The Perfect Weapon Chapter 11 part 1 part 1

[camillecarelli]

Chapter 11: Part 1

What did she want him to say? What did he want to say? Time was running out.

As he had walked the few steps toward her, the moments seemed to stretch endlessly. He knew she was going to betray them tomorrow. Knew it, without hesitation, without doubt. He would gamble his life on it. Not that his life was worth much to anyone, but…

He had, in the past, fantasized that there was some 'explanation' for her abandonment, that she had had no choice, that later she had tried to contact him; even in the wake of Kashmir he had thought, briefly, that perhaps - assuming she was telling the truth about being a prisoner - that she had been considered a traitor to the KGB because she had tried to come back to him and Sydney. But that was just wishful thinking - that his imprisonment for being a traitor to the country had been wrong but her alleged imprisonment had been correct. Had hoped that she had tried to contact them, but something, someone had prevented him from receiving the message. But that was a fantasy; he no longer believed that wishes came true. And he had gotten the message, alright, though, by her actions then and now - she had made her choice. Twice. And her family was not it. Would not be it.

And did any of that really matter? What was past was…passed. She had not chosen them then, she would not choose them now. People had patterns. So, they did not have a future. Except in playing the game against each other. Until matchpoint. He knew that it was only the game that was left. Wasn't it? At least until matchpoint. So, the past and the future were…irrelevant right now, anyway. No, that wasn't true. What he did right now could affect the future. But…right now - what mattered? What did he want from her tonight? What was left? What was important? What did he need to do? What did he need before she left with Sloane and his little flying monkey, Sark?

An apology would be nice. More than nice, actually, necessary. But that wasn't going to happen. She never apologized about the 'big things.'

An explanation. That also would be more than nice. That was necessary. Well, so was an apology. But neither were going to happen; time was running out after all. tick. It was not, apparently, in her best interests to explain or she would have done so already. If there were any way honesty or a spin on reality could be used to her advantage, personally or professionally, she would have already played the ultimate trump card of all, the truth. She had not played that card nor had she tried to bluff, which meant her hand was empty.

What was left? tick.

Well, there was closure. Barnett was fond of that word. Closure. But wasn't that the problem -- that he and she were enclosed within the same damn circles as always? Wasn't he trapped, chained, in the circle? Isn't that, in part, what this game of his was about, opening the circle and getting the hell out? Isn't that what she had done, the last time she had removed the chain from her waist and coiled it up, so neatly, in its special box? Hadn't that ended the game, for… His mind stomped to a halt. Ending the game? Truly? How? Later, Bristow. Right now, tick you are still in a step, the key play in the game.

What else? What else did he need?

Oh, yeah, that minor little detail, he thought sarcastically, that minor little detail that she had loved him. He had wanted her - Irina -- to say it. The words. He had wanted to hear them in the air, in his ears. He had wanted to see her face as she said it. One more time.

And she had. "Ia tebia liubliu. Moya," she had said, in all sincerity. Probably more real for her in Russian than in English. Regardless of the language however, for her it meant for the moment. Meant, in her own way.

It was not everything. It was, however, enough.

He had wanted to make love with Laura, one more time. Always he had wanted that, from the moment they had told him she was gone, he had wanted to make love to her, say goodbye. So, now he had the opportunity. It would be enough. It wasn't everything, but it was enough. And it was also enough to give him confirmation that he had not been a total fool. Enough to set the stage for her own feelings of foolishness once she discovered that transmitter, when she discovered that she had traded trust for betrayal, albeit a small one in the scheme of the game she had played against him. A tripleplay? Those reasons, those goals, would be good enough. Really.

He wanted one last time, with love. There was no faith, little hope, but there was still love. Of a kind. That was enough. She had settled for enough. He would settle for enough.

For now. tick. It was enough to allow him to feel the love he had felt for Laura one more time, to show it in his eyes, to show it with his body. One last time, for Laura, for love.

"It's your turn, Jack. Talk to me," she had urged as he slid within her. Then they had both paused, their bodies accommodating to each other, as if it had been years apart instead of minutes. But perhaps it had, perhaps it had been years since the connection of love, spoken, acknowledged, admitted, had been there. And sometimes the words were necessary. He knew what he needed. Now. For the moment.

"Say it again, Irina. I need to hear you say it again, I've waited twenty years to hear you say you loved, love, me," he said as he cupped her face in his hands.

"Ia tebia liubliu."

