Part Two, Chapter One:

He found himself sitting at the bar, in his usual seat; the same place he found himself every time his daughter was off on a mission. Tonight was worse than others, however. Tonight he had not only his anxiety about his only daughter, but also, he had a flood of memories about his wife, that threatened to take over his weakening barriers.

The man sat, hunched over a glass of amber liquid, a bottle of scotch at his side. In any other location, he would have been an intimidating sight: a navy Armani suit, blue shirt and red tie, his hair, steel-colored, and combed precisely in place. Not a spec of dirt could be found, nor a single item out of place. This evening found the man in a wrinkled pair of pants, a jacket folded on his lap, a loosened tie, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair rumpled carelessly on his head. The man maintained an air of hostility about him. No one dared approach him.

As he downed his glass, the numbness spread throughout his body, his mind buzzing, his reactions dulled.

Laura's going to be angry, he thought to himself, smiling slightly at the image of his wife's face that popped into his head.

In his inebriated state, he managed to ask the bartender for a pen, and set himself up to write a note to his beloved wife on a cocktail napkin.

The love of my life,

You are the sunshine of my life.

Alright, I know, I know, I didn't come up with that one on my own. But it is true, Laura, my dear, my love.

The man frowned, and paused for a moment before continuing.

But you're not Laura, are you? Irina Derevko, KGB agent extraordinaire, the darling spy who tricked that fool of an American, that's who you are. But you're Laura too. Actually, you're Irina.

When I first found out about the truth, I hated Irina, the woman who killed my beloved wife. When you came back, after turning yourself into the CIA, I hated you even more. You were going to take my Sydney away from me, just as I'd started to fix our relationship. You know I hated you, Irina; I set you up in Madagascar, trying to stop you from hurting my daughter again.

India changed things.

So did Panama.

I found that Irina was a complicated woman. Laura, who was practically a saint in my memory, was a simple, loving woman, who never truly challenged me, but was entirely devoted. Irina is entirely different. She is brilliant, just as beautiful as Laura, except more exotic, she is my equal in all ways. She provides a constant source of stress, amusement, anger, pleasure; she makes me feel.

I can't decide if I should strangle you or if I should make love to you like never before.

Anyways, I want my wife home with me. Whether it's Laura or Irina, I don't care. Actually, I think I'd rather Irina came. She's a little more fun. I want my wife, damnit. It's my right as a husband. I want my wife, and I want her now. Damnit Irina, come home. I miss you. I'm a lonely, hard-assed, old man without you.

If you don't come now, Barnett will seduce me. She'll take me if you don't come back now. I think she's serious. She's threatening your position.

My house is too empty. My bed is cold.

And Sydney will kill me if she finds out I've been drinking. Oh s***.

Wife, come home, damnit.

I love you.

Your sweetiepie,

Jack

The man giggled, which was an odd sight in itself, at his note. He had used his wife's term of endearment for him. No one else in his life had called him No one else dared.

He crammed the napkins in his coat pocket, and swung the coat over his shoulders. Leaving a wad of bills on the counter, he stumbled out of the bar, and wove his way down the street.

Half an hour later, the man fell into his house, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He discarded his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the ground, and took his napkins out of his pocket and left them in the top drawer of the night stand next to his bed. Clad only in his wife's favorite pair of his boxers, he plopped down into bed, and looked at the empty half next to him. Lonely, he took a picture off his night stand, and placed it on the pillow next to him. The picture of his wife stared at the ceiling. Unsatisfied, the man took the picture, and clutched it to his heart, tears falling, unwanted, down his face.

"Come home, Irina," he thought, begging his wife with his mind, "come home." With that, the man continued to cry, silently, as he fell into a heavy drunken slumber.