A/N: It's been a wile ride, friends! Thanks for going with me.

Part 35: Finale

Tokyo - Present Day

The clink of the metal clasps at her waist echoed off the cement of the rooftop as blaring horns bounced up the skyscraper walls. The warm, moist air followed the edges of the buildings and tossed her brown hair into her face, so she bundled it up into a tight ponytail. Checking the straps on the mostly empty backpack, she pulled at the line that was connected to the belt harness, turned her back to the city, and hopped off the ledge.

Falling a few feet, she squeezed the hand brake a bit, but her stomach jumped and adrenaline spiked as she whizzed down the side of the skyscraper, her partner's voice crackling into her ear. "Slow down that descent, Evil Knievel."

She laughed as the sound of wind rushed through the com. "You're such a grandma, James. That's why you're in the van."

"You're coming up on 47."

"Copy that," she said through a dimpled smile as she slowed to a stop outside of the designated window. "I'm not going to forgive Marshall if this ring cuts off my finger."

The male voice laughed, "it probably won't but just in case, maybe...pick your least favorite finger?"

"That's comforting." Grumbling, she slipped it from her middle finger to her ring on her right hand. Being a lefty, something she'd inherited from her father, if she did lose a finger, it wouldn't hamper her ability to signal while getting cut off in traffic or write with a pen.

The metal was cool as it slid past her knuckle, and she could feel the button on the inside with her thumb. Taking a calming breath, she pushed it and saw the electric blade fire to life pointing away from her fist. The electric energy was supposed to heat the metal to slice through the glass, and in the tech office, it did exactly that. She had her doubts that a controlled test in an airconditioned office was a decent simulation for 47 stories up on the side of a building at night in Tokyo.

As if the window was butter, the knife-ring carved in, and the suction cup she stuck roughly to the center caught the weight of the glass before it fell, all as intended. One of these days she wouldn't doubt the C.I.A.'s king of tech.

Sliding it inside the office, the shape hitting the carpet with a dull thud, she lifted and pointed her legs, curling them through the hole to pull in the rest of her body. Once her feet were on stable ground, she unclipped the harness and let it dangle back outside.

"I'm in."

"Alright, Phoenix, hook me into that computer and you find the safe. We'll be in and out with none the wiser."

"Why do you have to jinx everything?"

Slipping the backpack off one shoulder, she pulled out a palm-sized device. Holding the button as instructed, the tiny beep and green light indicated it was ready to transmit. Setting it on top of the tower, nothing happened.

"You getting a signal?"

"No. Did you push the button?"

"Yes. Of all the things I'm supposed to do, that's the easiest. I pushed the button."

"Uhhhhhh, hold on a sec."

Clicking on a small flashlight in her palm, she pointed it at the computer. "The green light's on, it should be connecting to the wireless through the firewall."

"Yes, I know. I was also in the briefing."

She sighed. "Do you need me to hook in using the USB backup?" She almost repeated the ask as the silent response took more time than her patience gifted.

"Oh," he said in a low and quiet tone.

"Oh as in...duh?"

"Isabelle-" he started and then stopped, though he wore a smile she couldn't see but could hear through his voice. "It's at forty percent."

"Did you forget to turn on the monitor?"

"No," he said, far too quickly and with a higher defensive tone.

Rolling her eyes, "'kay." She clicked off the light and moved farther into the office, a large, towering, steel safe off in the corner. "I've got eyes on the safe; I'm going to hook in and crack it open."

"Copy."

Sticking the flashlight to her magnetic wristband and pointing it down, she removed the cone-shaped hunk of metal from the bag. A small sigh left her lips as she recalled Marshall's excitement when he introduced her to the device.

"Your mom totally rocked this on a mission back in the day. Since we're, you know, looking at a very similar kind of safe," he paused with a cackle and shrug of his shoulders, "why reinvent the wheel?"

Pushing down her desire to roll her eyes at yet another mention of the Los Angeles Joint Task Force offices' best agent, whose shadow she found herself constantly inside, she merely sent a kind smile and folded her hands while listening.

"So you just...you put this end over the wheel, and it'll activate a magnetic ring to hold it in place. It'll spin on its own and find the combination in a few seconds. Click in the, you see the...the ring thingy at the top? When it unlocks, it'll disengage the magnets. Could you, you know, bring it back?" He paused, clutching the device to his chest, "it just...there's a lot of history here...for me." Another pause, "I miss your mom, so...memories."

"I'll bring it back, Marshall."

Despite being over twenty years old, it worked like new. In a matter of fifteen seconds, which she only knew because she counted, the safe unlocked with a click.

"Safe's op-" an ear-ringing alarm screamed the moment she turned the handle with a click and pulled the heavy door open, the gasp sucked from her throat and it felt like her heart and stomach switched places. "Shit!"

Los Angeles - Eight Months Earlier

"I'm bringing you into this office because I think it's the best place for you to shine at this point in your career, but also because your test scores indicate that you're ready to be here."

Isabelle resisted the urge to fidget back and forth between the weight on her right to her left feet and maintained a perfect stoic calm, though it was easy to see the excitement she exuded.

"Thank you, Uncle Dix-" she stopped quickly, "Director Dixon."

The man laughed in response and pointed to the chair in front of the desk, the young woman taking it quickly. "There are going to be times when I'm talking to you as Uncle Dixon, and there will be times where I'll be the hard-assed director, and you'll know which is which. First, Uncle Dixon speaking, have you told your parents?"

The look on her face was all he needed, and much as he'd thought, his close relationship with her that had been maintained her whole life left her easy for him to read. "Isabelle…"

"I know...I - I know. I will, just...they spent so much time telling me cool stories and then in the same breath to not follow in their footsteps, and...that's not fair. Jumping off a building and parachuting onto a train sounds awesome. I know it'll be different and probably not as exciting, but, I feel like I'm supposed to be here."

Dixon smiled. "God...you're just like her." What he hadn't prepared for was the eye-roll. "What was that look?"

Marcus could tell she was choosing her words carefully, her studious green eyes focused on his desk instead of his curious face. "Everything the last two weeks has been 'I knew your mom', or, 'you have a lot to live up to'," she groused. "I can't do this job if I have to be my mom. I...feel like I have to do what she did for people to even notice me."

"Izzy, if you find yourself on the path your mom was on, come to me so we can fix it as fast as humanly possible. Try your hardest to not take her path. She didn't get to choose anything about her job, and it took everything from her. I won't let that happen with you."

The girl shrugged, but couldn't hold back her self-conscious ticks. The ends of her long-sleeved shirt were tugged down and folded into her palms, her fingers playing with the hem of both, and she nervously chewed at her bottom lip with a furrowed brow while thinking.

"Can...can I ask that people stop comparing us? Can you do that?"

"Why do you think that being compared to your mom is a bad thing?"

The huff of air she released acted as the walls of a broken dam, and he heard the frustration and anger behind her words as she talked. "Every single day I walk in here and am reminded that I'm a legacy kid. Everything I do is compared to what she did - what they did, and I can't live up to that. I'm so excited, Dixon, but every one of those moments just sucks that excitement right out of me. I know some of it was hard for her, I know it was hard for my dad and this office, but I just want to get away from that, you know? I want to be my own agent when the time comes, and I'm constantly reminded that unless I be like my mom, I'm…" she paused trying to find the right word, "less."

Dixon stayed quiet, his brain lost in memory as well as understanding. A bit of guilt bubbled up to the surface as he recalled many of the times he had compared Isabelle Vaughn with Sydney Bristow, and that guilt made him lean back in his chair and fold his hands over his stomach.

"Did you ever watch any of it?"

