after.midnight // v.naked
Title: Fighting the Inevitable
Rating/Classification: PG, V/I, S/V, death and angst
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. JJ Abrams owns all.
Summary: They were the only two left.
Series: Misery Loves Company
Notes: This hit me and I had to run with it.
He left work with the note to call him if anything came up, if something
went wrong. The tech monitoring the comms nodded slightly, and went back
to what he did best. He tossed his headphones on the desk, walked over
to grab his stuff, and headed out of the building. He never looked back,
not at Eric's puzzled expression, not at Dixon's contemplative gaze.
Never looked back, not even when he heard his friend informing his agent
that he was taking over. When he got the car, he waited for the guilt to
hit him, the shame that he had left his agent alone, without his help or
support, and when it didn't, he sighed heavily and started the car. As
he drove home, he added 'ability to care' to the list of things he'd
lost in the last nine months.
Drive to succeed. Hope for the future. A certain naivete. Will to
survive. Ability to care.
It was a short list, one that increased or decreased depending on his
mood, which shifted from day to day, from hour to hour. This morning, he
had cared whether his agent lived or died, planning a counter-mission
that took every single thing into account. The weather in Hong Kong. The
maximum amount of people legally allowed in the tiny little club behind
a filthy little alley in the most dangerous part of town. The agent in
the corridor two doors down from the restrooms waiting to intercept his
agent to get the information she was risking her life to attain. Twelve
hours later, he couldn't even make himself stay to see her through it.
Three weeks ago, he'd cared whether or not he made it out of Istanbul
alive. A week ago in Cairo, he would have happily thrown himself on a
bomb just to end it all.
Only one item on his list remained constant.
Love of his life.
He had another list, a list of the things he had gained since losing
Sydney. It was a longer list, one full of regrets and unfulfilled
promises, things he and Sydney had planned to do together. Things he
couldn't dream of doing now that she was gone. But of all the things he
gained the night Sydney Bristow took her final breath, he never would
have guessed Irina Derevko would be one of them.
But thinking about Irina made his head hurt, so he pushed the enigma
that was his lover's mother, his father's killer, out of his head.
Thoughts of Irina were better left dead and buried, like everything else
in his life. Stepping through the door of his apartment, he tossed his
keys on the table, bent down to pet Donovan, and walked into the
kitchen. Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, he casually made his way
through the living room, intent on one thing and one thing only;
"Ignoring me won't make me go away," she said softly, her slight Russian
accent lilting. "Although you are getting quite good at it."
Sighing, he leaned against the wall, refusing to turn around. "Not now,
Irina," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "I'm not in the mood."
She chuckled slightly, and he heard her get up from the couch, felt her
come up behind him. He didn't flinch when her fingers moved slowly,
sensuously, down his arm, taking the beer bottle from his hands. He'd
stopped flinching when she touched him six and a half months ago,
figuring if she was going to make a habit of it -which she did, much to
his dismay and, occasionally, his pleasure- the only thing he could do
was accept it. "Why?" she asked, genuinely curious.
Pulling away, he turned to face her, his eyes on hers. They were the
same color as Sydney's, a deep chocolate brown, and no matter how hard
he tried to fight it, he could never stop himself from drowning in them.
Of all the weapons Irina had in her arsenal, the fact that she had
Sydney's eyes were the most deadly. Everything he felt was reflected in
those eyes. Twelve months ago he never would have guessed that he and
Irina shared anything at all.
When Irina had showed up on his doorstep, two days after he lost Sydney
and she lost Jack, he had slammed the door in her face. It hadn't even
begun to put a dent in his anger, his overwhelming despair, but it had
felt good. For the next hour afterwards, he had slammed every single
door in his apartment. When he came back out to the living room,
emotionally drained, Irina had been sitting on the couch, bonding with
his dog. He hadn't had the strength to throw her out. Instead, he went
to his room, laid down on the bed, and drifted off to sleep. When he'd
woken up four hours later he wasn't sure what surprised him more; the
fact that he was alive or the fact that she was still there. She'd been
there ever since. His own personal demon, haunting him for the rest of
He still hadn't gotten the courage to ask God what, exactly, he'd done
to deserve that particular form of punishment. Whatever it was, it must
have been one hell of a fuck up.
Pulling himself back into the present, he considered her question. Why,
exactly, did her continued presence in his life piss him off so much?
Why did seeing her every single day make him want to put a gun to his
head and pull the trigger? Why did hearing her voice, feeling her skin
against his, make him wish, on very rare occasions, that he had never
met Sydney Bristow at all? That the entire Bristow clan had been wiped
out of existence before he'd ever been conceived?
He sighed and added 'ability to hate Irina Derevko' to the list of
things he'd lost.
Hating Irina. Loving Sydney. The two things in his life he was
absolutely positive would never, ever change. He wasn't sure what to do
now that he couldn't hold on to the one thing that had always been most
important. So, he did the only thing he could do, the only thing that
got him through the night. The reason why he came back from Cairo, the
reason why living one more day was so important in Istanbul.
He took her hand, led her into the bedroom. And on the very same bed
that he and Sydney had spent lazy weekends together, he made love to
Irina Derevko like she was the last tangible tie to the best thing that
had ever happened to him.
They were the only two left.
All they had was each other.
And sometime during the night he added 'fighting the inevitable' to the
list of things he didn't have to the strength to do anymore.