"It's Sloane."
The hairbrush stilled, caught in the strands of her hair, as Irina bit back a sigh, keeping her tone firm as Jack Bristow burst into the hotel room, his face a mask of anger.
"It is not Sloane."
With a crash, a newspaper slammed onto her vanity, disrupting her make up and nearly spilling her perfume.
"Look at it."
Arching an eyebrow in ill-disguised annoyance, she dropped the brush, curling her fingers around the copy of the London Globe.
"Well, since you asked so nicely." Clapping out the dust in the pages, she quickly skimmed the headline, roving down to the picture of their very well-connected personal devil, Arvin Sloane, waving to the cameras at the opening for his charity. "Hmm," she remarked. "Well, doesn't he look sweet?"
Quite obviously, this was not what Jack wanted to hear. "Irina-"
She swiveled in her chair, nearly tangling her legs in her long velvet skirt. "Jack, Sloane was the first person I thought of, and I found nothing. You can not believe that I would disregard him so quickly."
"It's him."
"It's not him."
He was silent, and while her irritation was shallow and fleeting, on his face was an expression of very real anger, brooding like a graying James Bond in his half open tuxedo shirt, black tie hanging from his collar.
"I worked with the man for twenty years. I know what he is capable of. Simply because you and he have a personal bond over the last time you decided to screw me over, Irina, does not mean you know him-"
It was instinct, a split second loss of control. The brush smashed against the vanity with such force it cracked in two.
If that did not shut Jack up, the fierce intensity of Irina's gaze as she pointed the broken handle at him certainly did the job.
Her voice was low, dangerous. "Do not," she began quietly, "even attempt to throw that in my face, yet again. Yes, I made my personal deal with Arvin, but I never, ever, deemed him worthy of trust. He had something I thought I needed. I admit, I was wrong. I knew that almost from the beginning, but do not tell me that you have never wanted something so much, you did not care with whom you aligned yourself. Simply the mere act of you standing in this room with me gives you no reason to talk."
In the aftermath of her rant, Irina was left shaking. There were variations of this speech that Irina had been given, one way or another, at least ten times since she aligned herself with Jack. Frankly, she was getting tired of it. To attempt to justify herself to a man who condemned her from the moment he stepped back into her life was impossible, especially when the guilt that nearly swallowed her whole was still quite acute. She simply did not have the energy to get into it again now.
Thankfully, Jack made no retort. He simply stared.
She had no wish to exchange yet another smoldering love/hate/ambiguous staring match. Turning back to the mirror, she was aghast to discover flushed cheeks, moistened eyes, blotches of red over her skin.
"Oh, dammit..." Flinging aside the broken handle, she reached for the powder, trying desperately to capture some onto the fluffy make up brush with short, erratic jerks.
Palms covered her bare shoulders, gentle in their caress.
Irina's eyes fluttered closed at the contact. The hardened soul warned again against this, pitter-patters of her heart sending prickles of panic to her brain. She was giving in too easily.
If he learned her weaknesses, he could someday break her.
A low, weary sigh escaped her lips when he pressed his mouth just under her jaw, tongue sweeping at her jugular in such a way she sank against him, head falling back against his chest.
Her eyes opened dizzily to the mirror, and she discovered a contrite man kneading fingers into a woman's bare shoulders, staring into her eyes, a small, secret smile gracing his lips.
"What?" she finally answered.
"You know," he began after a moment. "Other couples have fights about what movie to watch."
He was not going to apologize, she didn't expect it. It would be foolish to do so, because as far she knew, Jack had not yet forgiven her for what she had done.
But he looked past it. For that alone, she was grateful.
And the fact that she was grateful for such small acceptance? Yes, the darker part of her hated her all the more.
A slow, lazy grin tugged at her mouth, pulling it up as she allowed a low, rumbling chuckle. His fingers began to knead, and the tension slowly began to drift away slowly, too easily.
"We can do that too. I've always hated your Charles Bronson fetish."
He froze behind her. "You never told me that."
"Yes, well, that is one good thing about being Irina Derevko instead of Laura Bristow. Now I can." She realized Jack would not see the humor in the edgy joke the moment she made it. If Irina had stopped to ponder what made her bring it up, she would eventually consider that perhaps this situation was getting a little too domestic, that sabotaging it by bringing up their very sensitive past was another way to keep her heart closed.
In part, she succeeded. His smile froze the moment the words left her lips. Preparing herself for the inevitable frost he was so good at directing her way, she fingered her earring collection, toying with her choice for that night.
But Jack bewildered her. Instead of turning into the glowering man she had become accustomed to, he reached for the roll of pearl beads, fitting them around her neck.
For one horrible second, she was afraid he would attempt to choke her with them. "We should get going," he ventured softly, clipping them together deftly and stepping back.
"I agree."
Taking a moment to compose herself with a heady breath in, Irina rose from the chair, palms smoothing out the evening dress and pushing her hair behind her ear with one finger.
In mid-gesture, she caught him staring, a haunted look suddenly taken over his face, her husband across the room standing stark still.
"What?" she said, a trifle self consciously. "What is it?"
