Weiss dropped them off at Vaughn's apartment—they hadn't yet consolidated into one place—and Sydney excused herself to the bathroom under the guise of freshening up. She took her entire carry-on into the bathroom and turned on the water in the sink. Closing the lid on the toilet, she sank down and jerked the book from under the heap of her things in the small blue bag.

It was a small trade paperback, a dark green cover with white lettering in Arial. She smiled a little at the memory of a professor she once had forbidding his students from turning in papers in Arial—the "stupid font" as he called it—on pain of receiving an entire letter grade lower. The back cover had the tiny, useless synopses of the stories contained in the book.

In these stories, she read, Mann began to grapple with the themes that were to recur throughout his work… in Death in Venice a character's carefully structured way of life is suddenly and unexpectedly threatened by sexual passion.

Oh, no, she thought sarcastically, not sexual passion.

Why had he given her the book? It wasn't special; it was a cheap paperback that she could get at any of the chain bookstores or on Amazon. She fanned its pages, hoping a note might fall out, but there was nary a scrap of paper pressed between the pages to mark where he'd left off. The Bacardi coaster he'd been using in Mexico was gone. She checked the table of contents and flipped directly to the titular story.

There, halfway down the first page, there was a tiny underscore under the letter 'h' in a sentence beginning, "Having made his way to the Aumeister along less and less frequented paths…"

She took a sharp breath, and began flipping rapidly through the pages, looking for more marks. She skimmed quickly as she searched, getting the gist of the character's vision of the swampy forest with its lurid flowers.

There! A 'v', underscored in Very well then, he would travel. Her heart beat hard in her chest and she found herself impatient as she had flipped clear to chapter 3 before discovering his next mark, this one highlighting the 'm' in the word mundane.

H. V. M. Were there more?

Just then there was a quiet knock at the door. "Just a second," she called, tossing the book in her bag as she stripped her ponytail holder from her hair with the other hand and mussed her long, brown hair. She drew her shirt over her head, left it in a heap on the floor, and went to the door.

"Hi," she smiled coyly at Vaughn, who was leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. "Did Eric leave?" she asked, already knowing the answer. She loved Weiss, and was amused by his mild embarrassment whenever they showed any kind of public affection for each other.

"What do you think," Vaughn grinned, "Are you about done in there?"

"I guess," she smiled. "Let me just brush my teeth, ok?"

Vaughn looked at her out of the top of his eyes and shrugged. "Alright. I'll be waiting."

Sydney felt the delightful heat lick up her inner thighs again, as she brushed her fingertips along his stomach, feeling its warmth through the cotton cloth of his t-shirt. "Alright," she whispered, backing away and closing the door behind her. She glanced at the book and reached for her toothbrush instead. Sark and his cryptic book message could wait. There were more pressing things to attend to.

As she scrubbed the residue of travel and plane beverages from her teeth, she peered again at herself in the mirror. There were a few fine lines appearing at the corners of her eyes, ones that didn't fade into nothingness when she relaxed her smile. You're not getting any younger, kiddo, she reminded herself. Another few lines at the corners of her mouth, a few creases across her forehead. All likely worsened by the extensive exposure to the sun on their honeymoon, she sighed as she spit a glob of toothpaste foam into the basin of the sink. She remembered being surprised to find out how old Vaughn actually was, when he was her handler at the CIA; she was a terrible judge of age, but she'd put him at mid-30's based on the amount of wrinkles he already had. Weiss, of course, had spilled the beans that he was only 3 years older than her. Not that it changed her feelings on him—well, maybe it had. Before Eric had told her that—information he had volunteered, not something that Sydney had been fishing for—she had him safely pegged at 35-plus, in a long-term non-married relationship with blonde Alice, one major life-event away from permanence. Her surprise to learn he was only 29 changed that, somehow; made Alice seem like less of a fixture, or made him seem more open to change, she wasn't sure.

More than anything, she supposed it had made him seem alive. Before he was an impenetrable entity, the kind of person you know from work, but that you never really know. Instead, he was someone who might move in the same circles as she, as Francie, as someone who might've sat next to her in class. She swished her mouth out with lukewarm water, and turned off the tap, being sure to give it an extra firm twist so that it wouldn't drip.

