He floats through morning routine, headache and hazy on the drive over, his only sleep that few hours beside Sydney the evening before. Quiet hello to the pool secretary when he gets off the elevator, computer out of standby, passwords in, no new messages.

Initial report due tomorrow. He'll work on nothing but the station mole today; he will not open that bottom drawer, will not take out the journals, will not get caught up in tangents with files three decades old. He will make up all of that wasted time. And maybe, somehow, if you make some progress on Munich and SD-2, it will help Sydney find Arvin Sloane —

He stands, chair rolling back behind him, spinning, and starts the journey downstairs. He has read portions of Sloane's file, but always as part of the numerous psychological profiles on Sloane to come out of Analysis. He'd read through them all when he'd started on the SD-6 case; most painted Sloane as cold, calculating, level. They focused on the years after he'd left the Agency.

The elevator ride seems to take longer than normal, packed full and stops on almost every floor. He looks at his watch, 7:56 — he's put himself right in the middle of morning rush. He stands in the corner and wills the crowded silver box to get to "B" faster.

The basement is empty, as usual. He walks down to the other end of the room, "Sk-Sm," and finds the file easily, although it's towards the back. Pulls it out — thinner than he expected — and flips it open on the top of the filing cabinet, not sure of what he'll actually find. The answers to the discrepancies in his father's file, perhaps. Or maybe the answers to something else, something Sydney needs, something that could bring her back, keep her safe, keep her home.

He skims the body of the file, the basic stuff — date of birth, date of recruitment, social security number, stations worked under, declassified operations. One mention of his father's name, and he thinks about his father and Sloane, working together back then. What did his father think of Sloane? Was it obvious Sloane was evil? Could he tell the man was going to ruin so many lives, including Sydney's?

He flips back to the references. The list here is long, and he snaps the file shut, takes it over to the Omega-17 section.

Hand, card, in. The first reference on his list is O17-135-8258. He swipes his card through the black box on the top of the cabinet for 130-140, hears the lock click. Slides the door open, pages through the files. O17-135-8255. O17-135-8256. O17-135-8257. O17-135-8259. O17-135-8260.

He flips back through them again — he must have missed it. But no, 8258 isn't there. He checks the rest of the row, and then the rest of the cabinet. Nothing. Not a good sign, here.

Second reference, O17-136-9923. Missing, as are three and four. Finally, on five, O17-137-2212, he finds a file on an innocuous meeting with a Middle East firearms dealer. Six, seven, eight, missing.

In all, he finds only two of 31 references and must have flipped through almost all of the high-level reference files from the 1970s. Not good at all.

He takes the stairs back to his office, two at a time.

———

In his office, the door locked, he sits at his desk and picks up the phone. Secure line to Langley.

The woman in Central Records answers at a half-ring. Her voice is raspy — sore throat, February in D.C. He gives her his ID and passcodes, tells her he needs to pull the originals of some case references missing here in Los Angeles.

"Read them off," she says.

He does, clear and loud. It takes a few minutes to get through them all.

"That many, really?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Okay," in a tone that says she's doubting his ability to work a file cabinet. "This'll take awhile."

It does. Twenty minutes, during which he attempts the beginnings of his report on Station Munich and barely makes it through the first paragraph, phone still cradled on his shoulder, his neck growing sore.

"Hello? You there?"

"Yes," he says.

"There's nothing. I can't believe it. I triple-checked all of them. Nothing there. You're sure those are valid reference numbers?"

"I read them straight off the file," he says..

"I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you. If they're not at a branch and they're not here, they've got to be lost."

"Thanks for looking. Bye." He hangs up.

He double-clicks secure messaging. New message: Devlin, Arthur.

He backspaces through the question.

Back to the Station Munich report, those files fanned out on his left-hand side. Sloane's on the right, next to the phone. Of the four agents he's been focusing on, Black and Wolford seem to have the most red flags. He will concentrate on them, mention the other two. Maybe suggest that he go out to interview Black and Wolford, hope his trip isn't timed so that Sydney is home while he's gone. That would be your luck, lately.

Beep from the computer, new message. A double-click on the reply:

Work on Station Munich, then. Devlin is already cutting him a lot of slack, and it's best not to push it any further.

He closes Sloane's case file and pushes it to the far corner of his desk.

———

Through his apartment door a little after nine, his Munich report finished and sent to Devlin. He drops keys and briefcase on the floor, and wonders if maybe he's actually tired enough to sleep tonight, even though he hasn't heard from Sydney.

Upstairs, he pulls off jacket, tie, shirt, pants, hangs them haphazard in the closet. Sweatpants and a T-shirt, then back downstairs. Bud Light from the fridge, second-to-last beer, left over from Saturday with Weiss. Those two beers and maybe he really will sleep.

