Title: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Fluff
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

Part Three: Three French Hens

On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree


"You know I'm not much of a cook. Are you sure you want breakfast?"

Let me just say, I never made it home last night. I can predict that my clothes are still on the floor in the bathroom, a heap of wet cloth now dried into impossible shapes a modern artist would jump and at probably sell for a few thousand dollars. I snuggled into the pillow more, smiling as Vaughn's distinct scent floated up my nose, and nodded slightly.

"It can't be that hard, Vaughn," I muttered, popping a brown eye open to look at him. He laughed, running a hand down my bare shoulder in that insanity-inducing way, grinning down at me.

"All right, but I warned you," he smirked, and leaned down to give me a quick, sweet kiss before bouncing off the bed. I closed my eyes, pulling the covers around me even tighter, feeling as if I were floating on a cloud on a spring day, sunlight warming my back as he rustled into clothes and padded off into his rarely-used kitchen.

Yawning, I spread my arms high above my head and rolled onto my back, grinning wildly as I opened my eyes and took in the gorgeous view out the window. The sky was blue and clear, and birds were almost chirping a melody in my honor. A pan hit the stove down the hall with a metallic clang, and my smile broke open when the soft humming of Vaughn's version of White Christmas filled the quiet apartment.

Life couldn't get more perfect.

Overwhelmed with a swell of joy growing within my heart, I let out a satisfied sigh and threw my legs over the side of the large bed, ivory sheets wrapped around me like a cocoon. At least now I had a real excuse to wear some of Vaughn's clothing, an act that seems odd on the surface, but the prospect meant so much more to me. That I could carry something of his with me wherever I went, no matter how silly or nostalgic.

"Vaughn?" I called out. The hiss of an egg hitting a buttered pan gave pause before he called back.

"Yeah?"

"Umm, is there something I can wear? I think my cloths resemble a stone right now," I asked nervously. He laughed again, making me wonder how long it had been since I'd heard him so happy and content enough to laugh so many times in a short time period.

"Grab something from the dresser. Should be a shirt or two in the closet, but be careful for the shelf," he called back, the added hiss of egg continuous as he spoke. "I think Donovan got to it last night."

The events of last night, and I'm talking about those before being seduced into a bubble bath by an attractive and assertive half-French CIA agent, came crashing into me, causing me to fumble and fall off the bed with a dull thud.

"Ouch," I whined, rubbing my hip.

"Are you okay?" Vaughn asked breathlessly, suddenly standing in the doorway to his bedroom, a hand on each side of the frame as he leaned into the room. Just stay that way, mister, so I can appreciate the view. Boxers, tight t-shirt, and a spatula grasped in his left hand. I smiled innocently.

"Fine. I'm just a klutz."

"I know," he remarked, letting out a pent-up breath. "Get dressed. Breakfast will be ready soon, and I want you to be in the front row as you realize I can't cook a thing."

"I'm sure you're just being melodramatic," I commented, collecting myself from the floor. That's when I saw it, sticking to the baseboard just behind the door, a corner visible from the doorway.

The photo.

Oh, crap! I'd totally forgotten about it, my yearning for the grown up version of the boy pictured within it throwing all reason from my mind. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I scooted from under the bed for my presentation of the softer side of Vaughn, stuck under the small space between baseboard and floor. My eyes widened as I saw it, causing Vaughn to frown and follow my line of vision.

"Okay!" I squeaked, standing in one fluid motion. He seemed surprised, but let it melt away as he pushed off from the doorframe and raised an eyebrow, probably wondering about my mental state. "I'll be out in a minute!"

He shook his head and turned, rushing down the hall as he smelled his precious attempt at impressing me with culinary skills burning on the stove. Giving him another second to clear the hall, punctuated by a curse and yelp as he threw the pan from the stove into what I'm going to assume was the sink, I dashed across the room and scooped up the picture, checking it for any marks. If I'd ruined it in any way, I'd never forgive myself.

But where was I going to hide it?

I looked around the room wildly, willing a bright idea to hit me in the head before he finished cooking. Ah ha! I ran to the closet and pulled a blue Oxford from a hanger, mourning the fact that there went another day he could wear one, and threw it over my shoulders and the hanger swung back and forth, clattering against the pole as I buttoned it up and went searching for a pair of clean boxers to finish my look. Satisfied and color-coordinated (and realizing he had quite a few pairs to match his blue shirts, so probably was as well), I smiled triumphantly as I put the picture in the breast pocket of my shirt for safe keeping until I could get to my coat.

I was about to leave the room and march into the kitchen when the phone rang. He answered without the gruff proclamation of his last name, giving a quick and nice, "Allo."

Oh, it's too early in the morning for French speaking. There are a few sentences I know by heart that require no translation, but I'm sure none of those would be used in casual telephone conversation.

"Oui, ma maman - "

I clutched the doorframe and bent my head around it, greeted with a sliver of him standing at the edge of the kitchen, the phone balanced precociously between his shoulder and ear as he worked on his breakfast. I was overwhelmed with a sense of curiosity, wanting to know exactly what about his mother and why he was getting a call early on a weekday morning.

