Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.
He could have chosen any number of instruments. He could have bound her hands, left her defenseless; surely she deserves this, and worse. It would not have been punishment for what she's done to him again and again over the years, but for allowing herself to believe that their past could ever be set aside in the name of something that should have transcended every last corner of it.
She's been asleep, and he could have taken the upper hand. She might have let him if he'd tried, but he didn't. He waited. Perhaps that is a sign of something substituted for respect: the final climax of a history so arduous to relive that it has often been easier for both to pretend some of it happened and the rest of it never did. She's betrayed him six ways to Sunday and she'd do it again tomorrow. He's held on to the woman she never was so hard that after all this time, she's suffocated inside his memory, withered away and died. Now he's coming after her, finally understanding she's the woman she's always truly been, and for the first time her heartbeat betrays her as he approaches.
Her head is slightly sore, but she'll forgive him the first blow. Maybe the second, too, if he gets one in. She wishes it had never come down to this, but now that it has there's only one way to end it, Sydney be damned. She's experienced when it comes to loss; she'll get through it.
"My sister, Jack?" she asks with a slight smile, as he slides open the door of her cell. She can't tell exactly where she is, but it doesn't matter. It appears he's been planning this confrontation for some time. No one will be around to bear witness to what occurs here today.
He shrugs. "The fact that she was your sister was inconsequential."
Head down, eyes up. Is that the truth? "For you, perhaps; never for her."
"I'm not particularly interested in delving into Derevko family dynamics," he says.
She stands up, folds her arms across her chest. "What are you interested in, then? What do you want?" A bitter laugh. "Let me guess, Sydney's in trouble."
He shifts his weight. "You realize you have no right to chastise me about either what I've done to Sydney or what I've done with Katya, considering."
"Do I have the right to be angry about the way you've used me, at least?"
"Not really." He holds her gaze. "Are you ready?"
"I'm unarmed," she says, as if he is a very small child.
He feigns innocence. "You don't say."
"What is this really about? Something that happened twenty-five years ago, or longer ago than that? Honestly, Jack, I'd expect better from you."
"Why should I give a damn about your expectations, when you obviously never cared about mine?"
She fights the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she sighs. "Should I bother to defend myself, or would you prefer if I just stood still?"
"You don't have anything else to say?"
"You honestly want an apology? Or perhaps I should plead for my life? No, I don't have anything else to say."
His eyes narrow. "I loved you, you know."
"You didn't know me," she says gently. "You never really did."
"Well, I guess that's the heart of the matter, isn't it?" he asks, closing the distance between them. "I don't know you. And you clearly don't know me."
With that, he comes at her artlessly with a concealed blade, and all of her speculation about how she might react drains away. She lets her body fall, doesn't try to struggle, to get away or lash back. He kneels beside her and presses the sharp edge against her neck.
"Finish it. Go ahead," she urges, and for once she isn't taunting him. She's giving him permission.
Perhaps this is the closest she'll ever come to an apology.
His face is close to hers. "Fuck," he breathes, to himself, not to her; it's neither an epithet nor a command. He's confessed what she didn't realize she's always known: he can't kill Laura Bristow with his own hands, not like this, no matter how many times he's envisioned the scenario. He can't kill her, because she isn't fighting back. She bites the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.
"Jack," she says, reaching out to touch his face. The blade's against her throat, but no longer a threat.
He backs off abruptly, heading for the door. She remains on the floor, looking up at him.
"Get out of here." He keeps his tone low.
"I'm sorry," she says, and they both know she means: I'm sorry you can't go through with it.
He doesn't look at her. "I'll make sure Sydney won't hesitate."
"Okay," she says.
He leaves without a second glance.
Some time later, she heads outside, into the blinding daylight, slightly worse for wear but still breathing.
It's finally over.
She might cry, if she cared.
"I'll be there in a few hours," she says, surveying her surroundings. He summoned her to their usual meeting-place in this part of the country, took advantage of her complacency, and transported her here; there's no telling how far this house is from where she met him. She leans against the doorway. "I was delayed."
She tries not to notice the disappointment in Katya's voice when she asks, "Is everything okay?"
"No." She pauses. "I have to go."
She has the impulsive desire to chase after him, pull this feeling from her chest and share this discovery with him. Look, she would say, I feel this, because of you. What does that mean?
Instead she starts walking down the gravel path, toward the road; she'll find her way to the car, and the airport after that.
Her life will go on.
