That evening, after carefully avoiding Vaughn's questioning glances all afternoon, she arrives home and is overcome with relief to shut the door behind her and drop her things at her feet. The mail is splattered all over the entryway from where the postman shoved it through the door, and immediately the handwriting on a brown envelope jumps out at her: Sydney Bristow.
She grabs it and leaves the rest, tripping down the stairs into the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer and slip it open. Inside is a diskette with a scrap of paper that reads, "As I promised, JS."
Of course: The first disk is corrupt. I'll have to use the backup. Corrupt nothing—he made their copy first. Just then her cell rings and she skips up the stairs to fish it out of her bag.
"This is Bristow," she answers, turning the disk over in her hand.
"You have the package?"
"Yes, thank you," she says, then: "Are you spying on me?"
"No, whatever makes you think that? I'm halfway around the world."
Her heart sinks at this news. "You just have impeccable timing, that's all."
"Perhaps you hoped I was spying on you?"
"Not really," she lies, flopping down on the couch. "Marshall's allergic to you."
"Pity," he replies curtly, "I rather like him. He's one of the few truly useful people in that operation." Trust Sark to assess the capabilities of the enemy while in custody.
"I was joking," she relies lightly, wondering how long she can keep him going like this. There are butterflies in her stomach, like she's talking to a crush on the phone for the first time in junior high. "Is the Covenant happy with their latest acquisition?"
"As far as I can tell," Sark replies, and she hears a child's shriek in the background. "I take it Sloane did as I predicted."
"To a t," she says, and again she hears the sound of children in the background. "Are you picking someone up from kindergarten?"
"What—no, why do you ask?" Sark sounds a bit rattled.
"I can hear kids in the background, that's all," she says, a slow smile creeping over her lips. "I didn't peg you for a kid-person."
"Well, your hunch was correct," he replies, "I'm not."
"I can't imagine why."
"Are you mocking me," he asks, and she can hear his smile in his voice.
"No, not at all," her sarcasm is naked. "I would never mock you."
"I should hope not," his tone is playful. "I might have to punish you for that."
She is silent for a second, considering the turn their conversation has taken. Is he… suggesting something?
"Really," she says coyly, "You would do that?"
He doesn't respond instantly, and as the seconds draw out, she feels like she's made a mistake, somehow. Damn cell phones. Finally, though, he replies, "I might have to, yes."
She giggles inadvertently and says, "I should go now."
"Goodbye, then," he says, and hangs up on her. She presses the cellphone against her ear, listening to the dialtone until the automaton comes on and tells her that if she'd like to make a call, she needs to hang up and try again.
What was that, she wonders. Why did he call—he knew the package would get here.
Get ahold of yourself, Bristow, she commands in her sternest inner voice. She tries to hear Kendall's brassy tone in her head. It won't do to be having cutsey phone calls with your new boyfriend when national security's at hand.
She sits bolt up right on the couch. What did she just call Sark? Surely she meant… gentleman caller. Or mortal enemy, whatever. "Fuck buddy" would even be fine. Just not… what she just thought. She bolts off the couch and over to the kitchen counter, where the envelope lies with the disk on top of it. She opens the envelope wide and peers inside to make sure there's nothing she missed, no extra note with contact protocol, but there's nothing. Her disappointment that he stuck to business this time surprises her and she's slightly let down by how quickly she's warmed to him.
Just then the doorbell rings and she has to remind herself that it won't be him. Game face, Bristow, game face.
But her jaw drops as soon as she opens the door and finds Vaughn standing on the other side, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.
"Oh," she says. Immediately regrettable. It's the first time he's come by and all she can say is Oh?
"Hey," he offers a small, cautious smile.
"Um, do you want to come in?" she replies, opening the door a bit wider.
"Ah, sure," Vaughn nods, and she moves aside for him to enter. He stands awkwardly in the entryway, not moving down the stairs into the kitchen as Sark did. She closes the door gingerly and stuffs her hands in her back pockets to avoid crossing them in front of her.
"I just wanted to drop by to see if you were OK," he explains, "I can't stay long—Lauren's expecting me home soon."
She nods, looking at the rug under their feet. Why did he have to mention her? That he has to drop his wife's name immediately she's suspicious of his intentions in coming by.
"Of course she is," she agrees, "I wouldn't expect you to stay."
"You just… seemed like you were avoiding me this afternoon, that's all," Vaughn says, "Is everything OK?"
She snorts involuntarily, and motions with her hand at the half-empty apartment and the boxes lying all over. "What part of everything is supposed to be OK?"
He glances at the rummage lying around her place before saying, "I didn't come here to fight with you, you know that."
Now she gives in to the inclination to cross her arms and she just looks at him, waiting for him to continue.
"I don't expect you and Lauren to be best friends, that would be insane—but I do think we can still talk, right? I'm still your friend."
How can she tell him that the last thing she needs is his friendship? It seems downright cruel to argue about something that can't be changed.
"Yes, you are," she nods, not meeting his eyes.
"Good," Vaughn exhales. "Sometimes I'm not sure that you don't hate me."
"Vaughn, no," she softens and shakes her head, "I don't—it's just hard."
"I know."
"You should probably get going, huh?" her hand is already at the doorknob.
"Yeah," he replies, "I think we have dinner plans."