Sydney again awoke before Vaughn the next day. She didn't remember getting to her bed- how had that happened, anyway?
Shaking her head, she looked over to her nightstand, and saw the fish flitting around in his bowl, looking quite content.
"Hello, fish," she whispered, and he flitted quickly to one side. "I guess I'll have to get up," she sighed, making no move to do so, "but wow, I'm really tired . . ."
The fish made no move to judge her, so Sydney felt her head sinking back into the pillows. They were wonderfully soft, and deep, and warm . . .
When she woke again some hours later, it was because Vaughn was shaking her gently, asking if she wanted any breakfast.
She admitted that she did, and together they went down to the restaurant café to eat.
Breakfast was delicious, and over it Vaughn explained how she got to her bed.
"I carried you up, and you were sort of half asleep. You kept saying that you wanted to change, so eventually I just shut the door, and I guess you changed, but I don't think you were really awake at the time."
Sydney had to laugh.
"When I was little," she recalled, "I would do the same thing. My parents would bring me home some nights after a concert or party or something, and they'd set me on my feet and I'd sleepwalk into the room to get changed. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Parents can be terribly unsympathetic sometimes."
Vaughn smiled, and nodded.
"You should have seen mine when I tried to eat about twenty pancakes all at once," he reflected, scraping up the last few morsels of his waffle. "I thought I was going to burst, but they just laughed and laughed . . ."
They finished their meal shortly after, and once they were back in the hotel room, Sydney perched on the bed while Vaughn checked his messages. They were quiet, comfortable in the shared silence.
"Jack called," Michael began, setting his phone on the tiny side table and slouching into the bed beside Sydney. She smiled.
"He always worries when I'm on a mission. I always tell him not to call, and this time I didn't take my cell for that very reason. He never listens." she concluded, laughing.
Vaughn didn't laugh.
"I worry too, you know," he admitted. "I can't sleep when you're on a mission. I usually hang out in my office until I get the word to call you."
He flushed and smiled shyly, embarrassed at his admission. Sydney only nodded slightly, as if she understood.
"I can see that. So- what did Dad say?"
"Oh, something along the lines of 'Keep your hands off my daughter', but I couldn't really decipher what he meant by that," he grinned.
Syd playfully punched his shoulder, giggling.
"He so did not say that!"
"Naw," Vaughn agreed, "he just mentioned a couple of things to keep in mind tonight during the party. Besides the vault where the documents are being stored there is a Bast statue. If you turn the right finger around counter-clockwise that should make the painting swing away."
"How did he find that out?"
"Your mother gave him the intel."
"Oh, okay."
It took a second for the information to register.
"He went to see her?"
"Yes, he needed to know if there would be any little surprises waiting for us."
"But how would she know?"
"She knows Wallace, if indirectly. They've had dealings in the past, and they have mutual contacts. She remembered him telling her when he first acquired the statue- she was very impressed at the time, though the technology is a little outdated now."
Sydney nodded, still absorbing this.
"I guess- well, I guess I'm surprised that he went to see her for me. He's been trying hard to avoid that cage since she was taken into custody."
"Well, he loves you, Syd."
And so do I.
"I know."
***
For the rest of the day, they amused themselves by sightseeing all over Halifax. They hit the harbor, the shopping centre ("So much more relaxing," Sydney had decided, "when you don't have to buy anything,") and finally collected the piece of statuary that was Sydney's cover- and certainly, she said, not to be given to her father for Christmas.
"It's hideous!" she whispered to Vaughn after ascertaining that it would be shipped on their flight that night, "absolutely hideous!"
"It does have a certain- uniqueness to it," Vaughn granted her, helping her down the stairs.
"These are slippery," she frowned, careful to hang on to his shoulder as well as the railing. "Ugh, you could take a nasty spill. But yes, there really is something - different about it. It doesn't look like much of anything- why did you have to choose that one for me to get?"
"Me?! I didn't choose it! I have better taste than that!"
"Well," Sydney sighed, "here's hoping, I guess and- whoop, whoop- whoa!"
No sooner had Vaughn taken his hand from her arm than did her foot hit a patch of ice, and slide out from under her, the rest of her following suit.
She went crashing to the ground, and when she landed she couldn't bite back a brief hiss at the pain.
"Ouch," she muttered, and Vaughn was at her side in a heartbeat, trying to help her up.
"No, no, don't-" she gasped. "It- my leg, Vaughn, I- ow!"
"Syd, we have to get you to a hospital," he said, obviously concerned.
