"After that, we just waited for you all to arrive."

Vaughn shifts with a loud squeak. He is sitting on an old twin bed in a tiny bedroom, answering softball questions from a senior agent. The agent — Ford — sits at a tiny white desk designed for a child. He was one of the late arrivers in the team of eight who'd come to the abandoned house.

The first six had stormed in, a flood of night vision goggles and assault rifles, sprinting so hard on the old wood Vaughn was sure one of them would put their foot through the floor. None had. They'd carried both bodies out to a waiting van, eagerly pulled the document from Sydney's hands, and headed off to clear the rest of the house.

Only later had two more senior agents walked in, overcoats swaying over suits. Good work and would you please come with us, and they had. Together in the car on the way to this safehouse, in the middle of the city, but separated for debrief. Sydney in the master bedroom of a small apartment, him in the second bedroom — halfheartedly made up for a child. Teddy bear on the bed, crayons in an empty soup can on the desk, a set of wooden blocks on the floor.

He feels strangely unburdened. They'd taken all three guns from them, although they'd promised Vaughn would get his back before he left. He'd handed over the keys to both rental cars, as well, at the abandoned house, and left his flashlight on the small, round kitchen table here, next to Sydney's.

The lies roll easily — too easily, perhaps — from him. Aside from the move to the abandoned house, the tranquilizers, much of their story is the same. Discovery at the airport, tailing them in the car, fighting Sark and the double.

"I think that about covers it, Agent Vaughn." Ford looks up from the narrow notebook he's used to jot down Vaughn's responses. "We'll want a written statement from you, of course. Let me go get you a laptop."

Ford rises from the tiny wooden chair and slips out the bedroom door. He returns with a small Sony Vaio notebook that barely fits on the desktop. "You can just type it in Word and we'll take care of getting it entered, if that works. You have any questions?"

"Yes. Did Sydney leave yet?" He very nearly calls her Agent Bristow, thinks of her as that for the first time in a long while.

"I don't know." Ford opens the door and walks out again, with no indication he's going to check.

———

Vaughn keeps his written report short, far more succinct than he usually writes. He is tired, and if he supplies too many details, there may be discrepancies between his story and Sydney's.

The bedroom door clicks open, and for a moment he thinks it is her.

It is not, but he still smiles at the man who steps through the doorway. Don Rossi, the first person he's recognized from Station Rome. Third generation American, born and raised in New York, Rossi still looks as Italian as anyone in Rome, with a full head of dark hair, deep brown eyes.

Rossi closes the door before he speaks.

"Michael Vaughn, what the hell are you doing over here?" Rossi's accent suggests a childhood in the Bronx, sounds completely different than when Vaughn had worked with him. Back then he'd been trying to blend, speaking broken English any time English was required.

"Hey, Don, how are you? And I'm trying to take a vacation."

"Only you would go on vacation and notch two off Interpol's most wanted. Let me tell you how crazy it is to get a call at midnight saying Mike Vaughn's in town and sitting on a couple of fugitives when I haven't seen you in what, five years?"

"Something like that. What are you still doing over here? I thought you were transferring to Langley."

"Short-lived. Definitely short-lived. I hated it there. Virginia, Mike, is almost as cold as New York and the food sucks. I was looking for a better slot here as soon as I moved back. I lucked out — assistant station chief happened to open up."

Vaughn finds the accent jarring, although he'd always been aware that the voice he knew from Rossi was an act. "You're ASC? Wow, congratulations."

"Thanks. And I see you've made senior agent already, so it sounds like you're not doing so bad, yourself."

"Yeah. I got lucky." Suppose you could call it luck.

Rossi eases his short frame onto the edge of the bed. It still squeaks. "So you're seriously here on vacation? And that was seriously your girlfriend?"

"Sydney? Is she okay? Can you keep an eye on her?"

"I've already been warned by both her father and an Agent Weiss out of L.A. to treat her right. We got her through debrief real quick, and one of the agents drove her to your hotel. She told me to give you these." Rossi reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out the keys to the rental car, hands them to Vaughn.

"Thanks."

"Not a problem," Rossi says. "So this Sydney, she's retired Agency? At her age?"

"Yeah. She got mixed up in a really bad situation, lost a couple of people she cared about. After that, she just wanted to get out."

