SUMMARY:  Written for qill13.  As requested, Aliasfic with Jack and Irina. Spoilers through season three.

She checks them in under their usual cover, glancing carefully around the understated elegance of the lobby as she waits for the plastic keycard.  The likelihood of anyone tracking her is slight, but it's been decades and habits die hard, so she does the customary sweep before dropping her bags in their suite and heading for the beach.

Their audacity, when she thinks about it, is breathtaking.  Irina doesn't think about it often.  She has more important topics on her mind most days.  Each time they meet, she diligently researches the spot -- no sentimental choices or any location that favors either of them.  Trust is so fleeting between them; they choose the spot at random by a computer.  The program uses simple criteria -- an oceanfront vacation spot with easy access by air -- and this time the computer places them in New Zealand.

She spends three hours on the beach, wearing a simple swimsuit and 20 SPF.  Lying in the sun, she thinks about him, and about what they're doing, and about this thing that she has to tell him.  Usually, their meetings are three-day sanctuaries from the brutal realities of her life, from the frozen sameness of his life.  

This time is different.  This time, everything changes.

As always, when she returns to the resort, she smiles brightly at the concierge, drops her straw bag on the floor beside her, and asks, "Is my husband here yet?"  She lets her natural accent thicken, slipping effortlessly into their cover.

"Just checked in, Mrs. Sokolnikov," the concierge replies with a practiced smile.

Irina brightens, and it isn't all for show.  "Thank you."

When she opens the door, he's there, standing by the window looking out over the ocean, the late afternoon sun framing his familiar form.  She wonders if he watched her down on the beach, if he watched her walk back.  His silhouette turns at the sound, and she can hear his repressed relief when he says, "Tatiana, darling."

Her smile is genuine.  "Sergei."  She moves closer, absently dropping her bag, her sharp gaze skimming his familiar features, noting the loss of another five pounds.  Still, he's the same as always, her Jack.  The attraction between them has never faded, and she pushes down the ugly truth she'll have to share so that she can enjoy this time with him.

She knows him well enough to know that her unwelcome admission will be the breaking point between them.

Irina reaches his side and takes his hand, leaning in to kiss him hello.  The spark that smolders between them ignites, and he lifts the loose linen coverup over her head.  Jack arches an eyebrow and scans her form in the black suit.  "Nice," he comments.

She tilts her head, lets her hair trail over her shoulder, and reaches for his shirt.  "Spasiba," she answers with the barest hint of a smile.

They're nude in moments, and they tumble onto the bed together, moving and touching and gasping until they lay together, sated.  Jack reaches up, running his fingers through her hair as his breathing returns to normal.  "Tatiana," he murmurs softly.

They keep their cover even in their room.  Just in case.  Even random hotel rooms in random places can fall victim to directional microphones.  The result is this blissful haven, this idyllic world they've created for themselves.  Before now, she has never been herself with him, not truly.  When they were married, she was Laura.  When she escaped, she was manipulating him.  But now, despite his lingering bitterness and their shared panic over Sydney's disappearance -- or maybe because of all those things -- there's an unexpected honesty in their time together.

Or at least there was, she thinks, her mood darkening as she lifts her gaze from his familiar features to scan the room.

Too soon, Jack wakes from his light doze and begins to stir, reaching for the bedside lamp to dispel the growing darkness.  It's evening already, and they dress and head downstairs.  Dinner is quick but filling, accompanied by a conversation of spun stories about their make-believe family, their make-believe life.

He is an importer/exporter in St. Petersburg, she is his spoiled wife.  They have no children.

She mentions her beloved pet Alsatian, and Jack nods, understanding that her sister, Katya, has not resurfaced despite Irina's efforts to find her.

In his best Russian, his St. Petersburg accent nearly flawless, Jack laments that he forgot to pack her favorite sweater, the one he'd promised to bring with him.  Irina understands that he picked up a tail during one of his layovers, but successfully lost his tracker before boarding the plane for New Zealand.

And so the conversation continues on two levels, and Irina has never felt as alive and as connected with someone as she does with Jack.  She is an independent, self-sufficient woman.  She has served many masters over the years, and it is the cosmic joke of her life that the only man who has truly challenged her and touched her has always been on the other side.

She's smart enough to know that her latest news will shatter their truce.  She will never again spend time with him as his lover.  He will never again trust her.  Irina wonders what it says about her that she can enjoy his company, enjoy his body, so much when she knows how betrayed he will feel tomorrow.  She thinks of herself as pragmatic; she doesn't want to know what word Jack would use, if he knew.  

