The Perfect Weapon Chapter 9 part 4 section 2

[camillecarelli]

Putting the black ace of spades on the red two of hearts, he completed the run. He stopped playing with the cards and began gathering them up.

Hmm, time to try this….

"Dad….are you humming?" Sydney asked incredulously. 
"Yes, I am," he said, giving her a small smile, enjoying her surprise. Hoping this might work, at least a little. When the card games had not worked on her memory, he had thought of, remembered how she used to watch them play cards, as they listened to the radio, the stereo or one time on a camping trip, sung around the fire. Irina had been quite the excellent camper. Could pitch a tent in no time flat, told funny stories about her days in the Girl Scouts. Lies, all lies of course. Unless - did they have Girl Scouts in the Soviet Union? Who knew? Did it matter? Then, she had never pulled any wonder berries out of a bush if one of them had hurt themselves - and Sydney was always hurting herself, lord knew. Then it had been Bactine and Bandaids. But then, then, she had not had to prove herself to either of them. They had just loved her, trusted her.

"What is the song?" Sydney asked, a crease between her eyebrows, shoving her hair behind one ear.

"See if you can guess," he said and began humming again, feeling Irina tense against his arm as she too waited. Glancing down, he saw that she continued pretending to sleep.

"Give me a hint, Dad," she asked.

"We listened to this group a lot when you were small. They were popular then."

"Hum it again," Sydney said. He did so, noting with surprise the words to the song. The mind was an interesting place, with surprising twists and turns, wasn't it? As long as he did not delve too deeply and open wounds he could not afford to allow to bleed again. He would hate to have to apply a tourniquet around his own heart. Irina's, however….But that was what this game was all about, wasn't it?

"I know," Vaughn said.

"It's not important for you to know, Agent Vaughn, so please be quiet," Irina snapped out, surprising the younger couple who had thought she was sound asleep. She sat up. Thank god, he thought, as she removed her hand from his leg.

In mid-song, Irina began singing along to his humming. Jack turned to her in surprise and stopped humming. "I think…", Sydney said slowly, then stopped. She started again, "But Dad, didn't you sing this with Mom too? Once, when we were…was it camping?"

"Yes," he said softly. "Your mother did not know any normal camp songs - Gee, can't imagine why, guess they don't have Girl Scout sing-alongs in KGB overachievers' camp," he said sarcastically. Irina elbowed him. He shrugged and continued, "So we sang songs from the radio. Like that one." 
"Go on," Sydney asked. "I think I---"

Jack looked down and began humming until Irina started to sing the song over. When Jack did not join in, Irina stopped and entreated him, "Jack, please sing with me. You remember - we had good harmony." He shook his head.

"Dad," Sydney said softly, "Please?"

He bit his lip and began humming again. Waiting a moment, Irina began singing again, softly as they all waited. Finally, when Sydney touched his knee lightly, without looking up, he began to sing softly too, his voice hesitant and husky from disuse, starting and stopping, never singing the entire song, just fragments, sometimes just a word or two, sometimes larger segments, sometimes returning to humming. But it was his deeper rendition that caught Sydney's attention, his voice that caused Vaughn to sit up straight and take a hard look that made Jack keep his eyes averted.

…Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light 
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim 
I had to stop for the night 
There she stood in the doorway; 
I heard the mission bell 
And I was thinking to myself, 
'This could be Heaven or this could be Hell' 
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way…. 
And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device'….

And in the master's chambers, 
They gathered for the feast 
They stab it with their steely knives, 
But they just can't kill the beast…

Last thing I remember, I was 
Running for the door 
I had to find the passage back 
To the place I was before 
'Relax,' said the night man,

Sydney began to sing with them now as they finished for the second time, 
We are programmed to receive. 
You can check out any time you like, 
but you can never leave.

Sydney smiled and exclaimed, "Hotel California. I remember that. I got excited when I realized the song was about the state in which we lived." 
"Yes," Jack and Irina said simultaneously. Irina continued, "And then, you being obsessive--" Jack snorted, she elbowed him again and continued, "And then, you had to know a song---"

"I wanted to find a song for every state. Oklahoma was easy. New York is easy. But North Dakota - that was a problem! Hey, that night didn't one of you make up a funny song for me---"

"Your father did," Irina said when Jack said nothing.

Sydney looked thoughtful and then exclaimed, "Hmm, that song - that's like being in SD-6, being a double, isn't it, Dad? Is that why it occurred to you? You know - 'You can check out anytime you like'…"

"'But you can never leave'." Jack nodded, preparing to lie once again by omission to his daughter, unwilling to show any vulnerability by telling the truth, examining the song too closely. "I guess that's why it occurred to me. But that's why we're working to bring Sloane down. So you can leave without having to check out."

