Judy Barnett seems worn today, the typical bags beneath her eyes blacker, more prominent, her hair a duller blond, hanging limp on her shoulders. Vaughn wonders if she's taken on more difficult cases in the last few weeks.

She begins with a reminder that this is their final scheduled session — as if he'd needed that — and asks if he has any concerns he'd like to bring up. No, he says, surely they've covered everything by now; she's been very thorough.

"Good. Then we'll try to keep this short." She smiles, big and false and creased, rolls her desk chair around to the front of her desk, just a few feet in front of him. "I wanted to talk to you about how things with your mother stand."

He shifts on the couch, restless, the leather slippery beneath his suit, tries not to think that this could be it, that in fifteen or twenty minutes — thirty, maybe, but still some tangible, manageable period of time — he could be done with this. They have been down to one meeting a week for the last month, brief and surely unnecessary, but always still required, until last week she'd announced that she was almost ready to sign off.

"What do you want to know?"

"A few sessions ago, you said things with her have been more strained since she's been back in the country. Are you still uncomfortable talking with her about your father?"

"Yeah." She seems too close. He wonders if this is engineered, or merely a byproduct of office furniture that doesn't quite fit in this space. "I mean, it's really hard to hear her talk about him the way she sees him, the way I used to see him, and know the truth."

"And how have you been dealing with that?"

"I try to steer the conversation away from him, if I can. But it's hard to do. I can't be too obvious about it, or she'll want to know what's wrong. I never used to have a problem talking about him to her. If anything, I used to encourage it, especially when I was a kid — I loved it when she told me stories about him. So that's what she's used to."

"You're going to have to continue to work on that, Agent Vaughn. There is always going to be a certain level of hurt and pain associated with what you know as the truth about your father. If you can learn to compartmentalize those things when you're with her, it will help."

He nods because it will get him closer to out of here, not because he thinks compartmentalizing will actually work. He has tried it, has stood on his mother's doorstep and tried to erase the gym and the lonely funeral from his mind, if only for a few hours. It never works.

"With time, it will get easier, Michael."

Then why hasn't it? "I hope so."

"Right now, I think time is really what you need. I'm going to sign off on your field rating and release you from the mandatory sessions, aside from a follow-up in three months. But if you feel like you need to come see me before that, don't hesitate."

"I won't," he says, already rising. He thanks her from the doorway, an afterthought.

———

He can see Marcus Dixon at the end of the hallway that leads back to the rotunda, just a silhouette, but clearly Dixon. He is the only person at the JTF using a cane right now.

Vaughn walks quickly to close the gap between them, realizes that Dixon must be on his way to Barnett's office, that he may be one of the cases weighing her down. Vaughn knows from Sydney that Dixon told his wife what he really did — unavoidable, really, after he'd been shot a second time — and that it had not gone well, although Sydney says things are improving.

"Agent Dixon, how are you doing?" He's always felt the urge to call him just "Dixon," as Sydney does, but it feels inappropriate, here.

"Better." Dixon gives him a deep nod and stops a few feet away, leaning heavily on the cane. "How is Sydney? I miss seeing her around here."

"She's good. Are you going to be able to make it Saturday?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I'm going to bring Diane and the kids."

"Great. She'll be happy to see all of you." Dixon shifts a little, and Vaughn wonders if he's kept him standing still for too long. "Hey, I'll let you go."

"Thanks. Tell Sydney I said hello."

"I will." Vaughn steps to the side and starts toward the end of the hallway, the distinct clicking of Dixon's cane growing fainter.

Into the rotunda, even busier than usual today. They are running eight operations — two major, six minor — and he knows them all, has reviewed every one.

Weiss leans back dangerously far in his chair as Vaughn approaches. "So are you a free man?"

"Yeah. It actually went better than I thought it would."

