He misses the days when they would linger over coffee until late in the morning. Sit close on the couch in pajamas and talk, finally rising to change, go for a walk, or maybe a run.

He does not miss that she spent many of those mornings in tears, especially in the beginning.

That had ended when he'd gone back to work, and for the last few months, he has risen alone, showered and changed into whatever suit he's brought from home. Joined her at the kitchen counter for a quick cup of coffee and a kiss goodbye, and then left her alone.

Today, though, he makes coffee, breakfast to the sound of her rushing from bedroom to bathroom and back again. Clicking down the hallway in dress shoes, into the kitchen.

He has seen the suit before — jacket and slim, knee-length skirt, simple black — but it has been a long time. It's been a long time since he's seen her dressed up, period, and he studies her approach, the perfect twist of her hair into the tight knot behind her head, little touch of makeup, leather tote swinging from her shoulder.

She halts a few feet away from him, slings the tote off of her arm and drops it on the counter. Looks back at him, still standing, watching. "What?"

He steps closer, lays his hands flat on her lapels. "Nothing. It's just been awhile since I've seen you in a suit. You look great, Syd."

"Thank you."

She is wearing a simple beige top underneath the suit jacket, her neck bare, which is fortunate. He'd been worried about that.

He reaches into his pocket, fingers the necklace there. Second-guesses himself again; she won't like it, won't like the sentiment, won't want to wear it today for whatever reason. Just get on with it.

The chain is thin, delicate in his fingers, glinting gold when he finally pulls it out, brandishing it in front of her for a moment before he speaks, feeling clumsy. "I, ah, got you something."

"Vaughn." She extends a hand, tentative, takes it from him, and holds the simple pendant up in front of her eyes. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"It's garnet — for luck." He knows this because he spent his lunch break last Friday quizzing attendants at three different jewelry counters. The third, a black-haired twentysomething, had produced a gemstone chart and walked him through it.

"I love it." Her smile is broad, beautiful. "Help me put it on?"

She hands it back to him, and it takes him a few tries before he can keep the clasp open long enough to catch it on the tiny gold loop behind her neck. He lets it settle gently on her skin, the pendant falling just below her collarbone. His hands still on her neck, he pulls her the short distance to his mouth, kisses her thoroughly.

They break apart before they would in an evening kiss, him to sit at the counter and start on pancakes that may well be cold by now, but at least he's tried, her to grab a cup of coffee.

She sits beside him and picks at a lone pancake, cutting it into tiny pieces. No syrup, likely no intention of eating more than a few bites. She doesn't eat in the morning, he's learned. He'd worried about that at first, thought it was a sign of grief, but she assured him it wasn't, said she'd never had an appetite early in the day.

He looks over at her. "Are you ready? For the interview?"

She'd called to tell him about it Friday morning, a temporary position the school offered the students in her program, teaching two classes for a professor who needed to go on medical leave. Said she was going to put her name in; it was a great opportunity, and well-timed, for her.

"I think so. I'm a little nervous, actually."

"Really?"

"It's just so perfect," she says. "Something that would give me some teaching experience and still leave me time to work on my dissertation — it's too perfect, you know?"

"It is perfect for you, Syd," he allows. "But I'm sure you'll do great."

She is healing. Slowly, but still healing, her interest in the job the latest sign of this. He has worried about her since he started work again, leaving her here in the apartment all day, alone with her grief. Only recently has she started studying — what a relief it had been to come home one day and find her reading, really reading, not sitting on the couch with her finger in the spine of Doctor Zhivago, staring into space. Last week she'd registered for classes, and now this. It is a big step, a good step.

The process has been much harder for her than for him. He goes whole days, sometimes, without thinking about his father, as much the work of his talks with Sydney as his hours with Barnett, down to two a week, now. But his hurt lies in betrayal, not loss — easier to get past, once the anger dissipates. Easier to ignore, too; the father who has been gone most of his life still gone, not a gaping hole in his life like Francie's absence has been for Sydney.

It has helped, of course, that his mother has spent most of the last two months in France, and their phone conversations have been short, held at odd hours, centered on her experiences there. He has not told her about his father, does not plan to.

