Her fingers wrapped around the gun hidden in the holster underneath the table the second she heard the rattle of the hinges.
Leaning further back into her chair, Irina Derevko's expression revealed nothing, eyes narrowed sharply against the intruder, watching as the door shook slightly, before it eased open.
The gun fit easily in her palm, steady and straight as it pointed directly into the path of the intruder, right where his face would be in just a few short seconds.
Her breath was slow, even, every pulse in her body was in tune to her hand, just a slip of a finger, and he would be dead-
She was squeezing the trigger when a gray head came into view, and her breath suddenly became erratic, a low gasp emerging when she recognized her visitor.
Jack Bristow, arms full with two paper bags, gave a jerk in her direction, mouth opening slightly at the sight of her and her gun.
With a relieved sigh, she adjusted the safety, bringing her hand down and quickly depositing the weapon back in its slot. "You're late."
"Lovely to see you too, Irina," he retorted pleasantly. "Is that how you always treat your guests?"
"Six months and you have yet to learn not to sneak up on me?" she retorted, palm smoothing up the column of her neck to massage the muscles at the nape.
"I hardly call using the key you gave me 'sneaking'," he said.
Wonderful. He was late and cracking jokes. She had been worried sick, nearly blew his head off, and he seemed to think it was perfectly all right to be appropriately sarcastic.
Jack wore a grim expression, posture stiff as he held his bags. It only took a quick glance to understand. There was no news.
Six months and no closer to finding their daughter.
Shit.
The small moment of peace that came with the sight of Jack, alive and still free, dissipated with a flood of turmoil. There was nothing. Her daughter was alive, roaming the world, murdering and operational, and there was nothing they could find to track her down.
"Nothing, then?" Her tone was more final than inquisitive. Brown eyes locking with his, her glance was almost pleading, hoping against hope he would contradict her.
But Jack only sank down in her leather armchair, fingers rubbing against his temple as he let out a ragged sigh. "Nothing. Whoever it was was already gone when I got there." An invisible weight around his shoulders made them droop.
Was this the proud man she had married, so many years ago? Brought to his knees over a child?
Irina pushed away the traitorous thought almost immediately. KGB programming - damned effective. Even now, she acutely, unconsciously, catalogued his weaknesses, assessed them, filed them away as a possible means to break him.
Was she truly the devil then?
"I'll get you a drink," she managed. Pushing off the armchair, she wove around the desk, stopping at the bar to pull out a glass.
It was almost frightening, how easy it was to fall into this pattern, pretend they were partners instead of mortal enemies. Jack never forgot who she was, what she was capable of, but Irina did hold the same discipline with him. He was a weakness, and she understood that. It still made it no less difficult to remember that the moment they found his daughter, he would once again return to hating her.
And yet, there were moments when she could have sworn...
His gaze was on her, she could feel it, almost as acutely as heat sensors. Irina's glance back was met with a slow nod, a grim smile. It was all she would get from him, even after months.
She was fine with it.
With a breathless sigh, she came forward, depositing the scotch, neat, into his hands.
He took it without a word.
"You were late," she said again, purposely away from him so as to hide her expression. "Was there trouble?"
"There was a tail," he said slowly, heavily. "They almost had me for a second. They're waiting to find us together."
Of course they were. What better way to catch Irina Derevko than to find her consorting with their very own traitor. "You are playing with fire, Jack."
"I'd walk through it if it helped me get any closer to Sydney."
"And yet there was nothing."
"No. There was something, but it was not what we were looking for."
Turning toward him, Irina felt the thump in her heart that she had come to associate with hope. She had grown wary of it. It was almost always followed by disappointment. "What do you mean?"
"I'll explain later. Was there any luck with you?"
Managing a grim chuckle, Irina came forward, shaking her head slowly as she dipped into the seat beside him, now holding a drink of her own. "None. If my contacts are aware of her at all, Jack," she finished grimly. "They certainly are not sharing it with me."
"Surely there must be someone who knows..."
"Those who I have spoken to know better than to lie to me, Jack," she said matter-of-factly. Her glance was smoldering as she added, "They know what I would do."
Her husband was tired. Beautiful eyes hid their brilliance when he closed them, letting out a long, tired exhale as he relaxed, just for a moment, in her presence. It was new, to see this side of him.
She never realized she had missed it until he began to do it again.
"You're tired."
"I'm tired," he repeated. "I'm tired and angry and damn near a fugitive within my own operation." When he finally opened his eyes, there was a glint of anger, as he focused on her. "My daughter is out there who knows where becoming the one thing I hoped to God she would never become-"
God. Of course.