"To a hospital? Vaughn, we haven't got any sort of coverage in this country, and the coverage we have from the US is under our real names. How can we go to the hospital?"
"We'll figure it out," he soothed. "The medical profession is a bit more generous here, anyway- all paid for by the government. I just wish we'd thought to get Medicare cards. Can you stand?"
She could, but not on her own. By now several people had come out of the art gallery to see what the matter was, and George was hurrying around from the limo to offer his assistance.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Green?" he asked, worried. "You took a terrible fall, Ma'am."
"I'm fine, yes, I just- ooh!" she sucked in her breath, and squeezed her eyes shut. Vaughn lifted her bodily from the ground, and started to carry her to the limo.
"Vau- Mike, no, this is just- no! I'm fine, really, I am."
"No, Sydney," he said simply, "you are not."
He nodded to George, who scooted around to the driver's seat again.
"Hospital," Vaughn said abruptly. "Whichever one is closest, George, and step on it, please."
George did.
***
"What?! No! It's fine! Doctor, you have to be mistaken." Sydney tried to struggle off the examining table, but immediately her face twisted, her leg buckled, and Vaughn caught her before she slid to the ground.
"Sydney, you are not fine."
"Yes I am," she whimpered, but allowed him to help her back up to the table.
"It's definitely a sprain," the doctor repeated uncompromisingly. "It must have wrenched under her as she landed- it's a miracle she didn't break it."
"It would probably hurt less if I had," Sydney grumbled, eyeing the limb that was already swelling to a spectacular degree.
"I'll prescribe some anti-inflammatory drugs and painkillers, advise you to stay off that leg for at least a day or two, and use crutches for at least a week."
"A week?! Are you kidding?! I have a job! I have a life! No way can I stay off this leg for a week!"
The doctor glanced at Vaughn.
"Is she always like this?"
"And don't speak about me as if I weren't here! I can hear you perfectly, thank you! Ugh, I hate doctors! They think they're the be-all, end-all, and they just strut around as if they were-"
"Dear," Vaughn soothed, "dear, the doctor is only trying to help."
"But Michael," she looked at him with significance, "what about tonight?"
The doctor, misunderstanding, reassured her.
"You'll still be able to play Santa, Mrs. Green," he smiled. "Your children should be warned not to jostle your leg tomorrow, of course, but otherwise this Christmas should be no different than any others."
Vaughn, though, winced when he realised what she meant.
No way could Sydney slip unobtrusively through the Wallace home with a splint up to her thigh and crutches propping her up. There were some things that people would just tend to notice.
"We'll talk about it when we get home, Sydney," he murmured, as the doctor scribbled away on a pad of paper. "But for now, let's just get your pills and your crutches, and we'll go back to the hotel, all right?"
No, not all right. But Sydney, despite an obvious dislike of her new predicament, said nothing.
In fact, she was silent all the way to the drug store, where they filled out her prescription in a delightfully short time, and then all the way back to the hotel, where she hobbled into her room and slammed the doors with a bang.
Vaughn winced.
"Sydney?" he called. "We really should discuss tonight."
"What's to discuss?!" she fired back. "I'm a cripple! An invalid! I won't be able to do anything there tonight, and you know it!"
"Look, Sydney, I know that this has kind of ruined our original plan, but surely there's something we could do instead, and still manage to get those papers."
"Like what?" she wondered, and he considered.
"Well- we could trade places. I could be on point, and you could be on comms."
There was a pause, and a sniffle.
"But- you aren't field ready, are you?"
"It's a house, Sydney, not a mine field. I'll just have to make do."
There was another long pause, then a sigh, and Sydney emerged.
"Fine," she said, biting her lip. "And I'm sorry I was so short with you- I was just so angry. We came all this way, and I thought- for a minute I thought it would be for nothing. It made me mad."
"I know," Vaughn smiled. "It's just how you are. Dedicated. I admire that about you. Now, do you want to go over this a few times? We're going to need to make sure that everything is ready for tonight."
"So you think we could actually pull it off?" Sydney worried, and Vaughn nodded, with perhaps just a shade more confidence than he felt.
"Sure, I do. It'll take some doing but yeah, I really think we can make this work. Now, I'll get out the comm links, and we'll go over it together."
***
Several hours later, they may not have been quiet as prepared as they would have had Sydney been in her usual condition, but they were feeling pretty pleased with themselves, and were just finishing preparing for their public.
Well, more accurately, Sydney was completing preparations. Vaughn, who had been ready for twenty minutes, sat in his tux outside the hotel bathroom, tapping his finger impatiently on the table and waiting for his date. "Come on, Syd! We gotta go!"
