Alias fic: Strange Bedfellows (10/12)
Story Title: Strange Bedfellows
Chapter Title: Guayaquil
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,629
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 Notes: Fic origin here.
Strange Bedfellows
Chapter X: Guayaquil“Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre.”
“Sí. Su padre.”
“Bienvenido a Ecuador, Señor Leland. Y tú, pequeña.”
“Gracias.”
A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.
Not yet.
Weiss sits down on the bed and tosses the luggage to the floor, running a hand through his hair as usual. The safe house is like all the others, drab, Spartan, not meant for long stays. He contemplates the pros and cons of getting up to take a shower and just passing out right here, but doesn’t get any further than Should I…
“I really wish they’d stop calling me ‘pequeña.’”
Weiss opens one eye and peers at the speaker. He chuckles and lays back again. “You know they’re just being nice, Isabelle.”
“But I’m eight years old!” Isabelle whines. “I’m not a stupid ‘pequeña’ anymore.”
Weiss sighs and sits up, looking seriously at her. He’d of course honored her birthdays, but had never really added them up until she did herself. Eight years. They’ve been on the run for eight years. As he stares at her now, he wonders how anyone could still think she’s his daughter-the only thing they share is brown hair. Isabelle is petite but strong, her skin pale and unblemished save for a chicken pox scar (dear God had that outbreak nearly given Weiss a heart attack) above her eyebrow, her eyes vivid green, her cheeks dimpled, her attitude trying.
“Uncle Eric,” Isabelle presses. Weiss is supremely glad he’d managed to teach Isabelle the difference between Dad and Uncle, and that even at a young age she was smart enough to not correct flight attendants or little old ladies when they assumed. “Uncle Ericccccc.”
Weiss blinks himself out of his reverie. “What?” he asks exasperatedly. Then, realizing his tone might have come across harsh, he adds, “Pequeña.”
Isabelle sticks out her tongue and puts her hands on her hips. “You’re mean.”
Weiss smiles. “That’s me. Mean ol’ Weiss,” he kids. “But you love me anyway.”
Isabelle vehemently shakes her head, but the sparkle in her eyes and the poorly concealed grin say otherwise. She begins to respond, but then catches sight of the note on the bed. Before Weiss can snatch it away from her, Isabelle plops on the bed and picks it up. She reads the two tiny words, then hopefully flips the paper over as if expecting to see an explanation on the back.
There isn’t.
Isabelle hangs her head, and Weiss gently places a hand on her back. “Isabelle…”
“They’re never coming for me, are they?” she asks, tears springing to her eyes.
It’s not the first time this subject has come up, but Weiss has usually been able to dispel it with clever wordplay or ice cream. He has a feeling this time it won’t be so easy. “Isabelle, they will,” he swears, doing his best to put credibility behind it. “I promise you, they’ll come for you. They’ll come for both of us.”
He reaches for Isabelle’s backpack on the floor and takes something from it, then beckons Isabelle onto his lap. She obliges after a moment, lip wobbling. He directs both of their attentions to the well-worn photo in his hands, the figures in it somewhat faded but still distinguishable.
“Isabelle,” Weiss says slowly. “The first time I showed this to you, you were just a few hours old and we were on our way to Belgium. You were screaming your head off and I couldn’t get you to stop. Showing you this picture was the only thing that calmed you down. You know why? Because I went through everyone and explained how much a part of their lives you were. How much you are.”
He points to each person in turn. “Dixon and Robyn and Stephen. Marshall and Carrie and Mitchell. Aunt Nadia. Grandpa Jack. And…”
Isabelle sniffles. “Mommy and Daddy.”
“Yes,” says Weiss emphatically. “Your mom and dad. They’re two of the best people I have ever known in the entire world. And they love you so much.”
“So why can’t they just come?” Isabelle whispers.
“Because…because there are bad people in this world,” says Weiss. “Bad people who want to hurt you. And your mom and dad and Grandpa Jack can’t let that happen.”
“Then why can’t they just come with us? We do just fine.”
Just fine? Weiss wants to splutter. Yeah, hopping country to country, alias to alias, staying up at night praying we’re not caught. Yeah, we’re “just fine.”
“They have to fight the bad guys,” Weiss says instead.
Isabelle frowns at his use of “they.” She trusts Weiss’s statements about her parents, but she doesn’t like how he pretends he’s not important.
“Oh God, you have a fever. You have a really, really, really bad fever. And we’re in the middle of nowhere. Jesus Christ what am I supposed to do?”
