Her death was not a surprise when it finally came, the end of a long, familiar path.

Months of missing, and then a body. Proof, and then dead.

This time, he'd been ready.

Anyone with enough experience in grief knows hope and denial are the same thing, with different spin. A lesson he learned a long time ago, and used when the similarities appeared.

Certainly, there were differences. Back then, he had walked into a spotless kitchen and found his mother sitting on the floor, crying, telephone bouncing off the hook on the wall beside her. This time, a gun in his hand as he swept into that disaster area and knew things were just as out of control.

In the end, the result was the same.

For the second time in his life, there was a corpse and a set of dental records. The first time, there'd been a careful, truthful (despite his age, because that was always her way) explanation from his mother as to just what that meant. The first time, he'd hoped they were wrong. That somehow the proof was wrong.

The proof was wrong, and someday his father would walk through the door as if he'd just run down the street for groceries. Look at them, standing there in shock, and ask if Michael had been oiling his glove, because they hadn't played catch in more than a month. Three months. Six.

A year, and then he started to lose hope.

Hope only makes it hurt worse when you finally realize it's futile. When you accept that the proof was right, and dad really isn't coming home.

He'd carried that with him into this. Told himself that there was no reason to believe there was someone out there with just the right set of molars and bicuspids and fillings to fool the lab techs. That dental records were enough to know for sure, even with the body too far damaged to pull DNA, for more conclusive proof. Buried that hope long before they buried her, the dirt black in his hands before he tossed it onto the closed casket.

Closed — always closed — and empty. Two sets of remains in a CIA vault somewhere, two stars chiseled into the wall.

After the first time, he'd decided that it was better to accept reality. That hope, inevitably, ends in pain.

He's learning now, through the second, that giving up hope can do the same thing.

There has been hope, or perhaps denial, in his dreams. But he cannot control those.

The same one, almost every night, with minor variations. Up there next to the altar, and the minister speaking. Low, quiet, tense.

And Sydney — of course Sydney — storming through the back of the church, a different outfit every time. Evening gown. Leather pants. Cocktail dress. Business suit.

Her words are always the same.

I have an objection.

Low and strong, pure Sydney. The first pure Sydney he's heard in so long.

And he listens, and looks at her for a second, and in that way that dreams work, instantly, unquestionably, believes she is alive and things will be all right. And doesn't think twice about running to her, pulling her into his arms.

Maybe they kiss. Maybe they don't. He always drifts awake with no clear memory of that part. And in the moment before reality sets in, he feels relief, that somehow his life isn't what it is. Then he awakens fully and remembers the woman — not Sydney — sleeping next to him.

From the beginning, he'd felt the end coming.

Felt that the odds of them having a chance together were so impossibly high that when they finally got that chance, they couldn't possibly have it for long. That they were together on borrowed time, rushing toward one of hundreds of scenarios he envisioned for their inevitable end.

It could easily have been them. There was more than enough fodder for self-destruction in their relationship. Danny, and her mother, and his father, and a lot of conversations they should have had, but didn't. There was the simple matter of going from brief meetings and smiles across the ops center to almost every day together, all the time.

They'd handled that transition well. Too well, he'd thought, and maybe it would end that way, with the novelty suddenly gone and them clamoring for more space or some other relationship cliché. With them realizing that it was all borne out of the situation — handler-asset-forbidden-fruit — and the fall from the pedestal would have been a long, hard one.

Maybe that they didn't was why he felt her absence so completely.

But even if it wasn't them, he'd always felt something would end it. There would have to be something.

Arvin Sloane. Her mother. Milo Rambaldi.

Something would end it, because nothing this good could ever last.

Borrowed time.

For years, his mother had preached compromise, long-distance. You can settle now, with a wonderful woman, she'd said, or you can wait for the right one to come along, and hope she actually does someday.

He hadn't wanted to settle, hadn't ever wanted to compromise, although there had been points where they'd looked very attractive. But he'd never been able to answer the question, until Sydney.

You just know. And you can't see things any other way.

That had been his time with Sydney, marked with the feeling, deep in his stomach, that she was the one, and if — or when — things did crash to an end, that was it.

That wasn't it. That was just the high-water mark.

He hadn't settled, in moving on. He'd accepted.

Accepted that while Sydney was the love of his life, he would never know if he had been the same for her. Accepted that he would never love anyone like that again, never feel that sort of connection, never find a relationship that intense.

