The Perfet Weapon Chapter 6 Part 1-2

[camillecarelli]

Chapter 6: Part 1

Honestly, were there no limits to her gall, to her…effrontery? That was a good word, he liked the sound of it. Effrontery. The way it felt on the tongue. Knew he was stalling, trying to decide how to answer that ridiculous question, how to control himself from throwing her out the window. That would not be a good strategy. Although it would feel soooo good. Better than the sex, really.

She asked again, nudging him in the side, almost causing him to spill the wine they’d been sipping from one glass as they sat together in the bed. “Why did you never remarry?”

Knowing he was taking the bait, but unable to stop himself, he growled, “Are you insane? I cannot believe even you would ask that question!” He glared at her in the dimness, the room lit only by the glow creeping in from the slightly-open bathroom door where he’d left a light on at her request. Apparently, these days Irina preferred to have a light on when she slept. At least when she was sleeping with him. Good instincts, he granted her that.

“What do you mean?” she asked, growing angry herself.

“I mean, once was enough, don’t you think?” He gripped the glass to keep himself from throwing it in her face.

“But, Jack…”

“But, WHAT?” He put the glass down on the nightstand before he broke it. He didn’t intend to have glass shards on the bed…although that would be so perfectly symbolic, wouldn’t it? But no, he had to use this bed again, at least once more, to get what he wanted.

She took a breath, “But you liked being married. You were a good husband. Didn’t you want….” She stopped. Perhaps she realized she could go too far. Even with the part he’d been playing, perhaps she had sensed…But no, she continued. Goading, baiting. “Didn’t you want more children? Someone to come home to? Someone to take care of you?”

Did she think she’d taken care of him when she was his wife? Well, he supposed she had ‘taken care of him’, alright. Once of that kind of ‘care” was truly enough, thank you.

He stared at her. Then looked away, not wanting her to see the raw emotion in his face, knowing he was unable to mask it this time. Needing time to compose himself. Unable to answer, to think - and maybe that was her goal in this step in the game -- for the fury pouring, running, flying through his veins, unable to hear for the pulse throbbing in his head, his ears. He took a deep breath, then a second, then a third. Unbelievably, she placed her hand on his chest, stroked it, trying to calm him, he knew. She could see that much, may have belatedly felt a little nervous. But no, she thought he was ‘her’ Jack, the man who would never hurt her. Even so, that question was so remarkably insensitive, obnoxious… What was he thinking -- this was Irina Derevko and he was surprised at her insensitivity? He should consider himself lucky she had not injected him with that Ebola virus, he supposed. So, she thought her touch would calm him? She was certifiably delusional. Actually, that was fortuitous. Another nice mellifluous word, fortuitous. Say it slowly, calm down.

He finally said, turning his head back slightly, “Well, it’s a good thing, I didn’t remarry, isn’t it?”

“Why? What do you mean?” Was that a note of eagerness in her voice?

“Since it turns out that you and I were still married all those years, if I’d remarried, that marriage would have turned out to be invalid. And if I’d had more children, they would have been illegitimate. I suppose in today’s world that’s not such an onus, but who wants to find out, after the fact, that they’re a bastard or that their wedding day was bogus?” Who wants to find out that the vows, the promises, the hope, the faith, the love, meant nothing? That was what he wanted to scream at her. Before tossing her out that window. Or maybe, after, on her way down.

She was silent. Then she asked softly, “Why didn’t you have the marriage annulled yet, Jack?” Would she never stop pressing? Would she never just shut up? When he said nothing, just turned away again, she continued. Of course, she continued, she was so endlessly tenacious, “I’m assuming it hasn’t been annulled, that I would have had to sign papers or that you would have given me papers of some kind or you would have told me.” Her hand stroked his arm now. How he wanted to throw it off him, but he knew he had to play the vulnerable… ..fool. Again. Would she notice if he went into the bathroom and vomited? Probably. Okay, so that was not a viable option. Move on, Bristow.

He bit his lip. That would no doubt ensure that she thought he was overwhelmed by emotion, sentimentality, nostalgia. Love. If he could spit a word in his mind….that would have been the one. What was he supposed to say?