"She looks just like you when does that," he answered gruffly.
Sydney.
For a brief, terrible moment, it seemed her heart was going to literally break in two.
But she could not afford to break. Not now.
Irina had survived torture numerous times. She knew that wherever Sydney was, she more than likely had the same done to her, but worse. Sydney would not break – she had her spirit.
She had her heart.
Glancing up, she caught his saddened gaze, naked and open grieving for his daughter. With her own glistening orbs, she gave it back.
"We will find those responsible for her disappearance." Her tone was flat, not open for negotiation or doubt. "And they will pay." It was impossible not to believe she meant every word.
For once, he seemed glad to be dealing with Irina Derevko instead of the mild Laura Bristow.
"Help me with this, will you?"
Coming forward, she carefully, quickly put together his bow tie, knotting it deftly. "Your contact was sure of this?" she asked with a gentle smile, meeting his look.
He answered with a rough nod. "Mentioned that a guy named Simon may or may not have been hired to perform the assassination, and he has a girl about Sydney's age on his team. It may be a long shot, no one knows much of anything except they seem inseparable, but-"
"It's more than what we have," she finished quietly. "Yes, I know." She gave one last tug, straightening out his tie. "There," she answered, voice rough. "All done."
With his tall, sturdy body, his debonair good looks, and his imposing stance, he was a handsome, powerful man.
Like a boy escorting his prom date, he offered her the crook of his elbow.
"Shall we?"
Sometimes she forgot how much time had passed.
It was a bittersweet smile she returned, slipping her fingers into the crook of his arm, allowing him to lead her to the door.
"What was wrong with Charles Bronson?"
--
With so many scars painted across the fine, pale skin, one expected to slide a palm along and feel nothing but roughness.
She never grew tired of exploring his chest. While not as defined as twenty years ago, she enjoyed its softness, the silky smoothness of his skin. It contrasted delightfully with the small, bristles of gray hair that lightly spackled across his broad torso.
Lately, it always ended like this. Another false hope, another dead end lead. They would return broken hearted, and found in their sadness, burying their lost hope in each other the only viable release for their frustration.
Sex with Jack was pleasurable, sweet. He was a considerate lover, had always been, and that was something she had always known.
What she did not expect were these gentle, loving interludes.
Pressing her cheek against his chest, she listened to his heart beat, nails raking delicately through the short hairs beside her, watching as they moved with her fingers.
"That tickles."
Smiling, she glanced up wickedly. "Does it?"
One hand behind his neck, supporting his head, Jack gave a small nod, but only pulled her closer, before resuming his caresses, rubbing the knuckles of his free hand absently up and her spine, then down to the small of her back.
Irina closed her eyes, allowed the sensation to fill her, content as she shifted her face, pressed her mouth absently into his skin, leaving a soft, distracted kiss before settling against him once more.
"This is nice."
"Mmm," she responded, lazy in her response, stretching against him as if she were a cat, locking an ankle over his calf and rubbing against his leg.
In her dreamy lethargic doze, she felt inclined to agree.
It was nice.
Her heart jumped, and suddenly, her eyes shot open.
Her stiffening form alerted him, caused his fingers to still against her back. "What?"
Biting down on her lower lip, she sucked in a short breath, distractedly pressing a kiss next to his left nipple, smoothing at the spot with two fingers. "Nothing I just..." Glancing up, she met his gaze head on, resting her chin against her palm as she shifted on top of him. "We're getting too comfortable."
It was the kiss of death for a spy. He knew the dangers as well as she did. This, all of this, the lazy lovemaking, the long cuddles, sleeping in after a night of searching for Sydney...
His eyes bore into her own, processing the information, before the slate of his orbs flickered away, and he rested his head back on the pillow, exhaling such a sigh her body lowered with it.
"You're right."
"We're getting stupid," she said softly, keeping her gaze on him, never moving from her position on top of him. "If we continue to do this, it will only be a matter of time that-"
"I know," he answered shortly. "I know..." The angry tone was coupled with a frustrated expression, almost as if this was her fault. "Couldn't we enjoy this Irina? Just for a moment? Must everything be about pain to you?"
Truly, he knew how to cut her.
"Don't," she began shortly, pushing up against his chest, bringing the sheet over her chest to stare at him with narrowed eyes. "You have no idea how much these early morning respites mean to me – which is why I do not want them to go away. If we continue so carelessly, one of us WILL get caught-"
"And Sydney will be left with no one, I know," he answered flatly. "I know." Jack stared off into the corner of the room, focus on some unknown variable she could not see.
Irina had always been a damned good spy. She was sure Jack would have argued the point, but even Sydney would admit that in terms of deceit, espionage, survival, she was better than Jack.
She knew how to play the game, and she knew when to cut her losses, and get out.
"We should establish protocol," she said after a moment, pushing long bangs out of her face, tucking them behind her ear. Eyes were on the floor of the room, searching for her bra, she continued, "In case anything happens, and we need to reach each other-"
"Fine. We'll do it later."
