Same ole, same ole...

This Chapter: Syd's POV; we start back where Chapter Two left off: The Morning After.

Suggested Soundtrack: "You're Still You" by Josh Groban, "Your Song" by Elton John, "Run Away" by Live and Shelby Lynn, "I Will Remember You" and "Ice Cream" by Sarah McLachlan, and what the hell: "Video Doomed the Radio Star" by the Bugles

Author's Note: This is the last chapter! For some reason, this has been one of my favourites, probably because it's one of my most original plots. Anyways, here's the last chapter, and here's to the return of the crazy-named, serious-plotted...

Video Doomed the Government Agent

Chapter Four: Setting Sail

You think this could be a mistake.

A horrible, awful, completely wrong mistake.

The two of you may not have committed physical adultery, but waking up in his arms, remembering how it felt to do every day, reveling in the feelings his mere presence evokes...You might not have committed the physicality of it, but both of you certainly committed emotion adultery. If there is such a thing.

Somehow during those short few hours of sleep you have unconsciously repositioned yourself so that you lay atop him, his beating heart under your cheek. You both awake at the same time, and in the stillness of the morning, you swear you hear his eyes flutter open. He does nothing for fear of disturbing you, thinking you still sleep: the rise and fall of his chest becomes almost imperceptible, and his arms (which have somehow found their way around the small of your back) stiffen. You feel them quiver; he wants to pull you closer, smell your hair, plant a kiss on the top of your head. Instead, he gives you one last squeeze before he drops them to his sides, relinquishing the hold you still long for him to have.

Something intangible keeps your eyes sheathed as you struggle to conceal your real state of consciousness. Seconds of sleepy speculation reveal your reasons: you have no wish to wake up. If waking up means you have to extricate yourself from his arms, send him home to her, feel awkward, then no, you definitely don't want to wake up. If that is the case, you want to stay asleep for a hundred years — a modern-day Rip Van Winkle — just reveling in his touch and his embrace. So you put forth the effort to regain the elusive state of consciousness, suppressing your pulse and expanding your lungs to their maximum volume on each intake.

You succeed, but not in the way you expect. In your haste to drift off to Dream Land again, you do not feel him relax and his breathing deepen. What tips you off to his slackened state are the strong arms around your waist again, securing you to his body. Your reaction is the opposite of what it should be: instead of tensing first, you meld seamlessly into his embrace, forgetting for a moment what year it is.

Finally opening your eyes, they immediately latch onto his chin, its cleft in particular; the cleft you loved to feel, to lick, to kiss. Your fingers crawl up his chest, and your index finger slides smoothly down the indent followed seamlessly by your thumb. He seems to remember this caress because he smiles contentedly in his sleep, inclining his head into your hand. You trace the outline of his grin with the same thumb, teetering on the edge between the stubble of his cheek and his bare lips. His skin is still as soft as you remember it: never oily, never dry. You used to envy that trait, tried once to force out his secret, but all he did was blush bashfully and bury his head in the pillow. Your fingertips roam up to his nose, running fluidly over the prominent lump you know and love. When he told you the real reason behind it — running into a wall instead of a fight during his first hockey game, as he told everyone else — you took complete ownership of it, and kissed it every night before bed. Traveling up his façade, you rest disappointedly upon his eyelids. For a fleeting moment, you think of waking him just so you can stare into those green orbs you enjoy more than life itself. Deciding it would take too much energy, you continue to his beloved forehead, which, even in sleep, is folded like an origami crane. You rake your fingertips over them like clothing across a washboard, one corner of your mouth lifting in a bittersweet grin. You lean forward slowly, lips puckered and willing to smooth away those 'imperfections' with a kiss.

This time, it's you who almost breaks.

Then you remember the date, the year, the situation, and you stiffen as rigid as a two-by-four. You must get out of this tempting position as soon as humanly possible. Any longer, and you might not be able to salvage yourself.

Easier said than done.

His grip on your waist is gentle but strong — much like the rest of him — and even though you judge him to be good and asleep, you recall similar times when you have tried to escape and failed miserably, only winding up spending a few more hours locked in his arms...That was the one art you never perfected. Hopefully this time is different. You begin by wriggling down his body, both relishing and despising the friction you create. His arms slide up your back, taking your shirt with them, and you stop abruptly. This is not working. Twisting your arms around to your back, you attempt to force his appendages up over your head, but he moans in his slumber and shifts slightly, his leg wrapping around one of your own. You roll your eyes and sigh softly. Nothing is ever easy with him, is it?

You cannot think of a way to safely extract your leg without delving into intimate territory, so you decide to leave that appendage for last. Closing your eyes and praying, you slowly but surely begin to twist out of his embrace, wriggling out from under his arms by pushing back on his chest. Suddenly — when you are halfway to scot-free — you feel the atmosphere thicken exponentially. Apprehensively, you peel your eyelids apart only to stare directly into those green orbs, now unsheathed — orbs that you would have given the world to see not five seconds ago, but now feel just as vehemently in the opposite direction.

