Evasion
By She's a Star
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams.
Author's Note: I borrowed the first two seasons of Alias from my friend, and got kind of hooked. As in, I did practically nothing for five days and was completely and utterly addicted. Hah! Food? Who needs it? Outside? What's that? Vanilla Coke? Good God, yes. (Hey – I didn't go completely insane.) And along with s2 came SpyMommy, and SpyMommy/SpyDaddy interaction, and let it be said that I was completely won over.
So, naturally, then come the fics. It's just the way it goes, dontcha know?
My marriage with Irina, in spite of everything, was a happy time for me. It was easy being with her. There were times, moments when I became curious. How had she occupied her morning? What were her plans when I was out of town? Usually she told me, but occasionally she'd stop what she was doing, walk over, and offer me a kiss. A spontaneous gesture. But on one occasion it struck me. This impulsive kiss, what if it was an evasion, camouflaging the truth in an expression of love? Of course, I dismissed my concern immediately . . . merely professional paranoia. After all, she was my wife.
-Jack, 3x18
It isn't suspicion, exactly. She decides this as she pours his coffee – the mug is chipped; Sydney had knocked it off the counter a few days before, resulting in nearly fifteen minutes of guilt-ridden tears. It had been a strange instance, stirring something melancholy from deep within her. Ridiculous, that such remorse could be felt over dropping a coffee mug. But Sydney is only four, after all. The clatter of porcelain hitting the floor, the potential of destruction – it is frightening, on some level. Irina thinks this; Laura pours her husband's coffee.
What a perfect little lie she's built herself here. Sometimes even she finds herself believing it.
He is looking at her differently this morning. Something's lit his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. The faintest hint of intrigue. Not suspicion, no.
Still, she figures she may as well be cautious.
"You're quiet," she comments as she sets the mug in front of him. He looks at it, at her hand; turns his gaze to her. She smiles and rests her fingertips against his shoulder for a moment before heading back to pour her own coffee.
"Where were you yesterday afternoon?"
Her heart seems to stop, for a second: panic seizes her, and she closes her eyes, thanking God that her back is to him. She takes a breath; swings open the cabinet and retrieves another coffee mug. Unchipped.
"Yesterday afternoon?" she repeats lightly, still turned away as she reaches for the coffee pot. This is nothing, she tells herself; tries to still her shaking hands. She can feel his eyes on her.
"Yes," he replies. "I came home; I wasn't needed at work and thought we might have a late lunch. You were out."
Part of her is almost overwhelmed with annoyance; she's played this role perfectly; he has no right to question her. The other is the reason her hands won't stop shaking. Another constructs a feigned memory – they'd been running low on laundry detergent; she'd had to run to the grocery store.
She turns to him with a smile. He is awaiting a response; his countenance makes that much clear.
Instead, she leans over the counter and kisses him. It isn't terribly impassioned; merely fleeting and soft, careless, a reminder – 'I love you. I am your wife.'
She pulls away and examines him for a split-second – she notes with relief that any trace of curiosity seems to have vanished. There's a faint smile playing at his mouth; his eyes are softened with affection.
"Lunch sounds nice," she murmurs, and runs her finger along the line of his jaw briefly. "I haven't seen you nearly enough lately."
"Work's been . . . demanding, as of late," he responds, and sighs. She feels a small surge of triumph. He has no reason to suspect her.
"Oh, of course," she says, and gives him a teasing smile. "You're probably involved with some other woman. Some gorgeous blonde," she decides after a moment of dramatized consideration. "With unnaturally long legs and terribly inappropriate clothing . . ."
"Damn it," he responds, and grins back at her. "I was sure you would never find out."
"You underestimate me, Mr. Bristow," she informs him, playfully coquettish.
He just laughs; can't even begin to detect whatever traces of truth there might be in that statement. She can't blame him, of course. She's thankful for it, in a way. It makes everything so much easier. It's the reason that she can lose herself sometimes, in moments like these.
He rises and encircles her wrist lightly with his fingers. "I'll see what I can do about lunch today."
"Wonderful," she says. She notices that he'd pushed the coffee mug to the right after he'd finished: it's dangerously close to the edge of the counter.
He kisses her forehead. "You'll be home today?"
"Yes," she responds. A small truth; they seem very rare sometimes. There's no doubt that the lies outweigh them. "Yes, I'll be home."
"All right then," he says; she straightens his tie, and he smiles down at her for a moment before pulling away. His arm absently brushes the counter – she knows what's going to happen a split-second before it occurs.
"Jack--" she says sharply, a warning, but there's no point in it. The coffee mug crashes down to the floor; shatters into dozens of shards of porcelain against the dark tile.
He swears under his breath, then looks up at her apologetically. "I'm sorry – do you want me to clean it up?"
She smiles at him. "I can handle it."
"Okay," he says, and glances down at the floor one last time, regretful, before stepping out of the kitchen.
"I love you," she calls after him; she hears a faint "you too, sweetheart" from the hall.
She stands for a moment, alone in this kitchen. Her kitchen. This is her house, and right now, this is her life. It's gratifying, of course, and a worthy cause – she's retrieved significant information, accomplished so much for her country. And yet on some level, it maddens her. It's exhausting, this constant pretending, this lovely little parody of the life she'd always expected, as a child, that she would have one day. She loves this man, and God, she loves her daughter.
And it feels like such a waste. Love will get her nowhere, after all. She's settled into all of this; she can make coffee just the way that Jack likes it and always makes a point of stopping in the children's section at the bookstore and signs this name that is and isn't hers in upright, careful cursive instead of the wispy, slanted script that she had always used before. And it is inevitable that the time will come when all of this will end.
It's a foolish, pointless distraction, to love them. Ultimately, it won't get her anywhere. She's perfectly aware of what is most important to her. She always has been.
It won't change. She knows that.
No matter what – it's simple, in that respect, and she enjoys that, if only because things so seldom are.
She takes in her surroundings: Sydney's drawings on the refrigerator, sloppily crafted Crayola giraffes and butterflies; a stack of early-edition Bronte novels with notes from Jack scribbled in the opening pages (small, effortless sorts of love letters) on the counter.
After a moment, she smiles a bit to herself and sinks to her knees, gathering the worthless shards in her palm.