And there it was. Her disappointment. A low drop in the pit of her stomach that was physically painful.
This was the reason Irina fought to keep her darker half. The human Irina could not face what he believed her to be. It would have been easier, to take what he said as a compliment, to not hate herself.
It would have been so much easier to hate him for this feeling.
"Is that what you fear?" she asked quietly. "That she has become who I was?"
He said nothing at first, only glared at her with an angry scowl that was so reminiscent of their first glance after two decades of separation - utter hate.
"Who you are."
She had to smile. Granted, it was bitter, a phantom mimic of the genuine article, but it provided at least some protection against her withering heart. "If that is your fear, so be it. But I can assure you, Sydney would never consciously do what we believe she is doing."
"You don't think she's capable?"
"Oh, she is capable," she snapped. "Dammit, Jack, she is very capable. But she would never choose it. I know that."
The glass slammed down against the coffee table, sloshing scotch over her fingertips, onto the wood. Launching to her feet, she was prepared to move away from him, when he caught her around the wrist, holding her in place with a fierce grip.
"She is EXACTLY like you, Irina," he said slowly, intensely. "Why do you think I need you to help me? You KNOW what she is. Who she is. You can help me find her, because she is your DAUGHTER."
She could not dispute that. Sydney was indeed her daughter.
"You are right, Jack. She is my daughter. She knows my mistakes. She has been lied to, and beaten, and broken, and that is only by her parents. She is not a monster. She is in trouble, and I will find her. With or without you, I will find her, but if you decide to keep working with me, never, ever presume to judge me. I would never have made her like me. But you? You did."
Jerking her hand away, she did not wait for his reply. There was not much more she could take.
"Get out. When I have a lead, I will contact you."
Her trembling seemed almost impossible to control. It took two deep breaths, a whispered rebuke to her senses, to regain control.
The door closed, signaling his exit, and at that, she crumpled against the bar, palms catching the end for support.
It was dreadfully silent after his exit, but as she roved the room in an effort to concentrate on anything but her turmoil, she found the two paper bags he had left behind.
She had assumed they were plans, clothes, guns - anything Jack related usually had something to do with his work.
Inside there were roses, a bottle of wine, and strawberries.
She threw them away.
There was no understanding what they meant, and Irina would not guess.
--
The blast of gunfire created a momentary ring in her ear, as the kick back from the bolt shot the handle of the gun back into her palm.
But her view was clear, and her focus undeterred.
The man who fired first fell to the ground with a strangled yelp.
"JACK!" Her breathless cry was tinged with panic. Irina dared not look. Her eyes swept down the darkened cobblestone alley, listening intently for any sound that would indicate the presence of another shooter. It was a desperate moment, and her heart pounded so fast and so hard she was half-afraid that she would miss something dreadfully important because of her mounting concern.
A ragged moan behind her finally gave her an opportunity to breathe. "I'm allright, I'm allright!"
Dropping her hand down, Irina took a final sweep of the alley before stepping backwards, holstering her weapon and searching.
She found him ten feet away, splayed out on the wet stone, palm pressing on a wound on his shoulder, face frozen in a rough grimace.
"Oh my God," she whispered, kneeling down beside him, tearing his hand from the wound. "Were you badly hit?"
"It's a flesh wound," he answered, intense as he tried to shrug her off. "I'm fine, Irina."
"I don't care if you are or not, Jack, we need to get out of here."
"Finally, something we agree on," he managed, throwing her a tight smile.
"Can you move at all?"
"I said I was fine-"
She ignored his yelp of protest, throwing his arm around her shoulder. With gritted teeth, she pushed up, maintaining his weight as he righted himself. "Terribly nice of the CIA to shoot at their own agent," she growled, hobbling with him.
"Oh, darling, trust me, they were just trying to kill you. Would you rather they be yours?"
"I have no affiliation, Jack. And if I did? You would be dead. They would not miss."
--
He shuddered, a low groan rumbling from his throat, sending vibrations across his bare chest, tickling her fingers.
Her hands stilled.
"That hurt?" she asked, voice low.
"I'll be fine."
A roll of her eyes and a small tap against his shoulder indicated her frustration. "I didn't ask if you were fine, I asked if it hurt."
"It's nothing."
Eyebrow arching in reaction, she shook her head, clucking her tongue as she reached for a clean gauze, keeping pressure on the wound. "I've heard that before."