The truth was that he had not had the marriage annulled for purely practical reasons, to give him a Plan C or D, or X, Y, Z -- whatever letter they might be on as this game continued. Because what she had apparently forgotten, as she had so much else, was that being her husband gave him certain rights. In certain benighted countries, just the countries Irina Derevko often frequented, all he would have to do would be to pinpoint her location, call in the local authorities and claim her as a runaway wife. And she would be his again. In his custody, his power, he meant. Or he could, in many more countries, claim that she was insane.

All he had to do was prove she was Laura Bristow and thanks to her perfect backstory he could do that easily. When she tried to claim she was Irina Derevko she would be considered delusional at best or at worst, arrested for the endless string of international crimes she had committed. What a shame she’d be backed into a corner, feeling like she was out of options, knowing that the person she thought had loved her had in fact betrayed her. What a shame. He could not wait.

But for now, he just shrugged and looked at her, “Our marriage is still intact, for now, Irina.”

“But why?” she pressed. “Do you want or need---“

“Stop it. You know how I hate it when you ---“

“Analyze you?” she asked, the corners of her mouth turning up.

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“Do you remember that time I threw the book at you when we had a fight about that?”

“Pride and Prejudice? And I told you that I didn’t like you trying to predict my behavior, my thoughts? That hasn’t changed. So, stop it.” He stood and got out of the bed. Her next words stopped his retreat, stopped his brain’s functioning, and he whirled to face her.

“You know, Jack, the truth is that I spoiled you. Rotten.”

He stared at her for a moment, then the words, the anger spilled out. “Well, the rotten part of that statement was true. But spoiled? How in the WORLD did you spoil me?” he demanded, putting one knee on the bed, leaning forward toward her. She sat up on her knees and leaned toward him. Face to face they stared at each other and then she began to speak.

“All that analyzing that you hated? I did that in order to know you. Tell me, is there, has there ever been any other woman who has wanted to know you as well, as deeply, as completely, as I wanted to know you? Any woman who has invested so much time and energy in you?” She wiggled forward on the bed closer to him, moving toward him.

He stared at her. “You call that spoiling me? You are…unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable.” Although a small part of him wondered if it was not true, that she had spoiled him for other women in more ways than rendering him unable to trust. After all, what real, normal, woman could ever compete with the memories? The memories of the way she had focused on him so intently, how their minds had seemed to mesh as fully as their bodies had, how she had seemed to know him, love him, accept him, want him…, how…? God! He felt the rage begin to engulf him.

“No. I did that because I…It was ---“

“You did all that analysis, all those conversations, discussions about everything under the sun, because it was your fucking job, Irina!” He took a deep breath, feeling the fury surge through him, unable for once to control it, hearing his voice rise with each word, but being unable, or more honestly, unwilling to control himself for once. “It was your job to analyze me, to be able to predict what I would do, to cement your cover by pretending to care. It. Was. Your. Fucking. Job. Or was it your job to fuck me? Or to fuck me over? You tell me. It was your job description, not mine. Tell me, did you get a promotion or a bonus every time you were on top when you f-“

Crack!

His head snapped back from the force of the hand she had slapped across his face. She had vaulted to her knees and faced him where he stood at the side of the bed. Glaring at him, furious, she said fiercely, “How dare you? How. Dare. You?”

They stared at each other, both breathing raggedly, their chests heaving. Involuntarily, his gaze dropped to her breasts. When he looked back up, the heat in her eyes almost sent him reeling back. Instead, saying nothing, they reached for each other and kissed as if they had not just spent hours naked with each other, as if they had spent years apart instead of minutes. “Oh God,” she moaned, “You were right, you can anger me and arouse me in the same sentence, in the same breath. I want you. Now.”

Suddenly, Jack pulled back. Staring at her, self-disgust across his face, he said tautly, “You were right, in that video. I am such a fool.” He let her go. Without his arms, she tumbled back onto the bed.

Staring up at him, she caught her breath, closed her eyes briefly before asking softly, continuing their earlier conversation, “There’s no other reason I would have spent that much time and energy on you?”

