"You're working like a madman today. Any particular reason?"

Weiss halts a few feet away from Vaughn's desk. A few months ago, he might have leaned over the monitor, a little friendlier distance. But Vaughn has been working on operations he's not cleared for, lately, and Weiss respects this.

"I need to get out of here on time. Dinner with Syd and my mom."

He's gone a little while without worrying about what he'll have to do tonight. But this brings it all back, loosens the control he's held over his nervous energy, pouring it into his operations, barely stopping for coffee, to use the restroom.

"Your mom and Syd are getting along well, then?"

"Yeah. Really well." It's me and my mom that are having the problems. He considers telling Weiss about what he plans to do tonight, decides against it. Maybe he will, but not here. Later, outside of the rotunda.

"That's good," Weiss says. "Although not really surprising."

"Yeah. Smart, pretty woman with good manners — that's more than enough to win my mom over."

Vaughn attaches his digital signature to his final report and hits send. 4:51, time to spare. He has been lucky — Devlin only assigned him one new operation today, a minor one. He locks down his desktop and stands.

"You out of here? Seriously?"

"Yeah. See you tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Have a good night, Mike."

Not likely. "You too."

———

He opens his front door to find Will Tippin arranging a cluster of balloons — UCLA blue and gold — in the corner of the living room. No sign of Sydney.

Will turns around at the sound of the door closing. "Hey, Mike. Syd went to change."

"Hi, Will." Vaughn walks into the living room. They've filled it with balloons and streamers, and a "Congratulations!" banner stretches across the back wall. There is a large metal tub below the sign, waiting to be filled with beer and ice, and empty serving bowls line the breakfast counter. "Looks nice."

"Eh." Will shakes his head. "Fran was the real party planner. You should have seen her. Fifty pumpkins and a truckful of grass for a Halloween party. We're just trying to do the best we can, here."

Will's eyes grow sad, distant. Much the same look he saw in Sydney, when he'd suggested the party, and now he knows why. She had smiled quickly, moved past it, and Will does the same, his attempt weak.

"How are you doing, Will?"

"Better, I think. I feel like I'm finally starting to get settled back in at work."

"That's good." Will has been back less than a month, but already Vaughn has seen a few of his briefs. All good, refreshingly clear of the bureaucratize he's come to expect from many the other analysts, particularly the junior ones, carefully seeking to climb the ladder.

"Yeah, it is. I needed to do something productive. I quit smoking, too." Will pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt, reveals two small white patches. "One totally isn't enough. Don't tell Syd."

They laugh, together.

"Don't tell me what?"

Sydney, clipping down the hallway in high heels, and for long time, he can't speak, can't breathe. This must be the dress her mother sent — long, filmy black, just past her knees, intricate beading swirling across the bodice, narrow straps crossing her shoulders. Her hair is pulled into a loose twist behind her head, and she's wearing more makeup than he's seen on her in a long time, her lips red, eyes smoky.

He swallows, thinks wow but does not say it, not with Will here. He will not kiss her, either, not until Will leaves. They have been very careful about that, both afraid to remind Will of his loss, although they've never discussed it.

"Nothing," Will says, tossing the bag of balloons in his hand on the nearest table. "I should get going. I'll come over early tomorrow to help with the food."

"Thank you so much, Will," Sydney says.

"Not a problem." Will crosses the living room, lets himself out.

Free, now, Vaughn crosses the living room, lays his hands on her hips. He kisses her cheek to avoid the lipstick. "You look amazing, Syd."

She looks down. "This is the dress my mom sent. You don't think it's too much, do you? I wanted to wear it."

"I'm sure it's fine, Syd. Odds are my mom bought something nice in Paris and she's been itching to wear it, too."

Two loud knocks on the door, and then it opens. Vaughn steps back, turns to see Will in the doorway, a large box in his hands. "FedEx guy just showed up. I signed for it."

"Thanks, Will." Vaughn walks to the door, takes the package.

