The Perfect Weapon Chapter 9 Part 4 section 3
"You need to put your mind someplace else," Irina recommended. It was what she intended to do.
"What do you mean?"
"Devise a good story, find a happy memory and tell it to yourself. Take yourself away from where you are to where you want to be." She spoke from personal experience. That memory book was well-worn now, but never grew old. What page should she pick tonight?
"Hmm," Sydney said and stood up and began to pace. Watching her, Irina knew that she should be concentrating on her explanation of that gunshot in Taipei that Jack had so helpfully brought up on this mission.
Instead she was watching her husband, enjoying the sight of his body movements. What was that tripe about him being drunk and falling down? He had beautiful body mechanics. Eventually he stopped and stretched his arms over his head, his back to her. Very nice other body parts as well, she thought, repressing a smile. Although in many ways, the sexiest part of that man was his brain, the way his mind worked. An endless, entrancing puzzle, even still. And the ideas that came out of it…she sighed.
He said something to Sydney, she shook her head. He nodded and pointed toward where Irina sat near the crates in the middle. She finally nodded and the two of them came over.
"Dad, I know I'm tired, but I just want to wait until I'm at home," Sydney said.
"Honey, you're overtired and starting to…" Jack began.
"Whine," Irina supplied.
"Thank you!" Jack and Sydney said in unison. They each gave a small smile and then Jack said softly, "I know you want to be home, we all do, but it's hours yet and then we'll have to do the debrief, remember? So, c'mon."
"Okay, I'll try," she finally agreed. Behind her back, Jack rolled his eyes. Irina smiled and looked down so that Sydney did not see it as she pulled her pack over.
"How about you, Irina?" Jack asked as he pulled his own pack over.
"I'm not sleepy at all," she shrugged. "I slept a little while, before, remember?"
Jack rolled his eyes. Again. "Yeah. Right." When Sydney gave him a quizzical look, he added quickly, "Okay, Vaughn will take first watch," as he sat down next to his daughter. The younger man nodded as he continued pacing.
"Watch?" Irina asked.
"Yes, watch. I don't have another necklace, after all," Jack said sarcastically, ignoring Sydney's gasp as she laid down on the other side of him.
Irina tsked, tsked, "Poor planning on your part, Jack." Sydney's head swiveled toward her mother.
"Heads up," Vaughn called out. Jack reached out and snagged the set of shackles as they flew toward him.
He dangled them from one finger and looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "You could be shackled to the crate behind you," he threatened.
Irina leaned toward him and impulsively whispered in his ear, "I'd rather be shackled to you," and felt the stillness of his body like a shot of adrenalin. Point to her.
"Hmm. I've never really gotten into that," he said, although his mouth looked like he was about to smile as stuffed the shackles in his front pocket, then laid his head down on the pack, using it for a pillow.
She looked over at him. Stretched out on the floor, his head on the pack, he rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and even as she watched relaxed his body muscle by muscle. Like any warrior, he had perfected the art of forcing himself to fall asleep on demand and tonight was no exception. She watched his breathing even out and his body fall into as somnolent a pose as she would likely see on a mission. She held her breath as he turned in his sleep toward her. She shifted until she could see his face better, as her gaze thrummed down the long length of his body, stopping at the sight of his thigh muscles visible through the black of his pants even in this dim gray light. Then she moved her eyes over his arms and down to his hands. She wondered where his wedding ring was, what he had done with it. If he had switched it to his right hand as some people did when their spouse died or when he had stopped wearing it all together. But she would not think about that…that was not helpful. She was trying, she told herself grimly, to find a good memory. She looked at his hands again. Smiled remembering their last little sparring match, in the cell, when he had been shackled and she had given him the key. And now she knew what memory she would review tonight.
She remembered, sobbing, lying there on their bed, crying so hard she had not even heard him coming in. Suddenly, she felt a hand, his warm hand on her back, rubbing it. "Honey? What's the matter?" he asked softly as he spooned her from behind and moved his hand around to her front, rubbing the bulge in her middle.
"My chain doesn't fit anymore!" she wailed.
"Your chain doesn't fit anymore and so…you're hysterical?" he asked, his hand stopping its movement for a moment, then resuming. He kissed her neck.
"I am NOT hysterical!" she shrieked, knowing she was, but…her chain would not fit!
"Oookay. You're not hysterical. Will you admit you're a…. bit upset, perhaps?" he asked carefully, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
"Oh, shut up! You're not the one who's getting fat and grumpy and…can't wear the chain anymore!"
"Do you want me to?" he asked, turning her over with gentle hands until she could look up into his face. The minute she saw his eyes, so full of love and amusement, she calmed down. "It wouldn't really fit me and the guys would make fun, but…" he offered with a smile, as his hands stroked her body, soothing her with their gentleness.
