Wednesday morning means a week on the job. It doesn't feel like it.

He walks in with a large box filling his arms. The things from his old office, gathered in the middle of the night after he'd spent too long awake on the couch. The journals, as well, stacked neatly on the bottom.

He moves around his office, placing the other things first. Excedrin in the desk drawer, pencil holder and clock on the desk, books and pictures on the bookshelves along the wall. His mother and Donovan — not Sydney, not yet. Maybe later, when he's a bit farther from the transfer, and he's actually got a picture of her.

And then the journals. He pulls them out, places the pile on the far corner of his desk. Sits and stares at them, tries to decide what to do. He could ask Jack Bristow if he remembers what really happened, but based on their last meeting, that's not likely to go well. Especially since Jack hasn't been forthcoming about working with his father.

He rolls the few feet to his filing cabinet, unlocks the top drawer and pulls out his father's files. He'd placed the ones he thought were off in front, last night, before returning Jack Bristow's to Records.

He opens files and journals side by side on his desk, double-checking. Kiev. Marseille. Barcelona. Turin. Helsinki. Odesa. All failures in the files and successes in his father's script.

He gathers the files and journals, then begins the long walk to Devlin's office.

———

Director Devlin, the secretary informs him, is in a meeting, and will be for quite some time, so it's probably best to come back later. He declines her offer to schedule an appointment, returns to his office and considers his options.

He could check to see if there was a CI investigation into his father. It's the same thing he did for Jack, back when Sydney suspected him of working for the KGB. If there was anything wrong, they would have been investigating him.

He will have to go back down to Records to look for any CI files on his father, so he picks up the stack of folders; he'll return them while he's there.

Records is empty, again, and he works fast, returning his father's primary file and the references. He checks the CI files there, but there is nothing on his father.

It occurs to him in the elevator that any CI files on his father might be so old they would only be kept at Langley.

He makes that call when he returns to his office, on the secure line, reading his ID number and passcodes to the secretary in Central Records. She disappears, presumably into the bowels of Langley, for a good 10 minutes, and returns, telling him there's nothing. She does not mention how odd it is that Michael Vaughn is looking for a CI file on William Vaughn. He wonders if it will be logged somewhere and come back to haunt him later, thanks her and hangs up.

No CI file, and nothing out of the ordinary at all. And everyone who's ever known his father's work has said how good he was. Whatever this was, it's just a couple weird discrepancies that you'll probably never be able to figure out. Even if you did, it wouldn't bring him back.

He puts the journals back into his lower desk drawer and locks it. It is time to get back to Munich.

———

His cell phone rings as he's reading through Ernest Durham's file and references. He answers on the second ring. Sydney.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi." God I miss you. "Where are you?"

"Heading into what will probably be a long and horrible debrief."

He laughs, relieved. She's home, she's safe. "Did everything go okay?"

"Yeah. I'm going to be here for a few hours, at least, but do you want to come over after work?"

"Absolutely. Any particular time?"

"How about as soon as you possibly can."

"That sounds really good."

He imagines her smile.

———

He slips out of work half an hour early, still long after she'd called and said her debrief was done. He'd made it through the files and references of all of his agents and decided that was enough for today. Tomorrow he will sit down and start to make sense of all of it.

His secret — Jack's secret, really, he must think of it as Jack's secret and not his own, not his to tell — stabs at him as he walks up to her door. But it's nothing. Not even his business, really, just Jack's doubts. If he'd found out he wasn't her father, then it would be a secret. This is just — something else.

He knocks on the door, restless, agitated, pulse a little too quick. It takes her awhile to answer. Bathrobe, bare feet. Her lips pink, hair wet from the bath; she smells faintly of lavender. It has been far too long since he's seen her.

"I'm sorry, Syd, did I interrupt your bath?"

"Don't worry about it. I was turning into a prune, anyway."

He reaches out, picks up one of her hands, and she's right, her fingers are a bit wrinkled. "You weren't kidding."

She smiles, grasps his hand. "Come in," pulling him inside with her.

The apartment bears the signs of her partial afternoon off. Suitcase next to the door, computer on the kitchen counter, stack of books and papers next to it. Someone — her or Francie, he is not sure — has placed daisies in the vase on the counter. The apartment smells smoky; she's just blown out candles.

"The mission with Dixon, everything went well?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad he's out there with you, Syd." If I can't be.

A sudden pang of jealousy. Everyone else still gets to work with her, spend all that time with her. Dixon, Weiss, Jack, even Marshall. Sitting with her in the office, beside her on the plane, joking over comms during the safer moments of her missions, knowing when she emerges, unharmed, when her task is done.

"Me too," she says. "It's good to work with him again, and I think — I feel like things are getting better between us."

