The Perfect Weapon Chapter 8 part 1

[camillecarelli]

Chapter 8: Part1

They lay there, intertwined, his body inside hers, her arms around him, clutching each other, both afraid to speak, both afraid to hear, both afraid to see, both afraid to question, both afraid to answer. Both trying to convince themselves that the moisture in their eyes, the blurring of their vision, must be due to dust, dust mites, some heretofore unknown allergy, exhaustion, anything, anything but the truth. Or at least one truth, the most dangerous truth. There were multiple truths, multiple layers of truths, multiple layers of truths within multiple games, spinning around them. Which truth to pluck out of the vortex? Which game to select? Which mattered most? Which one was the safest choice? Define 'safe', if you could, if you dared.

"Jack," she whispered against his warm neck, "Why didn't you trust me to catch you? Why did you pull back, emotionally?"

Ignoring her questions, he disentangled himself gently. Had she just made a huge mistake? Sitting up, raising her up, he kissed her forehead, held her in his arms on his lap. She relaxed, feeling safe as he held her against his heart. Safe, even though she knew that danger lay ahead if she could not ensure that he trusted her. Which danger was the worst - the professional or the personal?

Stroking his back, she wondered, what did he want, what did he need, in order to trust her? Wait…their minds were so often in sync.

So, what did she want most from him? His love. His forgiveness.

Why did she trust him? Why did she think he would forgive, had forgiven her? Also, because of his love.

Could it be that simple - is that what he wanted from her? Her love? But surely he knew that he had it, both her love and her guilt. Surely he knew that she loved him, had never stopped loving him. Surely he knew that as well as she knew that he had never broken his promise to love her forever and a day. Thinking that, she bent her head and kissed his neck, felt his muscles move in a smile. She calmed a fraction more.

She had been worried, initially, the first time she had seen him. Trapped in her cell, seeing that dreadful mask he was wearing, she had panicked, wondered where her Jack had gone. Realized that on some level, she had expected nothing to have changed. Realized that while his love was not necessary to her goals, she wanted it. Desperately. Had not truly known how much she wanted it until it appeared to have been withdrawn.

Watching him, listening to him speak in that deadly monotone, she had worried that he was going to cut the connection forever with that knife of anger he was so obviously wielding, cut the tie between them once and for all. Frantic to set in motion the game between them, she had searched her mind for the perfect way to obtain his attention. Ah, yes, Sydney, always Sydney. She tossed out that question about Sydney and had felt a sense of completion as she felt that tether snap correspondingly tight between them. Triumph mixed with relief and happiness. The game had begun again. For the second time. Would it be the last time?

Tonight, she knew she needed to resurrect that connection again. She had to press. "Jack," she said softly, "We need to talk about what just happened."

"Do we?" he asked, just as softly. 
"Yes, I need to know," she said, "Why didn't you trust me?"

"You want to know. You don't need to know," he countered, shrugging his shoulder, bumping her head, shrugging off the question. He put his hand on her head in apology, kissed it.

She felt her confusion increase with every mixed message he sent. Was the distrust personal or professional or both? She had to know. She needed to know. For both personal and professional reasons. She was willing to wait for the answer. She had the patience. Patience was an attribute she had acquired somewhere along the way, another lesson she had learned while she was his wife.

Watching her hand trace an aimless pattern on his chest, watching his hand rub her thigh, she thought that they had traveled a long road together to get to this destination tonight. Pushing and pulling each other, moving forward and then backward, taking detours and focusing straight ahead. No, not an easy journey, nor a clean one. He had not trusted her initially, she knew that, knew he had been too angry to trust her in any way, even with Sydney, their daughter. When he had framed her for Madagascar, he was telling her just how angry he was, just how much she had gotten under his skin. She knew she had won that round by that display of anger, had won again when she had confused him initially by accepting responsibility. As if he would not have saved her. As if she did not have a plan B of her own. It was almost amusing, how he had bombed that cottage. So predictable, so…male. Men, they liked to blow things up, didn't they? Objects anyway, not emotions. Emotions were too messy.

But, Jack was anything but messy. Once he had expended that initial burst of anger, once he had overcome his fear of allowing her control in Kashmir, once she had gained his trust in Kashmir, he had reverted to the man she knew. Controlled, safe. Or rather, his danger was the safe kind when tempered with care and caution. He had not changed, no matter what he said. Which did not mean he was boring, she laughed to herself.

Her head on his shoulder, listening to him breathe, she felt her body relax, her breathing even out. He chuckled, "Are you going to fall asleep like this? Am I boring you?"

She laughed out loud, the question was so ridiculous, yet once again so on target. "Jack, you have never bored me. Never. Not one second. Not then, not now. I don't think you could be boring if you tried."

