He wakes in Francie's room, a little headache from the wine, a rush of panic. Attempts to reconstruct last night in his mind —

No, he hadn't kissed her. Hadn't touched her, either, until she'd started crying somewhere through her third glass of wine and he'd held her in the middle of the couch.

She fell asleep, there, and he'd found his stack of blankets sitting on a distant chair, covered her with one, and decided this would be the best place to sleep, the safest.

He rises, walks out into the hallway. Her bedroom door is closed and she is gone from the couch. Into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, and then back to the bathroom. He'll shower now, hopefully be out of the way by the time she wakes up.

She is sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee when he emerges from the bathroom, clean khakis, sweater. Too casual for the JTF, but okay since he won't be there long, he's decided.

"Morning, Syd." She turns, watches him walk into the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she says, softly. "You?"

"I'm okay." He sits down beside her at the counter, drinks his coffee in silence. Considers breakfast, but he's not really hungry. He doubts she is, either.

She sets her mug down. "I'm going to go grab a quick shower and change, then I should be ready to go."

"Actually, it might be better if we took separate cars. I've got another session with Barnett and I'm not sure how long that'll run. Plus I'm supposed to go to dinner with my mother later."

"Oh." A pause. Is she disappointed? "I guess I'll see you there, then."

———

He stops at Weiss' desk before heading to Barnett's office, doesn't see Sydney anywhere in the rotunda.

"Hey. Anything new?"

"Hey yourself," Weiss says. "We sent a forensics team out to Chicago, to check up on your mystery shooter."

"Did they find anything?"

"A lot of dust disturbed up on the balcony, but that was all they came up with. Whoever it was knew how to clean up after himself. We did have some movement on Sark and the double. They broke into some art collector's mansion in Córdoba, we're assuming stole something, and then torched the place."

"You're sure it was them?"

"They put a security guy in the hospital, but he was able to talk. His description was a dead-on match. We still don't know what they were after, and the collector's fifty percent third-degree burns, so we're not sure that we're going to know any time soon. Obviously, this soon after Chicago, we're thinking it might be Rambaldi-related."

"If they're on the move, they may come after Sydney."

"I know. They've expedited installation on her new security system. Should be in by the end of the day."

"She's going to need more than a security system."

"Her place will be under surveillance 24 hours a day. We can have a team at her apartment in under 10 minutes. And she's a trained agent, Mike. What happened with the double — it's not going to happen again. Not to mention the fact that her boss is no longer involved in that whole conspiracy thing. Or her father and mother."

"I just hate the idea that there are all of those people out there who believe in Rambaldi, who believe what was on that document."

"We'll track them down." Weiss glances across the rotunda, at a group of agents walking toward the main conference room. "Hey, I've got a meeting, and I think you do too. But you take care, and I'll see you later."

"Yeah."

Weiss strides off to join the group, and Vaughn starts toward the hallway that leads to Barnett's office. Devlin emerges from that hallway and starts walking in the same direction as Weiss, presumably on his way to the meeting. He stops when he sees Vaughn.

"Agent Vaughn?"

Vaughn walks quickly, closing the distance between them. "Hello, sir."

"Hello. How are you?"

"I'm okay."

"What are you doing here?"

"I, ah, have a meeting with Dr. Barnett."

"And then nothing until next week?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought. Go to your sessions, Agent Vaughn. But I don't want to see you here otherwise. If you don't start actually taking your bereavement leave, I'll have to restrict your access to this facility, and I don't want to have to do that. Are we understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Devlin continues on his way, no doubt late now for the meeting.

———

"Hello, Agent Vaughn. How are you feeling today?"

Barnett was ready for him, this time, poised at the edge of her desk chair, file folder already open in front of her, pen in hand. The question as soon as he'd walked in the door.

He waits to answer, sits on the couch first. "I'm fine."

"Good," she nods. Does she believe you? "Francie Calfo's funeral was yesterday, correct?"

"Yes."

"And how did that go?"

How the fuck do you think it went?

"It was a rough day — a lot harder for Sydney than me, though."

"Of course," she says. "You said in our last session that funerals makes you think of your father — of your father's own funeral. Did you find this was the case yesterday?"

