Teaser:Daddy Bristow decides it's time to get to know Marina.
Series: Nothing to Write Home About, Story XII
Crossover: Alias/The L Word
Characters: Marina, Jack Bristow

--

It had been a particularly hard day when it got just that much worse.

Marina had concluded long ago that there were problems when you cared.

It wasn't as if one had to go through life being a cold-hearted bitch - there was such a thing as charm, friendship, loyalty, things that were important and should be counted upon for enjoyment and survival.

But caring, truly caring, required an investment, a relationship - it required opening your heart and leaving yourself vulnerable, and Marina had long ago told herself it was not worth the effort.

Life with Francesca had not been perfect. But it had allowed her to live her life. It had allowed her some degree of freedom. At times it was loving and caring and other times a game, and games were what she played.

What she was good at.

She had been so very good at games.

It was ironic, then, that an innocent, confused girl had managed to twist her way into her soul, beat her game into nothing more than acidic powder.

To be truthful, it wasn't all Jenny's fault. It had been Marina's experience and observation that when a person opened their heart to one person, it was absurdly easy for another to sneak in.

Marina had not been thinking clearly. She had been swept away with loneliness and stability. Francesca had been gone too long. She had not practiced her games.

They were half-hearted excuses, but she clung to them - in order to understand why she would give up her stilted freedom, burn her bridges behind her for the sake of Jenny and Sydney.

She had waited for the other shoe to drop. It seemed, she had been in limbo, and it exhausted her. It was almost a relief when it fell.

Francesca's phonecall had awakened her from a deep sleep. It was harsh and crisp and entirely like Francesca, who made a good friend, but a terrible enemy. Her ex-partner had courage, confidence, and a sometimes stupidly overly absorbed ego. She had explained what she wanted, and did not wait for Marina to try to contest it.

"Oh," she had said, as if it were an afterthought. "I wouldn't be in my house when I come back. In fact, I wouldn't be in Los Angeles at all. I can make things difficult for you, Marina. You wouldn't want to stick around."

Leaving was not an option, but Marina knew she meant it. She had seen Francesca's rage, had witnessed what Francesca could do to someone who crossed her. Only one person in the world had frightened Francesca, and it had been her mother.

It was The Planet Marina should have been obsessed with. Not Sydney. Not Jenny. Not Robin, who was genuinely nice, but that was all.

In truth, her seduction of Robin bored her. It felt clumsy and out of sync, and it gave her a headache, to attempt to seduce a woman with what had felt so natural to Jenny. Half of what Marina said Robin simply did not understand, and while they would have made perfectly amiable friends, had the situation not been what it was, at the moment all Marina felt was irritation.

It had come to this, then. Desperation. Aggression. Obsession with a woman who lied, cheated, manipulated and somehow stolen her rational thought from her with sparkling blue eyes and a hurt whisper.

A slip of a girl. Who fumbled and swore and wore her duplicity on her sleeve.

Robin, a good person, plain and sweet and obviously unsure why someone like Marina would be interested, wary and stern.

Rational thought told Marina to leave it alone. Concentrate on the Planet and forget about the fact that Jenny had charmed her friends, charmed Robin, charmed everyone into wanting to protect her.

Irrationality took over when Marina laid eyes on Robin, imagined Jenny's fingers buried between her legs, saw with hot flashes, Robin's lips suckling on Jenny's nipples, heard Jenny's whispered sighs in her ears, saw Robin in a tool shed, reading Jenny's stories about demons that tormented and taunted.

Jenny's lips were branded with Marina's kisses. Jenny's breasts were marked with her palms. Jenny's words were her own and Jenny's strangeness and beautiful insanity were meant for Marina and Marina alone and in her broken heart, Marina did not know what she wanted.

To hurt Jenny, sear her the way Jenny seared her time and time again with her whispers and pleas and audacity to move on. It was a Derevko instinct and she was good at it. Like Francesca, she was good at hurting those she cared about.

But her arms ached for Jenny, and Sydney's damned humanity had leaked inside her and now, with Robin gone, Marina's mouth ached from her fake smiles.

She kicked her shoes off, reached for the glass of wine and with a flip of a switch, felt the haunting Latin beat of Sonora Dinamita throughout the house. With a swallow and a sigh, Marina sank down on her couch, closed her eyes, and did not move.

The phone rang, three times before the machine picked up, and as Francesca's voice recited the message, it occurred to Marina she would have to rerecord it. But not now. She was exhausted.

