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Jack Bristow At The Edge of Reason

by Yahtzee

[Story Headers]

Mar. 28, 137 pounds (shameful), alcohol units = 2 glasses wine (v. good), cigarettes = 0 (excellent)

10:11 a.m.

Awakened from lovely dream of Colin Firth to discover self already one hour late for work. Why all sensual dreams of movie stars experienced only between snooze alarms, whilst weekend naps with time to savor only inspire boring dreams of flossing in strange bathrooms and the like? Black skirt perfect for day's conference found beneath sofa cushion, stained with daiquiri, unsalvageable. Located red dress, slightly too tight at current weight, attempted to convince self that men love curves, large graspable parts, even if lad mags only feature portraits of anorexic tarts. Am defying cultural aesthetic, reaffirming image of woman bountiful. Also will look better if wear spandex support garment. Ooof.

At work, neither dress nor lateness commented upon. First grateful, then angry. Am I invisible around here? Hmmph.

1:45 p.m.

Take-out fish and chips for lunch. Fish rich with vital proteins, health-giving oils, so acceptable use of fried food. V. strange e-mail waiting in box upon return. Text as given:

OUR FIRM IS INTERESTED IN ACQUIRING THE RAMBALDI MANUSCRIPT, ON THE CONDITION OF STRICT CONFIDENTIALITY. PRICE NEGOTIABLE. REPLY 2100 HOURS.

Sifting through in-box of manuscripts reveals failed chick-lit efforts, sword-and-sorcery bollocks and book with "Rambaldi" on cover. Item received last week from strange messenger, hung about quoting poetry as if hoping for a tip, not likely. Leaf-through reveals bad sketches, worse poetry, altogether sad "Griffin and Sabine" knock-off. Perhaps will sell this for tidy sum, prove self go-getter, knowledgeable, ahead of the game? Spend afternoon imagining self in Donna Karan suits, but with unique accessories purchased from struggling artists native to exotic nations, for combination of professional flair and personal, socially conscious style.

11:30 p.m.

Head fuzzy, lights strange. Shazzer birthday hazzome strong drinks, pink foamy mmmm, have forgotten something but not as important as bed and huhgzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.


March 29, Weight = 139 (tragic), alcohol units = 5 (four daiquiris with Shaz, one shot of highly suspicious blue substance, poor but understandable as unavoidable social necessity of friend's birthday), cigarettes = 0 (yes! triumphing over addiction in brave style of TV-movie heroine)

10:15 a.m.

Hangover obviously makes all work impossible. Desire only death, dark, quiet place to vomit, also possibly lovely coral Manolo Blahniks in shop down the road. Try to project nausea onto Daniel, who actually deserves it, both for horrid faddish tie and dropped hints about his hols in Majorca with his new girlfriend, wretched Posh Spice clone with thighs like matchsticks. Own thighs seem to expand at mere thought, as if freakishly absorbing cellulite that should be hers. Am sort of portrait of Dorian Grey, taking in dietary sins of others so that they remain young and perfect forever.

Shit, shit, shit, have forgot all about Rambaldi sale! Should have sent e-mail last night instead of listening to Shaz describe Simon as pretentious fuckwit for hours. No messages on the ansaphone. No doubt mysterious people have thought better of buying stupid book, although upon second look it is sort of exotic and intellectual. Perhaps it would look quite well on my coffee table, projecting both intelligence and sophistication, proclaiming me collector of unique manuscripts. Too intimidating? Will take it home and see. Put in satchel so as not to forget later, when hangover drags into afternoon and all hope appears gone.

3:23 p.m.

All hope appears gone. Will never drink again. Though after work may pop round to Tom's for Bloody Mary (restorative, hair of dog, therefore medicinal and not recreational, even rich with nutrients if made with V-8.) Should call Tom and --gaahhhhhhh!

5:45 p.m.

Life has turned into action movie! Long-awaited excitement has arrived, is far too confusing to be enjoyed, also much like action movie.

