Part 18

"There's really no good way to ask it, but how was the funeral?" Her blonde hair caught the sunlight as she sipped from the green and white-colored cup. The cafe down the street was a strange place to hold a therapy session, but she'd claimed they'd all been bottled up far too long the last two weeks and she'd wanted a coffee.

Vaughn's leg bounced as he sat across the table in his grey suit, his jacket slung over the chair beside him as sunglasses obscured his eyes. The large bronze coin bounced between his knuckles as he looked around the boulevard, intentionally avoiding eye contact with the psychiatrist despite the fact that she couldn't see his behind the shades.

"I didn't go. She would've hated it. You'd...you'd think the pope had died with how many people were there."

Barnett nodded having heard on the radio that an estimated 50,000 had been in attendance for the march downtown, the casket driven to a military airfield bound for Arlington. While the CIA never could claim her as an asset, the president spoke on television and announced that she had been a "steward of the American people", and had arranged for her to be laid to rest at the national cemetery.

She followed his gaze and saw piles of flowers and candles, notes and pictures around the base of a nearby lamp post - a shrine mimicking dozens of others across the city. Sydney Bristow had become America's sweetheart in just six days, and now that she was gone, the country mourned someone they had never truly known the way they always did: candle-lit vigils and memorials on street corners.

Barnett let him stew a bit, this their second required session since his agent had publicly died a week ago. "Did the field office do some kind of service? Did Jack?"

Vaughn nodded, hanging his head low. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice watery.

"I was surprised when the radio said how many had attended the march."

"A dozen channels showed her dying in 24-hour news cycles, there wasn't any avoiding it. I still can't turn on the TV."

"Has the medication helped with sleeping the last few days?" He chuckled without a smile at her sudden subject change, surprised she didn't make him expand on saying 'her dying' to deal with his feelings. He cocked a slight grin her way, reached up, and set the glasses atop his head. A heavy sigh left her lips as she saw the dark circles under his eyes.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know a lot of people have said that to you the last seven days, but...I really am. As much as I cautioned and as much as I hit you both with protocol, I know you didn't erase your feelings. And because of that, you didn't just lose an agent, so...I'm sorry."

Michael nodded, his eyes filling with tears as he replaced the dark shades. "Well, despite everything, the Alliance doesn't know we compromised their network. And...the operations we're planning now can," he sighed, "I dunno...make it worth it. That...that feels good, you know?"

The woman sent a comforting smile and agreed, the two lapsing into another bout of silence, each taking a drink of their coffee. "Tell me about Sloane."

Michael scoffed, unable to keep the scowl at bay. "He just...walked in."

"You met with him?" Vaughn nodded.

"I said I would only speak with Jack Bristow." Arvin's voice punched him in the gut, the green-eyed agent pushing the bile down and adjusting his tie before sitting across from the director of SD-6.

"Mr. Sloane, I'm Michael Vaughn-" he was interrupted.

"You're not Jack Bristow."

"I understand that you said you would only speak with Jack," Michael interrupted in turn, "but that's not going to happen. He sent me. So you can speak with me or go directly to a cell. Which would you prefer?"

Arvin scoffed and dusted at the invisible specks on the arm of his perfectly pressed suit. "I'll wait for Jack."

"You ordered the death of his daughter, so instead...you get to speak with me." Not meeting the suddenly focused and serious eyes, Michael continued as he leafed through papers he'd brought into the room. "Tell me what you came here for."

"How did he react when you said that?"

"He seemed...offended. I figured that I'd have to connect to him somehow, despite the fact that all I wanted to do was punch him in the face."

She nodded and took a couple of notes on the pad next to the cup on the table. "Not punching him was smart. Even if the only thing you two shared was knowing the Bristow's, at least you knew it would push his buttons. What did he say?"

"I gave her a chance," Sloane said in a suddenly quiet voice.

Arvin wasn't prepared for the sudden and piercing glare he received from the young agent, and for the first time he noticed the tenseness in his jaw. The man's shoulders were also tight, and Sloane quickly recognized the body language of someone that wanted to use extreme violence but was forced into utilizing words.

"She was like a daughter to me, Michael Vaughn, so I did what I could to give her a chance at escaping. Do you think it was easy? Watching - watching him hurt her? Waiting for someone to step in when I couldn't?"

The emotion in Sloane's voice made Vaughn narrow his eyes forcefully point at the hurting older man. "You don't get to talk about her with me. Ever. You get to tell me what you walked into a CIA field office to say, and that's it."

Arvin paused at the tone in the other man's voice. "We may only have one thing in common, Michael Vaughn, but that's enough for me to speak with you. I do want to say that your excitement of having me sit for years in a cell providing you with nearly unlimited information is...misplaced."