"I'm almost done!"
"You said that the last time!"
"This time I mean it!"
"Women . . ." he said under his breath.
"I heard that!"
"No, you didn't!" he contradicted quickly, laughing.
The door swung open, and Sydney stood before him, looking far classier and - more gorgeous - than he had seen her look on any mission before.
"You look . . . wow." There were really no words.
Sydney's modest dress set off her smoky eyes and brought out the gold in her irises. Her hair was upswept in an elaborate twist. Her lips were red as rubies. Her cheeks were getting that way fast under the intensity of his admiring glance.
"You really don't notice?" she asked uncertainly, gesturing at the plastic splint that encased her leg from ankle to thigh. He shook his head with feeling.
"Nobody is going to be looking at your legs," he said. "Or at least, if they are, they're going to have to answer to me, so they'll be looking away pretty quickly after that."
"Thanks," she blushed.
Vaughn offered his elbow, her crutches tucked under his own arm until she would need to let go of him.
"Shall we?"
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, trying not to notice how well it fit, and together, Sydney hobbling slowly and Vaughn helping her every step of the way, they left for the party.
***
The Wallace mansion, when they arrived, was already ablaze with lights and music. Couples fairly floated in through the front doors, and Sydney glared at her leg as George assisted them in disembarking from the limo.
"This," she frowned, "is certainly going to be interesting."
Vaughn smiled, and helped her stand.
"Come on," he coaxed her, helping her fit the crutches under her arms, "it'll be fine."
She managed a smile for his sake.
"At least we'll make an entrance, right?" she quipped, and he nodded.
"There's nobody," he said sincerely, "with whom I would rather make an entrance than you."
She flushed slightly, and glanced over at George, who was watching them with unabashed delight.
"Good night, George," she said pointedly. "We'll call you, all right?"
"Yes, Ma'am, Mrs. Green," he smiled. "Yes, Ma'am. And Merry Christmas to both of you!"
They thanked him, and ever-so-slowly made their way to the front doors. Vaughn presented his invitation to the footman waiting for just such documentation, and walked at Sydney's side as she struggled to swing gracefully into the foyer.
There was a gasp or two of sympathy from those close enough to see Sydney's plight, and almost at once a chair was brought over by a well-dressed woman of reasonably advanced years.
"My dear," she said, sliding the chair into a well-lit corner where Sydney would not miss anything, "please, do have a seat."
Sydney flashed a grateful smile, and with Vaughn's assistance she sank into the velvet plush.
"Thank you," she sighed. "Ugh, what a bother. I'm so sorry to trouble you."
"Don't be," the woman scolded. "It isn't a bother at all- what can your husband have been thinking?" with a glance at Vaughn that displayed complete protectiveness of the young woman he was supposed to cherish more than life itself. "Making you come out like that, and on Christmas Eve, no less!"
Sydney's laugh was truly one of amusement.
"Actually," she admitted, "it was I who insisted. I didn't think it fair he should miss out because of me, and he would not leave me at home, so-" she shrugged, and their attendant appeared mollified.
"Well, if you need anything, you just give a little shout," she urged. "What an awful thing to happen so close to Christmas."
And, with Sydney and Vaughn's combined thanks ringing in her ears, she slipped away, leaving them alone once more.
"I think I ought to move here, when it's all over," Sydney sighed. "Everybody is so friendly. And best of all, now I have an excuse for sitting here all by myself."
Vaughn's face twisted in regret, and he laid a concerned hand on her shoulder.
"You don't mind?"
"I do," she admitted, "but I'll get over it. It's just one night. Although . . ." she looked wistfully out at the dance floor, where couples were already beginning to glide around to several instrumental Christmas favorites.
Vaughn, catching the look, smiled too.
"If it were possible," he promised her quietly, "I would have asked you."
"Well, great," she sighed, "just great. Now I'm really feeling sorry for myself!"
Vaughn laughed, and knelt by her side.
"Tell you what," he said calmly, "I owe you a dance."
"Really?" she asked hopefully, and he nodded.
"A dance, and another, for interest."
"I'm going to hold you to that," she warned, and Vaughn nodded, smiling.
"I wouldn't expect anything less of you. Now, are you comfortable? Do you want a drink, or anything, before I leave?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you. I think I see Frank Webber over there- if I wave, he'll probably at least come over to say hi."
"I'm sure he will," Vaughn smiled. "Now, if you're sure you're all right-"
"I am, Michael!" she laughed, giving him a little swat. "No, go on. We have a job to do."
