Author's Note: Sincere thanks to everyone who left feedback; you guys motivated me to keep going. So here's the plan: this story will be a series of vignettes detailing the events of the night through the eyes of different characters. This is Vaughn's turn…
I'm still holding Sydney's hand as we exit the stairwell into the parking garage below. About fifteen agents are milling around three vans, and we self-consciously pull our hands away at the same moment. She looks over at me and almost smiles. Then her eyes widen – did I mention she has gorgeous eyes? – and I realize she's looking past me. A medic just stepped out of the first van and Sydney hurries over to him. They talk for a moment and she goes up to the half-open side door, leaning in as far as she can, with her legs balanced against the running board.
It must be Jack – I feel like I should check in on him, too. Probably better to wait; he needs a minute alone with Sydney. Don't we all.
Ok, I'm stopping right there. There's time for all of that soon enough.
Soon enough. Did I think I would ever hear those words in relation to her? A smile creeps back to my face. I haven't started – don't want to start – thinking about the amazing havoc Sydney is going to wreak on my life. There are more problems, questions and loose ends than I can count, one of which has blonde hair and possessive tendencies. The smile creeps back off may face.
Sydney steps back out of the van and walks over to me, with a brilliant smile. Not quite as bright as the one she gave me upstairs, but still pretty damn good.
"The medics think Dad should be fine in a couple of days, no danger of permanent damage. He just needs rest. He, of course, disagrees with them." I smile as she glances back over her shoulder. That sounds about right. "They want to take him into the hospital for observation, and he's agreeing to stay there overnight."
"Under duress?"
"Of course. He's already threatened to have three of them removed from their posts."
"He must be feeling better." We exchange another smile, and I'm fighting the temptation to create an instant replay of what happened upstairs, in front of everybody.
She breaks the gaze and looks over her shoulder. "We should probably get in the van."
"Yeah." Nice, Vaughn. Be sure to list "eloquence" on your resume.
The dark van is lined with long benches down the sides and the center is littered with discarded gear, jackets and facemasks. Especially the facemasks. I'm not the only one who hates those things. I'm wedged between Sydney – no complaints here – and another agent who I'm pretty sure is named Jackson. Jackson needs to lose weight. And shower.
As we pull out of the garage onto the surface streets, Sydney's gaze is fixed outside the window, watching the Credit Dauphine building slip away, perhaps for the last time. She rests her elbow at the base of the window and her cheek on her hand, which is clenched in a fist. I want so badly to know what she's thinking, what's making her body tense and her gaze focus on something I can't see. I want to wrap my arms around her and let her cry until she's ready to stop, and still not let go. I want to ritually burn the CIA protocol manual at my desk. Maybe Weiss will help.
We're hardly through the doors before we're surrounded – the rest of the team, other agents, support personnel, even Kendall – they're exchanging congratulations and slapping each other's backs and shouting out news and anecdotes so quickly that it makes Ops Center sound like the floor of the stock exchange. Sydney is pulled away from my side and enveloped in the crowd, surrounded by so many well-wishers I can hardly see her. Too soon, Kendall's voice booms over the crowd.
"We need the entire mission team and all agents in Central Conference two minutes from now. All support personnel at their desks; we've got a long night ahead of us. Good work, from everyone. Don't be late." He turns on his heel and walks out, the babble dies down a bit as the rest of us reluctantly proceed.