His mind went hurtling back to the last time, so long ago, that she had said those words when he was buried inside her. She had made a good choice, taking that page from her memory book. Perfect, in fact. The beginning that would be the ending, a nice circle. He was happy to be in this circle, in this whirlwind. tick. He nodded and replied, "Ah, is that the page you want to visit in your memory book?"

"Memory? What are you talking about?" she asked, her brow creasing. Was this some kind of game? She tensed involuntarily. She didn't know the rules.

He frowned. Was she playing some kind of game, the old 'game' in which she pretended she did not remember anything about their wedding day? Why was she so tense? Could---? He kissed her until she relaxed. Then asked, "The memory of the last time you told me you loved me in Russian?"

Her mouth dropped open. He took advantage of it and fastened his lips to hers again and immediately, if slowly, so slowly began exploring her mouth with his tongue, starting a burn, an ache that she could tell was going to flame so slowly tonight- was he going to do everything now so slowly, they did not have the time…tick, tick, she heard even as her mind tried to grasp the notion that she had spoken her love to him in Russian before. Had she spoken in her sleep? No, that would have given up the game. So…

"You're not paying attention, honey," he chuckled. "Here you have me right where you want me," he said as he gently pushed forward, "And your mind is wandering? I must be losing my touch," he said jokingly, even as his hand wandered up to a breast and began circling the nipple so very leisurely she wanted to hiss at him. Time was too precious, they needed to…Tick.

Instead she slid one hand down to his chest and began circling his nipple. He sucked in a breath and they smiled at each other. She laughed, "No, it's not that! You still have your touch. Always did, always will with me. Let's be serious - all you have to do is blink." They both laughed. Then moaned, the vibrations of laughter as they ran through their connected bodies were enough…. Taking a deep breath, she had to ask, "But…when did I say I love you in Russian before?"

"You honestly don't remember?" She shook her head. He reached a hand up and smoothed her hair away from her face and then played with her ear lobe, while staring at her in clear amazement. "I always thought…." 
"What?"

"When you said you had trouble remembering our wedding day - I thought you were kidding, a game. Wondered if you had had too much too drink, even though I didn't remember you taking more than a sip…" He stopped. She really did not remember? Something else mother and daughter had in common, perhaps? Repressing painful memories? Why would their wedding day have been painful though? She had won that step in the game. She had, apparently, loved him. She had been adamant tonight about still being his wife. So, wasn't their wedding a doubleplay, the perfect combination of personal and professional goals all in one moment? What could it be…Could it be guilt? Well, she'd never admit to that. But it was interesting. How could he--- "You don't remember our wedding night?"

She shook her head again and said softly, "Not really. Very vague…impressions. I remember loving you so much, making love to you, you making love to me."

He dipped his head down and took her mouth in a kiss so caring, so gentle she could only sigh, "Oh," so quietly he could barely hear her. "Do you want to remember?" he asked, cupping her face, looking at her tenderly. "I think I know the way---"

"Don't hypnotize me, Jack!" she protested, wiggling around, feeling the need to escape. No, he could not find out the truth about tomorrow, actually today, she thought with an incipient feeling of panic seeing the ever-lightening sky behind the curtains. Tick, tick

He needed to lighten the moment, he thought, feeling her every muscle constrict as her body lay under his. Knowing they both needed one last time, one last time with love. Time was running out. So, try laughter and sarcasm, she had always appreciated that…."Irina, if I thought I could hypnotize you, I'd have done it months ago and gotten the whole," he bit off the word 'truth' that had been about to pop out of his mouth and substituted, "story of your life since you left. I'm sure it must be interesting, fascinating. A regular spy version of Around the World in 80 Days. Perhaps in your retirement you could write your memoirs. Or in your cell, right now - I mean, you have the time. What do you do with yourself all day long, anyway? When I'm not there….blinking at you?" She laughed. Tick. He smiled and continued, "I could get you a pad and paper and you could start, 'It was a dark and stormy night….' I'm sure you were born on a dark and stormy night, don't you think? But it would work only if you could remember the details," he sighed. She bit him. "Like our wedding night. Although," he teased as she pinched him, "Maybe if I broke a glass and used a nice, long shard," he thrust his body forward and she laughed, "I could grab your attention."

"Mmm, maybe," she said, also teasing. "And maybe I could grab your attention too," she said squeezing her inner muscles around him. Then her face grew a look of befuddlement. "Jack, I….what was…do you….?" What was wrong, why had her brain just slammed to a stop? No, no. Tick.