"I'm really out of here now, guys. Good night." Will steps back, pulls the door closed.

"Were you expecting a package, Syd?" The box is heavy, taller than it is wide. He takes it into the living room and sets it on the couch, one of the last surfaces not covered with serving dishes or balloons.

"No. What do you think it is?"

He turns the box to read the shipping label on the side — if he doesn't recognize it, he'll need to call in a bomb squad. Even if they do recognize the sender, it still might not be a bad idea. Her mother is the only one they should be expecting surprise presents from, and she's already sent hers.

The label has been typed, the return address a post office box in Rome. The sender is Giovanni Moretti.

"Giovanni Moretti? Isn't that — "

"It was his alias, wasn't it?" Sydney says.

Vaughn slides a pen knife from the inner pocket of his suit, flips it open and cuts through the tape. Sydney reaches in to help him pull away the flaps, revealing the tops of four wine bottles, nestled in a thick bed of raffia. There is a card on the top, and Sydney picks it up, slips it from the envelope, opens it. The handwriting is familiar, the card speckled with tiny dots of ink, as if it's been written with feather and inkwell, and maybe it has:

"That was nice of him," Vaughn says. "Although you seem to be getting a lot of graduation presents from people the CIA would really like in custody."

She smiles, slides out the first bottle, a 20-year-old Brunello di Montalcino. "I guess 20 years is nothing when you've lived as long as him. Maybe we should have asked to see his wine cellar."

He laughs, slight, and helps her pull the other bottles from the box, all as impressive as the first. They carry them over to the wine rack, which has been running a little thin; there is still an open slot after they slide all four in.

"We should get going." Sydney, her fingers light on his arm.

"Yeah." Reality rushing back at him — past him, to the dinner and what he'll have to say — so fast it seems there should be Doppler effect, like a train, or an ambulance siren.

"Let me get my wrap."

She walks in long, loud strides to the bedroom, returns with a thick velvet wrap around her shoulders and a small black beaded purse in her hand.

He joins her at the door, arms the security system. His hand light on her hip as they start toward his car, the dress soft, gauzy.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Dean Wenzel called me in to his office this morning."

"And?"

"He said Professor Rhoden is going to retire, so they're going to post for a replacement. He said they'll have to do an official search, but if I wanted to apply, I'd definitely be a front-runner."

"Syd, that's great!" They're nearly to the car, but he stops, pulls her into a kiss. He's been worried about what will happen if she can't get a job at UCLA or another college nearby, whether she'll need to move to follow her dream, if he will have to move with her. This would solve all of that. "You almost forgot that?"

She smiles, faint, reaches up to brush at the corners of his mouth with her fingers. He'd forgotten the lipstick.

"I was going to tell you when you got home, but then with the package and everything — besides, it's just an opening. They won't even post it until the term's over."

They begin walking again.

"But it still sounds like there's a very good chance for you to keep doing what you're doing." It would be so good for her to stay at UCLA. She seems comfortable there, and she's made friends with some of the professors, the students in her grad classes.

"Yeah, I think so."

She walks around to the passenger side, not quite as excited as she should be. But maybe you just think it's a bigger deal than she does. Maybe she's nervous, afraid to get her hopes up and then not get the job.

———

Thinking about Sydney, her chance for a permanent job, provides a temporary distraction as he's driving, but soon he is pulling into a parking space outside the restaurant, his stomach low and tight.

The car into park, Sydney's hand covering his. "You okay?"

"Not really. I don't know how to do this, Syd."

"You don't have to know how to do it. You just have to get it over with," she says. "You know it's the right thing to do."

They exit the car together, doors slammed clap-clap. Sydney fusses with her wrap as they walk to the door, straightening it, pulling it farther up her shoulders. It is chilly tonight, and it's certainly not enough.

Into the restaurant, another oceanside suggestion by someone at the hospital. A rush of warmth and a thin crowd milling at the bar, behind the maître d', martinis and cosmopolitans. Judging by the women, Sydney is nowhere near overdressed.