“No!”

“Okay, then why did you spend that much time and energy on me, on learning about me?”

“Because I loved you!” He blurted out. Could he reach that knife and kill himself now, he asked himself in horror at his lack of control, his honesty.

She smiled slowly. He wanted to vomit. She could still goad him into blurting out exactly the words he never wanted to say. What was next - were his cheeks red? Could he die now? Please? Then seeing the utter dismay, probably feeling the deep self-loathing pummeling him from inside, knowing this would not help her game strategy no doubt, she scooted forward and put her hand on his arm. Gazing at her hand on him for a moment, rubbing her thumb back and forth, she finally looked up at him with soft eyes. Then twisted the knife a little deeper. That’s all it could be, a knife. It, no…

“Jack, don’t you see?”

“See what? How incredibly stupid I am, what a fool I was?”

“No, you idiot. I could have simply seduced you. But I did more than that, because…” If only that had been her choice, your basic sexual seduction, if only, then he could have for--

“Pay attention to me, stop shutting me out! I did all that -- wanting to know about you -- for the same reasons that you wanted to know about me. Because I fell in love with you. I loved you.”

He reared back, she held him with her hand from fully retreating. They said nothing, looking at each other. His brain was absolutely frozen, unable to think, unable to feel, just stunned into nothingness. The only thing he could feel was her hand on his.

She looked at him, said softly, “Do you remember - you told me you would love me forever. You promised.”

“I made that promise to Laura.”

“Laura was me.”

“No,” he ground out, controlling himself with the greatest effort. He wanted to strangle her, would do almost anything to stop her words, stop this game plan of hers from moving forwards, he could see….

“Jack, you know how the game works, how you have to be the game….Do you honestly think I could have been Laura, for ten years, that I would have asked you earlier tonight to call me Laura, if she wasn’t me?”

Quickly, so quickly, he said simply, “Yes.”
“How, how can you think that? You know better.”

“What I know is that Laura would have never left us,” he choked out, instantly ashamed of his vulnerability in her presence. He tried to pull away, but she held on tight, grabbing his hands with both of hers. Looking down he could see the tendons in her hands and forearms stand out with the force of the pressure she was applying to prevent him from moving. He stood there, looking anywhere but her, deciding it would be a fatal mistake to force her away from him, it would give her too much power and he had already played the game badly by being honest. Honesty had no place in this game, how had he forgotten that? Forcing his face to assume the mask, he looked back down at her.

She sighed, looked down, and then back up into his eyes. “One last prediction. I bet if I told you again that I loved you, had always loved you, you’d tell me the same thing.” His heart stopped, but she continued talking, “If your pride were not so strong, I bet you’d tell me the real reason why you never remarried, why you haven’t had this marriage annulled. You’d tell me it was because when you told me you’d love me forever, you meant it, that you’ve kept that promise to me. And I’ve kept that same promise to you. I never stopped loving you, never. Now---”

She reached up for him again and pulled him down to the bed. He felt her hands on him, her mouth, pulling him down. Heard her say, “I love you, I love you.” Felt his mouth opening to speak, felt himself falling, endlessly, without control.

His mouth opened to yell the words, “Stop it. Stop it!” but they sounded more like a moan, a groan. He struggled to leave the bed, but her arms wrapped around him held him back. He felt like he was dying, the speed of the fall was pushing all the oxygen out of his lungs. He felt himself gasping for breath. He groaned again, “Stop it. Let me go.”

“Jack, Jack, wake up. You’re having a bad dream. It’s okay.” His eyes opened, he heard himself panting. He shook off her hand on his bare shoulder as he sat up abruptly in the bed. Had he really fallen asleep with her in the room? And he was still alive?

“It’s okay. I have nightmares too,” Irina said softly as he turned his back to her. She put her hand on his back of his neck, pressed lightly, stroked side to side. He forced himself to allow the touch, the comfort she wanted to give for some reason, probably to disarm him.