For now, at least.
end
He could have chosen any number of instruments. He could have bound her hands, left her defenseless; surely she deserves this, and worse. It would not have been punishment for what she's done to him again and again over the years, but for allowing herself to believe that their past could ever be set aside in the name of something that should have transcended every last corner of it.
She's been asleep, and he could have taken the upper hand. She might have let him if he'd tried, but he didn't. He waited. Perhaps that is a sign of something substituted for respect: the final climax of a history so arduous to relive that it has often been easier for both to pretend some of it happened and the rest of it never did. She's betrayed him six ways to Sunday and she'd do it again tomorrow. He's held on to the woman she never was so hard that after all this time, she's suffocated inside his memory, withered away and died. Now he's coming after her, finally understanding she's the woman she's always truly been, and for the first time her heartbeat betrays her as he approaches.
Her head is slightly sore, but she'll forgive him the first blow. Maybe the second, too, if he gets one in. She wishes it had never come down to this, but now that it has there's only one way to end it, Sydney be damned. She's experienced when it comes to loss; she'll get through it.
"My sister, Jack?" she asks with a slight smile, as he slides open the door of her cell. She can't tell exactly where she is, but it doesn't matter. It appears he's been planning this confrontation for some time. No one will be around to bear witness to what occurs here today.
He shrugs. "The fact that she was your sister was inconsequential."
Head down, eyes up. Is that the truth? "For you, perhaps; never for her."
"I'm not particularly interested in delving into Derevko family dynamics," he says.
She stands up, folds her arms across her chest. "What are you interested in, then? What do you want?" A bitter laugh. "Let me guess, Sydney's in trouble."
He shifts his weight. "You realize you have no right to chastise me about either what I've done to Sydney or what I've done with Katya, considering."
"Do I have the right to be angry about the way you've used me, at least?"
"Not really." He holds her gaze. "Are you ready?"
"I'm unarmed," she says, as if he is a very small child.
He feigns innocence. "You don't say."
"What is this really about? Something that happened twenty-five years ago, or longer ago than that? Honestly, Jack, I'd expect better from you."
"Why should I give a damn about your expectations, when you obviously never cared about mine?"
She fights the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she sighs. "Should I bother to defend myself, or would you prefer if I just stood still?"
"You don't have anything else to say?"
"You honestly want an apology? Or perhaps I should plead for my life? No, I don't have anything else to say."
His eyes narrow. "I loved you, you know."
"You didn't know me," she says gently. "You never really did."
"Well, I guess that's the heart of the matter, isn't it?" he asks, closing the distance between them. "I don't know you. And you clearly don't know me."
With that, he comes at her artlessly with a concealed blade, and all of her speculation about how she might react drains away. She lets her body fall, doesn't try to struggle, to get away or lash back. He kneels beside her and presses the sharp edge against her neck.
"Finish it. Go ahead," she urges, and for once she isn't taunting him. She's giving him permission.
Perhaps this is the closest she'll ever come to an apology.
His face is close to hers. "Fuck," he breathes, to himself, not to her; it's neither an epithet nor a command. He's confessed what she didn't realize she's always known: he can't kill Laura Bristow with his own hands, not like this, no matter how many times he's envisioned the scenario. He can't kill her, because she isn't fighting back. She bites the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.
"Jack," she says, reaching out to touch his face. The blade's against her throat, but no longer a threat.
He backs off abruptly, heading for the door. She remains on the floor, looking up at him.
"Get out of here." He keeps his tone low.
"I'm sorry," she says, and they both know she means: I'm sorry you can't go through with it.
He doesn't look at her. "I'll make sure Sydney won't hesitate."
"Okay," she says.
He leaves without a second glance.
Some time later, she heads outside, into the blinding daylight, slightly worse for wear but still breathing.
It's finally over.
She might cry, if she cared.
"I'll be there in a few hours," she says, surveying her surroundings. He summoned her to their usual meeting-place in this part of the country, took advantage of her complacency, and transported her here; there's no telling how far this house is from where she met him. She leans against the doorway. "I was delayed."
She tries not to notice the disappointment in Katya's voice when she asks, "Is everything okay?"
"No." She pauses. "I have to go."
She has the impulsive desire to chase after him, pull this feeling from her chest and share this discovery with him. Look, she would say, I feel this, because of you. What does that mean?
Instead she starts walking down the gravel path, toward the road; she'll find her way to the car, and the airport after that.
Her life will go on.
For now, at least.
end