He wakes to the tinny digital beep of the portable alarm clock she'd given him to place on the coffee table. Reaches over and slaps it off quickly, although it's unlikely either Sydney or Will can hear it. The living room is bright — sun already streaming in through the windows. His body feels heavy, sleep-saturated, the stiff ache of the last few days finally gone.

He stands, makes no attempt to straighten wrinkled dress pants. Folds sheets and blanket and places them in a neat pile on the edge of the couch. Pads across the room in bare feet, down the hallway, pausing outside Sydney's door, then knocking, softly.

"Come in," muffled through the door.

He eases it open. She is still in bed, lying on her back on the far left side, the covers kicked down by her feet.

"Hi." She attempts a smile.

"Hey, Syd. I need to run out for a little while. I can come back later, if you want."

"Where are you going? Francie's parents are going to be here in a few hours. I was hoping — I was hoping you would stay."

He steps forward, sits at the edge of the bed, on what used to be his side, the comforter here mostly undisturbed. "There's something I need to take care of. I shouldn't be too long, but I'm not sure that I'll be able to make it back before they get here. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I mean, I don't have any right to ask you to be here."

You have every right, always. "I would, Syd, but I need to do this. I'll get back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Is it more stuff at work? Is everything okay, Vaughn?"

"No." He pauses, hadn't wanted to tell her this. "They're burying my father this morning."

"Vaughn, why didn't you tell me?" She sits up, hair swinging down around her shoulders. "I'll go with you."

"Don't waste your time on him, Syd. You've got enough to deal with as it is. I'm not even sure why I'm going myself. It just feels like something I should do, you know?"

She nods.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay."

"Be careful, Syd. When they did his autopsy yesterday, they found two bullets. One was from your mother, but the second is an unidentified shooter. We don't know who he is, or who else out there might want to — "

"I'll be fine, Vaughn. Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?"

He rises, begins to back toward the door. "I'm sure."

———

The ceremony is small, just Vaughn, a minister and a hired pallbearer to lower the casket. The grave on a small treeless hill at the back of Los Angeles County, the marker just large enough to hold "John Doe, d. 2003."

Nothing like the one at Arlington, which he remembers as a confusing blur of pomp and guns, stunningly uniform white headstones stretching across field after field. His first — but far from his last — of those. He stands back from the grave, far from the minister, listens to ashes to ashes and dust to dust and wonders who was really buried in that Arlington grave, another thing he'll never know.

They are only here because the CIA has paid for this minimal burial, wanting the body here in case there were questions long after the autopsy. Available for possible future exhumation, the official terminology. Otherwise his father would have been cremated, placed in a mass grave with all of the other John Does here, unless he paid for more. He was relieved he did not have to make that decision, did not have to consider writing a check to bury this man as more than a common criminal, unknown, unwanted.

He thinks of Sydney's hours on the phone with the funeral home, the careful preparations for Francie. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't mourn this man. He's nothing compared to Francie. To Emily, even. Genuinely good people — dead — and you're here for this. For him.

The minister finishes, claps his Bible shut and gives Vaughn a slight, sympathetic nod. He believes a lie, from the Agency, that Vaughn is a detective with the LAPD who'd worked this John Doe's case and been particularly sympathetic to his subject. It has been enough to make his presence here unsuspicious.

The pallbearer begins to turn the crank. The casket is cheap wood; it goes down with a loud clink every few seconds, echoing off of the trees at the back of the lot. The minister waits until the sound ceases, then walks to the edge, leans over and takes a small handful of dirt, flings it gently into the hole. He stands upright and crosses himself before turning and walking away. The pallbearer follows.

He waits until he can no longer hear their feet falling on the asphalt walk that leads out of this area, wants them long gone before he approaches the grave. He walks in small, careful steps, the grass soft, spongy under his best shoes. It is windy here, blowing through his hair, whipping at his suit jacket.