"Marina, it's Shane. Sydney's here and looking for you, but she looks... I don't know - I'm gonna hang with her here for a while. I know Radar's not her thing but - just call me, okay? Meet up with us if you can."

The thought of getting up seemed to tire her that much more.

But Shane sounded worried, and she mentioned Sydney, and her love for her cousin was frighteningly consuming. She would go. In five minutes, she would get up and go.

She felt the intruder before she heard him. A glimmer of a shadow across her face, a chill in her spine. She used to keep guns, but Francesca had hated them, and all Marina had were knives, hidden throughout the house.

She did not reach for the one underneath this very cushion. As her eyes opened, she gathered it was already too late.

Before her stood a tall, stocky man, with a square-set jaw, piercing dark eyes and a frown. He had curly gray hair, and big ears.

Marina's mouth twitched, and inwardly, she groaned slightly.

It would have had to happen eventually. Just not tonight.

"Yes?" she asked pointedly.

"I believe it's time we met," he said crisply, hands buried in his pockets, looking down at her with a glare that, she was sure, intimidated many terrorists. "I'm-"

"Jack Bristow," she answered calmly, never taking her eyes of him as she took a sip of her wine, placed it carefully on the coffee table beside her.

"You know who I am," he said, not at all surprised.

"You have Sydney's ears," she answered matter-of-factly, pointing lazily before crossing her legs. He noticed, dragged his eyes along her scantily clad frame, to the exposed leg, connected to a foot that bounced in circles. "You'll forgive me," she said, pulling at her silk kimono, covering her bared shoulder. "I was not expecting company."

"I don't intend to stay long," he clipped. Settling roughly against her coffee table, he pulled out a gun and set it next to him. "You and I are going to have a talk about a box with Irina's name on it."

Closing her eyes, she felt her heart drop slightly. With a breath, they opened again, moving from the gun to his face.

"If you hurt me," she said, "You will hurt your daughter."

"She won't ever know," he said.

"You can not threaten me," she answered.

"I don't threaten," he said, almost pleasant. "I simply ask questions, and get answers. Eventually."

That amused her, for some strange, odd reason. It was reminiscent of her father, who had loved her as much as he had hated her mother.

Her mouth pulled into a regretful smile.

"I realize you are very good at what you do," she said, "And that I am out of practice. I believe in games - but I will not play this one with you."

"Oh?" he asked. "Why not?"

"Because we both care very much about your daughter," she snapped. "And this is disrespectful to her."

"This doesn't concern her," he answered, small smile fading immediately.

"If it has to do with Irina, Rambaldi, or that box it has everything to do with her," she bit back.

He had his hand on his gun, in the next instant his hand was curled around her neck and the barrel of it placed against her temple.

"The only thing my daughter gained from your line of the family is her beauty," he hissed into her ear. "Not your duplicitous, murdering spells."

A sore subject, then.

Breathing was somewhat of an effort, but she managed a small smile, as his thumb dug harshly into her artery. "Look down."

He did, to find a tiny silver blade pressed lightly against his kidney. His fingers loosened in reflex, but he did not lose his hold.

"As I mentioned," she said, "I may be out of practice but I find it much like riding a bicycle."

"Interesting weapon choice," he replied.

"I was never good with guns," she answered pleasantly. "Passable, but I always had a flair for blades."

His mouth twitched, almost amused. "That's hardly a surprise."

He was a handsome man, in an unconventional way. With his dark eyes and magnetic stare, she could understand why her aunt had been unable to shake him.

She now also understood where Sydney's penchant for intense glares came from.

"Perhaps now we can have a civil conversation?" she asked pointedly. "I have a wonderful bottle of wine on ice, and there is some pasta from the café in my refrigerator."

He seemed to consider, before he answered thickly, "I could kill you without hesitation. Understand that."

She smiled. "I would not dare doubt you."

There was a slight stiffness where there should not have been, and her brow arched, as she wondered how much Jack Bristow hated himself for being attracted to, for all intents and purposes, his niece.

He let her go, straightening away from her and her knife.

"Perhaps I should change?" she suggested, pushing off the couch, the knife already hidden within it, once again pulling her silk kimono back over her shoulders.

"I would appreciate that," he answered, aggravated. Rolling her eyes, she moved toward the stairs. "Marina."

She paused, glancing back.

"I wouldn't try to leave."

A slight sigh of exasperation escaped her before she replied, "As you wish," and ascended the staircase.

