The door squeals loud on rusty hinges as Preston closes it behind him, and it takes a moment for the dim lights in the truck to flicker and then come on. A small cargo truck, designed for hauling furniture or a new batch of rolls from the local bakery. More commonly used to smuggle drugs — and people — he thinks, stepping through the narrow passageway between two large stacks of brown cardboard boxes.

The boxes only go halfway back — a ruse for the truck's real purpose — and the small space beyond them is well-utilized. A large cooler sits against the left wall — food and drinks, he realizes, for what will be something along the lines of a six-hour drive. A small carry-on suitcase beside that — Sydney's, for her flight to wherever, he assumes. A new-looking mattress takes up the entire right side. She sits on it, next to a neatly folded pile of blue fleece blankets and her discarded baseball cap, back against the wall and knees folded nearly to her chin.

She watches him enter and take a seat on the cooler, body lurching with the truck as it jerks into motion. It picks up speed quickly, boxes rattling beside him through a sharp right turn. The ride is rough, but quieter than he had anticipated. He wonders if the CIA had it insulated, if it is needed frequently enough for that.

Another sharp turn — left, this time — and she speaks, words tumbling, rushing out. "Vaughn, are you sure I have to go? I mean, absolutely sure? SD-6 has suspected me before and it's all worked out. Maybe if we just waited it out, I might not have to go. I could just lay low for awhile — "

"This came down from the top, Syd," he says. Hates that she's desperate, but there's still hope on her face, and he'll have to quash all of it before this conversation is finished. "I'm sorry."

"Does my father know?" Quiet now, almost a whisper.

"He's the one that called it in — said to get you out right away. Sloane knows you're a double. We don't know much more than that at this point. But Dixon came back for you, after you went through the service door. Security Section was with him."

"Oh." She stays silent, eyes blinking steadily. You can cry, Sydney. Don't let me stop you. "Can I call my dad, say goodbye? I've still got my phone. It would be secure."

"Sydney, I'm sorry, but your father is under suspicion now at SD-6," he says. "He cut off all contact with the CIA after he called us about you. He can't risk contact with you right now." As they speak, he knows, a group of agents are preparing a nasty car accident featuring her Land Cruiser.

"I can't say goodbye to anyone, can I?"

He shakes his head.

"Except you." Her eyes shine, even in the dim light. "You didn't have to be here, did you, Vaughn?"

"No." Not in any official capacity, anyway.

"Thank you." She breaks now, face crumpling into loud sobs, and he stands. Steps gingerly across the truck and kneels on the mattress next to her. Carefully pulls her into an embrace, until her sobs are muffled by his t-shirt.

"I'm so sorry, Sydney."

———

The truck is moving substantially faster, her sobs are less frequent, and these are his only gauges of time. If she wants him to, he thinks, he'll do this until Phoenix. Sit here, stroke her hair, give her all the comfort and the closeness he can.

But his cell phone rings, shrill over her sniffles, and he must release his arms to search his pockets. "That's me." She lifts her head and shifts away. Back to her original position, back against the wall and legs folded.

"Vaughn here."

"We're on the highway now," Preston says. "You kids okay back there?"

"We're fine." Or about as good as we're going to get, given the situation. He glances at Sydney, busy wiping at her face with the back of her hand.

"Vaughn, there's a box back there somewhere, marked 'Fragile.' That's Bristow's package."

"Okay."

"Otherwise, just give me a call if you need anything."

"We will," Vaughn tells him, then hits the end button, focus back on Sydney. "Your package is somewhere in here. Marked 'Fragile.'"

He stands, nearly falling as the truck sways through a lane change, and steps toward the piles. She watches, but makes no attempt to stand and help with the search. She isn't needed — he finds it a few feet away from the edge of the mattress, on the top of the stack. The box is large, and fills his arms when he picks it up, but light.

He moves quickly, deposits it in front of her before another lane change, which would surely be the end of his balance. He considers sitting on the mattress beside her, but takes the cooler instead. Packing tape covers the top of the box, and he rips it off, pulling the flaps open and waiting for her to show some interest in the process.

Interest never comes.

"Come on, Syd. It'll be just like Christmas." He realizes too late that the joke may not be the best way to draw her in. That her Christmases may not be such a good memory, given the Bristow family.

She laughs anyway, over a long, shaky sob. "I don't see a tree, Vaughn."

