Chapter Eight

Sydney walked into the warehouse, bracing herself for an earful from Weiss. So it was a surprise when he greeted her with civility, though there was a coldness that remained in his eyes. She got the message; they were going to play this like the professionals they were supposed to be. No personal issues would be in the way while they were in this warehouse, but Sydney knew that things wouldn't be the same when they were outside of it. Weiss was too fiery for that.

"What's the plan?" she asked, hopping up on a crate and sitting on it.

"We play along with it," he answered, leaning against the wall.

"So we keep Vaughn and his mother where they are. I play it like a little kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar."

Despite his anger, Weiss was impressed with her quick pick up. "That about sums it up. You tell Sloane how much you love him and couldn't bring yourself to end it before it started. There was something between you, yada, yada, yada."

She smirked. "Not much of a romantic, are you?"

His eyes narrowed. "No."

They stared at each other.

"You know what this means, don't you?" she said.

"What?"

"I have to keep going out with Vaughn. Sloane will have me followed and if we want this story to ring true, I have to actually date him."

Weiss rubbed his eyes. "Yes, that's right. I just wanted to get myself ready to tell you that, but I'm glad you're smart enough to have figured it all out."

"We can't tell him though," Sydney said, ignoring his tone. "Vaughn can't know the real reason why I'm suddenly inviting him everywhere."

"No, he can't. God, this is such a mess."

Sydney felt her heart constrict at the hopeless sound of Weiss' words. He was right. She had to pretend to date Vaughn, all the while making him believe that they were a normal couple. If the kiss they shared was any indication, he was well on his way to developing deeper feelings for her and she for him. Before all this, they were aware of their mutual attraction, but reigned those emotions in because of all the complications they brought. Since in the past, the two of them were in control, it was possible, but if it was only up to Sydney to keep it professional...she didn't think she had the strength, and from the look on Weiss' face, he was thinking the same thing.

"I'll give him a call in a couple days," she said, more to herself than her handler.

"Be careful," Weiss said.

They exchanged a look.

"Be careful with him," he added hesitantly.

"I will," she reassured him with a confidence she didn't feel.

* * *

Vaughn had a vague feeling of dread as he waited outside Dr. Barnett's office. He was annoyed that since arriving there ten minutes earlier, the door to her office had not yet opened. She didn't have a secretary and he knocked once only to be told that it would be a few more minutes. His hands clutching his knees tensely, Vaughn took a deep breath--then took another. Just when he was about to start pacing, the thick oak door opened, and a young woman stepped out, her brow furrowed. She glanced once at him, and walked on past, lost in her thoughts. He watched her move down the corridor, wondering what had happened in the office to make her upset, and hoping that he wouldn't leave in the same condition.

"Mr. Vaughn," a calm soothing voice drew him out of his wonderings.

Turning his head, he met the steady gaze of an older woman, her long blonde hair pulled back from her face. She smiled in what he was sure she thought of as a soothing way and stepped to one side, a silent invitation to enter.

"Dr. Barnett," he said, standing.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she said as he walked past her. "Please have a seat wherever you like."

Without knowing it, Vaughn sat down in the same place on the couch where he'd sat months before. Barnett took note of the fact, and sat down in an armchair across from him. It was her favorite chair, but she didn't protest when someone sat in it. She wanted them to be comfortable above all else because when they weren't, her job became much harder than it already was. Being the resident psychiatrist for an intelligence agency was no small thing and Barnett was one of the best. Along the way, she'd learned enough techniques to survive the more difficult sessions and she had a feeling this one was going to rank up there.

"So, how have you been doing?" she began. "I'm sure this has been a very difficult time for you. I can only imagine the frustration that you must be feeling right now."

Cool and collected, the man sitting in front of her was no different from the Michael Vaughn she'd spoken to, though a marked difference was the slight glimmer of fear in his eyes as he regarded her. No, Barnett corrected, not fear--it was uncertainty. A corner of his lips tilted upwards thoughtfully as he considered her words and his eyes pointed down to the toes of his shiny black shoes. She guessed, correctly, that he was trying to gauge how much he should tell her. Deep down inside of him, where it wasn't possible for a person to forget anything, he knew that he should be careful around her. This instinct was making him hesitate now, despite the apparent simplicity of her question. Barnett wrote all this down on her yellow legal pad.

"It's been two weeks since I woke up in the hospital," he said slowly. "I've been living at home with my mother, but I'm sure you know all this."

Barnett only nodded and he sighed.

"I guess it's no surprise that it's been difficult. I get flashes of things that I know I should know about, but I don't. My dreams aren't dreams at all, but memories that are resurfacing and I force myself to wake up in order to try to piece together what I just remembered. I have notebooks full of writing--two already--of what I've seen in my dreams."

