Title: Genesis
Author: wolfish
Rating: um, let's say PG
Timeline: Pre-series, so no spoilers here
Ship: In its weird, twisted way, it's sort of Jack/Irina
Summary: Before everything else, there was Irina, and one night, and one decision that made it all possible...
Disclaimer: If I owned Alias I wouldn't be writing this, so (for now) it belongs to the genius that is J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot productions, Touchstone and ABC
Distribution: FF.net, CM, and anyone else who wants it, just tell me so I can come and stare lovingly at it.
A/N: This was inspired by and written for CM's April challenge, but I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I do, so don't forget to gift me with a little feedback. Oh, and all my love to the readers of my WIP, The Trouble with Double Agents.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires.
--from "Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens
That night that made it all possible, that one event that set thousands more into motion, that point of origin, that genesis, wasn't a dark and stormy night, but it should have been.
It was only dark, outside in the alley, that perfect dark that blooms just after dusk, washing the sky in a heartbreakingly flawless shade of blue that's only a breath way from being black. The moon was markedly absent, abandoning the stars to light the dome of heaven by themselves, the gorgeous, endless stretch of stars spreading out beyond the horizon into a future she couldn't discern, alone again. It was a night like that you could almost believe in a God.
Yet Irina wasn't allowed to believe in God. There was no god but THEM, the shifting, faceless mass of superiors that gave her orders. And there was no mother but Russia.
But by some fluke of providence, she had become someone's mother.
She braced her feet agilely on the toilet seat and planted her palms on the wall, stretching upwards so that she could reach the single undersized window in the restaurant bathroom. She rested her chin on the brick sill and crushed her cheek desperately against the cool glass, greedily drinking in the barest breeze that seeped through a crack in the mortar and savoring the scents it brought her from the night beyond.
For a short time she entertained the thought that if she pushed hard enough she could break through the barrier of the windowpane, then she would squeeze delicately through the space it had occupied and lower herself gently, so gently down to the alley behind the tiny eatery that Jack had chosen for dinner that night. Once she had her legs firmly on the ground, she would pause for a moment, unsure of which direction to take, before she turned her face to the wind and ran as far away as her feet would take her, to the uttermost corner of the earth where she was finally beyond THEIR reach.
She could almost taste the freedom in the air leaking through the gap.
Then she shredded those dreams, tore them apart thread by thread, stored them away in place where they couldn't tempt her anymore. THEY would find her no matter where she went, THEY always found her.
She lowered herself back down to solid ground when she suddenly found that her knees had given out inexplicably beneath her, one hand still propped against the wall to prevent her from tumbling to the floor in a motion devoid of her usual grace. She clung to her support for a little longer, steadying herself, then shoved her chin up into the stifling, oppressive air that saturated the cramped restroom and powered through the stall door in a flurry of refinement. There was no one there to see her, though, the whole place was deserted of anyone that would witness her moment of frailty, so she let her shoulders droop again and her footsteps trail across the unsightly yellow linoleum. She was young after all, younger than she had told Jack, younger than she had told THEM, too young to cope with the decision that had dropped so inadvertently on to her.
But Irina Derevko had never once refused a challenge.
She wrenched the rusted knob with more strength than the task required, delivering a formidable stream of clear, pure water into the cracked basin of the sink. She watched it run for a minute, countless drops of liquid splintering into thousands more as they thwacked against the surface of the bowl to produce the sound that only gushing water can make, an incessant torrent all facing the same fate as they were inevitably dragged with rest down the drain. She plunged her hand under the facet, interrupting the flow and sending droplets flying around the room in directions they had never been before. She brought the gathering pool in the cup of her hands up to her face, smoothing the chilly water across her feverish skin, and looked directly up at her likeness in the mirror, watching the beads of moisture roll down to gather at the tip of her jaw, washing away all the emotion in their path.
Emotion can only get you killed; but logic, cold, sweet logic has saved countless lives, and it would save hers as well. In her restricted world, everything could be explained with a little science.
Newton's third law: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. She could remember the tutor that had taught her that; he was one of THEM, a small, delicate man with high, fragile cheekbones, a pointed chin, and brittle pale blue eyes that threw off light like glass. She had always wanted to break those eyes like she had the window in the bathroom, cause them to smash into millions of broken slices like a china vase hitting the floor.