After dinner, she cajoles him into walking on the beach with her, and doesn't let herself consider her motives.  She slips off her shoes as they stroll toward their hotel; Jack simply walks the beach in his perfectly shined black dress shoes, a slight look of irritation flashing across his face as the sand begins to fill them up.

The computer has found them an idyllic location, a small, exclusive resort in Mahia, on the northern tip of New Zealand.  The beaches are flanked by rocks jutting out of the ocean, creating small, craggy inlets for private swimming.  "Isn't it beautiful?" she asks him, stopping halfway home to watch the waves crest and crash in the moonlight.

Jack doesn't look at the view.  "Yes.  Beautiful."  He pulls her closer and kisses her, letting one hand trail lightly down her spine until she shivers.  "We should go sailing tomorrow."

She smiles slowly, even as her stomach tightens with what feels a bit like dread.  "Yes," she agrees.  "We should."

Jack watches her closely, scanning her face for the slightest hint as to what they'll be discussing.  After a moment, he leans in and kisses her again, quickly, and squeezes her hand.  "Let's go to bed."

They make love again, shedding clothes almost frantically, and then settle in to sleep.  Irina curls up next to Jack, watching his familiar face, as he gives her a half-smile and closes his eyes.  She traces his features with her gaze, memorizing the way his silver hair is slightly mussed, the way his mouth softens some in sleep.  

She aches when she lets herself consider how much she will miss him.  It takes her quite awhile to fall asleep.

***

Irina wakes suddenly, knowing that Jack has already woken.  Sure enough, she opens her eyes to find him watching her, a slight smile on his face.  "Morning," he says, leaning in to kiss her lightly on the lips.

But she catches him, holds him close, and deepens the kiss.  She can feel his surprise in the lines of his body as she caresses him, pulling him to her, but he doesn't resist.  After a moment, his hand lands on her hip, sliding slowly up and around to pull her closer.  This time, they touch each other with rare reverence.  They don't speak, and she wonders if he knows this is her way of saying goodbye, of saying she's sorry.

When Jack slides from her, landing on the mattress beside her, Irina turns her head and smiles.  "Good morning."

He simply raises an eyebrow at her.

Irina feels that sense of trepidation again, and it sets her in motion.  "We should set sail after breakfast," she says, slipping from their bed and heading for the bathroom to shower.  He does not join her, and she knows now that he's bracing himself for what's coming.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, as they scan different sections of the newspaper provided by the hotel -- he, the business section, she, the fashion section.  They sit on the private balcony outside their room, and Irina's attention is drawn back to the ocean, where the sunbeams scatter into a million pieces like spilled diamonds.  She likes this place better than Antigua, not quite as much as Bali.

When they're finished breakfast, Jack gives her a small bow as she stands, lifting her hand to his mouth to press a kiss to her palm.  "I'll get us a sailboat if you pack us some lunch."

"Of course," she agrees, reaching up to cradle his face, running her thumb over his lips.  He breaks away to dress and she grabs her bag, heading for the small gourmet store she spotted yesterday.

Donning an oversized straw hat and sunglasses, she meets Jack at the pier, holding a picnic basket filled with food she knows they won't eat.  He's standing near the top, in a silly Caribbean shirt, khaki pants, and a brand new pair of topsiders.

She tries, but cannot keep herself from smiling widely at his outfit.

Jack merely arches an eyebrow as he takes the basket from her and stows it on the modest daysailer.  He turns to offer her assistance, but she's already aboard, moving toward the stern.

"Are you ready?" he asks, those blue eyes burning into her.

Irina holds his gaze.  "Yes," she answers.  "I'm ready."

Jack nods, and then takes his place at the helm of the sailboat, turning them toward open water.

***

Irina keeps her gaze on the horizon, tracking tiny white sails, distracted every once in a while by the sun glittering on the water.  Even with sunglasses, it's so bright that she finds herself squinting up at seagulls as they glide by.  The air is warm, and Irina lets the sun soak into her skin.  She won't be back to the warmer climes in the near future, so she might as well make the most of this.

Normally, Jack would comment on the scenery or the weather as they made their way out to open water.  Today, he sails silently, without even a glance in her direction.  When they are far enough out that land is merely a suggestion of brown along the horizon, far enough out that most directional mics can't pick them up, Jack brings the boat about until it is sailing directly into the wind, allowing their speed to decrease.  Unceremoniously, he releases the main sail, letting it plummet into a pile of canvas.

