Vienna

O0O0O0O

"Do you think it's going to rain, Jack?"

Even though he heard the words, he didn't get it. He just didn't get it. He looked at her, his wife, in utter bewilderment, as if she had asked him whether he would rather mongoose or crocodile for supper- and small wonder. It was a hot, dry twenty-eight degrees Celsius and the mercury was climbing ever higher, in tandem with the sun that blazed above them in a cloudless sky.

He'd have been less surprised if Santa Claus had dropped into their laps than he would have had it rained.

Yet here she was, probably one of the sharpest minds of their time - and certainly the best-looking one - asking him if he thought it would rain.

He looked at her in utter bewilderment. "Irina, have you lost your mind?"

She glanced over, that enigmatic, sad little smile in place.

"No. I just asked you a question. Do you think it will rain, Jack?"

He eyed her with gravest concerns. "I think you've been out in the sun too long. We should probably go inside and get you some-"

"Jack," it was a quiet little request. "Please."

He stopped, and held out his hands helplessly. "Irina, really. I don't know how you expect me to take such a question seriously when it is so obviously NOT going to rain!"

She sighed, and shook her head in regret. "You don't remember, do you? Or at least," she amended, "you don't care to."

Jack was truly baffled as he looked down at her where she sat on one of two wrought iron seats that graced their hotel balcony, eyeing the city without seeing it.

"Remember what?"

She shook her head, as if regretting she had even mentioned it.

"Vienna."

He stood, thunderstruck. Why in the world would she- ? But she had asked him a question. Two. And one, he could answer.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I do remember."

She nodded, smiling. "It rained then."

He was forced to smile too. "Yes," he agreed, "it did. It didn't stop. The whole time we were there- our honeymoon, and we spent it in rain slickers."

She smirked. "Some of it, anyway," she amended, and he felt himself colour crimson.

"But," she went on, not seeing, "do you remember . . . all of it? Every minute, Jack? Every second we- all of it?" She twisted around then, to look up at him. "Because I do."

Don't, his mind was urging him. You'd be giving her too much- you'd be crossing that line. The one you can never step back over. Don't tell her.

He shook his head. "No." he said, voice wooden once more. "I don't." Then he had to watch as her face closed over again, and she turned to study the city once more, not seeing what the question was doing to him.

Because he could remember- all of it. Could, and, standing here, he did.

O0O0O0O

Watching the rain fall in Vienna; pictures of another time.

From the corner of a small cafe, we watched the world go by . . .

O0O0O0O

He swallowed. This shouldn't be this hard- being with her like this. He shouldn't even have to worry about it. She might have been his wife - she might, technically, still be his wife - but she was not at all who she had been back then. There should be no fear of confusing the two with each other.

Laura Bristow had been a pretty, carefree young English Lit student he had fallen head over heels in love with. A perky, good person who had told him she was scared of spiders and liked thunderstorms.

Irina Derevko, sitting by him now, may have looked like Laura, but there was no way he could have mistaken her for Laura. There was no traces of the girl he had known in this woman who had ruthlessly murdered his countrymen for the sake of the people who had told her to lie to the man who loved her, and the daughter who trusted her. He couldn't even bring himself to look her directly in the eye, and he got the feeling that she, too, found it uncomfortable to look at him for any length of time. Guilt? Surely not. But if not guilt . . . then what?

He shook his head. There were times - times like now - that he wished . . . wished so desperately . . . that it were possible to do as she seemed to want to. To go back to the way things had been for them, that first month of so many, when they had been the only two people in that glorious old city who had mattered to them.

The only two people in the world.

O0O0O0O

Now we sit here the best of strangers; we played the game for all it's worth.

Endless nights in Vienna's eyes take me back again

O0O0O0O

She looked up at him. "Jack?"

He must have jumped a mile at least, and a guilty sweat broke out on his forehead. She looked at him, surprised.

"Jack? Are you all right?"

He nodded quickly. "Yes. Of course. What is it?"