The daughter was taken back and confused, and it showed on every inch of her face. "Of what?"

"You said that you know things were hard for her, but did you ever watch any of the footage? Do you really know what happened?"

Realization dawned and she dropped her gaze to her lap. "Yeah, I know most of what happened; no, I've never watched any of it. It was forbidden until I was an adult anyway, but the more I thought about watching anything the more I realized that I don't want to."

Marcus nodded. "Neither did I. I avoided it for a few days and just got briefing notes."

"Look," she started, but his hand rose and stopped her.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said quietly, though wasn't exactly sure why he was the one apologizing.

"I'm not sorry for comparing you to your mom, just to clarify, but I understand why you're asking what you're asking. I just want to be honest with you."

He unfolded his hands and slowly stood, making his way over to the row of file cabinets on the other side of the office. "Your mom's entry test score was one of the highest this office had ever seen. Even at SD-6, they had the same test. Well, a reasonable facsimile." Grabbing a stack of files he moved back to the desk, this time circling around to sit next to the nervous young upstart. "If anyone asks, I didn't give you any of this, and we never had this conversation."

She rolled her eyes a bit but took the single folder he offered into her hands. The label on the tab read Vaughn, Isabelle. Opening it, she found a stapled copy of her entrance exam, physical, and the results of the field training she'd done a few weeks prior.

"What is this?"

"That's you. That's your whole file."

Pointing to the thick stack still on his lap, "what's that?"

"This is your mom's. Well...all the important stuff." Reaching into the top, the folder worn and ragged at the edges, he pulled out a few sheets stapled together and passed them her way.

It was nearly the same entry test, though Sydney's copy was less crisp. Her eyes went wide at the analysis stamped at the top. "I...I got a higher score."

"By one point."

"Holy shit," she said quietly, Dixon laughing.

"Most of the people here only know one thing about your mom, and that's the story he ended up giving the world. All they know about her is that she got caught and tortured, but you and I both know that isn't who she is." He held the stack reverently. "Maybe...maybe some of them read her file because of everything that happened and that impressed them. Maybe some of them were here that week or knew someone that was. Maybe they knew that we did everything we could to find her only to come up short, so their admiration is born from guilt."

"Why is everyone so fixated on that one moment? It was one moment...one thing. It's done. Why can't people just let it go?" It had been a question she'd wanted to ask for years but hadn't had the resource, or the guts, to let it out.

Even now, the hurt that passed Dixon's face took her back a step into regret, "I'm sorry, that's...not what I meant."

He recovered with a tight smile, though it didn't crinkle his eyes as she was accustomed to seeing. "You might look like her and think like her, but you talk like your dad. That's something I've always thought was so fascinating about you, Izzy. You...you're wholly and completely a Bristow but you're tethered to the ground because you're a Vaughn. Sometimes, not often, she pours out of you just...like...that."

"Come on, don't. I already said I hate that," she growled, tossing the files back onto his lap.

"What you just said proves that you haven't watched any of the footage."

Her ire was rising. "I already said I hadn't."

Dixon shifted the folders on his lap, one hand reaching out and setting Isabelle's on the desk to not get mixed up in the rest.

"How honest do you want me to be right now?" His question was quiet and serious.

"I have no idea how to answer that because I don't know what information you're offering."

"You asked 'why can't people just get over it', and I want to know how honest you want me to be. I'm one of those people who can't."

She sighed, raising and then dropping her hands. "It's different with you, unc. You...you know her. People out there," she gestured to the office, "and at the damn grocery store? They don't know her, yet it's always the first thing that anyone brings up when they realize who I am."

His pointed stare ended her rant. "How...honest?"

Lifting his hand, he held a single folder, about an inch thick, the papers inside clipped and stapled haphazardly throughout the stack from what she could see.

"Go for it."

He knew she was answering via frustration - another Bristow trait burying deep the Vaughn rationale as she led with her heart instead of her head.

"You're sure?"

She wanted to hit him, and her flashing green eyes must have indicated that for her.

Marcus nodded, and it was as if a dark shroud dropped down over his face. His eyes drooped a bit, the wrinkles beginning to deepen on his cheeks around his mouth. Under and around, his eyes seemed more pronounced and his shoulders slumped below the crisp white button-up.

"It wasn't fair, you know. Everything about our lives back then was secrecy. Every...action, and trip, and moment when you got home from work. I won't lie that it was easier for me than it was for her, because when she learned the truth, all of that doubled. Hell...her secrets had secrets, and there was just this...constant worry that didn't leave her face for months. Those months turned into a year, one year turned into almost two, and I kept seeing things in her change." He paused as a ghost of a smile passed his lips.

"She was still Sydney, but she...wasn't. Truth changes people, no matter how you learn it, and the truth of everything about your mother was given, without her permission, to the world. In an instant...she was the most famous person on the planet, and that wasn't fair. She'd done everything she could to keep secret after secret hidden, and here was this guy on the internet with unlimited access to millions of people giving it all away."

"For six days he dragged whatever he could out of her. Information, tears...blood - and we all had to sit and watch. Every newscast, from CNN to local, focused on her. It was inescapable and it was horrible. What they were able to show on live t.v. would have turned your stomach, let alone what was shown on the website itself. Even if you had no idea who the person was it was hard to see, but it was worse for us because we knew her. We knew everything and still had to watch."

She felt the pressure of emotion at the back of her throat, sadness sharing room with fear. The sadness was always there. Since she'd learned about the event back in eighth grade, that sadness was buried as a seed in her heart and grew from the knowledge that someone she loved with every ounce of her soul had gone through that kind of experience. The fear was new. The fear stemmed from the fact that Isabelle's culminating knowledge of the end of her mom's work with the C.I.A. was where Dixon was starting with his truth. She held back the tears that pooled in watery emerald eyes trying to corral her feelings behind a thoughtful partition.

"She endured six days of torture, Isabelle. Six days. Stabbed, beaten, shocked, interrogated, sleep-deprived...she took it and didn't give up one...single...piece...of useful intelligence. She died for this job in front of the whole world. After everything we'd seen...everything he'd done...we watched her die."

That was news to her and he saw the shift in her demeanor and face. "I don't understand..."

He held out another folder and her hands shook this time when she took it from him. Lifting the top slowly, the facade she'd been holding together crumbled and the tears fell in hot streams down her cheeks. Battered and bloody, the woman that had raised her so warmly sat bound in a fixed metal chair above a drain puddled with blood, head lolling with her chin against her chest, pale and lifeless.

Nausea bubbled up from her stomach and she quickly closed the file and handed it back, dropping it to the stack before he could take it as if the paper burned her skin.

Dixon nodded. "Being compared to her because of your drive, ambition, brown hair, dimples...it all comes from a place of good, kiddo. Don't see it as bad, see it for what it is: you are the legacy kid. You have to live up to the hype of someone that died for this job, just like your dad. His father was a great agent, and he died, and you are having to navigate that path the same way your father did thirty years ago."

She hadn't thought of that. In the hope of keeping her new profession a secret from her parents, the worry of scolding and disappointment she wasn't prepared to incur, she forced her story into an elaborate hoax of 'law practice'. She hadn't realized how hard things were becoming - could become. Distancing herself from the two people most prominent in her life, two people she trusted the most in the world, was eating away at her bit by bit.

"If you saw it, you couldn't let it go, that's just the way of things. Don't...okay, don't watch it. Ever. Trust me, the picture is bad enough, and your mom will kick my ass up and down the street for even letting you see it." He set the stack on the desk and scooted the chair closer, his hands held out waiting for her to accept his offering. "I'll tell you what," he left off.