Windy and cold and alone. It's what he deserves. Not the burial with honors and the crowded funeral parlor with all those people turned out in their best black clothes. All those people for a man they thought was good.

His face is numb in the cold wind, and he is crying, his vision blurry, the cemetery a set of watery greens and browns and grays.

He kneels in the short grass next to the grave, picks up a fistful of dirt and flings it down on the cheap pine.

He wants to say it out loud, can't, his mouth open and it's caught in his throat and he is sobbing, instead. Reaching up with dirty hands to wipe at his cheeks.

And then a hand on his shoulder, soft. He turns.

Sydney, standing there above him.

She drops down beside him, wraps her arms around him, sliding one hand up to his neck and pulling his head to her chest. "It's okay," she whispers. "It's okay."

He sobs audibly into her, has never broken down like this with her, but he doesn't care, doesn't want to care, not for now.

He loses himself, like he's somewhere else, another world — a smaller world, bounded by her arms, her chin on the top of his head, the darkness of his eyelids, closed tight. And he does not have to come back, not yet, and she is here, and it is okay to break down. It is necessary, overdue, and somehow, even now, he knows this.

It takes a long time for him to return, to make an attempt to slow his breathing and pull away from her shoulder. She keeps one hand firm on his back, brings the other around, wiping the tears and dirt from his face.

"I told you not to come." He whispers; he does not trust his voice.

"I'm not here for him."

That very nearly puts him over the edge again, but he swallows hard, collects himself. "Whoever that man was, he took my father from me."

"I know." She takes his hand, rises first and pulls him with her. He notices Weiss standing behind them, further down the hill, arms crossed, watching.

Weiss says nothing as they approach, Sydney's hand still tight around his, merely reaches out, touches Vaughn's shoulder.

"Thank you. Both of you."

They do not respond. They do not need to.

"You going to drive him?" Weiss asks Sydney.

"Yes."

They start toward the cemetery entrance together. He does not look back, and maybe he should. He doesn't plan to return.

———

She stops at his apartment first, gives him a chance to change out of his black suit, the pants dusty, dirty at the knees. Go into the bathroom and wash his face with cold water, pat it dry with a towel and look into the mirror to survey the damage.

His eyes are still puffy. He cannot remember the last time he's cried like that. Maybe not since he was a child. Not since the first funeral.

He can't focus on that, not now. He needs to get moving, pull together an overnight bag; he'd left Sydney standing awkward and alone in the foyer, told her to give him a minute, and ran up the stairs.

He still has a bag half-packed, tossed into a vacant spot in the closet, from one of the last times he'd stayed at her apartment, when they were together. He supplements it with a few fresh t-shirts, boxers. Zips it up and pounds down the stairs. Marginally more comfortable now in khakis and a good sweater; he'd wanted to dress nicely for Francie's parents. They have just lost their daughter and will surely not care, but it still feels necessary.

Sydney is sitting on the edge of the couch in his living room, and he wonders if she looked at the pictures on his end tables — copies of the ones at his mother's house, the Vaughn family in one, Michael and Dad playing catch in another — that he will put away when he has time. Maybe throw away, if he can.

She stands as soon as she sees him. Crosses her arms and walks toward him in the hallway, slow and uncertain. Her pants marked with the same dusty streaks as his; she'll have to change when they get to her apartment, he thinks. Change and turn around and wear black again for Francie's funeral. Too much black this week, too much black this life.

She stops a few feet away from him. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know. Better, I guess. You?"

"I'm okay," she says. Soft voice, slight nod. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

———

She drives silently to her apartment. Puts his car in park behind Will's and hands him the keys.

"Will was going to pick them up from the airport," she says, unbuckling, opening her door. "They must be here already."

He follows her to the front door, a few steps behind. Watches as she stands, frozen, staring at the door. She bows her head for a moment and then reaches out, turns the knob, swings the door open.

