Alias: Pillow Talk
by: domina tempore
Summary: He hadn't seen his wife in over twenty years. Seeing her again, he can't quite put his feelings of love and betrayal behind him.
Author's Notes: Okay, I'm a sucker for certain characters and relationships on this show; I can't help it. Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko...everything scene that they are in becomes practically golden. I love them, and watching them interact fascinates me. This fic happens…probably within the first minute of Jack seeing Irina after she gave herself up to the CIA. I was in the middle of that arch when I wrote this back in July; I was intrigued by the Bristow family and how the relationships were being portrayed, and I wanted to dig just a little... It's short and a little choppy, but I like it. (:
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"I miss the sound of your voice
I miss the rush of your skin
And I miss the still of the silence
As you breathe out and I breathe in…"
- Come on Get Higher
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For the first time in over twenty years, Jack faced his wife. They were separated by thick, shatter-proof glass that had been tested against practically everything, and she was perfectly still. He felt his heart swell as he remembered what they had once had together. There was not a day that went by that he didn't miss waking up with her beside him. He had loved her so much, and in spite of his best efforts he had never been able to completely let go of her after her supposed death. Seeing her here again gave him all kinds of feelings that he couldn't even begin to describe.
And then he remembered that she had lied to him. All the ways that she had lied and betrayed him, and the people she had killed. What she had done to their family, their daughter when she disappeared. He tried to focus on that anger, feelings of betrayal and hatred that would keep him strong when he was dealing with her. It didn't quite work. As hard as he tried, he couldn't shake the image of her across the pillow from him, smiling softly. The morning after we made Sydney, he brain identified that particular memory. A wave of emotion washed over him.
Somewhat shocked by his own weakness, he pushed that thought firmly away and glared at the woman looking back at him. Her face had an almost gentle sadness to it, something that he had never seen in her before. If he didn't know better, he would have believed that she regretted what she had done.
But this was Irina Derevko he was considering. She was former KGB; she was a sworn enemy. A liar and a traitor. Any sadness or apology was nothing more than an elaborate act to gain his trust before she stabbed him in the back again with a knife more permanent.
Jack Bristow was no fool. He had been burned too badly to make the mistake of trusting this woman a second time.
fin.