It was a relief, really, being back with the boys - and Allie and Emma - again. A relief to listen to Si's complaining and Dunny's teasing and Matt's earnest enthusiasm, to catch Allie's eye across the table and share a good-natured grin at the boys' antics, to be back home, where she belonged, with the people who knew her best. Counterterrosim had been an adventure, a challenge, a struggle, but it had been too similar to the days she'd spent with SIS, the work and the people and the secretive nature of the job a constant, glaring reminder of the year she'd spent undercover, the year Jennifer Mapplethorpe had been completely consumed by another woman's life. It wasn't what she wanted, any more, to lose herself in a legend, to spend more time away from her home than in it. There was a selfishness to that sort of work Jen couldn't afford, any more.
It had been a relief to get the call from Matt, inviting her to come round for margaritas, to meet the newest member of their squad. His name was Nick, apparently, and Matty remembered him from the old days before Jen moved upstairs to Homicide, and all in all it seemed that everyone was happy with him, this Nick. If her team liked him Jen figured she would as well, and she was looking forward to meeting him. But first this, sitting around the table, laughing at the thought of Simon diving headfirst into a wheelie bin. Digging through the rubbish was good for him, Jen thought; his head got a little too big for his shoulders sometimes, and the reminder that he was no better than anyone else might humble him. At least for one evening.
Emma had been all alone in the kitchen for a while now, and none of the boys seemed to notice - and if Allie noticed she appeared to be far too comfortable sprawled in her chair to do anything about it - so Jen slid to her feet and went to help. She liked Emma, really; there had been a time when Jen had felt the sting of jealousy every time she looked at Emma, but those days had passed. That jealousy had risen from Jen's own loneliness more than any sort of possessive feeling towards Matt; it just didn't seem fair, somehow, that he should find someone, should be so happy, while she went home to an empty bed every night. She liked him well enough, and if things had been different she might have accepted his dinner invitation, might have been the one moving in with him, sharing her life with him, but Jen had more important things to worry about, and as the years passed she found herself grateful that she hadn't given in to her momentary infatuation with him. He was a mate, now, a friend she could rely on, and she was certain that if she'd been foolish enough to fall into bed with him things wouldn't have worked out well for her. She had her career, still, a career that was even brighter now after her secondment, a career that promised big things for her future, and Matt Ryan wasn't worth the sacrifice of that dream. Emma was nice, and pretty, and she kept Matt in line, and Jen wished them both the best.
"How's it going?" she asked as she made her way into the kitchen.
"Nearly there," was Emma's answer; she was all bright smiles and busy hands, as ever, the margaritas all laid out in matching glasses on the worktop in front of her. "Could you pass us the limes?"
Dimly the sound of a new guest arriving echoed down the hall; Jean could hear the lads talking, a new, deeper voice joining the din though she could not make out his words. It didn't matter, she supposed; she'd meet him soon enough. She turned, found the little bowl of limes waiting for her, and spun back around to face Emma.
She very nearly dropped the bowl right then and there, a thousand questions racing through her mind while her heart began to race and her vision went black around the edges.
He was just standing there, tall and painfully handsome, a case of beer on his shoulder and a wide, brilliant smile on his face, looking almost exactly the same despite the four years that had passed since she'd last seen him. In her mind he was still Wesley; they'd never told each other their real names - had in fact been expressly told not to, and Jen had always been quite good at following orders. She'd never known where he was from, what sort of work he did when he wasn't working with SIS, when he wasn't sleeping next to her. She knew nothing about his family, or where he'd gone to school, or anything like that, but she knew how he took his tea, knew the strength of his arms, knew the conviction of his spirit, knew he was, without a doubt, the single best man she'd ever met. A man who, until tonight, she'd been certain she'd never see again.
"Hi," she said, somewhat lamely.
"Hi," he answered.
He was staring at her, he knew. Had been staring too long, if the expression on Emma's face was anything to go by, but honestly he couldn't believe his luck, couldn't believe that after four years he had somehow, miraculously, stumbled across her in this most unlikely place. Trish, his Trish, beautiful and brilliant and strong, tenacious and funny and kind, his favorite memory and his biggest mistake all wrapped up in the most incredibly attractive package. He didn't understand it, really, what she was doing here, had no idea what he was supposed to say to her, what she wanted him to say, what she expected of him in this moment. She looked as surprised as he felt, though, and he took some comfort from that thought, from knowing that they were both lost, confused, elated, that neither of them held the upper hand in this moment.