His eyes opened wide at both the pleasure he felt and the puzzlement she felt. Then he smiled and said, "Ah, you do remember something about that night…Remember, Laura?" he said softly, catching her attention with his voice, his choice of words, names. She stared into his eyes, rapt as he asked, "Remember that night? You asked me to tell you I loved you in every language I knew? And you then would repeat it back to me? You said, that way, in whatever country I was in, speaking whatever language; I would always have a memory to carry with me of you saying you loved me?"

She closed her eyes as she felt tears prick her eyelids as that memory returned to her. Why had she allowed herself to forget this memory? That had been a special night, a special memory. But, that was exactly why she had forgotten it as well as the wedding itself. Because every time she heard one of those languages spoken, she could hear his voice, see his face, so full of love and innocent happiness, in her mind, that part of her mind that housed that little voice that told her truths she did not want to hear. Felt emotions begin to overwhelm her as he finally acceded to her wishes expressed so long ago tonight. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him as close to her as she could, buried her face in his neck so that he could not see the tears. He had finally called her Laura. Laura, the name of the woman he had loved with everything in him, the woman she was with him, not Irina who obviously confused him at times. She empathized…sometimes, even though she would never admit it, she was confused too. But she did not have the time….tick, tick, tick

Turning his head, he kissed her temple, then her eyebrow, then the corner of her eye. Encountering the salty moisture there, he paused and said softly, "I've never forgotten that night. Do you remember, some of it now?" When she did not answer he kissed his way down her cheek to her mouth and kissed her bottom lip, then her top, then took her entire mouth again in the kind of kiss only someone with deep love and affection could give.

She blinked rapidly. He kissed her eyelids and said, "Shh, it's okay. I'm right here, with you. Right here."

She whispered against his lips, "I…remember a little. Jack, I need…." They needed to…Tick.

"Let me help you remember. This memory would be a…gift…Remember? Every time I'd say it in a new language, I'd do this?" and he thrust forward and then waited, just pressing, just holding himself against her until, involuntarily, she began to move her hips. tick. No, not slow like that night, the memory was too painful, why did he say it was a gift? No, if she remembered the night, she'd have to remember the guilt, her inability to compartmentalize, to fulfill the requirements of her training, of her goals. But now, as then, he could push her right to the edge, if she allowed it….as he said, "No, not until you remember. Or rather, admit you do. You do, I can see it in your eyes."

"Yes, I remember, Jack. Every time you'd say it, you'd thrust into me and every time I'd say it back to you, I'd squeeze you with my body. Like this…" she said.

Squeezing her internal muscles, she smiled as he closed his eyes and said slowly, "Yes, like that. Oh…" he moaned. "Do it again, honey."

"Not until you say it. Say what I need to hear," she demanded, if softly, kissing his chin, then his mouth, needing to maintain a connection, any connection, as many connections as possible as the clock ran out. tick. Knowing that she could push him too, in ways no one else could. But even now she dared not demand he say please. That had to come of his own accord. She could not force it. Maybe he was right, maybe that night, this night, were gifts. Gifts from whom? From each other?

"Yes," he said slowly. Yes, he needed to say it back to her. One last night, one last time for love, for closure? Before he had to return to…one last screw and skedaddle. And he wanted to do it in a way to recapture this memory for him, for her. A good memory, Laura should have it. The sweet. Irina could have the bitter. After.

He opened his eyes and looked deeply into hers. She gasped, seeing the transparency in this gaze, the openness. The clarity of his love, right there, everything in his eyes. Briefly she wondered at her thoughts, wondered if there had been some cloud in his eyes before she was not aware of until now, seeing the difference. Oh, it didn't matter. He was here, right here, right now. That was what mattered. That was all they had. This was it, one last time. Again, once again, Jack was lucky he did not know it. Did not feel the bittersweetness of their union. That he only felt the sweet, the love. This would be a good memory for him. She told herself, he should have it, he deserved it. Then her thoughts stopped as he spoke.

"Je t'aime, Laura, " he said softly, slowly, never dropping his gaze, staring at her as thrust forward. tick

"Merci, merci, Je t'aime aussi, mon mari," she moaned as she moved with him, and met him with everything in her, her body, her heart. Was that…could it be…her soul? Did she have one? Did it matter whether or not she did? Now….she felt herself , whatever, whoever that self was, soar at his words. Finally, finally, after this endless night, all these months, all those years, decades without him. Finally she felt free - that connection that oddly enough freed her. How could that be? How could something that bound you set you free? She had never understood it. It was a fathomless puzzle, almost as….could it be…as inexplicable as Rambaldi? No, no, she had set her course, her goals long ago. No, she had more of a chance of understanding Rambaldi's prophecies than she had of understanding love. And Jack. Tick, tick.