"Good." He squeezes her hand.

"We still miss you, Vaughn." Her voice low, her eyes upset. "I'm really sorry it has to be this way."

Now is when you have to ignore everything, push all the jealousy and worry and guilt out of the way. You're with her, now, and that's it, that's really all that matters.

"It's okay, Syd. We'll get past it."

"Yeah," she whispers, nodding fiercely, like she's attempting to convince both of them.

He reaches out with his free hand, trails his fingers along her jaw. Leans in to kiss her, soft and slow, reassuring. She steps closer, releases his hand and snakes hers up his neck, fingers through his hair. Mouth open to his, hot and wet.

Her robe is thin, white terry cloth, tied loosely around her waist. So thin, he can feel her nipples through the fabric, her fingertips tight at his back, struggling for a grip on his suit jacket. He feels loose, liquid, some odd combination of relief and arousal. Too much after too little, his cock already growing hard.

He runs his fingertips across her chin, throat, her skin warm, still a little damp. Down, further down, skimming the edges of the robe around her chest, following one side of the long, thin V it makes, halfway back up the other.

She pulls away from his mouth, whispers, "I've been thinking about you ever since I got home." Her lips on his chin, neck. Quick, messy little kisses, the scent of her hair wafting up to his nose — clean, vaguely sweet.

"Yeah?" He smiles because he should, and because he almost wants to, slips his hand beneath the robe.

Her breast warm, tender under his hand, his thumb firm on her taut nipple, her tense little moan into his mouth. He wants the robe gone, wants all of her, right now. He has not been overwhelmed by Sydney like this in a long time, and it scares him.

"Mmm." She pulls at his already loosened tie, fumbles through the first few buttons of his shirt and yanks the collar open. "Yeah."

Her lips at the base of his throat, her tongue slicking the center of his collarbone, followed by her teeth — light, deliciously light, grazing his skin.

He trails his hand down to her stomach and she shudders, steps backward. He follows, one step, two, three, four, back toward the bedroom, still a long way to go. Someone hits the suitcase with a foot or maybe a thigh, and it tips over, thwack on the floor. They stop moving and she chuckles, deep, the vibration running through her lips, his chest.

The robe loose, twisted and baggy at her waist, the V halfway down her stomach and the perfect slope of her breasts visible. She lifts her head upright and he kisses her greedily, his right hand firm at her back, left between her knees, searching for the opening to the robe.

The inside of her thigh is smooth, sleek under his caress. His hand drifts higher, higher, higher, the hair between her thighs wet. She gasps — oh — and arches her back, tilts her chin high, locks her hands behind his neck.

"I've been thinking about you, too."

Touching her lightly, teasing, only, and yet there's a bit of alleviation, the pressure on his cock more bearable now that at least some part of him is touching her, there, now that the conclusion is not so far away. She says his name — last name, always, even now — once, rises up on her tiptoes and then sinks back down onto his hand.

"Vaughn." Two times. "Vaughn." Three. He loves the way it sounds, the way it seems to emerge from low in her throat, in these moments. "I don't know when Will and Francie are going to be back."

An invitation to move things along, to vacate the edge of the living room and go straight to the bedroom, and he will not pass it up, not the way he feels. Slowing, stopping, brushing her clitoris one last time before he pulls his hand away. She turns, grasps his other hand tight, and they stumble down the hall, into her bedroom.

She leaves him to close the door, lock it, and moves to the bed, made up neat, an impressive pile of pillows stacked against the headboard. She paws at them, pulls most them off the bed, maroon and cream and stripes, all tumbling onto the floor, bouncing, landing in a loose pile. He rushes across the room, like this is a race, helps her yank down the comforter, the blankets, the sheet, and then pushes her back into the bed. She lands crooked, her head just short of the few pillows left.

This is a race. This is out of control.

He feels heady with his own arousal, with the sight of her flopped back on the bed, robe a disheveled mess, wet hair splayed out behind her head. He finishes off the tie to the robe and pulls it open completely, her breasts, stomach, the dark patch of hair between her thighs, long legs ending near the corner of the bed nearly too much now.

In slower, more methodical encounters, he would lavish her body, kiss a path from her mouth on down, touch her breasts, her stomach, take his time and revel in every minute of it. Today he struggles, clumsy, through the remaining buttons to his jacket, shirt, pulling them off together, tossing them on the floor.

Fingers shaking, struggling, through his belt, the button and zipper to his pants. He slides out of them, pants pooling around his feet, belt buckle hitting the floor, loud, clink-clank. Sydney watching him, her eyes heavy lidded, arms extended, waiting for him as he pulls off his boxers, painfully erect.

