I am not very much about the Nadia/Jack, but I loved the snapshot of APO at Christmastime. And Jack was, of course, very much Jack.
I particularly liked: Nadia embraces the season with all the grace and sweetness that Jack has come to expect of her. There is something disarming and fluid about how easily she’s fallen into this new life; the familiarity of unconscious hand movements and gently lilting tones, the lines of her face at certain angles all stir undesired memories. He is perfectly aware of how wrong it is to suspect her simply because she is her mother’s daughter, and yet at times the likeness is so stunning that he finds himself caught in the peculiar mixture of suspicion and blind trust that had belonged solely to Irina before.
He takes unnecessary measures to avoid her, and catches himself studying her with a precise fascination when she is not aware of his attentions. He does not know exactly why he does this, and is not sure he cares to. Still, in moments of near-desperate rationalization, he considers: he is searching, most likely, for some flaw in her loveliness, the way he had when Irina had turned herself in to the CIA years ago. He cannot shake the sense that there is some fracture there, some slight imperfection which will betray her in time. It is a déjà vu of sorts.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2005-12-25 10:31 am (UTC)I particularly liked: Nadia embraces the season with all the grace and sweetness that Jack has come to expect of her. There is something disarming and fluid about how easily she’s fallen into this new life; the familiarity of unconscious hand movements and gently lilting tones, the lines of her face at certain angles all stir undesired memories. He is perfectly aware of how wrong it is to suspect her simply because she is her mother’s daughter, and yet at times the likeness is so stunning that he finds himself caught in the peculiar mixture of suspicion and blind trust that had belonged solely to Irina before.
He takes unnecessary measures to avoid her, and catches himself studying her with a precise fascination when she is not aware of his attentions. He does not know exactly why he does this, and is not sure he cares to. Still, in moments of near-desperate rationalization, he considers: he is searching, most likely, for some flaw in her loveliness, the way he had when Irina had turned herself in to the CIA years ago. He cannot shake the sense that there is some fracture there, some slight imperfection which will betray her in time. It is a déjà vu of sorts.
Happy holidays!