Truth be told, she had not been bored even with her memories of him, no matter how many times she revisited them. Those memories had been her crutch, her shield, her hope, her best education. Every time she took them out of that memory book, she found some new idea, some new thread in them that she had not seen before because she could never fully unlock the puzzle of his mind, far more challenging than that puzzlebox. She knew the endlessly fascinating vortex of her memories, of their desire, of their very relationship had been spun by him. Then grimaced, because he probably thought the same of her. Or she thought he might. She was not sure. With Jack, she was only completely, totally certain of one thing - his love.

She gathered her courage and opened her mouth. Before she could say anything, he pulled back from her with one last kiss, and gently set her on the bed, to sit on her own. As she watched him get up, walk over to the windows and part the curtains to look out into the darkness, she took a deep breath, asked, "Why haven't you wanted to…fall together tonight? That's what you always wanted in the past."

Without looking at her, he asked, "Really, I'd rather you fell asleep from boredom than ask these… pointless questions. Must you do this? Now? I don't think this is the time…Tomorrow perhaps. Can't you just let it be for right now?"

"No, I can't," she said and he said simultaneously. She laughed. "You know me too well."

"Apparently you don't know me well enough if you think I want to have this discussion."

"Oh, I know you. I know you, Jack, perhaps better than you know yourself."

"Spare me."

Knowing that if she tried to analyze him, he would retreat farther, she kept her thoughts to herself as she tried to rework her game plan, tried to find the right strategy. Needed to ascertain what he was hiding right now. Or was he just hiding something from himself?

Jack excelled at ignoring aspects of his personality, his needs, when he wanted to, when he thought confronting them would serve no purpose. And his disdain for self-examination had made it too easy for her to ignore his deepest needs too, until she'd had her eyes opened. Painfully. Confronting one's own failures was always painful, to be avoided whenever possible. Life was painful enough. So, once again, their minds were in sync, she thought, they both avoided self-examination. She sighed.

What was he looking at, out that window? What was so interesting? Or was he just avoiding looking at her? All she could see in that window was his reflection.

Often, she had thought, particularly when he would protest that he was not complicated, that his needs and wants were simple, that he was either extremely skilled at self-deception or he did not have a clear picture of himself. None of which were uncommon occurrences for someone so skilled in the game. Nor was lying, but he had never lied to her, by commission or omission and there was no reason to start now. He had hid the depths within from Laura, she knew, if only dimly. But there was no reason for him to hide now that he knew she was Irina; he should know she could handle it now. It was too late, now, to hide, wasn't it? What would be the point? And everything with Jack had a point.

Why was he doing this, refusing to talk? There was something more here than his usual distaste for her analysis of him. Was there something in the memory of that night with Dave's stupid game that bothered him still? Was he remembering how upset she had been that night, sensing that she had committed a grievous error but not fully understanding it? She had been so frantic, so desperate to connect with him that night.

It was…like tonight, she thought suddenly. Except that night, he had allowed her to apologize in her preferred way, to crawl all over him, loving him. He had kissed her hands, passed control into them, willingly, lovingly. Tonight…he was not allowing her any of those…why?

In a flash of intuition, she knew that her comment, her request that he fall and allow her to catch him, had hit upon some truth for him, as well as her.

She asked, knowing she needed to start somewhere, "Did what I said remind you of Dave's stupid game - how I pretended to let you fall before I caught you? How mad, how very angry, you were that night at me? I know you were much angrier than I knew at the time."

His head swiveled to look at her. "How did you know that I was very angry that night? I never said anything to anyone, so you could not have heard it via one of your bugs."

"Thank you for bringing that up. So very helpful. So very amusing."

He raised an eyebrow. "Your point? I assume you have one. Somewhere."

She sighed in exasperation, tried to deflect him from his line of questioning, "You know, Jack. I had friends. We talked, like friends do and--"

"Dave told you," he said flatly, contradicting her. His mouth, his beautiful mouth, scowled, as he continued, "He knew, of course. If he was not dead, I'd kill him for discussing me with anyone."

"That's what he said when he told me--- wait a minute! 'With anyone'? Anyone! I'm not just anyone! I am your wife!"

He smiled, relaxed. She stared at him, knowing she had inadvertently just given him something he wanted. But what? He had irritated her, but he could do that with just a flick of his eyes, that was no real accomplishment. So, what had he gotten from her? She was getting nothing, nothing, from him right now. She had miscalculated.

She should not have begun this discussion so soon after that moment. He was right, as usual, damn him. She should have waited. Those walls he had thrown up to disconnect from her were still too high for her to see over.

"So…you are my wife. I am your husband." He gestured toward the bed on which she sat, "And that, that is our…marriage bed? Or is this….a second honeymoon?" His mouth quirked. "If I had only known," he said, putting his hand on his heart, "I would have spent more money and booked a nicer suite. Bigger bed."