"That was a good idea, Jack. Thank you for thinking of it," Irina whispered to Jack, as Sydney made a comment to Vaughn. Knowing now, from her own reaction and her own sense of gratitude, that his 'thank you' when she had used the sari, the colors, had been real. Well, at least in part. Not only a play in the game, but a result of his love for their daughter. She had underestimated him. Or rather, overestimated just how far he would go to win at the game between them.

"Sydney, do you remember this one?" Irina asked as she began to sing, softly, a song - clearly a lullaby - in Russian.

"No, I am sorry…" Sydney said.

"No, there was no way for you to remember that, really. I stopped singing and talking to you in other languages than English around the time you began to talk. I was ….afraid you would start speaking Chinese or Russian or German, none of which I ostensibly knew…."

"And it would blow your cover. So, why did you speak in those languages then, take that risk?" Vaughn asked, startling the family, who had forgotten his presence. Startling them too, by asking a direct question of Irina.

"Because Russian was a part of her heritage. I wanted to give that to her, at least for a while. And too, studies show that if children are exposed to other languages while their brains are developing linguistic skills - during the first years of life -- they will find it much easier to learn languages later on." 
"Ah," Vaughn and Jack said together. Jack clamped his lips together as Vaughn continued, "That explains it. Sydney can pick up any language quite quickly. But her accent…" he teased, looking over at her, "The French alone makes my head hurt." Sydney hit him and they laughed. Irina smiled at their interplay - finally more natural -- and then seeing Jack's face, sobered quickly. What had he been thinking before that mask dropped over his face? Was he livid that she had done that with Sydney? Wait. Of course. Another layer of her deception revealed. She sighed. That was a step backward. A small one, but Jack Bristow did not allow small mistakes. She had to step carefully.

Jack felt like she had just hit him with a sledgehammer. Only the outer reaches of his control kept him sitting next to her, kept him from jumping out the plane himself. He was thinking, remembered reading that private-sector research about language and early brain development with her in the evenings, remembered discussing it with her in great depth, long before Sydney came along. Now he wondered how else she had used that research - had she headed up her own Project Christmas when she left him?

Oh, my god.

Is that the incentive she had had to leave him? To head her own program, in some kind of twisted competition with him?

No, it was much more than that. He knew her. She would never have been satisfied with just stealing the intel and passed it on. She had other goals, didn't she, career goal, an immense desire to succeed, to excel, hadn't she? Even as a teacher, she had this amazing drive to be the best, to win awards, to rise in the academic hierarchy.

Had that been the flaw, the weakness in her - the lust for power? Had he given her the resources to achieve her goals? After all….his mind stopped at the notion, after him, who had been the person with the most background on his research? Laura Bristow, with whom he had shared everything, against whom he had bounced ideas, from whom he had received excellent insights, much better than his colleagues….He wanted to groan aloud.

He had handed her the wherewithal to set up a program with herself as the best expert available. He had handed it all to Laura Bristow who was really Irina Derevko, whose second in charge was a young man who was ridiculously gifted, unnaturally skilled for a person his age, as if he had been…Just like Sydney, but with far fewer scruples, no morals. As if his upbringing had been solely geared toward making him a ruthless intel agent, willing to succeed at any cost…Perhaps he had not been such a bad father, he thought sardonically, Sydney had turned out well; well, largely due to her own inner strength, wherever she got that from. True, she was a little immature, a little self-absorbed, but she had a good heart, strong principles. But Sark….Had he, inadvertently, created that creature with such a potential for destruction? And were there others?

God, no.

He stood up, he needed to think about this. He needed to make a few phone calls. Have someone infiltrate the old KGB archives, look up the prison records, look up the KGB program…..It would take a while, but in the end if the records were still there, if they had not been destroyed….But they probably had, Irina was too smart to leave a paper trail. He might hit a dead end, like Vaughn was going to in his own little investigation, he might end up back where he started but…

He looked up as Vaughn joined him pacing back and forth. "Interesting choice of song, Jack," Vaughn commented. "And I was thinking to myself, that this could be--"

"There is no need to discuss this further, Agent," Jack said frostily, thinking that the young man could, occasionally at least, be too perceptive. About other people, anyway. He turned his back and made his way to one of the two tiny bathrooms in the rear of the plane. Flipping open his phone, he began dialing. When he finished his calls, he stared into the mirror, touching the scar on his lip. He felt his mind tumble back, heard the lyrics of the song in his mind. Yes, Vaughn was correct, the mind made interesting choices. "A passage back to the place I knew before…." Only this time, he was upright, sober, and knew just how bad it could get before it got better. He was still waiting for it to get better. To resume his life, before…

Is that where he was? Right back at the beginning? Only this time, it was not Laura. It was Irina. It had taken him quite a while originally to understand the differences and similarities of the two personas in one body. He could not allow himself to become lost again in that minefield. He could not allow Sloane to 'care for' Sydney again when he was 'indisposed', only to find when he returned that she did not seem to need him anymore, the way he needed her. No, not this time. This time he had foreknowledge. Would he make the same mistakes? No, he was wiser, more cautious, more careful. More determined to win than ever before in his entire life. He had to use the coldness, control the heat, use the energy he felt only in her presence for his own benefit, to save his life and Sydney's too.

