Alias fic: Strange Bedfellows (2/12)
Story Title: Strange Bedfellows
Chapter Title: Brussels
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,829
Summary: One minute Eric Weiss is covert operations coordinator with the NSC. The next, he's hiding out deep in South America with a baby that isn't his and no idea when, or if, they can stop running for their lives.
Author’s Note: Fic origin here.
Strange Bedfellows
Chapter II: BrusselsWeiss is grateful when they finally land, and as the flight attendant gives her trilingual de-planing instructions, he makes a mental note to switch from English to Dutch. He guesses that’s why Jack chose Belgium, knowing Weiss is fluent in its language, and thinks it was rather considerate.
After her one outburst, Isabelle had slept the rest of the flight, not waking even when some of the other children onboard did due to the air pressure change. He finagles her and the luggage, the flight attendants motioning for him to leave the plane first, an action he welcomes.
Glad he doesn’t have to wait in baggage claim like most others, he heads straight to Ground Transportation. As he descends the escalator with Isabelle’s weight in his arms, he starts glancing around at the placards. Finally he sees “his” name on a sign in bold letters held by a man with no expression, and walks over.
“Heb je een sigaret?” Weiss asks, his tone conversational but his eyes imploring.
“Neen, ik ben gestopt met roken,” replies the man, completing the identity confirmation.
Without further conversation, the man throws his placard in the trash and leads Weiss outside to the line of chauffeur cars, stopping at a nondescript black sedan. Weiss tosses the luggage in the backseat and situates Isabelle in the carrier then climbs into the passenger seat.
“We may speak freely,” says the man in thickly accented English as he pulls onto the freeway. “This vehicle has been swept. My name is Jan.”
Weiss leans back against the headrest, wishing he could sleep. “You’ve been informed of the situation then?”
Jan nods. “Mr. Bristow called us a few hours ago. He did not explain everything, just that we were to expect you and a child.”
“Are there…did he leave any other instructions?”
Jan points to the glove compartment. “In there.”
Weiss obligingly opens it and pulls out a letter, tired eyes scanning over the text.
You must not stay anywhere for too long, it reads in impersonal Times New Roman. I trust you know this. Interact with only those whom you must, and under no circumstances reveal names. You will find a gun and some basic amenities in the safe house, in addition to plane tickets to Buenos Aires. You leave in two days. South America is safer for your identities. You will additionally be given cash and an address of one of my contacts, with whom you will pick up additional identification. It is too risky to have regular communication with you, so I expect you will maintain your covert existence.
Sydney gives her best.
Weiss sets down the letter and looks again in the glove compartment where, just as Jack indicated, there lies a handgun, a wad of cash, a business card that is blank save for a phone number, and two plane tickets. Weiss understands Jack’s reasoning behind going to South America, but he rather wishes-he’s been doing a lot of wishing lately-that they could stay in Europe and hide, or Australia or Canada. Somewhere cushy. Weiss is as outdoorsy a person as the next guy, but the wilds of South America aren’t his idea of a good time. Add in the omnipresent threat of death and it downright sucks.
He is fluent in Spanish, though, and Nadia had given him pointers on the nuances of the different dialects, so at least the language barrier shouldn’t be too bad.
By the time Weiss finishes reflecting, Jan pulls up to the safe house, and hands Weiss a strip of paper with a phone number on it. “When you are ready to leave,” he says, “call this. A secure car will come to take you to the airport. Good luck.”
Jan helps Weiss situate his luggage, and then speeds away to places unknown. Weiss heaves a sigh and enters the safe house, a man just inside the door pointing to the rear of the house. Weiss obeys, finding a small room sparsely equipped, and gently sets Isabelle’s carrier on the nightstand, dropping his duffel and the diaper bag on the ground wearily.
Isabelle naturally decides now is a good time to cry, and Weiss appraises her balefully. At least until he realizes what time it is and that-just as he is, for that matter-she’s probably starving. He rifles through the diaper bag until he finds a bottle of milk, but then pauses. He remembers something about how he’s supposed to heat it up, but not in a microwave because…well, he’s not quite sure why, but he’s pretty positive you’re not supposed to.
He runs the tap in the bathroom as hot as it will go and holds the bottle underneath the stream until it feels warm enough. He takes Isabelle out of the carrier and holds her upright, bringing the bottle to her mouth. She makes a face as she starts sucking on it and Weiss fears it’s too cold or too hot or something, but she continues drinking so he figures it must be acceptable. He really doesn’t know what he’ll do when he runs out of the bottles, but hopes his mother’s philosophy of how everything works out one way or another is actually true.
The silence and the day’s events finally catching up with him, Weiss manages to wait until Isabelle finishes drinking, and then falls backwards on the bed, cradling Isabelle to his chest.
