He wakes, disoriented, used to the feel of a thin couch cushion but not the shadow shapes around him. It takes a moment to register that he's in Sydney's living room, dawn just coming through the windows — he must have fallen asleep. Someone, probably Sydney, has covered him with a blanket.

He glances over to the chair, and she is sitting there, watching him. Apparently lost in her thoughts; there is a lag before she notices he is awake.

"Hi." She gives him a vacant smile.

"Hi." He feels prone with her sitting there above him. Rises and tosses the blanket over the back of the couch.

"We fell asleep."

"I'm sorry. You should have woke me when you got up. I didn't mean to — "

"When's the last time you slept, Vaughn? Really slept?"

"I don't really know."

"You can't keep doing that," she says, shaking her head. "Would you like some coffee? I was going to put some on."

"Coffee would be good. Thanks."

He follows her to the kitchen, leans back against the counter there and watches her assemble grounds, filter, water. She turns around after she's finished, crosses her arms and looks down at the floor.

"Thank you for going in there, after me."

Easy. She's hurting. You both are. "I don't understand why you didn't come to me for help in the first place."

"I didn't think — with everything that happened, I didn't know how to go to you."

"Sydney, whatever happens between us, you have to know that I will always do whatever I can to keep you safe. That's not ever going to change — it's what leaving you was about in the first place. But you can't do that again, just take off like that. I can't go through that again."

"I know," she says. The water begins to drip from the coffee pot behind her.

There's more he should say, more they should say about what happened between them. But they are not ready for that, not yet.

"Everything's kind of hazy," she says. "But I remember watching you go for your gun. Were you going to kill him?"

He sees the blood, the old wood floor, the body, can't speak.

"I'm sorry," she says. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to — "

"No, it's okay," he says. "I was going to try."

"Vaughn — how are you holding up? Do you want to talk about it?"

The pot gurgles loud through the last of the coffee. Neither of them makes a move to find mugs.

"There isn't much to talk about. For 26 years, I've carried around this image of who my father was. A hero, a patriot, a good man, killed in the line of duty. He wasn't any of those things."

"He was still your father."

"The father I knew died when I was eight. The man that died in that gym — I have no idea who he was. I don't even feel like I lost him. I feel like I lost my history."

"I know."

Yes, yes she does. "At least you got a chance to interact with your mother for more than a few minutes."

"Yes. But she's never come up with any answers. Even now." She uncrosses her arms, clasps her hands in front of her.

"You know she loves you."

"I think your father loved you too, Vaughn."

"How can you love someone — love a family — that much and stay gone for that long? Maybe he loved us, but he loved the quest more."

"You don't know that."

"I don't know what else to think. He was gone for 26 years and never once attempted to make contact. At least your mother came back." He starts to search the cabinets behind him for clean mugs. "I've spent my whole life trying to follow in my father's footsteps, to do things that would have made him proud. How phony does that make me?"

He finds a stash of mismatched mugs in the back of the top cabinet. Pulls out two and turns to find her a few feet away from him.

"It doesn't make you phony, Vaughn. It just makes you a good person, regardless of how or why you got there." Her hand in the space between them, hovering there for a moment before she touches his arm. "I know how you feel, though. Losing a parent when you're that young — it shapes your life. And then to find out you didn't really lose that parent — it shakes you. But the grief and the pain you went through are still real. You can't let yourself forget that."

He wants her to step closer, to slip her arms around him, hold him there, let him lose himself in her for a little while. But he will not take the first step. Here, in the daylight, it is harder.

Her arm slips from his shoulder, falls to her side.

"I've been trying to figure out what I should tell my mom — if I should even tell her anything at all," he says. "She believes the same thing that I did, I'm almost certain — that he was a good man who died in the line of duty in 1976. And I could let her go on believing that, and spare her the pain of learning the truth, but it would mean I'd have to lie to her."

"Vaughn, think about how you felt when I told you I'd known your father was alive."

"I do, Syd, I do. Then I think about how I felt when I found out what kind of person he really was. And she would never know. There would be no way for her to find out."

"But you'd know."

"Yeah. And I'd have to keep reminiscing fondly with her about a man I think I hate." He steps past her, sits the mugs down on the counter and pours two cups of coffee. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do."