Was rubbing head, brooding upon hangover, when armed men in black swarmed into office. First thought was strange novelty prank, early April Fool's nonsense, just like Daniel. Then armed men shot Daniel, horrifying ghastly incident which nonetheless was not wholly unsatisfying. (Sign of decaying soul? Harbinger of voting Tory in future? Will think about later if survive.)

"Bridget!" Perpetua whispered, down on her hands and knees, repellent posture making saddlebags all the more apparent. "We must get out of here. It's the IRA!"

Why IRA striking second-rate publisher beyond me. Obviously not politically aware enough, have led trivial life, regrets piling up. Slung satchel across back (cannot leave Silk Cuts behind, even if have given up smoking, due to clear stress-related emergency which does not count) and began shimming down hall after Perpetua, wishing had not worn turquoise sweater (stands out against beige carpet, makes self better target.)

Then more armed men in black appear and begin shooting at first armed men. Ghastly horrible battle scenario, entirely surreal, at first suspected bad interaction of drink and prescription drugs. Will never drink again.

Was just wondering if could fit self into air vent and wishing had worn spandex support garment to facilitate escape when gray-haired man in black appeared at side. Fortunately was interested in shooting at other men in black, not crouching publishers. As tried to edge past him, heard extraordinary conversation into cool small phone rigged up onto ear in style of Madonna: "They won't blow this place! Not as long as they're looking for the Rambaldi manuscript. They'll never risk destroying it."

Many thoughts then occurred to self:

  1. Oh, shit, really should have sent e-mail.
  2. Rambaldi manuscript still in my satchel.
  3. Satchel is slung across my back.
  4. Am obviously in v. great, unprecedented danger.
  5. Dying by armed attack glamorous and exciting, would make news, force all previous boyfriends to re-evaluate relationships, far superior to long-feared solitary demise that remains undiscovered for three weeks until neighbours detect foul scent.
  6. Was definitely machine-gun fire I just heard.
  7. Will take chances on solitary demise.

"Ah, pardon?" I said, waving upward from unfortunate crouch on floor. "Hellooo? Wahey?"

Gray-haired man in black stared down, as if very surprised to be spoken to by mere creeping victim, then looked severe again. "Remain still. This building is in no danger. Your best move is to stay out of harm's way." Had American accent, hmmm.

"Right, yes, exactly, would love that, but see, I heard you say Rambaldi. Didn't I?" Would be terrible embarrassment if was discussing entirely wrong thing amidst crisis. "The Rambaldi manuscript?"

Instantly Man In Black is beside me, very intense, kind of scary but also a bit sexy in perverse, Stockholm-syndrome way. "You know where it is?"

Nodded. "Right, I --"

Did not get chance to explain as he instantly hauled me to my feet, thus defying game plan wherein I was to stay out of harm's way. Was somewhat offended by this though had no time to object as was being dragged down stairwell amid more gunfire. Then Man In Black got onto waiting motorbike. "Get on!"

Oooooh, riding on back of motorbike v. sexy, dashing, in violation of all London traffic-control rules, take that, Mayor of London! Wonderful thing happened where rode past cab containing Nigel and Fiona Watley, most smug of Smug Marrieds among acquaintance. Had both horrid children in cab with them, obviously shrieking at top of lungs and smearing contents of pudding cups on car windows, when I went by all glamorous and dashing. Waved and gave big smile as went past.

"Are you waving?" Man In Black said over his shoulder. "Don't wave!"

"Sorry." Was a bit miffed, really. How am I to know escape protocols? Ask self What Would Pussy Galore Do? Suspect answer would rarely be relevant to one's own life.

Eventually made way to small hotel and was ushered unceremoniously into room. Very bare, not at all nice bed-and-breakfast, humph. "Stay here," Man In Black said, slamming door behind him.

No cable here. Dying to call Shazzer and Jude on mobile but suspect is not part of escape protocol either. Content self with thinking of shock and envy adventure will inspire in retelling. Try to be good. Have calming, restorative Silk Cut.

10:46 p.m.

Weight = 130 pounds (est.; no doubt have instantly lost weight due to intense calorie-burning effect of life or death escape), alcohol units = 0 (though badly needed, no minibar in hotel room, v. upsetting), cigarettes = 6 (does not count as nerves had to be calmed and as mentioned minibar not available), concerns that Daniel's death means I am now unemployed = 8, concerns that worrying about my employment when Daniel is in fact entirely dead means I am wretched human being unworthy of love = 7,340.