Caught.

Damn.

Blushing under his intense gaze, you discreetly pull your left leg back onto the overcrowded couch and rest it next to — but not touching — his right leg. As slow as dripping honey, he rubs sleep from his eyes with one fist while his other hand mirrors its partner's actions on your left shoulder. Then he drops both arms and smiles bashfully back at you, lifting only one corner of his mouth like he used to when you woke up in each other's arms. Something in the back of your head wonders if she receives the same grin after a night spent with him.

"'Morning," He croaks, voice coarse and gravelly from neglect.

"'Morning," You whisper back, and octave lower than normal. Passively you reproach yourself, knowing it was a conscious effort to recreate the Old Times.

He suppresses a wider grin and blinks languidly. "How are we going to stay away today?"

Without thinking you reply, "Who cares?" The entire CIA, you answer yourself. You two must have stayed up well past three, and it's barely seven in the morning, and although it's Saturday, it's practically guaranteed that you will both get called in today and, God, you know how people's mouths run, especially when it comes to you and him. You will both come in, one right after the other, as tired as you were after a Friday night in the Old Times, and that's all it will take for at least one person to start up a rumour. That is the last thing you need right now but you could really care less because you are in his arms and what is that against your leg—

"Where were you going?" He asks evenly, shifting you slightly so you no longer feel him against your thigh.

The loss is surprisingly startling and disappointing.

But you hide it well as you stare back at him and answer honestly, "I can't be this close to you, Vaughn, without being close to you. I don't know how."

"Maybe we should move."

But neither of you do.

His grin sags, and his bottom lip rolls under the upper, practically screaming for you to rescue it. And you make to: not of your own will, you do the opposite of what you should and slide up his body and 'Oh God this is so wrong' and closer and closer and 'but it feels so right' until you are sharing breaths and not even a scrap of paper could slip between your two sets of lips and 'VaughnkissmedamnitIwouldn'tletyoulastnightbutGodIneedyounow'—

"Syd." You feel rather than hear his words, the vibrations from his chest rattling your own. "We can't. You know I want to, but we can't."

That is all it takes to snap you back to reality, to break the tension, to cram your feelings for him back into their specialized cubby hole. You sit up and break your gaze, replacing his eyes with your hands nervously toying with one another. He must sense your discomfort (just as your sensed his last night), because he sits as well, gently removing his legs from under you. "Can I use your shower?"

"Vaughn, you don't have to ask," You respond immediately. "Towels and 'non-girly' soap are in the linen closet at the end of the hall. Bathroom's the first door on your left." The two of you share a smile, and he gently brushes a hand down your arm as he rises and stumbles down the hall.

You have no idea what to do with yourself. The two of you haven't taken many separate showers when circumstances provided another choice, so hearing the shower running and knowing he is in there, droplets of water beading and coasting down every inch of his body, is a foreign situation to you. Instead of remembering the way his tanned, toned, wet body glistens under the soft light of the bathroom, you busy yourself with menial tasks. After quickly splashing a handful of water on your face — cold water — you quickly change, half hoping he'll walk in on you in your underwear. But, unfortunately, the steady pounding of water is continuous throughout your quick costume change, and you must think of other things: the last thing you want to do is sit there on the edge of your bed, waiting, looking like a psycho stalker. So you hurriedly make the bed he never slept in (jotting a mental note to never wash those sheets ever again; they smell as if he dumped an entire bottle of cologne on them) and continue on to the kitchen to scrounge up something for breakfast.

Standing with your hands on your hips at the threshold, you sigh heavily. Besides being anal-bordering-on-obsessive-compulsive about the cleanliness of your living space in the past, since you've moved into your new apartment, you could care less about being tidy and orderly. Pots and pans and cardboard boxes are scattered everywhere, but mostly concentrated in the far corner of the kitchen. You glare menacingly at the looming pile but leave it be. Instead, you turn your attention towards the large black...thing. You can't even remember what it was supposed to be; it's that burned. You have no idea what to do with it, but all the same, you pull out the oven mitts and poise yourself to dig in.

"Preparing for war?"

Startled, you glance up to see a fresh-faced and fully-dressed Vaughn towel-drying his short hair at the juncture of the hallway and the three-in-one room. He smiles and slings the towel over his shoulder, advancing towards you with his eyes on the ruined meal. "What the hell is that?" He asks, voice dancing in amusement.

You smile back, the discomfort and tension from earlier floating away like dead leaves on an autumn breeze. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Well," He starts, the grin you love lilting his lips slightly, "you never could cook. I remember when you tried to bake that batch of brownies for Will's birthday—"

"Who knew you had to shell the pecans before you put them in?!"

"I did."

"Well no one told me!" You counter, oven mitts thrusting into your hips. Bustling around trying to find the hot chocolate mix, you mutter under your breath, "Stupid recipes. All using big words that tell you absolutely nothing about how to cook a damn meal. Think they're so tough. I could kick their pansy asses any day."

