reason to believe Project Helix has been reactivated." Kendall professionally announces. "It seems Doctor Lorelei Singer has obtained the materials to create another lab, we just don't know where. There's were you two come in.

Doctor Singer and her family reside in a private golf community in New England of young, rich, married couples with children. Your mission is to infiltrate the area, schmooze with Doctor Singer and her friends, and find out what she's up to. The CIA trusts you two will be able to convincingly perform that cover."

Weiss actually laughed. I think he's going to die; I think I'm going to kill him Jack Bristow style. I look up at Kendall, like: you have got to be joking right? Kendall's smirk is just a wee bit too smug for my liking. Glancing over at Sydney, I notice she is blushing, clearly amused.

Actually, the only person who doesn't see the humor is the original killjoy himself, Jack Bristow. I do believe Jack Bristow is going to kill me, right after I kill Weiss. (And after I kill Weiss, and Jack kills me, Sydney will kill Jack, so perhaps I shouldn't kill Weiss. I don't want to set off a chain reaction such as that.) Jack's looking for my blood. But what's new? I am dating his daughter and no one is good enough for his daughter. Anyone who lets their eyes linger too long must die a slow and painful death. I am public enemy number one -- a position I wouldn't give up for the world.

Sydney is the first to recover, "So, Vaughn and I are going to get married and move to New England?" She can't hide her girlish glee; her voice as a subtext of, 'is this really a mission or a paid vacation?'

Weiss inserts, "Oh yes! A wedding, I love weddings! Drinks all around!"

Dude, Johnny Depp should sue you. You're just [u]not[/u] cool enough.

Sydney and I nervously laugh. I turn to her, "Well, what do you say? Will you marry me?"

"Do I have a choice?" Sydney retorts.

I frown.

She smirks.

This is going to be so much fun!

Kendall articulates, "Let me remind the two of you this is just an [I]undercover[/I] mission. Meaning, the CIA expects you will not return with any [I]mementos[/I]."

Weiss had to duck under the table to hide his face. I curse my balmy cheek.

"Agent Vaughn, I hope your swing is as good as Weiss claims." He clears his throat and Weiss immediately stops. "You're the new pro at the golf course, Vaughn Eberhart. Agent Bristow you'll be his wife, Anne. Any questions?"

"Yes," I indicted I want to speak. "What's Syd, I mean, Anne's profession?"

"She was an English professor until she decided to quit and start a family, perhaps even write a book if you two want to be creative. Bottom line, she's a housewife."

Now I started to uncontrollably snicker.

"Is there a problem, Agent Vaughn?"

I turned my laughter into coughing, before turning to Syd. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I could never, and I mean [b]never[/b], see you as a housewife."

And, that, cause everyone -- even Jack Bristow -- to chuckle.


Oh, the things I do for my country. I love my job. It's wonderful. It's lovely. Is it horrible of me to seriously be thinking about sabotaging the mission so it never ends? Oh, I think not. This is a once and a lifetime opponent that I plan on capitalizing on.

"C'mon Vaughn-y, we need to start moving boxes in."

"Vaughn-y? Are you on crack?" I shake my head at her, that is not going to fly. She doesn't answer and we walk outside to discover a man and woman standing in the driveway.

Okay-dokey-smokey, it's show time.