He wakes in her bed, but partially clothed — boxers and T-shirt — which is a change. It had been late last night when he'd moved to pick up his keys and leave and she'd quietly asked — long since done crying but her eyes still distressed — if he would stay, please.

The request had surprised him; he's stayed over plenty of times since they began dating, but there's always been sex involved. He slides his hand from her stomach to the warm sheet between them, and wonders how big a step this is.

He uses one elbow to prop himself up and watches her, still sleeping soundly, long shallow breaths. She was restless for much of the night, periodically pulling away from him and then returning, closer than before, until apparently exhaustion kicked in. He'd drifted off long before that, too much sleep missed over the last few days.

The light from the window outside is faint but growing, which puts the time at six-thirty, maybe seven. He glances around the room and halts, as usual, in the corner, the lone bookshelf in her bedroom, top shelf covered with candles. Two on the bottom completely empty, dusted clean.

The empty shelves had struck him as odd the first few times he'd been here. Then one day she'd opened the closet door and he'd noticed the books, stacked on the top shelf. Old, leather-bound, gold lettering on the spine — her mother's books. He'd stared for too long, overcome with the thought that somewhere in those books there were orders to kill his father, destroy his life.

She'd noticed, said she was sorry; she just couldn't bring herself to get rid of them. It's okay, he'd said, and wondered if she moved them recently, in anticipation of him visiting, or long before, when she first found out about her mother.

Sydney stirs beside him, and he returns his attention to her. Drowsy eyes sliding open, a weak smile when she sees him.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi. How are you feeling?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not very good at giving things time."

"It'll be okay," he tells her, skimming his fingers down her arm. "What are your plans for today?"

"I really need to finish that paper before I end up going on another mission."

"I'll get out of your hair, then, if you want," he says. "Maybe we can do something this evening, if you're done? Go out to dinner, maybe?"

"Yeah. I'd like that."

She kicks the covers away and stands, waiting for him to follow her.

———

Will and Francie are already in the kitchen, corn flakes and half a pot of coffee gone. He stays a step behind Sydney as they enter. He'd known this would happen, that they would meet in the morning, and figured it would be likely after he'd heard the other couple come in late last night. Still, it feels odd to be walking in half-clothed when he barely knows Francie and essentially recruited Will into the Agency. He has been hoping to spend some more time with them — Sydney is so close to both, it feels important to get to know them. But he'd prefer a different situation, something planned.

"Morning guys." From Francie, seated next to Will on the other side of the counter. Will echoes her greeting gruffly; he's never struck Vaughn as a morning person, although he's never had proof of this until now.

"Good morning." He moves to pour himself a cup of coffee, then walks around to sit next to Will. Sydney starts rummaging through a cabinet, in search of a different box of cereal.

Small talk for him, then. He'll try Francie, first — of the two, she's been more distant, less what he'd expected, based on what Sydney has told him..

But then, you knew Will before. Maybe it'll just take her some time to warm up to you. "How's the restaurant going?"

"Good. We were packed on Valentine's Day, so I think the numbers this month are going to be really great," she says. "What about you, Michael? How are things at the bank?"

"They're okay," he says. "They actually just transferred me because of my relationship with Sydney, so I'm just settling in to my new department."

"They transferred you because you two were dating? That's interesting."

Interesting isn't the choice of words he would have used. "Yeah. We weren't very happy about it, but there isn't much we could do."

Sydney sits down beside him, bowl full of shredded wheat and a cup of coffee.

"That's so sad," Francie says. "Do you have to go on a lot of trips? Sydney's always off on trips. I can hardly keep track of her."

"No," he says. "My job mostly keeps me here in Los Angeles."

"Hey, Fran, we should probably get going." Will stands and collects both of their bowls and mugs, striding around to the kitchen to dump them with a series of clanks into the dishwasher. He glances up at Sydney. "You mind?"

"No," she says. "I think you've washed enough dishes in the last couple months. Get out of here."

"Very funny, Syd." He walks back over to Francie, now standing halfway to the front door, waiting. "We'll see you guys later," he calls out, and they leave, Will's arm around Francie's waist.

Sydney waits until long after the door has clapped shut to speak. "Things seem to be going really well between them." She grins down at her cereal. "Will was so freaked out when they first started dating. Fran was much calmer about everything."

"She seems pretty calm about most things."

