Chapter Three

Her hair was dry by the time the door to the apartment 2C was opened and the threshold crossed. The shower had cleansed her body of the smell of death, but her mind was far from purification. Vaughn's clothes replaced the outfit she ran the streets in. It was comforting to smell him so close and it soothed her troubled mind as she curled up first under his plaid comforter on the bed she'd never slept in.
It was too soft however, and she found herself huddling in the corner of the room between a bookshelf and a gigantic hockey trophy no doubt won in the league he had played in for nearly as long as he had lived in LA.

Though it seemed as though sleep wasn't possible, the immense weight on Sydney's mind bore down on her eyelids as well, and they shut almost unwillingly. Her mind swirled with images as she began to drift into a fitful sleep.

She dreamt, as she'd expected to. It's almost impossible to have a night like the one she'd been having and not dream. Or have nightmares, for that matter. In hers, she was at her apartment. All was normal. She was playing Boggle with Will and Francie and checking the dictionary for proof that another of Will's eccentric words existed. But suddenly, Francie grabbed the large book out of her hands and slammed it down on the Boggle box, cracking the clear plastic. Letter cubes flew everywhere. Three flew towards Will and sliced through his chest, leaving a blood trail as he fell. Sydney looked down at the now stained letters. 'R I P'

She turned to Francie, horrified. But her best friend just smiled sadistically and pelted 12 more cubes at her, lightening fast. So fast that they impacted her chest, burning and scorching like bullets. Just before she fell to the ground, she caught a glimpse of what they spelled.

 "A-L-L-Y-O-U-R-F-A-U-L-T"

'Nonononono, it's not'... Sydney's dying dream self protested as the world blackened. Francie grinned again and disappeared, leaving Sydney to die in peace. Or so she thought. Seconds later, she heard the door open and slam back shut, and footsteps echo down the hall. They were coming for her!

*

A heavy hand turned the knob slowly and he couldn't help but feel like the ash on the exterior blanketed his interior as well. Waves of numbness washed over him again and again because he was just too worn to feel anymore. At the moment his pain was gone but he feared for the morning; that was going to hurt like hell.

During the debrief he had barely been able to sit still for anticipation, and had texted her just to stop himself from jiggling his leg. But when he reached her apartment…god he'd never felt so in agony as when he saw the flickering flames snaking out from the front window.

He'd seen her in danger for so long, had come this close to losing her so many times that the feeling stabbing his heart was achingly familiar. The firemen were already dousing the hungry fire and he pushed through the throng of observers to the policeman standing before the burning apartment.

"Excuse me!" he cried. "Please! What happened here?"

The policeman looked up from his note tablet. "We don't know, Mr..."

"Vaughn."

"We don't know, Mr. Vaughn. We got a call from a neighbor who'd smelled the smoke. We should have it out soon but--"

"Did you find who was living there??" he shouted over the noise.

"...No. I'm sorry--"

Vaughn didn't stay to hear the pity apology. He turned and began to run. Straight into the inferno. He distantly heard the yells. "Hey! Sir! Sir! You can't go in there!

Mr. Vaughn! ...Someone go get him...!"

He ignored them.

The firemen weren't so easy to ignore, however, and he was pulled out before he could even get through the front door. Tears streamed down his face as they told him that they had found a body of a man in the bathtub, but no one else. Deep in his soul he knew that she was alive, he prayed to any god that would listen to keep her alive, and the fury began to well in him. Someone did this to her, someone did this to the woman he loved. God help him if he wouldn't find her.

He had to get into the shower, had to wash the smell of soot and fire and ash from his body and mind, because he kept imagining Sydney burning, burning like the Joan of Arc she was. A sound from the bedroom made his spine straighten and his senses kick in; someone was in there, and if they had come after Sydney tonight, they probably would come after him too.

Not caring much about whether he was killed in the process, he crept towards his bedroom, grabbing his an autographed hockey stick from his closet on the way. He gripped it tightly, ignoring the stinging of a wooden splinter lodging itself into his skin.

Carefully, he pushed open the door of his bedroom. Cautiously, he entered and took a step forward. He peered around the seemingly normal room. A rustling noise came from the corner. He swiveled to it and raised the hockey stick. A split second later, it fell from his hands.

"Oh God."

There she was, the cause of his pain, his fears, his love, huddled in a corner and crying as she slept. Her hair had waves like it had just dried, and he could see that she wore his clothes. He strode to her sat down, pulling her into his arms so that he could feel her. She was so alive, so…real that he buried his face in her hair and wept like a child. "Oh God Sydney, Sydney, I thought, oh, I thought you were captured or dead, and I was so scared. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me."

"Mmm..." Sydney groaned a little as she opened her eyes, the scent of soot and ash mixed with something wonderful and sweet deep underneath filling her nostrils. She recognized what was underneath. "Mm... Vaughn?"

"Oh, God, Syd!" his scratchy voice answered, muffled. Everything snapped into focus. She felt his arms around her and his face in her hair. "Syd, thank God!"

He sounded as though he'd been crying as much as she had. She lifted her head and placed a hand on his cheek. "Vaughn...What's wrong?"

"Your apartment... it was on fire... and you weren't there. And Syd, I... I thought you were dead."

I thought you were dead...

The phrase flashed across her mind, making her skin tingle and the hairs on her neck stand. Why did that phrase seem so portent to her? You've had a long night and you're still freaked out. Just let it go she told herself, and relaxed in his arms.

"I'm right here..." she whispered, squeezing his hand. "I'm alright, and I'm right here."

He couldn't answer, only squeezed her hand and rested his face in the crook of her neck. She pulled his hand so that his entire arm wrapped around her stomach protectively. His protection was what she needed at that moment, and nothing else.

*

A young man dressed in black stood outside the cold night air, his voice formal and respectful. "Sir, Sydney Bristow was not in the premise when we arrived, and we could not locate her within the time limit."

"I was assured that she would be there, and that she would be unconscious. My source must have been deceiving me, but I will deal with that myself. Did you apprehend the other?"

"Yes, but not where you said. She was in hallway, not in the back bedroom, and there was only a single bullet, not three."

The man on the other end of the line seethed with rage. All the information he had been given, useless! He had made great plans for Sydney Bristow, and now they were ruined. Lazarey did not like to have his plans ruined. His resolution was made; Arvin Sloane was going to pay dearly.