Folding his hands impatiently over the folder of papers, Vaughn regarded him with annoyed green eyes and sighed.

"You're right when you said that...it was me. That I did that to her." The man paused, his shoulders slumping. "I didn't think they would bring Flynn in when they-" Vaughn interrupted again.

"I will not repeat myself: you do not talk about her with me. If you want to give me information on the Alliance, you go right ahead, but bring her up again, and you can go straight into holding."

Arvin lifted his eyebrows, somewhat admiring the candor so deeply embedded in the young man. "I won't be going anywhere, Michael Vaughn. I do have information for you, but I'm here to make a deal."

"A deal?"

The director nodded slowly, his eyes looking sad and resolved. "It affected me more than I thought it would. I'm tired," he paused, "of a lot more than you could possibly know. I'll help you finish what Sydney and Jack were doing, but I'll only be able to do it from inside the Alliance."

"No."

"If my time as director of SD-6 is at all breached, anything you have right now or that I may give you today will be moot tomorrow. The only way you have me as an informant is if I maintain my freedom and status. You think I don't know that you have Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman?"

"If you think that I'm going to let you walk out of-"

"You were sent to talk with me, and this is me talking. You wouldn't be sitting here if you didn't know exactly who I was, and Jack wouldn't have sent you if he didn't trust you."

There was that flashing, warning anger again. "I'm here because Deputy Director Kendall determined that I had a lower chance of shooting you than Jack - though I'll be honest, not by much."

"You're too young to be Jack's handler, he'd put you through a wall."

Vaughn stood and began packing up his papers, "if you don't want to talk with me, I'll arrange for the officer to take you to holding."

"You were Sydney's, weren't you?" The green flash happened again, the tenseness in the jaw doubling as Arvin sent the young man a soft smile. "Mister Vaughn, I'm offering you the Alliance to repent for my sins. I'm seeking forgiveness. Will you not take what's on the table because I have caveats?"

Michael's hand shot across the table and hauled the man up by the front of his suit. Though the fist clutching the expensive material was shaking, it was a tight hold and Sloane felt his feet come off the floor as the edge of the table bit into the bottom of his thighs above the knee. The rage in those watery jade depths threatened to swallow him, and Arvin felt his own pain bubble to the surface. It was quickly replaced by the sudden flop sweating nervousness that preceded being violently assaulted.

Vaughn's voice was a low and deadly serious growl, "you killed the woman I love. You'll never get forgiveness from me." The door burst open, Weiss standing with his hands out in an attempt to calm the situation clearly having seen the agent snap from behind the mirrored glass.

"Vaughn," he warned, Michael realizing he'd grabbed the head of SD-6 by the proverbial scruff and was holding him awkwardly over the metal table. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to punch the old man in the face, but instead he released his hold and watched with satisfaction at the fear flickering in Sloane's eyes. The director straightened his tie and retook his seat, trying to look unaffected but failing behind his shaky hands.

"Did you meet with him again after you'd calmed down?"

Vaughn shook his head. "No, Kendall did. And despite everything he's done," he swallowed the anger, "they let him go yesterday. He's...he's sitting at his desk six blocks up the street."

"And?" Barnett prodded.

Michael frowned. "And what?"

"And she's not." She knew removing the band aid had stung, and though his eyes were hidden and she couldn't see the pooling tears, the taut lines around his mouth and the worry wrinkles of his forehead deepened. "Go home and get some rest; doctor's orders. I'll see you next week."

Jack was mid-sip into his whiskey when the door across the hall slammed closed. The rooms were surprisingly soundproof, though sudden and explosive actions were hard to tune out. Standing, the glass still fisted in his hand, he opened his door and walked across before knocking lightly.

"What?" The muffled growl was short.

"Door locked?" Jack asked.

No reply. Testing the knob with his free hand it gave, so he moved into the room. Vaughn's coat was in a heap just inside the door, the young man in the middle of the room yanking off the tie and hurling it at the wall.

"How was the meeting with Barnett?" The older man's words were slurred and he took a break in the conversation to have another sip of the amber liquid.

"Jesus, Jack, it's 11:30 in the morning. Starting a little early today, don't you think?" Wanting to but stopping himself from yanking button-up open and popping the plastic pieces across the tile, he impatiently undid them one by one before pulling the shirt down his arms. It joined the growing pile on the floor.

"My meeting with Barnett is in thirty minutes, so I thought this would help." He took another sip.

"It won't." He growled and grabbed another long-sleeved shirt and pulled it on.

"Where're you off to?"

Michael sighed. "I have a meeting with Sloane at the warehouse where I used to meet with Sydney. Because for whatever reason, Kendall thinks I can be his handler. So, my day just keeps getting better and better."