He’s flown enough to where jet lag is rarely an issue, and so awakens at nine a.m. the next morning, for a moment wondering where the hell he is before remembering. Isabelle had awakened sometime before he did, taking to gazing around the room, one hand clutching the blanket and the other halfway in her mouth. Weiss gently removes it and picks her up. It’s then he notices a smell and looks at her in horror.
“Oh God,” he shudders. “Oh no.”
His worst fears are confirmed, and he quickly rummages through Isabelle’s bag and pulls out a diaper and baby wipes. To him, they might as well be the internal workings of a spaceship-in Russian. Frantically he pulls out his phone and calls up Google, typing in his query. It yields about a billion results, so he goes for the easiest route and clicks the first link. In text it seems straightforward and relatively hassle-free, but looking at Isabelle and the diaper, he thinks it can’t be that simple. To be quite honest, he’d rather defuse a bomb.
But he also knows that leaving it unattended would only make things worse so he brings her into the bathroom and sets her on the counter, following the instructions on the website. It takes much longer than the site says it should, and Weiss nearly throws up about a dozen times, but eventually he figures it out.
“You’d better be happy,” he warns Isabelle, scrubbing his hands about fifteen times. “You’d better appreciate my sacrifice.”
He’d meant it as a facetious comment, but his face sobers as he realizes the deeper meaning it has. He clenches his jaw and brings Isabelle over to the bed again, redressing her and then dressing himself. Jack’s contact won’t wait forever.
Exiting out of the internet, he studies the card Jan had given him and punches in the phone number. It rings thrice before a gruff voice picks up. “Hallo?”
“Ik ben Eric Weiss,” he says, hoping his phone isn’t tapped. “Ik ben een collega van Jack Bristow.”
A pause, then, “Ja. Ontmoet me op de bank in het centrum van Josaphatpark in twintig minuten. Ik zal dragen een gele hoed.”
“Oké. Ik-”
The line clicks before Weiss can get out another word, and he scoffs. “Nice talking to you, too.”
If he’s not mistaken, Isabelle’s eyebrow is raised as if she’d heard the conversation as well. “You and me both, Izzy.”
This time an expression of pure distaste. “Okay, no nickname. Isabelle it is.”
He finds a map in the nightstand drawer and searches it until he finds Josaphat Park: it’s large and open; perfect for nonchalant communication. It’s not far by his estimation, but he’d rather give himself some extra time.
He places Isabelle in her carrier and steps out of the safe house into blinding sunlight, trying to orient himself. Once he gets to a main street, Boulevard Lambermontlaan, it gets much easier and he follows it until it runs straight into the park.
It really is a beautiful place, its gigantic grounds filled with everything from a soccer stadium to inns to fountains and ponds, and if Weiss weren’t in such a delicate situation, he’d very much like to walk around. As it is, however, he makes his way to the center, eyes traversing over all the people and the benches. Finally he sees him-a nondescript looking man, average build and sharp features, with a worn leather jacket and a mustard yellow sort of toque.
Satisfied that it’s his contact, Weiss strides over, taking a seat next to him. They don’t look at each other, giving off the air of two strangers making superfluous conversation. “Hoe heet u? En spreekt u Engels?”
“Mijn naam is Hannes. And yes, I speak,” replies the man. Weiss gathers his fluency leaves something to be desired, but it’s doable. He’d be okay speaking just Dutch, but frankly his head hurts and he’d rather use his brainpower for, you know, surviving.
“The note I got said you have some things for me,” says Weiss.
“Ja,” replies Hannes. He places a thick, large envelope on the bench space between them. “Three new sets of identities. Keep the birth papers you were given but not the passports after you use them. If you need additional identities, here is the number of a South American contact.”
He puts a card on top of the envelope. As with the one Jan gave him, there is only a phone number printed on it. Hannes’s words alarm Weiss. Three IDs? A contact if I need more? How long do they expect me to hide out with Isabelle?
Lastly, Hannes puts a smaller envelope on top of the card. “Plane tickets,” he explains. “Tell Jack we are even.”
Weiss snorts. “You’ll probably see him before I do.”
Hannes stands up, hands in his pockets, and looks down at Weiss with something like pity. “Veel succes,” he says. “Tot ziens.”
Weiss laughs derisively. “Dank u.”
Hannes nods and then walks away, his yellow toque-clad head disappearing into the crowd. Weiss sighs and picks up the pile Hannes had bestowed, feeling nothing but trepidation.
“I guess now’s when the fun part starts.”
They spend one more night in the Brussels safe house, Weiss poring through the various passports, and the next morning they board a plane (this time Weiss is smoother with the whole lying thing). As the plane ascends into the clouds, Weiss stares down at the land below, wondering when-hell, if-he’d ever see it, or the States, again.
