Everyone wakes early, today. They move through the apartment, largely silent, a slow procession through coffee, showers, clothes.

It is sunny, the sky nearly cloudless. That seems wrong, to him, that it should be so beautiful. And yet it is convenient; rain would make the burial harder, complicate things with umbrellas.

They take two cars to the funeral home, Will driving the Calfos, Sydney quiet in his passenger seat. The drive is short; Sydney must have chosen a place that was familiar, probably somewhere she drove past on her way to somewhere more mundane — grocery store, coffee shop, bank, maybe — to bury her fiancé and now her friend.

This is three, now, for her, and you could hardly handle one, now two. Is it really two, if it's for the same man? Her mother, then Danny, now Francie. Even if her mother came back, that funeral held true for most of her life. Like your father's.

The parking lot is nearly empty — just employees, maybe another family here now. He parks next to Will's car, near the building, an old house that's been expanded over the years with no attempt to make the expansions look like the original place, a confusing amalgam of structures tacked together.

Sydney grasps the door handle and then looks over at him. Her face tough, her jaw set, death row inmate ready for the executioner.

He opens his mouth to speak, can think of nothing to say. He exhales, instead, watches her open the door and follows her out of the car.

The path to the door is covered with a worn layer of green outdoor carpeting, threadbare in the middle. She waits for him at the door. Her clothes today are simple — black raincoat, black sheath dress and blazer, slight heels on her shoes. A simple silver pendant hangs in the V of her dress, silver hoops in her ears.

They're met at the door by a young black-suited man who introduces himself as Bill and seems too friendly, too helpful for today. He asks them to follow him, please. Through the bastard additions, the offices and the rooms filled with flowers and coffins with price tags done in calligraphy on heavy cream-colored card stock.

Into the main house, the real house, 12-foot ceilings and pastel floral wallpaper bordered with dark wood. Will and the Calfos standing in one of the front rooms, facing a closed metal casket.

Most of the light in the room is natural, flowing in through sheer curtains on the large window beyond the casket. Ten rows of folding chairs face the front, a narrow aisle down the middle, like this is theatre, or church. Flowers here already, at least 20 arrangements. He knows without looking at the card that the stargazer lilies are from his mother.

He stands beside her at the back of the room, watching. Bill offers to take their coats and Sydney shrugs out of hers, hands it to him. Bill scurries off to some unknown coatroom behind them, and Vaughn is glad to see him leave.

He looks over at her, longs to take her hand. Speaks low, so they won't hear him in the front of the room. "You know it's okay to walk away, today, Syd, if it gets to be too much. Take some time for yourself, if you need to."

"I'll be okay."

He thinks of his mother, who'd put him to bed early after the funeral — the fake funeral — and cried through the night in the hotel bathroom. He'd stayed up with her, listened through the wall, crying too, hiding his used tissues under the bed.

"You know I'm here for you — if you're not."

"I know." She reaches for his hand herself, stumbling across his fingers with her own before she finds a good grip. "Thank you."

———

Calling hours begin with a slow trickle of guests — in through the front door, not the back entrance they'd taken — that quickly grows to a large crowd. They span young and old, family and friends.

The young stand in tight clusters, speaking about what a shock it was, how nice Francie was. They were in classes or school clubs with her, worked with her. A few cousins, here and there.

The old do much the same — a few use the chairs — although it's what a nice girl and what a tragedy, how terrible, so young. They are bosses, professors, aunts and uncles.

He stands at the edge of the room, by the arched entranceway, watches them talk and hug and sip at tiny Styrofoam coffee cups. Sydney circulates, mostly among the young, touching hands and shoulders, nodding and telling them thank you.

He's always hated funerals — they bring him back to his father's, at eight. Even this one, even now. The room is not so different, and they were both crowded, both caskets closed.

He should get some air, he decides, go outside and clear his head. Sydney is fine, here, reminiscing with her friends. Sad, but under control.

He goes out the front door, past the stream of mourners entering. The porch here is long and wide; there is plenty of room for him to sit on the step and still let people through. He breathes deep. It is warmer, now — she won't need her coat for the burial.

Will Tippin stands with a circle of smokers on the sidewalk, nodding his thanks much like Sydney. Vaughn is too far away to hear any of the conversation.

He watches them blow long columns of smoke and pass around a lighter. Watches the steady parade of cars pulling into the lot. And sees Jack Bristow turn the corner of the building, stepping quickly up the sidewalk. Vaughn stands.

Jack walks past him and onto the porch with the barest of nods. Vaughn follows him inside — Sydney wanted to see her father, but this day is already emotional enough for her without Jack's surprise appearance.

She is speaking to a group of friends, and Jack stands off to the side, waiting until they disperse before he approaches her. He taps her on the shoulder and she turns around. Says "Dad!" loud enough Vaughn can hear it from the edge of the room, and throws her arms around her father, embracing him tightly.