"How 'bout I make breakfast this morning?" He offers, transferring the towel to a bar stool. Noticing your hesitation he adds, "I'll cook my world-famous crepes. And no strawberries; I promise." It's his smile that wins you over, and you nod finally, sticking out your tongue at him when you think he's not looking. "Oh, and the hot chocolate is in the box closest to the hallway."

This time you let him see your rude gesture.

You set about preparing two cups of hot chocolate as he searches for crepe ingredients. You two bustle around the kitchen with practiced perfection, dodging around one another like you are preforming a complicated tango. He makes quips about how some things never change, and you merely take his abuse because you are enjoying the dance too much to chance saying something too heavy or too loaded. The Big Black Block is still taunting you on the counter when the tea kettle whistles and the phone rings at the same time. Turning off the stove, you bump him with your hips towards the cordless phone next to the refrigerator. "Can you get that? It's probably Weiss: I bet he smelled those God-awful crepes three floors up."

"If they are God-awful, then what are yours?" He chides, reaching for the phone. "Chez Bristow," He exclaims into the poor plastic, an impish grin plastered across his face, "now serving Michael Vaughn's famous crepes and something that looks like a large black cinderblock..." He trails off, looking to you for confirmation on a name.

Playing along you flatly supply, "Mystery Meat, Sir Smart Ass."

"Mystery Meat!" He repeats to the caller enthusiastically. "The chef says it's called Mystery Meat! Real original name, Syd." You laugh sarcastically and pretend to throw the Mystery Meat at him. Abruptly, his entire demeanor changes, the laughter dying in his throat. "Lauren?" He whispers disbelievingly. You sober up quickly as well, guilt weighing down your soul and banishing any trace of an appetite. He exits the room and stalks quickly towards the bedroom, locking the door behind him.

You feel like vomiting. Those few moments of bliss, of normality, of the Old Times were expelled, disturbed, interrupted. Why couldn't she let you have just a few moments alone with him where you don't have to worry about stepping on toes, possible hidden meanings, or the fate of the Free World as you know it? Why? You were actually having fun! When was the last time you did that without getting completely drunk? You can't remember. Why is she denying you your first bit of happiness in years?!

A part of you feels like slapping yourself in the face and yelling, "Get over it! He's not yours to be happy with anymore!"

Another part of you wants to beat the crap out of her.

You are completely and utterly torn.

Just when you are in the middle of a hoedown at your self-pity party, he wanders back in, the phone hanging loosely from his fingertips by the antenna. He does not look happy. Setting the phone down on the island next to the sink, he sighs heavily, attempting to release all his pent-up frustrations, worries, responsibilities, obligations, and stress in one breath. You do not believe it works. Just as you are about to ask what Lauren said, the phone rings again, causing both of you to jump at least a foot into the air. You two just stare at the small plastic object, not really knowing whether either of you should pick it up at all. Finally, the smell of burning crepe forces you into action. You lock eyes with him and nod towards the stove as you reach for the phone. You can tell he does not entirely approve of the idea, but he complies with your nonverbal command anyway.

A shaking finger presses the talk button and you practically whisper, "Hello?"

"Laurencalledmeandsheknowshe'snotheresheknowshe'satyourplace — ShewantedyournumberbutIwouldn'tgiveittoherbutshesaidshecouldstillgetit — Soyoubetterwatchoutshemightbecallingyourealsoon — Hey, is that crepe I smell?"

It's Weiss. You laugh shortly in relief, garnering Vaughn's quizzical gaze as he starts a new batch of crepes, tossing the ruined ones in the same pan as the Mystery Meat. You smile reassuringly as you lean against the sink and reply, "Hello to you, too, Eric. And you're too late — she already called here." You hear him curse loudly and smile at your friend's loyalty. "But thanks anyway. How could she have gotten this number if you didn't give it to her?" You see Vaughn cringe as he butters the pan.

Eric scoffs. "Why don't you ask Mister Balls of Steel over there? He was probably stupid enough to save your number in his cell under one of his pseudo-names like 10/1, Joey's Pizza, or Long Lost Love That I Never Really Got Over So My Current Marriage is a Sham."

"Eric Weiss!" You reprimand harshly, hoping to God Vaughn did not hear his friend's blunt comments. "If you value your drinking buddy at all, you'll shut up now."

He sighs in resignation but says anyway, "Lemme talk to Mike. We've gotta talk man to poor little boy."

You roll your eyes and hold out the phone to Vaughn. He stares at it skeptically and you reassure, "It's Eric. I think he wants to talk to you about children."

He sneers but grabs the phone all the same. "What?" He growls into the receiver. You watch him carefully as he listens to his best friend, mere unintelligible mumblings to your ears, and you suppress a giggle as he viciously attacks the talk button and slams the object back into the charger. In response to your questioning silence he says, "He wanted to know if I could come up and cook him breakfast in bed since I already had the apron on."