"Maybe we should check the other boxes."

She smiles and leans forward to pull a wig from the box. Dark brown, almost black, and much shorter than her current cut.

"I take it this is until I can do something more permanent?" He doesn't answer; watches instead, curious, as she begins what must be a familiar process. Hands through her own hair, twisting it together in the back and pulling it up until it is piled on the top of her head. The wig pressed down over all of that and quickly pinned into place. Chin-length, and the dark color lightens her eyes.

"How does it look?"

"Good." But then, you looked good in blue, Syd.

"Thanks," and a shy smile. She pulls the next item out — black leather purse — and zips it open. "Lipstick, mascara, mirror, lotion, nail file, dental floss, wallet. Who puts all this stuff together?"

"I have no idea."

She snaps open the wallet and looks up. "There's nothing but cash in here."

Vaughn does know the answer to this one. "There'll be a separate envelope with your new identification."

The next item is a leather jacket, a style she'll like, he thinks, pulling it from the box. And he is right, because her eyes come a little closer to Christmas.

"Nice. The government paid for that?"

"I think it's the CIA equivalent of a gold watch."

She takes the jacket from him, lays it gently on the mattress. "I'd try it on, but I don't think it's going to work with the maintenance worker look."

"There should be a change of clothes in here." He reaches back into the box, watching her until his hands hit lace. Whoops. Don't need to go whipping those out. Eyes focused in the box, now, hands somewhere less embarrassing. Fingers wrapped around the blue jeans at the bottom of the pile, not the black lace underwear on top. He pulls the entire pile out and hands it to her, careful to stay fixated on her face.

She takes it from him, sits it on the mattress next to the jacket. "Thanks. Much better." And then an expectant stare.

"I can, ah, move to the back, if you want." Not the safest suggestion, given the pace of the truck, but he isn't sure what else to say.

"No — I mean, that's okay," she says. "We're all adults here."

He leans back as she pulls her shoes off. Sets to studying the floor, which is gray-painted metal and not nearly interesting enough to merit this level of contemplation. She must be on the buttons of the coverall by now, he thinks.

Sight is easy enough to control, but sound is another matter. The swoosh as the coverall leaves her body. The click of the clasp of her bra. Another click as she replaces it with the new bra, and he's got some idea of what this looks like. Black satin and lace, curving over her breasts, a contrast to pale skin.

Panties slipping over skin, now, and he wishes he had gone to the back of the truck and battled the boxes. The old pair off, his eyes locked on the floor and he longs for a distraction. Something more normal than clearly focusing on not watching. A file folder to stare at, perhaps, but the only thing close to that in the truck is the packet in the box, and it is just as off-limits as the woman undressing a few feet away from him.

New panties on, and she is dressing quickly, he thinks. This has to be affecting her, too. You're not even the one half-naked. Maybe she wants you to look. Maybe that's why she wanted you to stay. Maybe she wants you to go over there, and touch her, and make her —

Jeans swish over the blood pounding in his ears, and he is grateful for the sound of the zipper. Sweater, and you're home free.

"I'm decent," she announces, and he thinks maybe her voice is a little shaky.

He looks up, catches her eyes for a moment before they dart down to the jacket. She picks it up, slips it on, and this is her now, he realizes. Leather jacket, black turtleneck sweater, hair close-cropped, sleek and dark. Whoever she is now, she'll look like that. This is Sydney, now, but she's not Sydney. She's the person in the packet.

She reaches into the box now, pulls out the last of its contents — boots, socks, and the packet. She tends to the footwear first, large tan manila envelope lying beside her, sealed but not labeled. He returns to studying the floor when she picks up the envelope, rips open the seal. Seeing her like this, seeing the new her, is acceptable. But the contents of the packet are too dangerous, he tells himself. And he can guess at them, anyway. Plane ticket. Birth certificate. Social Security card. Driver's license. Credit cards. All bearing the name of whoever Sydney Bristow is now.

Instructions, too, he thinks. What shade to dye her hair. SOP in case of an emergency. What address to go to when she arrives at her destination. A new history, as well, one far less complicated than Sydney Bristow's. Fake mother and father, fake education, fake resume. He listens as she rifles through the papers, then stops.

"Vaughn, this job. It's — "

He looks up, waves his hand to cut her off. Realizes he could have watched her the entire time; she has kept the envelope between him and the papers. "I can't know anything, Syd. Nothing."