No, it has been Sydney he's worried about. He's watched her slip into moments where she seems genuinely happy. Followed, always, with a sober, guilty face, as if she's suddenly remembered that her best friend is dead and there should be no laughing, no smiling.

"She'd want you to be happy, you know," he told her, once.

"I know," she replied. "I'd want the same thing for her. But that doesn't make it easy."

But she has been better, lately, and the job — something concrete to focus on — will only help. Someday, she will smile freely, some night will be the last one she cries. And maybe that time is not far off. He wants these things for her, wants them badly.

He rises. 7:30, and he really should have left by now. She looks up at him, waits for him to lean in for a quick kiss, lips only.

He has left his bag and yesterday's suit in her bedroom, and walks down the hallway to retrieve them. Glancing at Francie's old room on the way, completely empty behind the door that has remained closed since they mailed the last boxes and gave away the furniture. Sydney has made no attempt to look for a roommate, and he thinks, not for the first time, that she is waiting, wants to reserve the extra space for him, his things. They must be nearing time for him to move in — the suit bag has become a permanent, almost absurd, fixture in the window of his car.

He will not suggest it, not yet. Her apartment, her decision. He would only bring it up much farther along, if she hasn't. Ask the tough questions: Are we stagnant? Don't you think it's time to take the next step? How badly did I really wreck things all those months ago?

But they are far from there, yet, and he does not think he will need to. Already, she has given him a key, some space in her closet, and although he tries not to, sometimes he feels wildly optimistic.

He feels like he belongs here.

———

He has to speed to make it to the 8 a.m. briefing on time. Slips in next to Weiss just before Devlin sits and clears his throat, chair wheels squealing across the floor.

"Good morning, people. We've had some developments overnight. Agent Bristow will fill you in. Jack?"

Jack Bristow rises. He must be tired — he has been working 12 and 14 hour days since his clearance was restored — but he doesn't look it. He holds a thin silver remote control in his hand, clicks once to turn on the projector.

Sark and Francie's double black-and-white and grainy, up on the screen in the front of the room, number one priority of the JTF right now. They've been busy the last few months, breaking into a bank in Geneva, a storage facility in Helsinki, an old government building in Kiev. Analysis has suggested that they are searching for more Rambaldi artifacts, and Alain Christophe is bankrolling them.

All of the equipment from Chicago is stored under armed guard, but it's still enough to make him worry, that they're still searching for Rambaldi's secret to eternal life, and they still may want Sydney. The CIA — likely under direction of Jack Bristow — has said much the same in an official warning to her. That had come with a permit to carry a concealed weapon, a supplement to the security system at her apartment. Vaughn still wonders if it will be enough, if they do decide to come after her.

He worries about the mystery sniper, as well, but the search for him has been futile. They'd put out feelers in the intelligence world, had a half-dozen analysts study profiles of known wanted snipers, and ultimately reclassified and deprioritized the case.

Jack clicks the remote again, a new picture flashing on the screen. Unidentifiable man slumped over, bullet in his head, on a leopard-print couch.

"We just got word of this a few hours ago. Sark and the double entered a club in Bangkok at around nine o'clock Thailand time, presumably to meet with a contact — this man. Fortunately, we had an asset in place who was able to pull the security video from the club during that time."

Jack clicks again. Video, this time. Sark and the double striding up to the now-dead man, shaking his hand, sitting beside him. Sark hands over a briefcase and the man pops it open, runs his fingers over the money inside. He nods, hands Sark a cardboard tube.

Sark reaches inside the tube, slides out a document, and Vaughn knows what it will be even before Sark unrolls it. A Rambaldi manuscript, certainly, but the video is too grainy to make out details. Sark carefully rolls the document back up, slides it into the tube. He stands with Francie's double, who pulls a gun from behind her back, straightens her arm, and drills the man in the forehead.

He slumps over, and the video stops on the frame of him lying there, blood seeping around the leopard spots. Vaughn is struck with relief, sudden and strong, that Sydney is no longer working here, that she was not around to see the woman who looks just like her best friend execute a man point-blank.

