Two months and three days in — a fifth of the way to Peter's year — and Vaughn is celebrating. Not the milestone, or that it came faster than he had expected. Celebration today is for a win at Peter's gym, "good game" to everyone courtside, and the feeling of pushing his muscles again. They'll ache, later, but from hard use instead of trauma, a welcome change.

This is his second Saturday game with Peter's friends, and he isn't breathing quite as hard this time, which is progress, he thinks. He's evened out the group — six of them, now, all friendly thus far, and Peter was right, he thinks. They are good guys.

Vaughn picks up his duffel bag and water bottle, and heads for the locker room.

"Hey Mike," one of them — Dan — calls out. "You going to the bar tonight?"

"Yeah. Absolutely."

"Good. See you there."

This will be part of the structure soon, he thinks. New friends, these Saturday games, their bar and his soon-to-be-broken-in skates. No women and no dates since Lisa, but everything else is enough to make him forget the gaping holes for long stretches of time.

Enough to make him think that Michael Henderson's life could come far closer to normal than Michael Vaughn's.

———

Kelly's is a short, squatty place three blocks from Vaughn's apartment that garners more traffic than it can handle on Saturday nights. Owner Jim Kelly is in his 60s, and still works the taps whenever the place is short-staffed. The pizza is deep dish, sugar in the crust. Wooden booths and whatever's on tap — and there's quite a bit — scrawled all over the chalkboard behind the bar.

Vaughn learned all of this during his first trip here. This is his fourth, and he's decided he likes the place, save for the cigarette smoke — allowed and acceptable, it seems, in Illinois. He walks there quickly, past the Christmas lights and wreaths on his neighbors' doors, the sled marks in the snow covering their lawns.

It has snowed several times since he's been here — the first time most shocking, to glance out his window and see nothing but white. It melted, to barren trees and evergreens, just as jarring after years in Los Angeles. Enough time, he thinks, and he will adjust to that as well. Maybe you're adjusting too fast. Maybe it shouldn't be this easy to settle in.

He still hasn't figured out how to handle the cold, and he's glad to turn the corner, into the parking lot. He bought a new winter coat a few weeks ago, but it never seems to be quite enough for the December chill. He is at the door when he hears Peter calling his name.

"Hey, Mike! Wait up."

He does, despite the cold, and yanks open the heavy wooden door. Inside, and glad it's dark and warm, when Peter finally catches up.

"Nobody's here yet," Vaughn comments.

"Larry called me, said his wife wanted him to stay in tonight, so he may not make it," Peter says. "I don't know about everybody else. Probably just late, as usual."

He follows Peter to the bar, decides to try a local porter and says he'll pick up the first pizza. A quick quest for a desirable table, then, one close to a television and big enough for the entire group. They find one, on a side wall, a long, old wooden booth carved up with years of eating and love 4EVR. The beer is decent, he decides, smooth and probably worth consideration for a second pint.

"So," Peter says, clunking his own beer back on the table. "I have a question for you. And you don't have to answer. But, you know, I see you here, and then the whole thing with Lisa, and I have to ask — did you leave someone behind?"

"What?"

"A girl. Was there a girl? Someone you had to leave?"

"Sort of." Vaughn pauses. "It was complicated."

"I gathered. That was a yes or no question."

He's told no one the whole story, not even Weiss, but he feels compelled to tell Peter. But not here. "This probably isn't the best place to discuss it."

"It is now." Peter reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a different imitation-Cross pen and activates it. "She was your agent, wasn't she? The one you said you lost?"

Vaughn nods, stares down into his beer. Almost half-empty, already, and most of the foam is gone.

"I had a feeling there was more story behind that," Peter says. "But what was the deal with that? You knew she was in the protection program. So did she get pulled before you?"

"A little more than a year before me. I was with her when they drove her to the airport."

"And?"

"She asked me to go with her. Into hiding. We hadn't had that type of relationship, although I think we both wanted it. We followed the rules." He pauses, takes another sip. "I considered it, really seriously considered it, but at the time I thought it was just too big a leap. So I told her no."

"And then a year later you end up getting shot and placed in the program and regretting it."

"I regretted it long before that."

"I'm sure you've already realized this, Mike, but you're not ever going to see her again. You've got to start thinking about moving on."

"I've been trying to move on." In this life and the old one. And you haven't been very good at it, either way. It was a mistake, and you might well be alone for the rest of your life because of it. Call it the Curse of Sydney. "It's just, after knowing her — she's not an easy person to get past."

"I understand." Peter twists the thin silver pen around in his hands, watches it gleam in the dim light.

And maybe this is it. "You left someone."