"I don't know how the hell he beat me here." From somewhere behind him. He turns.

Weiss.

"Hey, Eric."

"Hey. They released Jack, obviously. I tried to call you."

"I turned off the ringer on my cell phone. I figured if it was important enough, they'd use emergency bypass."

"Yeah, I considered that, but I didn't want your phone to go off if you were in the middle of this. He asked about the funeral — I figured it was okay to tell him. I wanted to head over here for a little while, anyway." Weiss motions to Sydney and Jack, sitting and talking now. "How's she doing?"

"Pretty good, so far."

"Good. I read the transcript, of Jack's interrogation. I wanted to know, before I came over here — he says he didn't know they'd doubled Francie until it was too late. They didn't tell Jack and Irina until they realized it would be the best way to lure Sydney out there. Of course, we don't know if that's the truth."

Vaughn watches them — Sydney nodding fiercely, tears in her eyes — and wonders if Jack has just told her the same thing.

"I think it is. I don't know that I believe everything he says, or even most of what he says. But I don't think Jack would have willingly participated in something that would hurt her like this. I want to believe that, for her sake."

———

He puts a purple flag on top of his car and drives fourth in line, behind the police car, hearse and limo. Only the Calfos in the limo; Sydney in his passenger seat, Will and his sister in the back. Her hair is a deeper red than the shade he remembers Sydney copying, still disturbingly bright, out of place among all the black today.

They crawl along, a big long train of a procession snaking out behind him, down the street and around the corner. They take surface streets to get to the cemetery, but it is still a long, silent drive. He is thankful to at least have the road, the cars in front of him, to focus on. Sydney just stares out the passenger window, chin in her hand.

He parks on the street, can see the grave from here. The ground is covered with a green tarp, rows of white folding chairs on top of that.

Sydney waits for him to close his door, walk around the car. He extends his elbow, just a bit, offering his arm unofficially, surprised when she takes it.

She walks on tiptoes to keep her heels from sinking in the thick grass, until they reach the tarp. They sit in the front row, beside Will and his sister. Francie's parents in the middle, talking to the minister. The rest of the people slide into their seats; a few stand, in the back, when they run out of chairs.

He glances back at the hearse. The pallbearers moving, now, a cousin, an uncle, four friends. They walk in short, cautious steps, flanked by a man from the cemetery who is far too loud in directing them where to place it on the gravesite.

The minister steps backward, closer to the grave, and stands with his hands clasped over his Bible, waiting for the crowd to settle. He is middle-aged, balding, kind-faced. Here from the church near the UCLA campus Sydney and Francie tried to attend occasionally. Not often enough, Sydney said. The minister had called her yesterday, to make sure he would pronounce Francie's name correctly and ask for pertinent details of her life, her death.

The pallbearers back away. The minister begins.

"It tests our faith, when we see someone so young taken so tragically from this life. Francie had just completed her MBA, had just started her own restaurant. Her life was supposed to be ahead of her. When we see a life — a young life — ended long before we feel it should have, we often find ourselves questioning the Lord's plan. I do not have an answer for you, here today, except to say that the Lord does have a plan, and while we may not understand why He took Francie from us so young, we can take comfort in knowing that she is in a better place, now."

He looks at all of them, in the front row.

"I know it is difficult for you, her friends and family, to have to say goodbye, to not have the time you feel you deserved with her. Stay strong, all of you, and remember that you will see her again if you keep your faith. This is the Lord's promise."

The sound of sniffling all around him, of hands rustling into pockets for tissues, Gloria sobbing loudly a few chairs away. He looks over at Sydney, her chin trembling, tears streaming down her face. He reaches over, clasps her hand in her lap, and she bows her head, chin nearly touching her chest, struggling harder for control.

The minister still speaking, his voice melodic, swinging, perfect preacher style.

"— together in that glorious kingdom." He opens his Bible, surely unnecessary, surely he's had this memorized for years. But maybe it's for comfort. Maybe they all need to believe that the proof's in there, that they'll see her again.

Psalm 23. Even he's got this one memorized. The casket winding down, clink-a-clink-a-clink, nearly the same sound as his father's two days ago.

Sydney fumbles in her coat pocket for a tissue with her free hand, wipes at her eyes. Still clutching tight at his hand with the other.

The clinking stops. A final prayer, from the minister. Something about bless and keep and forever, amen.

The crowd standing, slowly, people hugging those next to them, in rows in front and behind them, embracing, balanced over the chairs. He rises with Sydney, pulls her into a hug, tighter and longer than most in the crowd.

"I want to take some time," she says. "You can wait in the car, if that's okay?"

"Of course."

He starts across the grass, looks back at her halfway to the car, standing in the line approaching the Calfos, everyone hugging Gloria and then Thomas in turn.

He watches from the car window as the crowd disperses, and Sydney finally takes her turn. Will and Amy Tippin open the back doors on either side of his car and sit, wordlessly, closing their doors with loud claps in quick succession.