He had the temper of a grumpy bear woken during hibernation. Craning his neck to half growl at her, his look was curiously intense. "What does that mean?"
Irina smirked slightly, opening her legs wider to come closer to his body, his skin's warmth spreading to her own as her leather pants absorbed his heat. In the flickering firelight, his face was a plane of shadows, and it wasn't hard to remember his younger self with the same expression.
"Simply that the last time you used that expression with me, I ended up rushing you to the hospital in the middle of the night, the night before I was due to give a final to my students."
Reminiscing was probably not what he had in mind. Even if her voice slurred with amusement, he stiffened under her ministrations, taking in a short breath. Irina bit her lip, kept working, keeping silent.
It was a surprise when he relaxed, venturing a smile on his face as he answered quietly, "I didn't know I was that allergic to dandelions."
"Which begged the question, what man in his right mind would actually eat them?"
"I was trying to teach Sydney an important survival lesson!"
Bursting out into a short laugh, she retorted, "You did. I guarantee you she never ate another dandelion again."
It was a warm silence that followed, almost awkward in it's presence. She would never associate her meetings with Jack to be anything but frigid and cold. And yet...
She patted his shoulder, tracing the line of the gauze with her fingertips. "There you are. All better."
With a grimace, he tested his arm, feeling the bandage with his free hand. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome." Arms still splayed open, he was almost too comfortable in her pseudo embrace. When he turned to lock into her glance, she found herself shuddering, moving back to gather her medical supplies, before taking a breath. "Those were your people, Jack."
His face immediately grew impassive, hard. "No, they were NSC."
She nodded slightly, releasing a sigh as she ran a distracted hand through her hair, closing her eyes. "They'll catch you with me, one of these days. You're sacrificing your career."
Aggravated at her tone, he pushed up from the bed, palm curling around his shirt. "I know that."
"Jack." Her tone was firm. There was no nonsense in it. "If they try to kill me, I will kill them."
"I know." Turning back, his eyes narrowed, arms crossed in defiance. "What exactly is your point, Irina?"
It was a weakness, she knew. A part of her didn't want to say it at all. But her rational self, the hardened Irina that had been kept alive by pure ambivalence and immorality, knew that this was the easiest way. Give up the search for her daughter. Push Jack away. It was only a matter of time before he would get caught, and they would take her too, Jack would not hesitate to give her to them.
"Simply, that perhaps it would be best if you did not pursue this."
"Impossible."
"I would continue, Jack, I would take up the search on my own-"
"That's enough, Irina!" he erupted with a shout, striding forward. "I will not stop!"
Of course he wouldn't. "After all of this, you still do not trust me? Do not trust the love for my daughter?"
He said nothing. There was a tick in his jaw, as if he was physically
restraining himself from speaking, as if whatever he had to say, was potentially
catastrophic.
"I know enough to realize that you love Sydney, Irina. But I
cannot simply let this go."
"You could lose everything!"
"I already have!"
The bark of his words left a sting in her heart. She was shaking, she realized, and her eyes suddenly burned with tears that she wasn't aware had formed.
He was her disease, terminal, chipping away at her resolve, and suddenly it had culminated in this - Irina was doing what she had sworn never to do for Jack Bristow.
She was putting him before herself.
"If I have indeed lost my daughter," she began slowly, unable to look at him, suddenly intent on the bandages in her hands. "Then I cannot lose my husband. I've lost my family twice already, Jack. I cannot survive a third time."
This would have been the time for him to make that cutting remark. Bring her back to earth with some comment of how she never had a family, that it was Laura Bristow who he married, not her. He would break her heart, and she would go on, hardened and surviving, the way she had survived for years.
That was what she hoped he would do, because she could not understand this Irina. This love for a man and a love for a daughter that was taking over her life, slipping out of her control.
But Jack, being Jack, only made it worse.
Fingers trailed along her skin, until they cupped her shoulder. Irina exhaled raggedly, and when he pulled, she crumpled in his embrace, blinding wrapping hands around his neck, pulling him into her body.
Irina did not wail, or sob uncontrollably, but the tears drifted freely from her eyes, as she clutched him close, face buried in his shoulder, mouth pressed against his skin, fingers tangling into his silken gray hair.
When his lips began to softly trail along her cheek, her eyes closed, her body hummed, and Irina knew that, once again, her weakness had succeeded in consuming her.
But it did not stop her from turning her head, catching his lips with her own in a drunken, hungry, desperate kiss.
--