He needed to have his life back. She owed him. Looking in the mirror, though, he began to acknowledge that although he had told himself he had had no choices, he could not blame her for her choices if he did not hold himself accountable for his own. He had made mistakes, serious mistakes. From fear. He had to turn his life around. One step at a time. He was trying with Syd, didn't know how successful he would be. He hoped that if he was right, that Irina had had real feelings, that he could get his memories back too. Without the past, it was difficult to have a future.

A knock on the door. Rolling his eyes, knowing it could be only one person, he said as he opened the door, "What do you want now, Irina? Can't a man even use the facilities?"

"Oh, be quiet," she said without rancor. "Are you okay? Do you need help?" She knew he had retreated in here - the only spot of privacy -- to think. She could not allow that, she could not allow that razor-sharp mind to have a chance to focus on potential weaknesses. She was not aware of any mistakes, but it would be exceedingly foolish to assume that she had not made any. You could not make any serious errors around Jack Bristow and her senses were on high danger alert.

What was he hiding, thinking, worse yet, analyzing? Was he wondering about…her relationship with Cuvee? Why she could not have bargained with him over the phone, as Sark had done - why this personal visit had been necessary? Why she had hit him so hard in the cell? Or what else she might have said, taught Sydney? Her imprisonment? She was still astonished that he was not interrogating her about that. But no, he would not waste his time, deciding she would not tell him the truth, anyway. He probably already had someone infiltrating the KGB archives to search for documentation. Good luck. Did he think she was an amateur? But that was probably it, he was probably running a game plan through his head. She relaxed. And as long as he was trying to run strategy on her, he would not be paying enough attention to Sark and Sloane. Another nice doubleplay. But now, this, this was for her. Just for her.

She elbowed her way past him and sat down on the toilet, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them in the small space to give him room. She sighed again and looked him up and down. She had been right - the space was insufficient in here.

"Do I need help? Help with what?" he asked. Then smirked, "Judging by the look on your face, you're the one who needs a hand, you're the one thinking---"

"I saw the look on your face, Jack. I was thinking exactly what you were thinking before."

"Maybe." He glanced at her in the mirror and they both laughed. Then he looked astonished at having done so and glanced down at his hands, flexed them around the edge of the sink. "Seriously, Irina--"

"I was serious." She smiled just to see him discomfited, thrilled to see her Jack right here, even if there wasn't much she could do with him. "No, seriously, I came in here to see if your wounds need any attention. I, um, did hit you a little hard in that cell." He rolled his eyes and leaned against the sink, looking down at her. She continued, "Do you need bandages changed or do you need stitches somewhere or did you take a bigger hit from some shrapnel and didn't want to say anything in front of Sydney? I could cut it out for you, if you need it…"

She reached her hand out, he turned back to face the mirror. She sighed and let her hand drop. She would have to be satisfied for the moment with cuddling up next to him when she pretended to sleep. Well, she had been asleep at first, and then been sleepily startled to wake and realize that she had actually fallen into a deep and refreshing sleep. But not too surprised to find him that her body had naturally sought him in her sleep, nor surprised to find him shoving her, gently it was true, but shoving her away. She would fall on him, he would shove, she would sidle up to him again, he would…over and over. It had become a fun little game, just like that time in the movie theater watching the Wizard of Oz; she wondered if he remembered all that? He must. It had been enjoyable trapping him like that, knowing with Sydney sitting there he could not really make a scene. But….hmm, if he wanted, he could have just gotten up, paced, moved around, sat back down somewhere else. He'd had a choice. She felt her spirits rise - he must not have truly wanted her to go away. Point to her. More evidence that he must trust her a little at least, to be willing to show her that much courtesy, that he was still her Jack.

He wasn't pushing her away now either, telling her to leave. Just looking at her in the mirror. Almost sadly. Oh, Jack, she thought. I can't stand to see your face like that. Even if that face was still as compelling, as attractive as ever, even in the harsh white light of the single uncovered-light bulb of this utilitarian bathroom.