Vaughn nodded, smiling.
"All right then, if you're sure . . ."
"I am, Michael, I'm quite positive! Now, go! But," she added, catching hold of his hand before he could leave her, "please don't be too long, all right?"
His smile widened.
"Believe me," he said fervently, "I won't."
***
The entire Wallace house, it turned out, was as well-lit as the foyer, so Vaughn had no trouble in following the map they had gone over back at the hotel, and ending up in the private wing on the second floor. Once there, though, he had to slow down and be more cautious. One could explain to a certain extent ending up in the wrong wing, but his presence in one this far from the party was all but a dead giveaway that he was not doing anything he was supposed to be.
Now, though, he breathed a little prayer of thanks that there were no guards in evidence. The only security was on the ground floor- nobody was supposed to know what a treasure was hidden in the safe.
Nobody except for Charles Wallace, and whoever the intended recipients of the documents were.
And, of course, the CIA.
Vaughn glanced around, making sure that the deserted hallway didn't contain some hidden figure waiting to spring at him, then opened the door that led to Wallace's private study. He was inside in under a second, and closed the door firmly behind him.
It shouldn't, he decided, take more than a minute or two to get the papers and get out.
Maybe it said something about his upbringing, or perhaps the hours he had spent with Sydney, that he was suspicious of its being so easy . . .
***
Frank Webber did, indeed, respond to Sydney's wave, and led his wife over to meet her.
"Sydney, my wife Amy. Amy, may I present Mrs. Sydney Green? I met her at the hockey game with her husband."
"Delighted," Sydney smiled, offering her hand, which Amy took with a warm smile.
"But Sydney," Frank looked alarmed, "what happened to your leg? And where is Michael, anyway?"
"Michael had to excuse himself," she said tactfully, "but should be back shortly. And the leg?" she gave a little shrug. "I just need to start watching where I put my feet, I suppose."
Clucks and words of sympathy were offered, but Sydney didn't hear them. Rather, her eyes narrowed at the sight of a tall man who looked too protective of the man he stood behind to be a guest touching his ear, and frowning. He leaned forward and tapped on the shoulder the man he seemed to be hovering around, and whispered in his ear.
The recipient of the message frowned, nodded, and waved in irritation that the larger one was to leave him, which he did, taking the same route that Vaughn had when he had left the room.
Sydney bit her lip.
"Would you possibly excuse me?" she wondered, ignoring the mild surprise on the Webbers' faces. "I- I really must . . ." she trailed off, hoping she looked suitably embarrassed, and Amy Webber came to the rescue beautifully.
"Yes, of course, my dear- go ahead."
Sydney nodded, smiling, and carefully fitted her crutches under her arms, hobbling out in the wake of the bodyguard who had taken off after Vaughn.
I sure hope I don't have to go far, she grimaced, then thought, Man, he's going to owe me for this one.
***
Vaughn was not yet aware of the debt Sydney was expecting him to repay her. Rather, he was busy rotating the finger of the exquisite statue, and watching the painting swing back before he stepped up to the safe, and rubbed his fingers together somewhat nervously.
Locks had never been his strong point, but he did all right with them, as long as he was able to focus. And as long as everything remained quiet, he shouldn't have any problems focusing, either.
Ten . . . thirty-seven . . . fifteen . . .
A creak in the hall made him look up suddenly. Was anyone . . ?
But he waited, and heard nothing, so he returned to the task at hand.
Twenty-six . . . forty-two . . . Just one more and he'd-
"Michael!" the voice crackled in his ear so unexpectedly he leaped back and nearly upset a rubber plant. "Michael, get out of there! There's some guy - a bodyguard, or something - coming up. You must have tripped something. You have to go now!"
"I can't!" he hissed back. "I've almost got them."
"Michael, you don't get it! You have to get out, or-"
"One more digit, Syd! Just one!"
His fingers spun the lock, and he felt the tumblers click into place. With a little smile of triumph he caught hold of the handle, wrenched down and swung the door wide open.
There were six file folders stacked neatly, as well as any number of jewel cases and small statuettes. Vaughn scooped up the files, and tucked them up his shirt.
"Got them, Syd," he said, shutting the door, twirling the lock and sliding the painting back into place, "now I'm coming, all right?"
He turned, only to be confronted with a very large fellow in a suit- likely the one Syd had spoken of.
He wished though, that she had mentioned the gun. That way he might not have been so surprised to find it pointed directly at him.