"We're working on the video, to see if we can clean up the manuscript and get some idea of what was on it," Jack says. "Needless to say, they're on the move. The fact that they shot their contact and risked this exposure, rather than handing over the money, suggests that they be running out of funding."

Jack clicks off the projector and sits, laying the remote on the table.

"We're looking for options here, people," Devlin says. "Any ideas you all might have about how to go about catching them, I want to hear them."

Weiss speaks, which surprises him. Devlin makes this call at nearly every briefing, usually met with silence.

"I was thinking — awhile back, Agents Bristow — Sydney Bristow — and Vaughn set up the sale of a fake Rambaldi serum. At the time, they were trying to catch Alexander Khasinau, and ultimately the operation failed, but it was a good idea. So I was thinking, maybe that's the sort of thing we should try to do — maybe put the word out that there's a Rambaldi something-or-other somewhere, and set a trap."

Devlin nods. "I like it. What do the rest of you think?"

"It would have to be convincing," Jack says. "If they get the slightest indication that things are off, it's likely they'll bolt. But it is a chance to go on the offensive, which we've yet to do."

Devlin waits a few moments for dissent, but it's clear he's sold. "Good. Jack, why don't you draft up an operation. I'm sure Agent Weiss can assist you, if necessary. We'll reconvene later to go over the mission specs. Anything else?"

When the room is silent, Devlin rises, everyone else following, filing out into the rotunda. Vaughn walks with Weiss, over to their desks. He took over Sydney's old space when he returned here, and every once and awhile he walks back and expects to see her sitting there, typing away as if she'd never left. It happens less and less, and not today.

"Way to put a feather in your cap, there," Vaughn says.

"Yeah. We'll see how long it lasts. Probably about as long as it takes me to get on Jack's nerves during mission planning."

"I can't say I envy you."

"How are you and the elder Bristow getting along these days?"

"My main contact with Jack is when he comes over for dinner once a week, and what little conversation there is goes on entirely between him and Sydney," Vaughn says. "That and when he reminds me to be careful and watch after Syd every time Sark and the double blow something up, or kill someone, or steal something."

"Like you need reminding."

"Yeah, exactly."

"Speaking of, there's no new intel on the shooter."

"What?"

"Every day, you come in here looking for new intel on that balcony sniper, despite the fact that we haven't had anything active in more than two months," Weiss says. "So I figured I'd just, you know, get it out of the way."

They reach Weiss' desk, and he sits, starts the login process on his computer, Vaughn standing over his shoulder, looking down at the cluttered desk, file folders everywhere, coffee mug stained brown near the edge. "I'd say I'm sorry, Eric, but I'm not. We can't forget about that guy."

Weiss turns, looks up at him. "Look. I know you're worried about Sydney, but the guy's gone. I mean, it's like he took the shot and disappeared off the face of the earth. He hasn't made any kind of move on her, and we don't even know that he's a bad guy."

"We don't know he's a good guy, either. I know that Sark and the double are much more obvious threats, but I don't want anyone out there — anyone — that might want to try to fulfill that twisted prophecy. I just don't want him appearing six months down the road and surprising us all."

"He's one guy, Mike. And, civilian or not, Sydney can take care of herself."

"She didn't do so well with that in Chicago. And she shouldn't have to keep looking over her shoulder. She left this life — she should get to leave that, too."

Weiss picks up the coffee cup, stares down into it as if he isn't sure how it came to be on his desk. "Be concerned about it. Just don't let it eat you up, okay?"

"Okay."

———

The day crawls, as have most since he's been back. His assignments are simple, reviews of operations drawn up by others, the occasional assist to Analysis.

Today, he scrutinizes two operations, sends back a few comments, and waits for lunch, paging through intel on Sark, the double and the sniper, looking, as always, for something that's been missed. Nothing has been missed. Nothing he can find, anyway.

He considers — not for the first time — talking to Devlin, asking for some more challenging assignments. For some assignments, period. You need to do it today. You're bored out of your mind, and it's only going to get worse.

His cell phone ringing — Sydney, 11:43 a.m. Her interview must be over.

