Chapter 3 — Gatsby
 

They are waiting for him when his plane lands back at LAX. Two junior agents — one, "Come with us, please, Agent Vaughn," in a low voice. They take him to a safehouse, quiz him for six hours. No, I was never tailed. I never noticed any surveillance. Agent Bristow and I have always been careful. We followed SOP. And I know how to do my fucking job.

Probably not his fault, they tell him, but they have to ask. And nothing is absolute until they get confirmation from Jack Bristow. Then they ask if he took Sydney Bristow's exit statement. He tells them she was too emotionally distraught, and they were more focused on getting her out safely. Yes, focused on that. Not the biggest decision of your life, and what it did to her.

She has arrived at her new home by now, he knows. Unpacking and discovering alone, and no one there for her when she cries. Extra tears, extra pain on her face. His fault.

Elsewhere, police are telling Will and Francie she is dead. Lost control of her vehicle and wrapped it around a pole or a tree, perhaps drove it off a cliff. Dead either way long before it burst into flames.

He spends the night on a couch in the safehouse. Wordlessly accepts the duffel bag full of clothes and "I'm sorry, man," Weiss brings him in the morning. Takes the duffel bag into the tiny bathroom and wonders how much lonelier Podunk, USA would have felt.

———

The CIA gives him a month of paid vacation. Tells him to go somewhere and lay low.

His first vacation since Sydney Bristow walked into the CIA, and he should appreciate the time. Failure, somewhere along the line, to keep an asset placed, but shrug it off, Agent, because you've got to take it when you get it. He decides he'd rather be at work, but he doesn't have a say.

He drives to Seattle, checks into a downtown Holiday Inn. Goes to baseball games and takes walks in the rain. Sleeps with his gun on the nightstand and reaches for it when his next door neighbors stumble in at three in the morning, slamming their room door shut behind them. Finds he can't get back to sleep before the sound of them fucking reaches him through the wall.

He finds a bookstore on the sixth day's walk. Realizes he knew little about that part of Sydney's life — the life she wanted to have. Thinks he made the right decision, but walks inside anyway. Browses the aisles, looking for a way to connect, now, when it is too late.

Literature, that much is easy. Oak shelves next to the coffee shop, people sitting at little round tables, reading books they don't intend to buy. The strong thick smell of espresso — he's quickly growing tired of it — and steam hissing next to him as he stands, overwhelmed by the titles. Too many to choose from, and not enough background to make a choice. Easy enough to rule out a few he remembers from college, the ones by Russian authors. He scans, waits for something to jump out. Halts finally on a title and a memory.

He remembers her smiling as she glanced at her watch. That he launched into her countermission at their next meeting, didn't think to ask how the paper went. But it must have been good; he can't imagine anything else from her.

He pulls the paperback from the shelf, feels a little strange with just The Great Gatsby in his hand, and heads to the magazines, grabs a Sports Illustrated, before he checks out.

There is a liquor store five doors down from the bookstore, and he buys a local pinot noir and a corkscrew. Heads back to drink it from a hotel room water glass and read the book he's not even sure she liked.

———

Jack Bristow risks contact in the middle of the twelfth day, fifth book, and sixth bottle of wine. A brief, coded message to his own handler.

They send Weiss to collect him, tell him he can go home, that SD-6 is not aware of his existence. Sydney's cover blown, instead, by a failed countersurveillance device and an ill-timed conversation with Will Tippin where she referenced the CIA. Just once, but enough for Arvin Sloane to step up scrutiny. To eventually set her up, catch her making a switch on this last mission. Watching from Marshall-hacked video feed as she swapped documents SD-6 wanted with the ones the CIA had created, and unknowingly sealed her fate.

He packs quickly, feels relieved. There will be no protection program for him, no packet. No lonely trip in the back of the truck to some other airport. No sliding the key into the lock of his new house and thinking he could have done this with her, their marriage license in the packet and his arm around her waist as they step inside.