"My girlfriend." He looks back up, uncharacteristically serious. "We were together, somewhere around a half a year, but I used to think, 'maybe she's the one,' you know? I made it out. She didn't. They killed her because she happened to be in my apartment. The Agency didn't have time to warn her. I found out on my way to the airport." Peter's voice wavers. "She didn't have anything to do with anything. She was just a civilian."

The pen beeps.

"I'm sorry."

"It's in the past. I try not to think about it, try to move on. I know it's rough. But it's the only way. You can't live as who you used to be."

They sit, silently, half-focused on football highlights running across the television screen. Vaughn dully offers to refill their beers when they finish, and check on the status of their pizza.

It is ready, and there are two more men at the table when he returns, pizza and two beers balanced precariously in his arms.

"Jumping right into the heavy lifting, aren't you, Mike?" Dan asks.

"Yeah." He laughs, hollow, places everything on the table, and sits next to Peter. But suddenly, he thinks, the food and the place and the night just don't feel as normal. And deep down, you and Peter aren't ever going to be normal. No matter how much he jokes and you try. Peter is oddly quiet, subdued, next to him, and they let Dan and Jason chatter about some "killer catch" this afternoon.

Vaughn scans the bar, the stream of people entering now, and this is when he sees her. Not her. Not Sydney. But close enough for his imagination. Her back, only, walking up to the bar in the middle of a big group, six or seven people. Hair dark and short, close to what he saw last on her. Gait confident, and oh so familiar. He's seen her before. At the grocery store, the mall. Once jogging down his street. But he saw her back in L.A., too. Always only a glimpse. Always just his imagination.

"I see you looking at her," Peter says, voice low. "You going to go talk to her?"

You'll try and you'll try and you'll try and it will never work, but what happens when you stop trying? "Yes."

He stands, starts across the room. She's standing in line, three deep now, at the bar, short black wool coat, jeans and boots, bar chic around here in December. He walks up behind her, suddenly tense, and too quiet when he finally speaks.

"Excuse me. Can I buy you a drink?"

She says nothing, doesn't acknowledge him. She can't fucking hear you. Speak up.

He places his hand on her shoulder. Gentle, careful, but enough that she'll feel it. "Excuse me — "

She spins quickly, looks straight at him. Similar. Too similar.

Holy fucking shit.

It is her.

———

Her eyes grow wide and surprised, but only briefly, and he thinks there is recognition. But she brushes past him, walking fast, toward the exit.

He follows. This is not even believable. This can't be real. But that was her. It really was her. Somehow. And you are not going to lose her now.

She is nowhere in sight when he pushes through the door, a burst of cold on his face. He searches, head snapping back and forth, left to right, but she is gone. No. No. No. This can't happen. It can't go this way. That was her and you were so close. Hand on her shoulder. So damn close.

He starts through the rows of parked cars. Perhaps one is hers, and she is sitting there, about to start it up. But why? To drive away? She knew it was you. She saw you. Maybe she doesn't want to see you. Maybe she never wants to see you again.

He is flat on his back before he can think anymore, her cry cutting through the air. Familiar from so many missions — a shriek through the comm link. His spine hits the pavement hard, old pain cutting through his shoulder, and for a moment he can't breathe.

She can, like it was effortless, and she straddles him. One hand clenched around his belt and twisting, a motion too well-practiced not to be habit.

"You got the eyes all wrong. Who are you? Who sent you here?" Her other hand comes up, pulls at his face, looking for a mask.

"It's me, Sydney. It's me," he chokes out.

Maybe it is his voice. Maybe she's realized there is no mask. Her eyes are still big, beautiful brown. But maybe she thinks about colored contacts.

Stunning realization on her face, now, and she releases the hand on his belt. Pulls it away from his body, palm flat, fingers shaking. The hand pulling at his face shifts, presses light against his cheek, and she stares down at him, mouth open slightly, tears in her eyes.

"It can't be you," she whispers, and he wants nothing more than to sit up and wrap his arms around her and tell her it most certainly can, although he's got no clue as to how or why. But her parking lot martial arts have drawn attention, he knows. He can hear the crowd beginning to gather, and they cannot do that. Not here.

"Shit, lady." She slides off of him, and he stands stiffly. "I just followed you out because you left your cell phone sitting on the bar." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his own phone and hands it to her. "Make sure you get your self-defense instructor something nice for Christmas."

A nice show of brushing himself off, to the amusement of the onlookers. They disperse, some to the bar, some to their cars, as he walks away, towards his apartment. He wants to sprint, run as fast as he can. Yank open the trick-lock door, pick up the phone and pound in the number. But he forces himself to keep his pace normal, inconspicuous.

The shock and adrenaline wear off after a block, and he realizes his coat is still draped over the back of the booth. The cold starts to seep through his sweater, but he won't turn back.