Icefall
by
Chris AndersonDisclaimer: Alias is the property of other people, including J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot productions.
Written for the Theatrical Muse 'one memory for the afterlife' challenge.
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Her life flashes before her eyes as she curls in the dark, bound and close to broken.
If she had no secrets left to betray, no losses left to mourn, no past mistakes for which she still hopes to atone- If she did not have these things, she would let go, let the darkness take her, dash her psyche against the blackness until there is nothing left of her to hurt or betray, until the priceless knowledge her enemy seeks simply...slips away.
But these things remain, and because of them, she endures.
Over thirty years after she believed she had left the worst of her crimes behind her, Irina Derevko has another sin for which she must atone.
She knows what she has done, knows what price the world may pay for her weakness. She had tried, so hard to fight, but all Irina was able to keep from her enemy was knowledge she had never possessed herself. Things Irina had never known, and she is grateful for that, grateful that there were things the enemy wanted to know which she could not reveal.
She has told her everything else. She's spoken truths the enemy will never believe, and suffered for them. She has suffered as much for these as for the questions she could not answer, the things she did not know.
For a time she welcomed that pain. If the enemy did not know, if she would not believe- there was a measure of safety, even of advantage, in that.
"I loved Jack, loved Sydney," she tells the enemy. "I love them still."
The enemy laughs, shakes her head. Readies the needle, another shot of liquid pain, and as it courses through her veins, Irina feels a surge of satisfaction, because she does not believe.
The enemy does not understand the concepts Irina speaks of, does not truly believe in them, and so she thinks this must be a lie.
It is the truest thing Irina has ever told her.
Not that it matters now. She had a bit of hope, once, that it would. She had faith, above all else, in Jack. In all the years since she came back into his life, this has become simple, elemental, between them- If one of them cannot stand alone, the other will be there, the shoulder to lean upon, the hand in the dark, the partner fighting alongside...
They have protocols, prearranged times of meetings and moments of contact, and if he does not hear from her, he will know something is wrong. He will find her. Somehow, some way, he will.
This faith holds her up until the enemy shatters it, breaks it slowly, meticulously, snapping each shard, grinding the fragments underfoot, savoring each moment of broken hopes.
She may know nothing of love, may not understand it at all, but the enemy knows pain, how to use it, how to wield it. Knows it, and enjoys it.
The images are heartbreakingly clear. The British Embassy in Vienna, a time and a place she cannot even remember, through the haze of drugs and pain, ever having betrayed. That she is beginning to lose track of the ways in which she has broken is a bad sign- but she forgets it the instant she sees him, fear subsumed by hope.
She knows that look, has learned over the years to read the nuances in that face, the subtle shifts of expression, so slight others rarely notice them at all. A lifetime spent in covert ops has taught Jack Bristow the simple practical necessity of holding his emotions close- but she's never had any trouble reading him.
He is expectant, restless- pleased to be seeing her, and wishing she were already there. It is such a simple thing in their so often too complex world- Here is a man who has not seen his wife in some time, who has missed her and looks forward to seeing her, any moment-
His eyes glow alight with that quiet, earnest joy she has come to love all over again, as a dark-haired woman accepts the note he must have had waiting for her. Dark eyes lift, find him upstairs at the rail, looking down at her...
She watches the scene play out with a weight of lead in her chest, pressing down on her. Waiting, horror-struck and helpless, for the moment of betrayal...
She feels the blood drain from her face as she waits, wanting to look away, unable to do more than stare and listen to the pounding of her own heart. Waiting for the strike, the movement, whisper of the knife she would have worn with that dress- and she can almost feel it, cool against her thigh, only waiting...
And she wants to look away, wants only to close her eyes and wish this away, but she owes it to him not to, and- Oh God no Jack please no please God I love you I love you and I'm sorry I'm so sorry- NO!
And then it's wrong, it's all going wrong, betrayal twisted and turned, so far from what she expected, and so much worse, far, far worse...