They are in the living room. Will seated on the chair, facing the middle-aged black couple on the couch. They sit close together — Francie's father, graying, weary, his arm around his wife. Francie's mother leans into him, a crumpled tissue in her lap, her hair short but unkempt, a style that requires curling that hasn't been done today. Both dressed casually, jeans and sweaters. Their suitcases line the hallway to the bedrooms.

"Sydney." Francie's mother, tears thick in her voice. She rises from the couch, crosses the living room to envelop Sydney in a tight hug, still clutching the tissue behind her back. She has a round face that must be pleasant in happier times.

Vaughn closes the door, stands and watches them cry freely a few feet in front of him. He feels as though he is hovering here, and does not belong.

Sydney pulls away first, drops her arms to her sides and glances back at him. "Gloria, this is my — friend, Michael Vaughn," she says. "Vaughn, Gloria and Thomas Calfo."

Friend? But what did you expect? What are you to her, anymore?

He reaches out, grasps Gloria's hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Gloria nods, lets Sydney take her arm and lead her back to the living room. Both sit on the couch beside her husband.

There is nowhere for him to sit, unless he makes it uncomfortably crowded on the couch. He walks to the kitchen instead, grabs a chair there, returns and places it next to Will's seat.

"You just don't think something like this will ever happen — a car accident," Francie's mother says. "I mean, you hear about it on the news, you see it in the paper, but you always think, 'oh, that will never happen to me. It will never happen to someone I care about.' I almost didn't believe it, when the police called. How could I believe it? We'd just talked to her on the phone Friday — "

This is not what Sydney needs to listen to right now, he knows, and he watches her, sitting there on the couch, hand over her mouth, struggling for control.

" — but they told me all of the details. The man on the phone said he was so sorry, but they were sure it was her — " Gloria breaking down now, pressing at her eyes with the tissue, nearly wailing " — and it's just so wrong. So wrong that this could happen! A mother shouldn't have to bury her baby girl."

Oh god, Syd. She looks at him, the horror in her eyes startling, painful. Stands with a quick, blurted excuse me, and rushes down the hall, past the suitcases, into the bathroom.

He stands and follows, tentatively. Does she want him to go after her? Is there anything he could possibly do to help?

The bathroom door is closed but not locked. He pushes it open and it creaks, jarring, until he can see her, standing in front of the sink, her hands resting on the countertop, her head bowed. She cries, gasping, sucking in air; her face reflected red and glistening in the mirror.

He creaks the door closed behind him.

"I can't do this," she shakes out between sobs, looking up briefly to eye him in the mirror. "I can't go back out there and look at them and pretend, when I know what really happened. When I know that their daughter is dead because of me."

"She's not dead because of you," he whispers. Now is not the time to be loud or firm. He crosses the bathroom, lays his hand on her shoulder, the same gentle grip she offered him earlier, pulling her into a hug.

"I just want this to be over," she says. "But it's never going to be over. Even when we're through the funeral and they go home and I don't have to look at them and lie anymore, she's still going to be gone."

"I know." She is shaking against him, chest heaving, and he wishes he could do more than just pull her closer and offer meaningless words.

"I want her back, Vaughn. I want to spend more time with her, and sit down and talk to her, and be a better friend than I've been. She deserved that. She deserved a lot more than that. Instead what she got was a so-called best friend who's been lying to her for years."

"Sydney, you can try to paint yourself that way, but it's obvious you loved her very much. And I would think she felt the same way about you."

She says nothing. Pulls her arms away, eventually, and steps back toward the sink. She turns on the cold water faucet, splashes some on her face.

He reaches over to the towel rack and grabs a washcloth, hands it to her.

"You don't have to go back out there, Syd. Everyone would understand if you wanted to take some time for yourself."

"No." She rubs the washcloth across her face, still red. "I feel like I owe it to them to be there for this."

"You don't owe them anything, Syd."

"Then I owe it to her, to be there for them. It's the last thing I can do for her."