Instead, she looked over at his tanned, muscular arm, below the rolled-up sleeve of his black shirt. It was awfully warm in here, why didn't he take off that shirt, anyway? It was just the two of them and…she smiled, thinking, well that was exactly why he didn't take off his shirt. If he did that now, with the aura of the memory of the night of Sydney's conception still swirling around them like tendrils of fog, she would not be able to control herself as well as she had when they had been changing in Mr. Zamir's tent. Looking down to hide her smile, she looked over at his arms again. Forced herself not to stroke an arm, not to drag her nails up it and then onto his shoulder and….No, watch it, she could not grasp him too tightly. Yet. A light touch was needed now. Even if her hands wanted to grab him and just hold on. Her too-big hands, about which she had only felt comfortable when he had demonstrated how much he loved them and what they could do. Involuntarily she reached her hand out again and gingerly touched his shirt, hoping he could not feel it.

Could she please take her damn hand, god he had always loved her hands, off of him before he had to fling it off? Or cut it off? Surely there was a knife around somewhere, a dull razor, dental floss? Something! If all else failed he could cut his own throat. No, she could do it for him, couldn't she? She had offered, 'Cut it out for you' and he knew how well she could cut, didn't he? After all she had already cut out his heart once. He controlled his anger with an effort, forced himself to look at her sadly. She was good with the blade. Truly excelled at the twisting of a knife, as well. He stared at her incredulously, glad she was looking down. But did she really think he would allow her to bandage him or stick him with a scalpel? Well, yes, she did. He relaxed.

This trip had been worth it. She was starting to see the old Jack in him, the man who had trusted her. She thought that she had proven herself, that all the little pissing matches they had had were just…some bizarre form of foreplay, no doubt. Had clearly decided that their interactions now were just another step in the game between a man and a woman. And in fact, they were. It just happened that the man and woman were Jack and Irina, which meant all bets were off. And the game they were playing was a little more complex than he had been in the past. A fact of which she was as yet unaware. What a shame. How terribly unfair of him. Boo hoo.

He forced himself to give her a half smile and shifted so that her hand had to fall away. "No, I'm fine. I do need to bandage up a few spots again, but I just, really, wanted to use the bathroom. Don't read anything into it other than a strong urge to -"

She laughed, "Okay, I get the picture. I better get back over before Sydney comes storming over sure we are up to no good again. She was always so jealous of you."

He shrugged. Those days had been over for a long time. Well, until this trip when she had tried to elbow Irina over that idiotic moustache and then had been so protective of him when he had told the tale of falling down while drunk. That had been irritating - he had wanted to see if Irina would take the cue that not all had been well in his…life, if you could call it that, after she left. Wanted to see if there could be any guilt. Part of him did not want to see guilt - wanted proof that she was cold and uncaring, that they had just been pawns in her job, in her career, in her goals. So maybe it was good luck that Syd had stopped him from saying any more, maybe she had better instincts than he did, even if she did not know the story of his scar.

Or at least he did not…. think Sydney did. No, no, no….he forced himself to stay calm, to push down the panic. If she knew that story, he would…. He would not tell her, ever. Only Arvin knew, although not the full story thankfully. But if Arvin had not told her, he must be waiting for some opportune moment to share that piece of complete humiliation with her to make Jack look weak again. He could hardly wait. Looking vulnerable and foolish and…pathetic in front of his daughter - his life-long ambition. It might be worth killing the little weasel right now just to prevent that. Focus, Bristow, guilt, remember? Deal with Arvin later, Irina now. Part of him wanted to see guilt in her - the part of him that had hope, so small, so stunted, the part of him that wanted revenge. The weak part of him that hoped his feelings had been reciprocated, that he had not been that much of a fool, that she had been caught up in the game as well.

Irina laughed, "That game? That one of Sydney's when you would come home? Jack, let's be honest--"

"That would be a novelty."

She grimaced, "I'd really like to---"

"Slap me? Don't," He said flatly as they stared at each other intently in the mirror.

She smiled suddenly. "You're not going to distract me this time. We both remembered that game, back in customs. You lied then, why I don't know…"

"You don't? Hmmm. Your memory not what it should be? Perhaps that's a sign of your, our, age? Memory loss comes with aging, you know. I could have a gerontologist visit you when we get back home. Do you know that word - gerontologist? Sorry, I don't know the equivalent in Russian, but it means---" He smiled.

"I know what it means! You, you…" She slapped at the wall in frustration. Only he could do this to her…."You did it to irritate me, didn't you?" She accused, staring at him, wanting to wipe that smug look right off of his face as his eye dropped to her chest and the twin signs of how well he had succeeded.

He bit his lip, clearly trying not to laugh - wise move - she thought, feeling the itch in her hand to slap at him. Then said, "Yeah. Just yanking your…." He blanched suddenly and bent his head, watched his hands turn on the taps as loudly as possible. Puzzled by the lightning-swift change in him, the fact that he had not simply assumed the mask, wondering if he was playing her or being…honest, she stared at his face in profile. His eyes were closed and he was running his hands under the warm water.

