Title, Author, Feedback, Archived, Rating, Genre, Spoilers, Shippers' Paradise, and Disclaimer: All the same as before. : ) Oh! Addition to the disclaimer: I say "pop" not "soda" or "coke" because I am from the Midwest. Therefore, the characters will say "pop" because I don't know what y'all say down in southern Cali; I didn't bother to ask my friend from Moreno Valley the last time he was up here.

Summary: Vaughn's had his moment in the sun, and now it's Syd's turn to shine. Syd mulls over her decision to give our favourite male handler the Drawer and what it could possibly mean in the future. Weiss still involved! A Dream Writer Experience.

Author's Note: Hey all, I'm back with another chapter. This wasn't originally going to go multi-chapter, but miss.pebbles (aka elynn) inspired me and ideas came.

Chapter 2

"The middle drawer—it's yours."

Oh, my God.

What have I done?

I just sandwiched Vaughn's belongings in between my socks and my bras and panties! That is a guy's worst fear: being presented with commitment without any pretense or disguise. I should have taken it back, especially when he looked like he was literally about to spill his guts onto my brand new comforter. But then…but then he looked so pleased and he gave me the smile that he knows makes my knees disappear.

In other words, he seemed totally fine with it.

But I don't know if I am fine with it.

What have I done?

This opens up a whole different can of worms for our new relationship. I mean, two CIA agents almost residing at the same house? The same two that are known to the world, Sloane in particular, to be very good and would be great targets for the "kill two birds with one stone" method? I don't know if I like that idea. But then again, it's Vaughn. It's Vaughn. If it's one thing that he will not just glance over, it's my safety. That is one of the things I love about him. (But sometimes he needs to lighten up a bit. He's always going on about, "No, a twenty-mile run and then eating an entire cheese pizza is NOT good for you…No, midnight snacks won't help your complexion…No, you shouldn't wear the incredibly sexy blue dress: I think you wore it in Helsinki…No, all children should NOT have to go through mandatory field training and operations just so they don't have to sit in class and learn geography…" I know he thinks he's being endearing, but sometimes he takes a joke a little too seriously.)

I wonder what he puts in his drawers? No, not THAT kind. I know what he puts in there. I bet he has a separate section for each article of clothing: t-shirts in one drawer, undershirts in another, jeans in yet another. Or maybe he organizes his apparel by season with one quarter of the drawers dedicated to each one. Or maybe both: maybe he has quartered off his drawers! Ha! I'll have to ask him about that.

How does he organize his sock drawer? Does he sort them by colour? Brand? Make, size, length, outfit they go with? I guess it really depends on how anal one wants to view him. If he was the definition of the word, he would sort them by all of the above. If not so much, maybe by season. But if he were anything like me, he'd merely throw 'em into the damn thing immediately after drying, not really caring where they end up. (Hmm. Maybe that's why I lose so many. One day, I should really employ Will or Francie to help me look for them. They couldn't all have fallen behind my hamper and the dryer.) If I'm good, one day I'll actually get to see his sock drawer.

And when exactly will that be? I've never been to his damn apartment and he already has a freakin' drawer at mine! What's up with that? I'd like to see some reciprocation, here! He was going to give me a key, but we all know how I blew that attempt at normal domesticity. Just another Sydney Bristow-sized blunder. No need to panic. You know, I'd pretty much settle for a drive-by. I picture him driving, the music of some really cheesy boy band blaring from the speakers, and he all of a sudden slows and points out past the windshield to a small, plain, quaint building with small balconies and lots and lots of colourful flower boxes. He's gesturing towards a corner apartment on the top floor, away from most of the noise of the street and closer to the GPS satellite thousands of miles above. Donovan — and maybe Alan — are dozing peacefully in the warm spring sun, their snoring almost audible over the honking horns. I imagine Vaughn turning to me and smiling That Smile, trying to pleasantly ignore the plentiful curses and obscene gestures from the other motorists.

That's all it is for now: my imagination at play. But it won't be that way for long; it'll happen soon enough. No, I'm not being naïve; I'm just being extremely optimistic about this whole occasion. You have to look on the bright side sometimes, just to keep sane, even though it's not the smartest road to take.

Speaking of being impeccably smart…

I'm gonna kill Weiss.

No, torture him, then kill him.

This plan involves honey, syrup, ice cream, whipped cream…and lots and lots of fire ants.

You have no idea how thoroughly I've thought out torturing Agent Eric Weiss. And all ways are completely unconventional. Those are my specialty.

Don't get me wrong, I love the man to death, but he can really be a pain in the ass at times. Vaughn told me what he said before I called him from the drug store; I swear to God, one day he's going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and get one or all of us killed. But until that day comes, he can have as much fun torturing and poking fun at Vaughn as he has breath, because I know that he will never mess with me for fear of permanent inability to have children. And I also know that when Vaughn gets frustrated beyond belief, he comes back to my place and takes it out on me (in a good way, of course)…

'What did you put in it?' Honestly! What does he think the man filed away? Whips? Chains? Other items of bondage usable for sexual pleasure that I am not aware of because I am not perverted?! Yeah, that's probably it. At least, that's all I'll try to predict, anyway. There's no telling how low in the gutter his brain can dig itself, so I won't even try to follow it. It's too much of a slippery slope that I don't wish to slide down.

But what did Michael Vaughn put in that drawer? I never bothered to actually check after he came over last. I wonder if he put some condoms in there…you know, just in case my stash runs out. Or maybe one of those little refrigerators that can only hold, like, two cans of pop! But…ew! What if he put some sort of gross surprise in there to catch me if I went snooping, like fake worms or snakes or frogs? In reality, he probably just slapped in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt or two, and some underwear and socks. Honestly, I'm probably just overanalyzing this—

Wait a second.

Does this mean I have to do his laundry? His nasty, sweaty dress clothes and such mingling with my…ahem…delicates?! I don't think so! He's a grown man; he can do his own damn laundry as long as he has his own place to live. If he wants someone to do his chores for him, I suggest he go and hire a maid or, better yet, a nanny. Although…I guess it would be kinda nice if I did our laundry together. Domestic, even. Well, if you think of it that way…

Maybe this whole drawer thing wasn't such a bad idea/impromptu snap decision after all. Vaughn sure doesn't seem too bent out of shape about it. Why should I be? Why am I being such a girl about this? It's our first step towards being happily domesticated in painfully obvious normalcy, and neither of us mind a whole bunch. I think from now on, I'm gonna leave the politics of drawers (and other relationship milestones, for that matter) to girly cheerleader women who like that sort of thing and DON'T have to worry about national security. I think it's their job, anyway, and I don't want to take that away from them. I mean, I wouldn't want them doing my job.