"Yeah. I did think of him some — it's hard not to. But I tried not to focus on it."

She scribbles a quick note in the folder in front of her, heavy ballpoint pen scratching across the paper. "Why not?"

"I don't want to think about him anymore. I mean, it's there. It's always going to be there. There isn't anything I can do about it. I feel like it's time to move on."

"Blocking it out isn't going to help you move past it, Michael."

"It's not blocking it out, or denial, or shock, or whatever. I just want to be happy again. And I think I need to let go of him to do that."

"You can't just say you want to be happy and be happy. It doesn't work that way."

"Yeah, but I can try. Isn't that the first step?"

She cocks her head. Maybe he's found a hole in her logic. Probably not.

"Yes, it is," she says. "But if you take that step too early, this is all going to snap back at you down the road. And it will be much, much worse than if you deal with it now. That's why we're here."

"We've been dealing with it. There's not much to deal with. What do you want me to do? Is there a 12-step program for this? You want me to go? 'Hi, my name is Michael and my father was a bad person.'"

"I understand that all of this is hard for you to talk about, Michael." She speaks slowly, firmly. "But it's important that we talk about it. That doesn't mean you can't try to be happy, but you also can't avoid what happened. Now, I want to talk about your relationship with your mother."

He sighs, leans back into the couch, and readies himself for her next question.

———

He leaves Barnett's office exhausted; they'd gone the full hour for the first time. Looks for Weiss in the rotunda and finds Sydney instead, sitting at her desk, typing. Quick bursts of her fingers pounding across the keys, then pausing, hanging in the air as she rereads what she's written. Only a few paragraphs on the screen, he notes as he approaches.

"That's awfully short for your statement." He is fairly sure it isn't.

She turns, spinning in her chair. "I already turned in my statement. This is my letter of resignation."

"Wow, Syd. That's awfully fast. Are you sure you don't want to take some time, think about it?"

"I've thought about it plenty." Blunt, sharp. "All I want to do now is go home and try to pull my life back together."

It's easier for you if she isn't here, anyway. No more missions, less to worry about. He lays his hand on her shoulder, the thin black wool of her suit jacket scratchy beneath his fingertips.

"Okay." He pulls his hand back. "I've got dinner with my mom this evening, but I can stop by later, if you want."

"Yeah, if it's not too much trouble." She pauses. "Are you going to tell her?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "I don't know if I can."

———

He picks his mother up at the house and follows her directions to the little seafood restaurant in Malibu. It is sleek — blue-tinged lighting and martinis at the bar. A nice view of the ocean; his mother asks for a table by a window, and the wait is longer, but worth it.

Drinks first, Diet Coke all around, and their waiter — young, freckle-faced, freshman or sophomore in college, probably — hustles off. He opens his menu, wonders when he should tell her. Right at the start? Get it out of the way? Maybe he should ease into it, wait for a good segue somewhere in the conversation.

She speaks first. "How is Sydney?"

"She's — she's holding up pretty well, considering. But everything has been so hard on her."

"The poor thing. No one should ever have to go through that. I remember how you were when Eric was shot. It just broke my heart."

Touch and go for six and a half hours. So scared you could hardly function. He'd called her from the hospital in Barcelona, barely able to choke out what happened.

"We were lucky. He pulled through." But you looked down that road and it was scary as hell. And it wasn't anything close to what happened with Francie.

"Yes, yes you were," she says. "At least she has you to help her through this. And her friends and family, too, I'm sure."

"Yes."

She lifts her napkin from the table, places it on her lap, smoothing the creases. "I've been thinking about going to France in the next few months."

"So soon? You just went last year." Her semi-annual trip, to catch up with old friends, shop and walk the streets in Paris. She'd gone for the first time 10 years after his father's death, when she'd finally been able to save up the money for a plane ticket. The timing good for other reasons, as well: he went off to college, she left for Paris.

"I know, dear, but fares are cheap now, and Marie has a new grandchild." She smiles.

She has never pressured him, never suggested it, but he's wondered if she is jealous of Marie, three kids and two grandchildren now. Is she hopeful? Can she tell that Sydney is different? That Sydney is the first time he's really considered it?

"Tell her congratulations for me."