"Shocker." Weiss sits up, chair squealing, as Vaughn passes him, sits at his own desk and begins to log in. "Hey, Devlin stopped by while you were gone. They've got some more ops out of Langley they want you to review. That's how many this week? You keep it up and they're going to kick you up the ladder, Mike."

"Yeah, and then I'll be working even more hours. I'm sure Syd will be thrilled about that."

"What, you get the girl and now you want to actually spend time with her? What's wrong with you?"

"Very funny." His screen into view, five new messages in the half hour he's been away from his desk.

"How is Sydney these days?"

"She's good. A little quiet, lately."

"Bad quiet?"

"I don't know. She's coming up on the end of her job, and with graduation and everything, I think she's just got a lot on her mind."

"Yeah, she's been through a lot this year."

Vaughn nods, opens the first message. From Devlin, two files from Langley attached — the operations he's supposed to review, due in three hours. "You'll get to see her at the party."

"Yep. Now, Mike, about this party. You've got to let me know — Syd's grad school friends, any prospects there? Because the whole bachelor thing isn't working quite so well with you all shacked up, you know?"

It has been a long time since he's done anything with Weiss outside of work, he realizes. Weeks since their last beer-and-pizza Saturday, almost as long since they've been to a bar, and even then, he'd brought Sydney. But what can you do? It's not like you have free time. "If it's any consolation, I spend more time here at work with you than I do home with Syd. You're right, though. We should go to a game sometime, or something."

"Yeah, or a double date once you introduce me to Syd's hot lit doctor friends."

"I have no idea if there actually are any, but you've got first dibs as far as I'm concerned."

"That's what I like to hear."

———

He arrives home late, tired, but still far earlier than yesterday, when he'd stayed to work comms on an operation he'd designed and slipped into bed with her already asleep. Not the first time he'd done it, and he knows it will not be the last.

He lets himself in through the front door, recalls the day she'd asked him to move in. It hadn't been the serious, monumental question he'd been waiting for; an offhand comment one day, instead, that he really should move in here, that his time was too precious to be wasted making runs back to his apartment.

Vaughn catches her irritation with his job, his hours, in glimpses like this. An offhand comment, a disappointed sigh when he calls to tell her he'll be home late, maybe he can take her to dinner tomorrow instead. She never says anything directly, never complains, but he knows she must not be happy about it.

He isn't, either, although he knows he is doing well and drawing notice at Langley; Devlin said as much last week. Three years ago, he would have been thrilled. Challenging work, and upward mobility, what he'd wanted, to be a star at the Agency like his father. But the whole time he was a star, he was really a traitor. And the hours are killing you, hurting what you have with her.

But it will slow down, or at least it should. One of his primary cases is the hunt for Alain Christophe, to put an end to the network he's been trying to build. Important, and it will be a big win for the Agency and for him, to catch one of the men who might still be after Sydney. And it should give you more free time.

Vaughn pounds through the security keycode, pulls off his jacket and holster, hanging both on the coatrack by the door, out of habit, now.

"Syd, you here?"

"I'm in the kitchen. Go sit down and relax. I'll be out in a minute."

He slides his gun from the holster, takes it with him to the couch, placing it on the end table as he sits, sinking into the cushion, letting the exhaustion overtake him.

He hears her approach, feels her presence behind him, learning over the back of the couch to hand him a glass of wine. He tilts his head up and sideways for a brief, lopsided kiss before she pulls away, setting her own wine glass on the end table beside his gun.

"Are you hungry?"

"No. Weiss ordered a pizza."

"Oh." She lays her hands on his shoulders, starts to press her fingers in slow, deep circles over his shirt. "You're so tense."

He leans forward a bit, to give her better access, closes his eyes, the sensation unbelievably good. "They've got me working on a lot of different operations now, and I just feel like there's a lot of pressure on me. If I screw any one of them up, if I miss anything, it's somebody's life on the line."

Her thumbs firm on either side of his spine. "Is that the way you used to approach my cases?"