"Hey, Syd."

"Hi." She sounds quiet, and he wonders if it went badly. How could it? She's qualified, more than capable. Way more than capable.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine, I think."

"That's all? Fine?"

"I don't know, Vaughn. It's hard to tell. I haven't exactly interviewed for a lot of jobs."

"Do you know when they'll make a decision?"

"They said they'd call. They didn't say when."

"Syd, I'm sure you did great. And if they don't pick you, it's their loss."

"Thanks. You going to be home on time?"

Aren't I always? "Yes."

"I'll see you later, then. Bye."

"Bye, Syd."

He presses end, sets the cell phone on his desk next to the computer keyboard. Picks up his office phone and dials Devlin's secretary.

He'll push for an appointment today, he decides.

———

"Agent Vaughn, come on in. Have a seat."

Devlin occupies the same office Kendall did, and he's made few changes, although word in the JTF is that he'll be here permanently, that they're going to bring in an assistant director to take over some of his lesser duties back at headquarters.

Vaughn pulls back a gunmetal-gray chair, sits and waits for Devlin to ask why he's here.

He doesn't. "Before we get started, I wanted to let you know — they've brought charges against George Wolford, based in part on your work."

"Thank you, sir. I hadn't been aware of that."

"Yes. I should have mentioned earlier that they'd moved the investigation along." Devlin's reading glasses are perched precariously close to the edge of his nose, and he pushes them up with an index finger, glances down at the papers on his desk, then back to Vaughn. "So what brings you here?"

He folds his hands on his lap, feels the urge to fidget, but doesn't allow it. "I wanted to talk about my workload."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, since I came back, it feels like it's been really light — like I haven't had a whole lot to do. I wanted to, I guess, say that I feel I can take on more. I would like to take on more."

"Dr. Barnett recommended that we keep your caseload light right now."

"Why? I mean, she cleared me to come back. Shouldn't that mean I'm ready?"

"Michael, we take these things slowly, and we pay attention to the shrinks. We didn't use to." Devlin pauses, adjusts his glasses again, needlessly this time. "I was station chief in Beirut for two and a half years. In that time, we had two agents captured. They called for an extraction, but by the time we got there, it was too late. They both got worked over pretty good — one of them didn't make it. The one that did, we gave him some time off, offered him counseling. He said he was fine, we said okay, and we sent him back out in the field."

Devlin pulls the glasses off altogether, rubs his eyes. "He didn't make it two weeks before he snapped. Spent most of the next year in the psych ward, and he never did return to active duty."

"What happened to me was hardly — that."

"No. If it had been that you'd still be on leave. But what happened to you was not insubstantial," Devlin says. "My point, Michael, is that you're a good agent. We'd rather ease you back into things and be sure you were ready."

Devlin raises his hand before Vaughn can object. "I know you feel ready, and believe me, we could use you. But I defer to the doc on this one."

"Is that why she hasn't signed off on my field rating?"

"Yes. But I wasn't aware you wanted to return to the field."

Do you? You know what it did to you when she was out there. Would it be the same for her?

"I don't think so," Vaughn says. "But I'd like the option to be open."

"I understand. But I would much rather put you on operational planning. It's what I was trying to get you back to before the mess in Chicago."

"I would like that, sir."

"Good." Devlin nods. "Then take this time, take it easy. I promise you, before you know it, you'll be wishing you had this workload again."

He thanks Devlin and exits quietly, back to his desk and nothing to do.

———

His key is still shiny-silver, sharp around the edges, cut less than a month ago. He slips through the front door, expecting to find her in the kitchen, maybe the living room. But both are empty, silent and dark save for a bit of sun streaming through the windows.

A little surge of fear. He reminds himself that it's a big apartment; she might have gone for a run, to the store. He will not pull his gun, not yet. He'd done that last week and hated her sad sigh as she'd walked out of the bathroom, the disappointed way she'd said his name, felt them deep inside.

"Syd?" Calling it out, loud but hopefully casual.

"I'm out here!" Faint, from the patio. Mild sunny day, better to go outside. He should have figured. He should not have worried.

