*******
Spring
march
Vaughn
Jack is waiting for him, ready when he arrives. His head is bent over the desk, politely studying files until Vaughn chooses to make his presence known. He pauses for a moment (unusual for him) watching the older man. His hair, once the color of steel, has faded to the shade of weathered marble. The set line of his lips is more pronounced; the small creases deeper beside his eyes. His shoulders aren't as straight as they used to be.
"Agent Vaughn?" His voice is no less sharp, his demeanor no less professional. And he is tired of waiting.
"Director Bristow, I'm here to tender my resignation."
"Very well. Leave it in my inbox."
Vaughn places the singe sheet in the overfull box, straightens up, and freezes, uncertain what to do.
"You may go, Agent Vaughn."
Vaughn opens his mouth, but thinks better of it, and turns to go. He crosses the small room and reaches for the doorknob.
"You believe this is the best decision?" There it is.
Vaughn turns around; Jack does not meet his eyes, keeping them trained on the letter he's now holding in his hand.
"I don't feel I have anything more to contribute to the CIA."
"My daughter might think differently." Vaughn tries to control his reaction, but squeezes his eyes shut in the throb of pain.
"Sydney..." He manages her name, but realizes he really hadn't thought the sentence out past that point.
"Sydney made her decision. You are making yours. We learn to accept the consequences." For a moment, Vaughn can see something else behind the dark eyes, something desolate, clawing, reckless. But Jack blinks, and the look has gone. His face is unreadable again.
Vaughn licks his lips, presses them together, and looks at the floor. He should have something to say. He knows he should.
"We are prepared to arrange an extended leave. You could be gone for up to six months, and return to either active or desk duty."
"No. I don't want to come back to this life. I don't want any part of it."
"Very well. You're under contract for a month's notice. I will arrange desk duty for the remainder of that time."
"Thank you, Sir."
"It's Jack."
And with a curt nod, he is dismissed.
*******
april
Perhaps she can go back to Santa Barbara. She will sit alone on the beach and let the wet sand mold to the shape of her body, and when she is secure waiting there she will close her eyes; perhaps she can find him there.
I love, you Sydney. You know that, right? You know.
No. No, she will not think of it. She must not. She will not pry past the dark spots in her memory, tearing back the scabs again. She will not dream of what might have been and what never was. She will not go. She did not go. She will never be in Santa Barbara.
In these moments, she feels like a rubber band stretched too far, and she knows one day she will snap. The fear hovers just behind her as she goes through her day, tinting her memories and pushing her forward on every mission. At night, when the memories come, when she struggles to sift the pieces of what is and what was and what never will be, she wonders if that day has already come. She wonders if she snapped long ago, and now just hovers between the fragments. But that can't be true, she tells herself -- surely on the other side of sanity there must be some pleasant unreality, some place where the pain dies. Why else would anyone ever let sanity go, if there was nothing brighter on the other side?
She tells herself this, slightly reassured, and between the buried fragments of memories she finds her way toward sleep.
*******
may
Today she almost gives it up, almost gambles her whole life away just to pretend the last year never happened. She wakes up in another seedy motel (Florida, this time) and stares at the sun-bleached painting of seashells for two minutes before she remembers where she is. Her head throbs and her side aches and her stomach churns. She sees the collection of cellophane wrappers on the dresser, remembering the dinner provided by a nearby vending machine.
She could give it all up. She could. She still has the ID and credit card she used in Marseilles; she could rent a car, something dark green and sporty, but still with enough room, and she could drive. She would stop at the first gas station and buy three maps (a small laminated, a regular foldout, and a large national) and a jumbo cup of black coffee and some cellophane-wrapped muffins (blueberry, or banana nut) and the largest bag of pretzels. She could trace a route, follow it cross-country and if she gets a sunroof she can have the wind in her hair. She will drive through the days and late into the night; stop at a motel in Texarkana and another in Flagstaff; sleeping just for four hours before she drives again.
She will be hungry and exhausted and have grit in her hair, but she will pull into LA traffic (something she never knew she would miss) and drive right up to Ops Center. She park by the front door, right in the yellow-striped no-parking zone that threatens to get you towed. She will stride past security (they know her face) and onto the floor, and she will see him. He will be sitting at his desk or talking to Weiss or listening to Marshall, one hand tapping his pen against the desk impatiently. She will walk up behind him and place her hands on his shoulders and whisper in his ear. And he will whirl around without giving her a chance to think, or explain, or even breathe, and his lips will be on hers and she will laugh and kiss him and try to breathe all at once, and he will wrap his arms around her and whisper into her ear.
IloveyouSydneyIloveyouYouknowthatrightIloveyouDon'tgodon'tgodon'teverleaveagain
And she will be home.
The thought is too perfect, and before she has time to think herself out of it she kicks off the flimsy peach-toned comforter and peels off her clothes on the way to the shower and dresses and brushes and packs and checks out at the front desk while her hair is still wet.
She stands on a streetcorner with the early-morning crowd; overdressed old men and bleary-eyed surfers and other early-birds who want to get to the beach before the crowds. She steps off the corner as soon as the light turns, half-jogging across the street. She hears, rather than sees, the screeching tires and the blasting horn and the crunching metal and shattering glass.
She doesn't remember how she got back to the sidewalk, or how the small crowd grew so large, but she's aware of the blood matting her hair and the tangled mess that was a Ford Focus in front of her, crushed against what was a Toyota truck. He (she?) must have skidded or spun, landing in the next lane, landing in the grill of a truck. She stands unsteadily -- she must help. She must do something. She takes a step toward the twisted wreck and an elderly man stops her, hand on her arm, eyes full of concern. When she looks down at him, she registers the sound of sirens.
Mumbling an excuse, she's turning the other way, looking for a sidestreet or an alley (her natural habitat), anyplace away from eyes and the pounding sunlight.
Two hours later, she's in another cheap motel, sitting on another peach-colored comforter, staring at her reflection in the glass over a tacky sun-bleached painting. The butterfly bandages at her hairline are the only reminders of her close call. That and her shaking hands. This, she knows, this is why she cannot go home. She brings pain. She brings death. She closes her eyes and draws up her knees as she lets the images come; peeling back the dark places in her memory and reopening the wounds. The images begin, without order or reason or end, like a slideshow in hell. Danny in his bathtub. Will in hers. Francie -- it wasn't Francie. Vaughn in the hospital. Vaughn in France. Her father strapped to innumerable gurneys. Her mother grasping at her arm, trying to stop the blood. Herself, bent over Emily's body. Diane.
The room is dark when she opens her eyes again, not sure how long she has been there or how she ended up lying down. Her hand shakes as she pushes herself up off the bed.