Sliding her small fingers into his calloused palms, "what?"

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

Relief washed through her soul and she nodded before throwing her arms around his neck and yanking him into a tight hug. "Thank you, Uncle Dixon," she sniffled.

Pulling back, he cupped her cheek and brushed at a stray tear, "if you ever need to have a...meltdown, you come to me. We can fix anything, I promise."

"Okay," she sniffled, her eyes a shade darker than when she'd entered.

"Listen, Izzy, I am sorry for not giving you your own space. I'll admit that you standing here takes me back to meeting Sydney for the first time at SD-6, and...that's on me. I shouldn't be putting that on you. Keep in mind, however, that I expect this agent," he said, emphasis added as he held up her file with a shake, "to be the best. I'll hold your feet to the fire if she isn't."

"Okay."

"What was that?"

She chuckled past the lump in her throat. "Yes, sir."

"Tell your parents," he encouraged before gesturing to the door.

She turned to leave, though still seemed unsettled, and with a reminiscent sigh, Marcus watched her go.

Tokyo - Present Day

Flinging open the door, she looked into the safe, thankful that the only thing housed inside was what she'd been sent to retrieve. The blaring of the alarm was distracting, but she was beginning to tune it out.

"Security is on its way, you gotta bail," James said in a hurried voice, the shrill ringing tone stabbing into his ear through the comm.

"No, I have time. I can do this."

"Isabe-"

"I can do it!"

Grabbing the plastic carrying case, more a fat briefcase than anything, she flipped the lid open and spotted the metal fixture surrounded by foam-padding. Surrounding the metallic object were six motherboards underneath a transparent, locked piece of plexiglass. Twisting her torso, the empty backpack spun around to her front and, with a zip, she shoved the case inside. A pounding slam against the office door made her jump and lose her grip, the heavy pack landing hard atop her foot. Groaning in frustration before hauling it back over her shoulders, she cinched it tightly with a clip that went across her chest.

Once it was secure, she reached up to free the plastic-ended ripcord from the front pocket of the vest and ran full-tilt toward the opening in the window. A few feet from her destination, she skidded to a stop.

"Shit!"

Jame's concerned voice crackled into her ear. "What?"

Turning back, her flashing green eyes looked straight to the cone-shaped device still magnetized to the safe door. "Marshall's cone...safe-cracking thingy!"

"It's a piece of tech, Isabelle. Take the exit. Now!"

She could hear the hurried fingertips of the man outside furiously inputting the security code to unlock the door, and as she made it back to the safe, said door swung wide as she clicked the button to disengage the magnets. The slam of the main door against the wall of the office pulled her gaze, and the heavy device fell from her hand to land with a thud atop her already sore foot.

Though the only light that lit the room was that of the exit sign above him, the outer hallway of the offices was bright making the guard with his weapon drawn a perfect silhouette. In reaction, she tucked herself into the corner beside the safe, grabbed the handle of the safe door, and pulled it in front of her as the first shot fill the room with a sharp bang.

Los Angeles - Six Months Earlier

The pacing definitely wasn't helping, but she couldn't stop the restlessness in her legs. While the apartment wasn't big, she had likely walked it from end to end and side to side fifty times since she'd gotten home from Francie's restaurant.

"You don't need to. You shouldn't," she scolded out loud, flopping onto the couch and turning on the flat-screen for distraction.

Seconds later, "this isn't working".

Two months ago she'd been shown the picture. She didn't blame Dixon, but it was the first image of her mother's past life that she'd seen outside of Sydney's C.I.A. identification badge, and he was right when saying that if you'd seen it you couldn't let it go. Still, for two months she'd suppressed it and buried herself into training and seminars, shooting and MMA practice almost daily, and she was only a few weeks away from her final field test.

All the while, Isabelle had been feeding her parents the fascinating details of the new law firm she was working for in L.A., and that though it was an entry-level position, she was learning quickly despite the long hours. Graduation was looming, and then in just over four months, she'd be starting again in an attempt to get her master's. This time in criminal forensics as she wasn't sure if she was going to stick with a lawyer or a criminologist quite yet.

At least...that's what she'd told them.

With a near completed BS in political science and minors in Arabic, German, and Mandarin, she found herself wondering how much longer she could float the lie downstream before it hit the rapids.

Lawyers don't speak multiple languages or get advanced degrees in criminology or forensics, but Operations Officers at the Central Intelligence Agency sure could, and she got lost in another bout of 'do I or don't I'. Hopping off the couch, she paced the room a few more times.

That damn picture was in her mind almost as much as the conversation that had happened a few hours earlier. The jerk that her friend Sara was dating had been all too happy to bring up the fact that, "the sick footage of Bristow kicking that dude's ass after he'd fucked her up" was still his favorite clip on the internet. Once he'd learned that Isabelle was the daughter of one of the most famous, yet forgotten until someone sparked a memory, people around, she couldn't escape him the rest of the night.

Question after question. Though she didn't know any of the answers and had said that time and time again, he didn't believe that she'd never watched any of it and pushed anyway. To her credit, Sara tried her best to curb his curiosity, but he'd been drinking pretty hard and stopping a twenty-something's runaway mouth was nearly impossible.

"There's no way you didn't see nothin', c'mon. You've got all the inside information! How badass do the scars look?"

She'd grown up with a knowledge of the scars dotting her mother's arms and legs her whole life, not to mention the broken arm she said she'd gotten 'before Isabelle was born'. Had that been part of the whole thing? Had that happened during those six days, as Uncle Dixon had called them?

She genuinely didn't know and it had been eating at her. How much of what her parents had told her was fact? How much was fiction to lighten the horrible load of said facts?

'You have nothing to gain by watching even a second, and you know that. If you really want to know, all you have to do is ask.' She could hear the rational advice in her head, her dad's voice, and knew it was true.

'If you ask, it'll make it seem like you were too scared to just look on your own.' Self-doubt, right on cue.

'Asking doesn't mean you're weak, Isabelle.'

'Who thinks we're weak?'

With a huff, she moved to the computer chair and her hands began to lift the lid of the laptop. Immediately slowing it as the bubble of nervousness popped in her stomach and extended to her shaking hands, she flopped back in the seat and ran the sweaty palms over her face with a groan.

"Fuck it," she muttered, lifting the top and booting it up.

...

Tokyo - Present Day

With her fist clutching the handle like a lifeline, the steel braced against the length of her arm, the feeling of the three bullets slamming into the thick metal vibrated through skin and muscle and into her bones, migrating up and rattling her teeth. Thankfully, her split-second calculation had paid off, and the bullets stopped with no chance at punching through.

The man yelled in Japanese, Isabelle only understanding two or three of the words as his language wasn't one in which she was becoming fluent, but the tone she did understand and he was getting louder. She knew this meant he was walking toward her hiding spot.

Leaning against the wall with her back, she lifted her leg and pressed the flat of her foot against the door. The moment the man's fingers wrapped around the side, she kicked as hard as her toned, runner's legs could kick. With a panging thock, the door slammed into the man's outstretched arms and his leaning torso, and his grunt of pain made her wince as she imagined what it felt like to have half a ton of metal come suddenly screaming into your face.

The important thing was the clatter of the gun as it hit the carpeted floor. Springing out from behind the door she realized all too late that the guard wasn't as stunned as she'd assumed, and the fist he threw caught her in the jaw. It wasn't a hit that was hard enough to knock her out, but it did ring her bell a bit as a brief flash of stars danced at the edge of her vision.