He drops his briefcase by the door, pounds through the keycode sequence that arms the security system. Then across the living room, out the patio door. She is lying on one of the long benches, stretched out on the cushion, her head propped up on a stack of pillows. Changed into cotton shorts and a tank top, his necklace still hanging from her neck, reading an old, leather-bound copy of Hamlet.

He stands near the doorway. "I hope you're rereading. Even I've read Hamlet."

Sydney sets the book down open on the tile, tilts her head back to look at him. "Did you read it in freshman English?" Rising, her smile wide. "I got the job."

She is halfway to him already, and he clears the distance, pulling her into a tight hug, her body warm through the thin cotton. "Syd, that's great."

She pulls back, stands with her face just in front of his. "They called me just after lunch and said the job was mine if I wanted it. Obviously, I wanted it."

"Wait a minute. You knew about this all afternoon and didn't call?"

"I wanted to tell you in person." She grins, playful, leans in for a long, slow kiss. "You're not mad, are you?"

"No, of course not. I figured you'd get the job, Syd. You're capable of anything — definitely this. I don't know why you were so worried."

"It wasn't that I didn't think I was qualified," she says, stepping back to take a seat on the bench. He sits beside her, sliding his arm across her back. "But it's hard to believe anything in my life can go right, Vaughn. Ever since I joined SD-6 all those years ago — I thought what I was doing was right, and that ended up being completely wrong.

"Ever since then, since I found out the truth, it feels like anything good I've come across has been twisted and taken away from me. Now I feel like there's a chance to turn that around, but it's hard to believe in it. It's hard to believe that can really happen."

"It can, Syd." He pulls her closer, her head heavy on his shoulder. "The Alliance is gone. Sloane is dead. You're out of the spy world."

"Yeah. That's why I have a state-of-the-art security system and I carry a gun more often than I did when I actually worked in intelligence."

"That's just a precaution." He says it too quickly — how can he convince her when he can't even convince himself?

"Right, and I'm going to have to be dealing with precautions for the rest of my life, aren't I?"

"I don't know, Syd. But I do know that you can't live your life waiting for something bad to happen." You can do enough worrying for the both of you. She should get to be free, now. "And I think getting the job you really wanted should be cause for celebration, not worry. We should go out, to dinner — celebrate."

"Vaughn — "

"Come on." He rises, takes her hand and pulls her to standing beside him. "Dress up. We'll go somewhere nice."

———

"You know what I think we should do? I think we need to order a really expensive bottle of champagne."

They are seated at a booth in a hidden nook of one of the better restaurants he knows. Beverly Hills, French, pricey but worth it, the table lit mostly with a dim, low-slung overhead light and two votive candles between their water glasses.

"Vaughn, it's just a job. It's not even a permanent job." She wears a simple but painfully well-fitting little black dress this time — the first time they've been somewhere this nice since they've been back together. The candlelight flickering golden across her downy skin and she looks stunning, he thinks, absolutely stunning.

"It's not just a job, Sydney. You said it yourself, earlier — it's a new beginning, for you." He pauses, looks down at the candles, the crease in the tablecloth. "God, I wasn't sure what to make of you, when we first started working together — "

"I thought you wanted to throttle me." She grins, and her eyes sparkle.

"There may have been a few occasions, yes." Laughing with her, continuing. "But as I got to know you, I thought, 'Here's this incredible woman who's been through so much pain, and she just keeps trying.' And I watched you struggle with everything in your life, and it killed me to know there was no end in sight for you. But this is it. This is the end, Syd. So it's a lot more than a job."

"Vaughn." Tears pooling in her eyes, she rises, leans across the table to touch his cheek, kiss him. "Thank you," she whispers, sitting back.

They lapse into silence, and he is glad when their waiter — 40s, graying, impeccably tuxedoed — arrives and asks what they'd like to drink. Sydney doesn't protest when he asks for a bottle of Taittinger, and the waiter promises it will be out shortly. He leaves them with two leather-and-parchment menus and strides off.

Vaughn pages through his, not really hungry — this was just an excuse to get her out, see her happy. He decides, folds the menu, lays it on the table and waits for her to do the same.