"Good evening, sir." The maître d', tall and gray, a careful, calculated smile as they approach. "Did you have a reservation?"

"Yes. Vaughn?"

"Ah. Someone in your party is already here. Come with me, please."

The maître d' leads them past the bar, into a far less smoky but only slightly better-lit dining area. His mother in a booth on the land side of the restaurant, raised a foot or so off the ground so that the ocean is still easily visible.

She sits with her back to the entrance and it takes her awhile to notice their approach. When she does, she stands, exits the booth to embrace him. She wears a dressier black pantsuit and a green silk scarf around her neck.

She turns to hug Sydney. "Look at you, dear! That dress is lovely."

"Thank you. I love that scarf."

His mother reaches up to touch the scarf at the base of her throat. "A little splurge while I was in France."

Sydney looks over at him, the edges of her mouth turned up in a knowing smile, and they slide into the booth together.

"I took the liberty of ordering wine," his mother says. She lifts the bottle — California cabernet — from a stark white tablecloth and pours them each a generous glass. She sits back, raises her own glass, waiting for them to join her in a toast.

They do, glasses ringing, and this is not the way to begin this evening, he thinks, smiling and celebratory.

"So should I call you Dr. Bristow, now, so you can get used to it?"

"I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that." Sydney laughs, but it sounds forced, as nervous as he feels.

"What are you going to do, now that you've graduated?"

"Well, the professor I was filling in for is retiring, so they're going to open up his job. The dean told me I'd be a front-runner, since I've already taught some of his classes."

"Oh, that's wonderful. You've been so fortunate to have these teaching opportunities open up for you."

"Yes." Sydney reaches down for her menu, opens it, and they all follow. A good move, for him — a little more time to try to prepare. And they should wait until they've ordered, keep their server away from the table for a little while. They do not need anyone walking up to that conversation.

A waitress approaching, stopping in front of their table. Young, thin, wearing a white button-down shirt a few sizes too large. She welcomes Sydney and Vaughn, asks brusquely if they've had time to make their choices. Somewhere along the line, it seems, she's been told it's more important to be efficient than friendly.

They are so close. She will take their orders and walk away and he will have to do it.

He feels seized with sudden panic, like he is lying in the sand just beyond the broad windows, desperately clawing, trying to get away. He hears his mother and Sydney talking, doesn't register what they've ordered. And then they are all staring at him, the waitress frowning.

"Uh, prime rib. Medium rare." His voice high and faltering, the waitress nodding, his mother looking at him with narrow, questioning eyes. She knows something is wrong, now.

"I'll get those right in. Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you," Sydney says. She waits for the waitress to spin on her heel, start to walk away, then unsnaps her purse, pulls out a lipstick tube. She silently uncaps it, twists at the base until the full column of red is visible, places it on the table beside her wine glass.

One of Sydney's hands sliding back under the table, reaching for his, squeezing tight.

His pulse pounding at the back of his head, he takes a long, shaky breath and begins.

"Mom, there's something I need to tell you. Something I probably should have told you a long time ago, but I didn't know how. I didn't know if I should."

"Michael, what is it?" His mother's face instantly concerned, her expression one he remembers from the times he was sick or upset as a child.

"Did Dad ever mention the name Milo Rambaldi to you?"

"Milo — no." She shakes her head.

"He was a fifteenth-century scientist in Italy — some would call him a prophet. He produced inventions, designs so advanced that the Agency has been researching him for many years, trying to find more of his work. The reason I'm telling you this is because Dad and Jack Bristow and Arvin Sloane were trying to find something that Rambaldi had been working on. They thought it would give them eternal life."

"Eternal life? That sounds absurd."

"It's not as absurd as you might think. They had a lot of evidence that lead them to believe what they did," he says. "They were working outside of the Agency on this — they made a pact, to do everything they could to find Rambaldi's formula. Sydney's mother joined that pact eventually."

"Her mother?" Susan looks at Sydney. "She was a literature professor, wasn't she? Did they need her to translate things?"