He swallowed.
"Syd, we've got a little problem here . . ."
Shaking her head, she looked over to her nightstand, and saw the fish flitting around in his bowl, looking quite content.
"Hello, fish," she whispered, and he flitted quickly to one side. "I guess I'll have to get up," she sighed, making no move to do so, "but wow, I'm really tired . . ."
The fish made no move to judge her, so Sydney felt her head sinking back into the pillows. They were wonderfully soft, and deep, and warm . . .
When she woke again some hours later, it was because Vaughn was shaking her gently, asking if she wanted any breakfast.
She admitted that she did, and together they went down to the restaurant café to eat.
Breakfast was delicious, and over it Vaughn explained how she got to her bed.
"I carried you up, and you were sort of half asleep. You kept saying that you wanted to change, so eventually I just shut the door, and I guess you changed, but I don't think you were really awake at the time."
Sydney had to laugh.
"When I was little," she recalled, "I would do the same thing. My parents would bring me home some nights after a concert or party or something, and they'd set me on my feet and I'd sleepwalk into the room to get changed. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Parents can be terribly unsympathetic sometimes."
Vaughn smiled, and nodded.
"You should have seen mine when I tried to eat about twenty pancakes all at once," he reflected, scraping up the last few morsels of his waffle. "I thought I was going to burst, but they just laughed and laughed . . ."
They finished their meal shortly after, and once they were back in the hotel room, Sydney perched on the bed while Vaughn checked his messages. They were quiet, comfortable in the shared silence.
"Jack called," Michael began, setting his phone on the tiny side table and slouching into the bed beside Sydney. She smiled.
"He always worries when I'm on a mission. I always tell him not to call, and this time I didn't take my cell for that very reason. He never listens." she concluded, laughing.
Vaughn didn't laugh.
"I worry too, you know," he admitted. "I can't sleep when you're on a mission. I usually hang out in my office until I get the word to call you."
He flushed and smiled shyly, embarrassed at his admission. Sydney only nodded slightly, as if she understood.
"I can see that. So- what did Dad say?"
"Oh, something along the lines of 'Keep your hands off my daughter', but I couldn't really decipher what he meant by that," he grinned.
Syd playfully punched his shoulder, giggling.
"He so did not say that!"
"Naw," Vaughn agreed, "he just mentioned a couple of things to keep in mind tonight during the party. Besides the vault where the documents are being stored there is a Bast statue. If you turn the right finger around counter-clockwise that should make the painting swing away."
"How did he find that out?"
"Your mother gave him the intel."
"Oh, okay."
It took a second for the information to register.
"He went to see her?"
"Yes, he needed to know if there would be any little surprises waiting for us."
"But how would she know?"
"She knows Wallace, if indirectly. They've had dealings in the past, and they have mutual contacts. She remembered him telling her when he first acquired the statue- she was very impressed at the time, though the technology is a little outdated now."
Sydney nodded, still absorbing this.
"I guess- well, I guess I'm surprised that he went to see her for me. He's been trying hard to avoid that cage since she was taken into custody."
"Well, he loves you, Syd."
And so do I.
"I know."
***
For the rest of the day, they amused themselves by sightseeing all over Halifax. They hit the harbor, the shopping centre ("So much more relaxing," Sydney had decided, "when you don't have to buy anything,") and finally collected the piece of statuary that was Sydney's cover- and certainly, she said, not to be given to her father for Christmas.
"It's hideous!" she whispered to Vaughn after ascertaining that it would be shipped on their flight that night, "absolutely hideous!"
"It does have a certain- uniqueness to it," Vaughn granted her, helping her down the stairs.
"These are slippery," she frowned, careful to hang on to his shoulder as well as the railing. "Ugh, you could take a nasty spill. But yes, there really is something - different about it. It doesn't look like much of anything- why did you have to choose that one for me to get?"
"Me?! I didn't choose it! I have better taste than that!"
"Well," Sydney sighed, "here's hoping, I guess and- whoop, whoop- whoa!"
No sooner had Vaughn taken his hand from her arm than did her foot hit a patch of ice, and slide out from under her, the rest of her following suit.
She went crashing to the ground, and when she landed she couldn't bite back a brief hiss at the pain.
"Ouch," she muttered, and Vaughn was at her side in a heartbeat, trying to help her up.
"No, no, don't-" she gasped. "It- my leg, Vaughn, I- ow!"
"Syd, we have to get you to a hospital," he said, obviously concerned.
"To a hospital? Vaughn, we haven't got any sort of coverage in this country, and the coverage we have from the US is under our real names. How can we go to the hospital?"