"Okay. But take your time. Why don't you go and change? I'll tell them you'll be out when you're ready."

She nods.

"Syd, the other thing you can do for her is go easy on yourself. Francie wouldn't have wanted you to torture yourself over this."

"I know."

———

He sleeps — or attempts to — on her couch again that night. Sydney in her own bedroom, Gloria and Thomas in their daughter's room. Will had volunteered to go home, which was fortunate. Although Sydney had calmed down, walked out of her bedroom with a determined look on her face and helped plan the funeral until late in the evening, he had still wanted to be here, in case she needed him.

It is not as easy to sleep here, tonight. Last night, he'd been so exhausted she could have offered him a bench in the middle of LAX and he would have dropped off. Now, this spot feels vulnerable — too out in the open, too many people here who could walk through. Not very comfortable, either, although Sydney has done what she can with extra blankets, pillows.

Too much to think about, as well. He lays facing the ceiling, his father's betrayal heavy on his mind, back on that windy hilltop, the dirt in his hand. His mother, what will he tell his mother?

And Sydney. Always Sydney, but especially tonight. Asleep not so far away from him, alone and devastated by her grief. Where would he have slept if Will wanted the couch? Would he dare try to share her bed?

Will they ever move beyond mutual grief, beyond support? Is there anything left of them? Is she still angry, underneath the pain?

He is not sure. But at least he is here, and that's a good step, a big step.

Footsteps in the hallway. Stirring in the kitchen, and then faint light.

He tenses. Should he pretend to be asleep? No, best to get up and reveal he's awake. He rises, finds it's Sydney tiptoeing through the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water.

He crosses the living room, the floor cool under his bare feet. Into the kitchen. "Hey."

She has turned on the light over the sink — enough to see, but it leaves deep shadows in the corners.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" She leans back against the counter, tall, thin glass in her hand.

"No. I've been up." He glances at his watch. 1:30, even later than he'd thought.

"I had a dream," she says. "A good dream, I guess. It was just me and Will and Francie. We were out at some bar somewhere, maybe a couple years ago, just out having fun. And it was just so nice. I wasn't thinking about death or SD-6 or school, I was just out with my friends. And then I woke up and realized it wasn't real, that it wasn't ever going to be like that again."

She looks tired, even here in the shadows, like her grief and the burden of planning have finally caught up to her, worn her down.

"I had dreams a lot like that when I was a kid, when my father — when we thought my father died. I would dream that he was still alive and nothing had changed, or that he came back, somehow. I had them less and less as I got older, but still every once and awhile one would hit me. It was always hard to wake up to reality." He laughs, harsh and bitter. "I guess my dreams were right. He was still alive — just not the way I would have wanted him to be."

"Vaughn, how are you feeling? After — after this morning?"

"I'm okay," he says. "Better, I guess. It's weird. Sometimes I forget that it all happened, just for a little while. And then it all comes rushing back — talking to him, watching him die, knowing that the father I believed in for 26 years wasn't really my father. It's like there's this big black spot there, now."

She sips her water. "It was the same way with my mother."

"See, I was thinking about that today, when you were in my apartment. How many times did I make him out to be this martyr that your mother killed, when he wasn't that at all?"

"Vaughn, you never made him out to be a martyr in front of me. Not at all. You hardly talked about him, unless it came up because of my mother. And I could tell every time it did that it hurt you deeply, the same as it does now. But I never once thought you presented him as that. And even if that's what you thought, given what you knew the facts to be then, I would understand."

He voices none of this. Says thank you, instead, and is rewarded with a small smile. "I'm going to go in to work in the morning, just for a little while. I want to check on the status of that shooter, and I have a meeting with Barnett. Are you going to be okay with Francie's parents?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Call me if you need anything. Otherwise I should be back in the afternoon."

"Okay. Good night." She sets her glass in the sink, starts toward the hallway.

He walks back to the couch, thinks about what she said, about his meeting with Barnett and the question he's barely considered.