Water Like Glass, Aliasfic, PG
For 
superswank, on the fly. Hope you enjoy.
Title: Water Like Glass
Author: allthingsholy
Notes: set during Syd's two missing years
Summary: 'Vegas, 6.13, Bellagio fountains. Alone.'
--
It’d been a year since Sydney’s death, and already she’d ceased grieving. The process was short, frantic, and painful—but then she was finished, the grief hardening into something else, something akin to fury. She received a message from Jack a week ago, his hard, clipped sentences in newsprint next to an ad for lingerie: Vegas, 6.13, Bellagio fountains. Alone. She’d ran a finger over the text before dripping her coffee onto the page, words blurring into each other against a dark brown background. She’d drained the rest of her mug and left without paying.
The flight from Sao Paolo was rough, a shaky plane and crying children. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and didn’t sleep.
When she arrived—carry-on slung over her shoulder, but no bags checked, not ever—the air in the airport was stale and dry. A man playing the slots next to Starbucks ran his eyes up and down her figure, and then hit the jackpot, sirens blaring and coins streaming down the chute. Irina kept on walking.
When she left the airport, the desert air hit her like a wall, like a fist, and sweat beaded at her hairline and above her lip. She ran her fingers across her forehead and got in line for a cab behind a couple with two young kids. The daughter grabbed at the father’s hand and Irina looked away.
She checked into the Bellagio—just for one night, just the one bed—and showered quickly, the cold water running down her back, over her shoulders. Jack’s message gave no meeting time, but she decided to go down anyway. The sunset streaked above the Strip and she leaned against the rail, Frank Sinatra blaring from a speaker over her head. She faced the street and watched the cars drive by.
She’d been there an hour—a show every fifteen minutes, and she’d never turned to watch even one—before she felt Jack slide up against her side, forearm pressed to hers. He faced the lake, leaned his arms against the stone, spoke low and didn’t look at her. “I’ve got a name for you. About Sydney.” Irina almost lost the sound of Sydney’s name against the rush of traffic, but she strained her ears and heard it low, Jack’s voice dropping an octave when he said it. She dipped her head but didn’t turn around. A white taxi stopped on the street in front of her, and a blonde woman in the backseat sat straight and smoothed down her hair. Irina leaned back against the rail and followed the taxi’s brake lights all the way down the Strip.
“What’s the name?” She breathed out low, shook her hair away from her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a drop of sweat track down the side of Jack’s face. Behind her, she heard the crash of water on water, and people began to crowd around them, a family to their left, an elderly couple to their right. No one paid them any attention, but Irina scanned the crowd anyway. “Anyone we know?”
Jack cleared his throat, straightened up off the rail, then slid both hands against stone. He looked up at the sky, then back to the water, then over to the smooth of her shoulder. She turned away. “Pietr Evanovich. Ex-KGB.” Jack slipped a hand in his pocket, pressed his other wrist against her elbow. “I don’t know the name, but I thought you might.” Frank crooned from above them, and Irina hummed a bar, low in the back of her throat. She breathed in and leaned away.
“It’s not familiar. But I’ll see what I can find out.” She raised herself up, took a step away from the rail, started to walk away. Jack’s hand grabbed her own and she stilled, spine straight. A sports car whirred by, and she tightened her hand.
His skin was rougher than she remembered, pads of his fingers harsh against her pulse point. She took a small step closer, and turned her head to face him. The grey in his hair had spread, moving from his temples to the crown of his head, but his eyes were sharp as ever. He looked over her shoulder, then at the water. When he finally met her eyes, she pulled her hand away.
“Room 346,” she said, turning toward the hotel. She walked softly, slowly, and listened for the sound of his footsteps above the noise of the water.
superswank, on the fly. Hope you enjoy.Title: Water Like Glass
Author: allthingsholy
Notes: set during Syd's two missing years
Summary: 'Vegas, 6.13, Bellagio fountains. Alone.'
--
It’d been a year since Sydney’s death, and already she’d ceased grieving. The process was short, frantic, and painful—but then she was finished, the grief hardening into something else, something akin to fury. She received a message from Jack a week ago, his hard, clipped sentences in newsprint next to an ad for lingerie: Vegas, 6.13, Bellagio fountains. Alone. She’d ran a finger over the text before dripping her coffee onto the page, words blurring into each other against a dark brown background. She’d drained the rest of her mug and left without paying.
The flight from Sao Paolo was rough, a shaky plane and crying children. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and didn’t sleep.
When she arrived—carry-on slung over her shoulder, but no bags checked, not ever—the air in the airport was stale and dry. A man playing the slots next to Starbucks ran his eyes up and down her figure, and then hit the jackpot, sirens blaring and coins streaming down the chute. Irina kept on walking.
When she left the airport, the desert air hit her like a wall, like a fist, and sweat beaded at her hairline and above her lip. She ran her fingers across her forehead and got in line for a cab behind a couple with two young kids. The daughter grabbed at the father’s hand and Irina looked away.
She checked into the Bellagio—just for one night, just the one bed—and showered quickly, the cold water running down her back, over her shoulders. Jack’s message gave no meeting time, but she decided to go down anyway. The sunset streaked above the Strip and she leaned against the rail, Frank Sinatra blaring from a speaker over her head. She faced the street and watched the cars drive by.
She’d been there an hour—a show every fifteen minutes, and she’d never turned to watch even one—before she felt Jack slide up against her side, forearm pressed to hers. He faced the lake, leaned his arms against the stone, spoke low and didn’t look at her. “I’ve got a name for you. About Sydney.” Irina almost lost the sound of Sydney’s name against the rush of traffic, but she strained her ears and heard it low, Jack’s voice dropping an octave when he said it. She dipped her head but didn’t turn around. A white taxi stopped on the street in front of her, and a blonde woman in the backseat sat straight and smoothed down her hair. Irina leaned back against the rail and followed the taxi’s brake lights all the way down the Strip.
“What’s the name?” She breathed out low, shook her hair away from her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a drop of sweat track down the side of Jack’s face. Behind her, she heard the crash of water on water, and people began to crowd around them, a family to their left, an elderly couple to their right. No one paid them any attention, but Irina scanned the crowd anyway. “Anyone we know?”
Jack cleared his throat, straightened up off the rail, then slid both hands against stone. He looked up at the sky, then back to the water, then over to the smooth of her shoulder. She turned away. “Pietr Evanovich. Ex-KGB.” Jack slipped a hand in his pocket, pressed his other wrist against her elbow. “I don’t know the name, but I thought you might.” Frank crooned from above them, and Irina hummed a bar, low in the back of her throat. She breathed in and leaned away.
“It’s not familiar. But I’ll see what I can find out.” She raised herself up, took a step away from the rail, started to walk away. Jack’s hand grabbed her own and she stilled, spine straight. A sports car whirred by, and she tightened her hand.
His skin was rougher than she remembered, pads of his fingers harsh against her pulse point. She took a small step closer, and turned her head to face him. The grey in his hair had spread, moving from his temples to the crown of his head, but his eyes were sharp as ever. He looked over her shoulder, then at the water. When he finally met her eyes, she pulled her hand away.
“Room 346,” she said, turning toward the hotel. She walked softly, slowly, and listened for the sound of his footsteps above the noise of the water.