You both laugh incredulously, and the genial mood from before Lauren's call returns with a vengeance. After breakfast, the two of you circle the Big Black Block of Mystery Meat like vultures, throwing around possible modes of disposal. After finding none particularly appealing, you decide to play P-I-G and take turns lobbing it into the garbage can.

When he leaves to go back home, you feel the same pang you used to.

And by the look on his face, so does he.

Of course, the two of you get called in later that day, but instead of being horribly awkward — with bottomless silences that seem to go on for hours — you are more at ease with each other than you have been for a long time. Even Weiss notices and, feeding off the positive energy, refrains from jokes in the presence of superiors (and family members), but really goes to town when you are left alone with him. And you don't really mind it at all. This way it seems so normal, so comfortable, so much like the Old Times that you almost forget that you are not two years younger and you are not just hanging out with your boyfriend and his best friend.

But come Monday that all changes.

You are all back at work, and all includes Lauren. She obviously knows that you know she knows he stayed at your apartment Friday night, because every time you covertly glance her way to see if she's looking at you, she glares back with such malice as you have never seen. You truly feel for the woman: she did not ask to be dragged into the middle of an all-too-real soap opera. You do not hate her (although you do hold a strong dislike for her politics, her methods, her prejudices or lack thereof, and her all-around personality, but you don't have a problem with her taking up space — as long as it's far away from you or Vaughn); you hate the position she covets in Vaughn's totem pole hierarchy. So on the knowledge that you know she knows you know — yeah — you occasionally toss her muted looks of concern to ease your guilty conscience: she looks more haggard and tried than usual, probably attributable to you.

During lunch, that guilty conscience overwhelms you, and you feel the strange urge to apologize. For what, you ask yourself. For being there when a friend needed you? For coming back? For breathing? You try to talk yourself out it, but you still find your feet carrying you closer and closer to Lauren's desk until you're there and towering over her and the limp salad on the surface and she's looking up at you with annoyed expectance—

"Hey, Lauren. Mind if I join you?"

A fleeting look of loathing is quickly replaced with feigned regret. "Oh. Well, I was just finishing up here and then I've got to rush off to a meeting—"

"I'll be brief," You cut her off, not quite sure what you'll be brief about. "Uh," You stall, your mind casting for a round-about route to your apology, "I was wondering if you're free tomorrow night. Maybe we could grab dinner; you know, have a girl's night out..." You know Tuesdays are Vaughn's nights with his friends down at the hockey rink, so his name will come up.

She is visibly uncomfortable as she shifts in her chair. "Tuesday is Michael's hockey night..." She pretends to consider your proposition for a moment "...but I've already got plans. Sorry."

Becoming annoyed yourself you try again, "Well, can I join you, then? I mean, Weiss is going with Vaughn and my father is running out of nostalgic restaurants from my youth—"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Her gaze has turned frosty, transforming your annoyance into indignance. Looks like the fork from her lunch got shoved up her ass. Attempting to keep your temper in check you pry again, "How about Wednesday? Weiss can baby-sit Vaughn and we'll get manicures — my treat." You even throw in a smile for good measure. The lengths you'll go to be a good person make you sick.

Especially after she just stares at you in response.

Somehow you successfully resist the urge to break her neck, and you quietly excuse yourself, "You can think it over and call me later. See you," and retreat to your desk, fuming, only to find Weiss and his infernal yo-yo. "I thought you dropped that habit years ago," You snap as you reclaim your seat, sitting down so determinedly that you almost break the poor plastic.

He issues a low whistle as he perches on the corner of your desk. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," You answer through gritted teeth.

"Bull. Spill."

"What are you, female?"

"Yeah, don't my enormous breasts and long silky hair give me away?" Smiling reassuringly, he pockets the yo-yo and scoots closer. "Did your soap opera take off and leave you in the dust? Come on, tell Uncle Eric. Maybe he'll get you a bottle of tequila and a box of chocolate ice cream."

"Weiss," You groan, his charm grating on your last nerve, "I'm not in the mood right now. I just want to be alone for a while."

He gives you a skeptical once-over, and although you can tell it is against his better judgement, he lets the topic slip, giving you just one last piece of Weiss Advice. "Alright. Whatever the hell you're up to, good luck. And try not to ruin all four of our lives in the process. Although if a safe happens to fall on Lauren, I'll provide an air-tight alibi."

You didn't think it was possible for things to get much worse, but somehow they do.

The tension isn't between you and Vaughn, though. The only time moods dampen and laughter dies before it begins is when she is around.

Every single meeting, every single briefing held, she is there.

But she doesn't glare at you like you just stole and ate her baby.

She doesn't take you aside and tell you 'how it's going to be.'

She doesn't really do anything but sit there and look like someone ran over her puppy.

Her gloomy, despotic mood slowly permeates the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, and you cannot stand it. The way Vaughn completely ignores his wife at all times (even going so far as to shut her down in front of Dixon and your father) is slightly perturbing. But you know now to stay out of it: for once, it's not your battle to fight.

