Author's Note: Syd gets two turns, because I said so.  Dixon's getting the short end of the stick here, I don't feel I know his voice well enough to write a chapter for him.  Kudos to Carl Lumbly for leaving me absolutely speechless with his portrayal.  This is the wrap-up of the Syd and Vaughn angle; the last installment will be a view from the dark side. 

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The debriefing finally ended an hour ago.  I never knew someone as laconic as Kendall could drone on for so long.  The man is a walking adrenaline antidote. 

I'm not the only one who thinks so.  Vaughn is sitting at his desk across the aisle from me, scrolling through hundreds of files the evidence team has already sent over from SD-6.  Despite the mask of intense concentration, I can see his head drooping further and further toward the computer screen.  He's leaning on his hand, which is slowly inching upward into his hair, making it even more tousled than usual. 
 

His eyes finally slide all the way closed, and his head falls forward until it hits the monitor with a muffled thunk.  He snaps back awake, glancing around guiltily to see who noticed.  I can't help it.  I laugh out loud. 

"I'd be mad, but that's the first time I've heard you laugh all week."  And with that, he's managed to wipe the smile off my face.  He's right.  I have plenty not to laugh about. 

"Hey, I didn't mean you had to stop."  The patented Creases of Concern are back.  Sometimes it's comforting he knows me so well, sometimes it's just plain annoying. 

"No, it's just…" I break off and shake my head.  "It's a lot."  Again, verbal finesse. 

He gives me a sympathetic frown and stands up abruptly.  "I'll be back in a second."

He walks away from his desk and disappears into the nearest hallway.  I stare down at the files that are supposed to be consuming my attention.  They are, just in the wrong way.  At the top is a newly-minted manila folder, with the name DIXON, Marcus R., printed neatly on the label.  The wound tears a little deeper every time I read that name. 

I would love to say I can't imagine what he's going through right now, but the problem is, I can.  I can remember what it felt like to know everything I had worked for was a lie, to know I'd given six years of my life to the very enemies I was hoping to destroy. How many has it been for Dixon?  Fifteen?  Twenty?  I wanted so badly to reassure him, to thank him, to show him it really would be okay, that there is life – a better life – after you've learned the truth. 

But he turned away from me.  And as much as that hurt, as much as it tore my heart, I don't blame him.  If anything, I admire his restraint.  I can't say I would do as well in his position. 

Kendall wants me to be his handler.  I managed to convince him what a terrible idea that was.  He's considering assigning Vaughn instead, or perhaps my father.  There's no need to make the decision immediately; no one's going to talk to him tonight.  Or more accurately, he's not talking to anyone.  He needs some time to let it sink in before he's ready to consider the next move. 

"Come with me for a minute."  I jump at the sound of Vaughn's voice and the gentle touch on my arm.  Without a word, I stand up to follow him down the narrow hallway and around a corner.  At the end of the hall, he opens the door and I see he's managed to commandeer a small, bare conference room.  It's purely functional, with a round folding table, empty walls and three straightbacked chairs.  But it has no window into the bullpen, which makes it useful.  He moves aside to let me in first, then closes the door behind us with a soft click. 

"Are you okay?"  It's a dumb question, but a welcome one.  I lean back against the flimsy table and study the gray industrial carpet. 

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Sydney."  He's managed to turn my name into a reproach. 

"Vaughn– "  I bite my lip before I can even start.  I can feel the tears beginning in my eyes and snap them shut.  I hate it when I do this. 

But for once, it has its rewards.  He steps forward and wraps his arms around me, and I hide my face against his neck, my tears falling against his soft skin.  I want to stay here, not to move, to reciprocate by wrapping my arms back around him and standing here, like this, the rest of the night. 

But now is not the time.  I will have the chance to cry later, to let it all out.  But now there is still too much to do. 

I tear myself away (and believe me, tear is the right word) and wipe my eyes on the cuff of my shirt.

"I don't know what to think.  I should be so happy, and I am, I am, it's just there's Dixon, and Marshall, and Dad—"

"It's okay, Sydney.  You've been through a lot tonight."  The creases are back.  "Look, why don't you go home?  Everything's calming down around here, there's nothing that can't wait until you've got a couple hours sleep."

"You know I can't.  Kendall's keeping everyone here until further notice, I can't just leave and desert the team."

"Sydney, you are the team.  You made this all happen.  None of this – none of this – would have been possible without you.  Nobody here is going to begrudge you a couple hours sleep." 

It's not his words that persuade me so much as his tone.  He looks so earnest, so determined, that I forget why I would want to argue with him.  I stand up off the desk, straighten my shirt and square my shoulders.

"Can you have somebody let me out the bridge entrance?"

"I can, but you don't need to."  He flashes me another lopsided grin.

A smile spreads across my face.  He's right.  I can leave.  I don't have to call anyone.  No code words, no cover, no elaborate jog through the park.  I can walk right out the front door.  My grin grows even broader.  Goal number one: learn to control goofy 12-year-old smile. 

"Before you go, I want to give you something."  He steps around me, reaches under the table, and retrieves what looks like a set of rolled-up blueprints.  He slowly slides the rubber band off, the I-am-so-proud-of-myself smile growing wider by the minute.  It would be annoying if it weren't so damn sexy. 

He places the papers on the table, holding down the free edge with his thumb, and slowly unrolls it.  It takes up the entire width of the table. 

"Remember this?"

"Yeah, I remember."  The twelve-year-old grin is back.  On paper in front of me is the CIA's master map of the Alliance.  Its believed extent, the red marks for assets we'd been able to eliminate, the complex set of lines connecting the whole thing.  The map Vaughn showed me at our first covert meeting. 

"You want me to frame it?" 

"No." I try to keep the teasing note out of my voice, but it's not going to work. Too bad.  He earned it.  "But could you show me what a paper bag looks like again?"

He lets the paper go and it rolls back over itself with a snap.  He's around the table in a second, cups my face in his hands, and gives me the second mind-altering kiss of the night.  I could get used to this.  I mean, I could really, really get used to this.  And if Weiss shows up again, I swear I will make certain the analyst upstairs never speaks to him again.

It's a blessedly long several minutes before we pull apart.  I'm really not sure how our arms got tangled around each other, but at this point noticing details is not my strong suit. 

"Sydney, we need to talk." Uh-oh.  Serious Vaughn is back. I start to respond, but he presses his finger to my lips.  "Not now.  I mean, we can, but I thought you might want to get some sleep first.  There are – things to be said.  And lots to figure out."

I nod in acquiescence, pulling his hand away and wrapping mine around it.  "You're right.  There are…things to be said."  His gaze is as intense as my own, and for a moment neither if us moves.  "Things will be different soon," I whisper.  He nods, and touches my cheek with his free hand. 

"You're right.  Things will be very different."