Alias fic: Strange Bedfellows (7/12)
Story Title: Strange Bedfellows
Chapter Title: Kourou
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 565
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 VII: Kourou“Elle est belle. Juste comme son père.”
“Ouais. Son père.”
“Bienvenue à la Guyane française, Monsieur Tremblay. Et toi, petite.”
“Merci.”
A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.
Not yet.
French isn’t Weiss’s best language, but having one’s closest friend annoyingly fluent in the language makes you pick some things up. Plus, he feels that French Guiana would be out of a projected path by anyone looking for them. Perhaps they would anticipate he and Isabelle would go to Peru or Uruguay or some other “typical” South American country. Perhaps they’d look at Weiss’s profile and see that his only official spoken languages are English, Dutch, and Spanish, and so there’d be no reason to go into a French-speaking country.
(Or perhaps they’re simply half a day behind and would find their quarry before the new day breaks. That option isn’t Weiss’s preference.)
It’s also a nice culinary change of pace. Not that he doesn’t enjoy traditional South American cooking, but having some Creole thrown in there is welcomed. He mulls this over as he counts out change for what looks like some sort of seafood-meat amalgam-bouillon d’Awara the sign says-smiling at the woman and hoping it reaches his eyes.
“Merci, monsieur,” says the woman as she hands him the dish. Noticing Isabelle, she continues, “Sa fille est adorable.”
Weiss begins to thank her, but doesn’t get the chance. “Uncle,” says Isabelle.
Weiss nearly drops her in surprise. He stares at her with wide eyes in awe. “What?”
“Uncle,” says Isabelle again, louder, testing the sound. “Uncle.”
“Je suis désolée,” says the shopkeeper apologetically. “J’ai supposé que-”
“Non,” Weiss says hurriedly. “C’est pas ça. C’est juste…c’est son premier mot.”
He continues to gaze at Isabelle in wonder. Well, wonder and sadness. He’s overjoyed at the fact that he was here for the first time she spoke, but at the same time…Sydney and Vaughn should have been there too. It’s monumentally unfair. He hadn’t really thought about it given their precarious situation, but now that he realizes how many firsts he’s been here for, for how many Isabelle’s parents haven’t…it makes him feel guilty. He knows he shouldn’t, given what responsibility said parents gave him, but he does.
It shouldn’t have been him who calmed her first cry. It shouldn’t have been him who rocked her into her first sleep. It shouldn’t have been him who fed her her first bottle. It shouldn’t have been him who gave her her first bath. It shouldn’t have been him who heard her first giggle. It shouldn’t have been him who kissed her first scrape. It shouldn’t have been him who taught her how to crawl and how to walk. It shouldn’t have been him who potty trained her. It shouldn’t have been him who bought her her first clothes. It shouldn’t be his name that’s her first word.
It shouldn’t be him.
“Pourquoi êtes-vous triste, monsieur?” asks the shopkeeper. “C’est fantastique!”
Weiss gives her a thin smile. “Ses parents devraient être ici.”
“C’est fantastique,” the woman repeats, more seriously this time. “Si vous me demandez, la seule chose importante est qu’elle est aimée.”
Weiss doesn’t answer. It is fantastic news (thank God I didn’t mess her up completely), and so help him she’s got him wrapped around her finger. But at the same time, a part of him wishes she hadn’t spoken at all.
Next
Chapter Title: Kourou
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 565
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 VII: Kourou“Elle est belle. Juste comme son père.”
“Ouais. Son père.”
“Bienvenue à la Guyane française, Monsieur Tremblay. Et toi, petite.”
“Merci.”
A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.
Not yet.
French isn’t Weiss’s best language, but having one’s closest friend annoyingly fluent in the language makes you pick some things up. Plus, he feels that French Guiana would be out of a projected path by anyone looking for them. Perhaps they would anticipate he and Isabelle would go to Peru or Uruguay or some other “typical” South American country. Perhaps they’d look at Weiss’s profile and see that his only official spoken languages are English, Dutch, and Spanish, and so there’d be no reason to go into a French-speaking country.
(Or perhaps they’re simply half a day behind and would find their quarry before the new day breaks. That option isn’t Weiss’s preference.)
It’s also a nice culinary change of pace. Not that he doesn’t enjoy traditional South American cooking, but having some Creole thrown in there is welcomed. He mulls this over as he counts out change for what looks like some sort of seafood-meat amalgam-bouillon d’Awara the sign says-smiling at the woman and hoping it reaches his eyes.
“Merci, monsieur,” says the woman as she hands him the dish. Noticing Isabelle, she continues, “Sa fille est adorable.”
Weiss begins to thank her, but doesn’t get the chance. “Uncle,” says Isabelle.
Weiss nearly drops her in surprise. He stares at her with wide eyes in awe. “What?”
“Uncle,” says Isabelle again, louder, testing the sound. “Uncle.”
“Je suis désolée,” says the shopkeeper apologetically. “J’ai supposé que-”
“Non,” Weiss says hurriedly. “C’est pas ça. C’est juste…c’est son premier mot.”
He continues to gaze at Isabelle in wonder. Well, wonder and sadness. He’s overjoyed at the fact that he was here for the first time she spoke, but at the same time…Sydney and Vaughn should have been there too. It’s monumentally unfair. He hadn’t really thought about it given their precarious situation, but now that he realizes how many firsts he’s been here for, for how many Isabelle’s parents haven’t…it makes him feel guilty. He knows he shouldn’t, given what responsibility said parents gave him, but he does.
It shouldn’t have been him who calmed her first cry. It shouldn’t have been him who rocked her into her first sleep. It shouldn’t have been him who fed her her first bottle. It shouldn’t have been him who gave her her first bath. It shouldn’t have been him who heard her first giggle. It shouldn’t have been him who kissed her first scrape. It shouldn’t have been him who taught her how to crawl and how to walk. It shouldn’t have been him who potty trained her. It shouldn’t have been him who bought her her first clothes. It shouldn’t be his name that’s her first word.
It shouldn’t be him.
“Pourquoi êtes-vous triste, monsieur?” asks the shopkeeper. “C’est fantastique!”
Weiss gives her a thin smile. “Ses parents devraient être ici.”
“C’est fantastique,” the woman repeats, more seriously this time. “Si vous me demandez, la seule chose importante est qu’elle est aimée.”
Weiss doesn’t answer. It is fantastic news (thank God I didn’t mess her up completely), and so help him she’s got him wrapped around her finger. But at the same time, a part of him wishes she hadn’t spoken at all.
Next