"Especially your cases, Syd." He thinks of those days, up all night, wondering if there was something he'd missed, something that might have helped her, something that might get her killed, the responsibility for her life nearly too much, the relief overwhelming every time he learned she was safe.

He takes a sip of wine. At least those days are over, now. "How was your day?"

"Frustrating. I had to go in and proctor my exam in the morning, and then I came back and graded papers for most of the afternoon."

"And that was frustrating?"

"Vaughn, some of these papers — they're awful. I mean, we spent two weeks on Hamlet and it's like some of these kids haven't even read it."

"They probably haven't."

"Great." Her hands freeze on his back briefly, then start again. "I'm just — I'm tired of teaching these lessons when half of the kids aren't even paying attention, correcting the same mistakes over and over again on their papers. I thought I was going to make a difference, you know, introduce them to literature. But it seems like most of them don't care."

"You probably have made a difference for some of them, Syd. I bet there are kids in that class who genuinely enjoyed it, who learned to love Hamlet, or whatever, because of you. But you're not going to get through to all of them."

"I guess so," she says. "I just feel like maybe if my lessons were better, maybe if I did a better job getting them fired up about literature, I could reach more of them."

"Then do that. But you're never going to get a hundred percent. That doesn't make what you did for the others less special."

This is Sydney, now, alternately enthused and worried over her classes, much of her day spent at home, writing papers, grading papers, studying, preparing lessons. Sydney who wears jeans and reading glasses around the house most days, the suit from her classes long gone by the time he gets home.

He hasn't forgotten Sydney from that first day in Rome, Sydney from before, with the costumes and the confidence and the moves, but she seems very far away. Gone, permanently, and sometimes he finds he misses her. But she's doing what she wanted to do, no longer out there risking her life, and these things are far more important.

"Are you all set for the party?" He feels a little guilty, with this question. It had been his idea, to have a party after her graduation, to celebrate her truly moving on to the next phase in her life. But she has been left with most of the work, since he hasn't been around.

"I think so. I did a little cleaning today, too, and the food should all be ready. We just have to pick it up Saturday morning. Will's going to come over tomorrow and help me set up."

"How is he doing?"

"Much better, I think. He's been seeing Barnett, too. I don't know if you knew that."

"I did."

"He said she's been really helpful."

"She is. Annoying, but helpful."

She laughs. "Vaughn, you're not going to get called in, are you?"

"No. I told them Saturday was absolutely off-limits unless there was an extreme emergency."

She stops the massage, pulls her hands away. "Sorry. I'm getting tired."

"It's okay. Thank you." He turns to kiss her again.

"You're welcome." She picks up her wine glass, walks around the couch to sit beside him.

It would be good to return the favor. He places his hands on her shoulders, turns her torso a bit, presses his fingers into the soft muscle of her shoulders. She stretches, arching her back and leaning into his touch, a little cat-like.

"Your mother called," she says.

"Did she say she'd be able to make the party?"

"Yeah, she can. They only need her for a couple hours at the fundraiser, so she'll come by after. She also said she'd like to take us out to dinner tomorrow, if you can make it."

"I can try to cut out early." He is supposed to have a relatively light day, tomorrow, and if he doesn't, he can always go back to work, or take what he can home.

She turns to face him, pulling away from his hands.

"Vaughn, don't you think it's odd that she called me instead of you?"

"She was rsvping to your party. Your number was on the invitation."

"Vaughn, she called me because she's hardly heard from you in the last couple months. She wanted to know if something was wrong. I told her you've been busy with work."

"I have been busy with work. You know that — "

"It's not just work, is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Vaughn, you've been avoiding her ever since you found out about your father."

She is right, he knows. But he doesn't know how to fix it. Barnett's solution — compartmentalizing it — hasn't worked and isn't going to. So instead he's been keeping his calls short, telling her he's tired, skipping out on dinner whenever he can.