"We'll figure it out," he soothed. "The medical profession is a bit more generous here, anyway- all paid for by the government. I just wish we'd thought to get Medicare cards. Can you stand?"
She could, but not on her own. By now several people had come out of the art gallery to see what the matter was, and George was hurrying around from the limo to offer his assistance.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Green?" he asked, worried. "You took a terrible fall, Ma'am."
"I'm fine, yes, I just- ooh!" she sucked in her breath, and squeezed her eyes shut. Vaughn lifted her bodily from the ground, and started to carry her to the limo.
"Vau- Mike, no, this is just- no! I'm fine, really, I am."
"No, Sydney," he said simply, "you are not."
He nodded to George, who scooted around to the driver's seat again.
"Hospital," Vaughn said abruptly. "Whichever one is closest, George, and step on it, please."
George did.
***
"What?! No! It's fine! Doctor, you have to be mistaken." Sydney tried to struggle off the examining table, but immediately her face twisted, her leg buckled, and Vaughn caught her before she slid to the ground.
"Sydney, you are not fine."
"Yes I am," she whimpered, but allowed him to help her back up to the table.
"It's definitely a sprain," the doctor repeated uncompromisingly. "It must have wrenched under her as she landed- it's a miracle she didn't break it."
"It would probably hurt less if I had," Sydney grumbled, eyeing the limb that was already swelling to a spectacular degree.
"I'll prescribe some anti-inflammatory drugs and painkillers, advise you to stay off that leg for at least a day or two, and use crutches for at least a week."
"A week?! Are you kidding?! I have a job! I have a life! No way can I stay off this leg for a week!"
The doctor glanced at Vaughn.
"Is she always like this?"
"And don't speak about me as if I weren't here! I can hear you perfectly, thank you! Ugh, I hate doctors! They think they're the be-all, end-all, and they just strut around as if they were-"
"Dear," Vaughn soothed, "dear, the doctor is only trying to help."
"But Michael," she looked at him with significance, "what about tonight?"
The doctor, misunderstanding, reassured her.
"You'll still be able to play Santa, Mrs. Green," he smiled. "Your children should be warned not to jostle your leg tomorrow, of course, but otherwise this Christmas should be no different than any others."
Vaughn, though, winced when he realised what she meant.
No way could Sydney slip unobtrusively through the Wallace home with a splint up to her thigh and crutches propping her up. There were some things that people would just tend to notice.
"We'll talk about it when we get home, Sydney," he murmured, as the doctor scribbled away on a pad of paper. "But for now, let's just get your pills and your crutches, and we'll go back to the hotel, all right?"
No, not all right. But Sydney, despite an obvious dislike of her new predicament, said nothing.
In fact, she was silent all the way to the drug store, where they filled out her prescription in a delightfully short time, and then all the way back to the hotel, where she hobbled into her room and slammed the doors with a bang.
Vaughn winced.
"Sydney?" he called. "We really should discuss tonight."
"What's to discuss?!" she fired back. "I'm a cripple! An invalid! I won't be able to do anything there tonight, and you know it!"
"Look, Sydney, I know that this has kind of ruined our original plan, but surely there's something we could do instead, and still manage to get those papers."
"Like what?" she wondered, and he considered.
"Well- we could trade places. I could be on point, and you could be on comms."
There was a pause, and a sniffle.
"But- you aren't field ready, are you?"
"It's a house, Sydney, not a mine field. I'll just have to make do."
There was another long pause, then a sigh, and Sydney emerged.
"Fine," she said, biting her lip. "And I'm sorry I was so short with you- I was just so angry. We came all this way, and I thought- for a minute I thought it would be for nothing. It made me mad."
"I know," Vaughn smiled. "It's just how you are. Dedicated. I admire that about you. Now, do you want to go over this a few times? We're going to need to make sure that everything is ready for tonight."
"So you think we could actually pull it off?" Sydney worried, and Vaughn nodded, with perhaps just a shade more confidence than he felt.
"Sure, I do. It'll take some doing but yeah, I really think we can make this work. Now, I'll get out the comm links, and we'll go over it together."
***
Several hours later, they may not have been quiet as prepared as they would have had Sydney been in her usual condition, but they were feeling pretty pleased with themselves, and were just finishing preparing for their public.
Well, more accurately, Sydney was completing preparations. Vaughn, who had been ready for twenty minutes, sat in his tux outside the hotel bathroom, tapping his finger impatiently on the table and waiting for his date. "Come on, Syd! We gotta go!"