Oh, wait a minute, that American expression, "Yanking my…chain, Jack? Well, I'm not wearing it now, but if you wanted to bring it in---"

"Drop it," he said harshly, closing his eyes. Bending over, he splashed water on his face several times. Standing up, he blinked water from his lashes. Looking at her in the mirror, rubbing his hand over his jaw, he asked, clearly just to get her away from him, "Do me a favor? Ask Syd to ask Vaughn where the toiletries are? They are usually stowed below the sink, but they're not here and I'd like to shave

Standing up, Irina cautiously reached out a hand. Watching it in the mirror coming at him, he forced himself not to recoil and show he feared her touch, forced himself to believe that he did not want her touch. He turned slowly toward her. He was initially relieved when she lightly touched the scar on his wet face. He tensed immediately thereafter, knowing what was next. She asked softly, "Jack, what really happened with your lip?" How in the world did she sense these vulnerabilities? It was like she had a divining rod for weaknesses of the human spirit, the human heart. But she had dropped the chain, as he'd demanded. Thank god. Although, was this worse or better?

"I told you. I was drunk and I fell down. Truly, Irina, there is no more to the story than that. A simple story of a foolish man who had had too much to drink one night." Why did she keep fixating on that? He must be giving off signals that she could read. Damn her. He had to deflect…

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I know the story of my own life... Now." Now, he did. For ten years the story the story of his life had been a work of fiction, or rather the underlying motivation of the main character had been hidden until the end. Like any good murder mystery, the hints had been there all along, but so deeply hidden that he had been surprised by his own death at the end. Now, having reread the story, he knew the reality. His reality, anyway. What was hers? Perhaps that story about the prison had been no more than an attempt… He recoiled at the thought that she might know about what had happened after she left, his breakdown and everything else...Is that what she had been doing? Perhaps he had been right thinking that she knew that he had been imprisoned as a suspected traitor and was just trying to draw parallels between them?

Luckily, she took the 'now' as a directive. "Now? Now? Just who do you think you are to order me around, Jack Bristow? I didn't allow you to do it then and I won't allow you to do it now!"

"Oh, I don't know," he said slyly, smiling. Two could play the 'do you remember game'. And misdirection. "I can remember times when you took direction…quite well."

"Mmm," she said, a smile lightening her face. "So did you. When---"

"You wanted," they finished together. His lips curved into a smile, as did hers. Then he grinned and her heart stopped. His gaze dropped. She hoped he did not see her suddenly shaky knees. He looked back up at her, through those damn lashes of his again. She had to force herself to take a deep breath.

They stared at each other, until she finally said, "Well, if you're okay, I should go." I should go before I lock that door and push you down on the seat and we both learn how flexible we are in our fifties, she thought frantically. God, that grin and then that shy look of his, and now….she was…lost in his eyes.

"Yeah, you should," he said softly. What had she said? Oh, yeah. That she should go and she should. As in now. As in immediately. As in…just do it, Irina! Go! She saw her shaky hand reach out and grasp the door knob and stepped out of the bathroom, knowing it was her turn to pace.

Watching her walk away, he nodded at her when she turned back to see if he was watching. God, she was good. And he was an idiot. But he had himself under control. He would not think about the chain, what it had meant, where it was. Nor would he think about the scar and how he had marked himself right where he had to see it every time he looked in the mirror, a permanent reminder of his foolishness.

Even still, he'd had to force himself not to call her back, not to have her sit on the toilet lid and talk to him as he shaved, as she had done on so many mornings. Hundreds of mornings, thousands of mornings. First just her, then Sydney sitting on her lap. But those memories, the memories of Sydney, they were safe, he knew suddenly. Wondered why he had not known it before. Those memories were good, real, recoverable, he thought with a sense of relief and homecoming. He could have them. They were his, after all.

Suddenly he remembered one morning when Sydney, about two, had begged to have the shaving cream on her face, to be like her daddy. He had demurred, thinking it would be too harsh for her skin but Laura had overridden him and squirted some on their daughter's face. Holding her so that she could stand on the sink, Laura had stood behind her protectively with her arms around their daughter, her body resting along his. Sydney carefully patted the cream onto her face until she resembled him. Well, more or less - she also had the shaving cream on her nose and her hair and….well, everywhere. Sydney had pointed at the two of them in the mirror and squealed, "Daddy and Sydney! Alike, like!" and poked at first her face, then his, then her ears and then his. He had laughed and whispered to Laura that it was too bad Syd had inherited his ears. Sydney had misheard and reached up and rested her head against him, ear to ear, as they had smiled in the mirror at each other, at Laura, laughing behind them. She had been so happy to be with him. So, so innocent. They had both been so innocent, as they leaned forward and kissed each other through the foam. Sydney had screwed up her mouth in distaste and they had both laughed at her. Laura had handed Sydney to him and run to get the camera.

