Hello all. Sorry once again for the delay in getting this up. I haven't had much time to spare, and neither has my beta (sorry Ellie!) so this chapter hasn't been thoroughly edited. Feel free to point out any mistakes or faults and I'll fix them up.

Disclaimer: Alias not mine

PART 3

Car Chases and Chocolate - Sydney's Point of View

I hate car chase movies. There is no element of realism in them whatsoever. The camera never shows you, first-person, the sickening motion of sliding sideways, the burning smell of rubber and an overworked engine. They never show the gut-wrenching panic that overtakes you when you lose sight of the person you need to be following, the knowing that if you lose track of them you may never find them again. Having someone else at the wheel is even worse. You're relying on them to keep you from crashing into something solid and putting an end to all your problems in one gigantic ball of flame, you're entrusting them with your life, but you never really trust them. No matter how much you rely on that person in everyday life, you still want that wheel in your own hands. Car chase movies are mindless. Completely insensitive to the details.

I sit, propped up on the couch with the cushions behind me to keep me from leaning on my wounded shoulder. If anyone walked in, they'd think I was some sort of lunatic. Sitting in a nice and fairly expensive dress, shoes tossed carelessly on the floor, feet on the couch, bleeding from a knife wound and drinking a glass of wine while watching siren-blaring action thrillers. For a while, I toy with calling room service just to see someone's reaction.

I can't get my dress off. It's true: the blood from my wound has dried, sticking the silky fabric directly to my skin, and I can't even reach that far back to loosen it. It hurts like absolute hell but it hurt even worse when I tried to pull the fabric away before. I should have fixed it up when I first got back, before the blood had a chance to dry; but it's easier just to sit here, and pretend the whole night never happened.

We failed. It was my fault. I should have stopped Fochette from running, but I didn't - I wasn't focussing properly. I wasn't doing my job. And now I can't go to bed because I can't take off my dress, and I don't want to get blood on the sheets.

Actually, I quite like the mindlessness of this movie. So much action you don't have time to think. There might be something in that that applies to my own life.

I think I may have had a little too much wine.

There is a soft knock, rousing me out of my stupor, and a voice "Sydney?"

Oh, damn.

No, no, no. I was just starting to forget. To relax. I need to relax. My shoulder hurts and I don't want to move, don't want to open the door. What does he want, anyway? To berate me about the failure of the mission? Too late, Vaughn, I've already covered that territory myself. Gave myself a thorough dressing-down, I did.

"Sydney?"

Can't seem to make myself get up.

There's a moment's pause, and for a second I think he's left. Then "Sydney, I've got Dixon on the phone."

I stand up labouriously and make my way over to the door. Sure enough, there he stands, holding his phone and speaking:

"Yes, yeah, she's fine. Yes, sir. I'll put you on speaker."

He just walks in, just like that; sits down on the couch and turns the volume of the TV down. Still wearing the clothes he's worn all night, even though the shirt is torn at the collar and streaked with dirt and darker patches of blood.

Dixon's voice blares out at me as he sets the phone on the side table. "Sydney, I heard what happened. Im glad you're alright."

"Yeah, yeah Im fine." I force myself to say, setting my glass of wine aside and trying to clear my head to sound somewhat professional. "It's just a surface wound."

"In any case, we've been monitoring Fochette's phone, and we've just intercepted a call to the person we believe to be the Covenant representative we're tracking down. Due to your interference, the meeting has been moved ahead to Thursday night, at a hotel in Tokyo, Japan. You're booked on the flight tomorrow morning. We'll update you as necessary."

"Thankyou, sir." Vaughn said.

"Good luck," Dixon returned, and the line went dead.

I glare at Vaughn. "You haven't changed your clothes."

Oh, yes, and the award for the greatest opening line of the conversation goes to ...

He looks me up and down. "Neither have you."

I grab my wine glass from the table. "I have an excuse. I can't get my dress off. You, on the other hand, are just plain lazy."

"I am not lazy. Im just ... tired. Have you got any more of that wine?"