"Oh, shut up, you idiot," she laughed. Then brightening, she commented, "But I did notice that the bathroom has a Jacuzzi." Then wanted to smack herself - he had distracted her. Again.

"Mmm, so it does. Later, Irina. Maybe that will make the night perfect for you, for us?"

"Mmm, maybe. If you'll let go," she pressed, hoping he would give away some hint.

"If you find the key to making me lose control." Arggh. She hated this blur of emotion coming from him. What was he doing and why?

Watching him, she wondered. She thought she'd had him, with that poem, felt his mind, his body, his heart, open to hers. Then she had been lost again, but it was too late to pull back from the spiral of the vortex into which he had spun her. He had not trusted her in that moment. That night so long ago, tonight, it was about trust. She knew it, knew Dave had been right, more right than she had admitted then, but why was trust an issue tonight? Tonight it was just them, together, the way they should be. Why would trust even be a problem? What was going on? What had she missed?

Why didn't he trust her?

Could he know?

Her breath hitched for a moment, as her eyes scanned his body. No, he looked calm, almost tranquil. He would not look that way, if he knew what she planned. If he knew what she planned, she would still be in her cell. There was no benefit to him to letting her go or catching her trying to escape. He would not have removed the transmitter if he thought she might try to escape. And most importantly, most tellingly, he would not be sharing his body like this, giving her such pleasure, if he was planning to frame her, if he did not trust her. She must be wrong. She relaxed.

Took a breath, said, "Jack, please. Don't try and fool me. This is more than a control issue. This is a trust issue. Dave said---"

Without turning around, he responded, "For the love of God! Dave again? Dave's party? That stupid game? That was almost thirty years ago, Irina. You….apologized in your own way quite nicely that night…but I'd forgotten all about it until just now. It's…unimportant to this moment, tonight. Drop it. You're fixating on irrelevancies."

"Is that so? Do you take me for a fool, Jack Bristow? And no, I won't let this go. Not when it affects us, tonight, like this." They only had tonight, she wanted---

"Irina, what do you want?" he asked, startling her. Sometimes she forgot that if she could see into his mind, the reverse was also true. "What haven't I given you that you want?"

She almost took the bait, almost fell into the old patterns in which his concentration on her needs made her, in her immature self-absorption, forget about his. Realizing, having learned in the wake of that night of the party, that to obtain what she wanted she had to give him what he needed.

"No. That is not the important question," she argued. He raised an eyebrow. She scowled at him and continued, "The question is, what do you want, need, that I haven't given you? If I can't make you lose control - and that was a foolish, foolish goal of mine - the least I can do is give you…"

"What?" he asked softly, "What can you give me?"

"Whatever you want. Just tell me."

"What I want is to stop talking about what I want," he snapped. Then softening his words, he continued, "I trust you, Irina. Would we be here if I did not? Would I have wasted an idiotic argument with Kendall if I did not trust you? This whole plan depends upon your trustworthiness, your desire to bond with your daughter and in order to do that you need to stay in custody. Right?"

"Right," she said slowly, biting her lip and looking away.

Did he know the truth? Was he baiting her? No, he would not be that obvious about it. Unless he thought she would think he would not be that obvious about it -- then being obvious would be the most subtle strategy of all. But then….Stop it, she told herself, this would only give her a headache trying to keep up with the twists and turns of one of his impossible mind games. While she preferred more direct approaches, Jack had always preferred oblique angles, circular patterns. Like this endlessly frustrating conversation she could not seem to direct no matter how hard she tried. No, those questions about this op could not be part of his game plan - they were too direct. They were what she would have done in his place, but precisely what he would not do. Unless…he thought she would think that…Hell! She felt almost as dizzy as when he kissed her.

Jack had been her best game theory teacher. She had learned more about game theory from listening to him at the office via her bugs than any KGB class, to say nothing of the more…enjoyable games he played at home. Those games, she mused, hmm… one of his most powerful ploys with her had always been misdirection. She relaxed again, deciding that he was using the professional situation to distract her from the personal issue of trust between them. She needed to bring it back to the personal to them, to that circle of two that could enclose them, exclude everything else.

If only, she thought, he would allow her to lie on top of him, enclose them in the curtain of her hair, allow her to crawl all over him as she was dying to do, needed to do. If only he had not been hurt so many times in the past, he would allow her to do that, he had always enjoyed that, especially when she was apologizing. How could she help heal him? She needed to do that so that she could obtain what she wanted from this night, what she knew he needed from this night as well, the full connection between them.

"And then," she said thoughtfully, looking at him, "There is my desire to be with you." 
"Me?"

"Being with you, that's important to me, as well."