"I was just thinking . . . well, it wasn't so bad, was it?"

"What wasn't?"

"Being- being married to me." she swallowed. "Being like that . . . especially then. You really don't remember the-"

"No."

Hard. Cold. Uncompromising.

The way he had been when Sydney was little, to protect her.

The way he was now, to protect himself.

He was suddenly acutely aware of the possibility that, despite the walls he had put up ever since she arrived, Irina might still be able to hurt him. He was not fond of the feeling. Her face fell as he said it, and her eyes followed suit.

"You don't."

"I don't."

"But Jack," pleadingly, "Jack, we were so . . . right. You must be able to see- Jack, something like that doesn't just happen."

"No," he agreed shortly, "it doesn't. Somebody makes it happen."

Then he turned and walked into the room, leaving her to watch the city twinkle at them, the lights reflecting on suspect moisture glistening in her eyes.

"How can you not see it?" she whispered, her hands clenching into fists of frustration. "You bloody idiot, how can you not see that this sort of connection, this belonging, isn't an everyday sort? What happened, Jack? What happened that changed you from what you were back then into who you are now?"

She asked the question only because she didn't want to be the one to answer it. She knew only too well what had happened, and only too well what had caused it.

Who had caused it.

She knew full well who she should be blaming for the drastic change in this man. He wasn't who she remembered- he was no longer the boy she had stayed up all night with in that little German hotel, neither of them quite able to get enough of looking at each other. They had finally realised that the only way they could solve matters was by up staying up until sunrise, just to make sure they didn't miss a moment that the other was awake, so this was what they had done.

She still remembered the look in his eyes- that deep, longing look she had seen every time she looked at him. Finally, not really self-conscious but a little curious, she had laughed and, wondered aloud, "and just what are you doing?"

He had smiled back, and told her, "watching you. What are you doing?"

She had grinned. "Watching you watching me."

No wonder they hadn't gotten much sleep those four weeks.

O0O0O0O

Cause in Vienna we were poetry. Yes, in Vienna love was alive.

Watching you watching me - all that our eyes could see -

All of the nights we chased into the dawn; it was the best time of my life.

O0O0O0O

She stood, then, and turned her back on the city that was glowing rich and golden in the beginning of a sunset in favour of looking at him, where he stood in the shadows of the room they were to share.

When had he started looking so . . . haggard? So haunted? She felt sick to think that she had caused this change- that he had loved her as much as she had loved him - no, no, she shook her head quickly. Pretended to love him - and that what she had done to him had caused him to change into this.

What scared her even more, though, was that she could still look past that hardened, cold exterior and see the potential in him- the potential for being who she remembered him to be. Early on in her captivity she had told him that illusion of their marriage was now gone. And that had been true- but not in the way he had taken it. The illusion had left in place of a solid reality. Looking at him, she did not see the man she had been assigned to betray- she saw the man she had married, loved, and lost.

Once.

She didn't want to lose him again. She couldn't lose him again. But . . . Sloane was expecting her.

Jack knew- she had told him so. No secrets. She was perfectly willing to stay in Federal custody for as long as it took to get this whole mess straightened out- it meant she could see her family.

But surprisingly enough, he had supported her hesitantly-expressed sentiment that perhaps it would be better for her to go ahead with what she and Sark had proposed, and in doing so, stop Sloane for good.

"If it weren't for Sydney, Jack, I couldn't care less. But she so hates the man . . . it's draining her. And that's no way for her to live- she'll never quite the CIA as long as he's out there. She'll never stop searching. And that is no life. Even worse than the Protection Program. That's the only reason I would ever consider doing it."

"And that," he had replied evenly, "is the only reason I am considering it myself."

So they had planned it together, on their way back from Bangkok- everything that was likely to be done, and everything they would do to counter it. She had forgotten until then what an analytical mind his was- how strategic and logical. She had often envied him it- she with her suspicion and passion, unable to properly, unemotionally look at a situation.