Rossi nods. "I sat in on part of her debrief. She talked about the double. That's pretty fucked up shit, there, Mike."

"To say the least."

"You were lucky to have her here. I wouldn't want to try to take on those two solo."

"Yeah. I was really lucky. Syd's one of the best I've ever seen." Probably the best, but Rossi was definitely up there, and there's no reason to hurt his feelings.

"You think this little taste of the action will make her want to get back in?"

"No. She wanted out bad, Don. And she's already got another job lined up. She's teaching two lit classes at UCLA next term."

"Yeah? Well, good for her, then. I can't fathom leaving, myself, but it sounds like her situation was pretty rough."

"Yes, it was." Worlds different than yours or mine or anyone else's.

"Well, get your written report done and get back to her. It all seems pretty open and shut. Oddly coincidental, but pretty simple beyond that."

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it, when we saw them walking through that parking garage." At least this is the truth. Vaughn does not want to lie to this man, someone he considers a friend, albeit one he hasn't spoken to in years.

"Seriously crazy shit. How long are you in Rome?"

"Just under two weeks. We should grab dinner sometime, me and Syd and you. Or should it be a double date?"

"You know me, Mike. Only thing I do long-term is the Agency. I can find a date, though, if you want to do double date."

"I have no doubt. That's your call."

"I'll see what comes up," Rossi says. "Might be better to pass on that, though — easier to talk shop, you know? It'd definitely be good to catch up, get to know Sydney. I've got your contact info, so I'll give you a call. Assuming I can. We were working off of radios, today. Solar flares or some shit — no cell phones. Craziest thing."

"Yeah. We would have called you guys much earlier, otherwise."

"That's what Sydney said." Rossi stands. "Hey, I'm going to try to get this wrapped up so we can all go home and try to get some sleep. But I'll call you later, we'll catch up. Bye, Mike"

The laptop on screensaver as Vaughn turns around. "Good to see you, Don."

———

The hotel lobby smells of coffee and air freshener over industrial cleanser. The building is small, old and well-located, close to the historic center, just a short drive from the safehouse.

The lights are dimmer than they must be during the day, and there is only one attendant, a balding man reading a paperback Tom Clancy. The man looks up long before Vaughn reaches the counter, suitcases clicking across the tile behind him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Does he look that American? He rolls the suitcases to a halt, pulls them upright in front of the desk. "My girlfriend should have checked in earlier — I need to know the room number. Her name is Sydney Bristow."

"Ah, yes. Ms. Bristow checked in a few hours ago." The man reaches under the counter, pulls out a Post-It note and a small key on a brass chain. He glances down at the note. "I'll need to see some identification before I can give this to you."

At least there's some pretense of security here. Or else she asked him to do that. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his passport. "Here you go."

The man looks at the passport and then the Post-It. He hands the passport back to Vaughn, along with the key. "You are in room 203, second floor. Unfortunately, our bellmen are off duty. I can help you with the suitcases, if you'd like."

"I should be fine, thanks."

"Good night and enjoy your stay, then, Mr. Vaughn."

Vaughn wheels the suitcases to an elevator across the lobby, hits the up button. The doors ding open immediately, to a small brass-trimmed car, white marble tile on the floor. He presses the button for the second floor, exhaustion coming at him in waves, so close to the room, the bed.

The elevator lurches to a halt on two. The room is only two doors down a hallway that must have been lush in earlier years — starting to show wear, now, on the thin maroon carpet that covers the floor, the aging floral paper on the walls. A vase of fresh flowers next to the telephone table across from the elevator, the telephone an old brown rotary.

A thin strip of light visible beneath the white-painted door to their room. Vaughn slides his key in, tries to turn it quietly, in case she is asleep despite the light.

She is not. Sitting up on the bed, instead, two pillows propped behind her back, reading more Dickens when he pulls the suitcases through the door, closes and locks it behind him. Her hair is wet and she's wearing a hotel bathrobe, likely fresh from the bath.

"Hey," she says. There is a bundled washcloth in her hand, a bucket of ice on the bed beside her.

"Hey. I thought you'd be asleep by now."

"I wanted to wait for you." She presses the washcloth against a pink spot on her chin. Already splotched with purple, it will look nasty tomorrow, he thinks, suddenly more aware of his own sore jaw, ribs, stomach.

"You have enough to share?"