But she understood this: he had said it again. Said he loved her. Given her what she truly needed. From him. Finally. And with her name too, her name with him, when -as Laura -- her life was perfect. This would be too. Actually better than perfect, because tomorrow she did not have take orders from someone else. Did not have to waste her time as a paid assassin when it could be spent more productively analyzing Jack's research or more interestingly, analyzing that Rambaldi puzzle Arvin had shown them. How much further she could have gone without having to work for anyone else, she had thought at the time. But she would not think about that now; compartmentalization had gotten her through then, it would get her through anything. She just needed to enjoy this moment, this last time and it would all be perfect. It always was when he was the real Jack, her Jack, not the man he pretended to be. Perfect.

And he agreed, she thought, feeling her heart float even higher at his words, "Parfait, ma belle épouse." Even as she wrapped her legs around his and tilted her head back to accommodate his mouth nibbling on her neck, whispering to her in French, felt her heart fly upward into the vortex at his words….something…something tickled her memory even as she squeezed him inside. Even as he groaned and murmured against her neck, "Oh…parfait, parfait, ma petite chou …" something…she curved her hands up from his neck into his hair and then down to cup his face.

"Jack. Oh, wait, I remember, you called me that -- that little funny little endearment the French use, when you came over to my apartment the day of our wedding, didn't you?"

He stared at her, shook his head in disbelief, "I don't believe it. You really didn't remember anything, did you?

"You keep saying that, why?"

"Well, it… our wedding night, our wedding day. How could anyone forget? How could anyone be that… I thought at the time that your …lack of memory …it was a little…game. Or if you had trouble remembering because you were so emotional that day. I never took it too seriously, then or afterwards," he said in all honesty. Well, mostly honestly. That hurt had been so small, relatively speaking, it had not been one of those knives in his belly, in his heart; rather a small scratch, a…mere paper cut, the veriest sting. But for her…was this a 'big thing'? He said slowly, hearing the ticking, "Although that day you were so..overwr--"

"I was a basketcase," she interrupted to correct him. She admitted - why not - the night was nearly over she saw glancing once again at the drapes, trying to push the panic down into submission, tick, tick, Tick, tick. "The way I am sometimes around you. You alone make me crazy. But that day, it was your absence that made me nuts. So, I called you to come over. I needed you. And I practically threw my dress on, grabbed the first necklace on the top of the…." Wait, her thoughts skittered to a halt even as she felt the clock tick, tick, as she saw the tiniest flicker in his eyes. Her balance went askew. That's what he meant in India - when he said she was spending more time picking out a piece of jewelry then, than she did on our wedding day, that …He had meant, that of course the jewelry on their wedding day had not mattered because the wedding, their marriage had not mattered to her.

How could he think that? It had mattered to her, so much. She knew, admitted later to herself, that she had hurt him when she had brought up the legal realities of their marriage that day in her cell; had not understood it, had just felt his pain, the way Laura would have, well, after Dave had gotten through with her, anyway. But what was she thinking? Laura and Irina were the same person. Pay attention, idiot, she told herself, get your thoughts back on track, don't go down that annoying wandering path Jack's mind could take. Jack -- oh no, had that one memory become twisted and hurtful? No, no. He could not be hurt, could he? She had to tell him…this truth, anyway. She could not tell him the real truth, that she had felt so guilty, had wanted so much for their marriage to be real, to last forever, but knowing the game that had brought them together would rip them apart….

So this truth, her need of him that day, that she could give him. She swallowed hard, tried to choke down the guilt she never allowed herself to feel and continued, "I knew it was a bad choice, that necklace, but I wanted you to pick it out anyway. I did it deliberately because I wanted you to help, I wanted to get ready together." Feeling again the tiniest little…this time it was relaxation in him…oh, no, she thought with dismay and then thrust, tried to thrust it away. No, no, he had been hurt. Of course, he would be, if she bothered to think about it, put herself in his place. The jewelry had all been gifts of love from him to her, so carefully chosen and it might have appeared that she had not cared enough to pick a piece for their wedding with any care whatsoever...That is, if he had twisted the memory to conform to…something, some view of her, of them….had he thought afterwards that she had never loved him? No, that could not be true. Could it? No, no.