That photo of the two of them, smiling at each other through the white beards on their faces, was one he cherished, tucked away in that safety deposit box with so much else, so much else that he had not allowed himself to examine beyond his annual cursory look to ascertain that the contents were still intact. He thought, feeling moisture in his eyes, that he should really get out that photo. Put it in a frame. He could do that. Then he looked at himself in the mirror and grimaced. He was losing it over shaving? What was wrong with him? For the love of god, man, keep your head in the game!

He consoled himself by knowing that he had gotten to her too. He had her this time from the moment he had used that grin that she could never resist, that look downward then upward for which she had always been such a sucker; he had gotten a lot of fun mileage out of that look, that fetish she had about his supposed shyness, he thought with a roll of his eyes. After all, if she knew his weaknesses, he knew hers. He was doing okay. He could win. He would win.

Resting his hands on the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror, always uncomfortable doing so, afraid to see what was in his eyes. Today, though, through sheer effort, the coldness was muted. He could do that, too. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He did not know.

Vaughn walked back to the bathroom and handed him a kit. "She….said--"

"Vaughn," Jack began. He paused. "I know this is hard for you, being this close to my…" He stopped, how do you apologize for the fact that your ex-wife had killed his father? This man, that of all men, his daughter loved? How do you apologize for not being smart enough, critical enough, wise enough, to have seen through Irina's game, to having brought her into all of their lives? To have allowed her easy access to everyone, which resulted in the loss of Bill Vaughn's life? It was his fault, it was all his fault, no matter what everyone, even Arvin had said. He opened his mouth, thinking that all he could say was, "I'm sorry," when Vaughn suddenly spoke.

"I don't think it's appropriate to talk about Sydney at this time, Jack," Vaughn said, looking down. Jack raised an eyebrow. Hmm. He had been talking about Irina, but Vaughn had automatically assumed he was talking about Sydney….He looked at the younger man and then down at the kit. Vaughn motioned toward it, clearly eager to end the personal conversation, "I took the kits out of the bathrooms since there are sharp objects and Derevko has to have access to the facilities. There's bandages, disinfectant, the usual. Shaving stuff, razors."

Blah, blah, blah the kid went on as if Jack had never opened a CIA personal toiletries kit before. Was he working up his courage to say something to him or just blathering on so he could avoid going back into the hold with Irina? Or was he allowing Vaughn to babble on because he was trying to work up his nerve to say the words that needed to be said, before the combination of cowardice and self-loathing overwhelmed him. He nodded absentmindedly to Vaughn's words as he looked in the mirror, avoiding his own eyes as he covered his face in shaving cream. Taking his time, being careful around that old scar tissue, which hurt if you nicked it.

Looking into the mirror in the other tiny bathroom, she touched her own lip in the same spot as Jack's scar, wondered what the real story was behind it. Looking into her own eyes, she saw…what was that? Satisfaction, certainly. Looking deeper, she sighed. Happiness, or at least the seeds of it. How long since she had seen that in the mirror? Twenty years? 
Then she wondered herself, surprised at the introspection she normally avoided and had only ever done when she was with Jack, for Jack, for them. She wondered just who was that person in the mirror? Who did he see when he looked at her? Did he see someone he could trust? Surely he must see the face of the woman he loved and if he loved her, then he trusted her. This mission had clearly helped. But when he looked at her, did he see an older version of Laura Bristow? Or did he see someone he thought was different -- Irina Derevko? Or was it an amalgam of both for him since he did not understand that they were the same person? Is that why she kept feeling mixed messages from him -was he confused? That was ridiculous, but men were not always rational, after all. Sometimes she thought they had PMS all the time. She smiled, remembering Natasha saying once that PMS stood for Permanent Male Stupidity. She would have to tell Jack that, just to get him going.

How had she gotten to this place? With her daughter, in the cargo hold of this transport plane, talking desultorily to the man she loved, the man who loved her, about topics of no importance to anyone whatsoever …just so they did not have to talk about the one topic of greatest importance to them. With her estranged husband - did he even realize that they were still legally married - both of them hiding in these tiny cubicles, staring into mirrors, trying to locate the people they had been, determine who they had become, find the connections between all of them. Well, she did not think the journey should be as long or as arduous as all that. Jack was clearly the same man - older, wiser - but still the same. Still, she sighed, just as attractive, maybe more so. She was the same as she had been too, just as Irina and Laura were the same. She wished…She wondered again about the whereabouts of the chain.

Walking over to the window, she looked out, staring out the window of the cargo door at the expanse of the Pacific underneath them. She jumped when Jack came up behind her and asked, "Thinking about jumping, Irina? Want to go first? I'd be happy to let you this time."