"But…I'm hungry now," she whined, ready to move on now that he had reassured her. He rolled his eyes, but wisely said nothing. "And I don't want to cook and---"
"Luckily for you, I made dinner already while you were up here - sleeping I thought - but in reality working yourself into a frenzy over nothing," he commented. Then immediately grimaced, probably realizing that statement had been incredibly stupid.
"Nothing? It's not nothing!"
"Oh, here we go again," he muttered under his breath. "Save me…"
"You are so dead! This is all your fault anyway!" She rolled her eyes in her mind, thinking she had been such a pain to live with during her pregnancy. He must have really loved her to have accepted the brunt of her mood swings.
"You're right, absolutely right," he said placatingly, not being stupid. "But your wish, oh pregnant one, is my command. Remember - I have fooooood downstairs."
"Wait - you made dinner? You?" she asked suspiciously.
"Of course. I'm full of hidden talents," he laughed, as his hands curved over her breasts, lightly these days since they were tender.
"Cooking? That would be a very hidden talent, as in deeply classified. A FYEO order from deep within Langley perhaps?" she asked.
"Oh, sarcasm from the hungry woman? Not a good move, honey, I hold the ability to satisfy your hunger in my hands," he quipped as he skimmed over her hips and the ever-growing bulge in her middle.
"Which one are you talking about? I'm talking about dinner. The other will have to wait until after I've eaten," she said firmly, "So…."
"Let's go," he said, laughing, looking smug, and pulled her to her feet.
"Chinese?" she laughed, when they stopped at the entry to the living room.
He had made a picnic on the floor of the living room. Set a fire in the fireplace, put a blanket under the coffee table, set the table, even candles. And in the center were cartons of take-out Chinese, their favorite.
"Well?" he asked, turning her to face him, holding her lightly in his arms.
She kissed his cheek. He reached one hand up and cupped her face, running his thumb over her cheek. She turned her face into his hands and kissed the palm. "Thank you. You are so sweet."
"I try. Gotta make up for the fact that this---" he caressed her belly with his free hand - "is all my fault, don't I?"
"Oh, Jack, you know I didn't mean that," she said, rubbing her face against his chest. "It was my fault---"
She heard the chuckle rumble through him as he rubbed her back again and asked gently, "How about it was both of our faults, if you want to call our baby a fault?"
"You're right. It's a blessing, a surprise blessing."
"You've actually listened when I've said that?" he asked.
"Ha, ha. Mr. Sarcastic. I listen to every word you say--" he snorted, she bit him on the shoulder. Then continued, "I just choose to ignore the stupid words." He laughed and hugged her close. She hugged him back as she said, "But I should apologize for being…you know, the last couple of weeks I know I've been…"
"Impossible, irrational, volatile, semi-hysterical, a hormonal stew?"
"Hormonal stew? Hormonal stew? That sounds…disgusting," she wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"Well, not like being disgusted will affect your appetite these days. You'd eat anything, at any time," he muttered.
"I heard that!" she exclaimed, but laughed anyway.
They moved into the living room. He pulled a pillow off of the couch for her to sit on and they dished out the food. "No MSG?" she asked as she began to put a bite in her mouth.
"Nope. I remembered," he said.
"Why the picnic in the living room?" she asked as they ate off of each other plates, as usual.
"I thought it would be different, something to lift your spirits. Maybe there's one of those old movies on tv, if you want." She nodded. She had always loved the old American movies, especially those from the Thirties and Forties, such as The Wizard of Oz, Casablanca, Astaire and Rogers and….
"How amazingly…appropriate," Jack said, laughing as he looked in the TV Guide. Aiming the remote at the tv, he said as he clicked through the channels, "Your new favorite movie is on."
She nearly choked on her egg foo young. Then she looked at the sly expression on his face and began to giggle. "You're just joking."
"No, I'm not. See?" he said, grinning so that she had to force herself to look away his mouth and at the television.
"You weren't kidding. Maybe we can blame them," she giggled again, watching Scarlett and Rhett argue about something.
When the movie came to the scene where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs, they both looked at each other and laughed. The food long since eaten, the table cleared, they were cuddled on the couch. Laura lifted her head from his shoulder and asked, "Will you still be able to carry me upstairs even when I'm big and fat?"
Lifting her with ease onto his lap, he nuzzled her cheek and said, "I'll carry you wherever you want, whenever you want. Even if you are big and fat." She heard the smile in his voice and pinched his chin.
"Jack Bristow…."
"Hmm?" he said, kissing her neck.
"You know...I don't want to see the end of this movie anyway..."
"No?" he said, smiling down at her.