"Oh, come on, Vaughn. It's just my occupation."

"I don't want to know." Abrupt. Too abrupt, he thinks. "It's safer for you if I don't know."

"I understand," she whispers.

Her eyes return to the papers.

———

Silence, as she finishes reading and slips the papers back inside the envelope. She looks sick and frightened, he thinks.

"You okay, Syd?"

She looks up, startled, at his first words in a long while. Chin quivering, eyes filling with sudden tears. "This is really it, isn't it?" A feeble wave of the envelope. "This is my life, now."

"Hey," and he is up, around the box quickly. Sitting beside her on the mattress, slipping an arm around her shoulders. She doesn't protest, leans into him instead, and he continues. "Sydney, you're an amazing person. Now you're going to go off, and make friends, have a career that has nothing to do with being a spy. You're going to do great. And you'll be safe."

"You don't know that for sure, Vaughn."

"I know you."

Silence, again, and he fears that was too much, that he has overstepped the line. This isn't the place or the time, and maybe there never was a place or a time. But she shifts, turns so her face is right in front of his, lips oh-so-close and quivering slightly, the impact of his words clear on her face.

It still shocks him — the pure, perfect sensation as her lips brush his. Soft and cautious, waiting for him to respond. To reassure her as she's reassured him.

Of course, Sydney, of course, and he opens his mouth to her. Too much sensation after years of nothing, he thinks. Too unbelievably good, her tongue sliding over his, the sudden heat of her in his lap, the tingle of her fingers slowly scraping up his neck, lacing through his hair.

Perhaps she understands; perhaps her reasons are her own. But she backs off, breaks the kiss.

"I need this, Vaughn. I need you," she whispers, lips still so close they graze his mouth. His cheeks are wet with her tears.

He says nothing in response, just kisses her like he's wanted to for years, slowly exploring her lips, her mouth. Hands slipping inside the jacket, beneath her sweater, tracing soft circles on warm skin briefly before pulling her closer. Deepening the kiss, hard and thorough, her chest so close he can feel each quick little breath.

She leans now, pushes against him, wants him to lie back against the mattress. This, too, is what he's always wanted. To pull those jeans and the sweater right back off. See — and do — what he's imagined. But not like this. Not on a mattress, in a truck speeding down the highway toward an inevitable end.

Because he can't be sure if this is real. If she has wanted this as much as he has, or if he is merely the last thing from her life she can have before it is all gone.

He breaks the kiss this time. "Sydney, we shouldn't — we can't."

"There's no CIA, anymore, Vaughn. There's no protocol," she says, hands on his shoulders and a dark, forceful stare into him. "There's not even a Sydney Bristow anymore."

"Maybe if things were different, Syd — "

"That's what you always say. But things aren't different, Vaughn. They aren't ever going to be different. This is it."

She pushes hard on his shoulders, but he holds a hand up, weak and wavering between them.

"I don't want to remember you this way."

"What way?"

"Here, having — having sex on a mattress in a cargo truck. We're more than that, Sydney. You're more than that."

She releases her grip on his shoulders, drops her hands down to her own lap. "You don't want this?"

"I do." You can't even imagine how much I do, Sydney. "But not like this."

Her hands on his now, eyes suddenly strong and resolute. "Then come with me."

"What?"

"Go into hiding with me."

"Sydney, I can't just — "

"Are you sure you're safe? I mean, we don't know how SD-6 found out about me. What if they caught us, saw us meeting? You might be in danger."

"The CIA is looking into that, Sydney, but it's a little premature to just — "

"Would they let you, if you asked to go too?"

"Probably, yes." Although there is no envelope here for him, a detail they would have to work out before they got to Phoenix. Other details, as well. His life in Los Angeles. Friends, family. The mother who would now lose a son to the CIA. But he lets the possibility in.

"Then come with me," she says.

He considers the possibility fully.

They will not get married. There will be no stop in Vegas, no quickie ceremony at some little white church in an equally quaint town. Part of the package, is how it works. The new birth certificates. Social Security cards. Driver's licenses. Resumes. Jobs. New lives. And, by the way, now we're Mr. and Mrs. Somebody — the marriage certificate an item in his envelope.

They will drive, in a new car, to their new home, already filled with boxes, furniture. New items of their new life, to be discovered over the next few days, and Sydney with the Christmas eyes when she finds a particularly pleasing detail. On the first day, however, there will be no discovery. Not of items, anyway.