"No, Mom. Sydney's mother wasn't just a literature professor. She was a spy, working for the KGB. She was sent here to steal secrets from Jack Bristow, and she didn't die when Sydney was six. She faked her death so they could bring her back to Russia."

"Oh my," she murmurs. "Did you know, Sydney, that your mother wasn't dead?"

"Not until recently."

"That's — shocking. You poor thing." His mother's face deeply sympathetic as she looks from Sydney to him. She picks up her wine glass. "But Michael, why are you telling me all of this?"

"I'm telling you because — because Dad didn't die when we thought he did, either." He pauses, wants to give her a little time to absorb the statement, but he cannot wait long. Barreling ahead: "Sydney's mother helped him fake his death because the Russians were planning to kill him."

His mother's eyes shocked and disbelieving, so wide she almost looks frightened. She sets her wine glass down with a heavy clunk, some of it sloshing over the edge, trickling down the side.

"That's impossible, Michael." The wine dripping on the tablecloth, maroon on white. "If he wasn't dead — if he was alive, somehow, he would have tried to contact me."

"I know it's hard to believe, Mom, but it's the truth. I saw him myself, this year."

"He came to you?" Her voice high and pained, shaky through the last word.

"No. I went to him." Sydney's hand tight around his. "These people, who thought they could use Rambaldi's works to achieve eternal life, they thought that they needed to kill Sydney in order to do this. I went to try to stop them. Dad was there. I talked to him."

"You saw him?" A soft, tenuous whisper, her mouth trembling. "I want to talk to him, too, Michael. How could you talk to him all that time ago, and not tell me, and not give me a chance to see him?"

"Because he's not the person we thought he was, Mom. I told you that he didn't die when we thought he did. He died then, on that day I talked to him. Sydney's mother — Irina, is her real name — she killed him because he was going to kill Sydney."

His mother sitting silent, speechless, for a long time. She looks down at the tablecloth, then back to him, and he is unprepared for the anger, the betrayal shining in her wet eyes.

"So you're here with the daughter of your father's killer? You've been with her all of this time? You brought her into my house?"

"Sydney had no control over the actions of her mother. Sydney was strapped to a chair at the time, about to be electrocuted." He keeps his voice low, aware of where they are, but forceful. "And the truth is, I would have done it myself if she hadn't. I told you, Dad wasn't the person we thought he was. After he disappeared, after we thought he died, he went to work as part of a terrorist organization, called the Alliance. He's killed innocent people. He would have killed Sydney — "

"Enough! That's enough!" She is crying hard, now, her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob, her shoulders shaking.

He has never seen her this upset before, and that thought stabs at him, deep in his chest, that empathic ache that comes when she hurts, when Sydney hurts. Magnified, this time, because he's caused it.

"Why tell me now?" his mother asks. "Why tell me at all?"

"Because it's the truth. And I can't keep pretending he was someone I know he wasn't."

His mother pulls her napkin from her lap, stands as she wipes furiously at her face, and throws it down on the table. "I'm sorry. I can't listen to any more of this."

"Mom — "

She does not look at him or Sydney as she steps sideways, out of the booth, does not look back as she rushes away from the table, scarf flapping behind her.

Long, heavy silence. Vaughn falls back against the booth, stunned.

Sydney moves first, releasing his hand, reaching out to twist the lipstick back down into the tube. She replaces the cap, slides it back into her purse.

"I'm so sorry, Vaughn. I didn't think it would go that way." She leans around to look at his face, trying to get a read on where this all has left him. You must look like hell. You must look like you just broke your mother's heart.

"No, you were right. It was the right thing to do. It was just a big shock, to hear all of that. I guess I'd react the same way if it was reversed."

She runs a hand across his back, grasps his shoulder, pulling him closer. "Give her time, Vaughn."

"Yeah," he says, dully. He barely hears his own voice.

"Do you want to get out of here? I'm not really in the mood for a fancy dinner, anymore."