"She's been — different, I guess, since they started dating. I guess we've sort of grown apart lately. I've been so busy, I know I haven't invested the kind of time I should into our friendship. I was thinking now I could, with SD-6 gone, but we're both in relationships — not that that's a bad thing, obviously. But I'm not sure we'll ever get back to being as close as we were."

"You will," he says. "If you want to, you will."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I should get going, and let you get to work. I'll come back later, maybe six?"

"Yeah, that should be good."

He leans over, takes her chin in his hand. Long, lingering kiss, and he has to force himself to break away. "I'm going. Really. Now."

A big broad smile, his reward. "Give me a call if you need more time on your paper, okay?"

"Okay."

———

He calls Weiss as he's driving home. It takes him six rings to answer.

"Mike, we've had this discussion. 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday is not an appropriate time to call. Ever. Unless it's the apocalypse. And even then, I mean really, there's not much you're going to be able to — "

"You can go back to sleep in a minute. I just wanted to see if you wanted to do a game and pizza this afternoon."

"And what's Sydney doing this afternoon? She's busy, isn't she?"

"Uh, yeah." Apparently Sydney isn't the only one who's been neglecting a friend. "Sorry, I know I've been kind of scarce lately."

"Just kidding, Mike. I know you two have a lot of time to make up. But, you know, I would like to actually see my best friend every once and while. Your place or mine?"

"Mine," Vaughn says. "It'd be nice to see my apartment every once and awhile, too."

"Good. Mine's a mess."

"What else is new?"

"Whatever. Noonish?"

"That's fine."

Noonish means at least 12:30 to Weiss, which is good. There is something else he needs to do, first.

———

He parks on the curb outside a large pale yellow house in an older suburban neighborhood, about a half hour from downtown today, likely double that during rush hour.

He shouldn't have been able to get this address from work; the JTF has all files related to Marcus Dixon. But profiles of the agents Sydney had the most contact with were a part of her file, and he still has access to that. He'd stopped at work and copied down the address before heading home to shower and change. Khakis and a polo shirt, a little more casual. He hopes it will help that he's not a wearing a suit, but something so superficial probably won't matter to Dixon.

He walks up the concrete drive and then the winding sidewalk, flanked with bushes and fresh mulch. Stops when something under one of the bushes catches his eye, bends over to pick it up. A baseball, dirty and scuffed. Somebody's played a lot of catch with this one, he thinks, turning it over in his hand, running his thumb over the red stitching on the seams. He sets it down on the edge of the porch — someone should see it there — and rises to knock on the door.

It takes Dixon a long while to answer, and although Vaughn has never seen him up close, in person, he's certain that this face is haggard, for Dixon.

"My name is Michael Vaughn," he says. "I've been working with Sydney for the last two years."

Anger flashes across Dixon's face, and he steps outside, barefoot, standing on a clean, worn "Welcome Home" mat, closing the door behind him.

"What do you want? I thought I'd answered everything you people want to know."

"I'm not here to ask you any more questions," Vaughn says. "I'm here to talk to you about Sydney."

"I have nothing to say to her or about her."

The cold force in Dixon's voice surprises him. No wonder she was so upset.

"You're angry at her for not telling you."

"Angry — " Dixon pauses, voice choking. "Angry does not even begin to describe it."

He finds himself feeling sympathetic toward Dixon, sorry for the obvious pain of betrayal on his face. And yet also angry at him, for hurting Sydney. He takes a deep breath, collects himself.

"I was Sydney's handler, at the CIA. You want someone to blame? You want someone to be angry at? You be angry at me. I was the one who told her she couldn't recruit you. She begged me — on more occasions than I can count — to bring you in. And I told her that we couldn't risk it, that the Agency didn't trust you, and I couldn't let her do that. Not to mention the danger she would have put you in — "

"I would have wanted her to," Dixon says. "I would have wanted the danger, if it meant I knew the truth, and I had a chance to work on the right side."

"Would you have wanted that for your family? They killed Danny. That's how she found out in the first place. Would you want that for anyone you care about?" He thinks briefly of Dixon playing catch with a nameless, faceless child of eight or nine, and feels a little sick. "You know, she saved your life. She risked her cover to save you, when you were shot. She called us, for medical transport."

"I figured that," Dixon says, much of the strength gone from his voice.

"Then how can you stand here and be angry at her, and shut her out? She only did what she thought was right — what was right — and even then she felt guilty for lying to you."

"What do you want from me?"

"Just talk to her. Give her a chance. I think you owe her that."

Dixon nods, slightly. Vaughn isn't sure if it's a yes, or even an acknowledgement, but it is probably all he's going to get.