Man In Black finally reappeared long after dark, when was absolutely starving and wild for drink. He looked as though had had equally rough time, no chance for minibar either, so felt vaguely sympathetic. Decided to put best face on situation, demonstrate true inner poise. "I'm Bridget Jones," I said, holding out hand politely for a shake.

Man In Black completely nonplussed by normal social nicety. "Jack Bristow," he said after longish pause. "The Rambaldi manuscript -- where is it? Can you take me to it?"

"No need," I said with big smile of pride. Put hand in satchel and presented Jack with book.

"This," he said, "is a copy of The South Beach Diet."

"Durr! Sorry!" Attempted to regain poise by getting correct book and swapping it for South Beach Diet with some flair, which went unnoticed. "They're the same size, after all."

Jack not interested in South Beach Diet or size thereof. Leafed through Rambaldi manuscript, nodding head. "Good. Good. How did you happen to acquire this, Miss Jones?"

Humph. Hate it when strangers assume not married, particularly as assumption is correct. "Well, it's kind of a funny story, actually --"

Told story. Jack did not find funny, just stared with impenetrable annoyed expression. When done said only, "It sounds as though you encountered the Rambaldi work entirely at random. You can go. You should tell as few people as you can about this, and by no means mention Rambaldi."

Go? Just go? No thank-you parting gift for such events, say perhaps book token? Have been awfully inconvenienced, with ladder in stocking and no minibar and dead Daniel and such. "I must say, the CIA aren't at all what I was expecting."

"How did you know we were CIA?" Humph. Jack obviously thinks I am total idiot because of entirely understandable South Beach Diet mixup.

"Just guessed," I said with a bit of a sulk.

Just then phone rang, and went for my mobile before realizing it was in fact Jack's little Madonna phone. He rigged it up and said, "Bristow."

"Ah, Agent Bristow. I had hoped I'd be able to reach you." Voice had English accent, made Jack look v. annoyed, as if would like to punch hole in wall. Waved me off as though I should just go. Was about to do so when voice continued, "I hope you and Miss Jones are having a lovely evening?"

Do not know how Voice learned my name but suspect this is Not Good. Look at Jack's face confirmed suspicion. Immediately lit next Silk Cut. "How did you get this number, Mr. Sark?"

Mr. Sark said, "Your daughter was kind enough to supply that for us."

Jack suddenly looked quite pale. Held out Silk Cut to him, but he did not seem to notice. "What have you done with Sydney?"

"She's unharmed, Agent Bristow - at least, for the present. If you would like her back in your hands instead of in mine - " (said that last in very nasty voice that would have been sexy if not obviously spoken by Bad Guy) " - you know what you need to do."

"The Rambaldi manuscript."

"Delivered to me, tomorrow morning. Shall we say sunrise at Heathrow? Near the gate for Saudi Arabian Airlines?" Mr. Sark did not wait for answer, v. rude. "Needless to say, if you mention this to anyone else in the CIA, it will not go well for Sydney."

"Do not harm her," Jack said, as if in position to give orders, v. manly and decisive, quite unlike all men of current acquaintance, esp. Daniel, though now as Daniel dead possibly no longer should be counted.

"I shall honor our agreement if you do. Until tomorrow, then." Phone clicked off. Awkward pause.

Ventured, "Um - sorry." Immediately felt awkward and stupid, not at all empathetic and strong in model of Princess Diana as is personal goal.

Jack did not notice stupidity of remark, just held out hand. Saw my confusion and said, "The cigarette." Handed Silk Cut to him, from which he took deep drag. "I haven't had one of these in sixteen years."

"That's nonsense. Of course you have."

Was fixed with hard stare. Immediately highly confused. Have always thought that to stop smoking would still allow occasional cigs for crises, aprs-sex, nights in bars. Can possibly mean entire, total end to all smoking? Ghastly thought.

As diversion from stare, said, "What do we do now? Are they going to come looking for me?"