Jack lashes the mainsail down, letting the boat drift where it may, and takes a seat opposite Irina.  "What happened?" he demands, leaning his elbows on his knees.

Irina reaches up, pulling the floppy hat from her head.  She runs one hand through her long locks and then leans forward, mirroring his position.  "Sydney is safe."

For a long moment, his expression remains the same, his eyes burning into hers.  He lets out a slow, unsteady breath and drops his head for just a moment.  "How do you know?" he asks, his entire body tense with what Irina recognizes as the desire to go to Sydney, to rescue her and bring her home.

"I've seen her," Irina admits, reaching up to pull off her sunglasses, even if she has to squint in the bright morning sun.

Jack's mouth drops open, and then he glares.  "You've seen her?"

Irina nods.  "Yes.  Last month."

"Is there a reason you're just getting around to sharing that information now?"  Each word is laced with lethal sarcasm.

She does not back down.  "I needed to explain things to you."

Jack tenses, as if expecting a blow.  "What things?" he demands in that same biting tone.

"First, I want to emphasize that I have not spoken to Sydney directly, nor did I have any part in her decision."

"Her decision?" he repeats.

"Yes," Irina answers firmly.  "Her decision.  Sydney has chosen this path."

Jack simply glowers at her for several long moments.  He is such a good interrogator, except when it comes to anything involving Sydney.  His paternal affection for their daughter leaves him ineffectual, too busy reacting to the information to assimilate the data and orchestrate the interrogation accordingly.  Irina knows that she is in charge of this conversation for at least a little while longer, so she decides lay it all out there, and then sit back while Jack explodes.

"I found her quite by accident," Irina begins, her tone almost conversational.  "Her image was caught on surveillance tape and forwarded to me by an associate.  I investigated, and eventually got word that Sydney -- under an alias, of course -- was working with someone in the Buehrens Cartel."

Jack shakes his head, "I've never heard of any Buehrens Cartel."

"They're still a rather small operation, three brothers out of Glückstadt," Irina explains.  "But I could find no indication that they were a CIA front, which concerned me."

"They're not," Jack confirms, looking a bit dazed.

"It wasn't easy, but I got intell on a dead drop set up by the Buehrens brothers and moved into a hotel nearby, waiting for someone to show."  Irina glances away, just for a moment, remembering that paralyzing combination of relief and dread when she'd recognized her daughter's confident stride, despite the long, wavy locks obscuring her face.  "I got down there in time," she continues, clearing her throat.  "Sydney barely looked at me, but accepted the note I brush-passed her."

"She was okay?" Jack asks, a note of pleading in his voice.

"Yes," Irina confirms.  "She was okay."  She does not tell him any more about the Buehrens brothers, or their reputation for unnecessary cruelty.  She does share her fear for Sydney's well being.  Irina has killed many times, and it is her policy not to feel regret, but she never, ever wanted her daughter to wade as far into darkness.

"Thank God," Jack breathes, dropping his head and staring down at the deck.

Irina gives him a moment to process what she's told him so far.  When he lifts his head, she continues.  "I gave her a time and a location for that night, but she didn't show.  I stayed for hours, just to be sure."  She remembers the smoky interior of the club, the throbbing bass line of the too-loud music, the crushing disappointment when the hour came and went without a sign of her daughter.  Irina shifts in her seat, reaching into her pants pocket to remove a small, crumpled piece of paper.  "When I returned to my hotel room, I found this."

When Jack reaches for the note, his hands are shaking.  Irina closes her eyes, the contents long since memorized.

I'm okay.  I'm deep, and can't be compromised.  Please don't try to find me again.

"Have you had this analyzed?" Jack barks.  "What if it's a forgery?  What if Sydney was forced to write this?  These Buerhens brothers may have identified you and--"

"No one identified me," Irina interrupts firmly.  "I did not go in unprepared."

"I wasn't suggesting that you did," Jack snaps back.

"It's not a forgery," Irina declares before the conversation digresses into further sniping.  "I've had it checked.  There's no indication of stress, no hidden code, no red flags of any kind."

It is exactly what Jack doesn't want to hear.  "This can't possibly be real."