They will be cautious, tentative, the first time. Make love on the new bed. Each trying to understand just what the other wants, how it should go to be right. Trying to actualize years of attraction, years of wanting, turn it into something else. For one night, at least, it will be wonderful. Many nights, perhaps.

She will tell him in a little diner in Podunk, USA, when the newness has worn off. Rap her nails on the faded formica. Look up over her black-mud coffee with big sad eyes.

"I don't think I love you anymore."

No, he corrects himself. Drop the anymore.

"I don't think I love you."

Perhaps she will phrase it differently. Take some of the weight off.

"I don't think I'm in love with you."

It doesn't matter, he tells himself, forcing his mind to halt the iterations of her fictitious statement.

She will say she does not love him, and he will think that this has been true for awhile. He will realize that love does not grow out of meetings in task force bunkers, dank warehouses and public places where he cannot even look her in the eye. It will not come out of admiration, or respect, or longing, or the things he wants. Then he will tell her the feeling is mutual.

And he will be all alone in the diner in Podunk, USA. Thinking about family, friends, co-workers. To them, he will be dead. To her, a mistake.

How will it feel then, he wonders. Like coming out of a fog after years in the haze? Can she break his heart if it isn't love? The answer is more simple than that. He will feel alone — more alone than he could ever be, in Los Angeles without her.

"Sydney, I can't." I can't be your mistake.

The tears form again, and she does not fight them. Lets them slip down her cheeks instead, fall on the mattress as she slides off of his lap, away from him. He reaches out, wants to squeeze her shoulder, hold her hand. Do something to make the tears go away again.

"Don't touch me."

"Sydney, look — "

"Vaughn, just — please, don't talk," she whispers. "Just leave me alone."

He turns as she sobs, considers turning back around and taking her in his arms. Telling her he's sorry, so sorry, and he'll go with her to Podunk, USA and she can leave him whenever she wants. But he keeps going, back to the cooler, and sits there.

It was never an option, and he knows this. But Vaughn wishes he would have stayed at LAX. Watched the truck drive away and take Sydney with it, out of his life. Remembered his image of happy Sydney, laughing with Dixon, not marred by complications and impossible decisions. Not sitting, back against the side of the truck, eyes harsh and pained from the things he's said.

———

She stops crying, some long, tense period of time later. Wordlessly picks up her new purse and her packet and begins stuffing cards into the wallet.

"Do you, ah, want something to eat?"

"No. Thank you." Quiet but harsh. "I'm not hungry."

The truck slows, angles down a hill. Exit ramp. Damn it, you're close and there's no time to fix this.

"Sydney, don't leave like this."

"Leave like what, Vaughn? You don't want to remember me making love. You don't want to remember me angry. Tell me, how do you want to remember me?"

"I don't know." But he does. He wants her from before the kiss and the truck and the tension. Happy Sydney with the big beautiful smile.

"I can leave however I want to, Vaughn. Obviously you don't care."

The truck comes to a sudden halt at that, throwing them both forward as his cell phone rings. He pulls it from his jacket; she begins to collect her things.

"This is Vaughn."

"Sorry about the sudden stop," Preston says. "We're almost there, now. Going to let you two off in a parking garage. Sydney's concourse is right across the street."

"Copy that."

Her new wallet goes into the purse as he hits the end button. "They're going to drop us off in a parking garage. Across the street from your concourse."

"Okay." Manila envelope carefully placed in the outer pocket of her carry-on, pocket zipped and double-checked.

The truck comes to another halt, this one final, and she stands, straightening her jacket, purse over her shoulder and carry-on in hand.

"Sydney, listen — " He struggles for something, one final phrase to dissipate some of her anger, some of her pain. But he finds nothing, and then the truck door is open, Sydney rushing out.

Vaughn follows, the wheels of her carry-on loud on the concrete in front of him, boots clicking fast and dark brown bob swishing as she walks. He could run, shout her name, try to catch up, but considers it too dangerous. There is too much invested in her current cover.

But he follows. Her pace is slowed by a cluster of cars as she crosses the street, enough for him to gain ground. And he catches her, finally, just after they enter the doors to the airport. He grabs her arm and she spins around, but he does not let go.

"I care about you. I always will. Don't you ever think anything else."

She blinks, three times, and he releases her arm.

"I know."