The silence hung between them as they stared at each other. She searched his eyes, looking for an honest response to her admission. When he said nothing - how she hated his silences, how well they worked to raise her anxiety, how they impelled her to talk even when she knew what he was doing - she sighed and said, "Okay, we will repeat the past. Will you please tell me how you feel? No matter what it is, just tell me."

"Ah, the first night we made love," he said quietly.

"You remember," she said triumphantly.

"So do you. We're even. Or is it that you have tapes you could review over the last thirty years?" he accused aggressively.

"No! The tapes were from my apar…" She trailed off, knowing he had gotten her. Why, oh why, did she think she could win in this kind of conversation with him? But she had to try, she felt that competitive surge run through her. Then she realized that she had elicited an emotion from him; even anger was better than nothing. Anger, actually, she knew from experience, was the best tool to pry him loose from his control, especially when combined with a little anxiety. Another lesson learned. How could she use it?

"I see," he said complacently. s***, he had his control back. "Your apartment was bugged, not mine - or at least my bedroom -- at that time. Hmm. Is that why you always whispered when we were in bed at your apartment? Why you preferred to make love in my apartment? That modesty of yours, at least in the beginning?"

"Well," she said, smiling, hoping to disarm him by appealing to the male ego, "I was modest, until you. You, well, you convinced me, somehow, that nudity and open sexuality were good ideas."

"Did I? Really? So, tell me, if that's so…. if your bedroom was taped, how did you convince Cuvee that I was a nonentity as a man?"

She gasped. "How did you know that?"

"Good guess, until just now." His point.

She wanted to strangle him.

He smiled, actually smirked, "Want to strangle me, Irina? Am I …irritating you?" he asked, with a pointed look at her breasts. She crossed her arms over the tops of them, wanting for the first time in her life with him to hide her reaction to his abilities. But that was not true, she wanted to hide, retreat from her memories of Cuvee and her job, not wanting that to intrude on this night, any moment with Jack. No, no…. She shook her head and knew she looked at him helplessly.

Jack frowned and walked over to her. Gently taking her arms away from her chest, he held them out at her sides and pressed his body against hers. "No, you don't get to hide your reaction. That reaction is my reward. Just as mine, is yours. An endless circle, as always between us. No one else. Just us." He bent forward, kissed her eyes closed and then took her mouth until she forgot anything in the world existed but him, but them.

When they lifted their lips, she was clinging to him. Involuntarily she looked down, groaned. "No, Jack, no. We need to talk."

"We can talk in the morning. Sometimes issues that seem so significant in the middle of the night are revealed to be irrelevant as the sun rises. Just…let it go. Stop being so stubborn about this….You know I'll give you what you want eventually. Don't I always? So, this maelstrom you're trying to foment will not matter in the morning."

"You don't think this will matter in the morning? The memories will always matter."

"Will they?" he said blandly, releasing her arms to run his hands up and down her sides, skimming over her hips.

She grabbed his shoulders, shook him lightly, trying to reach him, somehow. "Yes! I want to remember this night - when we came together again.…I want this night to be perfect."

"Perfect? It will be. Eventually. Have some patience - you still act like a baby sometimes, Irina. Tomorrow, you'll have another memory for your precious memory book." He smiled and shook his head at her and walked back over to the window. What was he doing? Besides driving her insane?

It must be a game of some kind, with trust as the bait. Using her natural impatience as a weapon against her. It was difficult, so difficult, to play a game with someone who knew your every weakness as well as he did hers. If only, if only, she could penetrate the opacity of his mind tonight. What did he want from her? As usual with Jack, she would have to search harder to find the key. She knew she could be occasionally blind to his needs, although that had improved over time as she had matured; but even then she could become lost in the mystifying maze of his mind or misled by his attention to her needs.

Thinking of earlier that night when he had tied her up, she winced at a long-ago failure to understand him. Tonight, he had been harking back to the time she had done that to him, the night of the necklace. That night, however, she admitted, if only to herself, that she had been insensitive, so incredibly insensitive.

It had not been until years later, one day when she had been tied down and tortured, that she realized his reluctance that night had not been about trusting her. But rather his brief hesitation resulted from the memories of pain being tied down evoked for him. With that thought had come the focus, the resolve to withstand whatever was done to her by reflecting on his courage, both professional and personal. The memory of how he had made himself vulnerable, had overcome his natural fears to give her "her turn" had given her the strength she needed. Happy, relieved, that even though thousands of miles and stretches of truth separated them, the competition and the connection was still there, she had smiled at her captor. That smile had cost her some additional pain from her tormentor. But it was a small price to pay to have the opportunity to use their bond, his gift of love, to sustain her.

Now, she thought again, of how even with his memories, still, he had held out his hands to her, trusted her then. He would not be holding out his hands as it were, planning and accompanying her on this op if he did not trust her now. There was no reason to think he did not trust her now. But she should apologize for that moment ? He had already gotten his payback by tying her up --if you could call what he had done to her payback instead of what it was, pleasure. So, should she apologize? What could it hurt?