He walks into the living room, sits down on the couch and dully clicks on the remote. TV still on ESPN, and he leaves it there, sits and scrapes at the condensation on the bottle with his thumbnail.

He glances at his cell phone, sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Feels the urge to call her, but he knows she's probably either busy or on a plane right now. She'll call you when she gets back.

He stares down into the bottle and wonders how much more of this he can take. Is this worth it? Is it really? It's been days since you've slept properly. And you've been with your alleged girlfriend maybe five hours in that time. A quick fuck before she jets off somewhere else, that's all you were yesterday.

He asks himself if he would go back to that, if he could.

For the first time, he isn't sure.

———

Knock, knock.

Door? He wakes, groggy, to 3:35 a.m. on his watch, CNN on the television. He'd switched to that around midnight, can't remember much after that.

Knock, knock, knock.

He stands, walks over to the front door, wide awake. One hand shaking around the knob, the other on the deadbolt, peering through the security hole.

Sydney.

It's okay. She's okay, she's safe.

She's still on your doorstep in the middle of the night. He turns the deadbolt and then the knob, fast as he can, swings the door open.

Oh god. She is trying to fight it, chin trembling, lip between her teeth, but her cheeks are already shining wet in the streetlight.

"God, Syd, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Can I come in?" A small, hoarse voice.

"Of course. Come on." He reaches through the doorway to put his hand on her back, ushers her inside. Her suitcase, purse, computer bag sitting there on the porch; he drags them into the foyer, closes the door, turns the deadbolt. Looks at her, standing there watching him, pretty face puffy and wet and devastated, not so pretty now.

"Here." His hand on her arm, leading her to the living room, the couch.

She turns into him immediately, pulls him close, painfully close, her hands at his back, making tight fists around his shirt. He is startled, more tentative with the embrace, but wraps his arms around her until he is holding her equally tight — it must be what she wants, to be as close as possible, her chest heaving against his, loud gasping sobs. Whatever it is, it's horrible.

"Easy, Syd." Stroking her hair at the base of her neck, waiting, wanting desperately to know what could have caused this, but fearing it, too.

It takes her awhile, but her hands loosen at his back, her sobs shift to quiet gasps and then deep, shaky breaths. She pulls away, just a bit, her face right in front of his.

"Syd, what happened?" A whisper. Talk to me, please. I can't — you can't come in here and do this and not tell me why.

"Our team was ambushed." She wipes at her cheeks with the back of one hand. "Two men were killed. Dixon — he's going to live, but he was shot in the leg. It shattered the bone. We had to carry him out of there, me and Weiss."

"Weiss? Is he — " You never thought about Eric. God, it could be him.

"He's fine, Vaughn. It was Reynolds and Watson."

Her mouth quivering. "Vaughn, I watched them die. It was — it was horrible."

He pulls her close again, and she turns her head to lay her cheek against his shoulder. Murmuring, "easy, easy, easy," into her ear.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she says. "I just wanted to be with you."

"Syd, you know you never have to apologize."

She nods, and he holds her in silence. You were so close to losing her. It could have been her killed instead of them, easily.

She shifts against his chest eventually, pulls away. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight?"

"Of course."

He starts to stand, arm around her waist, waits for her to follow. Leads her past the front door to collect her suitcase in his free hand, then up the stairs. It occurs to him that this is the first time she's been in his apartment, and he hadn't wanted it to be anything like this, for these reasons. Into the bedroom, her suitcase flat on the floor by the closet.

"Do you need anything?" he asks. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"I'm not really hungry — maybe a glass of water?"

"Sure." He touches her arm, turns, runs down the stairs to the kitchen. Returns with a glass from the Brita pitcher in his fridge. Stops, frozen, in the doorway.

She is standing, topless, in front of the mirror to his dresser. Fingertips trailing along her ribcage, inspecting one of three circular bruises on her torso. He recognizes them instantly.

"You were hit."

She whips her head around to face him, her hair swinging behind. "Yeah. I was wearing a vest."

The vest saved her life. You did almost lose her. You came so close, and you didn't even know until she showed up at your door.

"Syd, I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"It's not your fault, Vaughn." She walks over to the bed, picks up the tank top she's laid out on the bedspread, pulls it over her head.

"I don't care whose fault it was. I should have been there."

He sets the water glass down on the left nightstand; her side, from what they've established at her place. Walks around to the other side, pulls down the covers and climbs in — the first time he's been in his own bed in days. He waits as she drains half the water, slips under the covers on the other side. Her face still drawn, plaintive, as she moves over to his side of the bed, lays her head on his shoulder, drapes an arm across his chest.

"I wouldn't wish for anyone to be there for that, Vaughn, especially you," she whispers. "But I do wish we had you back."

And then silence.

She's emotionally, physically worn out, and it will not take her long to fall asleep. He will not be so lucky, even with her here, and safe.