Of course, that does not stay true for long. After verifiably the Crappiest Wednesday in History (Except for Maybe the Day You Accidentally Flushed Your Fish Down the Toilet Thinking He'd Resurface in Another Toilet), you know you have reached the crescendo, the climax, one of the last steps before the end.

You go to work, and she's not there.

You attend a meeting, and she's not there.

You make yourself a cup of hot chocolate in the cafeteria, and she's not there.

You think if someone comes close enough, they could literally hear your heart singing.

That is, until you see him.

He makes a beeline towards you; it's a good thing his desk is on the way to yours, because you are not entirely sure he'd pause to drop his things otherwise. Without stopping or even slowing in the slightest, he grips your elbow and leads you to the one place you have avoided since you came back: the Flirting Corner. The door closes, and you stare at him expectantly as he catches his breath. You are not wearing a jogging suit, and his façade is a little more time-worn, but all the apprehension of that day years ago comes flooding back, and with it the heady feeling of too many unwanted happy memories coming back at once. But you suppress your compulsion to giggle as you really look at his face. You know he would not subject you to the memories if he did not have a good reason. But his eyes suggest his reason is not only good: it's Earth-shattering-good; it's Old Times-good; it's Yoplait-good.

And he pulls no punches when he tells you.

"I'm filing for divorce."

At first, you do not think you have heard him right. You know he's not one for big, long, flowery speeches and proclamations, but he at least usually gives you a lead-in. This is like taking the final exam without attending class all semester: overwhelmed is an understatement. "E-excuse me?"

"I'm filing for a divorce. From Lauren. The papers are sitting on my desk as we speak."

"Vaughn, you can't," You contradict, an absurd smirk skewing the line of your lips.

He gives you a slightly confused look. "Why not?"

"You...just...can't," You fumble, not comprehending why the hell you are objecting at all. By now, your mouth just rattles things off while you are a spectator. "Vaughn, you can't break it off because of me; I won't let you."

"It's not because of you: it's because of me. We have irreconcilable differences."

"Namely me." You let that statement hang in the air until he becomes visibly uncomfortable, his hand itching to pull at his earlobe. "Even though you say it's not because of me, that's what she'll think, and I can't stand the thought of having one more person in the world with motive to kill me or the people I love. You vowed yourself to her for eternity, and I know you don't break promises like that."

Locking eyes with you he whispers, "Is it right to stay in a loveless marriage?"

Matching his intensity you question, "Is it right to break it off for mere memories?"

Rolling his eyes at your stubbornness he cries, "Syd, I've never stopped loving you! Ever. Marrying Lauren didn't change a thing—"

"Don't make me rip that apart."

"—My feelings are just as strong now as they were before! I loved Lauren: she helped me cope with your death — cope: not get over. But I don't think I was ever in love with her; not like I was with you."

You throw up your arms in exasperation and exclaim, "Stop comparing us, Vaughn! It's not fair to either of us!"

"Sydney, I hate what I've become." The weight of his voice straightens your spine, pulling you to your full height and closer to his eye level. Your gaze conveys all: what the hell is he talking about? He shifts uncomfortably under your eyes, almost self-consciously, almost as if he is afraid of how you'll think of him. But when he continues, his voice is strong. "This past week, I've frozen her out."

'I know.'

"I've been dishonest."

'I know.'

"I've tested her."

"Huh?" You don't know if this will open a spring-loaded can of worms or the door to your salvation, but you ask anyway. "What do you mean 'tested'?"

He takes a deep breath and shuffles his feet, clearly ashamed of whatever he is about to tell you. "Last night, I wanted to see if she could trust me like she used to. So I went into your desk and borrowed some of that lotion you have—"

"You mean the stuff I found and never threw away? In the top drawer?" You ask, too many emotions vying for a name that you eventually give up. You are confused, elated, angry, elated, sad, elated..."The stuff I hate?"

"Yes," He confirms reluctantly, slowly nodding his head. "That's why, if she assumed I'd been with you, I could disprove her, or...I don't know.

"But then I went to a bar with Weiss, and he spilled his drink on me so I had to wash up in that God-awful bathroom, and I just figured, 'Screw this: I'm going home.' That's when I decided to really test her. I pretended to be drunk and collapsed on the couch to wait for her response.

"She just...stood there. Accusing me without words. I could tell she hated it, but...she couldn't help it; it's part of her nature now. She has this inherent distrust of me that will never go away. And I can't live with a person that doesn't trust me: it's not fair to me or her. I had to do something. Figured it might as well be this. Can't do much else."

His logic is all circles and spirals when you are looking for lines. You search his face for those lines and only find your beloved wrinkles. "But how do you know until you try?"