The milk he put away last night is still on the top refrigerator shelf. He pulls it out and splashes a little into both cups, puts the milk back into the fridge and hands her a cup, fingers brushing in the transfer.

"How are you doing, Syd?"

She leans back against the counter. "They're going to create a car accident today, to fake Francie's death. I have to be ready for when they tell her parents — they'll probably call here first."

"Are you ready?"

"I don't know."

"I can be here, if you want," he says. "I'm going to have to go in to work, at least for a little while. They're doing my father's autopsy today and I'm going to have to file a contact report — your mother paid me a visit last night. There are some parts of our conversation that I won't share, Syd, but I do want to report it. I'm tired of lying to the CIA."

She nods. "It's okay."

"She's probably long gone, but I imagine she'll do the same for you, eventually," he says. "I don't doubt that she's on your side, but just be careful."

"Yeah. The Agency already warned me about her — about all of them, trying to come back for me."

"What time are they going to call Francie's parents?"

"They said around two. They're taking her car at one."

"I can stop by a little before one — if you want me to."

"If it's not too much trouble."

"It's not, Syd." He drains the rest of his coffee, still hot, burning his mouth, throat. "I should get going."

"I'll take that." She steps closer, pulls the mug from his hand. She is so close, he should do something, hug her goodbye at least —

She steps away. Walks to the sink, sets the cup on top of the other dishes with a loud clink. "Goodbye," over her shoulder, and then she turns on the faucet, water streaming over the mess.

"Bye, Syd."

She remains in the kitchen as he walks to the door, alone.

———

He finds himself driving to the JTF in rush hour traffic; he'd forgotten it was Monday. Over to his apartment only long enough to shower, shave, change, then back on the road, into this mess.

Finally into the parking garage, down two levels. Through the sliding door with his new access card, a short tunnel and then the small, well-lit lot for JTF employees, already nearly full.

He finds a spot near the back, thumbs remote keyless halfway to the door, wondering — as always — why he bothers to lock the car here, of all places.

In easily with the new access card and his right hand on the biometric scanner. Through the corridor and into the rotunda, feeling like a stranger. He walks straight towards Weiss, already looking rumpled, hunched over his computer.

"Hey."

Weiss turns. "What the hell are you doing here? You should be at home. Did you not get the whole 'one-month leave' thing?"

"My father's autopsy is today, and I'm going to have to fill out a contact report — Irina Derevko decided to pay me a visit last night. Plus I've got my first session with Barnett."

"You sure you need to see the autopsy results? It's pretty obvious what killed him."

"I know. I just feel like I need the closure, I guess. I'm not going to stay all day — I've got to be back at Syd's before one."

"So you had better luck last night?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Weiss says. "How is she doing?"

"She's holding up. That's about all any of us can ask for right now."

Weiss nods. "You can use her desk — Sydney's — for your contact report. I guess they'll get you one when you're officially back."

Sydney's desk is two away from Weiss'. He starts in that direction, calls a thanks over his shoulder.

They will start the autopsy soon, if they haven't already. He hadn't asked if he could be present — they would never allow it.

———

Weiss walks up to his spot at Sydney's desk a few hours later, holding a file folder, looking distressed.

Vaughn saves his report, rises. "What's going on?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Believe what?"

"They found two bullets, in your father's brain. At first, they thought Irina and Jack, or maybe Irina got two shots off. But the ballistics don't match. The angle's all wrong — it was fired from above, probably the balcony. And the bullet was .22 caliber — definitely from a rifle, not either of their guns. Straight-up .22, not .223."

"How do they know?"

"They're a little different size, apparently. Plus .223 would have gone straight through. They would have found it in the floor."

"Do you think Irina or Jack hired a sniper as backup? I thought it was strange that they would just go it alone."

"That's what I'd guess, except for the bullet. It makes no sense. You use .22 caliber to hunt animals, or shoot tin cans in your backyard — it's for sport shooting, not for a long-range hit. I mean, obviously it killed from that distance, but why not use .223?"

"Maybe they couldn't get .223 for some reason."

"What, they stopped at Wal-Mart and they were out?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't notice anyone up on the balcony, did you?"