...For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Well, they had certainly been through the actions, trivial actions, so meaningless to her, but the reaction was so colossal and momentous it was threatening to engulf her life. They must have pressed hard that time, because she had felt the consequences rebound in her stomach so ruthlessly that she had been forced to hurriedly excuse herself from the table and rush to the restroom where she had violently purged her body of all she had eaten that day. She wanted to hated him for what was happening to her, the way she was losing control of her own self, but she knew deep down it was her fault, somewhere along the way she had slipped up because of her inability to foresee this ever occurring.
So foolish, Irina. So thoughtless to have survived this long.
She ripped off a sheet of paper towels and dabbed at her face, ensuring that her complexion returned to normal, and arranged her hair with her fingers, shoving it back into place behind her ears. She knotted the used paper into a tiny ball and disposed of it in the conveniently placed trashcan.
She knew she should terminate the pregnancy, it would be easier on her to kill it now instead of later on, and it would be easier to explain the miscarriage to her distraught husband; that's what THEY would tell her to do. A child is a weakness, a liability she can't afford to have dragging her down with it, and another pair of eyes around the house to discover her deception. Then again, a child would increase her hold over Jack, tie him all the more to her, and strengthen her illusion of a happy family.
The only glitch was that pretending to be a person that long, you start to take on their qualities, their mannerisms, their feelings; you get lost in the illusion, the fantasy of it all and you begin forget who you were before. A baby would only make that incentive to go astray stronger.
She ran her hands over her skirt and blouse, flattening out the wrinkles, but when they hit her midriff, her fingers ceased their journey to probe tenderly; she was almost certain she felt a swelling there, in spite of the fact that it was impossible at this early stage.
No matter what excuses she invents for THEM as to the benefits of this baby, in reality she needed it for selfish reasons. She wanted all THEY had denied her, she wanted a family regardless of how counterfeit it was; she wanted a clean slate, someone who wouldn't judge her on what she had done but what she had become for this assignment, she wanted unconditional love. She wanted it to have his eyes and her smile, she wanted to have a second chance at the life she was living in this little creature, and this time she would seize all the opportunities she should have taken.
She gave her reflection one more scrutinizing glance before she decided she was ready to face Jack again. She straightened her spine and jammed the door open with one foot, the cooler air from inside the restaurant instantly hitting the sweat clinging to her skin and sending a shiver all the way through her. She could see him from where she stood, the door swinging closed against her back, his dark head was bent broodingly over his plate of food and his fingers traced unrecognizable symbols into the condensation on his glass. She suffered the habitual wave of repulsion the first view of him always washed over every inch of her; she loathed him for being such easy prey, so effortless to con, sometimes she imagined throwing her arms open and screaming at him, 'This is me, the real me. I'm the enemy, your worst nightmare. Why can't you see yet?' She hated him for being so irresistibly pitiful.
And she didn't hate him at all. He was an honorable soul, a man who loved his wife and his country, and who was she to blame him for that?
He was so sensitized to her presence by now he knew that she was watching him and lifted his face to the light, but there were no secret government plans hidden in his eyes, only a profound, resonant concern for her that nearly swept her away. If only for this one time, she wanted to give the unfortunate man something real in return for his untiring affections.
He held out his hand to her even as she slid across the slick leather seat of the booth to huddle against his unyielding side. "You were in there a long time." His voice was matter-of-fact as always, but the slightest tinge of passion softened its edge every time he spoke to Laura. His eyebrows drew together as he studied her with a doctor's concentration, "Is something wrong?"
"You know everything, Jack. You tell me." Laura was mischievously teasing her husband, but Irina was throwing up her last line of defense, stalling that crucial instant that would redirect the whole course of her life. For a moment, she was swamped with images of what THEY would do to her when THEY uncovered the decision she had made without authorization, and she almost changed her mind--almost.
"Laura," he growled, fastening her with a glare that was ruined by the crooked smile slanting his thin lips; it would only be after she was gone that he would at last perfect his menacing expression. "I have ways of making you tell me."
Laura laughed because she thought Jack was joking; Irina laughed because she knew it to be truth. She had found it once as she had been ruffling through his briefcase--sodium pentothal, truth serum--and she had been forced to envision a scenario in which he would find it requisite to use it on her. But he wouldn't ever be able to hurt something he loved really, wouldn't be able to harm her when it came down to it; underneath his thick skin, Jack was soft, sentimental. She would teach him a lesson one of these days, though, a lesson she had learned early: emotions are weaknesses, and the weak are the first to die.