No, he'll go back to his normal life. Normal life minus Sydney. But she's safe somewhere, and she'll be happy, he tells himself. And you'll move on. You have to.

———

He goes home and reconnects. Calls his mother, sister, friends, and tells them he wants to talk to them, see them. Wants to remember why he stayed. Lunch, dinner, trips to the bar. Weiss says he's turned into a regular social animal.

———

Barnett tells him at his first required meeting that many handlers feel a sense of failure when they lose an agent — even when it's not their fault at all. She wants him to talk, tell her if he has these feelings. Especially, she says, given his relationship with Ms. Bristow.

He tells her he had a professional relationship with Agent Bristow. It's funny, she says. Agent Bristow said exactly the same thing about him, and rather adamantly.

He does not ask her about feelings of regret.

———

He leaves work early his first day back. Stays late the second, although he really doesn't have anything to work on — his primary responsibility gone and hiding now. But it feels productive to sit there and read over-analyzed intelligence.

A knock on the door at 5:15. His secretary, Susan. Short, lithe and blond, standing in the doorway, purse in hand.

"I'm on my way out. Did you need anything else?"

"No, thanks."

"I'm glad you're back safe. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow." She fiddles with the purse strap, looks like she wants to say something else. Remind him, maybe, that he really should go home. That there's nothing of great importance to do here. It is Tuesday and he's got nothing on his suddenly burgeoning social calendar until Thursday night. Nothing at home but his empty apartment, and he's in no big hurry to get there.

"Wait," he says. "Are you doing anything for dinner?"

Probably a mistake. But he's not quite sure what a mistake is anymore.

———

He takes her to the little Italian restaurant, the one formerly reserved for Sydney. Orders a bottle of wine, suggests the eggplant parmesan, and tells himself to throw everything reserved for Sydney out the window.

Considers Susan, instead — punctual, accurate, attentive Susan. She's not unattractive, he decides, although he hasn't exactly been paying attention for the last few years. She has been his secretary for the last five, and he knows the basics — her birthday, that she's single, that her favorite color must be purple, because it shows up time and again on shirts, scarves, jewelry.

"So," she says, fork full of spaghetti and eyes a little sleepy from the wine. "Have you been able to get back to playing?"

"Playing?"

"Hockey. Now that your schedule's a little — a little more regular."

"Oh." She knows plenty about him, he thinks, gleaned from phone calls and minding his schedule. "No. Not yet. I haven't really thought about it. I'm still trying to get settled."

"You should. I mean, before you get weighed down with another agent."

He had never considered Sydney a weight, a burden, but he keeps this to himself. "That's what they told me about my vacation time, too. Get while the getting's good."

She laughs. "Where did you go, anyway?"

"Seattle."

"You a big fan of rain?"

"Baseball."

"Ah." Her index finger runs circles around the rim of her wineglass. "I was really afraid — for you."

She looks up, blushes in the candlelight, and he's missed all of this, he thinks. Her knowledge and her concern and her sense of humor. He thinks of many things to say — I didn't realize you cared enough to worry, I've never noticed how pretty your eyes are — none of them appropriate, and so he lets them lapse into silence instead. Gives her a smile and waits for the topic to settle.

"This is really good, by the way," she says, finally, gesturing with her fork. "How did you ever find this place?"

"I live a couple blocks down."

"You know," she gives him a bold wine smile. "I don't think I've ever seen your apartment."

You have to do it. You have to move on. Moving on means it wasn't a big mistake. "You're welcome to the grand tour, if you'd like."

———

She doesn't see much of his apartment, even when they get there. Doorknob turned, two steps inside, a quick glance at his sparse living room. "Very nice," she says. And then her hand is on his shoulder, pulling him into her, lips aggressive on his.