"No, but I didn't see the actual shot." Who was up there? Are they a threat to her?

"Neither did I," Weiss says. "The shots must have hit almost simultaneously."

Vaughn extends his hand. "Can I see that?"

Weiss shakes his head, pulls the folder closer to his body. "I don't think you should."

"Eric, that's my father in there. It's my — it's Sydney who may be threatened by this extra shooter."

"If he shot your father, I'd guess he's probably on our side. Or Irina and Jack's. Either way, I don't think he's after Sydney."

"But who was he? Why was he there?"

"I don't know, Mike. Obviously there's someone else out there we're going to have to track down. And when we do, we'll ask him. Or maybe you can ask Irina, next time she pays you a visit."

"I don't think she's going to be paying me another visit." Vaughn reaches for the file folder, watches Weiss tighten his grip. "Damn it, Eric. Am I cleared to read that?"

Weiss sighs, slumps his shoulders. "Probably. I'm asking you not to. There are some things in here that are going to be pretty rough. You do what you want, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Weiss snaps the folder into his chest and stalks off.

Vaughn sits, rolls his chair back up to the desk, and opens the folder slowly. He needs to see this, especially now, with some of the explanation for everything unknown, but he knows Weiss was reluctant for good reason.

Oh god.

The first picture, his father laid out on a stainless steel table, face cleaned off so that the hole in his forehead is more distinct.

His body is pale. It must be cold, too, cold and stiff. Someone has closed the eyes.

The next picture is a close-up of the head, the wound, nearly white skin ripping around the red. Just before they started; they'll be cutting by the next shot. They'll show just how they found bullet number one, and then number two behind it.

He steels himself and flips ahead.

———

Weiss breaks his dull focus on the last page of the file with a hand on his shoulder. He pulls the folder from Vaughn's hands, flipping it shut.

Vaughn sits, numb, vaguely aware of his friend, the last few pictures there every time he closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he manages, a whisper.

"I know," Weiss says.

"That's — that one was worse than the fake file, I think. At least in those, it didn't really look like him. It barely looked like a human being."

"It's over, Mike. For real this time. You don't have to look at those anymore."

"But it's not over. Not with this shooter out there. Sark, Francie's double — "

"We'll get them. You just worry about you, and Syd," Weiss says. "Weren't you supposed to have a session with Barnett?"

Vaughn glances at his watch. Five after 11. "Shit, yeah. I'm late."

"Tell her why. That ought to be enough for a first session."

This isn't a joking matter, but he smiles, just a little, not sure if it's more for Weiss or himself.

———

He is nearly 10 minutes late by the time he walks into Judy Barnett's office. He apologizes and sits on the edge of the black leather couch. This office feels just as clinical, but harsher — more blacks and whites and grays, like the rest of the rotunda — than her one at headquarters.

"It's okay," she says, spinning in her desk chair to face him. "I know you have a lot going on right now."

No shit, Sherlock. He tells himself to stay calm; past experience has taught him that anger will only keep him on the couch longer.

She opens a file folder on the top of her desk, looks at him with a wrinkled, sympathetic half-smile. "I've had a chance to review the operational files, and your debrief. We're going to have a lot to go over in these sessions, but I want to start by just chatting. I want you to tell me what your greatest concerns are right now."

"Right now? I'm worried about Sydney — Agent Bristow. She's going to have to bury her best friend. I assume you know what happened to Francie Calfo?"

"Yes."

"She's going through that right now. And we still don't know that she's really safe — they did my father's autopsy this morning and they found two bullets, one from a shooter weren't aware of. I'm afraid it's going to be a long time before we can track down everyone that was there and get that case tied up, so we can be sure there aren't people out there who want her dead."

"And what about your father?"

"My father is a man who obviously wasn't who I thought he was. But he's dead, now, same as he was before. I hardly think that's the most important thing for me to be worrying about right now."

She folds her hands together on the desk. "Agent Vaughn, your father — who you'd thought had been killed in the line of duty for much of your life — turns up not only alive, but working for your enemies. I would think that is a very significant event in your life."

