He leaves work at noon, after a thorough review of Weiss' and Jack Bristow's operation. They have already leaked that a Finnish collector is selling a substantial portion of his holdings at auction in London, asked a select few field agents to tell their contacts that something in the lot is Rambaldi-related, and set the description for one of the items at the auction house: "Journal, 15th or 16th century, language and contents unknown."

The items will be transported by plane, flown out of Helsinki on Thursday evening. Transfer onto the plane the obvious — just obvious enough, they hope — weak spot. Jack and Weiss have prepared plans to catch them at any point in the process, but they expect Sark and the double to attempt to intercept the document at the plane.

He'd suggested a few changes — minor, mostly. Jack Bristow is damned good at drawing up operations — if he were anyone else, Vaughn might even ask for pointers. He suspects that the only reason he'd been asked to review it at all is because Devlin took pity on him.

He lets himself into the apartment, finds the kitchen lights are on, the dishwasher running. Feels relieved, walks through the apartment until he finds Sydney in her bedroom, examining the nearly empty suitcase on her bed.

"I called the travel agent on my way home," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "We're all set. Flight leaves at 7:35 tomorrow evening."

She looks up, tank top dangling from her hand. "I still can't believe you turned around a vacation that fast."

"I worked out of Station Rome for a year, Syd. I also happen to know a good travel agent."

"We could have waited until at least the end of the week, you know." She rolls the tank top into a tight little ball — better for space and less wrinkles, she'd told him the first time he watched her pack for a mission — and places it in the top corner of her suitcase.

"I didn't want to give you time to change your mind."

She begins rooting through the small pile of clothes on the bed beside the suitcase. "How did you convince Devlin to give you that much time off so quickly?"

"I really haven't been doing a whole lot there, yet, and he said they want me to take it slow. So I just asked if I could take some more time off — out of my vacation days, this time. He wasn't too happy about the short notice, but he approved it. Maybe he just wants me to stop bugging him."

She abandons the pile of clothes on the bed, walks back to her open closet and stares at the contents. "It's been so long since I've been on a real vacation, I don't even know where to start packing."

"Syd, you have to have packed more suitcases than 99 percent of the people on this planet."

"It's different, for missions." She pushes aside a section of clothes, hangers screeching across the bar, rifles through a few sundresses. "I used to just have set things I'd take — mostly practical, except for whatever I'd need for the mission. And I doubt I'll be needing a wig cap or a lockpick kit on vacation."

"You're not going to be able to take your gun on the plane," he realizes. "Your permit is just for California."

"I wasn't planning on taking it," she says. "You're going to be carrying, right?"

"Yes."

"That ought to be enough. I'll be with you the whole time."

"Syd — "

"This is my vacation, Vaughn. I don't want to be packing while I'm sightseeing." She pulls a floral sundress from its hanger, walks it over to the suitcase and begins to roll the thin material.

"If you change your mind, I'm not sure what kind of paperwork we can put together, but I could have Weiss look into it."

"I won't change my mind." She tucks the little ball of sundress into a corner of the suitcase.

He sits on the edge of the bed, watches her walk back to the closet to make another selection. It has been months since she moved her mother's books from the top shelf, replaced them with some of Francie's photo boxes. Irina's books are back on the bottom bookshelves, now, two rows of expensive leather first editions, red and brown and black.

Placed there with some kind of love, not like his father's journals, handed to him in a box by Weiss on his first day back. Tell the Agency they can keep them, he'd said, handing the box back. Weiss had asked if he was sure. Yes. I don't need those things around. I don't need another reminder of who he was.

"I called my mom this morning, to tell her I'd be out of town," he says, watching a much more formal red dress go into the suitcase. "She said she'd still like to meet you, maybe have dinner, if we have time before we leave."

"I would really like to finally meet her."

It is easier for her, now that she no longer feels guilt for what her mother supposedly did all those years ago. No, it's you with the guilt, now.

"I'll call her and tell her we can make it, then," he says. "You think you can be done packing by then?"

"Don't push it, Vaughn."

———

She is not done packing, although she has made substantial progress, when he reminds her they should be leaving soon.

"Okay. Just give me a sec to change."

"We're just going over to her house — she thought that would be less hectic than a restaurant. What you have on is fine."