Finally kneeling between her thighs, her hands firm on his ass, fingers spread wide, pulling him closer. He eases himself onto her body, her skin hot, chest heaving below his.

Poised over her, one last little breathy kiss before he enters her, hears her inhale sharply. Deep inside her, so tight, so close he has to inhale, still his body, wait until it is safe to continue.

He bites his lip, closes his eyes; he should look at her, he always wants to look at her, but whatever control he has is tenuous at best. Steady, even strokes — and damn, this feels too good, too impossibly good — fumbling between the edge of their bodies, sliding his hand between them. Using every last little thing he's learned so far; he will not last long, no matter how much he scrunches his eyelids, how deep he breathes, how much he wants to.

Willing it, feeling her close. So close, so close —

She begins with a tiny little gasp, quivering beneath him, around him, and he allows himself to look at her, eyes dark and bold and blissed.

This is what he has and they do not:

He has her head tilted up for a kiss and her clever tongue in his mouth and this connection, this closeness, these things that were a dream a month ago. He can tell her she is beautiful and he can sleep in her bed and take her out to dinner. Make love to her and kiss her whenever he wants.

Pushing into her erratically, these last few thrusts, dizzy at release, his eyes closed again, neon veins streaking the lids. Collapsing onto her chest, spent, a weak kiss on her shoulder.

He pulls out of her, slides to her side, his arm on her stomach. The feel of her bare, warm skin comforting, somehow. Basic, human.

Drowsy, he lays her head on her shoulder and thinks, yes, he has this, and it is worth everything else.

It has to be.

———

He wakes to late twilight, street light shining in through the window. Disoriented for a moment, until he realizes he is lying in a bed — Sydney's bed with the good soft sheets — naked.

Eyes open fully, he sees her, lying on her side, staring back at him, wide awake. A good foot of bed between them, his head nowhere near the pillow.

"Hi," she says. A soft smile.

"Hi." Smiling back. "I don't even remember falling asleep."

"You looked pretty exhausted." She reaches out, traces his jawline with gentle fingers.

"You could have woke me, Syd. I haven't seen you for two days and I'm falling asleep on you."

"It's okay. I was tired, too. I just woke up a little while ago," she says. "And the part before the sleeping more than made up for it."

She's being kind; of all the times they've been together, that was surely the fastest and least spectacular.

"Are you hungry? Maybe we could go get a late dinner."

"Starving." She leans in after her hand, kisses him, lips only. Tosses the sheets halfway down the bed and stands.

He takes a moment to stare at her, pale, perfect curves in the faint light, then swings his legs over to the side of the bed, begins the search for his clothes. He finds most of them amongst the pillows on the floor, considers asking if he can borrow her iron. But she is already half-dressed, faded jeans and about to pull a sweater over her head. He decides the wrinkles will shake out.

They walk out into the hallway together — still no sign of Will and Francie. "Where do you want to — "

He is interrupted by her cell phone, ringing on the kitchen counter. "Sorry," she says, rushing past him. She glances down at the display before answering. "You have got to be kidding me," and then, "Yes?"

A brief pause as she listens. "No. Absolutely not. I just got back. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow." Another pause. "I'll be right in." She presses end and tucks the phone into her jeans pocket.

"Another mission?"

She nods. "Vaughn, I am so sorry."

"Sounds important." His throat tight. Not again. Not so soon. "You go."

She walks to her laptop, slaps it shut and pulls the power cord. Grabs computer, books, papers and crams them into her bag. Rushes over to her suitcase, pulls it back upright and sets the computer bag on the floor beside it.

Car door slamming in the driveway, Will and Francie.

Sydney walks back over to him, lays her hand on his arm and leans in, kisses him long and slow.

"If this goes well, maybe it will calm down," she whispers. "It's not very far this time. I might be back tomorrow. I'll call and let you know."

"Okay."

The front door flies open and Will and Francie enter, close together, laughing. Sydney picks up her purse from the kitchen counter, and he follows her to the front door, stopping to pick up the suitcase in one hand, computer in the other.

"Are you leaving again?" Francie asks. "Didn't you just get back?"

"Yeah," Sydney says. "We didn't quite finish up what we thought we did."

"That sucks. Where are you going? New York, still?"

"Yeah, New York," Sydney fumbles through her purse, pulls out her car keys. "Hey, guys, I'm sorry, but I've got to get going or I'm going to miss my plane. I'll see you later."

They walk together to her Land Rover and he places the luggage in the back seat, turns to face her. "Be safe, Syd, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good luck," he says, stepping back. She slides in closes the door.

He stands there, watches her drive away. Off to her world, off to Dixon, Jack, Marshall and Weiss, all chasing Sloane without him. All their secrets and hasty exits and missions he doesn't know about, missions that could kill her.