She chuckled, "Very funny. I don't have a death wish."

"True. This fall could kill with or without a parachute. Hmm." She slanted a look up at him, seeing - as she hoped - the amusement in his face as he pretended to consider pushing her out the door. She relaxed. They had made progress if he was now willing to joke about killing her. This mission had been worth it, although she did not delude herself into thinking that winning his trust for the moment would be sufficient to winning his trust completely. The trust she needed for her professional goals, wanted for her personal ends.

"Hmm. So it would..." she said, not really paying attention, still thinking about the chain, her other jewelry. 
He suggested, "Let's go back over to the kids. Maybe another game? The awkward silences between the two of them…are ridiculous."

"Don't you think you should talk to him? Man to man? Say something? Give advice?" Irina asked.

"Are you insane?" he laughed. "Me? Give relationship advice? What could I say?" What could I say about love, he thought? He had thought the same on the plane over here and felt he knew less now than he had before….

"How about….what is that American expression?"

"Fish or cut bait?"

"Yes. What is his problem anyway?"

"He's afraid." Jack snapped out without thinking, being intimately acquainted with that freezing emotion. "You know that. I saw the tapes of your conversations with him." She nodded. Then he asked impulsively, "How did you know Vaughn does not sleep while Syd's on a mission?"

"Extrapolating. I never slept while you were away on a mission, remember?"

"What?" Like the sound of a buoy clanging in a harbor on fog-shrouded night, he heard a faint noise, a muffled memory he had thought long lost in the mists of time come popping back to the surface. The memory of Dave telling him that he had dropped in on Laura once to pick up a coat he'd left behind at the party for his dissertation and had been astonished at how bad she had looked, how she had immediately assumed that he was there to give her bad news. Had suggested that Jack accept the offer to spend at least a little more time in the office and less time in the field to spare his wife the worry.

"Remember, Jack? You knew that I did not sleep well or usually at all, when you were away on missions. I was worried about you. Vaughn worries about Sydney. He knows, feels how terrible it is to be the one left behind in those circumstances, worrying….You and Sydney don't," she commented, nodding in Vaughn's direction, missing the look of stunned, uncontrollable fury that he knew passed over his face.

He swallowed hard, looked out the window, and contented himself by commenting as blandly as possible, "Oh, I suppose, if I'd been killed, your mission would have been cancelled. That would have been nerve-wracking. Such a blip in the old career path, hmm?"

"Are you insane?" she asked. What was wrong with him? How could he think that? She sighed with relief when he opened his mouth again. 
"I'm sorry, Irina. That was out of line. The tension tonight is killing me." Would she fall for that bit of misdirection? She always had in the past…

"That's okay, Jack. We're all exhausted. This mission was tiring and this night seems endless, doesn't it?" He nodded. She continued, "Oh, here comes Vaughn. Circling again. Sydney's circling the other way," she sighed. "We're all like…"

"A pack of vultures?" he quipped. "Or would that be a pack of wolves or a flock of vultures?"

"Lovely analogies, Jack, just lovely."

"I do my best."

"I'm sure you could come up with a better analogy, a quotation even if you put your mind to it. That's an idea -- we could play that game later….Sydney would probably excel at it, too," she offered. He shrugged and looked at their daughter. She decided to punt one. "Do you remember the very first quotation with which you stumped me?"

"Sure, of course." He smiled, she relaxed further. He had taken that bait without hesitation. Perhaps she should stop counting points. "The author was apparently not part of your crash course on English lit? Too modern, hmm?"

"Oh, be quiet and give me the quotation. If you remember it…" she challenged him again, annoyed at his unerring accuracy with that jibe about her studies for her cover. Point to him. Sigh.

He shrugged and said "Oh, I remember. Let's see if you do. 'We are all what we pretend to be, but, --"

She finished it. "--We had better be very careful about what we pretend.'"

"Kurt Vonnegut," Sydney called out.

"You knew that?" her parents called out.

Looking from one to the other, she walked over to them, circling around Vaughn. "Sure," she commented. "Actually I wrote a paper on his writings last year, using that quotation as the cornerstone. For obvious reasons, it spoke to me at that time. I got an A on it, the professor said I should write more often about topics for which I had strong feelings. That…."

"It's always best to write from some kernel of truth in one's own life," Irina said, the teacher persona she had always found so easy to wear rising to the fore. Looking at Jack cautiously, she asked, "What other papers have you worked on recently? What is your dissertation topic?" Sydney looked at Jack too. He nodded. She began talking and Irina drew her off, carefully avoiding Vaughn as he entered their path.