"Me either."

———

Back to the still, dark apartment. Sydney turns on lights — too many lights, the apartment flooded bright and cheery, all those balloons everywhere — as they walk to the bedroom.

They change into sweaters and jeans, Sydney's nice dress in a garment bag, tucked away at the back of her closet.

He should have told her not to wear it tonight, should have told her to save it for something less disastrous.

He walks out of the bedroom as she's still slipping into a red turtleneck, into the kitchen. He searches the refrigerator until he finds a plastic container filled with leftover spaghetti, pries the lid off, places it in the microwave, two minutes.

Sound of the bathroom sink running, and then Sydney walking down the hallway, into the kitchen, all of the makeup gone.

"Vaughn, I can get that. Sit down."

"It's almost done."

"Let me get drinks, then. Do you want some tea? Or do you want a real drink?"

"Tea's fine."

The microwave beeps long and loud behind him, and he opens the door, the spaghetti steaming. He splits it between two plates and carries both to the table.

They sit together at the kitchen table. A few bites and he can't eat anymore. He looks up at Sydney, finds they've both been pushing spaghetti around their plates.

"I think I should call her, just to make sure she's all right."

Sydney nods, and he pulls his cell phone from his jeans pocket, speed dial number one. Her phone ringing, ringing, ringing, and then the answering machine: "Hi, this is Susan Vaughn. I'm not here, please — "

He thumbs the end button. "She's not answering, and she should be home by now. I'm worried about her, Syd. I've never seen her that upset before, not even when they came to tell her — that he was dead."

"I'm sure she's okay, Vaughn. She probably just needs some time."

"She's got to be devastated, Syd. She loved him so much. I think I'm going to go over there, and check on her."

"Are you sure you want to do that so soon?"

"If she won't talk to me, she won't talk to me. But I need to go, Syd."

"Okay," she says. "Be careful."

———

The Ford in the driveway, lights on in his mother's living room window, glowing yellow through the sheer curtains.

He allows himself a little relief at the signs she made it home. She could be in there crying her eyes out, but at least she is safe. He parks behind her car, walks to the front door, and remembers the day his grandfather and uncles did the same, with the big trunks and boxes. No furniture — they'd left all that behind, sold it for far less than it was worth. His mother had wanted to get away, get back, to pull a new life together as fast as she could.

Standing on the front step, filled again with hate. He did that to her. He caused all of this.

He rings the bell.

A long pause. Would she ignore you out here? Is she that angry?

A clunking sound as the deadbolt turns, the door easing open. His mother standing there, her face worn, devastated, eyes red. Still wearing the pantsuit, the scarf absent. She stares at him, silent.

"You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to," he says. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Come in," she whispers.

She steps aside and he walks in, to the living room, hears her close the door behind him. Everything still in its place on the shelves, his father's flag still front and center, particularly egregious, now. A pile of old photo albums, leather-bound, some of them well-worn, there on the coffee table. One is open.

Vaughn sits on the couch, looks at the photos. He is four, maybe five, in all of them. Standing with his mother in the kitchen, playing with the old dog on the living room floor, skating with his father on the pond down the road. All fading, the colors pastel, less vivid than they must have been, neatly bordered with faux-gold corners, glued to the pages.

"I wanted to look," his mother says, sitting beside him. "I wanted to know if I could see it, that awful person you described to me. I can't see anything."

She reaches down and closes the book. "I didn't want to believe you. I can't — it's still hard for me to believe it was all a lie. But I know you would never make anything like that up, Michael."

"Of course not," he says. "And Mom, I don't think it was all a lie. He loved us, deep down. Maybe not the way we thought he did, but he loved us. And I think maybe that chase, the quest, corrupted him to some degree. Maybe things would have been different if he hadn't been caught up in that. He did say he wanted it — wanted immortality — for all of us, for our family."

"I would have rather had him back, had him around for all those years."

"That's what I told him."