On an impulse, Irina--not Laura--kissed him, grabbing him a little viciously by the ears as she tugged his head down to hers, mashing their lips together in an inexpert but nevertheless eager meeting. He was taken aback as her fingernail jolted and drew a line of blood, but he eventually dissolved into the embrace, entranced by the new side of her he was uncovering. When he was finally free to draw ragged breaths, he dragged a hand through his hair and regarded her out of the corner of his eye with a glint of awe.
Slowly, unconsciously, Irina began to map out the length of his arm with her fingers, every maddeningly light stroke revealing a fondness she wasn't allowed to feel. But when she realized what she was doing she didn't stop; this night had inspired something novel in her, sparked a rebellion in her soul. Instead, she fanned the fire, replacing her fingers with lips briefly as she reached the back of his hand, unwilling to let this particular flame expire. Rebellion would be the means of withstanding the control THEY held over her, to ruling her self. This baby, this rebellion was her key to freedom.
"What was that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice still unsteady and worship falling from his forthright stare. She had no reason to sense an absence of God anymore; why did she need a god when she could be his goddess?
In the weighty hush that followed his words, she clutched at her last opportunity to stop this, to preserve this life the way it was.
She smiled a smile that was neither Laura's nor Irina's, but belonged to someone who was both women. This time, she would give him the truth for the first instance in all the while she'd known him; hell, it wasn't like she was going to make a habit of it.
"I'm pregnant."
She held his eyes as long as she could stand the sight of the unabashed joy and wonderment and pride blended in concert there, then she dropped her gaze to her lap. His arm wound around her shoulders, enticing her closer to him, making it impossible for her to ignore how neatly they fit together, as he planted doting kisses in the arrogant arch of her neck. She wrapped her own arms around her abdomen, cradling the minute spark of life only just arising there.
Welcome, baby, she told her unborn child silently on a link that only the two of them could share, Welcome to my world.
That was the beginning of it all, and the beginning is always where it ends.
Author: wolfish
Rating: um, let's say PG
Timeline: Pre-series, so no spoilers here
Ship: In its weird, twisted way, it's sort of Jack/Irina
Summary: Before everything else, there was Irina, and one night, and one decision that made it all possible...
Disclaimer: If I owned Alias I wouldn't be writing this, so (for now) it belongs to the genius that is J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot productions, Touchstone and ABC
Distribution: FF.net, CM, and anyone else who wants it, just tell me so I can come and stare lovingly at it.
A/N: This was inspired by and written for CM's April challenge, but I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I do, so don't forget to gift me with a little feedback. Oh, and all my love to the readers of my WIP, The Trouble with Double Agents.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires.
--from "Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens
That night that made it all possible, that one event that set thousands more into motion, that point of origin, that genesis, wasn't a dark and stormy night, but it should have been.
It was only dark, outside in the alley, that perfect dark that blooms just after dusk, washing the sky in a heartbreakingly flawless shade of blue that's only a breath way from being black. The moon was markedly absent, abandoning the stars to light the dome of heaven by themselves, the gorgeous, endless stretch of stars spreading out beyond the horizon into a future she couldn't discern, alone again. It was a night like that you could almost believe in a God.
Yet Irina wasn't allowed to believe in God. There was no god but THEM, the shifting, faceless mass of superiors that gave her orders. And there was no mother but Russia.
But by some fluke of providence, she had become someone's mother.
She braced her feet agilely on the toilet seat and planted her palms on the wall, stretching upwards so that she could reach the single undersized window in the restaurant bathroom. She rested her chin on the brick sill and crushed her cheek desperately against the cool glass, greedily drinking in the barest breeze that seeped through a crack in the mortar and savoring the scents it brought her from the night beyond.
For a short time she entertained the thought that if she pushed hard enough she could break through the barrier of the windowpane, then she would squeeze delicately through the space it had occupied and lower herself gently, so gently down to the alley behind the tiny eatery that Jack had chosen for dinner that night. Once she had her legs firmly on the ground, she would pause for a moment, unsure of which direction to take, before she turned her face to the wind and ran as far away as her feet would take her, to the uttermost corner of the earth where she was finally beyond THEIR reach.