It would have come to this eventually. She supposed she was lucky it was Jack Bristow knocking and not someone else. He, at least, would think long and hard before pulling the trigger, and as far as she knew, her mother had not done anything to upset him. Yet.

She chose jeans and an off-white sweater, preferring to stay in comfortable clothes should he have changed his mind and decided to torture her after all. But when she descended, he was merely holding a bottle of wine, dark gloves off, reading the label.

"You have quite a collection," he said, never looking up. "I myself have this exact wine."

"Then you have good taste and money," she replied, removing a cork from a drawer and handing it to him. "Go ahead," she said, when he only glanced at her. "I think the occasion calls for it."

"I'd rather have the red," he answered, nodding to her own forgotten glass.

"An excellent choice as well," she added politely, opening her cabinet and removing another glass, removing the open bottle from her ice bucket and pouring it in, stopping to savor the smell.

He was watching her, straight and tall, narrowed, suspicious gaze unreadable.

"Rambaldi," he said, almost a bark as he took the glass she handed him. "Tell me what you know."

Rambaldi. With a small breath out, she considered, taking her own glass and bringing it to her mouth, just touching her lips to absorb the aroma of the wine. "I gather you know as much as I do."

"I know that Sydney loves you," he said, abrupt and angry. "I'm aware of the importance your presence plays in her life. It is the reason I have not harmed you. I've respected her privacy and her friendship with you. But do not for a second believe that I think you harmless, or innocent."

She sipped her wine and did not give him the pleasure of seeing her rattled stare. It was a Derevko family trait he spoke of. The ease of deceiving, the delight in games.

"I wonder," she said, "What on earth makes you believe you are anything of a good man. Because you were betrayed? Because you have the capacity for love? You kill for malicious reasons, you deceive as well as my aunt and my mother." She locked her stare with his. "You're the one that trained your daughter for her line of work when she was but a child, didn't you?" His jaw had tightened visibly, and he was about to speak, before she continued, "I am not making judgements. I am simply pointing out that although you refuse to see it, you are not as above us as you think."

"Irina is missing," he clipped suddenly, and she noticed the twinge, the slight change of tone, the sudden desperation. "She has missed correspondence for weeks and now I have a box with her name on it, a child embroiled in a prophecy and yet another lie I must contend with. It would be fruitful for you to tell me what you know."

He was battling for control, and a desperate man was the most dangerous of all. But in her wonder, she lost her own fear - a stupid move, but an honest one. "That is why you came to me?" she asked, voice tinged with wonder. "Because you're worried about your wife?"

"That's not-"

"I know nothing," she said, putting the glass down. "Long ago I put away the Derevko name and my ties to them. Being a Derevko means prophecies and destinies and ordained paths littered with violence and blood. I prefer my games with human emotion. I have had more than my share of blood."

"Do you expect me to believe you know nothing?" he snapped.

"Why would I lie to you?" she snapped. "What would it accomplish? I have no wish to end my life - I've been fortunate enough to pass through my childhood without physical scars - and I have not spoken to my mother in nearly ten years. At this point you know more of her than I do. She is my mother only in name, and for a time, she denied me even that." Her words were heated. Somehow in her dramatic monologue, she had lost her control, and as she tried to drink from her glass, it shook, nearly spilling over the tips and onto her fingers. With effort, she put it down. "For all intents and purposes, I am an orphan. If you would torture me, then do so now - but be aware it will be nothing that has not happened to me before." With a jerk, she opened up her drawer, removed a knife that she twisted expertly between her fingers, handing it to him handle first. "Take this - begin with small slices along my cheeks. My vanity has not been checked."

It surprised him. He stared at the blade and then at her, found in her eyes nothing but angered sincerity.

And he smiled, as if he had suddenly found an old friend, before it quickly straightened and he handed the blade back to her.

"You are no orphan," he answered. "You are your mother's daughter." He waited a beat, watched it sink in, before he said, "I recall you mentioning pasta? I propose we forgo the torture for now."

She stared at him, before the knife fell back into the drawer and she pushed it closed, heading for the refrigerator and pulling out the separate containers of pasta and sauce.

"You must have done your research about me," she said, concentrating on her pans, turning on the tap water. "You would not have allowed Sydney to spend time with me if I was the threat you want me to believe you think I am."

"Pardon."

"It's as if you cannot make your mind up about me. As if you want to believe I could be different, and at the last minute, cannot make yourself do so." She glanced up. "You know, don't you?"