Shaking his head sadly, those wrinkles convey sadness that matches in intensity only with your own. "I don't want to try, Syd," He whispers. If he circles one more time, he'll be a dog chasing his own tail. "I'm hurting her, and that's the last thing I want to do. I hate that I've done this to her. She's better off without all this crap."

Your hand flies up to cup his cheek, keeping at bay the tears teetering on his lower lids. "No woman's better off without you, Vaughn." His strong hand mirrors your actions, wiping away liquid you didn't even know was there. You finally comprehend the sadness he has been coping with all this time; glad you can help bear his burden, if only for a few moments.

You are two separate bodies; one soul; one sadness.

When the equilibrium is true, you share everything. This has not been the case for so long, and both of you feel it, but you have also adapted, learned to live with the prospect of never quite feeling balanced ever again. But now that a weight has been lifted from one side of the decidedly off-kilter teeter-totter, everything is starting to even out.

It is a wonderful feeling.

He rubs the pad of his thumb over your damp cheek one last time before he drops his arm to your shoulder and hugs you tightly to his side. His words are so quiet, you almost lose them. "I'm scared, Syd."

Laying your head on his shoulder you reply, "'Courage is nothing but fear who's said its prayers.'"

Even after all of that, you still go home alone. You do not expect anything else; after all, she hasn't even signed the papers yet, and the divorce is far from final. There is still that sinking feeling that settles in the pit of your stomach every time you open the door to an empty apartment.

But the misery ebbs when you remember the events of that day.

Lauren wasn't there.

Vaughn is rectifying the situation.

The cafeteria served Chicago-style pizza.

So in celebration, you decide to ditch the ritual frozen dinner and do something crazy and spontaneous: you order Chinese. As soon as you hang up with the restaurant (the owners know you and like to chat in Mandarin), the phone rings again, scaring you so much that you jump off the floor. It must be Weiss — he has a sixth sense about these things: every time you order food from somewhere, he calls and asks if you happened to order enough for two people. After he did it twice, you learned your lesson: he would come over even if you said no and mooched off your dinner, leaving your stomach growling more often than not. So when you pick up the phone you groan, "Yes, I ordered for you, too. I even got the 'thing with the small shrimp and the things.' You're paying this time, though: there's a drought, and I think my money tree's dying."

But who answers you isn't exactly the person you expect.

"She's gone. She left me."

The hollow anguish in his tone makes you stand up straight, and all of your sense sharpen. Without another word you confirm, "I'll be there in five," and hang up.

You alternate between twenty over and twenty under the speed limit for your entire journey; you don't want to appear anxious, but your heart would like its other half, so you figure you better go faster before it bursts out and drives for you. When you pull into the complex's parking garage, you wonder what you will find his apartment: a broken man needing you as a crutch, or a happy one who is ready for anything.

What you find is a nice mixture of both.

He meets you at the door, his face such a patchwork of emotions that they blend seamlessly into one another. He invites you in, and you successfully resist the urge to soak up your environment as he leads you out onto the balcony, gesturing to the papers laying innocently on the porch table. You both drift down to sit in plastic chairs, and you begin to read over the numerous sheets wordlessly, your spy skills working overtime to compartmentalize your emotions and keep you reading at a near-superhuman rate. You finish quickly and glance up at him, a mixture of uncertainty and hopefulness parading from eye to eye.

Finally, finally he nods slowly, closing his hand over yours and squeezing it. You offer back a watery smile, the validation of his intentions uncorking your emotions like a bottle of champaign on New Year's Eve.

As if in slow motion, he extracts a pen from his breast pocket.

If possible, your smile widens to the size of a small canyon, your dimples matching craters.

Together, both with a hand on the pen, you sign the papers.

You do not think you have ever been happier than at this moment.

Or as sad.

You know what it feels like to lose Michael Vaughn, know how the pain creeps up and then consumes you so wholly that you don't know where it ends and you begin. You know that it feels like your skin is on fire, your insides solid ice, and the boundary between the two irritates constantly with an unscratchable itch.

Sensing your thoughts, he squeezes your hand to garner your gaze.

"She never had me. Not really." And she knew it, he adds silently with his eyes. That's why she left.

You shiver slightly despite your coat, and he seems to remember the chilly winter atmosphere because he leads you back inside, papers clutched tightly in his fist. Once inside, he lets them flutter to the kitchen table next to his briefcase as he helps you shed your jacket. As he goes to hang it up in the closet, you allow yourself a cursory glance of the apartment, but you don't even get through the kitchen before he reappears at your side, façade fighting between a cheek-splitting grin and sobbing hysterically.

He awkwardly shifts his weight, digging out the non-existent dirt under his fingernails. "Uh, would you like something to drink?"

"Water's fine," You hear yourself say. As he shuffles off you ask, "How do you know she left?"

Without turning around from the sink he questions, "What are you saying?"

"I mean, for good. How do you know she's not coming back?"

"I don't know," He answers calmly, handing you a tall glass of cool liquid. "But I was her husband for over six months; I'd like to think I know a few things about her."