"I'm almost done!"
"You said that the last time!"
"This time I mean it!"
"Women . . ." he said under his breath.
"I heard that!"
"No, you didn't!" he contradicted quickly, laughing.
The door swung open, and Sydney stood before him, looking far classier and - more gorgeous - than he had seen her look on any mission before.
"You look . . . wow." There were really no words.
Sydney's modest dress set off her smoky eyes and brought out the gold in her irises. Her hair was upswept in an elaborate twist. Her lips were red as rubies. Her cheeks were getting that way fast under the intensity of his admiring glance.
"You really don't notice?" she asked uncertainly, gesturing at the plastic splint that encased her leg from ankle to thigh. He shook his head with feeling.
"Nobody is going to be looking at your legs," he said. "Or at least, if they are, they're going to have to answer to me, so they'll be looking away pretty quickly after that."
"Thanks," she blushed.
Vaughn offered his elbow, her crutches tucked under his own arm until she would need to let go of him.
"Shall we?"
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, trying not to notice how well it fit, and together, Sydney hobbling slowly and Vaughn helping her every step of the way, they left for the party.
***
The Wallace mansion, when they arrived, was already ablaze with lights and music. Couples fairly floated in through the front doors, and Sydney glared at her leg as George assisted them in disembarking from the limo.
"This," she frowned, "is certainly going to be interesting."
Vaughn smiled, and helped her stand.
"Come on," he coaxed her, helping her fit the crutches under her arms, "it'll be fine."
She managed a smile for his sake.
"At least we'll make an entrance, right?" she quipped, and he nodded.
"There's nobody," he said sincerely, "with whom I would rather make an entrance than you."
She flushed slightly, and glanced over at George, who was watching them with unabashed delight.
"Good night, George," she said pointedly. "We'll call you, all right?"
"Yes, Ma'am, Mrs. Green," he smiled. "Yes, Ma'am. And Merry Christmas to both of you!"
They thanked him, and ever-so-slowly made their way to the front doors. Vaughn presented his invitation to the footman waiting for just such documentation, and walked at Sydney's side as she struggled to swing gracefully into the foyer.
There was a gasp or two of sympathy from those close enough to see Sydney's plight, and almost at once a chair was brought over by a well-dressed woman of reasonably advanced years.
"My dear," she said, sliding the chair into a well-lit corner where Sydney would not miss anything, "please, do have a seat."
Sydney flashed a grateful smile, and with Vaughn's assistance she sank into the velvet plush.
"Thank you," she sighed. "Ugh, what a bother. I'm so sorry to trouble you."
"Don't be," the woman scolded. "It isn't a bother at all- what can your husband have been thinking?" with a glance at Vaughn that displayed complete protectiveness of the young woman he was supposed to cherish more than life itself. "Making you come out like that, and on Christmas Eve, no less!"
Sydney's laugh was truly one of amusement.
"Actually," she admitted, "it was I who insisted. I didn't think it fair he should miss out because of me, and he would not leave me at home, so-" she shrugged, and their attendant appeared mollified.
"Well, if you need anything, you just give a little shout," she urged. "What an awful thing to happen so close to Christmas."
And, with Sydney and Vaughn's combined thanks ringing in her ears, she slipped away, leaving them alone once more.
"I think I ought to move here, when it's all over," Sydney sighed. "Everybody is so friendly. And best of all, now I have an excuse for sitting here all by myself."
Vaughn's face twisted in regret, and he laid a concerned hand on her shoulder.
"You don't mind?"
"I do," she admitted, "but I'll get over it. It's just one night. Although . . ." she looked wistfully out at the dance floor, where couples were already beginning to glide around to several instrumental Christmas favorites.
Vaughn, catching the look, smiled too.
"If it were possible," he promised her quietly, "I would have asked you."
"Well, great," she sighed, "just great. Now I'm really feeling sorry for myself!"
Vaughn laughed, and knelt by her side.
"Tell you what," he said calmly, "I owe you a dance."
"Really?" she asked hopefully, and he nodded.
"A dance, and another, for interest."
"I'm going to hold you to that," she warned, and Vaughn nodded, smiling.
"I wouldn't expect anything less of you. Now, are you comfortable? Do you want a drink, or anything, before I leave?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you. I think I see Frank Webber over there- if I wave, he'll probably at least come over to say hi."
"I'm sure he will," Vaughn smiled. "Now, if you're sure you're all right-"
"I am, Michael!" she laughed, giving him a little swat. "No, go on. We have a job to do."