"You do?" Barnett said. "That was very good insight on your part, Mr. Vaughn."

"Thank you. I've read them over several times, and I've got a couple things straightened out. I ask my mother a lot of questions, but the majority of my memories, the things that are on the surface, they..."

Barnett cocked her head to one side and tapped the tip of her pen on her chin. "They involve Sydney Bristow."

Vaughn didn't answer and that was answer enough. He wanted to run out of the room and pretend none of this happened. He felt like Barnett had a camera in his brain and seeing things that she understood, but didn't bother explaining to him. Anger bubbled up inside of him, but he kept his face blank. Still, his green eyes sparkled dangerously.

"The last time we spoke, she was the topic of our discussion," Barnett continued.

They stared at each other.

"Are you going to tell me?" Vaughn demanded, his voice rising as his frustration reached its peak. "I mean, I thought you were supposed to help me here, and instead I feel like you're only telling me what you want, instead of things I need to know."

"That's true, Mr. Vaughn, but I can only help you help yourself," Barnett said, her tone pleasant as though he hadn't just been yelling at her. "The situation with Ms. Bristow is obviously very much on your mind and I think that if you remembered it all on your own, you'll be much closer to getting the rest of your memory back."

Barnett quickly looked down at her notes in order to avoid Vaughn's suddenly thunderous expression. She'd seen the transformation before, much to her chagrin, but it was to be expected in her line of work. Usually, her response to this reaction was that it would hurt before it got better, but she didn't think it would be a good idea in this case. His temper was nearing its boiling point and she needed him to stay a little longer.

"Please try to understand," she said gently. "I can only help you along the way, but you have to walk the path on your own two feet. Jogging your memory is one thing, but substituting it with stories of your life is another."

The logical part of Vaughn's mind understood her explanation and accepted it, but he couldn't quite push his frustration aside. He knew Sydney was important to him, and he knew he was probably in love with her, but he also had a feeling that there was a lot more to the story than what met the eye. What was strange about this was that it seemed like everyone knew there was more, including Sydney, but no one would say anything. He reasoned that the need for secrecy was due to the fact that they were all working in the intelligence community, which meant that what he didn't know was of incredible importance. And in the middle of it all was Sydney Bristow.

Vaughn blinked and realized that he'd been quiet too long. Barnett had lasered in on this fact and she was studying him too close for comfort. He sat up and adjusted his suit jacket.

"It's just frustrating, that's all," he said lamely.

"I understand," she said. "Now, what were you thinking just then? I might be able to help you with it."

He didn't quite believe her and she could see that. On her notepad, Barnett put two stars on the top of the page to denote the difficulty level of this session. The maximum number of stars she'd ever written was seven, but she didn't think that Vaughn would have any problems reaching that point.

"I just thought I remembered something," he said.

"I see. Well, Mr. Vaughn, you seem very well adjusted to your situation. Granted, it has been only two weeks, but you're faring much better than other patients I've seen in your condition."

"This happens often?" he asked, eyebrow raised in disbelief.

"No, not at all, but that's not to see I haven't had one or two patients in here with the same problems you're experiencing," she replied. "In high stress occupations, brain functions do strange things and I think that sitting in this chair I've seen them all. Amnesia is only the tip of the iceberg."

"How long did it take any other of your amnesiacs to get it all back?"

"A year or so. You understand that you won't really get all of it back. There will always be holes in your memory, but not as many as there are now."

"Dr. Chan explained it to me," he said. "Are we done here, Doctor?"

Barnett glanced at her watch and saw that they had a good amount of time left, but she was never a stickler for time. She doubted she would get anything more from him in any case.

"Yes, Mr. Vaughn, we're done. I would like to set another appointment for you sometime next week."

He was not pleased by this, but, to her relief, did not protest. Nodding curtly, he stood.

"Just give me a call," he said. "Does this mean that I'll be coming in here regularly?"

"Yes."

"I was expecting to be sent to a specialist."

"Not with what's in your head," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm the only one with high enough clearance to hear it all--that is, if you decide to open up to me."

The look on his face spoke volumes, but he merely held out a hand. "Thanks, Doctor. I'll see you next week then."

"Have a good day," she said, taking the proferred hand.

Vaughn couldn't have left the office fast enough. Barnett stayed in her seat, thoughtfully assessing the situation. She would have her hands full with him and she racked her brain for a way to get him to trust her even a little. Without trust, they would get nowhere. He didn't have to like her, she decided, but trust could go a long way in his recovery. Sighing, she picked up his file and placed her notes in it.