"Yes, it's a significant event. Yes, it was shocking to find out he was still alive. Yes, it hurts that he hadn't contacted us, that he was obviously a horrible person. But there's nothing I can do about it. He's dead again, and that's not going to change."

"And focusing on Sydney, that's something you can do?"

"Yes."

"Michael, I think you're trying to avoid your own grief and pain regarding what happened with your father by focusing on Sydney — "

"Why shouldn't I? Her problems are more significant. She lost a good person in her life."

"Do you not believe your father was a good person?"

"No, not at all." He feels trapped, longs to stand up, run and get out of this place, out into the sunlight, back to Sydney's apartment. "How could he do what he did and still be a good person?"

"Maybe he wasn't entirely good, but don't you think he had some redeeming qualities? His love for you and your mother? I know we've talked before about your father, Michael, and you've had nothing but good memories about him."

"That was before I found out who he really was. This is a man who left his family and never looked back, who was working for an enemy of the United States since, who was willing to kill someone I love for his own selfish purposes. The things I remember as a kid — they're not nearly enough to make up for all the bad."

"You don't think he could have been that good person you remember, corrupted by all of the things around him?"

"Maybe that's what he was, but that doesn't make it any better."

"What would you say hurts you more — the fact that your father had been working for the Alliance and had been involved in this plot, or that he had been alive all of this time and never contacted you or your mother?"

They're inextricable. They're all part of the terrible person he really was. "I — I don't know. They both hurt."

She nods, makes a few notes in the file folder. "That's an acceptable answer for now, but I want you to think about it for our session Wednesday. I think that's enough for our first day."

"Thank you. I'll see you Wednesday." He walks out slowly, a little tired, a little weak.

———

He knocks three times on Sydney's front door, and waits. It is 12:45; he'd wanted a little cushion in case the Agency was early.

No answer. He tries the knob, finds it is open, feels his stomach drop.

Still without a gun, he swings the door wide, fists up, ready for whatever might be on the other side.

Nothing but an empty foyer, living room and kitchen. "Sydney?"

Again, louder this time. "Sydney?" He walks down the hallway, creaks open the door to her bedroom. Nothing. The bathroom across the hall empty as well.

He continues down the hallway to the final bedroom — Francie's — and finds the door cracked. He opens it.

She's seated in the middle of the wood floor, surrounded by shoeboxes and piles of pictures, head in her hands, crying.

"Syd." He bends over, pushes some of the pictures out of the way, half-crawling toward her as they skid across the floor. Kneeling in front of her, pulling her to him.

He should never have left. He should have ignored his father's autopsy and told Barnett not today and stayed here with her. And where is Will?

He glances down at the pictures — Francie's, he assumes. Some with Sydney or Will, a few of the three of them together, more featuring people he doesn't know.

Sydney pulls away, holds one picture in a shaking hand. "I thought I should start going through Francie's things — it's all going to have to be packed up for her parents."

"Syd, that can wait until you're ready."

"I know. I just wanted to see her from before," she says, shifting the angle of the photo so he can see the details. Sydney and Francie, much younger, standing together, arms slung across each other's backs, both smiling broadly.

"This was taken at a party," she says. "I remember it — earlier in the week I'd been approached by the recruiter for SD-6 and I was still thinking about it, trying to decide if it was something I wanted to do. I hadn't told anyone about it, but Fran knew something was up. I remember us walking back across campus after the party and her asking me if something was wrong."

She lays the photograph back on the floor, gently, and looks at him. "Anybody else would have looked at me there and saw someone laughing, having a good time, but somehow she knew. I got better at lying to her throughout the years, but I look at that picture and ask myself how she could be so perceptive, and she's been dead for weeks and I never recognized anything was wrong."

"It wasn't just you, Syd. None of us noticed. Not me, or Will, or her parents, her other friends — "

"You all haven't been best friends with her since junior high. If anyone should have noticed, it was me. And I failed her, Vaughn. Even if I couldn't have saved her, at least I should have known."

"Syd, you can't beat yourself up over this."

She looks at him, and he's shocked by the depth of the pain in her eyes. "I have to, Vaughn. I have to do something. Do you have any idea how unfair this is? I was the one who made that decision all those years ago, and everyone else has suffered. Will's life was ruined, Danny and Francie were killed, and I'm still here, just fine."