"Jen, have you met Nick?" Emma asked, and then it all clicked into place. She wasn't Trish, then, she was Jen, the mysterious Jen he'd been waiting months to meet. The way Matt and the rest of the boys talked about her made it clear that she was a valued member of their team, that they were all delighted to have her back, and this evening had been engineered specifically so that Nick could meet her before she returned to the office on Monday. He'd been looking forward to it, but he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that he would find her, this woman he'd been looking for since the day they parted, this woman he worried he'd never find again.
At Emma's question he raised his eyebrow, and Trish - Jen - caught on at once, understanding his unspoken question. How do you want to play this, he asked her, and she answered promptly, giving a little shake of her head as she said, "no."
So that's how it's going to be, then, he thought. They would pretend they'd never met, that they hadn't lived together as husband and wife for a year, that he had never traced the curve of her spine with trembling hands, that she had never pressed her lips against his neck and cradled him between her thighs. They would pretend that none of it was real, would start over fresh, right here, right now. He wished he didn't hate the idea of that new beginning so much, but they both had careers to worry about, had both sworn to take their secret to the grave, and he knew that she was right. He would remain professional, and circumspect. No matter how much it hurt.
"I'm Jennifer Mapplethorpe," she said, and he took her hand, gave it a little shake while he drank in the sight of her. She looked good, fresh-faced and lean and happy, happier than he'd ever seen her before, perhaps, he realized, because he'd never seen her in her element like this before. He rather thought the name suited her, certainly better than Trish Claybourne ever had. He had known Trish, but Jen was an unknown entity, a stranger to him no matter how his heart might protest.
"Nick Buchanan," he answered, and she gave a little nod, and he couldn't help but wonder if her thoughts were running along the same lines, if she were even now rearranging her own memories to make room for this new person. No more Wesley, now; the next time she called his name she'd call him Nick, and he tried not to think about how much he liked the thought of his real name falling from her lips.
She jumped at the chance to leave him, grabbing the drinks and following Emma back to the dining room, and he just watched her go, awe-struck and hopeful. They'd worked together so well, in the past, had managed to bury their feelings for one another for most of a year, and even after they'd given in to that desperate longing still they had managed, had protected one another, looked out for one another, every day. We can do this, he told himself as he slowly made his way back to the dining room, leaned in the doorway and watched her doling out drinks and laughing with her mates. Yes, they could do this, could tell their lies and dance around one another, could work together every day and no one would ever know. No one would ever know how he adored her, cared for her, treasured her, loved her. No one but him, and maybe, just maybe, her.
Christ, this is strange, Jen thought, trying not to stare at Nick across the table. She had done her best, over the course of the evening, not to look at him too often, not to ask him too many questions, not to pay him too much attention, even though every fiber of her being was begging to reach out to him, to catch hold of his broad, strong hand, to drag him into her arms, to demand an accounting from him. Did he know? She asked herself for perhaps the hundredth time, wondering if he had known before today that they were on a collision course, bound for one another. She didn't think so, really, for he had seemed genuinely surprised to see her, so surprised that his composure slipped and he had stared at her, hungry and eager and knowing, for far longer than was wise while Emma stood with them in the kitchen. No one else seemed to have noticed the way electricity sparked and crackled between the pair of them, but Emma had witnessed their meeting, and her gaze was curious as her eyes danced back and forth between Nick and Jen. Jen could only cross her fingers and hope that Emma would keep her suspicions to herself; the last thing Jen needed was to face such inquiries now, when she and Nick had not yet had a chance to come up with a plausible cover story between them. They needed time.
And, Jen supposed, they had it abundance, for perhaps the very first time. There was no need to rush; when she walked into the office on Monday he would be there, waiting for her, and they would have to find a way to work together, every day. The work wasn't what worried her, really; even after all this time she rather felt as if she could read his mind with a single glance, and she knew deep down that her face would likewise be an open book to him. Only to him, the only man who had ever truly understood her, her motivations, her desires, her dreams. Over the course of their year together she had whispered countless secrets into his willing ear, and he had kept them all, every one, had never used his knowledge of her against her. They had been partners, in every way, and every day of the last four years Jen had been missing him.
Now he was here, but his proximity was unbearable in a way for she could not talk to him, properly, openly, had to weigh her every word and deed and glance, had to temper her own wild heart, and the strain of it was beginning to prove exhausting. It wasn't so very late, but there were matters for her to attend to at home, and she knew she could not risk another drink lest her tongue grow loose and ruin the tentative accord she and Nick had struck in the kitchen.