"They may be at your home," Jack said, totally not helpful even if true. What if Mum pops by with Una Alconbury for chat and is massacred by evil Ninja-type thugs? On other hand, highly unlikely as Mum will just tell them all black is slimming and would any of them marry me and sprog me up as I am highly desperate? Ninja thugs will flee in terror. "But they aren't interested in you, only the Rambaldi manuscript. Once they have it, they won't pursue you further."

At first offended to be considered such trivial part of global espionage crisis that am obviously at very center of. Then relieved. Then realised plan. "You're giving the manuscript to them, aren't you? To get your daughter back?"

"Yes."

"But you can't!"

Was fixed with stare even harder than last stare, which thought was impossible. "And why do you say that?"

"Well, it's important, isn't it? This book - or, uhmm, people wouldn't be shooting each other over it, would they, though of course people shoot each other over some very stupid things, like Northern Ireland and Palestine, not that those are stupid, conflicts of, ahh, God and culture -- but the shooting is certainly stupid, and it goes on and on, which makes one give up all hope in human nature. Though of course we can never give up hope in human nature -" Jack glazing over. Was losing him, tried to get to point albeit in v. small voice. "-well, it just seems as though you shouldn't do what the bad guys want."

Strangely, words seemed to have effect on Jack. He sat down heavily on one of room's two beds, rubbed forehead as if migraine descending. Realized all at once that Jack is really rather handsome despite grey hair, in quiet, intense manner of Anthony Hopkins or similar. "If they're holding my daughter captive, I don't have any choice."

Could not argue. Confronted with weighty situation entirely beyond normal scope, more in style of film than real life, and so fell back upon standard means of dealing with parents. "Do you have a picture?"

Had a picture. Apparently decreed by international law that all parents will carry around snaps to show at slightest provocation. Felt some surprise that Sydney is not cherubic young moppet with curls but woman my own age, only slim and gorgeous and model-like. Obviously would be despicable if not in awful trouble and did not have dad who saved my life.

"She's lovely."

Jack nodded, v. miserable. "You'll see yourself, in the morning, when we get her back. And we will."

One problem word in this scenario. "We?"

"You can't go home. You'll be in danger if you do. I can't take you into CIA protective custody without tipping off the agency's suspicions about the upcoming trade. That means we're staying here." Jack immediately stripped off shoes, socks and jacket. Despite strictly utilitarian nature of move, felt vaguely aroused. Obviously has been too long since was near man taking off his clothes. (8 mo., 5 days, unless count time dropped by Tom's and caught him in shower with latest boyfriend, clearly not same thing at all.) "It's been a long day, Miss Jones. I suggest we get some sleep."

Took other bed. Jack already asleep as if not a trouble in the world, as if no young Singleton spending night in hotel room with him. Humph.


March 30, weight = 130 pounds (have probably not lost more weight in past three hours, though have hopes for later), alcohol units = 0, alcohol units consumed in imagination = 19, cigarettes = 7, attempts to sleep = 2, times turned light back on and earned scowl from newly-awakened Jack = 2

1:53 a.m.

Cannot rest. Do not know if is excitement of near-death experience or extreme awareness of Jack nearby. V. strange to be in hotel room with stranger and not shagging, (Not that have spent much time shagging strangers in hotel rooms, at least not enough.)

Hmm. Shagging much on mind. Proximity of attractive male person, renewed sense of life and fragility because of near-death experience, and presence of California King beds all combining to create strange lusts.

Perhaps not so strange. What Would Pussy Galore Do? Would shag like mad, that's what.

Of course, Pussy Galore would also be wearing gold bikini and have her hair ratted into stiff yet attractive style and would have no back fat and would have had time amid adventures to reapply eyeliner. But cannot have everything.

Jack v. soundly asleep. But men do not mind being woken up for a good shag. At least, not most men, but perhaps secret agents different, more serious? And what if that means not casual fling, in style of James Bond, which after all is only movie and not real life? What if Jack sees me as young, innocent woman, refuge from spy life troubles and woes, oasis in lonely desert of life?