"Oui, elle devrait avoir mis l'ordre dans hier," he replied, assertive. Order for what? I took a few steps down the hall and took cover in the bathroom, hoping to hear better. I could, but he was speaking so fast, a hand creeping up to the back of his neck as it did when he was embarrassed, I could barely make out half the words. I swear, he's a motor mouth when flustered, which is actually kind of cute.

I still wanted to know who he was talking to.

My heart sunk as I realized he was probably talking about some plans his mother had made or something of the sort. A family ritual of some kind I wasn't allowed to intrude on. My chronic smile of the morning faded and I turned around, digging through the pile of clothing strewn around the bathroom, forgotten in our activities of the night, rummaging for my jacket.

Pulling it out from the mess, I was glad it was waterproof, one of those intended for mountain climbers and international secret agents, and shook it out a few times, watching as it bloomed back into it's original shape. I tucked the picture back in the pocket, wondering if my cell phone survived the encounter with water, and draped it across the counter.

The sounds of Vaughn's voice was getting louder - he was coming down the hallway, still on the phone. I quickly shut the door and turned on the sink, my ear pressed to the door as he passed.

"Yeah, I'll pay extra for the holiday," he said in English. He must have stuck his head in the bedroom, because he was coming closer to the door. "Thanks, Marie. I really appreciate it."

The phone beeped as he hung up. His knuckles rapped on the door.

"Syd?"

"Yeah, be right out!" I said, plastering a smile on my face. I splashed it with water quickly and turned off the water, throwing open the door. He stood just on the other side of it, phone in his hand. He closed the distance between us quickly, capturing my lips in his, snaking a hand around my waist, pulling my tight against him. He always kissed with such passion and ferocity, yet was incredibly soft, moving like an expert as he tasted me. We stood there for a moment before be broke away, leaving me positively breathless.

"You look even better in that shirt than I do," he commented. "Ready to eat?" he asked slowly, hovering inches from my face. I moved a hand up to touch swollen lips and smiled meekly.

"Yeah."

"Really? Great." He took my hand and lead me to his small table that doubled as a desk and sat me down. I frowned, the pan sticking out of the sink. He moved around quickly and placed a plate front of me.

"Vaughn?" I started, looking from the plate to his face. He blushed and sat next to me.

He rubbed his nose as his gaze flickered to the table, then back to me. "Sorry. I tried."

I laughed and put a hand on his arm. "It's fine, really," I replied softly. "I really like toast."

"You're not lying now, are you?" he asked. Oh, he looked so vulnerable!

"Next time, we'll leave the cooking to me, though, okay?" I smiled. He looked confused for a moment, but a smile slowly grew on his handsome face. His hand gripped mine on his arm, and he brought it to his face, landing a kiss in my palm.

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you," he muttered, planning another on my wrist. I swear, if he kept doing that, I wouldn't get to my toast. I reached out and put my other hand on the side of his face, cupping his jaw line.

"I often wonder the same thing."

He nodded and let my hand fall. "Try to get out of work early tonight," he said cryptically. I raised an eyebrow and took a bite of my toast.

"Why?"

"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise."

I pondered this for a moment as Vaughn started eating his own toast. Well, judging on his last surprise, I wasn't one to argue with that. Plus, who doesn't like an excuse to leave work early?

--

"Agent Bristow, may I remind you that enemies of the United States don't take breaks for holidays?"

Kendall defiantly wasn't in the holiday spirit.

"I'm sorry, but I can't grant your vacation request," he continued, rubbing the top of his head as if it were that of a genie coming to grant his wish. He always seemed to be doing that when around me, of all people, and I was starting to get the feeling that even though he was pushing me not to leave the CIA a couple of months ago, he still wanted me out of his non-existent hair.

"Director Kendall, may I be blunt?" I retorted a bit harsher than I'd intended to.

"Please," he waved his hand.

"I have given nothing but my life to this agency for the last two years. I think I deserve a little time off."

"There's nothing I can do."

"Yes, there is something you can do!" I replied. Like leaving. Or deciding you missed your calling as a Vegas showgirl all those years ago and fleeing to go join a troop.

"I can't stop terrorists, Agent Bristow, nor can I bring all the illegal activity of the world to a halt so you can have a few days off. So, if you can come to me with a solution to those problems, I'm sorry, but I'll be seeing you along with all the other agents of this operations center on Christmas. Now, if you'll excuse me"

And he walked off.

Ass.

Unfeeling and aloof seem to be the most important qualifications for management in the intelligence world, two reasons why I never picture myself leaving the field any time. Call me soft, but I always love to help people, to see the best in them, and to feel for them. Cutting off my emotions would be like cutting off my arm, neither happening any time soon.