Tick, tick, as her voice picked up speed and volume. "And when you got there, I asked you to pick me out something else, told you that I had the wrong necklace and you went into my room and picked out something else, something perfect. Like I knew you would. Like I wanted you to do. And earrings… and then we looked in the mirror together - you looked so nice in your suit, remember the red tie? And ---then you kissed me and then I relaxed until we got to the church….You thought I was joking about not remembering the verses from the ceremony, that I was joking about the key charm, didn't you? But I really did not remember, Jack. Really."

He opened his mouth to tell her what the verses had been, to give her the key to the key. Why not? Did it matter anymore? It was no secret that he had loved her beyond all else and now that he knew she had loved him, there was no shame….No shame….and he felt something else inside him loosen and relax.

And after all, the key charm no longer even existed, except as a memory. He had snapped it in two so long ago, broken it in his own two hands, just as she had broken the connection between them when she left, when she deceived him, when she had made the choice that he and Sydney were not everything. She was making the choice again, too. He had to remember that.

Remember that he had made the right choice when he snapped the charm in two, so surprisingly easily; the gold had been astonishingly fragile in his hands when anger filled them. The gold, those two sharp edges cutting into his hand, had flown astonishingly far into that ocean off the cliff from which he had thrown them. He supposed the two pieces were still there, somewhere in the oceans of the world, floating separately in the vast expanse of water, never to be joined again, except by sheer happenstance, grace or the incredibly-impossible task of desire. Or calculated design. Like tonight.

Should he tell her, that of the three, faith, hope and love, the greatest of these was love? That that was the key? But did he even believe it anymore? Or had he learned another truth, a corollary? That the greatest of these three was love, but all three connected together were absolutely necessary? That without faith there could be no hope, that without hope, love was lifeless? Dead in the water, as it were? He shook his head, undecided.

She watching him, thought he did not believe her and continued, squeezing him in her hands, growing ever more frantic, talking faster, as she heard the tick, tick. "And then, remember during the ceremony itself you had to kiss me to stop me from crying and the minister tried to make a joke about the fact that he had not said yet that you could kiss the bride and Dave made a joke about the kiss being more for you than for me and…and we had chicken for dinner. With green beans and…champagne. Emily caught the bouquet. It was…I forget what was in my bouquet. I'd have to see a picture. Did you save our wedding pictures? I looked terrible in them." Tick, tick. "I always liked that photo Dave took of us in the kitchen much better. Remember I took the wedding photo out of the frame and replaced it. Did you ever see all of the photos from that day? But my flowers at our wedding were pretty, they had a scent….. Wait - they were red. Red roses, they matched your tie. And…you liked taking off my garter. Remember? It was blue and you accidentally bit my leg when you were having fun taking it off for the garter toss? Do people do that anymore? Well, everyone thought it was accidental, but I knew…." She trailed off breathlessly. She needed to shut up, but felt like she was on a runaway train. Help me, she thought frantically, tick, tick, Tick, tick, TICK as her hands grasped at his shoulders, squeezing his flesh in a hard grip. Help me before I throw myself out of this train without a parachute.

Tightening his arms around her as she spoke, he stared at her in amazement as she went on and on…like a runaway train. Never had he seen her like this. Never. What in the world! What was that stream of consciousness blathering from her? Her mind, her speech patterns had never worked like that. What would lead her to this uncharacteristic behavior? What was uncharac--guilt. Was that it -- the one emotion he had never truly felt from her, occasional glimmers that still puzzled him that had begun after the night she had not caught him immediately in that stupid game of Dave's, that ended around the night of the jewelry. But….was this full-fledged guilt at work, an emotion she might not be accustomed to handling, being an expert at compartmentalization?

"Are you okay?" he asked softly when she finally grew quiet. Catching her up close to him, he kissed her face slowly, trying to give her something to cling to other than her apparently incoherent thoughts. Kissing her forehead, her cheek, listening to her breathing begin to even out as he touched her, he inquired, "Is this too much, honey?" She angled her mouth up to his and kissed him desperately, her hands around his neck almost painful in the strength of their grip. At first he responded, but then realized that this was an evasive tactic on her part and tried to guide the kiss to a more gentle place, to calm her. She shook her head, wildly and he pulled back. Pulling her hands from around him, kissing each palm, he pressed them into the mattress with his hands and leaned all his weight on her, pinning her, to hold her still. They did not have time for this. tick. "Laura," he began, speaking softly. "No, not like that. Not now. Don't use passion to avoid emotions. Look at me. It's okay. You can tell me anything. And I was there, remember? And I'm here now. Okay?"

