AN: 2 chapters to go. And one whole deviation.
******
Summer
june
Breathe in. Breathe out. She lets the tears fall in the pouring rain.
Tsimshatsui. Hong Kong. She can make it there.
She closes her eyes and lets the rain wash over her, and she dreams of a night on a cold beach, the rain pouring over her, making her cotton shirt stick to her body. She lifts her face to the sky, and she can almost feel his arms slide around her waist.
I picked the wrong weekend for us to go to Santa Barbara.
She's been running faster lately, working harder, growing sloppier with her cover. This is the reason why -- the dreams that have chased her for twenty-three months, the reality she refuses to acknowledge; they are becoming real. The anticipation of tomorrow is too strong, burning her chest, intoxicating her like hard liquor. Only one more day, and she will know -- she will know if she's found retribution, found success, found freedom. Her hands shake even at the thought. Hope is hard on a person who's forgotten how to believe.
I love you. IloveyouVaughnIloveyouitsyouIloveyou. She whispers the words every night dropping off to sleep, a cheap compulsion she doesn't care to break herself of. Like an incantation, like the rain, with it she can wash away the past.
But not our past. We'll always have our past. We just have to find a future.
*******
She travels through the night, ignoring the stabs of pain in her abdomen and chest, ignoring the hunger pangs radiating from her stomach. She can make it there. She just has to get to Hong Kong.
She weaves through the dark alleys, gun drawn, eyes wary in the city's busy nightlife.
Not wary enough.
The muggers are waiting for her in an alley, hidden conveniently behind a dumpster. One jumps at her, knocking her down, gun skittering across the asphalt. She could take them easily, but not in a weakened state. She manages an elbow jab and a sharp kick to the first one, rolling over with him beneath her, she uses her long legs to sweep the second off-balance before he can go for her gun. A second jab to the face of the man beneath her, then a poorly placed kick that hits her second attacker in the arm. She's no sooner on her feet then he wraps his arm around her neck, slamming her head against the corner of the dumpster. She pulls her feet off the ground, forcing him to stumble with her weight, and with a violent elbow to the head he slumps to the ground. She turns unsteadily, grabbing the gun, her abdomen, head, and heart pounding. She manages to walk a block before she sinks to the ground.
******
She wakes with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and without a clue when she's seen this alley before. Shielding her eyes from the gaudy neon, she finds her way to the nearest pay phone. A terse exchange over the phone (when would Kendall be any other way?) and she begins crossing streets and reading landmarks, getting her bearings as she makes her way to the slightly less-seedy area of Tsimshatsui; it takes her just over two hours to find the safehouse.
Once inside, she's led upstairs by an equally-terse guard, who places her in a room with a thin, dusty mattress, lit by a single naked bulb. He mumbles something about "handler" and "explain" before shutting the door. He seems eager to get away.
Her heart pounds even faster after he leaves, perhaps it's being alone in this odd place, perhaps it's the word "handler" working overtime on her brain. She shakes her head and runs her hands through her (slightly alley-smelling) hair, deciding to make the best of her time. Exploration of the darker corners of the room reveals a door to a tiny closet, stocked with t-shirts and jeans sure to be too short. Another door reveals a tiny, but clean, bathroom, and she takes her time beneath the hot water.
When she emerges, with still no summons, she pulls on an oversize t-shirt and settles on the thin mattress, slowly drifting to sleep.
She doesn't know how long she's been out when she jerks awake to a sharp knock at the door, hand instinctively reaching for a gun under the pillow. Her terse companion sticks his head into the room.
"Your handler will see you now," he says, shutting the door again. She jumps off the bed, heart pounding, and pulls on the closest (far too short) pair of jeans. Feeling tired and sick and terribly underdressed, she almost runs down the narrow hall. A door near the end is ajar, and she stops to still her hand before pushing it open.
Her father is standing inside. She wraps her arms around his neck without saying a thing, and she can feel his arms bend (a bit stiffly) around her back.
"Dad, it's so good to see you."
It takes him a moment to reply.
"Are you okay?" he finally manages, in a quiet voice.
"I think so." She steps back, taking in his eyes, his face. He looks older than she remembered, more tired, and his hair is a lighter gray. She blinks away the tears before they can fall down her cheeks, and she notices the way he draws his whole hand down his face, just once, before stepping away.
"You'll probably want to sit down. We have a lot to cover."
The tone sends a warning shot straight down her spine -- it's too cold, even for him.
"Dad, what's wrong?"
"Sydney, we have a lot to cover."
"What are you talking about? Dad, what's going on?"
"Why don't you sit down?"
"Dad?"
He steps back to her, hand on her shoulders, guiding her down into the stiff metal chair. "Sydney, it's been two years--"
"I know."
"--and a lot has happened."
"Dad, what are you trying to say?"
He glances down at the floor, jaw clenching, and kneels to meet her at eye-level.
"There's no easy way to tell you this. Michael Vaughn--" he breaks off.
"Vaughn what?"
"Agent Vaughn died last year."