"That must have been so hard for you. It's hard for me, obviously. I loved your father, but you idolized him. I used to worry about that."

"It wasn't easy. That's why I wanted to keep it from you. I didn't want you to have to go through that, too."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Sydney — "

"Oh, I was so horribly rude to her. Please tell her I'm sorry."

"It's okay. She understands you were upset, but I'll tell her." He pauses. "I know I've been — distant, I guess, since I found out. It's still hard for me to talk about him, and it's even harder to talk about him as the person we used to know him as. Sydney told me I couldn't protect a dead man at the expense of my relationship with you."

"I'm not going to pretend that it doesn't hurt to learn about this, or that you've known for so long," she says. "But Michael, Sydney was right."

This helps, a bit, but he looks at her, hurt and weary on the couch, and realizes this is the first time he's never been sure of his mother's love for him. He needs it back, desperately.

"Take your time with this, Mom. I know it isn't easy."

She nods, and points to the pile of photo albums. "As I was going through these, I kept thinking of all the happy memories I had with your father, that those were all a lie, and they were tainted now."

"Mom, I'm so sorry — "

She presses her lips together, tight, holds up one hand. Leans over, selecting the second album from the top, sliding it out. She lays it open in her lap, flips through one, two, three, four pages.

"Then I ran across this." Her long, pale finger resting beside one of the pictures. It is her, sitting in the living room of their old house in France, holding a baby — him. She is smiling up, glowing, really, at whoever took the picture, presumably his father. He has seen the picture before, in his last pass through these albums, but it has been a long time.

"That was right after we brought you home from the hospital," she smiles. "One of my happiest memories. And nothing he did, or could ever do, can change that for me."

"Mom."

He reaches out to hug her, without thinking, without fear, and she accepts the embrace. For a moment, he is eight again and it is Michael and Mom against the world; it is that hotel room 26 years ago. And he is doing more, now, but he could never do enough.

They sit together, and they cry.

———

It is after midnight when he returns to the apartment. His mother had asked him to stay for tea, and they'd sat on the couch and paged through the newer photo albums, the ones from Los Angeles, talked until she seemed a bit calmer, more settled.

Sydney has left the hall light on, but the bedroom door is closed. It is late, and she's got a big day ahead tomorrow with graduation, the party; this will likely be another night he slips into bed beside her silent, sleeping form.

Into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, strips down to boxers and t-shirt, dropping jeans and sweater in the hamper beside the sink. He crosses the hallway, opens the door to the bedroom, surprised to find she is still up, reading from the light beside her bed, propped up by some of the larger pillows, the rest of them piled on the chair in the corner.

She looks up over her reading glasses, brings a hand to her face to slide them off. "How is she?"

"Better. We had a long talk." He crosses the room, lifts sheets and blankets and slips into bed beside her. "She's still hurting, but you were right, Syd. Telling her was the right thing to do." We just keep learning that lesson over and over again, don't we? "She wanted me to tell you she was sorry, for what she said to you. I said you understood."

Sydney nods, reaches over to place glasses and book on the nightstand beside her. "And how are you doing?"

"I'm okay. I realized when I was over there — we've both spent a lot of years putting that man up on a pedestal. I mean, she's never dated — not seriously, anyway — since we thought he died. At least not that she's told me about. I think she would tell me."

"Would you want her to? Date, I mean."

"I'd like to see her find a love she can believe in again. It's going to take her a long time to get past this, though."

"Yes, Vaughn, but she will. And she's got her son back, now." She moves closer, her head still on her own pillow, but near enough to lay a hand on his arm.

"You didn't have to wait up for me."

She is silent. He expected a response, to that, and he examines her face. Something is still bothering her, something beyond what's happened with his mother.

"Vaughn," she says. "I know it's been a rough day, but I really need to talk to you about something before tomorrow."

"Syd, what is it?"

Her eyes down to the sheet between them, eyelashes nearly resting on her cheeks. "The professor's job — I don't think I'm going to apply."