And what he has now might be love, but it's not the same. He's never felt it might spiral out of control. Never feared it will burn so bright it explodes.

Never thought about borrowed time.

A wedding ring is generally a bad thing for someone who tends to fidget anyway. He is aware of this, but it's there, and he's nervous, so he sits, legs stretched out in front of him, and uses his thumb to twirl it around his finger.

Round and round and round, and he's glad the flight has been smooth so far. Smooth and comfortable, up here in first class. No baby crying across the aisle, nosy old woman in the seat next to him. No girlfriend, no wife beside him, either, to fall asleep on his shoulder, hold his hand on the armrest and chat about nothing important when she wakes.

Round and round and round, until the stewardess asks him if he'd like something to drink.

Yes. Red wine, please.

It's going to be a long flight, and he'd really like to get some sleep.

If this had gone right, if it was some grand, sweeping epic black-and-white movie tale romance, he would have known, somehow. He would have had some sort of magic cinematic radar that told him to blow off debrief and go inside with her. Or maybe to turn around, tires squealing, on intuition he doesn't have, and get back to her apartment in time to make a difference.

If this had gone right, and he'd still lost her (because the script said that would make for a better movie, one with more memorable lines and a bigger, more dramatic kiss at the end), he would ignore all the proof, turn to back channels to find her. Spend all of his time in grimy shirts with the sleeves rolled up and only find sleep at the back end of enough Jose Cuervo. He would know she was alive, somehow. Would feel it in his bones, and wouldn't hate her for not contacting him, not letting him know.

If this went right, he'd have no wedding ring. Or he'd have one, but it would be because his wife had taken pity on him, pulled him away from the tequila at some bar and been the kind, understanding one, and it would have been the least he could do in return.

She'd found him at a bar, all right. But it had been playing pool, mostly sober. She'd flirted, and he'd flirted back — out of habit, if nothing else. And she'd been there the next week., and the next, and one of those weeks he'd asked her to dinner.

In the real world — in the color world without the all-knowing script — you have to move on.

He's not sure if he believes it is her. He's not sure if he wants to let himself think it could be.

Intellectually, he's half expecting a double, or an ambush. This is why he wishes he had a gun, although it's been more than a year since he's carried (much less shot) any sort of weapon. Intellectually, he's afraid they sent him because every other option that made sense was unavailable and they knew he would drop everything to go (and he's expendable, now that he's a civilian). Intellectually, he knows that he's moved on, and if the real Sydney Bristow is sitting in a Hong Kong safehouse waiting for him, his life just became unbelievably complicated.

In spite of all this, he wants desperately to see her, hold her, kiss her, one more time. He wants to hope, complications be damned. And wouldn't it somehow be so like her — fucking Lazarus Sydney, back to turn his life upside down one more time.

Sleep comes only in fits, when there is all this to consider. He returns to twirling, round and round and round, as they make their final approach.

In his early years at the Agency, he'd never been wanting for a mentor. He was Bill Vaughn's kid, and therefore spared a lot of the crap rookies were supposed to have to deal with.

He'd never quite been sure how to feel about that, but he'd taken advantage of it. You'd have to be stupid not to. And so it was a rare week when there wasn't I knew your father, great guy and such a shame, which eventually segued into a pointer or two.

Some had been useful, others not so much. The best had always come from George Scott, who'd worked with his father for three years and he remembered vaguely from occasional childhood visits. On his last day — still more than five years short of retirement — George (always George, never Agent Scott, which he'd appreciated) had pulled him aside.

He'd nodded, thought the speech made sense given George's heart condition, the stress and the fatigue on his face towards the end of his tenure at the Agency. But he'd never really seen himself reaching that point.

He'd heeded George's advice two months after her funeral. Told Weiss first, at halftime during Monday Night Football, the pale scar on his best friend's neck visible without the dress shirts of work.

I'm quitting the Agency, he'd blurted out, after spending most of the first half trying to think of a way to broach the subject.

It hadn't really come as a surprise to either of them.

He'd filed his two weeks notice, paid George and his wife a visit, and taken a job at a bank (trying, and not succeeding, to avoid seeing the irony of that).

He was surprisingly good at the new job. Enough years of following bad money around the globe prepared you for that, he'd decided.

They promoted him last week, to a salary just north of double what he made at the CIA.

He's got the job, now, and the wife. Maybe someday the family. All-in-all, he thinks, it comes pretty damn close to the American dream.

He tries not to think about how quick he was to drop it all for a woman who may or may not be just a short cab ride away, now. Tries not to wonder if he'd rather still be protecting everyone else's American dream.