Sydney walks away from the gravesite, but in the wrong direction. Tiptoes across part of the cemetery and stops, kneels, in front of another grave. Danny.

He hasn't cried today. Not for Francie, not for someone he barely knew, if at all. But he watches Sydney lay her hand on the tombstone, bow her head.

And he cries now, for her.

———

They return to the funeral home, briefly, to pull cards from all of the flowers, put a few of the plants into the trunk of his car. Bill volunteers to donate the rest to a local hospital, says he is terribly sorry for their loss and thanks them — too earnestly, it seems — for allowing Henderson-Shaw to serve them. Vaughn wonders if the hospital is Cedars Sinai, if his mother will see her flowers again. Surely she'll understand.

Then back into their cars, just Sydney now, in his, and onward.

One of the waiters at the restaurant had volunteered his house for an informal reception. Cold cuts and soft drinks, reminiscing and catching up. He drifts in and out of conversations, on the fringes of this group he never really knew, feels this isn't really the time to try to get to know them.

They leave when the crowd dwindles, just a cluster of people talking around the couch, follow Will back to Sydney's apartment and wait as the Calfos pack. Sydney promises to go through Francie's things and box up the important stuff, send it on later.

And now standing with them at the door, saying goodbye for the last time, there beside Sydney as they follow Will to his car. It is late, growing dark. Long day, he thinks, long and too much.

They wait until the car is gone, down the street, and then step back inside. Should he leave, too? Does she want to be alone?

No, he decides. He should stay for awhile and make sure she's okay. He'll leave at the first sign she doesn't want him here.

Sydney strides past him, into the kitchen. He follows, at a distance, stops in the doorway. Watches her pull a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter, search for a corkscrew, start to work on opening it.

"Would you like some?" She turns to him, and he feels like an afterthought.

"Sure."

She pours two hefty glasses, gives one to him. They walk together to the living room and sit on opposite ends of the couch. He turns to look at her, takes a sip of wine. Not particularly bad, but not particularly good, either. It is not one of the ones they were saving.

"How are you holding up, Syd?"

She takes a long drink before answering. "I'm okay. Glad it's all over."

"Yeah. You can take things at your own pace, now." Not that you necessarily will.

He places his wine glass on the coffee table, unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs it off, drapes it over the back of the couch. She stares at his chest, the gun beside his ribcage.

"You wore a gun today?"

"There was a crowd, and a lot of open space. We were exposed."

"You mean I was exposed."

He doesn't respond; the answer is yes, it was her he was worried about. He slides the leather straps from his shoulders, lays the holster on the end table beside him, clank of metal gun on glass.

"Devlin called me, while we were at the reception," she says, absently swirling the wine around her glass. "They want me to come in and follow up on my statement, I guess to verify some of the things my father said. I tried to get out of it — I think I've already told them everything I could possibly tell them — but I'm going to have to go in tomorrow."

"How long are you on leave, Syd?"

"They gave me as long as I want. But — I'm not going back, Vaughn."

"You're quitting the Agency?"

"Yes." She stills her hand, looks up at him. "My life has ruined so many others, it's the least I can do for them — for Danny, and Francie. Even Will. Now that Sloane is gone, there's no reason for me to stay."

"Sark is still out there, and the people that got away in that gym. Her double is still out there."

"The only thing revenge has ever brought me is trouble. And if there's one thing I've learned in all of this, it's that revenge doesn't really heal. It's just a distraction," she says, softly. "You get them for me. Or — are you going back, Vaughn?"

An afterthought, for her, the same way it was for him, the realization that his job was a big part of the lie he'd followed, the idea that maybe he should reassess, reconsider.

"Yeah. I thought about it, a little, and yes, I joined the CIA because of my father, because of who I thought he was. But I realized that regardless of how I got here, my job is important to me. I don't want to leave." He pauses. "What are you going to do, if you're not going back to the Agency?"

"Finish my dissertation, first. I've still got a couple more classes to take, too. Once I graduate, I guess I'll try to find a teaching job somewhere. I've got a lot of money saved up — SD-6 paid me pretty well, and I've got two years of salary from the CIA sitting in an account in the Caymans. I could actually take a lot of time off, if I need to. I want to try teaching, though. It's what I was supposed to be doing now."

"Look at both of us, following after our parents' false lives," he says, half-sarcastic, half-sad. He takes a bigger sip of wine; both of their glasses nearly empty already.

"Yeah. I don't want to think about them, or the Agency or — anything, tonight." She drains the rest of her wine, leans closer, reaching over his lap to put her hand on his glass. "You want some more?"

She is close, so close it's hard to breathe. For a moment, made bold by the wine, he thinks of closing the short distance, kissing her. It almost seems like a good idea.

No. He pulls away, hands over his glass. Not on this day.

He watches her rise, head toward the kitchen.