"I will." She's excited, he knows, and she'll spend the time before her trip packing carefully and talking about everything she has planned with Marie and everyone else.

How different would it have been, he wonders, if his father had stayed. You might still be over there. She'd have been able to stay and have coffee with Marie every day. Watch their kids grow up together.

"What else are you going to do, while you're there?"

"I don't know, yet. I've emailed a few people, but I don't have a lot of firm plans. I think I might try to see the house, though. I stopped by, last time, but whoever lives there now wasn't home," she says. "I know we've been here longer, but I loved that house. Your father did, too. I remember when we bought it, he said, 'Susan, this is going to be home.' And it was."

He feels suddenly as if he's betraying her, feels it stabbing at his chest.

"I loved that house, too," he says.

At least this is not a lie. But this would be his relationship with her, from now on, the secret he would hold. He'd have to smile and reminisce and pretend he still loves his father, try not to think of the gym in Chicago, the burial.

But if it spares her, maybe it's what he should do.

———

A motion light — new — comes on as he approaches Sydney's door, flooding the front step white-bright.

He knocks, wonders if some CIA tech somewhere is watching him. It takes her awhile to answer, in old jeans and a sweater now, her hair in a messy ponytail.

"Hi. Come on in." She swings the door open, steps aside.

There is a keypad on the wall next to the door, but nothing else has changed, that he can see. They stand in the foyer, facing each other. Staring, waiting. Somebody should say something. This is where it gets tricky —

"Sorry it took me so long to answer," she says. "I was in Fran's room. I wanted to start to get some of her things boxed up for her parents."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, so soon? I'm sure Francie's parents would understand if it took you awhile."

"I've been okay, so far. I figured I'd stop if it got too hard. I kind of want to get it done."

"Want some help?"

"Sure, if you don't mind."

He follows her back to Francie's bedroom, one corner filled with boxes. U-Haul — she must have bought them earlier. The bed, already stripped, is piled with clothes, books.

"Why don't you box?" she says. "I'll keep going through the closet. I haven't even started on the shelves, yet. There's tape on the dresser."

"Okay." He grabs an empty box from the U-Haul pile and places it on the bed next to the books. He packs carefully, trying not to waste much space in the box, books on the bottom, clothes on top. Francie's books range from textbooks on management theory to romance novels. The cookbooks, he knows, are in the kitchen, on the shelf above the stove.

"How was dinner, with your mom?" She speaks with her back to him, head half-buried in the closet.

"It was — a lot more uncomfortable than dinner with my mom usually is. I guess maybe I'm going to have to get used to that."

"You didn't tell her."

"I couldn't. It was so hard on her, when he died. I feel like if I tell her, I'm going to bring all that pain back for her, just to ease my own conscience."

"I guess that's one way of looking at it. It's hard to tell what the right thing to do is, in a situation like that," she says.

"Yeah. I feel like maybe I should take some time to think it through, before I decide if I should tell her."

"That's probably a good idea." She crosses the room and halts next to him with an armful of clothing. "My mom stopped by this morning, right after you left. I didn't want to say anything at work. But we talked. It was — it was good."

"You didn't fill out a contact report?"

"I thought about it. But what she said was only for me. And I don't want to turn her in, Vaughn, or give them a chance to capture her. I know she's done some awful things, but she saved my life. And I think — I really believe she loves me."

"Did you turn in your resignation?"

"Yes. Devlin wasn't exactly happy, but he said he understood. They still want me to come in for counseling. I guess I should."

He seals the box with tape from the dresser and carries it to an empty corner, below the window. "Devlin's a good guy. I've worked with him for a long time. But you are going to be a big loss for them."

"I don't care what I am for them." She lays a pile of clothes down, wooden hangers clicking against each other. "I did what I said I was going to do. I did more than what I said I was going to do."

"I'm not saying you didn't, Syd. Hell, without you — without what you did — I'd probably retire still working on the SD-6 case. But it's not going to be easy to replace you. Not at all." You were the best.

"They'll find somebody, Vaughn. There's always a new agent, the same way there's always a new bad guy. Eventually you just have to put your foot down and say 'that's enough.' And I did, and I'm out, and I don't regret it." She pauses. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Of course."