She could almost taste the freedom in the air leaking through the gap.
Then she shredded those dreams, tore them apart thread by thread, stored them away in place where they couldn't tempt her anymore. THEY would find her no matter where she went, THEY always found her.
She lowered herself back down to solid ground when she suddenly found that her knees had given out inexplicably beneath her, one hand still propped against the wall to prevent her from tumbling to the floor in a motion devoid of her usual grace. She clung to her support for a little longer, steadying herself, then shoved her chin up into the stifling, oppressive air that saturated the cramped restroom and powered through the stall door in a flurry of refinement. There was no one there to see her, though, the whole place was deserted of anyone that would witness her moment of frailty, so she let her shoulders droop again and her footsteps trail across the unsightly yellow linoleum. She was young after all, younger than she had told Jack, younger than she had told THEM, too young to cope with the decision that had dropped so inadvertently on to her.
But Irina Derevko had never once refused a challenge.
She wrenched the rusted knob with more strength than the task required, delivering a formidable stream of clear, pure water into the cracked basin of the sink. She watched it run for a minute, countless drops of liquid splintering into thousands more as they thwacked against the surface of the bowl to produce the sound that only gushing water can make, an incessant torrent all facing the same fate as they were inevitably dragged with rest down the drain. She plunged her hand under the facet, interrupting the flow and sending droplets flying around the room in directions they had never been before. She brought the gathering pool in the cup of her hands up to her face, smoothing the chilly water across her feverish skin, and looked directly up at her likeness in the mirror, watching the beads of moisture roll down to gather at the tip of her jaw, washing away all the emotion in their path.
Emotion can only get you killed; but logic, cold, sweet logic has saved countless lives, and it would save hers as well. In her restricted world, everything could be explained with a little science.
Newton's third law: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. She could remember the tutor that had taught her that; he was one of THEM, a small, delicate man with high, fragile cheekbones, a pointed chin, and brittle pale blue eyes that threw off light like glass. She had always wanted to break those eyes like she had the window in the bathroom, cause them to smash into millions of broken slices like a china vase hitting the floor.
...For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Well, they had certainly been through the actions, trivial actions, so meaningless to her, but the reaction was so colossal and momentous it was threatening to engulf her life. They must have pressed hard that time, because she had felt the consequences rebound in her stomach so ruthlessly that she had been forced to hurriedly excuse herself from the table and rush to the restroom where she had violently purged her body of all she had eaten that day. She wanted to hated him for what was happening to her, the way she was losing control of her own self, but she knew deep down it was her fault, somewhere along the way she had slipped up because of her inability to foresee this ever occurring.
So foolish, Irina. So thoughtless to have survived this long.
She ripped off a sheet of paper towels and dabbed at her face, ensuring that her complexion returned to normal, and arranged her hair with her fingers, shoving it back into place behind her ears. She knotted the used paper into a tiny ball and disposed of it in the conveniently placed trashcan.
She knew she should terminate the pregnancy, it would be easier on her to kill it now instead of later on, and it would be easier to explain the miscarriage to her distraught husband; that's what THEY would tell her to do. A child is a weakness, a liability she can't afford to have dragging her down with it, and another pair of eyes around the house to discover her deception. Then again, a child would increase her hold over Jack, tie him all the more to her, and strengthen her illusion of a happy family.
The only glitch was that pretending to be a person that long, you start to take on their qualities, their mannerisms, their feelings; you get lost in the illusion, the fantasy of it all and you begin forget who you were before. A baby would only make that incentive to go astray stronger.
She ran her hands over her skirt and blouse, flattening out the wrinkles, but when they hit her midriff, her fingers ceased their journey to probe tenderly; she was almost certain she felt a swelling there, in spite of the fact that it was impossible at this early stage.
No matter what excuses she invents for THEM as to the benefits of this baby, in reality she needed it for selfish reasons. She wanted all THEY had denied her, she wanted a family regardless of how counterfeit it was; she wanted a clean slate, someone who wouldn't judge her on what she had done but what she had become for this assignment, she wanted unconditional love. She wanted it to have his eyes and her smile, she wanted to have a second chance at the life she was living in this little creature, and this time she would seize all the opportunities she should have taken.