"No. I think I'm ready to satisfy that other hunger now," she suggested.
Without wasting a moment, he stood with her in his arms and carried her upstairs. When they reached their bedroom and undressed, he surprised her by asking, "Where is the chain?"
"In its box," she answered, perplexed. "Why?"
"I've got an idea," he answered, walking over to the bureau and uncoiling the chain from its resting place in its special box.
"What?"
"Sit on the bed, facing the mirror. You still like looking in the mirror, don't you? That hasn't changed, has it?"
She gave him a look. He laughed, "Stupid question, I guess. Well, go over."
She sat down in front of the mirror, on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. He sat on the bed behind her, thighs on either side of hers. She put her hands on his legs, enjoying the firmness of the muscles under her palms; then enjoying the feel of his hardness against her buttocks, she began wiggling back against him.
"No, not yet," he chuckled. "First, bend forward a little and just feel," he said softly in the voice she loved. She shivered in anticipation - Jack always had the best ideas - and then shivered again as she felt the coolness of the chain against her skin. He was holding it in his hands and sliding it across her back, her shoulders, the upper curve of her buttocks, the coolness of the metal in contrast to the heat of his hands.
"Like that?" he asked softly, as her head bent forward. He leaned forward and began kissing and licking the exposed nape until she moaned. "Let's try it this way," he suggested. He put one hand around her waist, resting it on the curve of her pregnant belly and then began feathering his fingers up and down, just touching her then moving back up again, as he used the other to hand to slide the chain slowly over her shoulder. She held her breath, watching the chain descend slowly, so slowly over her collarbone, then down the upper curve of her breath until he stopped with the chain just above her nipple. She shivered and the chain fell to the side. "Hmmm," he purred in her ear, watching her in the mirror, no doubt seeing the glazed look in her eyes. He lowered the chain and then began swinging it back and forth across the nipple until she was whimpering. His other hand lowered between her legs and the fingers moved in time to the swing of the chain.
Suddenly, he stopped moving the chain and she opened her mouth to protest. "Shh, it's okay. I'm right here. Watch this…In fact, I'll need your help," he said in her ear, "Put your left hand on top of mine, wrist to wrist."
He took the chain in his right hand and began twining it around and between their wrists in continuous circles, tying them together with the golden links. She watched them, licking her lips. When he was done, they had to work together to close the clasp. She looked up at him in the mirror, seeing his eyes darken even as she watched, feeling his flesh pulse against her. "Watch us, our hands together," he murmured and moved their tethered hands between her legs.
"Jack," she protested. "No, you don't have to do anything. Just feel my hand on top of you, in you, and then feel my hand, the muscles in my arm move, underneath your hand," he urged her. As he touched her, so tenderly, as he did throughout her pregnancy, she leaned her head back against his shoulder.
He kissed her head, her ear, then whispered, "See? This is a new way to chain ourselves together. It's one more level of experience, another way to enjoy the chain. We just need to be creative and we won't lose anything. Do you like it?" She hoped it was a rhetorical question, hoped her moans answered him. She twined her free hand up and around his neck, watching them in the mirror - he was correct, she had always loved that - not able to take her eyes off the gold glistening around his hand, his wrist, the gleam of his wedding band, her rings. Mine. Forever and a day.
Afterwards, they had loosened the chain and he placed it around her neck, where she would wear it at home while she was pregnant and until she could fit back into it again after Sydney was born. Except when he took it off and showed her other ways to play with that chain to tether them together with it. She sighed in happy remembrance.
Feeling her gaze on him, he had opened his eyes just a slit, prepared to close them instantly if necessary or to make an inconsequential comment. But no, her eyes though on him, were unfocussed, looking inward. Clearly she was doing that meditation junk, he thought. But then she smiled, her face became alight…that was not meditation, she was…remembering, he knew with a flash of intuition. Her damn memory book. On what page had she stopped? It must be a good one, by her standards, whatever they were, judging by her face…Her face -- what was that look? Slowly she reached out a hand and he quickly closed his eyes. What had that been on her face as she bent toward him? Had that been…love?
He froze.
Reaching out a hand to touch his hair she stopped, frozen in her tracks as she heard the distinctive click of a gun being cocked. Looking up, she saw Vaughn pointing his service pistol at her. Of course, he thought she was going to try and hurt Jack. Reaching out to touch him had been a foolish move under these circumstances, letting her emotions overcome good judgment. Vaughn mouthed, "Stand down," clearly trying to let Jack and Sydney sleep. She stood up, raised her hands and stepped away from Jack. Vaughn gestured to the side and she walked around the crates and around to the other side. Sitting with her back against the crates, her back now to Jack and Sydney, she watched him holster the pistol and sit down opposite her, leaning against the wall.