A year of training and muscle memory kicked in, and the second punch was caught and redirected. With a sweep of her leg into his stomach, she knocked the air from his lungs and folded him at the waist to the floor. Another silhouette appeared at the doorway, arms held out with the pistol between his hands. This time, she heeded the growled orders of her partner, reached down to pick up the cone-shaped device, and bolted toward the window.

With a jump, hoping that a limb or the backpack wouldn't snag on the top or bottom of the oblong cutout in the glass, she dove through the hole in the window as her fist closed around the plastic knob she'd readied earlier. Pulling the cord once clear as gravity dragged her down, the outer compartment of the backpack burst away as a parachute hidden in the lining unfurled. With a jerk, the chute caught the rising air, and the metal tech tool slipped from her fingers. With another curse, she grabbed the strings to guide her descent as she tried to see the trajectory of the dropped device, though that proved futile at this height with her and the contraption falling at different speeds.

Landing on the road below, she spotted a sedan with a crumple in the top marred by a punctured hole that was parked on the quiet street beside the building. Cutting loose the chute, she tried the door and found it unlocked. Marshall's device was sitting in the front seat looking squashed on one side and definitely worse for wear, but still intact. Grabbing it as sirens closed in on her position, she tucked it under her arm and bolted down the road toward the alley where she knew to meet her ride.

Los Angeles - Six Months Earlier

Two hours after searching and pressing play, she was a broken heap curled into herself on the chair, thighs hugged against her chest hiding her face as she sobbed. She didn't have her mother's photographic memory, but it was aggressively eidetic. Though she'd closed her eyes, she couldn't unsee the tiny knife piercing the skin, the punches that split already bleeding lips and cheekbones. She also couldn't unhear the cocky British voice that taunted over and over, and the last gasping breaths desperately sucked into oxygen-starved lungs at the end.

Her mom had died; Dixon had been right.

'Of course he was right...he was there.' Right on cue, her own growling, doubt-filled voice punched her already tender heart.

The video was still playing, and before she could reach out and slam it closed, "turn it off," in a weak, scared, and hurt voice echoed through the speaker before the device shut down.

'I gotta get out...go for a drive and clear my head.'

Long drives along the coast always calmed her down. She assumed it was because she lived a stone's throw from the beach, the waves and warm sand a solace along with the reflection of the moon with its millions of starry friends.

So she drove. The lowered windows blew whatever strands had escaped from the quickly pulled together bun and tried to dry tears on her cheeks as plenty more renewed the trails.

She drove in a fog until she recognized the familiar gate leading to the secluded beach house. From what she could see all the lights were off, which made sense with the time reading around midnight on the dash. Fresh tears trekked down her cheeks as she grabbed the cell from her purse on the passenger seat, typing in hopes that someone would answer.

Me: you awake?

Isabelle held her breath for the entirety of the forty seconds it took before the phone vibrated with a ding in her palm.

Mom: always. What's up?

Me: bad day…

Almost instantly, a reply.

Mom: come stay at the house. The boys are upstate for a hockey tournament. Girls weekend?

Me: k

Reaching out and punching in this month's code, the gate rolled open. As she drove up to the house, her phone sounded again.

Mom: you can always come in, sweetie. You don't have to ask.

The garage door was open and she saw the living room lights come to life. The SUV was gone so she pulled into the open spot and closed the garage behind her. Wiping at her cheeks, she tossed the phone into her purse and left it on the seat before climbing out.

Isabelle knew she was going to break the moment she saw the concerned brown eyes and heard the soft, motherly voice, but she also knew there was nothing to be done about that fact. Her heart was telling her that she had to be here - her soul needed to know that her mother was alright after everything she'd foolishly watched that evening.

Her legs felt heavy, the flip flops slapping against the bottom of her feet as she slowly made her way toward the propped open door.

"What happened, Izzy?"

Her mom didn't look any different than the last time she'd seen her nearly a week ago, though Sydney had obviously been in bed as the long, finger-brushed hair swept to one side of her neck showed. The camisole clung to her waist, Isabelle's a match only a different color. Despite the serious concern on her face, Sydney couldn't help the small smile at the bright blue pajama pants, a size too large, that her daughter wore low on her hips, yellow rubber duckies printed in an obnoxious pattern across both legs.

"You died," Isabelle sobbed, her arms hanging low as fat tears plopped on her cheeks. "You never told me that."

The brokenness of her daughter and the sudden nervous energy was a one-two punch in her chest made of raw emotion. Being surprised by the subject always prompted a visceral reaction, and today was no different. With all of that hitting her at once, the mother hung her head with a wince trying to find the right thing to say.

"It...that's not as easy to say as you think," Sydney spoke quietly as she took the few steps separating them to pull her daughter into a tight hug. "Everything's okay, sweetie."

As expected, the soft tone removed the tourniquet from her feelings, and the angst she'd tried to keep at bay came pouring out. Isabelle was a half-inch taller than her mother yet she still folded into her arms like a little girl, her tears hitting Sydney's shoulder.

The strong hug wasn't released for several long moments, though Isabelle wasn't looking to pull away. Doing what she'd done almost daily as a little girl, she began sobbing and talking at the same time in explanation.

"I'm so stupid!"

Rocking a bit back and forth, Sydney shook her head. "Shh, no, sweetie. Everything's okay."

"I didn't...you-" shuddering gasp followed by a sob, "he killed you."

Her mother pulled back, cupping the red and swollen, tear-stained cheeks and using the pads of her thumbs to wipe the never-ending wetness away. "It's okay. Come on," she urged, her hands moving to Isabelle's arms and turning her toward the couch in the living room.

Pressing the sniffling and distraught young woman onto the cushion, Isabelle regarded the coffee table covered in piles of grading her mother had been doing earlier sitting next to a glass of wine abandoned with one mouthful left at the bottom.

Sydney pushed the wounded girl on her side against the comfortable cushions and climbed in behind her. Wrapping around her tight like when she was a little girl, the other arm propped her head to look down at the tumultuous cascade of emotions on her daughter's face. Isabelle clutched the arm around her middle, her fingers finding the gentle divot of the scar along Sydney's forearm, and a fresh wave of tears rolled across the bridge of her nose into the end pillow along with a shoulder-wracking sob.

The mother nodded and leaned in to press a kiss to her temple. "You are so much like your dad, I honestly thought the curiosity would never pull you hard enough to look."

Isabelle's response was to tighten her hold and burrow backward into the warmth and comfort.

"We did this with your brother a few years ago because he's...too much like me."

"How," sniffle, "how did he take it? He never told me that he," sniffle, "he knew."

Sydney smiled. "He slept with us two nights in a row and wouldn't let me out of his sight for a week."

Isabelle nodded. "A week sounds about right. How old was he?" She squeezed the arm again.

"Fourteen."

A few more minutes passed as they lay there, the clock on the far wall timing their heartbeats.

"Why, bean?"

It was rare that her parents used the beloved childhood nickname. Once the kids in middle school had gotten a hold of it, she'd demanded they never call her 'bean' again. Both reluctantly accepted, though they used it at certain times to drive home the fact that no matter how old she got, she was their baby.

"I don't wanna talk," she mumbled in a scratchy and strangled voice, Sydney acquiescing and pressing another kiss to Isabelle's hair before resting with her cheek against her temple.

Swirling thoughts ebbed and flowed through each mind like the waves beyond the window before them. The television was off and facing the main couch, this other sofa the best spot in the living room aside from standing at the windows to look out at the beach. Isabelle was adrift in a sea of both comfort and tragedy, and though she knew everything was fine, she wasn't able to get past the feeling of losing her mother. That fear and the deep, full well of sadness was a weight that was crushing her heart into her stomach.

It was Sydney who spoke first.

"I should have told you everything when you were old enough."