You nod understandingly and sit at the table, running a finger along the brim of the cup distractedly. Taking a quick sip, you catch him staring at you. After swallowing slowly, you smile shyly and continue tracing the rim. "So these were her papers?" You inquire, glancing at the revered documents. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him nod placidly. "Did you have any clue—"

"No," He interrupts, anticipating your question. "It's not like we've been talking lately or anything."

"Good point." Circle one; circle two; reverse; reverse. "Do you think she's going to draw out the proceedings?"

"Probably not," He answers after a few moments of consideration. "The Senator won't want his daughter's name spattered over the headlines. Plus, she probably already took all of her things; we kept most of my furniture, and we weren't married long enough to buy much together."

There is a long pause, and a clock from the family room ticks away in the background, the only evidence that time exists outside your own little sphere of reality. Gathering up your courage you ask, "Are you okay?"

Again he considers and nods slowly. "No. But I will be." Another pause. "We will be."

You smile gently and, leaving the glass on the table, you rise and cross towards him. You curl your arms around his neck as he snakes his own about your waist. You feed him strength and understanding, victuals mere vital to life at this moment than anything tangible. One of his hands rises and threads through your hair, causing you to sigh softly.

Shifting so that his mouth is next to your ear he whispers, "Hey...Would you like to go for coffee sometime?"

Smiling into his shoulder you reply, "Yeah. I'd really like that."

You plan to go slowly this time.

Baby steps, not leap-a-skyscraper-in-a-single-bound steps.

You don't want to mess things up this time around; don't want to make the same mistakes; don't want to go so fast you end up head over heels for the wrong reason. You keep a silent pact with one another to take things as they come and let the chips fall where they may.

It is a valiant ideal to uphold.

Too bad that goes out the window in about, oh, five seconds.

You go for that coffee, even though both of you hate the stuff: you're more of a hot chocolate gal, and he prefers cider or green tea. Sharing one muffin and nursing a cup of liquid each, you sit in that small café on the boardwalk for two hours just talking. It feels wonderful to be able to talk to him again without fear of discovery or watching your words. You joke and laugh, and he fills you in on practically every Kings game you have missed since that night over two years ago; Lauren apparently could have cared less about any sport, let alone his beloved hockey, and he'd had this energy and these stories pent up for a long time.

It's not that you run out of things to talk about; it's just that your minds drift from the mental to the physical. Very quickly. Two minutes after the two-hour mark, you find yourselves getting reacquainted on the kitchen floor, couch, bedroom floor, bed, and bathroom floor...three times.

So much for taking it slow.

The two of you cannot help but take things at an accelerated rate; what with your crazy, unpredictable lives, neither of you can afford to pull a tortoise when you have the opportunity to be hares. Slow and steady never wins the race in the spy business; you have already learned that once. He is an expert at multitasking — as evidenced by your reacquaintance — and while he is plowing ahead on one issue, he is considering courses of action for the next. He has gotten better with time, and not only at acquaintance multitasking. Because the two of you move faster than ever this time.

Oh well.

The two weeks you spend dilly-dallying up until that pseudo coffee date seems like an eternity compared to what follows.

It takes one and a half weeks after that for you two to move in together.

And one week after that, you're engaged.

Fast forward three days, and you're already on your honeymoon.

Talk about major hare-ige.

Despite your original hesitation, you soon realize there is nothing to be uneasy about. You have known each other for six years: two spent in uncertainty, struggling with an unlabeled attraction to one another; the next two brought a label, depth, and a connection that could never be severed; the most recent two spent in unspeakable anguish over the loss of the other.

Bottom line: it's about damn time.

In fact, the world owes it to you to step out of your way — if only for a little while — and let you pursue happiness the best way you know how: with each other.

Which brings you to this Barnes and Noble one year into your marriage, one year after you found out the truth about your missing time, and a little over one year since the last occasion either of you saw Lauren. The two of you are browsing the stacks with your fingers laced together while your left hand lies protectively upon your stomach.

He stops abruptly and snatches a book from the shelf. "Here's a nice big one. How 'bout—" He flips through quickly "—Deshante. I'm going to call you that from now on: Momma Deshante Vaughn."

"Oh no you're not!" You counter, grabbing the book away from him and leafing through it yourself. "If you get to call me that, then I get to call you...Harold."

"How'd you know my middle name!"

"Michael Vaughn, your middle name starts with a C."

"Just kidding! I meant Ca-harold. Yep, that's my full name: Michael Ca-harold Vaughn."

"You're full of it." You make to tuck the book under your arm, but he snatches it away and carries it himself. The two of you begin to browse again, still linked through your hands.

"This kid's going to have one messed up name," He remarks off-handedly, reading the cover of a blue book before moving on to a pink one. "I pity him already."

"Or her," You add automatically, garnering a cheeky smile from your husband. "At least it won't have some boring name like Christopher or David or Michael."

"Hey! I am offended by that, Deshante; take it back."