He had heard the click of Vaughn's gun, heard Vaughn walk Irina around to the other side of the crates, heard her sit down, resting her back against the boxes. It was safe, now. He sat up slowly, feeling…confused, finding it all too easy at time to slip back into the persona of the Jack she had known. Too tempting, too tempting to be the man he had been, the man who had been happy, who had everything.
Correction, Bristow, you only thought you had everything. You had nothing. Nothing. It had all been a house of cards, the foundation of which was the queen of spades who had been masquerading as the queen of hearts. And he had been the joker, the jester, the fool.
He knew he needed to clarify his position, set his priorities in stone, keep his head in the game, in the right game. While he might permit himself to enjoy the game, he had to remember that for her was an enjoyable interlude to her real life, not everything, just enough to keep her going. It was like….love was a piece of jewelry one could leave coiled in a box and then one day, pick up and put on again without any notice or apology because, the jewelry would not care, would just be glad to be out of the box.
Leaning against the baggage behind him, he tilted his head back and looked at the dark ceiling of the plane, felt the roar, the power of the engines reverberating under him as he tried to understand what had happened. What had just happened, what had been happening on this journey? What had he learned? That look on her face was the same look he had seen every day since the ice rink, even before the ice rink, really. It was the look of a woman in love with the man before her. And this time, she had thought she was unobserved so…there was no reason for the look other than as an expression of her inner feelings.
But, she could not have been in love with him. Could not still be. Could she?
He had always had trouble understanding it.
Because if you love someone you would not, could not, treat them that way. You could not love someone and at the same time plan on using them, exploiting their feelings. You could not play their emotions like cards in a game, use them as pawns, leave them alone to pick up the pieces, to deal with the repercussions of your actions, the hurt, the shame....
Or maybe, he thought, in a burst of honesty, maybe you could. After all, isn't that what he--
But no, he thought firmly. This was different. This was personal. This was justice. This was…a demonstration of a basic law of physics: every action had an equal and opposite reaction. He guessed she was about to have a science lesson. 'And now class, Ms. Derevko will demonstrate just what happens when you push someone too far, when you betray them. Watch closely, the experiment will not be repeated. Your entire grade depends on this moment.'
And her betrayal, the worst part of it? That it was not personal. It had just been a job. She had been selling...love. Faith and hope, too. And he had bought it, bought them all. Then discovered that what he had was a cheap mirror that reflected only his own desires and needs, not the truth. She had been the best game theory teacher he ever had. He was an apt pupil.
He had learned that the truth, the rules, memories were all for sale; all could be stolen, tainted, ruined, in this game. But he had forgotten, momentarily, something else he had learned. So could love.
He would sell, she would buy. She would learn the true cost. And then he could move on, he told himself. Firmly. As he straightened his back and looked in front of him, then glanced down at Sydney, stroked a hand over her hair. Then looked up again. Seeking guidance or avoidance?
Wiggling around, trying to find a more comfortable position, she rubbed her back against the crates, arched her head against a box and looked up, wishing she were seeing stars in the darkness instead of riveted steel. Wishing they were looking in a mirror and she could see the love in his eyes, the passion in his face as he shackled them together with a golden, unbreakable rope that symbolized everything between them, the love, the possession, the connection; that connection forever deepened by the blessing, as he always called the baby.
Remembering that day, she thought of his smile, his gentle hands, his concern, his desire to please her, to find ways to tether them together. And that was what she wanted, she realized, why she had not wanted a quickie in the bathroom. She wanted a whole night, just them. A night with some….love and gentleness. A night where for one little moment in time, she could feel precious to someone. Feel the tenderness of true feelings. She wanted the other, too, though, the passion, the fierceness, the possession, the whirlwind that in the end always led her back home. To him, the only home she had ever really had. She wanted it all, everything with him, only with him, but most of all she wanted the love. With him. One more time.
And then she could move on, she told herself. Firmly, as she leaned his head back a little further against the crates, trying to see out the window from his position, just seeing wisps of clouds float by. Nothing worth looking at. She looked up at the ceiling again, searching her memory book for another moment to savor.
Were the boxes between them baggage that would weigh them down, separate them even when they looked in the same direction? Did the baggage consist solely of mirrors that reflected back only what they wanted to see or did they reflect light that would illuminate? Were those crates a benevolent Pandora's box of memories and connections that contained an endless circle that bound them together? Or had the circle been lost or destroyed or been too-well hidden to be found?
Choices, Jack thought. It all came down to that. Life, he had forgotten for a while, life was a series of choices. Choices mattered. The next time they were alone together, they would each have choices to make.
Chapter 10 Part 1