"You thought you were doing the right thing, Syd. You thought you were defending your country. I don't see how any of them would have faulted you for that."

"That doesn't bring them back. If I had said 'no,' Vaughn, they'd still be here. I was stupid, and I made a stupid decision, and they've had to pay for it. That's the bottom line."

"Is that what you think?" Too loud, too strong to get through to her now. He continues, softer. "Sydney, let me ask you something. Dixon, do you think he's stupid? Or Marshall? Your other co-workers at SD-6?"

"No," she whispers.

"None of them said 'no,' either. They were misled by people like Alain Christophe, Arvin Sloane, my father. Those are the people you should be blaming. You made a decision back then. I would have made the same decision, Syd. And yes, you can look back now and say if you had said 'no,' things would be very different. But that doesn't make it your fault."

She nods, but he's not sure he's gotten through to her. You just have to keep saying it until she believes it, no matter how long it takes.

He reaches out — fearless now — and pulls her back into an embrace.

They stay there on the floor, silent, until he can hear knocking at the front door.

"They'll need her keys," she says.

"I'll take care of it. Where are they?"

"Kitchen counter."

He releases her, rises and tiptoes around the photographs to get to the door.

There's a set of keys on one of the remaining clean spaces on the counter, a large ring he assumes is mostly filled with keys for the restaurant. One topped with thick black plastic and the Volkswagon logo; a remote keyless box next to it on the ring. He picks the chain up by its only adornment — a large silver flower — and heads to the door.

The agents at the door are the same two men who drove him and Weiss back from the airport, looking a little better put-together in the early afternoon.

"We need to get some keys from Agent Bristow, so we can start with the car," one says.

"Here." He hands over the keys, points to Francie's black Passat in the driveway. "I think I left you enough room there, but let me know if you need me to move anything."

"We should be fine. Thanks."

Vaughn stares at the car as they approach it, imagines it as the crumpled pile of charred remains it will be in less than an hour, at the bottom of a ravine or wrapped around a utility pole.

He forces the image from his mind and steps back inside, closing and locking the door.

Sydney has moved into the kitchen, sitting with her hands flat on the table, watching him approach. He walks past her, lays a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, continues on. The mess has grown worse since the last time he was here, the smell of cigarette smoke stronger.

"Where's Will?" he asks.

"He went home. We thought it would make more sense for him to be there when all of this happened. We weren't sure which one of us they'd call first."

He puts the tea kettle on and starts on the dishes strewn across the counter, placing the worst of them in the dishwasher.

The vase on the breakfast counter is full of wilted brown daisies. He pulls the flowers out, dead leaves crackling, falling onto the countertop and the floor. He'll need to wipe the countertops, try to find a mop for the floor. He does not want to ask her where it is.

The kettle whistles and he dries one of the clean mugs, tosses in a tea bag and pours. Places it in front of her hands on the table.

She turns her head to look at him. "Thank you." Glances at her watch — the call from Francie's parents will come soon, too soon.

He has already turned around when she speaks again.

"I don't think I can do this, Vaughn."

———

The call comes shortly after two on her landline, a loud, jarring ring.

He moves from his seat across from her, ready to go answer it. But she waves her hand and stands. "I should get it."

She moves to the nearest phone, the cordless on a now-clean kitchen counter. Takes a deep, shaky breath, picks up the phone and thumbs one of the buttons.

She manages to hold it together through hello, returning to her seat at the kitchen table as she listens.

"Oh my god," she says, sounding shocked enough, crying already. "I can't believe — I just saw her this morning."

He slides a hand across the table, takes her free one and squeezes it tight. This leaves her with nothing to wipe away the tears streaming down her face, but she doesn't seem to care.

"Of course. Call and let me know what time your flight is. I'll try to start making whatever arrangements I can today." A pause. "Henderson-Shaw did Danny's — I can call them." Another pause. "No, that's okay. I'll call him. Goodbye."

She turns the phone off, lays it down on the table with a soft plastic thud.