I point him in the direction of the bottles, then hold out my glass for a refill. He sits down beside me on the couch and sips at his slowly.

"You can't get your dress off?" he looks at me, laughingly.

"Don't laugh. It's not funny. It hurts." But Im laughing too.

He sets his glass on the . "Let me take a look."

I shift away instinctively. "Vaughn ..."

"Hey, no, look. You need to get that wound clean. If you get an infection, you're not going to be any use in Tokyo and I don't want to have to do this all by myself."

Oh, boy.

Vaughn stands up and moves towards the door. "I've got some basic first-aid stuff in my suitcase."

So have I, but as I am so not having Vaughn rummage around my luggage, I let him return to his own room and get the stuff while I use the time to compose myself. I was prepared for a long night of television watching, junk food, wine and general slobbery. Hadn't expected to hear from Vaughn until the morning. Hadn't expected to hear from Dixon until he was scheduled to call us tomorrow.

I look at Vaughn's phone, lying on the table. The display shows the last number dialled. It's the contact number Dixon gave us.

As Vaughn returns, closing the door and setting out an array of medical supplies, I say "You called Dixon?"

"Huh?" he looks up, then guiltily down at his phone. Heh. Busted.

"You called Dixon."

Vaughn backs up, looking around defensively. "Uh, yeah."

"Why did you call Dixon when our scheduled check-in isn't until six tomorrow morning?"

"The meeting's been moved forwards."

"Yeah, but you didn't know that until you called Dixon. We were still working with the time-frame as outlined in the original mission briefing."

"I had to inform him of our status. He needed to know what happened."

"If he's been monitoring Fochette's calls, he would already know that we failed to take him into custody."

"Uh-huh." Vaughn snatches up his phone and snaps it shut. "I just wanted to check in." he finishes lamely.

I take another sip of wine, involuntarily wincing as I pull at the wound with my movement.

"Turn around," Vaughn orders, picking up a cotton swab and dipping it in a small jar of water. I stare at him for a moment, then shift so that my back is to him. He looks over the wound. I haven't seen it - it's right at the point where I'd have to position two mirrors to see it correctly - but I don't think it's too serious.

He touches me.

It's all I can do to keep from gasping. I feel like an idiot, but his hand is there on my bare shoulder, and it's so gentle and right. I keep myself rigidly facing forwards as he starts to wipe at the blood. It hurts. It stings. I grit my teeth.

He tugs at the strap of the dress. It slides down my shoulder. Okay, breathe, Sydney.

"He cut your dress, and the fabric is stuck in the wound. This might hurt a little."

A little. Don't you love how people always use that word? As if by saying a little, it makes it hurt less. It never does, though, it's always one big - "Ouch!"

"Sorry." he apologises.

I bet he's doing this on purpose.

I can feel his cool hands sliding down my back now. It's very, very hard not to lean back into his arms. I take short, deep breaths.

"You're right, though." he says, after a moment of silence. "I called Dixon after I knocked. I didn't think you'd let me in otherwise."

"What?"

He sighs. "You wouldn't have opened the door."

I try to think up something to say to that that wouldn't be a lie. "Im tired, Vaughn."

"I know." he subsides into silence again, working at the fabric stuck in the wound, softening it with the water. His touch is so gentle, yet it still hurts. I suck in a breath as he peels it away. The soft sound of the TV filters through the quietness.

"Lauren loves these movies." he says, suddenly.

"Car chases?" I say. "I hate them."

"Me too."

"Must be something to do with being field-rated."

"Uh-huh. I don't think we can save the dress, Syd."

"Damn. It was expensive. And useful. I liked this dress."

"I like it too. It looks good on you."

I blush fiercely, very glad that my back is to him.

"Okay, hold still."

I brace myself, and Im not disappointed. The pain as he pulls the last of the fabric free is minimal, but it's still pain. I gasp.

"Okay, that's the worst of it."

No, that's not the worst of it. He gets a fresh swab and starts to apply antiseptic cream. It's cool and soothing. He sticks a bandage over it. "There you go." he says, as if handing me a bag of groceries.