Now she envied him it more than ever- he looked so uncompromising and unemotional, and as much as she would never let on the hurt it was causing her, she also wished she could be so . . . well . . . blank. She could lie, act, weave tale after tale around a smile and a flashing pair of eyes that spoke anything but the truth, but she could not do as he did- just shut off the torrent of feeling like a faucet. She had o let it consume her, so she could redirect it, shaping it into something else.

Only now, she didn't want to do that. She was tired of acting- tired of pretending. Tired of lying. She wanted to let him know how she felt- but with what purpose? There was no point. Even if by some miracle the emotions he was holding inside were the reciprocates of her own, they would never be able to act on it to any real degree of satisfaction.

She shook her head in chagrin, slumping into a chair just inside the balcony, and propping her elbows up on the table that sat in front of it. No matter how much she told herself how pointless it was to still hear the echoes of what had once been there, she couldn't help it. She kept on hearing them, and she kept on seeing what they had been together- what, against all calculable odds, she wanted them to be again.

O0O0O0O

We can't surrender to a feeling, that dance belongs to yesterday.

Yet, I still hear Vienna's song take me back again.

O0O0O0O

Jack looked over at her where she sat, and cursed himself for feeling the way he did every time he saw her. Feeling like that could get him killed- could get them both killed. Neither was something he wanted to happen.

The shadows outside their hotel room lengthened as they sat in silence, Irina watching the wall but seeing nothing, Jack watching Irina and seeing everything he had tried so hard to forget. When at last they realised it was dark outside, Jack gave a convulsive little jump and got up, reaching for their kit bags. He went through them, unfolding, re-folding, rearranging and then restoring, doing nothing at all, and doing it with great purpose.

Irina watched him, her head tilted to the side, then murmured, "you should take up knitting."

He blinked. "Wh- what?"

"Knitting," she repeated, smiling. "It's constructive fidgeting. Do you want some help with that?"

Jack didn't.

"Okay," she nodded, then watched him stow it all neatly away before turning to her, sitting across from her, and, for something to do, starting to go over their plan of action yet again.

"Based on our agreement," Jack spoke in modulated tones, "tomorrow morning you and two Delta force guards will be dropped off here. If Sloane follows the plan, he'll drive north to meet you."

"Won't he be suspicious if I don't have the Rambaldi manuscript?"

Irina spoke out of willingness to co-operate with his need to break the silence- even though, in this room, the words she spoke were unnecessary. Both of them knew Sloane would be suspicious. She would have the Rambaldi manuscript. They had arranged it.

Jack, though, played along. Who knew where Kendall had connections? More to the point, who wanted to?

"Sloane is smart enough to know that you would never bring it with you at first contact. He'll expect that you have it close by. CIA will be tracking you on satellite back in Los Angeles in contact with me and a chopper waiting ten blocks away. When the call is made, the team will surround the vehicle and ambush Sloane."

Her eyes danced. "Pretty straightforward."

Both knew it was anything but. Jack reached for a nearby glass of wine and drank deeply, then turned back to her, nodding.

"I think we've got a shot."

She nodded, and then, with a sigh, spoke carefully. She didn't like to, but this point had been raised in the jet on their way back home, and had never been completely resolved to her satisfaction.

"There's one thing. The tracker you put in my shoulder."

He looked at her. "You want it removed."

They had been over this before. He had suggested it, but she had vetoed it. She would have felt alone without it. With it, it was a link to Jack- whether or not she wanted to admit it, it made her feel safe. Now, though, it was obvious she had been doing some thinking.

"If they discover I've been tagged, it's over. We both know that."

He was watching her uncertainly, and she saw his jaw tighten, eyes flickering ever so slightly with just the faintest traces of worry- an emotion too strong for him to entirely conceal. She stressed her point further, though, just to make sure she drove it home. "Jack, they can't discover it. This is all for nothing if they do."

He nodded once; abruptly. "Then we'll have to make sure that they don't discover it."