"She said you turned down their offer for recruitment. Can I ask why?"

"Yes, I did," Dixon says. "And no, you may not."

"That's a shame. She told me how good you were. She respected you, and no matter what you might think, she trusted you. Trusted you with her life." And she needs that again, now more than ever.

"I'm done with the intelligence world. I think I've done enough damage already."

"I guess if it were me, I'd look at it as a way to do some good. I know it's your decision, but it's the Agency's loss. We need more people like you out there." He stares at Dixon. No reaction. "I won't take any more of your time. Just, please, talk to Sydney."

He turns and starts walking before Dixon can respond.

———

The pizza arrives before Weiss does. Sausage, pepperoni, green peppers and onions — long their tradition, started by Weiss. "Pizza's the best way to mask the vegetables," he'd said, and Vaughn had been afraid to ask if those were the only vegetables he ever ate.

The pizza box goes on the kitchen counter next to two bags, one paper plates, one napkins — they always try to get through the afternoon without having to do dishes. He returns to the living room and switches on the television, starts to flip channels. He hadn't planned exactly what they were going to watch, but they often don't. Really, he just wants to spend some time with Weiss.

Weiss walks through the open front door, yells a hey into the living room and heads straight to the kitchen for a paper plate overloaded with three slices, plus a beer.

He sits next to Vaughn, who's settled on college basketball, glancing down at Vaughn's two-slice plate and Coke can.

"You're not drinking? Beer-and-pizza afternoon necessitates beer, Mike."

"I might have one later."

"You're going out with Sydney this evening, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"You two make me sick, but it's okay, really. I take it things are still going well?"

"Yeah. I sort of keep waiting for the bottom to drop out."

"You think it will?"

"I don't know. It's going really well now, but — there are a lot of things we're going to have to work out, eventually."

"Once the shine wears off?"

Vaughn marvels briefly at Weiss' ability to work through a whole slice of pizza in this time and still carry on a conversation. "Something like that," he says. "She had to miss dinner with my mom because of the mission earlier this week."

"You weren't going to tell her, were you? Your mom? About her mom?"

"No. But she wanted to, and I know she feels guilty, and nothing related to Irina Derevko is ever going to be easy between us, especially as long as Sydney wants to have some sort of relationship with her." He shakes his head. This is not what he wanted to concentrate on right now.

"Considering how amazing it is that you've made it this far, I think there's hope for the two of you," Weiss says.

"I hope so." Vaughn takes a swig of Coke and settles back into the couch, decides maybe he will have a beer. Maybe even two, just relax for awhile.

"How are things with you?"

"Okay," Weiss says. "Not much going on, really. Work's been keeping me really busy."

"Yeah, Sydney too."

He stands, half-full Coke can in hand, and heads to the kitchen to swap it for a beer. He'll drink that, they'll watch some of the game, and maybe, eventually, that will give them something to talk about.

———

He knocks on Sydney's door just before six. Another shower, mostly to clear his mind of the second beer, and a dark suit now.

She answers, wearing a simple, well-cut red dress, hair pulled back.

"You look amazing, Syd."

She smiles. "This is what I bought for myself in Paris."

"I like it better than my presents. And I really liked my presents."

Her smile widens.

———

The restaurant is downtown, and although he's been here several times and loved the food, the real reason he picked it was because it was upscale enough to mean she'd need to wear something along the lines of the red dress.

There is a long silence after they've sat and he's ordered a bottle of wine; they're still not very good at dinner small talk, especially now that they've exhausted all of the major things they've wanted to learn about each other. Now they're down to little details and the day-to-day, and he is no longer allowed to know about a big chunk of her everyday.

"How's your paper going?" The only safe topic he can think of.

"It's almost done," she says. She seems subdued tonight, quiet during the car ride here, quiet now.

"Syd, is everything okay?"

"Yes." It sounds like a lie, looks like a lie. "I'm just tired."

"Is it whatever's going on at work?"

No response.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it? You don't have to give me any specifics."

"It's a lot of things, really," she says. "I just wish we were making more progress on Sloane. I don't think I'll really feel free until we catch him."

"You'll get him, Syd. If you can take down the Alliance, you can find one man."

The waiter arrives, then, with the bottle, and he inwardly curses the interruption. There is still something else bothering her, and maybe that was his chance to draw it out. He watches her, staring back at him, giving nothing away, as he lifts his glass, takes a sip and declares it fine.