Disclaimer: Don't own squat. Apologies in advance for any canon errors, didn't actually have the books on hand to reference when this was written. If you flame, make it grammatically correct;).
The Longest Night of Jack Starbright's Life
It's 8pm and one hour since Alex has left the apartment, perhaps never to return. Since his departure Jack has slowly and methodically washed the dishes from their dinner with a scrupulous care bordering on the obsessive-complusive, and then scrubbed every surface in the kitchen and dining area just for good measure.
Now she's sitting on one of the couches in the living room, debating whether she should try to clean the rest of the rooms in the apartment, even though she knows they're already immaculate. She knows it's kind of crazy to even be thinking about cleaning at a time like this, but it's better than thinking of the alternative. It's funny, she thinks, as she mentally restrains herself from hauling out the vacuum cleaner. Neither she or Alex have really thought of herself as the housekeeper for years, but in times of stress she finds herself retreating into the role, like a tortoise into its shell. She watches the clock on the opposite wall for a whole minute, then gives in to the inevitable and pulls out the household account book from a chest of drawers, and starts to tally up the blessedly long columns of figures.
***
It's 10.15pm and Jack has long given up all pretence of meaningful activity and is pacing the apartment like a caged animal. Alex said if all went well he'd be back by dawn, and that's still many hours away. Logically-speaking she should sleep but Jack knows from the sick nausea churning in her stomach and the queer lump in her throat that she'll never again be able to sleep easily until he is standing before her again, live and whole.
Walking past the hallway mirror, she catches a glimpse of herself and stops, arrested by what she sees. She barely recognises the person staring back at her. Her face is pale and strained with newly apparent lines, and in her short red hair, sticking out at all angles to frame her face like a demented dandelion, are glimpses of previously unnoticed silver. Age has finally caught up with the eternally young Jack Starbright, and she wonders against her will, what Alex will think.
She still remembers the fateful day two years ago, when it became apparent to her that it mattered how exactly he thought of her. They're having a row, which is an event in itself, considering that they almost never argue. But that night she has had enough – Alex has intimidated away yet another of Jack's boyfriends, and this time for no discernable reason. 'What was wrong with this one this time, Alex?' she shouts as she furiously chops at the onions for their dinner, savagely glad that she has a legitimate excuse for any tears. 'What did MI6 find out about him? What did he do to offend your sensibilities? Murder someone? Commit treason? Deal in drugs? Kick a kitten?'
And Alex, ever-calm Alex, looks up from where he is sitting at the kitchen bench in apparent deep contemplation of his clasped hands, and with glittering eyes and a voice like a knife says: 'Nothing. There's absolutely nothing wrong with him. Brian Morgan, age 42, senior paediatrician at the Royal Hospital of London, well-liked by his patients, colleagues, and students; amicable break-up with his long-term partner three years ago. He's fucking perfect for you.'
Jack is stunned. 'Then why – ' she starts, but it's already too late. Alex has grabbed his jacket and strode out of the apartment. He comes back two hours later, his extraordinary calm regained and wrapped around him like an impenetrable armour.
'Don't,' he says before she can say anything. 'Let me say something first. I was completely out of line with Morgan. I don't know what came over me. I can only suppose that when you're in my line of work, you tend to suspect the worst in everybody. But I know that's not an excuse. So I apologise and tomorrow I'll apologise to him. I can fix this, I promise.'
During this speech he has been looking not at her, but at some fixed point next to her head. Jack has barely been listening anyway; her entire being is focused on the forced relaxed set of his shoulders and the calculated tilt of his head and the suspicion that has been growing since he had stormed out of the apartment, which has now hardened into a conviction.
'But Alex,' she says, as if they have been carrying on a completely different conversation. 'I'm too old for you.'
His eyes snap to hers so fast it's almost comic. But staggeringly he doesn't try to deny what she has dared to imply. 'I don't care,' he says, and smiles.
She doesn't know whether to smile back or cry. She settles for speaking instead. 'You're twenty-four. I'm thirty-eight. You should be dating girls your own age. I'm too old for you,' she repeats hopelessly.
He steps forward and places a heartbreakingly careful hand on her cheek. 'Has it ever occurred to you that I'm the one too old for those girls?' he says, and his eyes, tender and unfathomable, reminds her that Alex, who had seen things she could never even begin to imagine, is in a way the oldest person she had ever known. 'Jack, you keep me young,' he says, and kisses her.
***
It's midnight. By now, Alex should be in the inner sanctum of Scorpia. 'They've decided to make me one of the executive board. It's a real honour,' he comments with a grimace, as they walk through the streets of London hand in hand, a week earlier. 'There's hasn't been a new executive since the original nine. They're going to hold an official ceremony at their headquarters in one week's time. All the surviving executives will be present.'
'Oh, goodie,' she says, which surprises a crack of laughter from him, before she adds more seriously, 'It's a trap.'
'Probably,' he agrees.
'But you're still going,' she says heavily.
'I'm still going. It's the only opportunity we have to find out their identities and take them all down at the same time. It's what I've been working towards for over three years.'
'You're going to your death. They're going to kill you,' she argues and twists her hand out of his so she can turn towards him and speak to him face to face. 'Listen to me Alex,' she says fiercely. 'How can they possibly trust you enough to make you one of them? Your father betrayed them. You were directly responsible for the deaths of two of their number.'