He was still, staring at her with an unreadable expression before he said in a softened tone, "Irina gave me some information - I took the liberty of filling in the blanks. Your father is an important man."

She managed a weak smile. "He is not my father any longer."

"I'm aware of that too."

The flame burst onto the grill in a blue-white splash, and she placed the pan on top of the stove, dropping in the pasta. He waited in silence.

"What would you like to know?" she said finally.

He was still, then, "If she suceeded."

Her palms shook, and she gripped the counter, took a breath, and continued with her tasks. "Isn't it obvious? Of course she did."

--

At fifteen years old, Alicia Marina Costańo was considered a national treasure.

While her father was an immensely busy man, as a child she often curled herself into his lap, just to hear him murmur, 'Mi Tesoro' into her dark hair.

She was always beautiful. Always different. Always exotic, thanks to her father's dark good looks.

It was an unspoken rule to never speak of her mother.

"She is dead to you," she heard, short and to the point. "You are my child. No one else's."

Boarding school was an expected expense. Marina knew she was going since she was a child, and in an odd change of expression, seemed genuinely excited about the prospect. Her father had loved her for it, handpicked the best one in Europe.

She was always considered a loner. At fifteen, she had bypassed the awkwardness of puberty and youth, and was now slowly emerging as a woman. A little lean, a little too tall, gangly, but with a beautifully bright smile and a love of languages, books. Her teachers admitted she could be slightly spoiled, but her loyalty and warm heart made up for it.

It was expected for Marina to graduate and rejoin her father in Spain, whose diplomatic connections would then move him to Italy.

Such was not the case.

Alicia Marina was a beautiful girl. Victoria Ferrer, her English teacher, seemed especially fond of telling her, and when it came to Ms. Ferrer, Alicia, as she was called then, adored everything in relation. She was young, not yet twenty-five. Brilliant, beautiful, with long dark hair and a way of speaking that captivated the young girl.

How it happened, she still could not remember. It became a blur to her, and looking back, Marina could not remember the time, the place, the minute she first experienced a woman's hand on her stomach, the taste of a woman's tongue in her mouth. It was intoxicating, titillating, a drug that she could not quench, and because they were in love and because they were careless - they got caught.

Marina had always been a spoiled, stubborn girl.

When she was brought before her father, who was now embroiled in impending scandal and so horrified he could not look at her, she believed herself in love. For that she refused her father's demands that she take it all back - ignore her love for women. Ignore the perverted stench of her betrayal of him - what it would do to his career.

His ambition was always so important.

They had both acted too harshly, too flippantly, and when he threatened she made sure he followed through, even if her heart broke, even if she had no idea what to do or where to go if she no longer became her father's daughter.

Victoria Ferrer was long gone - sent packing to some distant country and Alicia never saw her again.

On a dim, dreary night, in the middle of hell, a sixteen year-old Alicia was woken by a strange, pale woman who looked vaguely familiar, a woman who held a knife to her throat.

"Let's go, Marina," she said, in a rough, angry accent.

--

"Your mother," he said gruffy, placing down his fork.

Marina grinned ruefully, fingering the tip of her wine glass as she glanced across the table. "Yes my mother. Evidently, she kept tabs."

"It would make sense," he mused. "Your father was rumored to have ties with the Russian mafia-"

"I learned later that my mother was in a ... detention facility shortly before my birth," she continued calmly. "It was negotiated that I was to be given to my father in exchange for her release. As a child, I was curious. Poked through his files when he was not in his office, and I long suspected... about my mother. I had these..." she motioned with her hands, "Pictures of this woman... this dangerous, hard woman who looked like me, and I wanted to believe it was her." She grinned slightly. "For some reason, I liked her." The smile froze as he continued to look. "I was very foolish," she finished.

--

"Foolish girl," she snapped, tugging off her gloves.

Alicia, still in her nightgown, hugged her knees to her as she watched the woman pace around the small bedroom, removing the gun from her holster and dropping it on the dresser.

She felt a hard fluttering in her heart, an ache in her chest that made it hard to breathe, and Alicia barely found the air to mutter, "Mama-"

The woman with the dangerous glare whirled, hard eyes pinning her into silence. "I am not your mother," she said. "I gave up that right long ago in order to give you a chance at a real life." She stared at her, long and hard, before she turned away, continued her pacing. "And like a foolish child, you destroyed that. For what? For some idiot teacher who was not smart enough to understand you, and your position?"