They work in silence.

———

They pack until late in the night, when his pile of finished boxes blocks out part of the window. At some point, she'd suggested wine, and they'd finished what was left of the second bottle from last night — not much — and started another.

Enough wine to be relaxed, tired, but not really drunk, when he turns to her and suggests that it's late, time to call it a night.

"Yeah." She turns around, stands in front of the closet with her arms crossed. "Thanks for helping. This is a lot more than I would have got done by myself."

"You're welcome." He adds a final box to the pile. "My bag is in my trunk. Let me go grab it."

"Vaughn, you don't have to keep staying here."

Her statement snaps straight through him, and he stands there, motionless, stunned, for a moment. Maybe this was never about anything more than comfort. Maybe she's healed enough to remember how much you hurt her. Did you really think she'd just let you back into her life so easily?

"I'm sorry, Syd. I thought you wanted me here. I'll let myself out." He rushes toward the doorway, tilts his head back and blinks to control the tears he feels coming.

He gathers himself, looks back at her. He must keep his voice level, can't let her see how much that hurt.

"We should talk some time, later, about us. If there is still an us."

He enters the hallway, pulls his car keys from his pants pocket, clutches them tight in his hand. There isn't an us because you said it was over. It's your own fault. You did all the damage and now you have to deal with the consequences.

"Vaughn."

He stops, turns. She is standing at the other end of the hallway, hand on the doorframe.

"I didn't want you to leave," she says, softly. "That wasn't what I meant. I just didn't want you to feel burdened, like you had to keep staying here."

"It's never been a burden, Syd. Not even close."

"But what is it, Vaughn? I mean, we were over. You said we were over. And I know everything's changed since then, but has that?"

"I don't know."

"You're right. We do need to talk." She releases her hand from the doorframe, walks past him, into her own bedroom.

He slips the keys back into his pocket and follows, cautious. Sits beside her at the foot of the bed, a little stretch of cream-colored comforter between them, his feet barely touching the floor. Facing the closet; he needs to prepare, to take a little time before he looks at her.

Silence. The closet doors are open, funeral dress hanging front and center, her mother's books up on the shelf.

"Did you mean it?" she asks, her voice a shock in the still room. "What you said to your father?"

He turns his head, and he is not quite ready for her eyes. "Of course I did."

"When you said you loved me?"

"Especially that, Syd. I told you. Whatever happened between us — whatever's going to happen — that hasn't changed."

"Then how could you just walk away like you did?" Her voice a fierce whisper, tears pooling in her eyes. "How could you just leave me?"

"I didn't just walk away. God, Syd, you think that's what it was? Leaving you — that was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But it would have been harder to stay. I did what I did because I love you. I thought you knew that."

Her hand at her face, wiping away tears, a long, shaky breath. "I did know, I guess. I think I was just too angry to see it at the time."

"I never meant to hurt you, Syd. That's the last thing I wanted to do."

She looks at him, her face red, wet, sad. And yet somewhere, he thinks he sees hope.

"All those reasons why you left, Vaughn, they're not valid anymore. I'm out of the CIA — you wouldn't have to worry about me anymore."

"I know. I want to come back, Syd. I want there to be an us again." So badly it hurts.

"I want that, too," she says. "But the one-sided decisions and the secrets and the silence — we can't do that again. Either of us."

"No, we can't. And Syd, I'm sorry I did it."

"So am I."

Her hand is close to his on the comforter. He trails his fingers over the quilting, picks it up, her grip instantly tight.

"Vaughn, I should have said earlier — I should have said that I love you."

"Syd." His voice wobbles, tears at his eyes again. Did she know how much you needed to hear that?

He reaches out, touches her wet cheek, her trembling chin. Leans in slowly, so slowly, the kiss tentative, delicate, when it finally comes. Then deeper, beyond reassuring, beyond what he'd meant it to be. And this, this is how you forget, he thinks. And they will get it right, this time, because they have to.

The kiss trails through a long, breathy end, and he pulls back, just a little. She turns her head and slips her arms around his back, her cheek against his. He does the same, clinging to her there, feeling closer to peace than he has in a long time.

"Stay here, tonight," she whispers.

Here, her bed.

"I will."