"You don't — why, Syd?" It was everything you wanted, wasn't it? It was your dream, your goal.

"I thought I was all set, with this new life. And I like teaching, but I miss my old job. I miss you."

"Syd, I told you, it's bad now, but that should clear up. And then I'll be home more often. I promise."

"You and I both know that's not a promise you can keep, Vaughn. It's not a promise I want you to keep. What you do is important, Vaughn. What I do — it's not unimportant, but you said it yourself. There are a lot more professors in the world than field agents." She runs her hand along the seam of the sheet. "I just keep thinking, I joined what I thought was the CIA for a reason, and it wasn't revenge, or even justice. I lost track of that for a long time."

Her eyes on his, strong. "But I miss it. I miss the missions. I miss trying to make the world safer. I miss working with you. And I don't know that I could be happy as a professor, knowing what I could be doing instead. At least not at this point in my life."

"You want to come back to the Agency."

He is not as surprised as he should be. Maybe he's known this was coming, somewhere deep down, known it was only a matter of time.

"Yes."

"And you want to work in the field."

"Yes." The statement hanging between them, and this is it, he thinks, this is the turning point. "But I know what that did to us the last time, and I don't want that to happen again."

He is not ready to respond to that, not yet. "How long has this been bothering you, Syd?"

"I've thought about it for awhile, but it really hit me this morning when I was talking to the dean. I mean, here's everything I should have wanted, right in front of me, but I realized — it wasn't what I wanted at all," she says. "I know what Rambaldi wants, and I know what my mom wants, and I think I know what you want. But Vaughn, you said we have to live our own lives. And this is what I want."

"All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy, Syd. And safe."

"They don't exactly seem to go together."

"No. I guess not."

"Vaughn, I need to know if you're okay with this. That's important to me, that's — I would choose you over the Agency, every time. If there's one thing I learned after everything that happened, it's that. But I don't want to keep teaching."

He thinks of her mother, standing there on the pier. She doesn't need your protection, Mr. Vaughn. She needs your support.

"I'll be okay with it, as long as I get to work on your operations. What drove me insane was not knowing what you were doing, not being involved. I don't like leaving your life up to anyone else, Syd." He speaks firmly, wants to be convincing.

"Are you sure?"

And here, then, the question. Have they come full circle, come back around so this can drive them apart again? Or is this the beginning of a new path, something else entirely?

He does not know. But this seems right, like things are the way they're supposed to be. He sees them working late at the rotunda, driving home together. Sees himself designing her missions, pouring over the details. Working comms for those missions, maybe even partnering with her. Hears her voice, cool, professional, utterly competent. He's missed that voice. He's missed Agent Bristow.

And they will make it through, this time, because they have to.

This is not what he says.

"Yeah," instead, simply. "You work on happy. I'll worry about safe."

"Okay," she says. "I'm going to go in on Monday, then, and talk to Devlin."

And now things are moving too fast; Monday is so soon, too soon, and there are still things he needs to say.

"Wait — Syd, I know in Rome, we kind of skirted around the issue, of kids. That goes off the table if you're in the field. I won't tell some little girl her mom is dead."

He sees Sydney's body, much like his father's, lying on a steel table, bullet to the head. The little girl in the hallway of the old house. Daddy, what's wrong?

He forces them away.

"I know. I wouldn't want that, either. Maybe down the road, in a few years, maybe I could move over to Analysis, if that's what we want. But right now I feel like this is what I need to do." She lays her hand over his. "Vaughn, I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"I want you to promise me that if it starts to bother you, if it starts to become a problem, then you'll tell me, and we'll work through it. I want to come back, but I don't want this to rip us apart."

"I promise, Syd."

"Thank you." She leans over, kisses him gently, lays back against the pillows. "What if Devlin doesn't let us work together?"

"He will."

"How can you be so sure?"

He pauses, searches for the wording. Wonders if he should say what he's about to say.

"Devlin once told me that some of the Agency's best teams have been husband and wife."

She smiles, and it is everything.