"Right," she said, rising to her feet and reaching for her bag. "That's me off."
"Gotta get home to Charlie?" Matt asked with a good-natured grin.
Jen could have kicked him; Nick was looking at her curiously, but she could not meet his gaze, not now, not yet. Just the sound of the name would give rise to a million questions, she knew, but she did not have it in her to answer them just now.
"Yeah," she said. "Have a good night, you lot. Don't let Si drink too much."
They all roused themselves, passed her around for hugs and cheek-kisses and well wishes, and she embraced them willingly, these people who had become her family, after a fashion. When she reached Nick he just smiled, that smile that made her go weak in the knees, and shook her hand again. If his gaze lingered a moment too long, if he held her hand just longer than was proper, no one seemed to notice. No one but Jen, who felt her heart hammering in her chest, felt the heat rising in her cheeks, the sudden desire to kiss him returning once more.
Get a hold of yourself, Mapplethorpe.
"See you on Monday," she said, pulling her hand back.
"See you on Monday," he answered, a world of meaning in his tone, and Jen just turned tail and bolted, worried that if she stayed there a moment longer all her plans would be laid to ruin. She needed to talk to him, but first she needed time to gather herself, gather her thoughts, formulate a plan. She need time, and she could not face him until she'd gotten her thoughts in order.
"Oh, Christ, she's left her mobile," Matt said just as the door closed behind her, and Nick snatched it up at once. It had to be a sign, he told himself, had to have been intentional, her way of calling out to him, asking him to follow her outside, and he leapt at the chance.
"I'll see if I can catch her," he said, and then he was out the door, hoping that no one noticed how eager he was to chase after her, how badly he wanted to see her again. He could only hope that it didn't seem strange, the speed with which he volunteered for this task, could only hope there would be no questions when he made it back inside. Not that it mattered, really; she had given him a chance to speak to her alone, and he would not squander it.
As he strode purposefully across the grass he found that she was only just getting into her car, and so he called out her name, watched as she turned to him, surprise written all over her face.
"Forgetting something?" he asked, brandishing her mobile as he closed the space between them. His grin slipped slowly away as he watched her frown; perhaps she hadn't done it on purpose, then. Perhaps it was no more than an accident, and she hadn't wanted to speak to him in private, and he'd just gone and stepped right in it. It didn't matter, really, he supposed; he was here now, and she was walking round the car to stand in front of him, and she was so lovely that his heart ached at the very sight of her.
"Thanks," she said, taking the mobile and sliding it into her trouser pocket at once. She ducked her head, and he had to stuff his own hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out to her, catching hold of her chin and lifting her face so he could stare into her shining eyes once again. Standing like this, so close, too close for new acquaintances, silence thick and heavy between them, was a familiar sort of agony for him. He couldn't help but remember how easily she had fit within the circle of his arms, the gentle sound of her laughter, the softness of her lips, couldn't help but remember how good they had been together, how well they worked together, in bed and on the job.
"You look good," he said before he could think better of it.
She looked up at him sharply, but if she meant to admonish him it would seem she changed her mind, for she only smiled ruefully at him.
"Yeah," she said softly. "You do, too."
Christ, but he wanted to kiss her. He took a step towards her all unthinking, but she drew in a sharp breath at his proximity and Matt's words floated back to him. Gotta get home to Charlie?
"Charlie?" he asked, his voice low and warm. She swayed towards him, just a little, as if she didn't even realize she was doing it.
"My cat," she answered, and he grinned, not even trying to hide the way his heart leapt in his chest. Just a cat, not a man. No ring on her finger, no husband waiting for her at home; he knew he had no cause to hope, knew that now they were working together there was no chance for them to rekindle their romance after hours, but still, just knowing that she wasn't spoken for - yet - was a wonderful thing. Circumstances could change, and Nick Buchanan was a patient man. He'd spent the last four years waiting for her; he could wait a little while longer.
"Have a good night, Jen," he murmured, ducking his head towards her, close enough to touch her and yet holding himself back, giving her the choice. She could lift her chin and let their lips brush together or she could turn away, and he would, as always, leave that decision in her hands. Nick knew what he wanted; her own desires were somewhat less clear to him, at present.
"Good night, Nick," she breathed, and then she was walking away, and he just watched her go, grinning. His life was about to get very complicated, but he couldn't have been more delighted at the prospect.