"Thanks." I say, looking down at my dress. I figure that if he's going to leave, I should give him this chance to do it without a fuss. He'll go back to his hotel room and go to sleep. Tomorrow we'll fly to Japan. We'll talk some more about the mission, eat crummy airline food, and spend the next day hunting for a man who is trying to sell our information to the highest bidder."Maybe I should go change."

I stand up and make my way to the bathroom, gingerly because of the wine, which is making me feel comfortably sleepy. I grab my PJ's from my suitcase and close the door, leaning my good shoulder against it for a moment to regain my breath. What is he doing here? After what happened tonight, I would have thought he would want to be as far away from me as possible. I stuffed up our whole mission. I let Fochette get away. I couldn't concentrate.

After a while, I remove my makeup and wash my hands and face in the sink. I don't have the energy for a shower, but I find myself staring into the mirror. My eyes are hollowed from lack of sleep. I pull the pins out of my hair, letting it fall down in slightly-rumpled strands around my face. There is a bruise on my cheek. I look terrible.

Sighing, I pull the pyjamas on. Nice fuzzy warm pyjamas which feel wonderfully comfortable. I pull my hair back into a plait and tie it. I pick up the dress and open the door.

Vaughn is still sitting on my couch.

He looks up to see me and smiles ruefully. "Im sorry about the dress."

I look down at the black material. "If the alternative was having to walk around with it permanently attached to my shoulder, I suppose I can forgive you."

"Oh, good." he says. "Because I found chocolate."

Chocolate? He holds up a block of foil-wrapped treasure and grins. Im suddenly very aware that Im wearing my pyjamas, and they're not my best pyjamas. No makeup and bruising starting to show. I must look horrible. And yet I don't really have to worry about that, do I? Vaughn is happily married. Im his partner for this mission. That's all. So I plonk myself down on the couch and take the chocolate, breaking off a large piece. It's delicious.

I reach for my glass, but wince as the movement pulls at my shoulder. Vaughn notices and hands it to me. I settle back to watch the rest of the stupid movie.

It's close to the end. The high-speed, fast-action climax. The heroine in distress, the knight in shining armour (or this case shining duco) is in peril. All seems lost.

"I wonder who wrote this script." Vaughn says, eating more chocolate.

"I wonder who paid them to write it." I return. "Or who paid to go and see it."

"We're watching it now." he points out.

"Only because someone paid for it."

"It's our fault they paid for it."

"So did we make them buy it? No."

"Shut up. Watch the movie."

I do, for a little while, stuffing my face with chocolate and more nice wine. The easy banter reminds me a achingly of a late-night movie session with Will and Francie.

The tension builds. Will the hero arrive in time? They're about to kill her, hurry up, damn you!

"This is so stupid." I say.

"I hate these movies."

"I think you said that."

"Just making sure."

"Shut up. Watch the movie." I giggle at his annoyed glance and snatch more chocolate.

Another diversion. Time's running out ... ah, the Final Confrontation. In which the hero faces his enemy. The hero, in this case a hopelessly cute but far-too-young detective, has a secret weapon - the truth about his enemy's past. And then, distracted, the enemy is thwarted; not killed, but arrested, destined to spend the rest of his days living out his punishment in a prison cell where he belongs. The heroine is rescued. She and the hero are safe, and the world is safe again. Roll the credits.

I sigh and lean back on the couch.

Vaughn sits silent for a moment. "I came over here for a reason."

I settle back, comfortable on the cushions. He seems to be piecing together what he's going to say in his mind. I sit very still.

"I wanted to take this opportunity to talk to you, Sydney. I tried ... at the restaurant, but things didn't exactly the way ..."

Im not going to make this easy for him.

"I know that things haven't been easy for you since you got back. You've been through a lot, most of which you don't even remember. And you're so strong about it, so amazingly brave about it all - it scares me. Syd - what Im trying to say is - you have to remember that two years passed in that time. And for that entire time, we ... I ... thought you were dead."

"Yeah, I know." What am I supposed to say?