She walked out into the darkness of the bedroom, and there was a distant rumble of thunder that she caught through the open window. "Sounds like rain," she said, unbuttoning her jeans. She could make out his shape under the sheets in the dim light.

"The pilot said it might rain," he replied, and the mattress squeaked as he shifted in the bed. "C'mere."

She walked softly across the room, and climbed on all fours onto the bed. The comforter already lay in a heap on the floor at its foot, and the blanket had shimmied halfway down so that it was in danger of joining the comforter. She rocked back on her haunches and unzipped her jeans, pushing them down her thighs as she continued towards him. She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Leave some for me."

"There's plenty left for you," she breathed, settling on her side in front of him. "Hi," she said, nuzzling the tip of his nose with hers. As their lips met, he slid his hand around her ribcage to the hooks of her bra, and she felt the strap spring free under his skillful fingers.

"Are you already naked," she giggled a little as his fingers caressed her side.

"Why don't you come find out?"

She widened her eyes a little at him in the dark, not knowing if he could even see. He was not usually so forthright in his intentions. The enforced closeness of their honeymoon seemed to have emboldened him in a way that she found… enticing.

"Why don't you take my pants off instead," she suggested.

"Fine," he retorted, grasping the cloth where it was bunched around her knees and jerking it towards her ankles. She laughed as he made a production of flinging her jeans into the pile with the comforter before he rolled over onto her and slid back up to meet her kisses. She could feel, through the sheet, that he was in fact naked, and very eager to show her that.

"Mmmm," she moaned against his mouth, and she arched against him as he slowly ground his hips against hers. His hand found its way between them and freed her breast of its cotton tether, gently rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped and broke their kiss as he pinched her hard enough that it stung a little, and looked him in surprise.

"Vaughn, that hurt," she whimpered, and was surprised to hear how unconvinced she sounded of her own words. He looked at her for a moment before he leaned down and took her lower lip between his teeth, teasing her, pulling at it while never breaking eye contact.

"I think you like it," he replied, his voice husky. "You're not so gentle with me, you know."

"Right, but…" she trailed off as he pinched her nipple again and her eyes closed against her will. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she arched back against the pillow and he suckled at her earlobe, then down her neck to her collarbone. She moaned as she felt his hands move down her sides to the waistband of her underwear, felt his thumbs against her skin as he tugged them down over her hips. She raised her hips a little so that he could draw the cloth under her butt, then sat up to slip her arms out of her bra straps. He sat back and watched her, devouring her nakedness with his eyes, and she instantly felt the same raw need as the first night they'd spent together, when they'd come home from the wreckage of SD-6 to his bed—his apartment, in a fit of recklessness where they'd risked finding Alice at home, when she'd seen the pictures of Alice on the coffee table in the living room but not cared one bit as they'd stumbled stupidly lust-drunk into this very bed.

As she threw her bra aside he flung the sheet from between them and hooked his elbow under her knee, drawing it close to him as he lay on her. Her hands grasped at his spine, corded with muscles like steel cables, as he pushed his cock between her legs, into her slick, wet heat. She arched against him as he filled her full on the first thrust, pressing against her until she nearly broke with ecstasy before he gave her room to breathe.

Her head lolled to the side and he whispered against her hair and the top of her ear, "The walls aren't thin here, you don't have to be quiet."

Yes, oh, yes, her mind screamed, this was how she loved him: cocksure, not asking but taking, taking her. It wasn't always like this, but she secretly loved when he took her to the mat. A good fuck had the same rough physicality of a good fight—so that she knew when it was over she'd be marked so that she knew she was still alive.

"Oh, yes," she replied, her body trying to fold up with pleasure, "Fuck me, please," she begged. She wrapped her free leg over his thigh and felt the wet spot that was already beginning to form under her. He released her leg then, and she hitched her leg around his waist; with his arm free, he shifted his weight more evenly over her and circled his hips slowly, maddeningly. Oh, please, no—yes, no not yet, her brain was nearly already in overload, she wanted to say something, tell him it was too good, but it came out as an unintelligible groan of near-ecstasy.