No, will not imagine lasting relationship with man hardly know. Is unproductive, fabulist, silly and unfeminist. Also, self-help books all say that surest way to scare men off from lasting relationships is to want lasting relationship, and must find way to hide desire even from self. Thus lasting relationship is pleasant surprise to all when rediscovered after no-strings, mutually supportive dating. So will not pursue thought further. Will rest. Will sleep.

1:59 a.m.

Ooooh. He moved. What if got in bed beside him just for snuggle?

2:01 a.m.

Would Jack want to wear black Kevlar at wedding ceremony? Sydney surely too old to be flower girl, but Jude and Shazzer would not be happy to share bridesmaid's duties with thin gorgeous despicable supermodel object.

2:03 a.m.

Bridget Jones-Bristow has nice ring to it.

2:08 a.m.

All right, must stop obsessing, must consider more carefully.

PROS:

  1. At least one night of sex, could restart calendar of "days without sex" back at zero, rather than current horrifying triple-digit number.
  2. Jack saved life, therefore created intimate bond without words, even if do not exactly know what bond is yet, or sense it, because must be there.
  3. Handsome man even if mature, therefore would prove non-materialistic nature of self, ability to value more than shallow qualities.
  4. Examination reveals that Jack wears size 13 1/2 shoes, v. promising indeed.
  5. Potential for relationship with secret agent, glamorous, exotic, would stop all snide Smug Married comments at cocktail parties dead.

CONS:

  1. If married Jack, would not become young mother laughing fulfilledly with child dressed all in Baby Gap while romping in park, but would instantly be wicked stepmother to woman own age only gorgeous and thin.
  2. Could therefore soon become grandmother before becoming mother, horrid, repellent thought.
  3. Have not showered since gunfire incident at office, during which sweated a fair bit, possibly off-putting, cannot wash now without giving game away.
  4. Jack not wearing wedding ring, so single, but Sydney's mother probably still alive, would hate and resent me and yet never leave our lives b/c of Sydney, like ex-girlfriend from hell times 10.
  5. Would have to move to America, which on second thought might be v. exciting and certainly could not be worse than dreary Singleton flat in London, so should move to PRO column.

Six PROS, four CONS, which means that - Gahhhhh!

2:14 a.m.

Was Jack. He said, "Miss Jones, I can tell when someone is staring at me. I can't sleep when someone is staring at me. Given that our survival tomorrow, not to mention my daughter's, depends on my being able to focus - I should get some sleep. That means you should too." Lights are now off. Humph.

6:53 a.m.

Got to Heathrow just before sunrise. Was feeling v. nasty due to lack of shower, certain hair looked horrid. Jack did not seem to notice. I carried satchel.

"Don't say anything," Jack kept insisting. "Don't do anything unless and until I tell you."

"Right, right, got it." Considered this for a second. "Can I have a Silk Cut?"

Deep sigh. "You can do that. Don't ask me that again."

Some people are very imprecise about their instructions. Then again, probably Jack was tense re: daughter. Should be more mindful of unfolding family tragedy, stop harboring resentful and/or lustful thoughts, as sign of respect.

Arrived at Saudi Arabian Airlines gate. Few tired-looking women in burqas hanging about, nobody else. "Good idea, isn't it? Flying Saudi Arabian Air?"

Jack gave strange look. "Why?"

"Well, Arab terrorists aren't going to bomb an Arab airliner, are they? Really, I ought to fly Saudi Arabian Air everyplace."

"If you only want to vacation in Riyadh, be my guest." Jack went all tense and started to stare, and so I looked in that direction. Coming toward us were Sydney (still gorgeous with hair in place despite having spent night as hostage - how do women accomplish this? What is secret?) and young blond man that was no doubt Mr. Sark. Really quite shaggable despite evilness.

"Hi, Dad," Sydney said with little smile. "I'm sorry about this."

"It's okay, sweetheart," Jack said, which was endearing. "Mr. Sark, the trade is ready. Let's do this."

"Certainly," Mr. Sark said, quite pleased with himself, v. smug, not unlike Daniel Cleaver now that think of it. "Miss Jones, I presume?" Did not say anything as per Jack instructions, but gave slight nod which seemed only polite. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"How are we doing this?" Jack insisted.