"Jack," she began again. "I need to apologize to you." He turned swiftly from the window to look at her, startled, she could tell. Her mouth crooked up as she said self-deprecatingly, "I know. I never apologize. Truly apologize for the big things, verbally. But this -"

"Yes?" He asked, looking at her, hard. She wondered what he was thinking.

"That night - the night of the necklace - I am sorry that I asked to tie you up. That was…inappropriate given our line of work. I should have known it could resurrect…painful memories for you."

He looked at her for the longest time without saying anything. Then his mouth firming, he said quietly, "'Inappropriate?' Clearly you have been spending far too much time with Vaughn - that's his favorite word. Asking to tie me up that night was 'inappropriate' and you apologize for that? And you think that moment was a 'big thing'?"

"Yes, yes I do," she said, nodding her head.

"I see. I…accept your apology," he said quietly with that dignity he wore like a mantle these days. He slowly turned to look out the window. Then turned back and said, "Let me ask you this. When did you decide that you needed to apologize for that?"

She was perplexed by the question. What did it matter when she had made that decision? Nonetheless, she answered honestly, "When I found myself being tied down and tortured on some op. When I was…your wife, I did not engage in that kind of field work…." She watched his mouth quirk upward and laughed, 'Don't say something you'll live to regret, Jack Bristow!"

He laughed too and walking back over to her, stroked her cheek and said, "No, we had a different sort of field work between us, didn't we?" What did that mean, really mean, she wondered. Was that an insult? No, he was looking at her with…amusement in his eyes, not derision. It was only her own insecurity making her think---And then he interrupted her, "Go on. You were being tortured yourself and…"

"And then I understood, finally, what you had gone through all those times. I don't know why, how, I had failed to understand it…When I think of that one time, staying with you in the hospital…Why didn't I see it?"

"So, once you experienced it, live, in person, in Technicolor, as it were, you understood what I must have felt like? You have to experience it yourself to understand? And then you regretted what you had done?"

"Yes," She said. He nodded. Then watching him carefully, she asked, "Why do you seem angry?"

"I'm not angry," he denied. "Just somewhat surprised, I don't know why, at how literal you are, how much trouble you have extrapolating, understanding other's lives, needs, until you experience them for yourself."

She hissed in a breath. "I don't particularly care for analysis, either, Jack."

"Yes. Another attribute we share," he said, then bent over and kissed her lips. Running his hand down her hair, he gave it a gentle tug as he turned around and walked back to the window. Would he please stop walking back and forth! She stared angrily, warily, at his reflection in the dark glass.

Then she smiled, looking at him. Called out, "Jack, as much as I'm enjoying the view---" He whirled around, surprised into grinning. Staring at his mouth for a moment, she sighed and said, "That front view is nice, too." He laughed aloud. "I'm not done talking," she said firmly, now that she had gotten his attention, been successful in making him laugh again. She needed to soften him up if they were to talk about this trust issue….He turned his back to her again. Of course.

"I knew I could not be so lucky," he quipped, looking over his shoulder. She threw a pillow at him as he asked, "For what other transgressions would you like to apologize tonight?"

"Apologize? Oh, shut up." He was so endlessly irritating. He could get under her skin in an instant.

"I thought you wanted to talk. I can stand here and catalog each…issue and you can tell me if you've experienced it yourself and then apologize. Or not. As your conscience moves you."

Why was he focusing on the apology issue, when they should be talking about his trust issue? The trust issue, if her fears were correct, was a personal one, not professional. She had no reason to worry that he knew her professional intentions. And even if he did - even if he was playing her - that was professional, not personal - it would have no impact upon what happened between them in bed. Would it?  
"Jack, before, why didn't you trust me?" She had to ask, had to know.

When he said nothing, she pressed, "Why? Is it - do you feel vulnerable, too vulnerable, in that moment? Is that why you pulled back from me emotionally, because you did not want to be vulnerable? But, isn't that what you were saying to me, that the whole point was to fall, to lose control? What's the point if you're not letting go completely?"

When he said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders, she could feel herself growing angry. "You want so much from me tonight, but you're not giving me---"

"Is that so? Excuse me. I think I've given you so much tonight," he said firmly, with no inflection. And the very lack of feeling in his voice warned her that she was treading close to the truth. Time to press.

"Have you? Have you really? Have you given me your self the way I've given you my self?"

"I have given everything I have to give you. At the moment. Right now. Later, who can say?" he shrugged again.

She stared at him. What was he doing? She could not penetrate his mind. What were the odds, what was he most likely to be doing? Aha. "This is a game, isn't it? One of those keys of yours that I need to find. This time the key is to obtain your trust in this kind of intimacy."