Next
Chapter Title: Brussels
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,829
Summary: One minute Eric Weiss is covert operations coordinator with the NSC. The next, he's hiding out deep in South America with a baby that isn't his and no idea when, or if, they can stop running for their lives.
Author’s Note: Fic origin here.
Strange Bedfellows
Chapter II: BrusselsWeiss is grateful when they finally land, and as the flight attendant gives her trilingual de-planing instructions, he makes a mental note to switch from English to Dutch. He guesses that’s why Jack chose Belgium, knowing Weiss is fluent in its language, and thinks it was rather considerate.
After her one outburst, Isabelle had slept the rest of the flight, not waking even when some of the other children onboard did due to the air pressure change. He finagles her and the luggage, the flight attendants motioning for him to leave the plane first, an action he welcomes.
Glad he doesn’t have to wait in baggage claim like most others, he heads straight to Ground Transportation. As he descends the escalator with Isabelle’s weight in his arms, he starts glancing around at the placards. Finally he sees “his” name on a sign in bold letters held by a man with no expression, and walks over.
“Heb je een sigaret?” Weiss asks, his tone conversational but his eyes imploring.
“Neen, ik ben gestopt met roken,” replies the man, completing the identity confirmation.
Without further conversation, the man throws his placard in the trash and leads Weiss outside to the line of chauffeur cars, stopping at a nondescript black sedan. Weiss tosses the luggage in the backseat and situates Isabelle in the carrier then climbs into the passenger seat.
“We may speak freely,” says the man in thickly accented English as he pulls onto the freeway. “This vehicle has been swept. My name is Jan.”
Weiss leans back against the headrest, wishing he could sleep. “You’ve been informed of the situation then?”
Jan nods. “Mr. Bristow called us a few hours ago. He did not explain everything, just that we were to expect you and a child.”
“Are there…did he leave any other instructions?”
Jan points to the glove compartment. “In there.”
Weiss obligingly opens it and pulls out a letter, tired eyes scanning over the text.
You must not stay anywhere for too long, it reads in impersonal Times New Roman. I trust you know this. Interact with only those whom you must, and under no circumstances reveal names. You will find a gun and some basic amenities in the safe house, in addition to plane tickets to Buenos Aires. You leave in two days. South America is safer for your identities. You will additionally be given cash and an address of one of my contacts, with whom you will pick up additional identification. It is too risky to have regular communication with you, so I expect you will maintain your covert existence.
Sydney gives her best.
Weiss sets down the letter and looks again in the glove compartment where, just as Jack indicated, there lies a handgun, a wad of cash, a business card that is blank save for a phone number, and two plane tickets. Weiss understands Jack’s reasoning behind going to South America, but he rather wishes-he’s been doing a lot of wishing lately-that they could stay in Europe and hide, or Australia or Canada. Somewhere cushy. Weiss is as outdoorsy a person as the next guy, but the wilds of South America aren’t his idea of a good time. Add in the omnipresent threat of death and it downright sucks.
He is fluent in Spanish, though, and Nadia had given him pointers on the nuances of the different dialects, so at least the language barrier shouldn’t be too bad.
By the time Weiss finishes reflecting, Jan pulls up to the safe house, and hands Weiss a strip of paper with a phone number on it. “When you are ready to leave,” he says, “call this. A secure car will come to take you to the airport. Good luck.”
Jan helps Weiss situate his luggage, and then speeds away to places unknown. Weiss heaves a sigh and enters the safe house, a man just inside the door pointing to the rear of the house. Weiss obeys, finding a small room sparsely equipped, and gently sets Isabelle’s carrier on the nightstand, dropping his duffel and the diaper bag on the ground wearily.
Isabelle naturally decides now is a good time to cry, and Weiss appraises her balefully. At least until he realizes what time it is and that-just as he is, for that matter-she’s probably starving. He rifles through the diaper bag until he finds a bottle of milk, but then pauses. He remembers something about how he’s supposed to heat it up, but not in a microwave because…well, he’s not quite sure why, but he’s pretty positive you’re not supposed to.
He runs the tap in the bathroom as hot as it will go and holds the bottle underneath the stream until it feels warm enough. He takes Isabelle out of the carrier and holds her upright, bringing the bottle to her mouth. She makes a face as she starts sucking on it and Weiss fears it’s too cold or too hot or something, but she continues drinking so he figures it must be acceptable. He really doesn’t know what he’ll do when he runs out of the bottles, but hopes his mother’s philosophy of how everything works out one way or another is actually true.
The silence and the day’s events finally catching up with him, Weiss manages to wait until Isabelle finishes drinking, and then falls backwards on the bed, cradling Isabelle to his chest.