Her hand moved to his back, soft and delicate, almost, in any other woman he would say, hesitant. He forced himself to remain still, to allow her the touch, to caress him, to try to soothe. He allowed it even though each brush of her fingers on his skin felt like a stab. Struggling to ignore the touch, clearing his throat, he asked softly, “What did I say?”

“’Stop it. Let me go. Stop it’,” she answered quietly. “Jack, I know, I know. Torture isn’t easy to forget, no matter---“

“That’s enough,” he said flatly and got up. Walking over to the table, he reached for the wine bottle and uncorked it. Taking a swig directly from the neck, he could feel her eyes on him. If she only knew, he hadn’t dreamt of someone beating him, or burning him, or stabbing him, or…well, there were a million ways to mortally wound the human body, a million more ways to wound the human heart. Like pretending to love someone when you did not. But far worse than killing someone was to hurt them and keep them alive to live with the pain. And that is what this nightmare had been about, the endless pain of knowing that she had loved him, loved Sydney. That she had loved them, but had still left them. Knowing that she might still love him, them, but would betray them for her own purposes, which she would not confide, for which she would not apologize. Knowing that for her, he and his love had not been enough, while for him, she and her love had been everything…

Feeling her eyes on him, he put the bottle down carefully on the table. He rubbed his stomach, feeling how cold his fingertips were, but trying to soothe that ache himself. Forcing himself to turn around and smile, he said, “Sorry I woke you. Let’s get under the covers. It’s chilly in here, isn’t it?”

She smiled in return and pushed back the covers. Lifting one arm, she motioned him into the bed.

He walked back to the bed slowly, sat down facing the window, away from her. Trying to regain his equilibrium after that deadly dream. Knowing the need for caution, for care, for building impenetrable walls. Worked swiftly, as swiftly as he could when he could feel the confusion in his mind, trying to separate the dream from reality.

But, he felt her kneel behind him. She said softly, “Jack, lie down. C’mon. It’s okay.” When he did not move, she put a gentle hand on his shoulder and pulled him around. He allowed her to do so, it was the right step in the game, after all, wasn’t it? He knew she wanted gentleness, as well as everything else, tonight, right? He laid down on the bed. Anything else would be suspicious, right?

She laid down next to him, pulling the covers over them. “You’ll warm up in a minute,” she said. After a moment’s hesitation, she cuddled her body into his right side, her soft warmth causing him to tense immediately. “Jack, relax.” When he still said nothing, she said teasingly, “Relax. I’m not going to bite you again. Right now, anyway. Or at least until you say something else stupid….That shouldn’t take long.” Involuntarily he chuckled, felt his muscles warm, loosen. Laura had always been so good at that, finding just the right words, the right sentence to get him.

He turned his head on the pillow to face her, “Not right now? But later?”

“We’ll see. You’ll probably make me angry again or…”

“Hmm. Or what?” he asked, smiling, surprising himself.

“Mmm. That’s what I want to see. Your smile, your real smile,” she murmured, staring at his mouth. Slowly, as if approaching a wild creature, she put her right hand up, cupping his cheek. Then carefully moved her index finger until it was resting on the corner of his mouth. Stroking the outer curve of his upper lip, she cautiously slid her right leg over his. Then relaxed herself, she made a mistake when she whispered, “That’s what I wanted to see, the man I knew, the real you.” He turned his head slightly so she could not see his smile fade as he assimilated her words, abruptly realized that the emotionally-draining dream had left him vulnerable, vulnerable to hidden wishes and desires. Wishes that, for a moment in time, he could believe that this was Laura lying next to him, teasing him out of a bad mood.

Then when he said nothing, she asked, no doubt could not stop herself from asking, “What was the nightmare about?”

“Falling,” he said flatly, he said, moving his head more, dislodging her hand. She moved it to his shoulder, then his chest, caressing.

“Did someone push you?”

“You could say that,” he murmured, looking away. Continuing tiredly without any real anger, too drained at the moment to feel anger, “I really don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want or need you to-“

“Analyze you,” she said, with a smile in her voice.

“Exactly.”

