Fear for his freedom had kept her away despite his assurances that he could secure a meet. There was a perturbance that translated across the austere of black on white that flashed across her computer screen. His words betrayed nothing of his thoughts but... there was something, she could feel it. Something that he was not articulating to her.
It was too dangerous to meet, she had to keep reminding herself. She had to force herself to obey for weeks. The risk was too great. But the words refused to dissolve into her blood, it was too concentrated with the absoluteness that there was something wrong. Instinct took hold and mobilized her. She was in his home before she fully realized that she'd even left her makeshift base.
He arrived home earlier then she had ever known him too, a testament to the escalation of his dissatisfaction with the CIA. She remained in the shadows, allowing her to observe him without restraint. She knew immediately that she had been right in coming, the air around him was different. He was different. Cold unease settled in her heart and was pumped through her body in a single beat.
He headed to the kitchen and she listened to the sounds of his movements for a few minutes, taking the time to compose herself before following. The sight that met her vanquished the unease and transfused her with an anger rooted in pure panic. Jack sat at the kitchen table, a tumbler accommpanied by an open bottle before him. She watched as he drank the contents of the glass and reached to refill it, his eyes unfocused as he set the bottle down heavily. She was as sure of the fact that this was a nightly occurrence for him as she was of her own name.
"Don't come to bed drunk." Her voice was harsh as she announced her presence.
The shock of seeing Irina standing in the doorway was numbed by the effects of the alcohol. He made no move.
"It's my bed."
"And you won't be welcome in it if you're drunk."
His unresponsive attitude persisted. His silence swirled around her as a dull static filled her ears. She started towards him, gauging his reaction after each step. It remained nonexistent. His gaze was determinedly focused on the glass in front of him. Irina pushed it from his line of site and positioned herself in its place on the table. Only then did he seem to comprehend that she was there.
"Irina...." Her name a plea from his mouth to her ears. She reached for his hands and almost cried out as he crushed her fingers between his in desperation.
"Tell me. Please." She whispered the words and waited.
Irina watched as he attempted to gather himself and squeezed his hands in support. His eyes found hers and his intensity pinned her, she could not have moved if she tried. His voice was quiet when eventually he spoke.
"What if we should just be mourning her?" He offered no more.
"Jack, I, I don't understand."
"All of our energy has gone into finding her killers, but it's been months and we are no closer to that goal then we were when we started. It's starting to feel like..." He trailed off, reluctant to vocalize the thought.
"Like what?"
He inhaled deeply and ushered the words out with the exhale. "Like we're, I'm, so driven to find them so that I won't have to deal with the fact that she's really gone."
Irina pried one of her hands from his grip and took the discarded glass in it. "This isn't dealing." There was no harshness in her tone, just ache as she realized what she'd been feeling during their online conversations, that he was slipping away, that she was loosing him to a darker place.
"No. It's not. But it's all I had. Sydney's dead." The word splintered him and she grasped with everything she had to drag him back together. Irina hauled him from the chair and wrapped her arms around him. His breathing was ragged. She kissed the line of his jaw, searching out his mouth. Her kiss was soft but insistent. Her tongue licked the line of his lips as she sought entrance. Irina lifted her right leg to wrap around him, pushing the heel of her foot into the small of his back, forcing him closer to her. Jack came willing but within seconds had pulled back and put a physical step between them.
"I won't let you be my whore."
It should have sliced her. But what he was trying to say was more important then the words he chose to say it.
"Then let me be your wife."
She slid off the table and offered him her hand.
He took it and let her lead him upstairs.