"I saw her, Jack," Irina reminds him, seeing Sydney again in her mind -- wild dark locks, a knowing smirk on her painted lips, clothes clinging to the hard lines of her body.  Irina had never before that moment seen much of a resemblance between she and her daughter.  The likeness was something she did not want to contemplate.  "Even if this note is a misdirection, she hasn't contacted me again.  My note to her included my information.  I have to assume--"

"That our daughter has taken it upon herself to go deep undercover within an obscure criminal organization without the help or knowledge of the CIA?" Jack asks, his tone nearly flat in his fury.

Irina dips her chin in acknowledgment.  "She has always been stubbornly independent."

"But she has never been stupid," Jack counters.  "Nor a criminal."

"Undercover work," Irina begins, "requires--"

"I don't think you really want to lecture me on undercover work."  He rises to pace, but there is little open space, so he turns away for a long moment, staring out over the open water.  "I need you to give me all of the information you have on the Buehrens brothers, plus Sydney's current alias and description."

Here, Irina thinks, is where it all ends.  She sits up straight, her hands on her knees, and waits for him to turn and look at her.  "No," she answers.

The only sound is the water lapping against the side of the boat as Jack stares at her in disbelief.  "Excuse me?"

"No," Irina repeats, meeting his gaze calmly.  "I will not help you blow Sydney's cover."

"I'm not proposing we blow her cover and get her killed," Jack answers, his tone icy.  "I'm going to extract her from an ill-conceived and very dangerous mission."

"No, you're not."

Jack stills, his entire focus on Irina for the first time since she said that Sydney is safe.  "What makes you think you can stop me?"

"I have only told you about the Buehrens because they are no longer in operation."  Irina doesn't mention that they have been murdered.  She doesn't mention her part in it.  "You won't find anything about Sydney if you investigate them."

"I do have quite a few resources at my disposal," Jack notes, glaring down at her.  He cuts quite a figure, tall, furious, icy blue eyes glaring at her, framed by the indescribable beauty of the Pacific Ocean and the bright sky.

"I won't allow you to put our daughter in danger," Irina tells him, rising slowly to her feet to face him.  "She is safe so far, and I trust her enough to know that she will get herself out of any trouble that may find her.  *Unless* you blow her cover."

"Sydney is not safe so long as she is cavorting with criminals."

Irina lets herself smile.  "I am what you would call a criminal.  Does that make you unsafe?"

Jack narrows his eyes.  "Yes."

It is almost enough to make her laugh.  "I won't endanger you either, Jack," she promises, "unless you move against Sydney."

His eyes narrow.  "I would never move against Sydney.  I only want to protect her."

"She's a grown woman," Irina counters.  "You can't protect her.  Not from this."

"Not from what?" he demands, his jaw clenched.

"From what she's chosen," Irina answers.  "I respect her choice, and you will respect it, too."

Jack advances, not stopping until they are toe-to-toe.  "Are you suggesting that I simply go on with my life as if my daughter isn't working without a safety net in the very dangerous world of international espionage?"

"That is exactly what I'm suggesting," Irina answers steadily.  "And I will remind you that our association over these past few months isn't completely untraceable."

"Is that a threat?" he asks, all emotion gone from his voice, his expression unreadable.

"Simply a fact," she answers, her armor in place as well.  They stare at each other, taking their measure of each other, for a long, long time.  Irina knows they are quite alone out here, and she knows that he would do anything to protect Sydney, even kill his not-quite-ex-wife.  Her ace in the hole is that she is the only one with information on Sydney's whereabouts.  She trusts that he will suffer her to live only because he feels he will eventually get the information from her.

Irina reaches up, resting her fingertips lightly on his forearm.  "I wouldn't be doing this if I wasn't sure it was the best way to keep Sydney safe," she tells him softly.

Jack steps back, turning from her.  "We're done here," he says, that old icy tone back in full force.  He makes his way to the mast and begins to raise the mainsail.

"Yes," Irina answers, and she thinks her voice might be a little more sorrowful than she'd like.  "We are."

As the sail catches the wind and the boat begins to move purposefully toward the shore, Irina sits and watches the ocean stretch away into sparkling oblivion.  She knows they won't break cover back at the hotel.  Sergei, the international businessman, will have to leave early on a business emergency, leaving Tatiana, the bereft trophy wife, here at the lovely resort.  Irina will play her part, pouting at him as he gathers his belongings, following him to the door to see him off like a dutiful wife.

Irina glances over at his tense form, tracing the familiar lines of his body with her eyes.  She wonders if, on his way out, Jack will kiss her goodbye.

THE END

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