"Stop downstairs before you go. It'll help." Patting his shoulder Jack left, his drink now empty. Vaughns hands flopped down mid-attempt at tying the silk around his neck, the loose ends drooping down his chest as he faced the ceiling and sighed.

"It will help," he thought, looking at his watch. He didn't have much time, but just thinking about it made him feel better, so he added it to the list.

Grabbing a new coat and shrugging it on, he left the room and closed the door behind him. Jack's entrance was open and Michael took a moment to lean on the frame, the elder seated and simply staring at the blank wall ahead.

"I spent eighteen months with you and Sydney trying to keep Sloane in the dark, and now...now I'm off to brief him with a countermission."

Jack sighed, "you and I don't exactly have a neutral point of view when it comes to Arvin Sloane, but...I think that's why you were assigned. If we do this right, it'll fix everything."

"Not everything," Vaughn whispered, his eyes leaving and focusing on his shoes.

Sighing, Jack leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "No...not everything. But enough. Today will be the hardest day. After that," he paused and gestured, less than sober, with his hand in the air, "tomorrow...the next meeting will be...easier."

"You're not eloquent when you're drunk," Vaughn grinned, Jack happy to see his mood lighten.

"Before you go," lowering to a whisper, Jack maneuvered until his elbows rested on his knees as he leaned forward in the office chair. "How...how did you talk with Barnett?"

Michael thought for a moment, "the hurt is still there, Jack."

The man shook his head. "How did you pretend to be crippled by the worst thing that could ever happen?" Jack hadn't planned on Vaughn being his confidant the last few weeks, someone he'd share anything with, but they'd surprised each other by growing closer rather than drifting apart. Each sought advice from the other on a daily basis.

"The room...the chair...her screams." He saw the darkening of the steel-blue eyes and the sudden slump of the father's shoulders. Pointing, "right there. It's...it's not hard to go back there, Jack. I wish it was. Would it be easier to tell her? Is she going to tell anyone else? Yes to the first, probably no to the second, but it doesn't leave that floor for so many reasons. So...go back to that place and...let her dig you out. The tears will be genuine and you'll feel like shit before, during, and after. Then go downstairs."

Patting the frame Vaughn pushed away and headed down the hall, Jack's voice calling out loudly to echo in the emptiness, "try not to kill him at the first meet, son."

Michael chuckled in the brightly lit, white hallway. It still shocked him that the intimidating Jack Bristow occasionally called him son, usually just to get a reaction or drive home an important point - today, the latter. "If you never see me again, the warehouse is a murder scene and I'll write you from Mexico."

The father's laugh followed him into the elevator.

The room was quiet, though after eight days he admitted that he no longer heard the beeping machines and sucking air. The young nurse was fidgeting with the wrap around the patient's hand and wrist, the rows of stitches where surgery had taken place the day before a stark contrast against the pale skin. Pins had been implanted along each finger as well as the radius and ulna, the doctor confident that the bones would heal straight with this extra step and make physical therapy at a later date an easier process.

"You do have work, right? Like...an important job?" The young woman's mock scolding voice put a smile on his face.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm on my way out. How are things?"

"Well, my boyfriend broke up with me via text an hour ago since I've spent the last eight days living in a bunker and not making any contact with him, so I'm available if that's what you're asking," she missed his wince as she secured the loose gauze wrap back in place, Vaughn moving to the other side of the bed and leaning in to press a kiss to the unconscious woman's forehead.

"You're a high school intern and I'm not on the market," he mumbled, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest, still expecting an update.

"I'm twenty-six and have two master's degrees in nursing and physical therapy," she corrected.

"God, really? Twenty-six?"

"You know," she growled and left off her threat, the two enjoying barbs back and forth throughout the day and night. It passed the time and kept them entertained. She picked up the first of many syringes from a rolling tray and injected it into the I.V. drip to administer the medication. Looking up, she spotted the agent's green eyes diverted to the bed and not paying attention to much else.

"She'll be okay," she reassured him again, same as she'd said to the few others that had been there that morning, the endless stream of the same five or six visitors keeping her company during her shifts.

"Anything new?" His usual question.

"No. It was the same as when you were here two hours ago. Doc says at least a month, and it's been eight days. She isn't gonna wake up just because you want her to," she finished what she was doing and met his eyes over the prone patient, a sassy smirk tilting her lips. "Go do important government things," she ordered, pointing at the door.

"Yes, ma'am," he laughed, leaning in to brush another kiss against the warm, pale forehead before turning to leave the room.

"I know I can't compete with comatose Wonder Woman here, but I'm a great catch," her voice called out as he hit the doorway.

"I'll tell the guys upstairs," Vaughn laughed as he left, the door closing softly behind him.