"Okay, okay! I can't breathe, Jack," she said, rolling her eyes. He began to lift and she grasped at him with her hands, "No, don't leave me…"

"No, I won't, honey. I…I need it too," he admitted. "But…let's just cuddle right now." As he slid out of her, she bit her lip. "It's okay, we'll be back there again," he reassured her, while lifting half of his body off of her, keeping one thigh between hers, pressing up against her. Leaning on one elbow, he rested his head on his hand, while turning her head to face him with the other. Gently sifting her hair, by now growing tangled, with his hand, he asked, "You are remembering now, but take it slowly."

She took a deep breath, then two. Said the first thought that came into her head. "I didn't wear the waist chain that day, remember? Because it wouldn't work under the dress. Remember? I had to put it on later. Emily was having a fit because you wrinkled my dress a little around the waist when you kissed me in my apartment, that it would not be perfect when I went down the aisle. But I didn't care, I just wanted you, needed you. That was what was needed to be perfect - us together and we were. You were. So, that wrinkle was…good, something of yours I could see and touch before I got to the end of the aisle and you took me in your arms, remember?"

"Yes, I remember." He agreed and put his free arm around her and hugged her close to him. "I was supposed to just take your hand, but you looked so frightened, I reached out and hugged you. Arvin rolled his eyes. Dave said later he did not know who needed the hug more, me or you, remember?"

She leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment, kissed it, heard the ticking, then looked up quickly and said, "Yes. You rolled your eyes then. Were you nervous too? You were, you said later you were, I forgot. But of course you were - I should have been thinking about how you didn't like being the center of attention. Dave told me… But then, Emily complained later about the wrinkles - remember how obsessed she was about it? Said she thought it was bad luck for you to see me before the ceremony and you said--"

"That I did not believe in superstitions or signs or portents or luck. That you--"

She said calmly now, the slightly-off kilter spinning she had been feeling before had stopped. And this was the truth after all, "I needed you. And you would be there when I needed you." If only, he thought, she had been there when he needed her. If only, she had caught him when he had fallen. Then he would not have the scar. But if ….No, there was no point to wishing.

"I am glad you remembered," he said solemnly and kissed her. "Truthfully, afterwards, I wondered…." Wondered if you just did not want to talk about our wedding because that was one time you felt guilty. But then, twenty years later, reviewing the tapes of her cell when she had flung the notion at him that they might still be married, seeing the, what he thought, was amusement on her face until she saw the pain on his, decided that no, she had not felt guilty. Now, he wondered if - when she was being Laura - if she could feel guilt, but when she was being Irina - as in that moment in her cell or when she had gone from their home, their bed, their daughter and gone to 'work' and killed agents, some of whom she knew personally - she compartmentalized and knew no guilt. That in her cell, the pain he had seen, to his dismay, on his face in that tape had triggered the Laura that was inside her. Sometimes, he just wondered if she had spent too much of her life compartmentalizing and if she ever felt confusion. The confusion he had felt when he leaned the truth, that had led in part to his breakdown. But that was one more healed wound from tonight; he was no longer confused. He ran his hands through her hair as he asked, "You remember? Finally?"

"Yes, why is it so important, this one memory?" She traced his mouth with her finger.

"Well, I think it was important to you or you would not have forgotten it. For whatever reason…" Her finger stopped, just for the merest blip of a second, tick, but then she recovered - as always, the fastest reflexes - and moved her hand back to his ear. Ah, she would try that trick, try to distract him, make him shiver involuntarily as she scored his neck and the edge of his ear with her nails. He did as she wanted. He waited, would she take the bait and just tell him the truth? If he had still retained the ability, or rather the strength to be vulnerable enough, to say 'please,' but 1, 2, 3…nothing, just a biting of the lip and a glance away. One more little brick in the wall around hope. "Well, it was our wedding. It would be nice to think it was memorable to you."

"Oh, Jack, it was. It's just that…." She felt the stillness in him, the waiting. s***. He knew that her guilt had repressed her memories, or she had chosen to repress those memories out of guilt. He trusted her now, if she said that would the truth only serve to hurt her? If she told him she felt guilty, then he would ask why she felt guilty. Then she might have to admit that on some level she knew what she had done was wrong. That there were ramifications to her actions. And then he might tell her what those ramifications were. She had already tried to ignore the trauma, as Jack called it, to Sydney and her memories. But, nothing could have really happened to Jack, after all. He was so strong, so self-reliant, he had probably gotten angry and then gotten over it. Well, until she showed up again. Then he had wanted to kill her. Then he let it go. Like tonight, he would get angry occasionally, then kiss her or she would kiss him and it would all be well. And it would - he had told her he loved her, after all.