She hears the words spoken in her own voice, hears her own disdain, sees herself betrayed by her own reflection, and- God no please no no no, you must know I'd never- please...
But it's Irina Derevko's voice, Irina Derevko's disdain, Irina Derevko's cool casual betrayal, and he believes.
She sees the wall of ice fall over his face, sees his eyes go cold, but she's always been able to see through those barriers, and what she sees now is raw and bleeding and so deeply, terribly wounded... And he won't doubt the necessity of this, but he will never forgive himself for this, will never be able to let go the necessary, expedient guilt of having killed the woman he loves to save their daughter.
And the enemy is smiling- She does not understand where this pain comes from, does not know how deep it goes, and nor does she care. She sees that it is deep enough to wound, and she smiles.
Irina speaks, her voice cold as the ice in Jack's eyes when he pulled the trigger, and even the enemy's smile has to wilt a bit at this, because for all the years that have passed, she still remembers what once was, still remembers standing in Irina's shadow, and being honored by it, still remembers all that she did for a fractional nod of Irina's head, a slight raise of one eyebrow...
Irina speaks, and for one moment Elena Derevko remembers.
"I will bury you for this," Irina whispers, and in that moment she is all that Elena would deny her. She is Illeyna's daughter, Illeyna's chosen, the mother of Rambaldi's prophecies, and still, somehow, the only one who can break her- the only one who ever could.
"Is that what you think?" the enemy asks.
"One day," Irina says, "you will understand."
Elena does not believe this- not yet. But there are things which neither of her sisters has ever truly understood, lessons that Irina knows she will have no choice now but to teach them.
The enemy does not answer. There is a click, a whirr- the tape rewinds. She is bound tightly now, too tight to look away.
She watches it happen again, hears her own voice speaking words she has never, would never, say, hears his replies, the slight catch in his voice.
She sees herself die, and it's not even the shock of watching her own body fall back into the water that chills her like this. Rather it is the pain she sees in Jack's eyes, the pain no one else ever would- Because he believes this is necessary to protect their daughter, believes it is the only way- and yet he bleeds for it, bleeds more than the woman who was not her.
And it's killing him to have done this, to have done this and to think it real- She knows it, and knows there is nothing in the world she can do.
Again. The meeting, the dance, Jack and the woman who is not her drawing closer, the kisses- And she was not there, this did not happen to her, did not occur in her reality, but she can feel those kisses, she can taste them, and for a moment she just longs. She longs, and she lets herself do it, lets it flow over her, because anything is better than-
No please don't don't oh god oh Jack it's not me it's not me please can't you see please I'd never hurt her not like this...
Click. Whirr.
Again. And again. And again. Until she can't feel the weight of his arms around her, can't feel the touch of his lips over hers, until all she can feel is the cold rage masking such deep, fathomless pain. And the gunshot. Until she is no longer sure what is truth and what is fiction, what was truly real.
Until she no longer knows if she is dead or alive.
*
When they find her, it is like being born again. When they reach for her and pull her out into the slowly lightening dawn, when free air touches her skin, sings in her lungs, she begins to come back to herself. She begins to remember who she is, what she has been.
Hands reach for her, pull her out of the dark- Sydney, and she gasps her daughter's name, looks upon her as if she is the face of salvation-
And then a voice whispers, "Irina," and all she sees is Jack.
She lets him catch her hands, pull her close-
She lifts her hand, shaking, scarred, and wounded, as if she means to caress his face- then she pulls back the hand in a brisk, staggering punch. She is too weak to throw it any harder, and he should be grateful for that, from the sound her fist makes against his face, the satisfying feeling of impact radiating through her fingers.
"Bastard," she says, "fucking bastard," and it doesn't concern her so much just now that she is sounding all too much like a particularly foul-mouthed cousin of hers; she has bigger problems. "What were you thinking? To think that I would ever do something like that-"
"Irina... I..."