She slips a marker into her book and sets it down on the bed, picks up another washcloth. "Here."

He reaches down to pull off his shoes, crawls across the empty side of the bed to lay beside her, the ice bucket between them. Takes the washcloth from her and fills it with a few cubes, holds it up to the throbbing spot on his jaw.

The room is small, but nice, mostly filled by the bed and a white wooden dresser. There are more fresh flowers in a vase on the dresser, hotel stationary on a small writing desk by the window. The curtains — heavy red velvet — are drawn, but the view should be good.

"I forgot about this part," she says, holding out her bundle of ice and rattling it like a maraca. "I can't say I missed it."

"Me either." He shifts the washcloth; part of his jaw is beginning to go numb. "How are you doing, Syd? You've had a lot of bombshells dropped on you today."

Silence, for a long while, the only sound the clinking of ice cubes as she dumps what's left of hers back into the bucket, drapes her washcloth over the side.

"I don't know," she says, finally.

"How did your debrief go?"

"It was fine," she says. "I just — I didn't think I'd ever be doing another debrief. I thought one day you'd come home and tell me they were caught, or someone had killed them. I thought I'd be able to stay detached. But today, seeing them — seeing her — being involved, having revenge just dumped in my lap, I wasn't ready for that."

She lays her head back on the pillow, does not continue.

The ice bucket feels like a barrier between them. He drops the towel inside and places it on the floor beside the bed, moves closer to her, past the cold spot made by the ice.

"At least we got them, Syd. You're that much safer, now." Even safer after we get Christophe. Or Rambaldi does. He reaches for her hand, finds it is cold, damp.

"You know, for a long time, I didn't feel like I had any family. After my mom left, my father was so distant — he didn't know she was alive, for a long time, he told me. I didn't really know my grandparents — his parents lived on the East coast and my mom told us her parents died years ago. So my friends — Will, Francie, everyone — they became my family." She pauses. "But then things have been better with my father, lately, and my mom came back, and now all of this — this family that might go back for generations, all those sketches in that book — "

Her chin and trembling, their hands warm now, together. "I don't know how to reconcile that with losing my best friend."

"I don't think you can, Syd."

She nods.

"But you are free, now, to move on and do what you want with your life, and you're doing that."

"Yeah." She releases his hand, turns on her side to face him, wet hair stark on the white pillow. "Vaughn, what I said about my family, my friends — you're a part of that now, too, a big part. And I feel like we're in a good place, right now, even though it's still early, but I don't want you to feel like, with what Rambaldi said — "

He's rarely heard her ramble like this. "About what?"

"About all those generations of my family, that I was free to carry on. He insinuated — having a child, children, I guess. Carrying on his family. I know that my life's changed now, and that it's more of a possibility, but we've just started dating, and we haven't even started to talk about — "

"Syd, what he said didn't bother me at all."

"Oh." She seems relieved, pleased, a cautious smile on her face.

"But I think we do what we want to do, now. Not what the CIA wants you to do, or what Rambaldi's predicted."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean let's not worry about it right now." Rolling onto his side, face close to hers, reaching out, running his hand down the length of her arm. "Let's just live our lives. Let's just enjoy our vacation."

She closes the short distance between them, kisses him softly. "Let's just get some sleep," she whispers.

"That, too." He smiles, backs away, rises from the bed. "I'm going to go get ready."

He opens the smaller of his suitcases long enough to pull out a small travel case — toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, not much else. He moves around the small bathroom, new fixtures on old porcelain, brushing his teeth, washing his face. It is still steamy, smells of flowers from her bath.

Back out into the room, and she is asleep, her face peaceful, side rising and falling evenly. One last look at her before he turns off the overhead light, curled up tight in the bathrobe, hands clasped together beside her face, a bit like prayer.

Six months ago, he watched her like this. It was the morning after their first night, her face calm, still in the morning sun, and he knew it would not last. Not as long as she stayed in the CIA. Not with Sloane out there, the remnants of the Alliance.

She has spent much of her life looking for a few hours of peace, a moment where she has cause for a genuine smile before she returns to the darkness, the pain. He suspected this before they were together, knows it now.

He's wanted an end to this as badly as he's wanted anything. He longs for that time for her, when every hour is free, when she always has cause to smile.

And maybe this is the beginning.