Alive and Kicking

By Morganperidot

Sure, that was the story we told them, Jack and I, a tale spun around too-brief passion, sudden violence, emotional torment, and unexpected death. Jack told it with the words and facial expressions of a man once again heartbroken, cast adrift, and enraged. And I told it with the cold body of a corpse.

But not all stories are true; in fact, most of them aren't, even if we think they are when we tell them. Most often all you have is bits and pieces here and there, and sometimes when you put those pieces together they add up to a picture that isn't entirely accurate, like a reflection in a broken mirror. Everything is there, but not the way it should be, not matching up totally right, and that makes all the difference.

First off, I recognized the Russian on sight. I knew exactly who he was. I never forget a face, especially not one that had to do with an operation like the one I was on with the Russian mob. I knew who he was, and I knew he would know me. And I understood immediately that there was only one place that could possibly lead.

But it was true that I didn't follow my concerns then, and not directly afterward either; I knew they were important, more important than what was foremost in my mind, but other needs were more pressing. Although certainly less urgent, those needs were much more appealing. The opportunity to kiss Jack, to touch him and have him touch me the way I had dreamed of but had never expected to have actually occur in the real time of our real lives, all of that was something I couldn't let slip away no matter what the danger.

Later, though, when the passion had cooled, my head cleared and my priorities realigned. "Jack," I said seriously, looking him straight in the eyes. My body was next to his, with soft skin, firm muscle, and warmth wrapping us in a sense of endless present that I didn't want to puncture even though I knew I had to. Like always, the ridiculous specter of life-and-death danger hung over us like some cartoon version of the Sword of Damocles, refusing to give us even this brief moment of peace.

"Not now," Jack said softly as he touched my face in a gentle way that no other man had. His fingertips made my whole body tingle, and the look in his eyes kept my lips still a few seconds longer than they should have been. He kissed me, my lips and then my neck, and I felt my thoughts start to dispel like clouds in the clear blue sky, unconnected, just drifting away. Part of me wanted to believe that the danger didn't really matter, and this moment was enough, if there weren't going to be any more. I kissed him back, and I held him against me, so close that I felt his breath and heard the beating of his heart. This man is mine, I thought, and that finally brought me back, solidifying the moment back into continuum of time.

I told Jack about the Russian, who he was and what he had most likely been doing. I didn't have to tell Jack the rest of it, my assumptions about what was going to happen next. I saw it click through his mind in those brilliant eyes of his. He didn't say a word, just slid off the bed and pulled something out from underneath it. Our eyes met for a moment, and we knew the risks. It was that simple, and yet there was nothing at all simple about it. The future hung in the balance on the thinnest of threads.

Jack left the bedroom and went into the kitchen; that part was true as well. But there was a gun in his hand, hidden from the view of the window. And I went into the bedroom doorway with the phone in one hand and a gun in the other with the sheet wrapped around me, but when those bullets hit me the vest Jack had given me kept them from tearing open my chest, although I still felt one or two hit home elsewhere before I stumbled back and collapsed on the bedroom floor. I heard Jack return fire, but for a period of time I couldn't move or barely even catch my breath. I irrationally believed I was dying despite the precautions, and it was so stupid, when we had been aware of it all and we could have done things differently…

"Renee, look at me," Jack said, and I heard fear in his tone, an unprotected, fully vulnerable, core-of-his-being terror that made me open the eyes I hadn't even realized I'd closed. There was blood on his hands and on his shirt, and in an instant I was certain that my vest hadn't worked. I knew it was over; I knew… "It's mine," he said, and I understood that, with a pain that hurt more than the bullets had.

"What?" I asked, but he swept me up in his arms. My vision started to gray out and I realized then that I was indeed seriously wounded after all; blood was pouring down my leg, but it didn't matter; all I could see through my dimming vision were the blood stains on Jack's shirt. "Jack, are you…"

"We have to go," he said, moving as fast as he could with me in his arms. I remembered something about the femoral artery, saw a picture of it from some old text book in my mind, but I soon lost that image, along with time, sensation, and consciousness.