Just after 5pm, as Irina was putting the finishing touches on the dinner table, she heard muffled moans coming from the bedroom. As she opened the door, the moans became coherent.
"NO! Sydney . . . please! SYDNEY!!!" Jack sat straight up and looked around, unsure of his surroundings. Once again, he had a slightly wild look about him.
"Jack?" she sat next to him and took his hand. "Jack, it's alright. Calm down." She was surreptitiously taking his pulse and was alarmed to find it at almost 140 beats per minute. "Look at me! Take a deep breath. Do you know where you are?"
Jack took several deep breaths before he answered. He needed to gather his thoughts in order to speak with her. "We're in Dublin. You and I will be infiltrating a Covenant stronghold in Belfast tomorrow night. I'm fine, Irina."
"You are not fine! That's the second time today that's you've woken up like that; your heart rate is though the roof!"
Jack knew full well what was going on; he was having panic attacks. He'd had them quite frequently after 'Laura' had died. To make matters worse, the CIA had thrown him into solitary thinking he had been colluding with the enemy. As the years passed, he'd learned how to control them and they'd occurred less and less. However, there was no way in hell he was sharing this information with Irina.
"Just let me be!" he pushed away from her.
"No! There's something you're not telling me and I want to know what. Jack, I can help. Please," she had moved back close to him.
"Help me?" his bark of laughter was sarcastic. "You're the reason . . ."
"The reason what?"
"Nothing," he refused to give her that damning piece of information. He couldn't afford to look weak while he worked with her. "Is dinner ready?"
She nodded and led the way to the table, knowing she couldn't press him anymore. His cooperation with her was shaky at best. So she led him to the table.
Irina had convinced the couple who owned the inn to let her use their kitchen to make Jack's favorite meal: filet mignon, homemade mashed potatoes, and biscuits. His eyes widened slightly in surprise when he saw what she'd prepared, but he said nothing. She just enjoyed watching him savor the meal.
It was a silent affair until the very end when Jack spoke softly, "Thank you. I haven't had a meal like that in a long time." He made a move to help clean up.
"I'll do it. I made the mess," she protested.
"You cook, I clear. Remember?"
Irina was surprised that he would make any references to their domestic life but was grateful that he was making an effort. "Let me help this time?"
Together they took the dishes downstairs and proceeded to clean them, Irina washing, Jack drying. They were almost finished when Mrs. O'Shaunassy came bustling in.
"Sure and if that isn't the sweetest thing I've seen in a while! Thirty years together and you're still helpin' wit' the dishes. Now that's what I call true love!"
"I told Mrs. O'Shaunassy about our anniversary and that we're on our second honeymoon, Liam," Irina tried to explain.
But their easy companionship fell away as anger quickly suffused his face and was just as quickly replaced with a mask of indifference. Mrs. O'Shaunassy saw none of this and continued speaking.
"My Malachy has to be poke and prodded into helping wit' any chores. But he doe make up for it wit' the little poems and notes he leaves me. And he's no slouch in the sack!" She nudged Irina, "I daresay you've got nothin' to complain about either!"
Out of the corner of her eye Irina saw the tips of Jack's ears turn bright red. Handing him the last dish she said, "We really must thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. O'Shaunassy. But we should be getting back to our suite; I want to celebrate with my man."
If it was possible, his ears turned a shade darker as Irina slipped an arm around his waist and a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. Jack allowed her to keep them in that position until they were back in their suite with the door closed safely behind them.
"God damn it, Irina! What in the hell were you thinking?" he yelled as soon as the door shut.
The grin she wore faded from her lips when she heard them venom in his voice. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said, softly, "I was only teasing."
"Well, don't." He snatched his bag from where it lay outside them bedroom door. He tossed it on the bed and rummaged around in it. Finding what he wanted, Jack slammed into the enormous bathroom.
As he got under the hot spray, he felt some of the day's tension ebb away. He realized that at least part of his sour mood was due to his lack of sleep on the flight over. He also had serious doubts about working with Irina, even if it meant finding Sydney.
"No," he thought, "that isn't true. I will do anything to find her. If that means working with and international terrorist, so be it."
His thoughts turned to his daughter then. He closed his eyes and pictured her smiling face. The last time he'd seen Sydney, she'd kissed his cheek, something she hadn't done since she was twelve.
Jack swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back the tears that had threatened to form. He shut off the water, grabbing a towel as he stepped out of the stall.
He dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his waist, fully intending on shaving before he dressed for bed. Unbidden, an image of Sydney as a little girl flashed before his eyes, then her high school graduation, then the night he told her Laura had died, then the night they had dinner together, few weeks before she disappeared.
Jack sat down heavily on the toilet seat, his large frame wracked with silent sobs, tears streaming down his face. He tried to compose himself, when, after several minutes, he heard Irina knocking on the door.
"I'll be out in a minute!" He hastily dried his eyes and pulled on boxers and sweatpants.
"Jack, are you are all right?" Irina called. "You've been in there quite a while."
"I, uh, just need to shave."
"Jack, you sound strange. I'm coming in, so you'd better be decent!" She walked in to find him shirtless, wet hair tousled boyishly, and red-eyed. She touched his bare back and opened her mouth to speak.
"Don't," he pulled away.
"What?"
"Just don't!"
"I don't understand!" Irina followed him into the bedroom. When he stopped in front of the bed, she again lay a hand on his shoulder. "You've been crying. Let me hold you, help take away some of the pain."
"Don't touch me! I don't want your comfort. I don't deserve it." The words fell off his tongue, bitingly, as he looked anywhere but at her.
Irina didn't remove her hand. On the contrary, she wrapped both hands securely around his chest and lay the side of her head on his back. She wasn't sure what had precipitated his outburst, but she wasn't going to leave him alone.
"Let go of me, Irina. I don't want you to do this. Please . . ."
She felt rather than heard the hitch in his breath. She rubbed a hand over his chest as she said, "It's alright, I know you miss her. I do, too. Can't we take comfort in each other? Just for one night?" She eased him down on as she finished speaking, and spooned behind him.
Jack didn't speak, but allowed himself to be guided by his wife. Irina ran her fingers through the still damp curls at the base of his neck, something she used to do when they were first married. It always seemed to help him relax; tonight was no different. It wasn't long before Jack's breathing had evened out. Irina was content to listen to his heart beating until she, too, was deep asleep.