no challenge -- birthday ficlet for Nomadicwriter
Set during Syd's missing two years:
"About Arvin"
"Has Sloane tried to contact you?"
Jack studies Irina across the broad expanse of the bed. Normally they keep tactics and - whatever this is - separate. At least, obvious tactics: Neither of them is ever entirely without an agenda.
But for Irina to be so abrupt about this while they're still undressed, with strands of her hair still sweaty against her neck - something's up.
"Yes," Jack says. Just because Irina's angling doesn't make it smart strategy for him to lie. "He wants to offer his condolences."
Irina closes her eyes; he knows this flash of pain, at least, is real. Jack wants to touch her, but doesn't.
He continues, "I've refused his calls. I don't read his letters or e-mails. If and when we have something to tie him to the Covenant, I'll be in touch."
"If he truly is part of the Covenant."
"If," Jack says, with about as much doubt as Irina has expressed, which is to say, not much. Whoever is running the Covenant has betrayed too much knowledge about both of them, about their family and about the daughter they lost. Their enemy is no stranger; it's someone close. Someone who has insinuated himself into every single one of the few vulnerabilities Jack Bristow still has. Who else could it be?
Pushing herself upright in the bed, Irina begins combing through her mussed hair with her fingers. An odd, distant smile crosses her face. "If it's not Sloane with the Covenant, I suppose he's trying to be your friend again."
"He never gives up." It's both the nicest and most damning thing to be said about Sloane, really.
"But he's your closest friend. Still. Maybe more than ever."
There was a time Jack would have argued with this. Sydney's death had made him more aware of how little anyone else mattered.
"I never forget," he said.
"What he's become, or who he used to be?"
"Either."
Irina draws her knees to her chest and rests her head on them, a soft, almost girlish posture. It reminds him of Laura. He wonders if it's meant to. "If you hadn't been assigned to spy on him, you'd hardly know each other now."
"I suppose so."
"Enforced intimacy is the only kind you have left."
Jack studies her for a few moments - this woman assigned to marry him and bear his child. 30 years and innumerable betrayals later, they're still not done. She's the last person he wants to be vulnerable to, but he's past believing that he can shield himself from her. Her claws cut open his skin and reveal the man inside. The betrayal creates the bridge. Never before has he wondered if the same is true for him and Arvin, nor whether he's made cuts of his own.
"Why are you asking about Arvin tonight?" Jack says.
Irina turns away. "He's a suspect."
It's not as simple as that. With Irina, nothing ever is. But Jack finds he can live without the answer - at least, for now.
"About Arvin"
"Has Sloane tried to contact you?"
Jack studies Irina across the broad expanse of the bed. Normally they keep tactics and - whatever this is - separate. At least, obvious tactics: Neither of them is ever entirely without an agenda.
But for Irina to be so abrupt about this while they're still undressed, with strands of her hair still sweaty against her neck - something's up.
"Yes," Jack says. Just because Irina's angling doesn't make it smart strategy for him to lie. "He wants to offer his condolences."
Irina closes her eyes; he knows this flash of pain, at least, is real. Jack wants to touch her, but doesn't.
He continues, "I've refused his calls. I don't read his letters or e-mails. If and when we have something to tie him to the Covenant, I'll be in touch."
"If he truly is part of the Covenant."
"If," Jack says, with about as much doubt as Irina has expressed, which is to say, not much. Whoever is running the Covenant has betrayed too much knowledge about both of them, about their family and about the daughter they lost. Their enemy is no stranger; it's someone close. Someone who has insinuated himself into every single one of the few vulnerabilities Jack Bristow still has. Who else could it be?
Pushing herself upright in the bed, Irina begins combing through her mussed hair with her fingers. An odd, distant smile crosses her face. "If it's not Sloane with the Covenant, I suppose he's trying to be your friend again."
"He never gives up." It's both the nicest and most damning thing to be said about Sloane, really.
"But he's your closest friend. Still. Maybe more than ever."
There was a time Jack would have argued with this. Sydney's death had made him more aware of how little anyone else mattered.
"I never forget," he said.
"What he's become, or who he used to be?"
"Either."
Irina draws her knees to her chest and rests her head on them, a soft, almost girlish posture. It reminds him of Laura. He wonders if it's meant to. "If you hadn't been assigned to spy on him, you'd hardly know each other now."
"I suppose so."
"Enforced intimacy is the only kind you have left."
Jack studies her for a few moments - this woman assigned to marry him and bear his child. 30 years and innumerable betrayals later, they're still not done. She's the last person he wants to be vulnerable to, but he's past believing that he can shield himself from her. Her claws cut open his skin and reveal the man inside. The betrayal creates the bridge. Never before has he wondered if the same is true for him and Arvin, nor whether he's made cuts of his own.
"Why are you asking about Arvin tonight?" Jack says.
Irina turns away. "He's a suspect."
It's not as simple as that. With Irina, nothing ever is. But Jack finds he can live without the answer - at least, for now.