A/N: After watching one too many episodes of The Office (see You Tube "/watch?v=f394LXDqFuc" for the full KGB joke) and continually associating the word KGB with Alias, I was bitten by this particular plot bunny early in the morning. Setting is between S2 and S3. Hope you enjoy!
Jack Bristow has always disliked conventional humor. The inane setup or obvious wordplay of a "knock-knock" or "a guy walks into a bar…" joke contains very little wit in his eyes.
He does, however, possess an abundant appreciation for irony. The majority of his colleagues have yet to discover this, preferring to believe he simply lacks the capacity to tell jokes. Such oblivion unfortunately speaks volumes about their abilities as intelligence agents.
Throughout his career, Jack has learned to see beyond disparate projections of a person's image versus their true self. In game theory, for instance, a target's proper nature bears uncovering, in order to better understand that person's central motivations and, therefore, probable actions. What better position than an analyst to appreciate the wry work of irony on so many peoples' lives?
If there's any single lesson he's learned from thirty years of intelligence work, it's that irony represents the one constant in his life, personally and professionally.
Two raps at the door guide his thoughts back to the present. Precisely twenty seconds later, another two knocks. His contact has arrived. Jack moves into the hallway of his hotel suite, gun drawn, listening for obvious signs of trouble (quick footsteps, muffled whispers, the slow click of a disengaged thumb safety.) He hears none, and proceeds with the established protocol.
"Who's there?"
"KGB," a low voice replies. Jack frowns. This is not the agreed-upon reply.
He continues, regardless. "KGB who?" he returns, deadpan. Closer to the door, Jack catches the faint, distinctive scent of amber perfume.
A muffled noise of irritation issues from the woman on the other side. She's always been impatient. "Come on, Jack. Let me in."
"KGB who?" he persists, sarcasm in his voice.
The door handle rattles loudly in answer; instead of jumping to the defense, Jack steps backwards and lowers his weapon. Impatient is perhaps too indulgent a description.
Wielding a hairpin and an ink nib in one hand, and a briefcase in the other, Irina Derevko stands in the doorway within five seconds. She smirks triumphantly as she breezes inside.
Pocketing his gun, Jack levels his ex-wife's gaze with an un-amused expression as he locks the deadbolt. This marks the third time she's purposefully broken their protocol. He'll have to think of something she's less prone to improvise.
The corners of her mouth quirk upward again; this time in a knowing grin. "The KGB will wait for no one," she drawls, tapping her fingertips to his cheek in a playful slap.
Taking the ink nib from her and activating the frequency jammer, Jack allows himself a small chuckle. "I'm shocked. Truly. They seemed so pleasant,"
Irina shakes her head in mock disgust. "Always so droll," she purrs, kissing him all too briefly before taking a seat at the table and opening her briefcase. "Now, to business…"
A popular writer once remarked that irony is not without a sense of humor. Unbeknownst to his colleagues, neither is Jack Bristow. Even when it comes to his ex-wife.