"When do you start?"

"The job?"

He nods.

"Technically, right now. My first class is in about two months, but it feels like it's going to come up really fast. I want to make sure I'm really well prepared."

"We should go somewhere," he says, a bit surprised at himself. He has thought about it idly, but hadn't planned on bringing it up tonight.

"Go somewhere?"

"Yeah. Take a little trip, a vacation. While you've still got some time and my caseload is light."

She glances down at her menu.

"Is it too soon? God, Syd, I'm so sorry."

"No, no." She looks back up. "That's not it. I mean, I'm still sad sometimes — it'll always hurt. But I know Fran would have wanted me to move on with my life. I'm just worried about having enough time to prepare for my classes."

"Don't they already have the classes pretty well prepared for you? Surely the professor you're filling in for had some plans in place — it's freshman English, right? Isn't there some sort of standard curriculum?"

"Yeah, but I want to reread the books, think about what I want to discuss, what I want to test them on — "

"You've still got plenty of time to do that, Syd. And you can read on the plane, or by the pool, in a cafe. Read someplace that isn't in L.A. Wouldn't that be better?" He pauses; she looks close to convinced. "Come on, Syd. Who knows when we'll get this chance again?"

"Where would we go?"

"Wherever you want." He has not thought nearly that far in advance, although he's got a few ideas. Italy, France, the Caribbean, maybe. "You pick it."

She reaches across the table, picks up her water glass and takes a sip. Her eyes distant, considering.

"Rome," she smiles. "Let's go to Rome."

———

Her place is dark, quiet, and secure, according to the system, when they return.

She turns on one light in the living room, just enough for them to see to the bedroom. It is late — they shouldn't have stayed out that long, shouldn't have drank that much, and he will need to call a travel agent tomorrow morning, talk to Devlin about the time off.

But she had been smiling and laughing through dinner, talking about how she hadn't been a tourist in so long, caught up quickly in the idea of the trip, asking him about his favorite parts of the city. And that was surely worth the late night, the sleep he'll miss.

He follows her into the bedroom, stands at the foot of the bed and watches her place her purse on the dresser. His heart pounding; he never knows what to do at this point, anymore.

Back in the early days, before Chicago, before the funerals — before he'd left her — this would have been a sure thing. Back when they were still new to each other, this evening — the fancy dinner, her dress, the champagne — would have been a clear precursor to one of those nights they'd stay up late, making love, talking, making love again.

Tonight he waits, as he has since they've been back together, for her to initiate. Remembers the first time she did, a quiet night on the couch, when he was just beginning to think she was healing. When she'd kissed him, the old way. Not the loving, reassuring things they'd been sharing — I love you, it's okay, don't cry.

No, this was different, this was I want you, and it was clear, and he'd been startled. Pulled away, searched her eyes and asked if she was sure. Yes, she'd said, yes, and he had wanted her, but he was cautious, so painfully cautious that night. So sure that she would wake guilty in the morning, cry after, or during, even, and that wasn't something he would be able to handle.

But she hasn't, not that time, not after. And she is getting better, she is healing, but this is still hers to begin, and he is not sure when that will change. So he watches as she turns, steps closer, right in front of him.

"Tonight was amazing, Vaughn. Thank you."

She lays a warm hand on his shoulder, leans in and kisses him that way — yes, definitely that way — trails her hand up to his neck and starts to work on his already-loosened tie. And it is easy, now, to kiss her back, to lay his hands on her waist, taut under the dress. He knows her well now, her body no longer a surprise, but still he wants to peel it off slowly, savor every inch of skin revealed. She does this to him, always has, and he's never quite been able to figure out why.

He pulls her hips into his and they kiss, long and slow, his tie sliding to the floor. Her eyes are dark; his are too, probably, the champagne lingering in him. Her hands on the buttons of his jacket, his fingers grasping the zipper in the middle of her back, sliding it down, nearly to her tailbone. Her bare back hot, smooth under his hands, everything so good, so right, now, and when she pulls away to speak, it is with a breathless whisper:

"Vaughn, this is the happiest I've been since — before."