Reflections: The Dark And The Bright
by
Chris AndersonDisclaimer: Alias is the property of other people, including J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot productions.
Written for the Theatrical Muse 'avarage day' challenge.
---
She's gone almost a lifetime without a typical day. But that does not mean she doesn't remember.
Laura Bristow:
The alarm wakes her, clock radio set to some station they both hate. She turns away, and pretends she doesn't hear it.
"Laura."
She yawns. Then, "Yeah?"
"Time to get up, sweetheart."
She looks up at him, and for one moment there are no questions in her heart. For this one moment, she does not wonder who she is, what she is doing...
"Right now?" she asks, knowing he can't resist her sleepy smile.
She arrives to work late but happy. A student waits outside her office to discuss a paper. "'Morning, Dr. Bristow. How's the family?"
"Fine," she says with a laugh, "but I'm still not going to grade that draft any higher than-"
"I know, I know," the young man cuts her off, "but I revised the thesis for the final... Will you take a look, please?"
She nods, and beckons him into the office. He stares at the photos on her desk, Sydney's drawings tacked to the walls, while she reads over what he's written.
"Not bad," she says at last. "I'd give that at least a B."
"But-"
"You want an A? Earn it."
"Thanks, Dr. Bristow." He reclaims his paper, and leaves.
Her classes are thinning out; it's the drop season, just before midterms. But she can see that the ones who stay are serious; she's lost fewer and fewer of them each semester, as word has gotten around. Laura Bristow's classes are not meant to be easy.
As the last class of the morning lets out, she gathers her things, and turns to wipe the old blackboard clear. She hears the footsteps behind her but doesn't turn, waiting for the student to speak first...
"Laura."
She smiles. "Jack!"
"How would you feel about lunch?"
"Oh, I'm usually okay with it," she says, laughing. "Love to."
"Good." And when she reaches for her bookbag he catches her hand. "Let me help you with that."
"Thank you."
They have lunch in the park, watching flocks of ducks and children run by, talking quietly together in the spring air. A breeze tosses her hair, and she makes one attempt to catch it back into its clip before giving up and letting it go. They sit together in the grass, the businessman and the academic, laughing together with windblown hair. And neither is quite what they seem- they both have secrets, some of which will never be known -but when she rests her head against his shoulder and his arms encircle her, she knows that this much is real.
Irina Derevko:
She wakes wondering if she ever slept, or if the brief moment of oblivion after she closed her eyes is the closest she will ever come to it now. Regardless, time moves only forward. It is still dark, and she knows that everything is wrong.
It has taken over thirty years and such bitter ache- this dark, bleeding wound they will always share, now- to get Jack Bristow back into her bed. And she has fallen so far that she is not, as she once might have been, pleased or satisfied or even amused at this turn of events; she is only desperately, shamefully glad that she is not alone, that she has someone to cling to now when the darkness is deepest, and the world does not care.
He doesn't ask her anymore if she is alright. Knowing she won't answer, knowing she can't. Knowing the answer is obvious. But he listens to the silence as she does, ears open to the night and the million things that might go wrong, for the footstep or the shout or the gunshot that will mean discovery, betrayal...
Not knowing, any more than she does, if it is dreaded- or longed for.
She relaxes only slightly when that sound does not come; all of her moments are tense now. But when he reaches for her she does not pull away. Her skin burns where he touches her, and their lovemaking is fueled by pain and longing and desperate need. There is as much pain as pleasure, and blood flows from her lips, echo of the scream she had been holding back. He kisses away the blood as he always has the tears, and she wants him all the more because of it.
She falls at last, gasping, against him. Wondering if the bruises and the scars will be enough to make her feel as if she is still living, to remind her that she is not truly dying.
Night turns slowly to day, and they watch it together, neither sleeping. But her night does not lift, even when the sun shines through the window, glazed bronze with dawn's light. And she should look away from that searing brightness, but she doesn't care enough-
His hands grasp her arms, pull her back. Turn her from the sun, and she closes her eyes against the afterimages as he holds her.
She draws a ragged breath. Whispers, "I can't see anything, Jack. I can't-"
"I know," he says, choking on unshed tears. "There is never enough light in the world..."
She remembers, dimly, as if from someone else's life, a time when she would have disdained his words, his sympathy, his love. And now... Now she accepts these things as hers, and the way that she needs him no longer troubles her.
"I love you," he says, as if these words mean anything. As if they are a shield he casts over her, a spell to keep her safe. And though no words can protect her from the truth, though no words can keep her safe, she wraps herself in them, takes them into her. Reciprocates as best she can, when the pain builds around her and threatens to carry her away.
In another life she might worry more for the risks and the danger. But here and now she cares nothing for these things. They simply do not count for anything. What is risk, what is danger, when you walk endlessly in the darkness? She finds herself whispering, over and over, "it doesn't matter."
But it does. It all matters.
When once she might have seen wisdom in pushing him away, now she says, "Don't go."
"No," he says. Looking terribly lost, "I don't know where I would go..."
"I can't tell anymore," she says. "What is real?"
And he touches his hand to her heart, and she feels its beat against his palm. "This is real," he says. "It's all I know that is, anymore."
And she understands. Blood is real, and pain, and darkness. And love.
Feedback?