He likes the way she kisses. Likes that there's been no pretense tonight, that they've been clearly headed in this direction and he's seen it coming. Hasn't doubted it, hasn't second guessed himself. Likes her hands on his arms, back, ass. This isn't the right way to move on, he thinks, but maybe there is no right way to move on.

Hands on his jacket, and it is gone quickly. "I'm glad they let you come back," she says, pulling at his tie.

"Me too." A lie, although he's trying desperately to make it the truth.

Shirt buttons next, together, her stumbling through the starch of his dress shirt, him an easier time with her sweater. Standard, drab CIA secretary gray, as distinctly unprovocative as the rest of her wardrobe. But she surprises him, halfway down, with red and black lace. He traces the border between bra and skin with his thumb, wonders what else she hides under the plain exterior.

And everything about her systematic march through his clothing has a well-planned feel to it. Dress shirt down and away from his shoulders. T-shirt up over his head and her hands raking up over his chest. How long has she wanted this, he wonders. Was there a difference in her tone when she told him Alice called? Were there jealous looks when he left the office to meet with Sydney?

He wonders how long he's been in the fog, how many signals he has missed. How many chances he has passed up. How good things could have been with Susan already if he'd noticed it all long before now.

Hands at his belt now, insistent.

"Not in here." He takes her hand, leads her to his bedroom.

Calls it accepting reality.

———

Always-punctual Susan is twenty minutes late to work the next morning, and he says nothing. Manages to greet her without his voice wavering. Wonders what she wears beneath the purple silk blouse.

He gives her half an hour to get settled, then calls her into his office and tells her to shut the door. She sits on his couch, cheeks red, and waits for him to speak.

"Last night was — it was probably too soon." Or not soon enough. Or who the fuck even knows anymore. "But I would like to see you again."

"Oh." She is surprised. Pleased.

He asks her what she's doing on Friday. Nothing, she smiles.

And on Friday he does it right. Flowers and a fancy restaurant and he spends the date searching for things about her he likes. Searching, and finding, and he thinks maybe — just maybe — this will all work, and there will be no mistake.

———

Two months later, she walks into his office again and closes the door.

"I can't do this anymore," she tells him. "Every time you wake up, you're disappointed I'm not her."

He had thought he was better at hiding it than that.

She requests a transfer. His new secretary is pushing 60, and he doesn't intend to make that mistake again, anyway.

———

There is a globe in his office, the bigger, better-decorated one that came with the promotion Sydney got him. Obsolete and out of date, but still nice to look at, he used to think. Now he stares at it, thinks about geography and his former agent.

She is somewhere, and this is still all he knows. Somewhere cold and tiny and Midwest, the perfect place to hide a formerly valuable asset. And he will never ask where. Never dig for coordinates, the name of a town.

Because he does not want to know. Tells himself he would only feel the need to search it out on every map he sees. To look it up on some dot-com yellow pages site and calculate the travel time and driving distance from L.A. To wonder if she gets her car serviced at Ned's Muffler. To learn the name of their diner. To drive himself crazy until he has got to drive out there, show up on her doorstep. Break all the rules and put her in danger.

This is one way he could see her again — to destroy the happiness and safety he's created for her in his mind. The other is to take down SD-6, the Alliance. Make it safe for her to return, for a tearful reunion with Will and Francie. They would send him to get her, he thinks, tell him to drive out there and show up on her doorstep. He imagines her standing there, staring in shock, then rejecting him, as he did her. I'm happy here, Vaughn. I don't want to leave, but why don't you come in and meet my husband, you fucking asshole? She'll stay, he thinks, but she'll never doubt the decision. Never wonder if it was a mistake.

He works to take down SD-6 anyway, because it is a firm, tangible goal — the only one he has. But progress has slowed, nearly to a halt, with a gaping hole that became clear shortly after they lowered Sydney's empty coffin into the ground. Jack Bristow's intelligence is valuable, but not as useful without a field agent to make switches, withhold intel, and cut SD-6 off at the source.