Jack groaned inwardly. They were ridiculous. All of them. This endless circling. This pointless spinning. Around each other, without any real conjunction, well, except for that moment with the song. Afraid, all of them, to just sit down and have the necessary discussions. Four of the bravest people on a professional mission, four of the most emotionally-cowardly people on the planet. He was getting a headache, he thought as he absently rubbed his stomach.

Well, he knew he was tired of that feeling of cowardice, tired of being intimately acquainted with its close relation, self-loathing. Well, he for one, had enough of both of those feelings. Just get it over with. He would get this over with. Now. It would not kill him. After all, he had survived far worse than making a deserved apology. Okay, he still had immense trouble saying 'please' in the post-Laura/Irina era, but he could, would do this. He was an adult. He was a better person than Laura, Irina whatever who had always had such trouble making a simple apology. That did it, there was his incentive -- he would win that competition with her, the apology contest. He snorted in self-derision, remembering at their wedding, how he had said she made him a better person. Huh, she was still doing so, in a sick, twisted, Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko kind-of-way. Walking in a straight line over to where Vaughn stood in front of a window, bouncing up and down on his toes, Jack stood next to him and waited until the younger man stood still.

"Vaughn," he said softly. The younger man turned around. "No, face forward like me so that the women cannot read our lips." Vaughn nodded and resumed staring out the window. Taking a deep breath, Jack said, "What I was trying to say before is that I know it's hard for you to be here with my…ex-wife. Irina. Not Sydney, who aside from some superficial similarities, is not her mother's daughter. She is herself. I was trying to say that..." he swallowed, took a deep breath. Said what he had wanted to say to everyone, but had been too ashamed, too cowardly to do before. "I'm sorry. For everything. I wish I had seen…I am sorry for what happened to your family …Wish I had been a better judge of…"

Vaughn's head jerked as he stared at him in shock, for a moment and then facing forward again, he said, "You didn't need to say that. I appreciate that you did. But it was not your fault, Jack. When a man loves a woman…" he swallowed and looked down.

A song for you too? Or for me, again? Jack thought, but kept his mouth shut and looked away to give the younger man some privacy.  
Finally, Vaughn continued, "Love is..."

"Difficult?" Well, that was a massive understatement, if ever there was one, Jack thought even as the word left his mouth.

The men said nothing for a while. Finally, they looked at each other and commented simultaneously, "Enough said." Crossing their arms, facing forward, not looking at each other, they began to talk about the mission.

Sitting next to her mother, Sydney stared at the two men, wondering what that conversation, clearly awkward for a time on both their parts, had been about. Glancing over at her mother, she saw her watching them intently.

"Can't read their lips, can you?" she asked her daughter, under her breath.

"No," Sydney sighed in disappointment.

"Of course not, Jack turned away the minute he began to speak…"

"Vaughn looks a little uncomfortable, but…okay. Daddy must not be giving him the look."

"The look?"

"Yeah," she smiled and then grimaced. "I've seen him do it a million times since then, but the first time I saw it was when I was a teenager. Luckily it wasn't directed at me! He came home early - I know now, of course, from a mission - and found me making out with my then-boyfriend on the couch in the living room."

"The… living room was white?" Irina asked cautiously. Shaking her head, she commented, "I still can't quite believe Jack lives in a white house."

"Oh, he doesn't live there anymore." Syd said offhandedly.

"No?" Irina said, trying to hide her shock. Why had she thought that everything had been just the way it was the day she left? How…foolish. She could just imagine Jack saying, "C'mon, Laura. Life happens, people… redecorate."

"No, he sold it when I went away to college. It was too big for one person."

Irina looked at her, trying to avoid noticing the pang inside, consoling herself with the knowledge that Jack may have repainted, but he had never remarried. Walls were just…walls, after all. They could be painted again. Irina prompted, "Your story, Sydney? The white living room?"

"So, the walls were white, carpet was tan, couch was gray. Same color as my boyfriend's face when Dad gave him THE look."

"Ah, THE look." She had seen it directed at her a time or two recently. "The look that says you are the lowest form of human life since our ancestors crawled out of the primordial swamp on their bellies? And if you were wise, you'd crawl back into said swamp and drown yourself before he killed you first? And if you were lucky the creatures that live on the bottom of the swamp would consume your body before he gets to it? That look?"

"That look. My boyfriend broke up with me the next day. I cried like a fool…like a teenage girl, sure her life was about to end."

"Well, if he didn't have the courage to---"

"C'mon. He was seventeen years old and Dad was, is - Jack Bristow."

"True, but you cannot blame Jack for being… your father. Any father…" Well, any father with an ounce of love. Not her father, who had encouraged her to whore herself for her country.

They watched the men talk and then begin to pace again.

Sydney groaned. "This night is endless. And it's driving me crazy, being stuck in here. I never knew a cargo hold could feel so small. There's too much baggage here in the middle."

Chapter 9 part 4 section 3