But he was waiting. How she hated his silences! Should she say the truth, that one day, her guilt had been overwhelming? No, that wasn't true either - the day Jack had told her she was pregnant that was another day, she, Laura's guilt had been immense. That was the not the first time in her relationship with him that she had failed to use the skill the academy had given them to carry with them forever - the ability to compartmentalize all personal feelings for the good of the country, for the good of the game. Only with him would she fail, only briefly, but…It had been a failure on her part, nonetheless. And telling him the truth, of her guilt - what would that get her? Nothing but the application of his too-sharp mind to too many years of lies and obfuscations and…she did not have time for him to analyze her, it was too dangerous to allow him to do that. tick, tick. So, perhaps she could give him a different truth, one that might make him happy? "I never forgot, never, in all these years. Every year on our anniversary, I would remember the first time you told me you loved me, the day you asked me to marry you, our fifth anniversary when we went to the bed and breakfast and we made love on the beach and got drenched in the freezing-cold tide…"

He smiled and dropped a kiss on her mouth. Good, she thought, he was letting it go, he must have decided that time was too short, just like she did. No, that would mean that he knew she was leaving in a few hours, so he must have decided that he had plenty of time to ferret out all the answers when she was stuck in her cell.

Oh, well, he shrugged philosophically. Did it matter if she told him the truth, that she had felt guilty? Being honest, he thought, well, yes it did. But he could not force the truth out of her. Or…could he? Well, not yet anyway, the timing had to be…. even as the time, ticked, ticked. He was cutting it close. "That anniversary? That was hysterical. You jumped off of me so fast, stark naked, that you scared those old guys coming down the beach at dawn using the metal detectors half to death."

"That was not funny. I was so embarrassed!"

"It was too funny! The look of sheer horror on your face. Now, that's a memory worth keeping," he teased. Leaning toward her, he gave her a happy smack of a kiss on her lips. She smiled, thank god, if there was one, he was taking the cue, as always, as he continued, "I know -- the next time I'm in some mind-numbing meeting with Kendall or the bean counters, that's what I'll think of. And then Kendall will growl at me and say, 'Bristow, if you don't mind paying some attention while we are debating matters of national security…Or perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts with the rest of the class?' And then I'd have to tell---"

"You wouldn't!"

He smiled. She pinched his arm. "No, you're right. I wouldn't. I am nothing if not discreet."

"I believe the word is tight-assed, Jack," she argued and then wiggled around, trying to get more fully under him. His arm tightened around her.

"I believe the word for which you are searching in your Russian-English slang dictionary is tight-lipped."

She reached around and squeezed his rear end as she said, "No, I believe I was more interested in your ass still being nice and ti---"

"Laura!" he laughed, pretending to be shocked, taking her cue.

She giggled and grabbed his butt. He smiled again and asked, "But are we done talking now? Êtes-tu satisfaits....?"

"Je ne suis pas satisfait," she said, I am not satisfied. She licked the base of his throat and continued, archly, "Tu avez beaucoup de travail de faire d'abord, mon mari," You have much work to do, my husband.

"Ah, travail dur il est, aussi," he said, hard work, it is too, and pressed against her body. She reached a hand down and squeezed him gently and then began to fondle him. He groaned. "Laura, Ich leibe dich."

"Nicht Deutsch! Ugh. Deutscher ist nicht fur Romanze, es ist fur…" She laughed and said in English, "That's what you said that night, isn't it, when I asked for German, that German was the language for cheap sex in dingy hotel rooms with neon lights flickering on the wall through the thin curtains and then---"

"That, she remembers!" he rolled his eyes. "Then you got distracted, like tonight, by that comment and wanted to know how I knew that…And then I distracted you back, like this," he said with a smile and began licking her lips, while his hands played with her hair. Slowly, back and forth across the top lip, then the bottom, then reaching the corner starting back again, licking up and down each lip until her mouth was open, panting, just wanting him to….

"Küssen Sie mich. Jetzt. Jetzt!" Kiss me. Now, she said firmly, reaching her hands up to pull his face to hers, closer, closer, she needed him to be closer.

"Deutscher ist fur Nachfragen gut?" German is good for demands? He laughed, resisting her pull.

"So, is good, basic, Anglo-Saxon, Jack...." she said in English. "Kiss me. Now."