"Perhaps," was all he said.

"I will kill you," she said with asperity. She really would like to strangle him.

"Irina, don't kill yourself over this. Nothing of yours has to be decided, perfected tonight, does it? I think….you're becoming overwrought. Is it that time of the month coming up?"

"Arggh!" and she threw another pillow at him. He caught it with one hand without turning around. "How did you---"

"I saw your reflection in the window," he said complacently.

"Unfair advantage!" But she could not help but laugh.

"Well, that's me. Always willing to take any advantage. What did you say when I gave you the puzzlebox necklace?"

"Oh, wait. Let me think. That you were endlessly opportunistic." She smiled, remembering the fun of Jack's little game in the kitchen and then in their bedroom that day. One of those moments she liked to take out of her memory book and examine when she was feeling weary and lonely. Although she always stopped the memory before it went too far into that night. 
"Take that as a warning," he said with a smile in his voice. He seemed calm, amused even, maybe she should press again….

"Jack, that day…that night, Dave's game? That's what I was talking about before. That's when I truly lost the connection with you, when you pulled back, when I made that allusion. Are you, you can't still be angry, over that game, can you?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Even I could not hold a grudge that long over such a stupid, ridiculous game."

But she wondered. If not a grudge, then what was the problem?

There was no way he could know her plans, could anticipate her plans, would have any notion other than trusting her. She had been successful in hiding her intentions. Successful in overcoming his doubts, thanks to that mission in Kashmir and her help in discovering how he had been framed for Emily's death. Successful in reminding him that what they had shared before still existed, would always exist. Successful in revealing the real Jack, the man she had always wanted, the man she would always want, the man hidden beneath the surface, the man under the mask.

He stood there looking out, his face reflected in the glass.

What was he thinking? Why did she feel as though her every attempt to penetrate his mind just met with a reflection of her own?

She asked softly, "What are you looking at?"

Jack nodded toward the window. "The harbor. The fog, it -"

"Comes on little cat feet." She got up and walked over to him as she spoke, hoping to use words again. Trying to find the right words to reach him, to connect, to stop this endless elliptical conversation that was proving pointless -- as he had said earlier.

"It sits looking over harbor and city--"

"On silent haunches and then moves on." She stood and spoke directly behind him, but he did not turn toward her.

"Sandburg," he said quietly.

"Yes. In another life, you could have, should have, been an English professor. You and Sydney - so much alike. And although I admit she gets her stubbornness from me, tonight you are winning that competition." He said nothing. She sighed. Peering around his shoulder, she looked out. "I don't see any fog, Jack."

"No? It's right there, look along the edge of the water - see, out there -- where it gets deeper?" he pointed.

"No, I don't see," she said. He said nothing more, just looked out into the darkness.

She could feel the need rise up again in her to question him for the answer to his withdrawal at the end, to draw him back to her even now. Or would questioning him cause him to distance himself? Should she take the chance? What words would accomplish both goals? The truth?

Peering around him again, she whispered, "I can see nothing but our reflection. We still look...." She slipped her arms under his, around him from the back, stroked his abdomen soothingly with her palms, rubbed her chin along his arm. She decided to try another tactic, make reference to the game itself. "Jack…. Jack," she whispered. "I thought I was going to win, but…."

"But what? When will you stop?" He snapped.

Her hands clenched on his body, hoping...Then her shoulders sagged, knowing he would have noticed the movement and known it for what it was….hope. She was not surprised when, in response, he took a deep breath and she knew, to her dismay, that predictably he had his control back. He put his hands over hers, squeezed, told her he had her.

Then he asked, "Didn't I do what you wanted? All you had to do was ask and I gave it to you. Don't you feel…satisfied, powerful now?" He said it quietly, with no inflection. Which meant he was hiding something.

She stared at him, searching his eyes in the murky glass. Watching him carefully, she asked quietly, "Should I? Where were you? What were you thinking about when you closed your eyes at the end, when you came? Tell me the truth. Trust me with the truth. Where were you?"

"Where was I?" He paused for a long moment, then closed his eyes. "Stop, before you hear something that you might not want to know."

"I want the truth, Jack. None of this….crap you're capable of selling to everyone else, Kendall, Vaughn, Sloane, our daughter. I know you too well. Stop it."

He turned his head away from her and said nothing. Then sighed and began, "Okay, the truth is---"

"'Okay, the truth is'? You can do better than that!" She exploded. She squeezed him around the middle with her arms to stop any more of his words and said ferociously, "Stop it right now. You, you, said no limits tonight. Fine. If that's how you want to play the game. Fine. Then, no limits on the truth. None of what I know you were thinking - that, 'Sure, I'll tell the truth, some of it. I won't tell the whole truth, it won't be nothing but the truth. But I'll say something that will shut her up.'"  
His mouth quirked into a quick grin she could catch in the glass, then flattened out as she continued, "I know you, Jack, always looking for that advantageous loophole. Advantageous to yourself or to your game plan or in this case, to avoid hurting someone else. I can be more hurt by your evasions than the truth. So, stop it. Tell me the truth. Where were you when you came into me, but you weren't there with me? Tell me now."

