Alias fic: Strange Bedfellows (5/12)
Story Title: Strange Bedfellows
Chapter Title: São Paulo
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 640
Summary: One minute Eric Weiss covert operations liaison 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 V: São Paulo“Ela é linda. Assim como seu pai.”
“Sim. Seu pai.”
“Bem-vindo ao Brasil, Senhor Rodrigues. E você, pequenina.”
“Obrigado.”
A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.
Not yet.
A night interrupted. A safe house compromised. “Go,” says the keeper, right before being shot through the chest with a sawed-off. Isabelle shrieks-or maybe it’s Weiss, he can’t quite tell-and Weiss barely has the presence of mind to grab the diaper bag before sprinting out.
He knows many countries well, but Brazil isn’t one of them; it’s a fact he acknowledges as he runs through brush and up muddy slopes, trying to get as far away from the guerrilla gunfire and shouting as possible. Isabelle’s crying doesn’t help with that, and it’s rather hard to try to shush her while he’s running, meaning he has to be that much more diligent.
After what seems like hours he no longer hears the shouts, and he sits down on a fallen log, sweat already dripping down his back as he looks at Isabelle. He thinks only of calming her down as the sun slowly slips from the sky, finally getting her to cease as dusk strikes.
It’s then, however, that he realizes her crying was the least of his concerns. He feels a feather-light tickle on his arm and glances down, finding a mosquito sitting there, proboscis ready to pierce his skin. He slaps and kills it lazily, not thinking much of it, until he remembers where he is.
Under normal circumstances, all he’d have to worry about would be an itchy red bump. But he’s pretty sure worse things can happen when he’s in the Brazilian rainforest…with a newborn, no less. He curses himself for not demanding inoculations or medicine or whatever when they were in Brussels.
He inventories their supplies, finding nothing of usefulness. He’d have to do this manually.
For the next ten hours until the sun rises, Weiss doesn’t move. That is, except to swat mosquitoes away from Isabelle’s vulnerable body. He loses track of how many he’s killed, just that in no way, shape, or form will he let them inject even a drop of toxin into Isabelle’s skin. Judging from itchy spots on his exposed skin he knew weren’t there before he’s well-aware he’s been bitten multiple times. He knows he’s at risk, that chances are at least one of the bites has malaria infecting it, but by his estimates, he’s got more time than Isabelle would. He thinks malaria moves pretty quickly, but he’s an adult, and he’s hardy (thanks for the German genes, Mom).
He gets up from the log only when pinkish-yellow rays light up the forest and the mosquitoes abandon their attack, feeding Isabelle one of the precious few bottles he has left as he treks through the trees. He’d have to get more formula, somewhere. Isabelle doesn’t cry as Weiss walks (not that he knows where he’s going), which he appreciates, just sucks on her bottle and gazes around with inquisitive eyes.
They hike for two days until Weiss stumbles across a road which leads to a small city where he manages to acquire a room at a shabby inn. He has his wallet that contains some money, but it’s money he’d rather save, so he somewhat ashamedly manipulates the owner by using Isabelle. Babies tend to get you sympathy.
By some stroke of luck, Weiss never develops malaria symptoms, and while he’s not much for the whole karma mumbo-jumbo, he wonders if maybe being so vigilant with keeping Isabelle from contracting it-despite his approximation of two hundred swarming mosquitoes, he’s proud to note Isabelle has not a single bite-he avoided the fate as well.
That said, after a few days of recouping at the inn, he makes a point to find the nearest hospital to get shots and quinine.
Next
Chapter Title: São Paulo
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 640
Summary: One minute Eric Weiss covert operations liaison 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 V: São Paulo“Ela é linda. Assim como seu pai.”
“Sim. Seu pai.”
“Bem-vindo ao Brasil, Senhor Rodrigues. E você, pequenina.”
“Obrigado.”
A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.
Not yet.
A night interrupted. A safe house compromised. “Go,” says the keeper, right before being shot through the chest with a sawed-off. Isabelle shrieks-or maybe it’s Weiss, he can’t quite tell-and Weiss barely has the presence of mind to grab the diaper bag before sprinting out.
He knows many countries well, but Brazil isn’t one of them; it’s a fact he acknowledges as he runs through brush and up muddy slopes, trying to get as far away from the guerrilla gunfire and shouting as possible. Isabelle’s crying doesn’t help with that, and it’s rather hard to try to shush her while he’s running, meaning he has to be that much more diligent.
After what seems like hours he no longer hears the shouts, and he sits down on a fallen log, sweat already dripping down his back as he looks at Isabelle. He thinks only of calming her down as the sun slowly slips from the sky, finally getting her to cease as dusk strikes.
It’s then, however, that he realizes her crying was the least of his concerns. He feels a feather-light tickle on his arm and glances down, finding a mosquito sitting there, proboscis ready to pierce his skin. He slaps and kills it lazily, not thinking much of it, until he remembers where he is.
Under normal circumstances, all he’d have to worry about would be an itchy red bump. But he’s pretty sure worse things can happen when he’s in the Brazilian rainforest…with a newborn, no less. He curses himself for not demanding inoculations or medicine or whatever when they were in Brussels.
He inventories their supplies, finding nothing of usefulness. He’d have to do this manually.
For the next ten hours until the sun rises, Weiss doesn’t move. That is, except to swat mosquitoes away from Isabelle’s vulnerable body. He loses track of how many he’s killed, just that in no way, shape, or form will he let them inject even a drop of toxin into Isabelle’s skin. Judging from itchy spots on his exposed skin he knew weren’t there before he’s well-aware he’s been bitten multiple times. He knows he’s at risk, that chances are at least one of the bites has malaria infecting it, but by his estimates, he’s got more time than Isabelle would. He thinks malaria moves pretty quickly, but he’s an adult, and he’s hardy (thanks for the German genes, Mom).
He gets up from the log only when pinkish-yellow rays light up the forest and the mosquitoes abandon their attack, feeding Isabelle one of the precious few bottles he has left as he treks through the trees. He’d have to get more formula, somewhere. Isabelle doesn’t cry as Weiss walks (not that he knows where he’s going), which he appreciates, just sucks on her bottle and gazes around with inquisitive eyes.
They hike for two days until Weiss stumbles across a road which leads to a small city where he manages to acquire a room at a shabby inn. He has his wallet that contains some money, but it’s money he’d rather save, so he somewhat ashamedly manipulates the owner by using Isabelle. Babies tend to get you sympathy.
By some stroke of luck, Weiss never develops malaria symptoms, and while he’s not much for the whole karma mumbo-jumbo, he wonders if maybe being so vigilant with keeping Isabelle from contracting it-despite his approximation of two hundred swarming mosquitoes, he’s proud to note Isabelle has not a single bite-he avoided the fate as well.
That said, after a few days of recouping at the inn, he makes a point to find the nearest hospital to get shots and quinine.
Next