"Not on your life, Harold."

"Sydney? Michael?"

This intruder into your conversation makes you stop abruptly and turn in unison towards the head of the aisle.

It's Lauren.

In the flesh.

You fight the instinctive urge to bolt and settle for squeezing your husband's hand firmly.

She incredulously makes her way towards the two of you, her large purse clutched tightly to her side. "I can't believe it!" She exclaims, smiling genuinely. "How are you doing?"

Taking your cue from her, you nod politely and answer, "We're good—"

"And married, I see!" Her eyes dart to the matching silver rings on your fingers before alighting upon your face again. "Then it's not a big stretch to see why you're in this section—"

"Yeah," He cuts her off, proudly beaming down at you. "We've been trying for ages, but there've been...complications."

His inadvertent mention of your trouble conceiving because of the Covenant's violation of your body makes you wince sightly, and he lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. You smile at his gesture and turn back to Lauren. "So what brings you here?"

She shifts her weight slightly. "To town? A high-profile client who was too lazy to fly his private jet to Virginia. To this section? A friend back home is having a baby shower, and I need to mail her a present." There is a small, uncomfortable pause as the three of you just kind of stare at each other a moment. Suddenly she gasps and starts rooting around in her purse. "You know, I was going to mail this to you, but since you're here..." She alights on something, and extracts a brightly-wrapped box. "It's a little late, but congratulations."

You accept it, and he resists stealing it away from you. Peering at it curiously for a moment, you look up and say genuinely, "Thanks, Lauren. We really appreciate it."

She nods and smiles back. Melodramatically glancing at her watch she exclaims, "Oh my! I'm going to be late for my meeting! I've got to go. If you're ever in Virginia, look me up: maybe we can get together some time."

You mirror her nod and reply, "Sounds good." She bustles off in a hurry without a book.

The two of you look at each other, exchanging silent words and questions. Simultaneously, you both turn towards the door, and he tosses the book haphazardly on a shelf as you leave the store.

"What the hell is this?" You ponder aloud, sitting gingerly on the couch and fingering the box. Looking up at your husband in the kitchen you ask, "Do you think we need to examine it for anything?"

"No," He answers cautiously, bringing over two glasses filled with caffeine-free Diet Coke. Handing one to you, he settles next to you and takes the box. "She left me, remember? I don't think we have anything to be afraid of. Plus, she never could lie very convincingly."

You nod, accepting his reasoning. "Alright then, you get to open it. If it explodes, I'd like to be the one saying 'I told you so' with her eyebrows."

He sticks out his tongue at you, and begins to carefully unwrap the present, both of you listening for anything unusual. The bright paper falls away to reveal a box, ordinary in every way. Lifting the lid, he unveils a videocassette tape and a note. You take the latter while he takes the former and heads toward the cabinet with the VCR.

Your hands shake as you read the strong, wide lettering aloud. "'Dear Michael and Sydney, I hope this finds you well and together. I know I left rather abruptly a year ago, but you hurt me, Michael, and I needed to make a fast getaway before you could hurt me again. Don't take this personally, now; I've forgiven you, and I hope you've forgiven yourself. And Sydney, I don't blame you for any of this. It's no one's fault, really; the entire situation just kind of sucks. I'm not sorry I married Michael, and I'm not sorry I left him when I did; I'm just sorry that so many people had to get hurt in the process. That video doomed me to a life without Michael, but it also pushed you two together, which was probably what the universe had in mind to begin with.

"'Anyways, here's a late wedding present. It has certain sentimental value to me, as I used to watch it whenever I missed Michael. I know you'll enjoy this.'" You stop and stare at him a moment, slightly perturbed. You would rather this be a bomb.

He shrugs helplessly as he grabs the remote off the top of the TV and sits beside you, gripping your hand tightly. It is impossible to tell who is squeezing harder as he hesitantly presses the play button.

A bedroom pops onto the screen. At first there is no activity, but in no time at all two people — a man and a woman — stumble into the picture, hands roaming all over the other's body. They waste no time in getting down to business, colliding with the bed and tumbling down upon it. He's on top of her, and they fumble with buttons, the strange contraptions foreign to their lust-crazed minds. His is the first shirt to be shed; the buttons ping as they scatter to the floor, and his garment soon follows. Clutching her to him, he helps rid her of a floral over shirt and then lays her back down onto the pillows and dips his head down to a stomach he is slowly revealing to himself; his fingers are inching her tank top up towards her breasts. Without warning they rise again, in the process shedding her shirt.

The material slides over her head to reveal...you. Your image smiles indulgently as you gaze at him with reckless abandon and say so quietly the tape barely picks it up, "You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment."

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the man palms your cheek and replies in a whisper, "Yes I do. It's been almost two years, but it seems like a decade."

It is the voice of none other than the man sitting next to you: your husband, Michael Vaughn.

As he was nearly three years ago.

As you were nearly three years ago.

Your eyes lock in mutual unabashed shock.

END