"Your Miss Jones will throw the Rambaldi volume to me. As I inspect it, Sydney will be allowed to walk toward you. If the volume is as it should be, we will turn our backs to each other and stroll away. I see no reason it should not be that simple."

Jack nodded. "Bridget, go ahead."

Ooooh, "Bridget." Now on first-name basis! KNEW secret intimate bond had been created!

Jack stared. Realized was getting lost in thoughts at inopportune time. "Got it. Right." Began fishing in satchel for volume -

--when Sydney elbowed Mr. Sark in the ribs in sudden, superhero-like manner. What followed all v. confusing, with Sydney and Mr. Sark fighting, and Jack pulling out a gun, and screaming from the airline people. (Will no doubt be considered terrorist for rest of life, will never be able to board again and will have to take all hols by rail.)

Mr. Sark seemed to get better of situation, had gun pointed at Sydney. Horrifying, dreadful. Jack looked v. pale. "I warned you!" Mr. Sark shouted, and at that moment did not look sexy at all.

"I've got it!" I shouted. Held up my satchel and simply threw it toward him. Mr. Sark caught it as Sydney dove toward her father. Situation appeared defused as Mr. Sark took off, hopefully not to be seen again unless he has had much therapy but is still cute. Jack somehow got us from airport without being arrested for terrorists, though no doubt Interpol is looking suspiciously at surveillance footage even now, in which probably look fat.

When outside airport, Sydney gave Jack quick hug, then shook my hand. "Are you guys okay?" she said. Actually sounded like nice person despite being a stunner.

"Don't worry about us," Jack said, which was either endearing b/c used "us" without prompting or annoying as did not actually ask how I was and therefore was assuming. "Everything's fine."

Sydney rolled eyes. "Except that Mr. Sark has the Rambaldi manuscript."

Knew my cue. Reached in waistband of skirt (extra room due to lost weight from near-death experience) and pulled out Rambaldi book. "You mean, this manuscript?"

Reaction all could have hoped for. Secret agents agog, staring. "You made a switch," Sydney said. "How did you do it?"

"I had another book the same size," I explained. "Tossed that to him instead."

Jack said, "In other words, Mr. Sark is now becoming acquainted with his new copy of -"

We said the next together - "The South Beach Diet."

Sydney started to laugh. I said, "Good thing, too. Now he'll know his good carbs from his bad carbs."

At this point, would swear Jack smiled. Just for a second, but am sure saw it.

Hailed cab. Decided Sydney would remain with me, make sure my flat safe, while Jack turns in Rambaldi manuscript to CIA. Have saved mysterious book and am therefore hero! Hurrah!

11:39 a.m.

Having absolutely splendid morning. Flat was perfectly safe, and when apologized for undergarments and old issues of Guardian left on floor, Sydney insisted her place even worse. Probably this is tactful lie, but was soothing anyway. Went to take long shower, and when emerged Sydney had cued up "Pride and Prejudice" on video.

"It's been a long couple of days," she said. "And I just love this movie, and I was wondering if it would be okay, if, well - could we just watch the part where Mr. Darcy dives into the water?"

Would never have imagined that thin gorgeous supermodel-type person was in fact sister under the skin. Made microwaved waffles and repeatedly watched sexy Mr. Darcy scenes with Sydney while we ate. Therefore instantly formed bond and went on to discuss lives, dating, etc. Sydney, as it turns out, was seeing a man named Vaughn (possibly code name, as all is secret agenty) when he up and married someone else, icy blonde cow named Lauren. Had pleasant hours thinking up new insults for Lauren, rewinding videotape, pouring more syrup onto waffles. (Sydney totally unconcerned re: calories, must burn much in line of work. Worth being secret agent just for weight loss? Must inquire.) Vaughn married man but still mooning around after her and cruelly, unfairly reawakening feelings of love.

"It's fuckwittage!" I shouted. "Pure emotional fuckwittage!"

"Fuckwittage!" Sydney agreed, holding bit of waffle aloft on fork in sort of toast. "Ohh, wait - can we just rewind that part? Where his wet shirt is sticking to his body?"