But what was happening soon was my escape from the monotony of the workplace that had occurred when the holiday season brought a lack of leads of any kind, even criminals and terrorists finding it in their hearts to take a little break and spend the time with their families. That, or I just wasn't paying close enough attention to anything other than Christmas Carols playing on my radio or the need for red and green colored outfits.

"Hey, Sydney." Weiss came jogging up to me, a piece of paper in his hand. "Can you give this to Vaughn when you see him? He asked me to get the number for someone and, well, I've got to go."

"Hot date?"

"Heh. You read my mind."

"They need to stop sending recruits," I laughed. Weiss nodded playfully, pulling his gloves out of his coat pockets.

"Just make sure he gets that," he stated, and gave me a quick half-hug before brushing past and heading for the exit, escaping as I wanted to do. I sighed wistfully as I watched him go and unfolded the memo page he'd handed me.

Written in his sloppy, rushed scrawl was:

Andrew Mullins
555-9320

I frowned, wondering who this person was and why Vaughn had requested his number. It obviously wasn't related to work, or else Weiss would have handed it off himself, or even made the call. Plus, confidential information wasn't brought home, and Weiss knew I'd probably be next seeing Vaughn outside the office.

So there's no harm in calling it, right?

But just as I was retracing the path to my desk, a hand wrapped around my middle and caused me to giggle as I was pulled back, warm breath hitting the back of my right ear.

"Ready to go?"

I grinned and twisted around, not minding that we were standing in the JTF, or that several people had stopped working to look at us.

"Yes, please. I can't stand being here any longer," I replied. He let me go, handing me my coat. I cocked my head to the side and glanced over my shoulder to see my workstation shut down and papers neatly ordered. Well, I certainly hadn't ordered them like that, and they best enjoy their time in an organized manor, because they wouldn't be seeing a state like that any time soon.

"Can you believe Kendall won't give me any holiday time?" I asked, looping my scarf around my neck.

"That's odd," Vaughn breathed. I spun and glared.

"Wait, you got vacation?"

"Well, yeah," he replied as-matter-of-factly. I growled. "I always do."

"How come you do and I don't?" I whined. He shrugged, then snapped.

"I always go to Devlin," he announced, "since he is, technically, my superior. Plus, Devlin's a family friend and knows how I always spend the holidays with my mother."

"Oh," I said voicelessly, looking down. I find it so cute and endearing that he spends his holidays at home with his mother, giving her company on a day when company was yearned for. When family and love was the center of attention, and jobs or history had no bearing on conversation. Which should make me feel better about asking to go with, shouldn't it?

But it doesn't.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, rubbing my arm. I shake my head, hair swishing in front of my face.

"Nothing."

"Syd," he said. "I know when something's bothering you."

"Don't worry, it's nothing, really," I said, smiling up at him. "I just keep remembering all the holidays I spent alone, after my mother died." God, I hate lying to him, I really do. His face falls and he pulls me into a warm hug, hands rubbing my back. While I am feeling bad about the holiday season, and while his hug does make me feel a bit better, I hate the fact that I just can't come out straight and say what's bugging me. For all the strength he says I have, I'm incredibly weak.

"It'll be fine," he whispered into my ear.

Could I love this man any more?

"Anyway, let's go, before Kendall catches us and makes us write gist reports until midnight." He pulls on my hand, interweaving our fingers as we almost skip down the dark, cold halls of the JTF, almost bursting with glee. He was, I could tell, his dimples coming out full force as he drove through the streets of LA without a care in the world.

I pressed my face to the glass of his window, hands on either side as I grin at the beautiful lights and decorations in the city, how magical it looks even without snow on the ground. That's the one thing I miss about my life in Virginia, how sparkling snow would glitter to the ground, blanketing the world in a silent, bright wonderland.

He zoomed through traffic, Christmas carols filling the car. They're jazz versions, which explains his deviation from the normal versions when humming that morning, and I realized I didn't know much about what kind of music he listens to. He's tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel to the beat, a hum escaping his lips as he really gets into the music.

Then he swerves into a parking space and kills the engine, turning to me as the engine cools.

"I hope you can skate."

And then I see where we are.

The Figeroa ice rink in the heart of LA. Decorations are hung around, Christmas lights blinking as laughing couples and children round the ice without a care in the world. I grin up at Vaughn, tears pinching the edges of my eyes as he takes my hands in his and rubs circles on my palms.

"I thought a change of venue was in order. No hockey sticks."

I sniffled. "I kinda liked them."

He laughs and pulls his keys from the ignition, pushing open his door. "They're in the trunk, if you really want"

"No! This is," I thought for a moment, then gave him a full blown genuine smile. "Perfect."

He pulled himself from the car and half-jogged to my side, leaning on the door as I opened it and stepped a leg out. He held a hand out for me, his head leaning slightly to the side as he beamed down at me, green eyes twinkling.

"Shall we?"

I grasped it as if holding on for dear life and allowed him, for once, to pull me up, to help me without any resistance or need to show strength. With the lit rink behind us, adorned with wreaths and lights, happiness oozing from it as laughter and kindness came from it, I sighed happily.

"We shall."