"They're going to fly in tomorrow, to start to plan her funeral. I told them I'd call Will, so he doesn't have to go through that." She pulls a paper napkin from the holder in the center of the table and starts dabbing at her face. "I'm going to try to get the funeral home taken care of, too. There are so many people we're going to have to tell — "

She looks like she's going to break down again, so he stands, hand still linked with hers, pulling her up. She steps into his arms, clinging to him.

He finds himself wishing, as he has sometimes in the past, that she had said no to that recruiter all those years ago. Even if it meant she never met him, at least she'd be somewhere, married, all her friends with her. Happy.

She pulls away, dabbing at her eyes with the crumpled napkin. "I'm going to go get cleaned up a little bit."

She walks out of the kitchen, and he hears the bathroom door click closed in the hall. Water running, a key turning in the front door. He turns to see Will Tippin walk in.

"Hey," Will says, low and quiet. "Is it done?"

"Yeah. She told them she'd call you." He considers asking Will how he's doing, but realizes he's tired of people asking him the same question.

Will walks into the kitchen, yanks out one of the seats to the table. Sits and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, then glances around, looking for the coffee cup full of butts Vaughn removed earlier. He lights up, regardless.

Vaughn wordlessly takes the cup out of the dishwasher and places it back on the kitchen table.

"Thanks." Will flicks the ashes that have already formed into the mug, as if in appreciation. He holds out the pack to Vaughn, who shakes his head. "You know, I quit six months after I graduated college." He takes another long drag, taps a few more ashes into the cup. "But right about now, I can't say I really give a shit about lung cancer."

Vaughn sits across from him. "How are you holding up?" And there he is, asking it anyway.

"Aside from the fact that I was falling in love with a woman I thought was one of my best friends and was, in fact, not — all while said friend was actually dead — things are pretty peachy." Will tosses the still-smoking cigarette butt into the mug, looks at Vaughn. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay," he says. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm getting pretty damn tired of that question, myself."

"Yeah," Will says. "But people ask because they care. I always try to remind myself of that."

———

"We're still making arrangements, but the funeral will be at Henderson-Shaw, Thursday at nine," Sydney tells the cordless phone, for somewhere around the fiftieth time.

She is seated on the couch next to him, making calls to Francie's friends, classmates, professors, employees, the numbers she didn't already know gleaned from Francie's Palm Pilot. She'd called the funeral home earlier, worked out as many details as she could without Francie's parents there, then switched over to calling acquaintances.

Friends now, in the evening. These are hardest on her, and she leans against him as she speaks, his arm draped across her back, a move he'd second-guessed an hour ago. Now it seems right.

"I know. It's such a shock," Sydney says. "Okay, I will. Goodbye."

She sets the phone down on the coffee table, sighs and lets her head fall back against his shoulder. "I should probably stop now. It's getting late."

He glances at his watch; she's right, it is getting late, and he should go —

Will walks through the living room, his steps loud, even on the carpet. "Hey, guys, I'm going for a walk."

He's out the door before either of them can respond.

"That's all he does," Sydney says. "Chain smokes and walks."

"We all grieve differently."

"Yeah. I just worry about him — it's hard for me to talk to him about it. His sister was out of town, but she's flying back tomorrow. Even if he can't tell her everything, at least that will be someone he can talk to without her breaking down."

"That's good."

"Vaughn, I don't even know how to begin to thank you for being here today."

"You don't have to, Syd."

The way she's looking at him, maybe he should kiss her. Not on the mouth — cheek or forehead, only, something to try to communicate what he's afraid to say, afraid to bring up. Maybe it would be that simple, maybe she would find his lips and kiss him back —

No, bad idea. She might pull away, might sit there, uncomfortable, uncertain. She's not ready for that, and neither are you.

"I should get going," he says, standing. "It's late."

She looks up at him. "You can stay here, if you want."

I want to share your bed again, Sydney, but we haven't had that talk, yet. "Syd, I don't think that would be — "

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean — Will's sleeping in Francie's room, but I could get some sheets, for the couch." She pauses. "Forget I asked. You probably want to go back to your own apartment and a real bed."

Back to his empty apartment with his own tragedy, the pictures of his father and the family he destroyed still scattered about the place.

"No. I'll stay."

"Okay," she says, softly. She stands without touching him. "Let me go find those sheets."