How many men carry surgical equipment next to their shaving gear? Irina guessed not many- but then, Jack had always been rather unique. He was as quick and gentle as he could be, but when you have razor-sharp surgical steel slicing through the flesh of your shoulder, gentle is often not enough. It took every ounce of her resolve to not flinch. She knew if she had, he'd have stopped, and refused to go through with it. He had almost tried to forcibly inject her with morphine when she was giving birth to Sydney, her grimaces had unnerved him so.

This, though, was nothing compared to the fifteen hours Sydney had kept her on her back, crushing her husband's hand in a death grip, so she was even able to keep up the line of conversation he began, in an effort to divert himself from the task at hand.

"Of course, Kendall would have me court-martialed for this."

She had to smile at the thought of even attempting to compare her husband to the aggravating bald man who stalked up and down outside her cell. She loved how he blustered and bullied, making her feel all the more powerful for his inability to get anything concrete out of her unless he had her family behind him.

"Kendall's not as smart as you are."

He didn't respond directly, instead fishing out the transmitter, and announcing, "got it."

Next to the surgical equipment was a first aid kit, and though she hadn't winced at the knife, ironically the sting of the antiseptic did make her cringe and Jack was concerned.

"You okay?"

She thought of Sydney, and how she had come into the world, and had to smile.

"This is nothing."

He nodded, and then began once more fishing around in his bag (for Heaven's sake, what did the man have in there- a pharmacy?) at last coming up with a large needle.

"I have a backup transmitter," he said, somewhat unnecessarily as no needle that big could contain anything but, and she nodded.

"I expected nothing less. What is it- passive?"

He nodded. "Yes. I'll activate it only if Kendall or Sloane make it necessary. Otherwise, it would be safest for you if it remained inactive, and- and-" he honestly could not remember what he had been prepared to say.

All he could do was look at that faint, wistful smile on her face, and remember what they had been like, those thirty years before. And quite suddenly, he wanted them to be that again- and it terrified him.

She looked at him, and saw it. She started to smile in earnest, but, remembering their situation, tried to be fair to him.

"We need to be up early," she reminded him primly, sounding very much like the mother she was.

"Yes,." Jack agreed, but his tone carried no real concurrence.

Irina didn't even dare to hope.

"We should get to bed."

"Yes," he almost choked in his haste to get the word out. "We should."

Then, quite suddenly, he was moving towards her, his lips falling down onto hers. She smiled under the weight of them- she had been waiting decades for this.

They remembered all too clearly how things had been between them three decades ago- the thrill of newness, the crush of rainy day boredom released in passion, and now, to their mutual surprise and delight, they discovered that even with thirty years between now and then, nothing had changed.

Nothing at all.

O0O0O0O

Cause in Vienna we were poetry. Yes, in Vienna love was alive.

Watching you watching me - all that our eyes could see -

All of the nights we chased into the dawn . . .

It was the best time of my life.

O0O0O0O

Alias- mine? You honestly think that . . . well, I wish. I just wish.

Childish and immature a reason though it is to start a fic, I'm doing this because - well- everybody else was. Bit it seemed like everywhere I looked all of the talented DT writers were doing ADT in-eps, so I felt left out, and decided to toss one more onto the pile because . . . well, it's raining, I'm bored, and I got an idea. Thank you to Jen, without whom I never would have known the song that inspired this even existed, and to all the people who hate songfics that are reading this and, even when told it's kind of a songfic, will keep reading anyway just because they love Jack and Irina (I myself don't actually even really like songfics, but I don't know how to make music videos, so this is all I was able to come up with. Sorry).

Vienna is sung by Linda Eder and unhesitatingly recommended by me. I love that song, and Jen, I love you for telling me about it! I still get all breathless when I listen to it . . . it's just incredible, and I know that no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to properly get the depth of emotion and drama across in my writing, so people, just listen to it. It's extraordinary.

Thanks so much for sticking with me this far, I hope you aren't still here just because you're the reading equivalent of one of those people who falls asleep during the movie and sleeps all the way through the credits, but if you are, wake up! It's over!