"Jack-"
"Irina-"
"Jack, it cannot wait. We cannot control the NSC – they're onto you. Just being in each other's presence we are flaunting our luck. If we need to split up when things get too hot, then-"
"Fine, fine." Jack's large hands stilled her movements, fingers cupping her chin so she was suddenly looking down at him. "We'll do this," he said after a moment, eyes unusually dark as he caressed her hair, pushed them gently behind her ear only to have them fall forward yet again. He suddenly smiled. "If you need to reach me, I'll place an ad in the London Globe, the personals section."
How very trite.
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "So you would have me scouring the personals like a desperate old lady?" He grinned, a naughty expression that made him look like a little boy that needed to be spanked. "And how will I know it is from you?"
"You'll know." His hips bucked, and suddenly, she was thrown forward, sprawled against his chest as his hands spread over the small of her back, trapping her lower body against his.
"Jack!"
"What do you say we discuss the details later?"
She could never argue with that look. With a short, amused chortle of laughter, she let his lips connect with her own, moving against his mouth hungrily as his legs opened and she settled against his hardening groin.
"You are pure evil," she whispered between kisses.
"Great way to go, isn't it?" he mumbled against her skin. Wrapping his arms around her back, he twisted suddenly, causing her to release a burst of unexpected laughter when he reversed their position, and held her captive underneath him.
Her laughter faded when his gaze grew somber, intense.
"What?" she asked, almost a whisper.
Quiet for what seemed hours, he finally spoke with a caress of a palm against her cheek. "Nothing, I just..."
When he kissed her, it was soft, passionate, and so full of love she felt her heart would burst from the experience.
She returned it wholeheartedly.
--
It seemed to have come full circle.
Irina drank alone, palms wrapped around her mug, staring into the dark color of the alcohol as if it contained something infinitely precious.
She was slightly drunk, which was against her better judgment. Getting even a little inebriated was a stupid, stupid thing to do. There were so many people after her, and somehow she could have cared less.
Another lead on Sydney, another dead-end, and this time, there was no Jack to bury herself into.
No, Jack was in a very wonderful glass cage inside the very well fortified CIA headquarters.
"God, I'm pathetic," she whispered. Smiling grimly, she shoved the glass away from her.
It sloshed over the fingers of a man no older than thirty, wearing a crooked smile and a poor boy hat.
He met her gaze head on, touching the tip of his hat in a slow, reverent nod.
Irina narrowed her eyes, shifting her position to rest her head on her chin. "You know you ruined the moment there. There would have been much more of a poetic impact if it had fallen to the floor in a loud, glorious crash."
"I believe it," he replied, accent a thick Irish brogue. "But it seems a pity to waste perfectly good spirits. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," she answered blithely, waving a palm in his direction. "Feel free."
"Thank you." Tipping the mug up, he gulped at the content, bring it down almost immediately. "Bloody hell, it tastes like piss!"
"It most certainly does."
He laughed, shooting another drink down before slamming the mug on the wooden table, extending a hand. "I'm Simon."
She didn't move, staring at his hand and nodding easily. "I know who you are."
"You do?" He seemed surprised, but not overly concerned. "I'm rather flattered, what with your reputation."
"Then you know who I am?"
"Not a thief in this place who doesn't."
"Which does beg the question, what an amateur like you is doing talking to someone like me," she said quietly, dropping the smile. "Mr. Walker, I find the groupie act seldom amusing, and I prefer to drink alone, if you don't mind."
"Oh, me too! Ain't why I'm here, though."
"Oh, really?"
"There are people, ya know? Interested in contracting your services."
Ah... yes, of course.
She would have been amused had she not been so irritated. "I am not a free agent, Mr. Walker. If you and your friends know what is good for them, then I would suggest, you take that mug of beer, get up from my table, and move away. I am not one you would want to toy with."
"Darlin', don't think I don't know that. But as scared as I am of ya, these guys kinda scare me more. I've been instructed to bring you by for a consultation, with... " An apologetic smile creased over his handsome face, as he opened the flap of his leather coat, revealing a gun tucked at his side, "or without your... uh... permission."
Her eyes flickered slowly from the weapon to his face. "Do you honestly think you would be able to pull that before I slit your throat?"
He considered, cocking his head at the thought. "Prolly not. And you could probably beat that guy over there," he motioned to a man standing ten feet away, "And that bloke right there..." He grinned. "But could you handle all six of us?"
She breathed in a sigh. "As much as I would love to meet the latest group just yearning to take over the world, I'm otherwise engaged at the moment."
"So multi task."
She grew silent, staring into his dark, sinful eyes.
Life was about choices.
The last time she saw Jack was the night they established protocol. There had been a promise she had extracted, should anything happen, whoever was left would continue the search for the reason behind Sydney's disappearance.
In order to do so, she needed two things: she needed underworld contacts, significantly diminished thanks to Sark's incarceration and Sloane's pardon, not to mention her collaboration with the CIA. She also needed to be alive.
Licking her lips, Irina tossed her hair over her shoulder, flashing the younger man a sexy smile and a sultry laugh.
"Allright then, Simon. I consider myself open minded. Take me to your leader."
--