Author's Note: Just a quick one shot here, getting me back in the swing of JI fanfiction. I've had his one in mind for a while, and I'm so glad I finally got to put it to words. Enjoy and please leave any feedback you might have.
A Day In The Life
In the middle of the Paris International Airport, Jack Bristow reached out to take his wife's right hand in his left. He brought it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. Irina met his eyes, a happy smile teasing at her mouth.
This little show of affection was ignored by the crowd around them. People hurried by, eager to fly off to distant lands. No one paid attention to the two people who, despite every obstacle possible in their way, had given into their fate of living happily ever after. And for that one moment, as their eyes met, the world stopped. It was just the two of them. Jack and Irina, just as they had always wanted.
All of a sudden, Jack's eyes snapped away and narrowed dangerously. "Dixon," he said in a low voice.
Irina let go of his hand and grabbed her suitcase. It had been a while since they had run into anyone who would know them, but they had a standing plan in place for just this sort of event. "Two minutes." Jack nodded and took his own bag. They walked swiftly to the restrooms.
Once in the safety of the stall, Irina opened up her emergency bag of disguises. It didn't take her more than a few seconds to decide on her alias today. She pinned up her long brown hair and put on a short, curly blonde wig. She smirked into her small makeup mirror. Jack hated blondes. This was going to be fun. With gaudy red lipstick, a few well-placed beauty marks and a set of blue contacts, she looked nothing the Russian international crime lord she had once been. She found the correct passport to match her appearance and Brenda Lerner from Daton, Ohio emerged from the stall.
She left the bathroom exactly ninety seconds after she had entered. Jack came over a minute later, and it was all she could do to keep herself from laughing. "You're late," she whispered to the old, hunched man who joined her.
"I'm sorry, you know how long the facial hair takes to apply," he whispered back sourly.
Brenda took the old man's arm to help him shuffle toward the security checkpoint. "Yes, and you should have prepared for that."
"It was the eyebrows that really took the longest," he explained.
She examined his face. Behind enormous bifocal glasses was a pair of bushy gray eyebrows. She grimaced. "You know how much I hate that."
"And you know how much I hate that wig. We're even."
"I suppose. But now we have to look at each other like this for the next four hours."
He looked her up and down. "Then I guess I win, because you might be blonde, but you're still one good-looking lady," he said with a chuckle.
She playfully slapped his arm. "You dirty old man!"
He smirked once more before assuming his character completely. "Brenda, honey, could you hold my bag for me? It's just a little too heavy for these old arms of mine," he said in a loud, slightly high-pitched voice.
"Oh sure, Mr. Cruthers," she replied in her most sickly-sweet American accent.
A few feet ahead of them in line, Marcus Dixon looked back to see an old man with a scraggly beard in a tweed three piece suit being aided by a woman who looked the epitome of a white trash spinster. He wasn't the only one who noticed them. Everyone in line was distracted by the loud elderly American and his aide. Dixon had the nagging feeling he knew them. But why on earth would he recognize these two people?
Brenda presented the passports to the woman at the security desk. The woman had a very sour, judgmental expression on her face. But she was French, so that was probably just what her face looked like. "Billets, s'il vous plaît."
"Oh gosh!" Brenda exclaimed. "That means tickets, right? Shoot, I just had them. Do you have the tickets, Mr. Cruthers?" she said loudly to the supposedly hard of hearing man beside her.
"The tickets? I dunno, Brenda. Maybe they're in the bag."
Brenda bent down to rummage through the bags. She subtly rubbed her nose and Mr. Cruthers cleared his throat in response. He began coughing, banging his fist on the counter. Brenda called out for help and two other airport agents came to the old man's aide, patting him on the back and handing him a bottle of water.
Mr. Cruthers finally got his breath back just as Irina finished printing the new plane tickets with their new alias names from the machine in her bag. "I found the tickets, Mr. Cruthers!" Brenda exclaimed, handing them to the ticket agent. "Are you okay?"
The old man nodded, but Brenda continued to fuss over him, ignoring the security officers.
"Merci, monsieur. Vous pouvez aller maintenant," the woman said loudly.
"Does that mean we can go?" Brenda asked confusedly. The woman nodded. "Well gee, thanks!"
Their journey through security continued without a hitch. Although the agents did do a double take when they saw the frail Mr. Cruthers give his aide a squeeze on the bum and all she did was laugh heartily.
The End