Alicia could not speak, she felt her mouth open, made an effort to close it, a horrid swallow bobbing inside her throat. "I don't-"

And her mother came forward, knelt before her and placed her palms against her cheeks. For the first time, Alicia noticed the tears in her eyes. "My name is Katya Derevko," she said firmly. "And from now on, you will be forced to live in my world."

"I do not know you," she managed to respond.

"It doesn't matter," she answered crisply. "Your father is a weak man, that much is obvious. You will not see him again. Neither he nor I will allow it. You are dead to him, Marina."

"I am Alicia," she snapped, sudden temper rising, taking over her fear and shock. "And you are wrong. My father loves me-"

"You father loves his career more than he loves a gay daughter," Katya snapped. "If you remain true to yourself he will be lost to you forever. Which game do you prefer to play, mine or his?"

Alicia sucked in her breath, said nothing.

This was her mother - a woman with a beautiful face and a fierce frown. Her hands, on either side of her face, were worn and rough, but her lips and face appeared soft, even if her eyes mimicked granite.

"Listen to me," she said, her voice softer, "You will never have to be more than what you are with me. I will accept you - but what you must now accept is who you are. You are Marina Derevko. And with that name, comes ..." she trailed off, palms dropping abruptly before she turned away. "Stupid girl," she said again. "Do you realize what I must do?" Striding toward the dresser, she spoke low, flat. "I must break you."

--

"And she succeeded," Jack Bristow remarked, taking a porcelain plate from her, wiping it down smoothly.

Marina paused, a small, distant smile on her face could have been mistaken for misguided pride. "Not at first, but she was very persistent." She handed him another plate, taking a deep breath as she reached for another. "It was a very different lifestyle than what I used to. My mother was..." she trailed off, determined to find the appropriate word for proper KGB training. "Strict. Have you heard what is involved in the training and the discipline of a KGB operative?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand what it was I was put through." Marina sucked in her breath, pushed it out with a tight smile. "I was never thankful for it until... I understood."

"You understood," he repeated.

"Yes," she said, "I understood."

--

Her wrists had long ago gone numbe with pain, but the blood still lingered, making the cuffs slippery against her skin.

She did not sleep, but kept her head low, eyes half closed in an effort to fool her captors. Her shoulder already seared with pain, and her mouth was bruised, swollen from the abuse her teeth had been taken.

What was left of them.

"You will tell me," came the voice of the pleasant man. "What you know."

She was stubbornly silent, saw the flash of a face, pale and hard.

"At the moment," she heard whispered in her thoughts, "You must be nothing."

There was nothing. Inside her, she knew nothing, there was nothing but a broken piece of flesh and a mind she had locked away from herself.

A firm hand tilted up her chin, until she saw the man in focus, an Asian man with a pleasant face, oval glasses resting on his nose. He peered at her, studying her intently.

"If it is not you," he said with a musing grin. "Then who can it be?"

She kept her mouth closed, winced inwardly at the throbbing spikes of pain against her teeth.

"You will tell me eventually," he murmured. "They always do."

"You can not break me," she whispered, even as the tears rolled down her cheek. "I have already been broken."

--

Flashes. Shots. Words spoken fiercely in Russian and the feeling of palms cradling against her face.

"Marina - up. Up, Marina!"

Ground moving beneath her, a splintering pain in her side. The pale face of a woman who looked suspiciously like her aunt, small body holding her taller one tightly against her.

Slowly, slowly, the weights in her feet began to lift, the muscles spasmed as they came to life, and yet they kept moving, forced to keep going, behind explosions and the rat-tat-tat of guns.

With momentum, she fell to the ground, landed with her back against a cold rock, felt again the pressure of skin against her face.

"Marina - Marina - look at me."

She did, found two figures blurring into one - a woman who was her mother, and another who was her aunt.

"Mama," she whispered, as suddenly she was crushed to the smaller woman's body, hands cupping around her neck, bringing her closer, as tears stained her cheeks and she felt the pressure of lips on her forehead.

"My baby," she heard, "My beautiful baby..."

--

"I don’t want this," she said, two weeks later, glancing up from her meal, staring into the face of her mother.

"Then don’t eat it," Katya said. "But good luck finding anything else you can stomach with your mouth the way it is."

Marina fingered her jaw, pushed gently to feel the stab of pain, before she shook her head, placing the spoon down. "No," she said, her Russian passable after six years. "I don't want this. I don't want to be you."