Just goes to show that thin thighs and perfect hair not proof of despicable personality, nor defense against incredible fuckwit nature of men.

3:03 p.m.

Jack popped round to flat to retrieve Sydney, report that all was well. Sydney wanted to take her own shower before going back, so waved her off, hoping she would not notice shameful ring in tub or use up last of Yardley's body wash.

This left Jack and self alone in flat. Thought of suggesting "Pride & Prejudice" video, decided against.

"I appreciate your help," he said. "You thought fast this morning. I hadn't expected that."

Decided to ignore potentially insulting ramifications of last remark. "You saved my life," I said, sounding quite like fawning creature and not minding at all. "I should be thanking you." In this context, "thanking" very much meant "shagging wildly, hoping Sydney cannot hear above sound of water in shower."

Jack may have understood context (why not? Secret agent, attuned to subtlety, also cannot discount nature of secret bond between us), because then looked v. troubled, though not in bad way. Wondered if perhaps this was a good time to make move -

Then realized was in tragic love that Could Never Be.

"I know what you're thinking," I blurted out. "I'm thinking it too. This bond between us - it's undeniable, and it will last our whole lives long -"

"Bridget -"

"But sometimes that bond alone is not enough, and you have your life, and it's a very different sort of life than mine, and so no matter how much we may want each other -"

"Bridget -"

"It can never happen." Squared shoulders, tried to be brave. "I would if I could. I know you would too. But no matter how much we may long for each other, we must be strong. We must. Before we are caught up in a passion we cannot control. We shall conquer this together." Sounded quite marvelous, really, much like dignified noble lady of manse on "Upstairs Downstairs" giving up passion for duty.

Jack stared at me for long time, mouth slightly open. Then, at last, he said, "That's -exactly right."

"Yes."

"Good."

"All right, then." Felt a bit miffed at not having at least gotten a kiss in my Great Adventurous Romance, but then, perhaps is better, sexier, more unique to have understated longing in manner of Merchant Ivory movie.

Sydney emerged from shower still looking perfect through miraculous, unimaginable process. She gave a quick hug before leaving. Jack only shook hand, obviously determined to Be Strong, though fancy his hand did linger on mine a bit longer than necessary. "Goodbye, Jack," I said meaningfully, looking into his eyes.

A-hah! Saw smile again! "Goodbye, Bridget. And good luck."

Then they were gone.

Felt momentary sense of loss at ending of one great adventure, also terrible realization that, as Daniel still dead, probably unemployed. Will have to take c.v. to be updated. Where was that computer disk again? -- Phone!

3:25 p.m.

Was Shazzer, in a state. "My GOD, Bridget, where have you been? We saw the news yesterday and nearly DIED. What happened?"

Smiled as tucked phone into curve of shoulder. "You won't believe it," I said. "You simply won't believe it."

Shazzer did not believe it, not in good, shocked, gratifying way but in disappointing, actual disbelief way. Says I am still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder hallucinations.

But will always have proof, both of adventure and of great, passionate, near-affair with Jack Bristow, the spy who loved me -- as long as have diary.

Hmmm - what is this?

Little foldy map, all on old parchment. Is not Tube map as first believed, but instead document all about something called "The Telling." Huh.

Oh, yes, remember now. Pulled from Rambaldi manuscript to use as place marker.

Realize - this means I will be seeing Jack again soon! Hurrah!

THE END

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Fandom:  Alias, Other (Bridget Jones)
Title:  Jack Bristow At The Edge of Reason
Author:  Yahtzee   [email]
Details:  Standalone  |  PG-13  |  30k  |  04/07/04
Notes:  Both "Bridget Jones" and "Alias" canon are dealt with rather loosely, but for Pete's sake - it's an "Alias"/"Bridget Jones" crossover!
Rated PG for language, violence and emotional fuckwittage.
Disclaimer/Other:  The following characters are the creation of either J. J. Abrams or Helen Fielding; in no case are they my own. They are used without permission, expectation of profit or intent of infringement.
Feedback always welcome at yahtzee55555@yahoo.com.

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