Live his own dream, again, if he could ever get back there.

In the epic movie romance, the hero sprints through the hallway of this hellhole of a safehouse, yanks open the door to her room, and it's her, because he knew it was her, because he never gave up hope. Perfect, sweeping kiss, and The End. Script it across the screen. Roll credits.

In this version, he walks slowly, tries to prepare himself. Tries not to think about what insects are lurking in dim corners. Tries not to breathe deep; there's a strong undercurrent of urine and unwashed human beneath cooking oil and chicken. He's been in worse places, but it's been awhile for that.

He pauses outside the door, hand on the old metal knob, bracing himself. Half expects Arvin Sloane and the business end of a Walther on the other side. Or perhaps doubled Sydney, or turned Sydney. Ditto on the gun. If it's one of them, he'll give them whatever's left of his old skills, and it probably won't be enough.

But if it's not, god if it's not and it's really her —

It's been more than 24 hours since Weiss called, and he's been considering this possibility ever since.

He's still got no idea what he'll do.

Two years sounds meager in the abstract. A tiny number, two. Something he could have waited out, with more determination. More hope.

Almost two years is also almost 730 days. In his case, 712, each one looming large and long ahead of him, particularly in the beginning.

Two years is an X every day on his desk calendar, each one an accomplishment. Two years includes two months of frantic searching, false leads, and desperation. Two years includes a funeral where Marcus Dixon gave the eulogy, because he didn't trust himself to hold it together, and no one else was around. Two years includes the night he drove to her old apartment — cleaned up and for rent at that point — and sat on her doorstep, put his head in his hands and cried long into the night.

Two years includes three months of wedding preparations and a two-week honeymoon — his longest vacation ever. It includes five times the news networks reported a significant terrorist threat, and he barely quelled the urge to pick up the phone and call the ops center. Ask if they needed his help, if they wanted him back.

Two years includes one conversation about children, and one decision to wait.

It's a long time to live.

It's a longer time to lose.

He'd heard the transcript of her call, read the report by the safehouse manager. Should have thought of this, been prepared for all that time gone and confusion with no explanation on her end.

Perhaps if he'd had more time to think. Perhaps if he hadn't been so consumed by the question of is her versus isn't her. Perhaps if is her had not been followed immediately, every time, by then where the hell has she been? Spinning into why couldn't she make contact and had she done this out of her own free will and if so why, why, why hadn't she asked him to go with her? And, always, ultimately, did she love him, was he the one?

He'd assumed that she'd know at least part of the story. Would have heard it from her captors, if she'd had captors. Would have been watching him from wherever she'd been, if she hadn't.

But no, she remembers none of it, fucking none of it, and he'll get no answers for his own questions tonight.

He asks if she'd like some food, something to drink, a doctor. She refuses all three; he knew she would, but it gives him a little time to prepare.

Then he tells the story, all of it. And aches for her.

Because he is the only one left who was close to her. The only one they could ask to bring her back. And he's not what he was to her then. Not even close.

Differently enough that when she held him, it wasn't a brief escape, like his dream. It was the perfect movie moment, their reunion. I love you, Sydney. I never gave up hope. Kiss. Roll credits.

But no. With Francie dead, Will in witness protection, Dixon on assignment, and Jack off God knows where, he is all she has left. And that's wrong, really terribly wrong, he thinks, and there isn't any way to fix it.

Somehow, all of this quickly twisted into something very not right. And some of it is his fault.

Most of it, even.

Sunrise in Hong Kong is trash in back alleys and neon fading in its final hours. Sydney, sitting on the vinyl cab seat next to him, swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands as he stares out his window and pretends not to notice. His thumb on the ring before he catches himself, knows he cannot twirl. Cannot do that to her.

Sunrise is reality, not relief.

He begins sentences in his mind, searching for something that will fit.

And stops. Nothing fits. Nothing ever will.

They'll get to the airport and he'll upgrade them both to first class because he's got to do something with all this new fucking money. She'll take the window seat and stare outside and he will not, absolutely will not, touch the ring.

He will order a red wine, and maybe another. Sit quietly beside her, and think about all of the missing time, all the explanations she cannot give. And there is one thing she must remember, but he will not ask it.

Neither of them are ready for that, he thinks. Not for the question. Or the answer.

These things can wait. But soon, he knows, he's going to need them.

Questions, and answers, and a little more borrowed time.