She gave her reflection one more scrutinizing glance before she decided she was ready to face Jack again. She straightened her spine and jammed the door open with one foot, the cooler air from inside the restaurant instantly hitting the sweat clinging to her skin and sending a shiver all the way through her. She could see him from where she stood, the door swinging closed against her back, his dark head was bent broodingly over his plate of food and his fingers traced unrecognizable symbols into the condensation on his glass. She suffered the habitual wave of repulsion the first view of him always washed over every inch of her; she loathed him for being such easy prey, so effortless to con, sometimes she imagined throwing her arms open and screaming at him, 'This is me, the real me. I'm the enemy, your worst nightmare. Why can't you see yet?' She hated him for being so irresistibly pitiful.
And she didn't hate him at all. He was an honorable soul, a man who loved his wife and his country, and who was she to blame him for that?
He was so sensitized to her presence by now he knew that she was watching him and lifted his face to the light, but there were no secret government plans hidden in his eyes, only a profound, resonant concern for her that nearly swept her away. If only for this one time, she wanted to give the unfortunate man something real in return for his untiring affections.
He held out his hand to her even as she slid across the slick leather seat of the booth to huddle against his unyielding side. "You were in there a long time." His voice was matter-of-fact as always, but the slightest tinge of passion softened its edge every time he spoke to Laura. His eyebrows drew together as he studied her with a doctor's concentration, "Is something wrong?"
"You know everything, Jack. You tell me." Laura was mischievously teasing her husband, but Irina was throwing up her last line of defense, stalling that crucial instant that would redirect the whole course of her life. For a moment, she was swamped with images of what THEY would do to her when THEY uncovered the decision she had made without authorization, and she almost changed her mind--almost.
"Laura," he growled, fastening her with a glare that was ruined by the crooked smile slanting his thin lips; it would only be after she was gone that he would at last perfect his menacing expression. "I have ways of making you tell me."
Laura laughed because she thought Jack was joking; Irina laughed because she knew it to be truth. She had found it once as she had been ruffling through his briefcase--sodium pentothal, truth serum--and she had been forced to envision a scenario in which he would find it requisite to use it on her. But he wouldn't ever be able to hurt something he loved really, wouldn't be able to harm her when it came down to it; underneath his thick skin, Jack was soft, sentimental. She would teach him a lesson one of these days, though, a lesson she had learned early: emotions are weaknesses, and the weak are the first to die.
On an impulse, Irina--not Laura--kissed him, grabbing him a little viciously by the ears as she tugged his head down to hers, mashing their lips together in an inexpert but nevertheless eager meeting. He was taken aback as her fingernail jolted and drew a line of blood, but he eventually dissolved into the embrace, entranced by the new side of her he was uncovering. When he was finally free to draw ragged breaths, he dragged a hand through his hair and regarded her out of the corner of his eye with a glint of awe.
Slowly, unconsciously, Irina began to map out the length of his arm with her fingers, every maddeningly light stroke revealing a fondness she wasn't allowed to feel. But when she realized what she was doing she didn't stop; this night had inspired something novel in her, sparked a rebellion in her soul. Instead, she fanned the fire, replacing her fingers with lips briefly as she reached the back of his hand, unwilling to let this particular flame expire. Rebellion would be the means of withstanding the control THEY held over her, to ruling her self. This baby, this rebellion was her key to freedom.
"What was that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice still unsteady and worship falling from his forthright stare. She had no reason to sense an absence of God anymore; why did she need a god when she could be his goddess?
In the weighty hush that followed his words, she clutched at her last opportunity to stop this, to preserve this life the way it was.
She smiled a smile that was neither Laura's nor Irina's, but belonged to someone who was both women. This time, she would give him the truth for the first instance in all the while she'd known him; hell, it wasn't like she was going to make a habit of it.
"I'm pregnant."
She held his eyes as long as she could stand the sight of the unabashed joy and wonderment and pride blended in concert there, then she dropped her gaze to her lap. His arm wound around her shoulders, enticing her closer to him, making it impossible for her to ignore how neatly they fit together, as he planted doting kisses in the arrogant arch of her neck. She wrapped her own arms around her abdomen, cradling the minute spark of life only just arising there.
Welcome, baby, she told her unborn child silently on a link that only the two of them could share, Welcome to my world.
That was the beginning of it all, and the beginning is always where it ends.