To her surprise, Isabelle pushed away and sat up, Sydney following suit. Reaching and grabbing the abandoned glass of wine, the younger tipped it into her mouth with a shuddering sigh.

"Got any more?"

The insecurity, fear, sadness, and love that shone in those green eyes made the ache in Sydney's heart pang against her ribs. Regret was an emotion she rarely entertained these days, but the last thirty minutes had hit her with at least three lethal doses.

"Next best thing." Cupping the girl's chin and leaning in to press a motherly kiss to her forehead, she took the glass and moved into the kitchen.

Isabelle found herself spinning sideways to sit with her chin propped on the back to keep her mother in view the whole time, the mere feet of separation feeling as if they were miles. Rolling her eyes when she bypassed the wine rack and set the glass in the sink, the freezer opened and a gallon of ice cream hit the counter. The daughter loosed a heavy sigh at the tinkling sound of spoons clinking together before Sydney returned, sat on the floor, and set everything on the coffee table pushing the classwork aside.

"This is...this is not wine, Mom."

With a laugh, "well, wine is a depressant, and that doesn't seem to be what you need right now."

Wiping at her cheeks, and despite her complaint, Isabelle flopped from the couch to the carpet with a huff and used her spoon to poke at the hard top of the half-eaten, coffee-flavored treat. Though she hadn't wanted any before, she now wanted some more than anything. Her soul regarded needing to wait for it to melt a bit before drowning her sorrows in sugar and cream a tragedy.

The pair lapsed into another bout of silence, Isabelle sorting out her brain and Sydney giving her space while also trying to get her own emotions into check. This wasn't an easy subject even all these years later, but everything was compounded if she had zero time to prepare.

"When we were at the cabin for Christmas in eighth grade, and I'd caught you talking to Dad about everything," Isabelle paused as her eyes darted around in an attempt to not look into what she knew would be an open and honest brown stare, "knowing what I know now...you didn't tell me anything."

Sydney sighed and found herself looking at the bright yellow ducky on the lump of the girl's knee as she collected the right words for both the situation and how she was feeling. "There's no easy way to tell that to your kid. You were thirteen-"

"That's," her tone turned from sad to frustrated, "that's not an excuse. Mom, you were tortured to death! I shouldn't have learned that truth from fucking YouTube."

Turbulent brown met green. "How, Isabelle? What words could I have said that would have made that knowledge easier then? Or now?"

Sydney hadn't prepared for the tight shake that caused a few more loose strands of matching coffee-colored hair around Isabelle's neck. "But that's not fair. You shouldn't have made that choice for me."

"You can't blame us for trying to spare you from that heartache, sweetheart, that's literally our job."

The Vaughn rationality slunk forward into her consciousness, Isabelle realizing that she wasn't angry, though you couldn't tell that fact by the tone of her voice.

"I'm not...mad, Mom," the whimper in her voice was returning along with the pressure of the emotional bubble at the back of her throat, "I'm...sad."

Reaching out, Sydney squeezed her hand and held fast. "I get it."

"Can...can I ask you questions?"

Sydney wanted desperately to say no, but she couldn't. The full day in the lecture hall where she played Q and A with her classes took hours of mental preparation and a morning of gentle love to remind her that the room...that room...was so very far away. This moment was impromptu and terrifying. She failed as she tried not to let that internal dilemma show on her face, her days of instant compartmentalization long behind her.

Isabelle saw every emotion and memory flash behind the dulling brown eyes in the few seconds before the wall was constructed. Sydney was an expert at controlling her emotions, but Isabelle recognized that right now, it didn't matter how many years had passed - the pain and fear from the time spent in that situation was always there, hiding just beneath the surface. Never would she have thought her mother's strength to be a thin veneer, but a lot had happened in her mind since that damn picture.

"The truth changes you, no matter how you get it," Dixon's words rang in her mind. Despite not really understanding what that meant the months ago that wisdom had been imparted, she did now.

"Do...do you have any regrets?"

The breath Sydney released showed how nervous she'd been about the impending query, and Isabelle realized that as terrified as her mother had been, she was going to see it through.

Wiping at the sudden wetness on her cheeks and letting out a relieved chuckle, "I mean...everyone has regrets. Regrets now? Then? Before?"

"You just...you've always been so strong, and I...after living through all that I'm not sure if I'd have any. Regrets, that is."

Sydney gave a dimpled smile and pulled back to fold her hands into her lap. Deciding on full honesty, she nodded and spoke.

"Not getting a chance to say goodbye to - to your dad, your grandpa...I'll always know what that feels like. That regret will always be there."

Isabelle frowned. "Why? I mean...I get having it at the time, but...now?"

"Once it's there, it's there, sweetie. That kind of regret never goes away. Not saying what's needed to be said will always be there, and your brain will remind you at the strangest times, almost like...something you forgot that it thinks it's helping you remember."

"What, like suddenly remembering to call your grandfather the day after his birthday?"

Sydney breathed an airy chortle, short and quick, though a moment later the smile faded. "Imagine realizing you'll never get to have two amazing kids. That...the life you've wanted for months with the man you love more than anything will never happen. Every part of your body fills with regret that you didn't realize was possible."

Isabelle expected her mother to turn away as the brown eyes filled with tears, those already pooling and waiting for their turn sliding down her cheeks to the angle of her jaw. Wiping at her nose with the back of a hand, the eyes instead held her daughter's like pools of chocolate-colored glue keeping her in place.

"Your lungs regret the breath that they can't take; your heart regrets the beat it forgets, and you just...your mind holds onto all that. It...there's no feeling that comes close and there's no good way to describe it other than...it's awful."

Sydney felt the squeeze of Isabelle's fingers clutching her hand.

"I have...never told anyone those regrets," her voice hitched as she spoke, "not even your dad."

Reaching for a distraction, the daughter lifted the spoon back up and sank it into the now melty ice cream, the glob almost falling off as she rushed it into her mouth.

Sydney joined in, the pair wiping at their cheeks. "I'd rather regret something I did than something I didn't. You...you have that too. You get it from me, and it sucks and I'm sorry about that," she chuckled and took a bite of her own.

"You know what?" Isabelle sighed after the pair had picked at the melting dessert for a few minutes.

Sydney didn't answer with words, merely giving a gentle lift with her chin.

The daughter shrugged, "it doesn't matter and...I'm sorry for laying it all on you. You're pretty badass, and if I can be half a hero as you, maybe I'll do pretty good."

The renewed sheen of tears in the brown eyes was followed by a genuine smile. Gone was the image Dixon had hit Isabelle with of the broken woman in the chair, the face bloodied and pale. Gone were the more recent moving images of the damage being inflicted. All she could remember was the mornings of gentle wake-ups, pancakes, dressing up like everything under the sun, and days where she spent the morning listening to her mother recite poetry and teach as she colored quietly in the adjacent office.

To her, her mother had never been the person in the chair, why give that dominance now?

For Sydney, it confirmed what her suspicions had been for the last few months: Isabelle was C.I.A. Pride mixed with deep fear and worry. She didn't want to give away her thoughts, so she grinned and winked.

"Pretty well," she corrected her daughter's grammar.

"Ugh, you're such a teacher."

Pointing with her spoon, Sydney grabbed her attention. "Don't ever forget that a hero might still need to get their shit together. It's okay to fall apart right after you're strong. You're half Bristow, which means that it'll happen, so don't fight it too much. Be a badass and then cry while eating a gallon of coffee ice cream."

Isabelle laughed and felt her body begin to relax. "Girls weekend, huh?"

...

