Alias fic: Strange Bedfellows (3/12)
Story Title: Strange Bedfellows
Chapter Title: Buenos Aires
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 522
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 III: Buenos Aires“Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre.”
I’m not her father, Weiss almost says. Correcting himself, he replies, “Sí. Su padre.”
The customs agent stamps both his and Isabelle’s passports and smiles. “Bienvenido a Argentina, Señor Markhov. Y tú, pequeña.”
Isabelle doesn’t react to the endearment, just maintains her uncertainty. Weiss can commiserate. “Gracias,” he replies, adding on a perfunctory smile. He stows the passports and exits Customs, a sizable part of him wanting to turn right back around in the airport and go home. But he forces his feet to keep moving, hailing a taxi and instructing the driver to drop them off half a mile from the safe house.
This safe house is even less stocked than the one in Brussels, the overhead light flickering every now and then, the bed rickety. There’s a gun on the nightstand, which he places under the thin pillow, and a colorful postcard labeled Düsseldorf resting on the coverlet. He flips it over to see two words written in Sydney’s careful handwriting.
Not yet.
Weiss exhales heavily-he hadn’t realized he’d gotten his hopes up that it’d say something like Hey, just kidding! I went and got Vaughn, and we’re on our way to take you both home-and sets Isabelle on the bed. He collapses into the equally rickety chair next to her, a hand running through his hair.
He’s been to Buenos Aires before, with Nadia, and they’d had a great time. He wishes like hell it felt now like it did then, like an exciting adventure, but it’s far from that. As the minutes pass, Weiss slack-shouldered in the chair and Isabelle fidgeting on the bed, the reality of what’s going on sets in.
I’m a fugitive, he confirms. People are going to come after me. Assassins. They’re going to come after Isabelle. And I’m probably the most poorly prepared person on the planet to deal with this.
He lets himself get pissed at Sydney, at Jack, at Vaughn, at everything, standing up in fury and punching a dent in the wall. He knows it’s not entirely a rational anger-it’s not like they wanted this to happen-but he feels it nonetheless. If he didn’t know them, if he hadn’t accepted the NSC promotion, he wouldn’t be anywhere near this position. He’d be desk jockeying and coordinating covert ops like a normal person.
He stares at baby Isabelle, pondering fury towards her as well, and as he does so his ire slowly starts to dwindle. She’s as much a victim of this as he is. And, he processes with a chill, he’s the only person she can count on. He’s her only hope for survival. Weiss has never come close with this sort of responsibility, never pegged himself for taking on this much, but the fact is that he has no choice.
He walks over to her, brushing his hand over her silky head. “Just you and me now,” he says softly. As if Sydney, Vaughn, and Jack could hear him, he says with conviction at the ceiling, “You damn well better know what you’re doing. Because I sure as hell don’t.”
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Chapter Title: Buenos Aires
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 522
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 III: Buenos Aires“Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre.”
I’m not her father, Weiss almost says. Correcting himself, he replies, “Sí. Su padre.”
The customs agent stamps both his and Isabelle’s passports and smiles. “Bienvenido a Argentina, Señor Markhov. Y tú, pequeña.”
Isabelle doesn’t react to the endearment, just maintains her uncertainty. Weiss can commiserate. “Gracias,” he replies, adding on a perfunctory smile. He stows the passports and exits Customs, a sizable part of him wanting to turn right back around in the airport and go home. But he forces his feet to keep moving, hailing a taxi and instructing the driver to drop them off half a mile from the safe house.
This safe house is even less stocked than the one in Brussels, the overhead light flickering every now and then, the bed rickety. There’s a gun on the nightstand, which he places under the thin pillow, and a colorful postcard labeled Düsseldorf resting on the coverlet. He flips it over to see two words written in Sydney’s careful handwriting.
Not yet.
Weiss exhales heavily-he hadn’t realized he’d gotten his hopes up that it’d say something like Hey, just kidding! I went and got Vaughn, and we’re on our way to take you both home-and sets Isabelle on the bed. He collapses into the equally rickety chair next to her, a hand running through his hair.
He’s been to Buenos Aires before, with Nadia, and they’d had a great time. He wishes like hell it felt now like it did then, like an exciting adventure, but it’s far from that. As the minutes pass, Weiss slack-shouldered in the chair and Isabelle fidgeting on the bed, the reality of what’s going on sets in.
I’m a fugitive, he confirms. People are going to come after me. Assassins. They’re going to come after Isabelle. And I’m probably the most poorly prepared person on the planet to deal with this.
He lets himself get pissed at Sydney, at Jack, at Vaughn, at everything, standing up in fury and punching a dent in the wall. He knows it’s not entirely a rational anger-it’s not like they wanted this to happen-but he feels it nonetheless. If he didn’t know them, if he hadn’t accepted the NSC promotion, he wouldn’t be anywhere near this position. He’d be desk jockeying and coordinating covert ops like a normal person.
He stares at baby Isabelle, pondering fury towards her as well, and as he does so his ire slowly starts to dwindle. She’s as much a victim of this as he is. And, he processes with a chill, he’s the only person she can count on. He’s her only hope for survival. Weiss has never come close with this sort of responsibility, never pegged himself for taking on this much, but the fact is that he has no choice.
He walks over to her, brushing his hand over her silky head. “Just you and me now,” he says softly. As if Sydney, Vaughn, and Jack could hear him, he says with conviction at the ceiling, “You damn well better know what you’re doing. Because I sure as hell don’t.”
Next