"Fine. You want the truth? Where was I when I emptied myself into you? With Laura, I was with Laura. Happy now?"

She stopped breathing for a moment, then asked in perplexity, "Laura? My words did make you think of the night of Dave's party.... Or is that you want my mouth on you or me to crawl all over you, but did not want to say so? For some reason? I don't understand, Jack. You haven't allowed me to do that tonight, but I would…. Is that what you want, what I did that night? Is that what would make you happy? I would like to do that for you, if you would allow me."

He stiffened, then relaxed. Why? What was that involuntary movement about? Assuming it was involuntary and not just a trick. But no, it could not be - ever since Kashmir she had felt them drawing together again, had felt the connection between them tightening. So, asking what he wanted, pressing for the answer - did that prove to him that she really wanted the answer, wanted to do what she said she wanted to do --- was that a key? Was this the truth? Or a game? Or both? She wanted to scream and cry at the same time. His mind was such a puzzle to her, it had always fascinated her, frustrated her. That like everything else between them, had not changed.

She waited for him to answer. Then wondered if he would tell her the truth. But, then again, why wouldn't he? She did not know the answers. Just when she thought she did, it would spin out of her grasp. This was so baffling, this entire night was so different than she had expected. And she didn't know why, didn't understand. This vortex tonight was poles apart from the past. Then, they were spinning in the same direction, holding onto each other, connected, always connected, everywhere in all ways. Now, she felt like he was spinning her one way, then with no warning changing directions and spinning the other. She could not keep up with the speed of his reversals, let alone understand what possible secrets were being hidden within the blurring.

"Say something. Please. You want to be with Laura? I…I'm confused," she admitted.

"Irina Derevko admits that she does not understand something? The earth has stopped its rotation. Hold on, I want to jump off," he said snidely. Smothering a grin, she gave him a bite on his shoulder. She loved it when he was sarcastic like that. Not only was he amusing, but when you could inspire the snotty anger, you knew you were getting closer to the truth. Or at least that was true if he hadn't changed. And he hadn't, had he? No, there was no evidence to suggest he had; she was imagining the worst because she feared tomorrow, feared the resumption of the past into the future.

When he said nothing else, she bit him lightly again. "You know, Irina, it's easy for you," he sighed. "I never hid anything from you. I'm the same person, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are still the same man I met and married," she agreed, hoping it was true and not just wishful thinking.

"But you - I have to reconcile my knowledge of Irina with what I knew, thought I knew, of Laura. How much of Laura is Irina and how much of Irina is Laura? And here in the dark, you…feel the same, you kiss the same, you taste the same. But you can't be the same, can you? It's confusing." He paused, took a deep breath. "Is that enough truth for you? Wasn't this fun? Can I stop talking about my feelings now?" He squeezed her hands.

"Still hate talking about yourself, don't you?" she jibed gently, stroking his chest with her hands, feeling his steady, calm heartbeat under her palms, his rough hands on top of her own. "I feel confused too tonight. I told you that. I don't understand why. But as for your confusion -- Jack, I'm the same person, just a different name."

She felt his body jerk. "Really? That easy? So, a rose by any other name? Is that it?" He asked angrily.

"Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet," she spat out without thinking, responding to his cues.

"Act II Scene--"

"II. And you don't have the quotation exact," she sniped at him, although what she really felt was relief that they had fallen back into one of their old, beloved games. He was just irritated about her comments about the truth. She had not lost him.

"Don't be pedantic. I just didn't say the entire quotation."

"But that's our rule, you have to have the entire quotation, not a paraphrase or short version. Do you know it?" She challenged him.

"Of course I know it!" Good, a reaction, even if it was anger. Anger was the way to get him to lose control. But then he took a breath and continued calmly, "It's 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet…' Good enough, Miss English teacher? Do I get a passing grade now?"

She stared at him, thinking that interchange could have happened thirty years before. 
"Yes!" she said, laughing, and kissed his shoulder, "There - there's your grade." She saw him smile, reflected in the window, and relaxed more. Then she had a stray thought and asked, "Why did you think about Romeo and Juliet?" Felt his muscles tense very slightly under her hands, against her body. She forced her body, her hands to stay quiescent. Had that off-the-cuff question hit upon some truth?