"I haven't said anything because I felt like it was your decision. But I see what's happening, now, and I can't — I need to say this." Sydney reaches down, picks up his hand. "Vaughn, my dad didn't know the full extent of what my mother was doing for the KGB until after he thought she died. He thought she'd been sent to steal secrets from him, but he didn't know about all of the wetwork, the assassinations — she's my mother, but she's done some horrible things."

Her eyes are distant, pained with a reality he knows she tries to avoid. "After we thought she'd died, my father kept what she'd done from me. He let me keep believing that she'd been a good, loving mother and maybe — I think she was that, deep down. But she also betrayed this country, and our family.

"I know he was trying to protect me from the truth, but you know what kind of father he became — cold, distant, hiring nannies to do everything so he didn't have to be around me. I don't know if that's because of what he'd been through, or the secret he was keeping, or both. But whatever the cause, I lost both my parents when we lost her."

She pauses. "I'd rather have known the truth about my mother and kept my dad. Your father is dead, Vaughn. He's been dead to her for a long time. Don't ruin your relationship with your mother trying to uphold his reputation. Don't take her son away, too."

He is stunned by her plea, barely registers her hand tightening around his. You never really thought about it that way. But she's right. Why should you protect him, of all people?

"I don't know how to tell her, Syd."

"There's no easy way, or right way to do it. But I think you should. If not tomorrow, then soon."

"I think — I think I should try tomorrow. If it's okay with you."

"Of course. Do you want to tell her while I'm there, though?"

"Yes. I'd rather have the support, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all."

"Thank you." He leans back against the couch, slips an arm across her back, pulling her closer. She rests her head on his shoulder and they sit in silence for a long while, the only movement their hands rising occasionally for another sip of wine.

He is tired, but not sleepy, his brain turning over and over what he'll have to do tomorrow. How will you tell her? What will she say?

The antique-look clock above the fireplace ticking off the seconds since he's finished his wine. Five minutes, ten, maybe.

Sydney shifts beside him, sits up straight. "Do you want some more wine?"

"Sure," he says, although he knows it may well put him to sleep. "Let me get it."

He takes her glass and rises, stiff, walks to the kitchen, the half-empty bottle of cabernet on the counter. He splits the rest of the bottle between them.

He passes the breakfast nook as he returns. There is a "Congratulations!" card lying on the counter. Gold lettering, heavy cream-colored stock.

"Who's the card from?"

"Read it."

He shifts the wine glass in his left hand, freeing two fingers to pick up the card. Carries glasses and card back to the couch and sits, handing her one glass. Opening the card, long lines of graceful, looping script:

This was another part of her day, a big part, one that probably left her in tears.

"Wow," he says.

"Yeah." She smiles, soft. "I guess I should have expected something from her, but I wasn't expecting that. She sent me a dress, too. I'll have to show it to you later."

He closes the card, places it on the coffee table. "She did love you, Syd — she does love you." He thinks briefly of his own father, pushes it away. Time with her is precious, now, and he shouldn't ruin it thinking about him.

"Yeah." She takes another sip of wine and moves closer, resting her free hand on his stomach. "You know, it's nice to be able to spend a little time with you, for once."

"I'm sorry about all the late nights, Syd. I think it's going to clear up a little, soon."

"Vaughn, you don't ever have to apologize. What you do — it's important. I know that." Her fingers trace a serpentine path up to his chest, back down again. "I do miss you, though."

His body growing warm, aroused, and it hits him, suddenly and clearly.

The wine, the massage. How long has it been?

Saturday night. Almost a week. He hadn't needed to go in to work at all, and she'd set aside her stack of papers. They'd gone shopping in the afternoon, out to the observatory in the evening to watch the winter sky, then back here to make love until late in the night, sleep in on Sunday. It reminded him of their time in Rome, the lack of responsibilities, the long, sweet time together.

But not since. He reaches over to set his wine glass on the end table, pulls hers from her hand and does the same.

He drops his head to hers, touches her cheek, her chin. Kisses her, long and hard.