“Fine. Let’s just…be,” Irina whispered, stroking his left shoulder again with her hand, rubbing her hair and then her cheek against his right. Slowly, like someone surfacing after a long underwater swim, he remembered that motion. That was what she had done before, when she wanted him to put his arm around her, nuzzled and nudged like a cat seeking a petting hand.

He realized suddenly what her body language, the tone of her voice, was telling him. As he had predicted, she wanted to have a gentle moment, a caring moment, a moment that in its own way was more intimate than sex. When was the last time she had had such a moment? Probably the last time he had had such a moment. Their last night together, twenty years before. She needed it. He needed…He needed to win, he reminded himself.

He reached his arms around her, forced his body to relax, to curve into hers. Used his large, rough hands to help them both enjoy the differences between a man and a woman, to stroke the smoothness of her back, the curve of her waist, the sharp edge of a shoulder blade, the flowing softness of her hair, slowly, rhythmically until her breathing evened out, slowed down.

“Mmm. This is….good, isn’t it?” she whispered sleepily. Rhetorically, he hoped. Since he did not know how to answer. For one moment, just one moment, he did not want to think about the game, the endless game. Just one moment….

He made no reply, just closed his eyes. Prayed he did not sleep again. He could not afford to dream.

Falling…His body jerked. He realized as his eyes popped open that he had started to doze off again. Irina stroked his arm and murmured, “Shh. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

He bit his lip to keep from saying, “That’s the problem!”

But could not prevent the involuntary, almost imperceptible shiver. “Hmm?” she asked, half asleep, moving her arm up to stroke his shoulder now. “Jack?” her voice sounded more awake as she said, “Your skin is like ice. Let me….” She pulled the covers up higher and after a moment’s hesitation, she moved over him, draped her body over his. For a moment he held still in shock, then felt himself, inwardly, at least cringe. Forced himself to relax, to accept her slight weight. He had to, he told himself, or she would be suspicious. He could tell she had noticed his own hesitation, felt the air of waiting around her, waiting for his next move.

When he moved one around slowly around her waist, she relaxed, gave him more of her weight, then slid her left arm around his right shoulder, touching his nape with her fingertips. Angling her face into the crook of his left shoulder, she gave it a light kiss, and then moved her head side to side trying to find a comfortable spot. He began to smile involuntarily as her hair swept back and forth across his face - it had always done that, gotten in his face as he slept. One time, he had woken her with his mumbling about spider webs, inadvertently tugging on her hair as he tried to swipe it away with his hands while he slept. Now, more gently, he swept her hair away from his face. She murmured, “Oh, sorry. But would a dream about spider webs be better than falling?”

“What a choice,” Jack said dryly, wondering how she remembered all those moments, how she kept it all straight.

“Mmm,” she said and it was only then that he realized that he had been sifting his fingers through her hair. He stopped immediately and then forced his hand to move to her nape, to replicate her movements. That was safe, parallel, congruent. They would still be even.

“Jack?”

“Hmm?” he asked, quietly, waiting.

“Do you still like my hair long like this?” What? What had she just asked? That was the kind of question a girlfriend, lover, wife asked. But Irina Derevko? What game was this? Okay, he’d play along, this was actually somewhat interesting - in a trainwreck kind of way. She sighed and said, “I guess you do, even if you won’t admit it. But I always liked to play with your hair too, remember?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously.

She said sleepily, her hand ruffling the short hair at his nape, “It’s too short now. Remember I told you that in India, that I like it when it’s long enough to have some waviness.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, perplexed. Then she sighed and he thought she had fallen back asleep.

Suddenly, she said with a smile in her voice, “Remember that time you conned the Agency into letting the younger agents have longer hair? Because you knew I liked it, liked to play with it?”

“Well, I did get some positive reinforcement from you for that longer hair,” he teased, falling into old habits. And then stopped himself. He must have been more affected by that dream than he knew to be teasing her. What was he doing? She was good at this game.

But ….wait a minute. Throwing another memory into the dumpster labeled, ‘I Knew It,’ he said casually, “So, Irina, just how did you know about how I conned the Agency on that piece of protocol? Hmm?”

