A/N: Just to clarify, the last part of The Telling never happened. No waking up in Hong Kong, no missing years.

Irina: My love for you, for your father, was not a contrivance.

The worst part about waking up in hospital, Jack thought, was that horrible moment between consciousness and darkness. When it was unclear what had happened, and his mind frantically tried to recall something, anything. Once he realized where he was, came the inevitable cataloguing: arms and legs functional, yes; where does it hurt this time, ah, stomach; throat hurts, chest tube; heart monitor, IV, catheter . . . damn.

"Ah, Mr. Bristow, you're awake."

Jack studied the nurse as she flipped through his chart. Noticing his gaze, she glanced up and beamed a smile at him. She looked far too young to be working—

French. She'd spoken French. What the hell was he doing in France?

He reached to pull the tube from his throat. The nurse was at his side in an instant. It alarmed him how weak he was; it took very little effort for her to stop him.

"Calm down. I'll get that out in a minute."

Jack saw no reason to fight her. It didn't seem as if he would be able to go anywhere anyway. He kept his eyes on her as she moved around the room and mentally compiled a list of questions.

"I'm going to need you to cough."

Jack gave a slight nod; he'd done this before, though there was no way she could possibly know that. She counted to three, he coughed and she pulled out the tube.

"What--?" His throat was scratchy. She picked up a cup and slipped an ice chip into his mouth.

"You were brought in with a gunshot wound, Mr. Bristow. To be honest, I'm surprised you made it through the surgery." Her tone was matter-of-fact. She slipped another ice chip in his mouth. "Do you remember what happened?"

He managed a raspy, "No."

She shrugged. "I don't suppose it matters. The woman who came with you spoke to the police."

He raised an eyebrow.

"She seemed quite worried. Somehow she talked her way into watching the surgery. As soon as the police took her statement, I mean. But once she got in, she didn't move. Someone brought her a cup of coffee; I don't even think she noticed."

Jack made a scribbling motion with his hand. The nurse put down the cup and took a notepad and pen from the bedside drawer. She handed it to Jack, then sat down.

What was her name? Jack wrote.

She frowned. "Umm, Lara? No, Laura."

Jack's hand stilled. Laura?

"Yes."

Is she still here?

"No. As soon as you were out of surgery, she left. We – the other nurses, I mean – we were surprised. She'd been so worried, and then to just disappear like that."

Of course, Jack thought. Disappearing was what Irina was good at.

"Do you know her?"

He closed his eyes, and shook his head.

Laura sat rigid, her hand tightly clasping Jack's. He rubbed his thumb across her skin, unsure why she was in such a strange mood. She looked at him and smiled, but it lacked warmth.

In the front of the church, someone stepped up to eulogize Jack's fallen comrade. As the person spoke, Laura's grip tightened. Jack turned to observe her; her gaze was now fixed on the woman sitting in the front pew, a golden-haired child on her lap. Jack didn't recognize the expression in Laura's eyes. Worried, he tapped his finger on her hand.

Once, after too much wine, Laura had wistfully remarked how exciting the life of a spy must be. He'd taught her Morse code, and it became a game. At dinner parties they tapped out messages to one another, enjoying the secrecy, or when they couldn't say anything in front of Sydney. Jack didn't think they'd ever use it at a funeral.

WHAT'S WRONG?

She shook her head slightly, tapping NOT NOW.

LAURA.

PLEASE.

Finally, the service was over and Jack and Laura were in the car on their way home.

"Are you ready to talk to me yet?"

Laura reached for the radio. Jack turned it off almost immediately. Laura shifted in her seat so she was facing him fully, and he was surprised that whatever she had been feeling earlier had been replaced with anger.

Well, good. He could deal with anger. He pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car.

"Go to hell, Jack."

"One day, probably." He kept his tone calm, even as he wanted to pull his wife into his arms.

"We didn't even know those people. Why did we have to attend his funeral?"

"He worked with me—"

"You weren't friends, Jack."

"I— His wife—" He wasn't prepared for this. Jack didn't know why he'd felt compelled to attend the funeral, or why he'd insisted Laura go with him.

"His wife isn't going to care who was there. And all I could think was how easily that could be me and Sydney sitting in the front pew one day."

Jack felt ill and had to force himself to draw breath. "Laura, sweetheart—"

"Don't 'sweetheart' me. Every time you go on a mission I wonder if you'll come back. Every time—" She trailed off and sank back into her seat. Jack could only look at her; her cheeks were streaked with mascara and her eyes were red, and she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

And she was hurting.

He reached for her. "Laura, we're going to grow old together. I promise."

"Damn it, Jack, you can't make that promise." But she didn't pull away.

"I just did."

Laura sighed, and then she tilted her head and kissed him.