Author's Note: Not mine, not making any money.
Chapter 1
Jack stared, unseeing, into the depths of the ocean as Michael Vaughn dumped Sydney's ashes. Tears ran freely down the younger man's face, while Jack, as stoic as ever, called upon his years of CIA training to compartmentalize his emotions.
Turning with a blank face to answer Dixon's offer of consolation, Jack shook the other man's hand and made a move for his car.
"Jack," Vaughn's voice cracked, "where the hell are you going?"
Jack glared at the hand on his arm then met Vaughn's eyes with an icy gaze. "I'm going home, Mr. Vaughn. There's nothing left for me to do here."
"Even now, you can't be anything more than a cold-hearted bastard, can you?"
"Mr. Vaughn, because you cared for my daughter and are grieving, and only because of that, I will let your comment slide. But you will want to think twice before you ever use that tone with me again. Do I make myself clear?" Jack affixed a steely glare to his face.
"Crystal," Vaughn sneered.
After a quick stop to pick up his favorite Irish whiskey, Jack was on his couch, blindly flipping the channels. Having discarded his jacket, tie, and shoes; unbuttoned his dress shirt and rolled up his sleeves, Jack was now well on his way to getting properly "shit-faced," as Sydney would have said. He smiled wryly. Sydney had been the one to get him to stop drinking so heavily. It wasn't that he'd gotten drunk every night, but he had gone to O'Malley's almost every night for 25 years and it was always to forget what Irina had done to him and what he'd done to Sydney in return.
It was easier to have the alcohol numb his emotions than to cope with the wreckage that was his life, on most days. Right now, though, he'd give anything to be able to grieve for his daughter.
Irina stayed hidden as she watched Jack toss back shot after shot on his way to consuming the entire bottle of whiskey he'd brought home. She watched him as he stared, morosely at Sydney's picture. She watched him as his face became a mask of pain and anger. And she watched him as he began to tear apart his living room.
"God damned CIA! God damned SD-6! Stupid mother fucking Rambaldi! Sloane and Sark are DEAD men! Gonna kill anybody involved in this shit! FUCK!!" With each pronouncement, Jack over turned another piece of furniture or threw something against the wall. With his last cry of anguish, Jack threw a vicious punch into the brick fireplace.
"Son of a bitch!" Jack hadn't actually felt the pain, but had heard something crack in his hand and it stopped him in his tracks.
He made his way upstairs to the master bedroom, off of which was the master bath. He was fully intending on wrapping his hand, which was now bleeding from the knuckles. Instead, after trying unsuccessfully, to bandage his left hand, Jack collapsed on the bed.
He was exhausted, and drunk, but that wasn't the real reason he couldn't wrap his hand. Jack was still suffering the side effects of whatever was in the IV Sloane had given him. His fine motor skills had been damaged in some way; they just weren't working quite the was they should be.
Jack reached for the framed picture of Sydney that sat on his nightstand, the only real, personal touch in the room. Irina crept to the doorway, still silently observing her husband.
"Sydney, I'm so sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry I never told you how much I love you." Jack's voice faded as he drifted off to sleep.
For her part, Irina was stunned. Jack hadn't told their daughter he loved her? She started to mentally berate him, then realized that she was a big part of why Sydney and Jack had been estranged for so many years.
Creeping into the room, she hovered over the bed, staring at the death grip he had on the picture. She let her gaze travel up to Jack's face and noticed the wetness on his cheeks. Obviously, only in the unguarded moments of sleep was he able to truly let go, to show his emotions.
Irina sat on the bed next to Jack, careful not to disturb him. She gathered the bandages and tape, then began to assess the damaged he'd done to himself by gently palpating his hand and wrist to feel for broken bones. Jack groaned softly but didn't wake. Irina was able to determine that there were no broken bones, that it was probably a bad sprain, and proceeded to bandage the injured hand.
Irina was worried, Jack didn't seem capable of taking care of himself. It wasn't just that his dominant hand was now injured; he'd learned to use his right hand to a certain degree, most agents were ambidextrous. But Irina had been watching him, covertly, for the few days that led up to the funeral. Something was off with him, she couldn't quite put her finger on it, though. Suffice it to say that he simply wasn't moving with the grace and ease that she expected of him.
She shook her head and decided that despite the risk she needed to stay and take care of Jack. Sighing, Irina began to remove his remaining clothing. She hesitated when she reached his pants, though. "What the hell?" she thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound. He's gonna be pissed anyway, might was well give him something to be really pissed about."
Once Jack was down to his boxers, Irina pulled the bedspread down and maneuvered him underneath. She hesitated a moment, then scooted underneath as well. She lifted his left arm, carefully, pressed herself next to his side, then placed his arm around her as she lay her head on his chest.
Irina listened contentedly to Jack's heart beating. She remembered when they would lay like this; it had been almost 25 years since the last time. She felt her eyes fill with tears at the memory, then felt the lids get heavy with sleep.
"Just for a couple of minutes," she told herself.