He looks stricken, lost; this can't be how he envisioned this reunion.
It is not how she had envisioned it, either, on the rare occasions she allowed herself to think that somehow, some way, it might happen yet. But she can't help the anger, the desire to share some of her own pain- as if he does not have enough of his own. It's not fair and she knows it. And yet...
"You shot me," she says, annoyed.
He sighs. "I know." A rifle taken from one of the guards- who, she supposes, has little use now for it- slaps lightly into her hands, and she curls her fingers around it. "Perhaps I could apologize later? We really ought to be going."
"Nadia's waiting at the extraction point," Sydney says as they move through the brush, Irina leaning on Jack far more than she would like, trying to keep up the pretense that she is not in need of any support at all.
"Nadia." Suddenly the anger is gone, and all she feels is relief, and weariness. "Jack... I can't... I don't want her to see me like this."
She bows her head, pushes back her tangled, matted hair. Sighs. "I didn't want any of you to see me this way."
"Do you think she'll give a damn how you look?" Sydney asks. "Mom, be serious."
Irina sighs. "Sydney... I saw the expressions on your faces when you found me. You were shocked, horrified..."
"Yes," Jack says. A crisp nod; he's holding a lot in now. He grasps her shoulders gently. She winces anyway; even that light of a touch hurts. "I'm sorry..."
She shakes her head. "Everything hurts, Jack. It doesn't matter." She shifts the rifle to one hand, lifts the other to cover his. Only for a moment- it's all the time she thinks that they can afford to spare. "We should be gone by full sunrise, Jack."
"That won't be a problem," he says. She nods. Trusting him, still; she knows she can.
When they get out of here, she'll have things to say. When they are gone from here, when she is truly free, too far gone to be dragged back down into that darkness, she'll have things to tell him, things to tell all of them.
"I love you" is only the beginning, but it may very well be the most important part. She has come to understand that it is the beginnings which are most important- new ones, old ones... That sometimes the desire to start over, to atone, to do better, is enough.
Later she'll remember seeing Nadia for the first time in too many years, will remember embracing both of her daughters, holding Jack close, and being held by him. She'll remember faith; she'll remember that they came for her, despite very real evidence (and she knows just how real, now) that she was dead, dead and for a betrayal. She'll remember that despite that, they found her, and brought her back to the light.
She'll remember holding together as long as she could, and then, slowly, softly, breaking down. Starting to speak, dispassionate, calm, of what had become of her, what had been done to her- and then losing that control, feeling it slip away, too tired to snatch it back- and maybe she needs this release too much.
She'll remember weeping until her tears ran dry, cradled in Jack's arms. (And they still have things to talk about, but here, now, when she truly needs him, the answers are all easy. She needs him; he is there.) She'll remember the way he held her, the way he stroked her hair, finally clean again, and kissed her forehead, and oh so lightly her bruised, swollen lips...
She'll remember the way his voice soothed her, the words he spoke over and over, "I love you" and "Forgive me", and she'll remember that it took so long to realize she was so focused upon his voice, so focused upon those words, that she hardly heard herself say the same things, over and over...
She'll remember taking his face between her palms, stroking the skin where her punch is beginning to form a bruise. And she'll remember the way he pulled her hands away, and kissed her palms, and slowly shook his head; old code, instinctive, deeper than any language of spoken words; it's alright, don't worry about it. And a slight, rueful shrug; I deserved that.
She'll remember, finally, being free again, being back with those she loves, and has been away from too long. She'll remember, too, that it isn't over yet, that there is still dangerous work yet to be done.
And she'll remember faith, and love, and the ice melting away from Jack Bristow's eyes as he kisses her so very gently- and by the time she falls asleep, the plane's seats leaned back, her head pillowed against his shoulder and a blanket tucked up around them both (Sydney or Nadia, in the dark as she fades into sleep she can't see which)- she will believe that they truly can save the world.
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