'I make them a lot of money now,' he responds bleakly. 'That's all that matters to them. They're probably glad their colleagues are dead – it means less to share amongst themselves. And you know why they trust me, trusted me enough to let me join them three years ago – I killed Alan Blunt for them. I murdered him in cold bood.'
'Because he was going to die anyway. He had cancer. He wanted you to. He told you to,' Jack says gently, repeating a well-worn litany, because she knows that even now, Alex is still haunted by what he has done. Alan Blunt was the first but not last person Alex has ever put a bullet through.
'Yes, Alan Blunt always liked to be useful, even in death,' Alex says with black humour, and she knows that particular topic of conversation is closed, at least for the time being.
Now it's one week later and it's midnight, the witching hour, the hour Scorpia will allow Alex entry into its inner circle, although whether to welcome him or to kill him, she does not know. She walks to the kitchen window and looks out to night sky, which is unusually clear, the stars and moon cold and bright. Drip, drop, drip, drop goes the kitchen tap, and to her hyperaware senses it seems to be drumming the rhythm Dead, or alive, dead, or alive. With a sudden violent movement, she tightens the tap to stop it dripping, and the next moment she is overwhelmed by a terrible guilt, a superstitious dread that her action has somehow decided his fate.
'Stupid,' she thinks and goes to sit at the dining table. There's nothing to do but wait.
***
It's 3am and Jack is exhausted. She's occupying a strange no-man's land where everything seems like a waking dream. She feels feverish, and she thinks maybe she's delirious. The apartment feels claustrophobic and oddly proportioned. To distract herself she lets herself think back to her last dinner with Alex, even though she has told herself before she wouldn't.
She has prepared them homemade fish and chips, and salad. For such a complex guy, Alex has pretty simple tastes. The sleeves of his formal shirt are neatly-rolled up while he eats, and looking at him, she can only suppose that he has decided that one should look one's best whether it be going to meet a bunch of multimillionaires or one's own death.
Most of their dinner conversation is pretty meaningless, talking for the comfort of talking to each other, but as they are eating their dessert of strawberry and vanilla ice-cream, he puts down his spoon, and says, 'Jack, why have you never asked me to leave MI6?'
She thinks because you still needed answers, because Sabina had already asked you and you said no, because I love you. What she says is: 'You were an adult when you joined again. You were old enough to make you own decisions'.
'Do you want me to leave?' he persists.
She pales. 'Of course. Not a day goes by where I don't wish it,' she says. 'But what right have I to ask?'
He's been looking steadily at her, and now for some reason he looks kind of sad. 'Didn't you know, Jack? You, alone of all people, always had the right. You still do.'
'Okay,' she says, and swallows. 'Leave MI6, Alex'.
'Okay,' he says, and her heart gives an impossible lurch of happiness, before reality comes back to hit her. 'But,' she prompts.
He smiles wryly. She knows him too well. 'But,' he says, 'Let me complete this one last mission. I have no choice. I can't make the same mistake as my father, and leave Scorpia while it still exists. It has to be destroyed. Or one day it will destroy us.'
'Don't. Your luck will run out,' she whispers, even as she's nodding her head at his logic.
'It won't, ' he says. 'And after this is all over, we'll go to Marseilles in France. Not because we need to hide, but because we don't. It'll be a holiday. Jack, I promise.'
She smiles, not because she believes him, but because he actually seems to believe it himself. He doesn't know it but he sounds so young, and she can feel him willing her to believe him with all the considerable force of his being. She finishes off her ice-cream and says, 'Well in that case, I better start brushing up on my schoolgirl French. It's gotten pretty rusty after all these years.'
***
It's 5.45am and fifteen minutes have passed since dawn began. The sky has lightened and is streaked a bloody red, even though the moon is still high and visible. She is back standing at the kitchen window, staring blindly out at the sky and all she can think is please, please, please, please.
Her mental mantra is interrupted by the doorbell. She walks to the door slowly. After all, who knows who might be on the other side? It might be Alex. But it might be someone to tell her he's dead, or a Scorpia assassin come to kill her as well. She shakes her head. It's far too late to matter. She opens the door.
For a moment all she can see is the plain and stolid figure of Ms Jones. She's come to tell me he's dead she thinks sickly, even as her eyes are taking in the fact that Ms Jones is supporting a figure, and that figure is Alex.
He's injured.
He's alive.
It's utterly impossible and she's crying, even as she's flinging herself towards him. 'Hi, Jack,' he says and they're both kneeling on the floor, she looking him over frantically, cataloguing his injuries; he half-slumped on her, too weak to do anything else.
'He insisted on being brought straight here,' says Ms Jones disapprovingly. 'He should have had his injuries treated first.'
'Should've, would've, could've,' he says.
'What happened?' she asks.
'You were right,' he says. 'It was a trap. Not because they believed I was a traitor. But because they wanted revenge.'
'What happened?' she asks again.
His eyes become shadowed. 'They're all dead.'
'Okay,' she says soothingly, and strokes his fair hair. 'Okay.'
'So,' she says after a few moments have passed. 'Where did their headquarters turn out to be?'
For a moment he is very still. 'A funeral parlour,' he mutters into her neck, and suddenly they're both laughing helplessly, two crazy people clutching at each other on the floor, while a third looks on with eyes that are not unkind. Satisfied that she is no longer needed, Ms Jones turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.