Tokyo: Present Day

Ducking into the alley, she slumped over with her hands on her knees trying to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering against her sternum, and though she would normally take a moment to revel in the adrenaline-soaked fact that she'd just parachuted out of a building using her backpack, she didn't have time.

The phone zipped into the pocket of her cargo pants buzzed against her leg once, twice, and then thrice as she fumbled with the zipper. Assuming it was Dixon calling to tear her a new one, she winced as 'MOM' flashed on the screen. Knowing that James was listening on the other end of the comm and wouldn't let her live the conversation down, she also knew she couldn't not answer the call.

"Damn it," she growled with a pant. Taking a few more breaths to try and calm down her racing heart, she answered. "Hi, Mom! What's up?"

Sydney put her on speaker, she and Vaughn hovering over the phone in the kitchen. "Hey, honey, is everything okay?"

'Damn it!' "Yeah! I was just getting a run in on the treadmill at the hotel. What's up?" Throwing the lie out she did quick mental math hoping it wasn't a bizarre time to be in the gym in San Francisco.

'Bullshit,' Vaughn mouthed, Sydney swatting at him.

"I was just wondering if you were going to be back from your trip in time for your brother's game tomorrow afternoon."

"Yep! Can't wait!" Her voice was opposite to her body language, her hand coming up to hit her forehead as she facepalmed and stomped her foot. "I'll be home late morning I think, then I can drive out to the house."

Vaughn tossed out, "how was the client meeting?" Isabelle rolled her eyes realizing that the parents had her on speakerphone.

As her breathing calmed, she saw the tactical van rolling down the alleyway heading toward where she stood with the phone to her ear and the heavy backpack clinging to her shoulders.

"Oh you know, boring. I get to take the notes and refill their water glasses."

"You'll get there. Baby steps are important. Just don't put your Bristow foot in your mouth," he chuckled and stepped away from the counter so his wife couldn't reach him.

"It was nice knowing you, Daddy. I'll miss you," Isabelle joked with a laugh.

Sydney glared at her jester of a husband, "don't forget your report due on Thursday."

"Mom," she whined. "Why did I have to take your class again?"

"Because it's the only one they offer, and it's required. See you tomorrow. Be safe," she finished, a habit since she'd figured out the truth of their daughter's occupation.

"It's a flight from San Francisco, not anything like what you and Dad used to do. I think I can handle it."

The parents stifled their laughter and hung up.

"She's good," Sydney shrugged and filled a glass of water.

"She's twenty-two, she'll slip up. Izzy's always been a daddy's girl...I'll get it one way or another."

Sydney pointed with a scowl, "no cheating."

Vaughn put on his best innocent face, though she didn't buy the display as it was accompanied by a shrug as he took slow steps in her direction around the island.

"Have I told you how beautiful you are today?"

His compliments still fluttered through her stomach to her heart like a herd of butterflies, even after over twenty years, but she was also wiser from the experience.

"Only twice," she answered, turning and heading toward the office to catch up on grading.

Michael grinned and watched her go, "I'll up my game."

Climbing into the van, she tossed the backpack into the corner and slid onto the bench seat as it lurched ahead with squealing wheels.

"You're not going to be able to hide it from them forever, you know," her partner groused from behind the wheel, his tan complexion alternating from brighter to darker as they passed beneath streetlamps heading toward the airport.

"Just...focus on the road."

He laughed at the defensive tone he was getting used to hearing in her voice when she talked about her parents. "Look, they have more experience than most of the people in our office combined, and your grandfather is a legend. Who better to give advice than them? They lived this for years!" He gestured with his arms at the machinery in the van as well as the bright and bustling nighttime lights of Tokyo.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, "Can I go one minute without someone trying to compare me to everyone else in my family? I'm doing things my way, not their way." Annoyed, she pulled off the gloves and tossed them across the van with a huff.

Sympathetic and more experienced brown eyes matched hers in the rear-view mirror. "You're definitely making your own mark, you know that. You're already more of a pain in the ass than she ever was in her first year, according to the records."

She couldn't help the dimpled smile as her bright green eyes sought an apology. "I'll tell them. I just...wanna be further in, you know?"

He laughed, "well, do it before you get shot, would ya? Don't stick me with the responsibility of explaining things at your hospital bed."

Rolling her eyes she crossed her ankles and bounced on the seat as they passed the gates into the airport. The private plane was a nice touch, and as James snored from the opposite seat, Isabelle stared out the small round window into the inky blackness of night. Her eyes didn't see the cloudless sky reflecting the moon and stars across the choppy ocean waters. Instead, she was journeying through a treasure-trove of memories, and the mind reel was running in no particular order keeping her awake.

The breath left her lungs as her back hit the ice, and she felt a heavy weight over her legs, the stars beginning to clear from her vision. This wasn't what she'd expected when she and Jack had been challenged at the rink, but sometimes things don't go the way you plan. Her father had been teaching her since she could walk how to skate, same with her brother, and when the other group of kids there slammed Jack into the wall with a rough cross-check, her custom stick somehow ended up crumpling one to their knees with a swift hit to the stomach.

Jack wasn't exactly small, even though he was only twelve. He was quite tall for his age, the tallest in his grade, and he was starting to bulk up as he explored different sports and activities. The siblings were around the same height despite the fact that she was five years older, and she was often referred to as the younger sister when they were together.

"You know why girls shouldn't play hockey, Lizard? They're too fragile," the boy above her spat, a cracked and broken front tooth and a gauged scar across the bridge of his nose evidence of his rough demeanor. His meaty first raised over his head.

Clenching and waiting for the hit to come, the grunting cry that left his lips instead made her eyes fly back open. Jack was three punches in on the kid's now bloody face before she had the wherewithal to get up and pull him away. As she yanked him back, one of the other teens had decided to defend their friend's honor, and she was suddenly squished between the slightly taller, bulkier boy and her brother, the trio tumbling down to the ice.

Hands were tossed, knees were thrust, and only when some of the adults had seen the squabble become a brawl were they separated, held by what amounted to the scruff of their necks. Noses and lips were bleeding on a few of them and the crimson plops showed at grotesque attention against the white-blue ice.

The groups were separated, their parents were called, and Isabelle cursed herself for reacting the way she had. She side-eyed her little brother over the puffiness of her left cheekbone. Jack sat leaned forward with his head between his legs as the bloody nose slowed to a trickle, soaking to the wad of paper towels he'd set between his knees on the floor. His lower lip was swollen with a blunt crease that held one, hardening, fat drop of blood. He looked over at her with a twinkle in his light brown eyes, the mussy blonde hair going every-which-way at the top of his head. With a crooked grin, he pulled the ice pack from his knuckles and pressed it with his flat palm against her face.

"Mom's gonna kill us," she grumbled.

His response was to shrug and set a hand to her back in a harsh pat. "Yeah, but...Dad'll be proud."

A dimpled smile curled her lips as she thought of her brother, teeth lightly nibbling the plastic rim of the cup of white wine that she was hoping would knock her out for the remainder of the flight. As the years passed he'd grown taller and broader, no one really knowing where that came from, and the joke of his adoption was frequently tossed around. It would be less of a joke if he wasn't a mirror image of Isabelle with opposite parental traits.

He was now seventeen and nearing six foot two, just taller than Michael, and his shoulders were widening as he got into weight lifting. She assumed that the next time she saw him he'd look like the Hulk.

Sighing and noting that the wine wasn't working, she wondered how she would be able to do a full day with her parents on zero sleep after the action from earlier. Not that she'd have a choice, of course. The flight would get in around nine in the morning, and by the time she got home, showered, and tossed on some clothes, she'd have to head to the house with no time for a nap.