"Oh, I thought you were going to say something else, something in more…basic Anglo-Saxon…" he teased.

She rolled her eyes and puckered her mouth up, mumbling, "I am waiting!"

"Mi placer," my pleasure, he said in Spanish, as he slowly lowered his head. Ohh, she remembered that, the Spanish, from that night….Taking his time fitting his mouth to hers until she moaned, he nudged her lips open and began exploring her mouth. It was…he thought, like the first time. Only not. Now, it was better because he knew she loved him, welcomed this, would always welcome this. It was like…coming home. "Hermosa, hermosa, Laura," beautiful, beautiful, he said, lifting his head to rain kisses on her face, then taking a little nip from her ear lobe. Feeling the shiver, he did it again then laved it back and forth with his tongue until she began to tremble ever so slightly. Her hands began to caress his shoulders, his neck, then his chest until he arched his back, like she thought, a cat would. Running her nails down his neck, she delighted in the low moan of delight that rumbled from his chest. "Te amo," she called out as she wiggled back to touch him better, wanting to touch him everywhere. Now. Now. She needed to touch him now. Time was…..tick.... Her thoughts scattered as he whispered back, "Te amo, te amo," and reached both hands over her hips and cupped her buttocks in them.

When he pulled back meaning to realign their bodies, she moaned a protest. Quickly, he stopped her moan of protest with his mouth. "Shh…Jag er har. Jag älska du." I am here, I love you, he told her in Swedish as he thrust forward, slowly, so slowly. "Mmm," she murmured, "Jag alska du," I love you, and moved her body slowly as well until they were both moaning.

"Eu amo," they said to each other, I love you in Portuguese this time, as their lips met again and again, as they said it in every language they knew. Laughing about some of them, that like German were 'not for romance,' Touching, slowly caressing each other, making each moment last as if time had stopped, as if time were no consequence, as if they had forever. As the past and present slid, so smoothly into and around and out of each other, forming something new and old at the same time. It was a homecoming and a leavetaking all at once. An effort to make a moment last forever, even while the tick, tick, tick was beating in the background like a bass drum. He slid out of her to touch her all over, to kiss her from her forehead to her toes, while her hands, her mouth, her legs rubbed and touched and stroked until he was moaning too, while she whispered over and over her love to him. Seeing his eyes glaze over, she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. That was what he had needed. Finally, she had him. Had his love, her lover, the love of her life right here. Right now. If only.....

"Ti amo," he said slowly as he saw a crease form between her brows. "Non si preoccupi, appena goda il momento," do not worry, just enjoy the moment, he continued in Italian. Pulling her back up until they were face to face, he gently angled her until they were lying side by side. She wrapped one arm around his neck, the other began caressing his chest, while his stroked her back and down over her rear end. He kissed the crease with funny, little teasing kisses, saying over and over, "Ti amo, ti amo," until her forehead smoothed out and she smiled at him and said it back. "Ti amo." Tick. Oh, she remembered the Italian…"Is there a more romantic language?" she wondered aloud, then seeing his smile, remembered asking that very question, so many years ago. Smiling back at him, even as he kissed her eyelids closed, then took her mouth, she felt the happiness leave her blood to invade her bones as if the burn could reach there too, warm her permanently after twenty years of coldness. Slowly, slowly licking her lips, bathing every tiny bit of them with his tongue until she opened her mouth for him "Che cosa desiderate?" What do you want? He asked. "Desidero la vostra bocca," I want your mouth, she answered.

"Dove?" Where? he asked, then raised his eyebrows, "Ah." He said and softly cupping both breasts in his hands, he kissed them, again so slowly, she felt as if she were drugged, as if she were watching them from afar, as her body lifted toward his mouth, as her hands held him to her. "Così delicatamente, ti amo," so soft, he murmured as he languidly licked her nipples, one by one until she felt as if she were floating. As if she could fall apart into in little pieces and drown if she were not holding onto him in this whirlpool that was yet so leisurely there seemed as if there was no danger. And that was what she wanted right now, needed right now. No ticking, no danger, just safety, the safety of being with someone who loved her so much that he could put aside his hurt, his anger, to just love her one last time, like he had loved her that night. The memories and the moment were all whirling together in her mind as she grew ever more dizzy as his mouth moved over her.

"Così di talento," so talented, she said, tracing his mouth with her fingers. "Amo la vostra bocca," I love your mouth," she continued, noting how his pulse increased when she spoke as well.

TBC at Chapter 11 part 2