He remembers on the map there being a small village a ways away. And by “ways away,” he means twenty miles. But he looks down at the one-year-old child moaning in pain in his arms, and his mind’s made up.
By the time he reaches the village, he’s drowning in sweat, every muscle quivering from running full-out, and he nearly collapses against the first hut he sees. Women standing outside airing the laundry startle at the intruder, and one particularly inquisitive young woman cautiously comes towards them.
“Señor? ¿Señor, qué pasa?”
Weiss can hardly speak his lungs are burning and vision blacking. “La niña…mi hija…ella…ella tiene fiebre. Ayúdame. ¡Por favor, ayúdame!”
The woman presses the back of her hand to Isabelle’s forehead and makes a noise of horror. She calls for what serves as their doctor and gently guides Weiss into a hut while they work on Isabelle. He never leaves her side.
“They’re not the only ones,” Isabelle proclaims softly. Weiss raises an eyebrow at her.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” Weiss sings, his mouth turning up as Isabelle makes a face at his voice. “Happy birthday dear Isabelle, happy birthday to you.”
She looks at the small cake Weiss had procured, at the four dainty candles stuck inside. “It’s so pretty.”
“Make a wish,” Weiss instructs.
Isabelle shuts her eyes tight and mouths something Weiss can’t decipher (he never was good at lip reading), then opens them and blows out the candles in one breath. Weiss claps for her, and she laughs.
“Can I eat it now?” she asks eagerly.
“In a minute,” says Weiss. He hands her a fork he’d found in the almost-bare cupboards and keeps one for himself, motioning for her to start. She digs in, making a sound of appreciation as she swallows the bite. It’s not exactly artisan, but even Weiss has to admit it tastes more than acceptable.
After they eat their fill, he hands Isabelle a woven blanket. “For me? I’ve wanted a new blanket!” she squeals.
Weiss shakes his head. “Look inside.”
Isabelle frowns, unfolding the blanket. Nestled in the center lies a dainty necklace on which rests a small silver magnolia. Isabelle gasps. “Thank you, Uncle Eric,” she says.
“You’re very welcome,” he replies, pushing her hair to the side and clasping the chain around her neck. “And you’re also the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
Isabelle gives him a dimpled smile and jumps up to run to the bathroom. She climbs up onto the counter, admiring herself in the cracked mirror. “I love it,” she announces. “I’m going to wear it all the time.”
Isabelle glances down at the same silver magnolia that hangs against her throat, remembering the day he’d given it to her. Not that, unfortunately, there weren’t bad times as well.
“I heard something,” four-year-old Isabelle squeaks. “Under the bed.”
“Isabelle, there’s nothing there,” replies a very tired Weiss. “I promise, there’s nothing there.”
“There IS,” Isabelle persists.
Weiss sighs and gets off the bed, grabbing a flashlight from the nightstand and peering underneath. Predictably, only dust bunnies are manifest. “See? Nothing.”
Isabelle’s face is unsure, so Weiss sighs again. He reaches underneath the mattress and pulls out his large pocketknife, opening the blade. “Okay, first of all? Never touch this,” he warns. “Second of all…”
He situates himself on the floor looking under the bed, switchblade held in his fist like a sword. Isabelle smiles at the image.
“If anything even looks at you the wrong way, Uncle Eric’ll get ’em,” Weiss proclaims gallantly.
Isabelle smiles again and, satisfied that she’s sufficiently protected, turns on her side and falls asleep. Weiss has half a mind to just get right back in bed, but he made a vow. So he stays on the floor, blade in hand, for the next five months until Isabelle grows out of her phase. His back never does truly get rid of its crick.
“No,” says Isabelle resolutely, her tears drying. “No, you do fight the bad guys, Uncle Eric. You fight my bad guys.”
I went AWOL, he wants to say.
I majorly disobeyed protocol, he wants to say.
I’m probably branded as a traitor and on multiple watch lists, he wants to say.
The CIA is probably after me just like bad guys are after you, he wants to say.
Or they think I’m dead. Yes, I’m probably dead. Sorry, Ma, he wants to say.
I should’ve found a better way, he wants to say.
I’m not like your parents, he wants to say.
“Thank you, Isabelle,” he says.
Isabelle’s gotten pretty good at reading people over the years, especially her uncle, and she can read his face now. So she simply leans up and presses a kiss to his check and throws her small arms around his neck.
“I love you, Uncle Eric.”