She cautiously moved her hand from his nape to his cheek before she said, swallowing, “Oh.”

“’Oh’ is right. So, when did you plant the bug that day? Was it when you grabbed my ass?”

She burst out laughing. “No, I did that because I wanted to…and to see the look of shock on your face. I honestly don’t remember when I planted the bug, but it wasn’t then. That, um, grab was not professional, that was personal.”

“Gee, thanks. I guess I should be flattered.” To his surprise, he realized that he did not feel anger about it. It actually seemed amusing, now. Had he, he stopped, thought. Had he begun to heal this night? A little? Or was he joining her in her self-delusion? Or was this just another dream?

“Yes, you should,” she said with a smile he could hear. Then she said, “Jack, I can feel the smile on your face. I wish I could see it. But….are you relaxed now, can you sleep now?”

He rolled his eyes even though he knew she could not see it. “Is that what that little trip down memory lane was all about just now? To relax me?”
“Well, you know I was---”

“I know. You were trying to manipulate me. Good try, Irina.”

“Thanks. That’s a compliment coming from you, the master manipulator…Oooh, I can feel you smiling again under my fingers, what are you going to say?”

“Nothing. I don’t have to. Whatever you can imagine is better than whatever I could say, isn’t it?”

“Stop it,” she said; he could feel her smile against his shoulder. “But I manipulated you, or tried to, for a good reason. You need to rest. Now, go to sleep.” And she sighed and began to fall asleep on top of him, while he lay there staring at her in the darkness, wondering what had just happened.

What the hell had that been? What was she doing? What had he just done? Had that advanced his strategy or hurt it?

They had talked like a married couple, reminiscing about their youth. Given that they were Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko, it certainly wasn’t normal behavior. But then again, define normal for Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko. Manipulation, the game, that was normal. But that? Had that been….caring? For the love of God. How did that fit into the game, a moment like that?

Where did manipulation end and caring begin? He avoided asking himself that question in his interactions with Sydney, so he certainly was not going to pose that query with regards to his relationship, whatever the hell that was, with Irina or Laura. There were already too many questions with no answers.

Such as, where did the game end and truth begin? When did the game become truth?

And did it matter, did any of it matter, in the end?

Finally, she fell asleep. Gently, taking care not to wake her, he shifted her off of his body. Taking his first deep breath since she had climbed on top of him, he turned to face the wall, away from her. He stared into the darkness. Lying there, he wondered which dream had been the worst. The one he’d had while asleep or the one he’d just lived through? Or were they both the same nightmare?

He felt his eyes grow gritty, but he refused to close them. Pushed the covers down so that the coldness could help him remain awake. Alert to his own weakness. The cold would help.
He could not afford to sleep again. Not in this game.
In this game he could not afford to dream of failing, of falling. Again.

Chapter 6: Part 2

As they argued back and forth in that baggage car about who would jump first, the tension rose and rose and rose. The tension of the game, fear, want, anger, distrust, trust, all ….everything right there in that argument.

He could see her eyes dilate, knew she probably saw the same in his. They ignored Sydney, as the heat and their voices escalated between them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their daughter’s shock, discomfort, then anger. But once again, they were too focused on each other to pay sufficient attention to Sydney. “Shut up!” she finally yelled at them, forcing them to notice her. Then jumped out the door.

They stared at the open blackness beyond the door, then at each other. Each waiting for the other to make the first move. Normally, he let her do that, she liked it. But this time, he forgot about the game. No, that was wrong. For one moment in so very long, he did not care about the stinking game. He just wanted to do something, something that just felt good, right, without analyzing it endlessly. So he gave in to temptation, impulse. He stepped toward her and raised his arms and pushed - right out the door. He loved the look on her face as she fell, the sheer surprise. God, that push had felt good. What a release of tension.

Then he took that step into the darkness, following her, let himself enjoy the freefall, the freedom. For just these moments, he would enjoy the lack of all tethers, all tension, all games, just enjoy the fall. For once.

No that was not true. He should be honest at least with himself. He had enjoyed falling once before.

Chapter 6 part 3-4