"No, no. Just listen. I mean, I actually thought you were dead. And everything, at that point, seemed meaningless. And there was nothing, not even a trace, nothing that could allow me to believe that you were alive." His eyes, here, are directly on me, unblinking.

I can match that. "So you got married." I say blandly.

"That's not the way it happened, and you know it. You said you would have waited, if it had been me that was missing. But can you honestly say that you would have stayed in the state I was in? I mean, how can you ever know unless you're put into the same situation? Do you remember the Circumference? If I had drowned in that water, would you have spent the rest of your life mourning me? I wouldn't have asked you to - I would never have asked you to waste your life like that. I fell in love with Lauren, and I am not going to apologise, now or ever, for loving her."

"I never said you should," I draw my knees up to my chest.

"Falling in love with Lauren doesn't mean that I was never in love with you, Sydney. It doesn't. I was in love with you in a way ... that goes deeper than anything I have ever felt with anyone."

I look away from his piercing gaze, realising that this is as open as he has been with me since I woke up in Hong Kong. I don't want him to go on, because, what I realise now, what dawns on me, is that I know this. I've known it since I found out.

"I just wanted to tell you that, Syd. I just ..."

"You're right," I say, still far too blunt but recognising the past tenses in his voice. "I wouldn't have opened the door if I thought what you had to say wasn't mission-related. Vaughn, I don't know what you want from me ... if you want me to say that it's okay, or if you want me to never talk to you again. Im not going to do either. You don't have to justify anything you do to me or anyone else."

Vaughn frowns. "Thanks," he replies dryly. "Im glad we sorted that out."

"There's nothing to sort out." I go on. "Because there is nothing that needs to be sorted out. The situations in this seem fairly clear-cut to me." As clear-cut as a wedding ring and an urn with my ashes in it. I know that what Im saying is hurting him, but right now I don't really care.

"I see." he sighs and looks away. "You want the last piece of chocolate?" he asks, with a wry smile.

I break into a smile as well, but it's forced, faked. "Yeah. Thanks."

I reach over him to the side table to grab it. At the same time, he reaches to hand it to me, twisting and putting me off-balance - I nearly fall off the couch. Im half bent over him, inches from touching him, his hand poised above mine. I freeze, and so does he. His face is barely a centimetre from mine. If I move at all, I'll lose my balance and fall on him. The smell of his cologne is overridden by the smell of the perspiration and dirt on his shirt.

Suddenly the clear-cut situation dissolves into a myriad of tiny facets, each overlapping another, blurring into indistinguishability.

I could let myself fall on him, laugh it off and push away. I could twist and fall in an undignified heap on the floor. I can tell you which option I would prefer right now, but the wonderfully tangled heap I imagine in my mind doesn't sit so well with the 'married man' situation. I stare at him. He stares back with utmost intensity. I can't read what passes through his eyes.

A strand of my hair falls free, brushing over his shoulder. He reaches up a hand to brush it back, and tucks it gently behind my ear. Still frozen, I stay utterly still as he does it, though the gesture makes my insides quiver. A hand on my shoulder, and he pushes me upright, holding my weight until I have my balance again. I slide away from him, back to my end of the couch, out of touching range.

"Im, um, going to go back to my room." he says, dipping his head, standing.

I nod, dumbly.

"I'll see you in the morning."

I nod again. But he doesn't notice. He's already gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

I bury my face in the couch cushions and sob pathetically.

-------------------------------------

We arrive at the airport on time. Silence reigns in the rental car, as it does while we sit in our seats on the aeroplane. Vaughn has the window seat so that at least he gets to feign interest in the runway. I have to pretend to be fascinated by the magazine I found in the pocket of the seat in front of me.

I flick a glance at Vaughn - he is still looking thoughtfully out the window, fingers resting on his chin. Quickly back to the magazine, I wonder if there is something wrong with me. It's not supposed to be this hard.

"I'll call Dixon once we're on route." his voice breaks into my concentration. "We'll sort out what we're going to do."

I wonder why I torture myself like this.