Katya hesitated, spoon hovering over her soup as she processed the sentence, before she glanced back down and said, "You must gather your strength, Marina. Your professor will be coming in the morning, and then we are going to London. We can go to Paris after if you like - to see a show?"

Marina closed her eyes, took in a frustrated, unsteady breath. "Mama- you did not-"

"It has no meaning," she interrupted. "You cannot change who you are."

"This is not me," Marina said, placing down her spoon.

Katya regarded her, before she wiped her mouth primly and gave her a frank stare. "What do you want, Marina?"

Marina said nothing at first, until she remembered her father, her teacher. "I want to be free."

Katya watched her for a beat. "Do you realize, Marina, the role taken with my sister? The sacrifice we have made to achieve our own destiny? And you enjoy it. You enjoy this-"

"I understand, mami," she said, now close to tears, biting her words through her teeth. "I don't mind the games. I mind the pain. I mind the torture. I mind the death!"

"We are not ethical," Katya said. "But we are good." Marina snorted, not at all lady-like, but strangely, she didn't care. "You are an impetuous child, Marina. What would you do?" Katya continued, sipping at her soup. "To avoid your destiny? Change your name?"

"Maybe," she challenged.

Katya stared at her, until Marina looked down, picked up her spoon. "You cannot change what is in your blood," she said. "Now eat. We go to London tomorrow."

--

She made a habit of purchasing classics on DVD. It was somewhat of a hobby for her, to find them, like little treasures. There was quite a collection of Jean Arthur, who amused her with her rapid talk and wearing her hat like a man. And there were her foreign films, in French, German, Italian, Spanish. She enjoyed the reminder of her Europe, the unique sense of humor they seemed to possess.

Jack Bristow was apparently a fan. While Marina received a phone-call from Robin, confirming the time and place for their lunch date the next day, he fingered them, finally pulling out 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown'.

"Is this as good as they say?" he asked, apparently in no hurry to leave. She took a sip of wine, nodded at his questioning glance.

"Put it in and find out."

He waited a moment, as if considering, before he opened the jewelcase and pressed the eject button on her DVD player.

Within moments, she was sitting by his side, handing him another glass of wine.

He was quiet, until he said with a casual sip, "You said you understood - the reason your mother abused you, treated you like a soldier than a daughter."

"Do you not understand?"

"I can't say I do."

Marina considered pressing the pause button, mentioning his own conditioning of Sydney, before she thought better of it, and said, "She hurt me to save my life. It never occurred to her that it might not be a life I found worth saving."

He only had one question left. "Are you free?"

She thought about it, wondered what her mother and her aunt would think, sitting here with Sydney Bristow's father, a man who just as easily might have come to kill her, because he loved his daughter, and... in some twisted, surreal way, loved his wife as well.

"At the moment," she said finally, managing a smile, real and sincere, and some would say, beautiful, "I believe I am freer than I have ever been."

He managed a smile, before he took another sip, and turned up the volume on the remote.

--

Mami-

This will be my last letter. For many years I have been in search of a family, and for quite as long I believed you when you told me that it was in my blood, that I could not escape it.

I have done my research. I understand that thanks to Rambaldi and my aunt, you were caught into this, unable to escape, and you only sought to prepare me for what happened to you.

The difference is - I choose to be free.

I have a cousin. I have an uncle.

My mother is a ghost. You can be free of me. Do not feel obligated to answer this letter. I have given up on pretense.

I love you, Katya, but I choose to be free. I am no longer with Francesca. Our deal does not factor. I know you will not look for me.

Regards,

Marina Ferrer.

She studied her signature - the way her pen formed the words, digits manipulated the pen, without thinking twice.

She glanced at the time, winced when she look up and caught the blinking red of the answering machine.

Sydney.

Wonderful.

Shaking her head, she placed the pen against the paper and pushed off the desk, picking up the phone and dialing Shane's cell phone number easily.

It rang twice before a harried voice picked up. "Yeah."

"It's Marina," she said, rubbing at her temple. "I just wanted to a-"

"Fuck, Marina." Marina's words faltered, blinking once as Shane suddenly went into a rapid, "Fuck, Marina, I didn't mean to, all right? I tried to stop it."

"Tried to stop what?"

"I... all right - look... did Sydney not tell you?"

"Tell me what?" she demanded, heart suddenly skipping. "What happened?"

"Fuck," Shane said again, obviously distressed. "Look - it was nothing, okay? But..."

"Shane."

"I made out with your cousin."

Marina blinked, before her mind whirled and eyes widened.

"What?!"

FIN