Vaughn nodded, smiling.
"All right then, if you're sure . . ."
"I am, Michael, I'm quite positive! Now, go! But," she added, catching hold of his hand before he could leave her, "please don't be too long, all right?"
His smile widened.
"Believe me," he said fervently, "I won't."
***
The entire Wallace house, it turned out, was as well-lit as the foyer, so Vaughn had no trouble in following the map they had gone over back at the hotel, and ending up in the private wing on the second floor. Once there, though, he had to slow down and be more cautious. One could explain to a certain extent ending up in the wrong wing, but his presence in one this far from the party was all but a dead giveaway that he was not doing anything he was supposed to be.
Now, though, he breathed a little prayer of thanks that there were no guards in evidence. The only security was on the ground floor- nobody was supposed to know what a treasure was hidden in the safe.
Nobody except for Charles Wallace, and whoever the intended recipients of the documents were.
And, of course, the CIA.
Vaughn glanced around, making sure that the deserted hallway didn't contain some hidden figure waiting to spring at him, then opened the door that led to Wallace's private study. He was inside in under a second, and closed the door firmly behind him.
It shouldn't, he decided, take more than a minute or two to get the papers and get out.
Maybe it said something about his upbringing, or perhaps the hours he had spent with Sydney, that he was suspicious of its being so easy . . .
***
Frank Webber did, indeed, respond to Sydney's wave, and led his wife over to meet her.
"Sydney, my wife Amy. Amy, may I present Mrs. Sydney Green? I met her at the hockey game with her husband."
"Delighted," Sydney smiled, offering her hand, which Amy took with a warm smile.
"But Sydney," Frank looked alarmed, "what happened to your leg? And where is Michael, anyway?"
"Michael had to excuse himself," she said tactfully, "but should be back shortly. And the leg?" she gave a little shrug. "I just need to start watching where I put my feet, I suppose."
Clucks and words of sympathy were offered, but Sydney didn't hear them. Rather, her eyes narrowed at the sight of a tall man who looked too protective of the man he stood behind to be a guest touching his ear, and frowning. He leaned forward and tapped on the shoulder the man he seemed to be hovering around, and whispered in his ear.
The recipient of the message frowned, nodded, and waved in irritation that the larger one was to leave him, which he did, taking the same route that Vaughn had when he had left the room.
Sydney bit her lip.
"Would you possibly excuse me?" she wondered, ignoring the mild surprise on the Webbers' faces. "I- I really must . . ." she trailed off, hoping she looked suitably embarrassed, and Amy Webber came to the rescue beautifully.
"Yes, of course, my dear- go ahead."
Sydney nodded, smiling, and carefully fitted her crutches under her arms, hobbling out in the wake of the bodyguard who had taken off after Vaughn.
I sure hope I don't have to go far, she grimaced, then thought, Man, he's going to owe me for this one.
***
Vaughn was not yet aware of the debt Sydney was expecting him to repay her. Rather, he was busy rotating the finger of the exquisite statue, and watching the painting swing back before he stepped up to the safe, and rubbed his fingers together somewhat nervously.
Locks had never been his strong point, but he did all right with them, as long as he was able to focus. And as long as everything remained quiet, he shouldn't have any problems focusing, either.
Ten . . . thirty-seven . . . fifteen . . .
A creak in the hall made him look up suddenly. Was anyone . . ?
But he waited, and heard nothing, so he returned to the task at hand.
Twenty-six . . . forty-two . . . Just one more and he'd-
"Michael!" the voice crackled in his ear so unexpectedly he leaped back and nearly upset a rubber plant. "Michael, get out of there! There's some guy - a bodyguard, or something - coming up. You must have tripped something. You have to go now!"
"I can't!" he hissed back. "I've almost got them."
"Michael, you don't get it! You have to get out, or-"
"One more digit, Syd! Just one!"
His fingers spun the lock, and he felt the tumblers click into place. With a little smile of triumph he caught hold of the handle, wrenched down and swung the door wide open.
There were six file folders stacked neatly, as well as any number of jewel cases and small statuettes. Vaughn scooped up the files, and tucked them up his shirt.
"Got them, Syd," he said, shutting the door, twirling the lock and sliding the painting back into place, "now I'm coming, all right?"
He turned, only to be confronted with a very large fellow in a suit- likely the one Syd had spoken of.
He wished though, that she had mentioned the gun. That way he might not have been so surprised to find it pointed directly at him.
He swallowed.
"Syd, we've got a little problem here . . ."