———

Six months after he buries his daughter, three months after he reports he is no longer under suspicion at SD-6, Jack Bristow takes a risk. He recruits Marcus Dixon, a quick, devastating process marked with irrefutable proof of SD-6's true purpose.

The risk pays off. Dixon becomes the CIA's newest double agent.

Vaughn learns he is no longer agentless when Devlin calls him into his office and tells him to prep for their first meeting later that evening. This relieves him — it means no more time being shuttled amongst departments that claim they need more manpower, poring over SD-6 intel in every extra minute he can steal. He will have to hurry to prepare, but the sudden need and urgency is refreshing.

Back in his office, Dixon's angry, sad statement goes into a new manila file folder. "Dixon, Marcus," scribbled on the tab, carefully so the ink won't smudge. He rolls open his filing cabinet and can't help but look at "Bristow, Sydney," by far the thickest.

On most days, he is able to ignore it. But there is a sad familiarity in Dixon's pages of betrayal, meticulously detailed, and it brings him back to the beginning. He lets himself pull it out, flip through the pages, lingering on her picture. This one is stern, professional — nothing like the smiling, happy Sydney he remembers. But it helps him make sure the version in his mind is accurate, when she starts to fade.

Other pictures in her file, as well, including the one that always makes him pause. Daniel Hecht, a lopsided smile destined for his hospital ID badge, acquired posthumously by the CIA. His name was always Danny, Vaughn remembers, soft and loving from her lips. Always a reminder of who he couldn't be. Who he wasn't.

The man who would have shared her life, had things gone differently. The man she said yes to. The man she loved enough to tell the truth. All of it.

A place, he used to think, she would never completely fill again. But he had always wanted the chance. Wanted that kind of love with her.

He still does, he realizes. And knows, fully, what has been creeping around the edges of his consciousness for months. It was a mistake, he thinks. A mistake not to try. There was a chance — remote, maybe, but a chance — it would have worked.

And maybe he underestimated the payoff. Overestimated the risks. Should have known that this was how it would go. That he would struggle to get past her, to move on, and never really succeed. That he would grow angry at mother, sister, friends, for being what he couldn't leave behind. That there would be Susan, and more women after her, and none of them would be Sydney, or even anything close. That he would rather be alone, with resolution, than here, where he can only wonder.

———

Dixon, he finds, is curt but polite. Accepts his countermission quietly, and doesn't argue about the plan, ask him if he's in junior high. He has only one question, the same one Will Tippin did.

"She's not really dead, is she?"

He responds with the same lie he gave Tippin. Sydney Bristow, dedicated agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, found out and driven off the road by SD-6 Security Section. Car wrapped around tree and in flames before anyone could help. Most definitely dead.

———

He finds he likes meeting with Dixon. Likes doling out countermissions and having a purpose again. And they are making progress. Dixon has been paired with a green agent, someone without the experience to notice the more daring switches they attempt now. And Jack Bristow, the scrutiny for his daughter's wrongdoings fading with time, works to bring down SD-6 with an almost frightening focus. Vaughn still fears none of it will be enough, that they will never be able to bring her back. Never bring him resolution.

The anniversary of her "death" arrives, nearly passes without him noticing. Because she is as gone on this day as she is any other. But Dixon mentions putting flowers on her grave; Weiss stops by his office and asks if he wants to go out, grab a beer. He drives until he finds a Borders and buys a book instead.

———

October comes uncharacteristically cold, but he likes it because it matches his mood most of the time. Windy and gray as he steps out his front door, car keys in hand and ready for a meeting with Dixon. Maybe a storm coming, he thinks, pounding down the front steps, coat flapping.

He never sees the red dot on his chest, but he hears the first shot. Knows in that instant that somehow, inexplicably, SD-6 has identified him. Knows with absolute certainty that it was a mistake, and he'll never have a chance to correct it.

This is his last thought before everything goes black.