"Don't read anything profound into that choice," he laughed, a short harsh laugh. "It's not like that story has anything to do with us, does it? I mean, what happens at the end? Oh, let's see. Juliet pretends to kill herself," he said in a conversational tone. He might have been talking about the fog again for all the emotion he put into his damn voice

"Jack…." Again, she was confused. His words were at odds with his tone of voice. He was using that voice of his to…What? Why? That tone was her cue to know that he was hiding something. What, what? What was she missing? Why didn't he just tell her? In the past, when he was angry, he just told her, slammed doors, yelled at her--- No, that was wrong. If he was truly angry like that time she had not caught him immediately in Dave's stupid game or when she had returned initially, he put on a mask…Is that what he was doing now with the opacity of his mind, slamming a door on her attempts to read him?

He continued, again in that monotone she hated, had heard so seldom directed at her but had always hated, knowing she had crossed some invisible line. "And then, Romeo, in despair, kills himself. And Juliet commits suicide because she can't live without him. No, it has nothing to do with us, nothing at all." Then he sighed, shrugged, said, "It was just a random thought, Irina."

She stared at him. Jack never had a random thought, or least one that was not tied to something else, something deeper. What analogy was he trying to make? Why couldn't she penetrate his mind right now? There was something she was missing. What didn't she know about him? What had happened after she left? Something had happened, what was it? Why hadn't he told her, flung it in her face or brought it up in casual conversation? Or, was it something that would hurt his pride to do so? Would it be to her benefit or loss to succeed at prying the information out of him? If only she had thought to ask Sydney during these last few months. A lost opportunity.

She tried to find the right words to follow up the moment, tried to find the truth through circumlocution. Sometimes that had worked with Jack, when he had been in a bad mood, upset, not wanting to talk. "I always had trouble with the ending of that play. Did you? It never made any sense to me."

"I know," he sighed. "Maybe it's because English is not your first language," he said snidely.

She dug her nails into his stomach. "Shut up, smartass. But Romeo knew the score, as you Americans say. He was foolish for becoming so distraught."

"Yes, you're right, he was. He should have remembered what game he was in, shouldn't he? And then to lose himself, to have such a surfeit of emotion, that was the ultimate foolishness, wasn't it?" She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, "But you forget, it's a tragedy. The definition of a tragedy - did you ever take any of those classes for which I paid? Hmm, maybe I should put in a claim with the KGB for restitution for those classes. Can you tell me which I office I should contact for a claim form?"

She slapped his stomach, then wincing at her own actions, whispered, "Jack…" and gently caressed his skin. She knew by the way she had seen him rub his abdomen when no one else was around that his ulcer was probably full blown by now.  
He shrugged off her non-verbal apology and continued, speaking softly. She closed her eyes to listen to his voice as he said, "The definition of a tragedy is that it's an unnecessary loss, that it could have been prevented by courage, or better timing, or better luck, or most sadly, just the smallest effort to overcome human weakness. I read your books to you, weren't you ever listening to what I was saying?"

She smiled, "Actually, not always. Too often, I was just listening to your voice, letting it…"

"Arouse you? Pull you into our game?"

She could hear the smile in his voice, the male satisfaction, and relaxed. Good, she needed him to be relaxed so that she could obtain the answers to her questions. But before she could form a query, he spun around and grabbed her, one arm around her waist lifting her up, the other pulling her up under her rear end.

"Jack, no, we need to---" she protested even as she automatically wrapped her arms and legs around him.

"No." He nipped at her bottom lip with his teeth. Without thought, she let her bottom lip drop open slightly. "That's it, honey. What we need to do is…relax, enjoy the moment. I mean, it's not like we can do this in your cell is it?"

She shook her head no.

He smiled. "So, let's pretend we're kids again and just make out for a while. No pressure, just pleasure." He nudged at her lips with his. "Open your mouth for me. That's it, perfect. Perfect," he purred against her lips as he took them.

No, no, one part of her brain said. No, she had to ask him about…And then she was lost.

She had always been lost whenever he kissed her. She forgot everything when his lips touched hers.

From the first moment, when she had grabbed him on that campus street, thinking that she needed to seduce him, that it was her job to seduce him, but that it was no hardship whatsoever, that perhaps she was the one being seduced. Thinking that he was so much fun to be with, so attractive especially when he smiled, that it was too bad -- that she wished she had met him some other way, thinking…and then she had stopped thinking the moment he took over the kiss. Lost in the game between them, the game between a man and a woman. And that was, is, why she always wanted him to take control - because then she would not have to think. Did not have to think about falling without him there to catch her. Nor did she have to think about the future and what it did not hold. As long as he filled her, she did not have to think about what emptiness might lie ahead.

And she had plenty of time - the night was still far from over. She would find that key, she would win. But right now, she sighed as he laid her down on the bed, she trusted him to take her away from all the questions, to the place where the truth would be laid bare between them. He would trust her. Eventually. They had time. The sun had not yet risen. 
Chapter 8 part 2