"Vaughn, I'm not going to meet your mother in jeans and a t-shirt. Especially if you're still wearing a suit."

She pulls a skirt and blouse from the closet, changes quickly, slips on a pair of low-heeled sandals. He doesn't ask why she can dress so fast when it takes her so long to pack. Maybe she packs slowly because she can, because she likes that things are different, now.

Sydney walks over to the dresser mirror, runs her fingers through her hair a few times. Spins to face him. "Do I look okay?"

"Syd, you looked a hell of a lot better than okay in the jeans, and you look a hell of a lot better than okay in that."

She smiles, pulls her purse off of the bed, leads them into the hallway, out the front door — security engaged — and to his car.

He drives, wonders if she's nervous. He feels tense, tight himself; he hasn't seen his mother in person since she returned from France Sunday afternoon. Things between them were strained, at least on his side, before she left, and he was relieved when their interactions were reduced to brief phone conversations. Even then, she'd talked of visiting the old house, how she remembered him playing catch with his father on the lawn, all those happy memories in that house.

It should be okay this time — she'll be far more interested in Sydney than talking about him. It's not like she talks about him all the time, anyway.

Left turn onto the street with the little white houses, braking while a group of kids clear their game of roller hockey from the street. Into her driveway, the children already reconvening.

"Is this where you grew up?" Sydney asks.

"Yeah. My mom was originally from the West Coast, so we moved here when I was eight. It was easier for her, to be close to family. She's lived here ever since."

A whole block full of families, and only one of them without a dad, back then. That has changed, divorces and young professional couples who won't start families until later in life, if ever.

"It's nice." She pops her door open, steps out and waits for him to walk around the car.

He takes her hand and they walk together to the front door. He rings the bell and his mother answers before the chimes have finished, dressed in pants and a blouse — Sydney's decision to change probably a good one.

"Welcome, welcome!" She holds the door wide open, waves her hand for them to come inside. "I'm so happy we could finally do this. Come on in."

They follow her in, his hand still locked around Sydney's. His father temporarily forgotten, nervous now because he wants Sydney to be the last woman he has to introduce to his mother.

"Mom, this is Sydney Bristow." He releases her hand, slips his arm around her shoulders instead. "Sydney, Susan Vaughn."

His mother reaches out, shakes Sydney's newly freed hand. "Jack Bristow's daughter?"

"Yes," Sydney says.

"What a strange coincidence!" His mother turns to Vaughn. "Your father and Jack used to be good friends. He and Laura would come over for dinner all the time, before we moved to France. Even then, they'd come to visit, occasionally."

He takes a deep breath, vaguely aware of Sydney, drawing slow, calming circles on his back with her hand.

His mother continues. "I don't think I've seen Jack since your mother died. Such a shame." She reaches out, touches Sydney's shoulder. "And then your friend, too. I'm so sorry, dear."

"Thank you," Sydney says. "The flowers were beautiful, Mrs. Vaughn."

"Call me Susan, and you're welcome," she says. "I take it you went into the family business, as well?"

"I actually didn't know what my father did until after I joined the CIA," Sydney says. "He was on an undercover assignment for a long time."

"Oh. How interesting." His mother gestures to the dining room. "Well, I don't mean to make the two of you stand in the foyer. Why don't we go eat? I hope you like Italian, Sydney. I had to do carryout — I wanted to try to cook something, but I just didn't have time today. One of the patients I've been working with — she's not doing well."

She gets the sad, distant look on her face that he has seen too many times, usually after the long nights, the times she'd come home late, even later than she was supposed to. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you with your homework, honey. It's okay, Mom, I got it.

"Michael, why don't you show Sydney to the dining room? I left some things warming in the oven — I didn't want them sitting on the table too long."

His mother walks straight down the hallway, the more direct route to the kitchen. He takes Sydney through the living room, watches her linger first on the newer pictures and then the older ones, with his father. He stops and stares at the flag on the shelf, wants to throw it across the room, watch the glass on the front of the case shatter against the wall. He doesn't deserve that fucking flag. He doesn't deserve these pictures, her love.

"Come on." Sydney, pulling at his hand.