“I love you too, squirt.”
Next
Chapter Title: Guayaquil
Fandom(s): Alias
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,629
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 Notes: Fic origin here.
Strange Bedfellows
Chapter X: Guayaquil“Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre.”
“Sí. Su padre.”
“Bienvenido a Ecuador, Señor Leland. Y tú, pequeña.”
“Gracias.”
A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.
Not yet.
Weiss sits down on the bed and tosses the luggage to the floor, running a hand through his hair as usual. The safe house is like all the others, drab, Spartan, not meant for long stays. He contemplates the pros and cons of getting up to take a shower and just passing out right here, but doesn’t get any further than Should I…
“I really wish they’d stop calling me ‘pequeña.’”
Weiss opens one eye and peers at the speaker. He chuckles and lays back again. “You know they’re just being nice, Isabelle.”
“But I’m eight years old!” Isabelle whines. “I’m not a stupid ‘pequeña’ anymore.”
Weiss sighs and sits up, looking seriously at her. He’d of course honored her birthdays, but had never really added them up until she did herself. Eight years. They’ve been on the run for eight years. As he stares at her now, he wonders how anyone could still think she’s his daughter-the only thing they share is brown hair. Isabelle is petite but strong, her skin pale and unblemished save for a chicken pox scar (dear God had that outbreak nearly given Weiss a heart attack) above her eyebrow, her eyes vivid green, her cheeks dimpled, her attitude trying.
“Uncle Eric,” Isabelle presses. Weiss is supremely glad he’d managed to teach Isabelle the difference between Dad and Uncle, and that even at a young age she was smart enough to not correct flight attendants or little old ladies when they assumed. “Uncle Ericccccc.”
Weiss blinks himself out of his reverie. “What?” he asks exasperatedly. Then, realizing his tone might have come across harsh, he adds, “Pequeña.”
Isabelle sticks out her tongue and puts her hands on her hips. “You’re mean.”
Weiss smiles. “That’s me. Mean ol’ Weiss,” he kids. “But you love me anyway.”
Isabelle vehemently shakes her head, but the sparkle in her eyes and the poorly concealed grin say otherwise. She begins to respond, but then catches sight of the note on the bed. Before Weiss can snatch it away from her, Isabelle plops on the bed and picks it up. She reads the two tiny words, then hopefully flips the paper over as if expecting to see an explanation on the back.
There isn’t.
Isabelle hangs her head, and Weiss gently places a hand on her back. “Isabelle…”
“They’re never coming for me, are they?” she asks, tears springing to her eyes.
It’s not the first time this subject has come up, but Weiss has usually been able to dispel it with clever wordplay or ice cream. He has a feeling this time it won’t be so easy. “Isabelle, they will,” he swears, doing his best to put credibility behind it. “I promise you, they’ll come for you. They’ll come for both of us.”
He reaches for Isabelle’s backpack on the floor and takes something from it, then beckons Isabelle onto his lap. She obliges after a moment, lip wobbling. He directs both of their attentions to the well-worn photo in his hands, the figures in it somewhat faded but still distinguishable.
“Isabelle,” Weiss says slowly. “The first time I showed this to you, you were just a few hours old and we were on our way to Belgium. You were screaming your head off and I couldn’t get you to stop. Showing you this picture was the only thing that calmed you down. You know why? Because I went through everyone and explained how much a part of their lives you were. How much you are.”
He points to each person in turn. “Dixon and Robyn and Stephen. Marshall and Carrie and Mitchell. Aunt Nadia. Grandpa Jack. And…”
Isabelle sniffles. “Mommy and Daddy.”
“Yes,” says Weiss emphatically. “Your mom and dad. They’re two of the best people I have ever known in the entire world. And they love you so much.”
“So why can’t they just come?” Isabelle whispers.
“Because…because there are bad people in this world,” says Weiss. “Bad people who want to hurt you. And your mom and dad and Grandpa Jack can’t let that happen.”
“Then why can’t they just come with us? We do just fine.”
Just fine? Weiss wants to splutter. Yeah, hopping country to country, alias to alias, staying up at night praying we’re not caught. Yeah, we’re “just fine.”
“They have to fight the bad guys,” Weiss says instead.
Isabelle frowns at his use of “they.” She trusts Weiss’s statements about her parents, but she doesn’t like how he pretends he’s not important.
“Oh God, you have a fever. You have a really, really, really bad fever. And we’re in the middle of nowhere. Jesus Christ what am I supposed to do?”