He’s flown enough to where jet lag is rarely an issue, and so awakens at nine a.m. the next morning, for a moment wondering where the hell he is before remembering. Isabelle had awakened sometime before he did, taking to gazing around the room, one hand clutching the blanket and the other halfway in her mouth. Weiss gently removes it and picks her up. It’s then he notices a smell and looks at her in horror.
“Oh God,” he shudders. “Oh no.”
His worst fears are confirmed, and he quickly rummages through Isabelle’s bag and pulls out a diaper and baby wipes. To him, they might as well be the internal workings of a spaceship-in Russian. Frantically he pulls out his phone and calls up Google, typing in his query. It yields about a billion results, so he goes for the easiest route and clicks the first link. In text it seems straightforward and relatively hassle-free, but looking at Isabelle and the diaper, he thinks it can’t be that simple. To be quite honest, he’d rather defuse a bomb.
But he also knows that leaving it unattended would only make things worse so he brings her into the bathroom and sets her on the counter, following the instructions on the website. It takes much longer than the site says it should, and Weiss nearly throws up about a dozen times, but eventually he figures it out.
“You’d better be happy,” he warns Isabelle, scrubbing his hands about fifteen times. “You’d better appreciate my sacrifice.”
He’d meant it as a facetious comment, but his face sobers as he realizes the deeper meaning it has. He clenches his jaw and brings Isabelle over to the bed again, redressing her and then dressing himself. Jack’s contact won’t wait forever.
Exiting out of the internet, he studies the card Jan had given him and punches in the phone number. It rings thrice before a gruff voice picks up. “Hallo?”
“Ik ben Eric Weiss,” he says, hoping his phone isn’t tapped. “Ik ben een collega van Jack Bristow.”
A pause, then, “Ja. Ontmoet me op de bank in het centrum van Josaphatpark in twintig minuten. Ik zal dragen een gele hoed.”
“Oké. Ik-”
The line clicks before Weiss can get out another word, and he scoffs. “Nice talking to you, too.”
If he’s not mistaken, Isabelle’s eyebrow is raised as if she’d heard the conversation as well. “You and me both, Izzy.”
This time an expression of pure distaste. “Okay, no nickname. Isabelle it is.”
He finds a map in the nightstand drawer and searches it until he finds Josaphat Park: it’s large and open; perfect for nonchalant communication. It’s not far by his estimation, but he’d rather give himself some extra time.
He places Isabelle in her carrier and steps out of the safe house into blinding sunlight, trying to orient himself. Once he gets to a main street, Boulevard Lambermontlaan, it gets much easier and he follows it until it runs straight into the park.
It really is a beautiful place, its gigantic grounds filled with everything from a soccer stadium to inns to fountains and ponds, and if Weiss weren’t in such a delicate situation, he’d very much like to walk around. As it is, however, he makes his way to the center, eyes traversing over all the people and the benches. Finally he sees him-a nondescript looking man, average build and sharp features, with a worn leather jacket and a mustard yellow sort of toque.
Satisfied that it’s his contact, Weiss strides over, taking a seat next to him. They don’t look at each other, giving off the air of two strangers making superfluous conversation. “Hoe heet u? En spreekt u Engels?”
“Mijn naam is Hannes. And yes, I speak,” replies the man. Weiss gathers his fluency leaves something to be desired, but it’s doable. He’d be okay speaking just Dutch, but frankly his head hurts and he’d rather use his brainpower for, you know, surviving.
“The note I got said you have some things for me,” says Weiss.
“Ja,” replies Hannes. He places a thick, large envelope on the bench space between them. “Three new sets of identities. Keep the birth papers you were given but not the passports after you use them. If you need additional identities, here is the number of a South American contact.”
He puts a card on top of the envelope. As with the one Jan gave him, there is only a phone number printed on it. Hannes’s words alarm Weiss. Three IDs? A contact if I need more? How long do they expect me to hide out with Isabelle?
Lastly, Hannes puts a smaller envelope on top of the card. “Plane tickets,” he explains. “Tell Jack we are even.”
Weiss snorts. “You’ll probably see him before I do.”
Hannes stands up, hands in his pockets, and looks down at Weiss with something like pity. “Veel succes,” he says. “Tot ziens.”
Weiss laughs derisively. “Dank u.”
Hannes nods and then walks away, his yellow toque-clad head disappearing into the crowd. Weiss sighs and picks up the pile Hannes had bestowed, feeling nothing but trepidation.
“I guess now’s when the fun part starts.”
They spend one more night in the Brussels safe house, Weiss poring through the various passports, and the next morning they board a plane (this time Weiss is smoother with the whole lying thing). As the plane ascends into the clouds, Weiss stares down at the land below, wondering when-hell, if-he’d ever see it, or the States, again.
Next