Landing, saying her goodbyes, and zooming home, she all but ran up the stairs. Flying into the apartment and kicking the shoes off at the door, Isabelle made a pit stop in the kitchen to craft a lame sandwich. Pulling the green spots off the slices of both cheese and bread, she slapped it together with some mustard and undressed as she walked the short hallway toward the single bedroom.

Taking a hot shower, the cuts and scrapes stinging in the water, she looked down at the scar on her leg from her first mission. The small knife had sliced into the muscle as she failed to trick her target and gain access to the intelligence.

Pushing aside the nagging worry at falling flat on her face with this career, she stepped over the bathtub edge and closed the shower curtain behind her. Wrapping a towel around her waist, she journeyed to the mirror to drag a brush through the wet, brown hair hanging in dripping strands pulled over her shoulder.

Wiping at the foggy mirror, she caught sight of the dark circles beneath her eyes accentuating her lack of sleep, and a bruise was beginning to form on her jaw from where she'd taken a punch in Tokyo. Putting on concealer to cover up anything that would give it all away, she left the hair down long to dry and wandered into the attached bedroom.

Fatigue pulled at her shoulders but she shook it off. Donning a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, finishing it off with a zip-up hoodie, she grabbed her purse off the counter and made her way to the car, hitting a small coffee shop on the way.

...

"Hey, I'm here! Sorry I'm late, I needed some coffee. Hotel beds suck and I didn't sleep at all last night." She walked toward the kitchen, stumbling over the hockey equipment in the foyer.

Sydney caught the drink as the girl's grip loosened, Isabelle looking back with a grouse at the tripping hazard. "Damn it, Jack," she grumbled, her mother frowning as she looked past the green eyes giving her child a once-over from her neck to the top of her head.

"What?" Looking over her shoulder and expecting to see her brother towering over her with a scary face, Isabelle turned back, confused.

With a knowing tilt of her lips, Sydney asked her daughter to follow. Leading them past the living room, office, her brother's gigantic room, the guest room, her old bedroom, they moved into the master that her parents shared and stopped in the bathroom.

"What are we doing? Where is everyone?"

"The boys are loading things up in the garage. Listen," Sydney ordered, pointing at her side with a motherly look that demanded obedience.

Twenty-two or not, Isabelle did what she was told.

As she spoke, a lumpy makeup bag landed on the edge of the counter, the deep dark marble a stark contrast to the pristine porcelain of the right-side sink. "Hiding the truth makes everything harder than it needs to be."

The daughter frowned behind a sip of coffee, the biting heat of the liquid long gone inside the shabby foam cup. "Hiding? You're a bloodhound, I've never been able to hide anything from you. The paper is almost done, I swear!"

Grabbing Isabelle's chin with gentle fingers, Sydney tilted her to look away with one hand as the other dipped into the concealer to dab over the tender bruised spot with a knowing touch. Trying but failing, the girl couldn't contain the wince.

"I know how hard it is; the long flights, the sneaking, the running, the fighting," with the pause, reaching down for more makeup, she spotted her daughter's panicked green eyes as they widened and looked about desperately for escape. "You're making it so much harder than it has to be, Izzy."

"Mom...I-" she started, but immediately fell silent. She expected a look of disappointment, but the warm brown eyes shone with understanding, love, and pride. "I just...I didn't want-"

Sydney's laugh cut her off, "I get it. Your dad and I weren't exactly...open to the idea of you following in our footsteps. Not all of those steps were great. It doesn't stop me from worrying, but I get it. Do me a favor though-" the crash of someone tripping over the sports bags and sticks in the foyer echoed back to where they were, Jack's swear followed by Michael's fatherly discipline.

"What's the favor?" Isabelle squeaked as Sydney finished and put the makeup away.

"Tell your father first." Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Sydney left her stunned daughter in the bathroom.

"Mom," she called, catching her before she'd left the bedroom. "How long have you known?"

A bright dimpled smile was her answer, "you were doing heists at four, honey. I'm pretty sure that every warning I gave you became an open invitation." Pointing, her face turning serious, "Dad first. We have a bet."

Isabelle made a guttural noise in the back of her throat. "Ugh, dad knows too?"

"Oh yeah."

"Am...am I terrible at this?" She couldn't help the despair from seeping into her voice.

Jack's voice cracked down the hallway, the low end squeaking for a moment to high, "we're gonna be late, let's go!"

The sister fired back, "hold your horses, Squeaky, adults are talking."

Sydney moved back into the room with a roll of her eyes. "Isabelle, you're going to be amazing. That's not even a question."

"Because I'm your kid?"

The mother heard the tone of voice, the frustration compounded visually by the nod that was her answer. "You have all the best parts of your dad and me in there, so yeah. You were kind of...born to be a spy. Believe me when I say I know how that feels. That doesn't mean you aren't going to forge your own path. Please...don't do what I did - you know how that turned out."

Their voices were low, the conversation not carrying past the doorway of the room. "I just...I feel like I'm never gonna get out of your shadow. Everyone at that office is 'Sydney Bristow'this and 'your mom' that." It felt good to get out her biggest stumbling block, but she also hated that she sounded like a whiny baby.

Sydney lost some of her joviality once realizing that Isabelle was feeling what she'd felt every time someone said 'I knew your father' when she'd started at the agency - the real agency. "I did two, maybe two-and-a-half years of good work for that office, and that's all. Don't let anyone tell you it was more than that."

Isabelle huffed and flopped down on the edge of the soft padded bed, her eyes in her lap as her fingers picked at the label stuck to the cup. "You brought down a world-wide crime syndicate in those two and a half years, Mom. You're like...a god to them. They expect me to be the new you."

"No," she countered, the green eyes looking up with a grumpy frown. Sydney lifted the hem of her shirt on the right side, the puckered scar faded from time but still very visible breaking the daughter's gaze with a winced. "That office puts me on a pedestal because I died, honey. Please take a different path. I desperately want you to be your own agent, but it's going to take time for you to figure it all out. You can't be in a shadow that's not there." Lowering the shirt, Sydney slid her hands into her pockets and hoped her words had buried into her daughter's fragile self-consciousness.

Isabelle saw a silhouette in the hallway behind her mother, the steps on the hardwood tentative, and she immediately knew it was her father.

"I mean, he just didn't call, you know? I thought we had a great time but...maybe not."

Sydney was confused, but a tap on the door made both turn to see Vaughn with concern in his eyes. Realizing that Isabelle was far better at this than she'd credited, the mother held back a chuckle and regarded her husband with a soft smile.

"Everything okay?"

Jumping on the train Isabelle had sent down the tracks, "boys," Sydney said quickly. Heaving a sigh, one that almost sounded like relief, he nodded.

"Jack and I can meet you there," he said and gave his daughter a wink.

"No...it's okay, Dad, we'll go together." Rising, she felt as if half a weight had lifted from her shoulders and her steps were lighter. "I'll just...introduce him to grandpa," she chuckled and made her way down the hallway.

Michael looked to his wife and then back to her near-twin as Isabelle pulled her younger, much taller, brother into a hug. "Did I just lose the bet?"

Sydney pressed a kiss to his cheek as she followed the hallway toward the living room. Tossing a chuckle over her shoulder:

"Not yet."

Late fall or not, it was still warm outside. That, however, never stopped the family from lighting up the fireplace and enjoying the crackle as they relaxed in the living room during many an evening. The immediate area, including the couches surrounding the large television, was bathed in the warm, orange, flickering glow of the flames dancing in the hearth.