He remembers on the map there being a small village a ways away. And by “ways away,” he means twenty miles. But he looks down at the one-year-old child moaning in pain in his arms, and his mind’s made up.
By the time he reaches the village, he’s drowning in sweat, every muscle quivering from running full-out, and he nearly collapses against the first hut he sees. Women standing outside airing the laundry startle at the intruder, and one particularly inquisitive young woman cautiously comes towards them.
“Señor? ¿Señor, qué pasa?”
Weiss can hardly speak his lungs are burning and vision blacking. “La niña…mi hija…ella…ella tiene fiebre. Ayúdame. ¡Por favor, ayúdame!”
The woman presses the back of her hand to Isabelle’s forehead and makes a noise of horror. She calls for what serves as their doctor and gently guides Weiss into a hut while they work on Isabelle. He never leaves her side.
“They’re not the only ones,” Isabelle proclaims softly. Weiss raises an eyebrow at her.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” Weiss sings, his mouth turning up as Isabelle makes a face at his voice. “Happy birthday dear Isabelle, happy birthday to you.”
She looks at the small cake Weiss had procured, at the four dainty candles stuck inside. “It’s so pretty.”
“Make a wish,” Weiss instructs.
Isabelle shuts her eyes tight and mouths something Weiss can’t decipher (he never was good at lip reading), then opens them and blows out the candles in one breath. Weiss claps for her, and she laughs.
“Can I eat it now?” she asks eagerly.
“In a minute,” says Weiss. He hands her a fork he’d found in the almost-bare cupboards and keeps one for himself, motioning for her to start. She digs in, making a sound of appreciation as she swallows the bite. It’s not exactly artisan, but even Weiss has to admit it tastes more than acceptable.
After they eat their fill, he hands Isabelle a woven blanket. “For me? I’ve wanted a new blanket!” she squeals.
Weiss shakes his head. “Look inside.”
Isabelle frowns, unfolding the blanket. Nestled in the center lies a dainty necklace on which rests a small silver magnolia. Isabelle gasps. “Thank you, Uncle Eric,” she says.
“You’re very welcome,” he replies, pushing her hair to the side and clasping the chain around her neck. “And you’re also the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
Isabelle gives him a dimpled smile and jumps up to run to the bathroom. She climbs up onto the counter, admiring herself in the cracked mirror. “I love it,” she announces. “I’m going to wear it all the time.”
Isabelle glances down at the same silver magnolia that hangs against her throat, remembering the day he’d given it to her. Not that, unfortunately, there weren’t bad times as well.
“I heard something,” four-year-old Isabelle squeaks. “Under the bed.”
“Isabelle, there’s nothing there,” replies a very tired Weiss. “I promise, there’s nothing there.”
“There IS,” Isabelle persists.
Weiss sighs and gets off the bed, grabbing a flashlight from the nightstand and peering underneath. Predictably, only dust bunnies are manifest. “See? Nothing.”
Isabelle’s face is unsure, so Weiss sighs again. He reaches underneath the mattress and pulls out his large pocketknife, opening the blade. “Okay, first of all? Never touch this,” he warns. “Second of all…”
He situates himself on the floor looking under the bed, switchblade held in his fist like a sword. Isabelle smiles at the image.
“If anything even looks at you the wrong way, Uncle Eric’ll get ’em,” Weiss proclaims gallantly.
Isabelle smiles again and, satisfied that she’s sufficiently protected, turns on her side and falls asleep. Weiss has half a mind to just get right back in bed, but he made a vow. So he stays on the floor, blade in hand, for the next five months until Isabelle grows out of her phase. His back never does truly get rid of its crick.
“No,” says Isabelle resolutely, her tears drying. “No, you do fight the bad guys, Uncle Eric. You fight my bad guys.”
I went AWOL, he wants to say.
I majorly disobeyed protocol, he wants to say.
I’m probably branded as a traitor and on multiple watch lists, he wants to say.
The CIA is probably after me just like bad guys are after you, he wants to say.
Or they think I’m dead. Yes, I’m probably dead. Sorry, Ma, he wants to say.
I should’ve found a better way, he wants to say.
I’m not like your parents, he wants to say.
“Thank you, Isabelle,” he says.
Isabelle’s gotten pretty good at reading people over the years, especially her uncle, and she can read his face now. So she simply leans up and presses a kiss to his check and throws her small arms around his neck.
“I love you, Uncle Eric.”
“I love you too, squirt.”
Next