They sit down at a table already filled with far more food than the three of them could eat. His mother has transferred everything out of whatever Styrofoam or foil containers it came in, put it in her good china. She places one last bowl — fettucine alfredo — on the table, along with a bottle of wine. One of his favorites, probably fresh from France.

"Sydney, do you want wine to drink? Or would you like something else?"

"Wine would be wonderful. Thank you."

His mother pours each of them a generous glass, then sits. The small dining room seems full, with three people here instead of two. He wonders if it feels empty with just one, lonely when his mother sits down to dinner.

"Dig in, dear," his mother says. "Guests go first, in this house."

Sydney reaches for the bowl nearest her, and they are quiet for a few minutes, save for spoons clinking on serving bowls.

"So Michael tells me you're a nurse?"

He glances over at Sydney, surprised at her use of his first name. Guess she didn't want to explain why she only ever uses your last name to your mother. Hell, she's never explained it to you, really.

"Yes. I'm retired, now, but I was for quite a long time. I took some time off to raise Michael — William and I were planning to have more, and we felt it was best. Obviously, when he passed I needed to go back to work, and I realized I'd forgotten how much I loved it. There are bad days, of course, but there are also so many good ones. When I went to retire, I found I couldn't give it up. So I started doing volunteer work. I'm still at the hospital three or four times a week, usually." His mother spears a piece of eggplant with her fork. "You're finishing a doctorate in literature, is that right?"

"Yes. In December, hopefully. I'm also going to be teaching two classes. I don't know if Michael told you — I've left the Agency."

"No. I'm afraid I've dominated most of our conversations lately with my trip," his mother says. "Your mother was a literature professor, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was."

"Following after both parents. How interesting. If you don't mind my asking, what made you decide to work on a doctorate when you already had a career with the CIA?"

"I, ah, was involved in an assignment that wasn't very pleasant," Sydney says. "I decided that I wanted to try to move on to something else. And doing what my mother did was always a dream of mine. I was kind of naive when I was recruited — I didn't realize what all it was going to entail. My schoolwork gave me something to look forward to, when it was all over."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay, now. It was a difficult time in my life, but Vaughn was actually very helpful in getting me through it."

She reaches for his hand, under the table.

"That sounds like my son. Very much like his father, in that way. If he could see you now, dating Jack Bristow's daughter." She smiles, gently. "Isn't it strange when the past intersects the present?"

Sydney's hand tightens around his. It is almost not enough.

———

The rest of dinner is easier. Sydney steers the conversation to his mother's trip, their own plans for Rome, and although there's mention of the old house, soon they're through dessert with no more talk about his father.

His mother returns from the kitchen, all of the dishes stacked in the sink for later, despite Sydney's offer to help.

"Would the two of you like to stay for coffee, or tea? Perhaps we could go into the living room, chat for awhile?"

Sydney does not speak, looks at him, instead. His decision.

"We probably should get going," he says, although this isn't really true — their flight is late enough tomorrow that they could stay much longer. But he has to get out of this house, has to get away, because it's only a matter of time before he comes up again. "Sydney's not done packing yet, and I haven't even started."

"Oh." His mother speaks softly, her face blank — disappointed, trying to hide it. "Well, I'm so glad I was able to finally meet you, Sydney. We should do this again, sometime, when the two of you aren't so busy."

"Yes," Sydney smiles. "Definitely."

"Let me show you out."

They all stand, his mother leading them through the living room, a long walk back past the pictures and the flag.

She hugs both of them in the foyer — Sydney first, then him. "Have a wonderful time on your trip. Be safe."

"We will," he says, pushing the door open, the night air cold on his face. "Bye, Mom."

"Goodbye, Susan," Sydney says. She takes his hand, silent through the walk to the car.

She speaks finally when he backs out into the street, dark and empty. "Well, that was awkward."

"I'm sorry you had to put up with that, Syd. I don't think it will be as bad, next time — not as many questions about your past."

"That wasn't too bad," she says. "It could have been a lot worse. I meant all the things she said about your father. Is it always like that?"

"Most of the time."

"I'm so sorry you have to go through that."

He stares at the road in front of him, afraid if he looks at her now he will break down. You just lied to your mother. You've been lying to her for months, really. "I keep thinking if I wait long enough, it will get better."