Vaughn dropped his head to her shoulder and she could hear in his breathing that he was dangerously close; his movement stilled for a few seconds as he slipped one arm under her lower back. There was nowhere for her to move except against him, and as she rocked her pelvis towards his stomach, she felt the sudden, irrevocable twinge of her orgasm beginning.

"Syd, wait," he groaned against her neck, but she was gone, unreachable, and she heard herself cry out in a foreign tongue she only spoke when they were together like this. Unable to hold off any longer, she dimly felt his fingers bite into the flesh at the side of her hip and him drawing her tight to him with the arm that was banded under her back as he bucked hard against her once, twice, three times. He shuddered and exhaled a voiceless laugh, an utterance she recognized as an expression of the temporary fluency in the language of their bodies.

As their breathing slowed and she came back to herself, she relaxed her leg from around his waist so that her foot rested on the sheet inside his thigh. Her fingers traced a lazy path in the groove of his spine, feeling the light moisture of his sweat and the thinly padded knobs of his spine under her fingertips. He settled slowly onto her, his warm breath making her skin damp where his lips rest against her collarbone. A car's highlights on the street below threw shadows from the blinds onto the ceiling, and somewhere outside in the darkness, a locust droned its late summer song.

Her smile grew out of a twitch of her lower lip, tugging at the corners of her mouth until her lips stretched taught against her teeth, dimples formed in the center of each cheek, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. Her head lolled against his, his hair tickling her face, and she giggled a little.

"What," Vaughn chuckled, raising his head to look at her, "Is something funny?"

"It's not funny," she ruffled her fingers through his hair, "I'm just happy. Like, so happy."

He hesitated for a second, like he thought she might be kidding, before letting his own smile envelope his features. "I know, right? Me, too."

She laughed a little again before asking, "So, where are we gonna live?"

"Eh, we'll deal with that in the morning," Vaughn sighed deeply and slid away from her, just far enough leave her but resting on his stomach between her thighs. "We've got all the time in the world to sort things out."

"Forever, right?" she said with a smile.

"Yep," he nodded and kissed her stomach.

Something in her froze at his simple, sweet gesture. A chill rose on her arms, her skin goose-pimpling under her light sweat.

My patients would love that. Knowing that their doctor still can't believe women can actually get pregnant.

A sudden wave of panic swept over her, the urge to flee, to scream out, but she kept breathing as evenly as possible. It's not the same, she told herself, he is not Danny, you are not working for Arvin Sloane, it's not the same. He knows what you are. Hell, he made you what you are.

"Syd?" Vaughn said, "You in there?" She knew from his bemused expression that he'd said something she'd failed to respond to in her inward moment.

"Yeah," she smiled lightly, "I'm just tired, that's all… Long trip."

He nodded, his chin scratchy against her belly. "I'm so tired I don't even want to move," he replied.

"So stay," she whispered, "Stay close to me." She cupped her palm around the curve of his jaw and pulled his cheek against her stomach, his whiskers prickly against the smooth, taut skin.

She lay awake long after his breath became deep and even, replaying her momentary panic, analyzing and compartmentalizing it out of existence. Years before, the panic attacks had been an unwelcome, but familiar occurrence. Over time, though, and with what seemed to her a slightly unhealthy amount of introspection, she had grown adept at shutting off the swells of emotion that threatened to reduce her to a sniveling mess of tears. She thought with disgust of the dinner party she interrupted, when Francie had announced her engagement to Charlie, by disappearing into the bedroom to dissolve in tears. Her face grew slightly hot even now, in the dark of their bedroom, to remember how Will had had to comfort her and convince her to put on a strong face and come back out to the table.

What had been so bad, she asked herself, about it? Was it the fleeting feeling of normalcy? Of domestic bliss this cocoon of safety and happiness that they'd built here?

She remembered Sark's book, lying hidden under a towel in her carry-on. Their world was right there, in his hidden message to her. Right in the next room. There was no escaping it--the realization that her sense of belonging to the realm of the normal was just as much an illusion with Vaughn as it had been with Danny.

Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes as she reluctantly let go of the last bit of the panic and let herself fall into an exhausted sleep.