A foreign film played on the screen, the French language lilting through the speakers. A soft snore from her right pulled Sydney's attention as Jack's head lay flopped against the soft back cushion of the couch, his mouth hanging open slightly as the lucent white gleam of the laptop primarily highlighted his chin and neck.

Against the armrest, her legs over Jack's lap serving as a tray table for the computer, Isabelle was just as asleep. Pulling her arm from the blanket across her lap, Sydney checked her wrist to see that it was just after nine, and she chuckled before leaning her cheek back against Vaughn's shoulder.

"They sleeping?"

"Yeah. Most parents spend time worrying about where their kids are on a Friday night. Ours are asleep before ten."

They shared a laugh knowing secretly why Isabelle was exhausted, and Jack had played a full game of hockey a few hours earlier, so it all made sense. Still, Sydney felt a certain amount of pride at how their two were turning out.

"I kind of wish we'd had the rebellious phase that mom kept threatening us with. I'm not sure I like skipping mandatory parenting steps." Michael said quietly.

She laughed through her nose and curled deeper into his side. Lifting his arm and wrapping it around her back, she sighed. "I know I say this all the time, but this is nice."

His response was a nod and a tilt of his head to rest his cheek against the top of her head. As the movie ended and the snacks and drinks were put away, the pair stood looking down at the kids sleeping soundly on the warm couch. Sydney lifted the laptop, closed the lid, and carried it to the kitchen counter to plug it in for the night.

Taken back to when the children would fall asleep after dinner, Sydney bundling one while Michael took the other, nights when they would tuck them in together were rare but wonderful. Vaughn stepped forward first, his arms sliding beneath the crook of Isabelle's knees and the small gap left by her back sloped against the arm of the couch. Once he had a grip, he lifted her with a small grunt.

"Did you just remember that you're almost fifty-five years old?"

Vaughn sent her a humor-filled glare, "you get to carry the youngest," he ordered with a nod of his head toward Jack, their giant teenager, and carried their daughter to the guest bedroom.

Sydney must have anticipated that Isabelle would be staying with them that evening, and a freshly cleaned and folded comforter was waiting on the corner of the bed atop soft, deep maroon sheets. Settling her on the pillow, the change in location made her cling to his shoulders for a second as her eyes cracked and let in a bit of light.

"Shhh, it's okay, Izzy. Get some sleep," Michael reassured, his hands unfolding the blanket and tossing it over his daughter.

"Daddy?" Her curious voice, soft with sleep, pulled him back as he tucked the bedspread around her legs as he did when she was a little girl.

"Yes, Princess Bean?" He didn't bother to suppress the chortle at her grumbled response to the childhood nickname. Instead, she pulled her arms out from beneath the coverlet.

"I...can I tell you a secret?"

Vaughn's stomach leaped into his throat at the thought that this was it: this was when he would win the bet. Trying to keep calm and quiet, he nodded and sat at the edge of the bed.

"I'm a spy," she blurted in a light whisper.

Michael tried not to laugh at her admission and the fact that her fingers were twisting together above the blanket as her eyes avoided his matching green stare.

"I know," was his gentle response. Reaching out, he pulled her hand between his and squeezed. "I know that you're expecting me to rant and rave and demand that you be careful," he paused.

When his words were stuck as he tried to sort through everything he wanted to say, his daughter frowned and angled her head. "Are you...not?"

"Oh no, I'm absolutely demanding that you be careful. Super careful; insanely careful."

Peeking past his back toward the empty door and hallway, she could hear her mother softly speaking to her brother from the living room. "I jumped out of a forty-seven story building and parachuted to the street in Tokyo yesterday," she admitted, the dimple on her right cheek appeared with the tilted smirk he could make out in the darkness, the only light coming from the small desk lamp in the corner.

Heaving a sigh and dropping his head low, Isabelle giggled quietly at his fake despair. "Look, I know you're going to be just like her, but don't forget that you're fifty-percent Vaughn. Let that out of the box every now and then and do stuff by the book, okay?"

She nodded, "I promise. Thanks, Dad."

Patting her hand and standing up, he set it over her stomach on the comforter. "Sleep tight, sweetheart."

"Love you," she said at his back as he made his way to the hallway after flipping the lamp off on his way.

The click of the door in the jamb was interrupted as he opened it just enough for him to stick his head back inside. "Hey...you," he paused, "you told me first, right?"

Stopped mid-twist as she was rotating beneath the blanket, she let out a light-hearted laugh.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"For sure," she said, turning her back to the door.

"You're not...just saying that to make me feel better, right?"

A heavy sigh, "of - of course not. Why would I?"

A moment of silence pervaded, Isabelle assuming he'd slipped out to let her fall back to sleep. Her eyelids were heavy and the softness of the pillow and bed called to her as she settled into the fluff with a comfortable exhale.

"You told your mom first, didn't you?"

She had already turned away from him, her cheek resting on her hand tucked between her head and the pillow.

"No?" Clearly a lie, the statement was followed by a sigh and another whisper. "She told me I should tell you first." She heard his grumpy exhale. "Technically...I did."

"You lied earlier," he said softly into her hair, Sydney's head resting on his shoulder as the lamp across the room cast a soft glow on the far wall.

Her reaction was a half-hearted and nearly asleep chuckle, her shoulder bouncing against his chest as she lay tucked into his side. "That's a bold statement. Do you have any evidence?"

The patented and crooked Vaughn grin hit his face. "It's mostly he-said, she-said," he admitted.

"That won't hold up in court," Sydney said sarcastically before pulling her arm up to prop her head on her hand and regard him with curious brown eyes.

"Isabelle did tell you earlier today."

He frowned when she shook her head. "She showed up with a bruise, so I really only had two choices. Let it alone and have you and Jack ready to kill whomever she's dating or give her enough makeup for it to be invisible. I...I gave it away that I knew where it had come from," she admitted.

"Cheater," he grumbled, reaching up to sweep a wisp of hair away from her forehead.

Cupping her cheek and brushing the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, she leaned into his touch as he pulled her to meet his lips. Sydney's free hand dove into the salt and pepper silvery hair at his temples as his tongue flicked hers before tipping back.

"Either way I lost the bet." Her voice was deliciously raspy, and in the low light, Michael could see the strands of purple tangling with brown in her eyes.

The beauty of night was on full display behind the curtainless panes of glass that warded away the salty sea air. The low-setting moon hung in the sky as if a heavy ornament at the end of a thin branch, and the rippled surface of the ocean rocked back and forth against the shoreline to create an imperfect replica of the lesser light above. Scattered was a treasure-trove of shells within the white sand that darkened at the surf beneath the long shadows of the oblong cliff at the end of the sandy stretch. The palms that grew at the top were translated as dark stripes below, reminiscent of a jail door, but one that trapped you in paradise.

Picturesque and serene, it was wholly ignored by the only occupants present to witness the glory, each focused wholly on the other. Fingers skimmed skin flecked with imperfections, each reminding the pair of the journey and caressed with reverence and forgiveness. Some happier than others, a thumb brushed over the faint scar beneath her navel, and both smiled at the knowledge of the happiness brought by that pain.

Beyond the night, beyond the healing, and beyond the reach of the past, they were reminded of the one truth that was the foundation of every moment of every day: love wins.

…...

A/N: A huge thanks to my readers and reviewers, your words really kept me going through the almost two years it took to get this whole thing out.

I also aim to finish up my other WIPs, so keep your eyes open for those now that this one has wrapped up, and expect to see a smutty chapter or two (or ten) for You Wanna Be Rough when I get stuck or need to blow off some steam.

If you ever want to toss me an idea for a one-shot, I'll absolutely entertain them! PM me here or shoot me a DM on Discord: Sowen#4747

Until next time, happy reading!