Title: Action, Reaction
Summary: "You said you were okay." "I lied." Pain and consequences, half-truths and confessions. The fallout of an operation gone wrong. Zaf/Jo.
Disclaimer: I am a poor aspiring author. I have no hold over Spooks, and the characters belong to themselves. And maybe each other, if my 'shipper heart gets lucky.
Yes, the formatting is supposed to be that way. XD
This is my first foray into writing for Spooks, so concrit is very well welcomed!
R&R is blessed to the Muse, and enjoy!
Action, Reaction
Jo stands motionless in the bathroom, hands in the sink, letting the scalding hot water pour over her slender hands. Somewhere, deep in her frozen psyche, it vaguely registers that she should be feeling pain as her hands burn.
"Pain? You know nothing about pain."
There is no pain. Just cold.
Eyes closed, she shakes. The pouring cascade of the water echoes in the starkly-white bathroom. She can feel his hands, still.
"Not yet, at least."
The memory of a voice.
White fire blazes along her ribs, and she shivers.
Shards of shimmering mirrored glass abruptly shower over her suddenly-bleeding knuckles, and she stares in shock. Her fists curl and uncurl, and crimson drips into the swirling water in the basin. The mirror that has hung on the wall at a slightly odd angle ever since she moved in is in pieces around her feet.
Still, no pain. Just colour, and sound, and confusion.
The door crashes against the wall as it is flung open. Jo doesn't move – her hands are held up in front of her, fingers extended, and she can't take her eyes off the gashes that hadn't been there the last time she looked. She is shaking, and she can't stop. She feels like she won't ever stop.
"Jo!"
A simple exclamation of her name, and then his hands are wrapped gently around her wrists. She meets his gaze without a word passing her lips.
Her eyes are dry, but she is still shaking.
The world blurs, with Zaf's calm voice washing over her, and the next thing she knows she is seated on the bathroom floor, one of her hands gently cradled in his. Glass shimmers in the bloody wounds as he slowly picks it out, piece by shining piece.
Pain jolts through her, and she fights back a gasp.
He looks up at her, dark eyes unreadable. Maybe anger, maybe fear. "You said you were okay."
She holds his gaze, unable to break the tenuous connection to reality and safety. "I lied," she whispers.
Emotion seeps into his gaze, but she is abruptly too tired to try and decipher it. She feels herself waver, and the next thing she knows his arms are around her and she is shaking in his embrace.
The tears refuse to fall.
Reality swerves, and then she is in the kitchen, seated at the table with Zaf next to her. He is binding her battered hands in soft bandages, and her mind freezes with the memories of why exactly they need a ready supply of first aid in their flat.
—his hands slide up the smooth skin of her thigh, up under the rich velvet of her dress, and what should be a sensuous act leaves her trembling with fear and panic, because she doesn't want this and he knows that, but he's going to take it anyway—
"Jo?" Concern is in Zaf's eyes.
She shakes her head. "I want to go to bed," she whispers, and her voice is so small in the quiet of their home that she wonders what has happened to her.
It's in his eyes that he's wondering that too.
Zaf guides her to her room, as if she is a child too young to navigate her own home. Part of her rails against this; the larger part welcomes it. Jo doesn't want to think. Jo wants to fall asleep, and hope that the nightmares don't come tonight.
In many ways, she is a child.
He helps her slide under her bedcovers, and her bed feels cold. She is still shaking, and his gaze is troubled as his fingers linger on her arm.
"Stay with me." Her too-bright eyes are fixed on his face as she asks.
His features twist, and she knows that he knows what she is asking. Maybe he's not ready for it. "Jo, I've got a load of work to do…" He trails off, and they both know that he is stalling. This doesn't fit their pattern: over the time they've worked together and lived together, they've developed a little way of doing things; their own rules. For them, comfort extends to a hug and help into bed, maybe with a little alcohol along the way. They don't stay with each other when their minds are battered and falling apart.
The lines between them are blurred enough as it is.
"Zaf, please." Her voice is a whisper. "I don't want to be alone."
He sighs. "Okay."
Zaf slides into the bed behind her. Momentarily, he hesitates, but then he eases her into his arms and they lie together.
Jo begins to feel warm.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
She's asleep in his embrace when the phone rings, strident in the quiet of their mingled breathing.
Zaf curses inside his head, and considers not picking up. The rings continue, and finally he gently slips away from Jo. She sleeps on as he pads out into the hallway.
The handset is heavy in his hand. "Hello?"
"Zaf, it's Adam." There's a pause. "How is she?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "Not so good," he admits, although he knows Jo will hate him for saying as much. "She broke a mirror – busted her knuckles up pretty bad."
"Seven years bad luck."
"As if that'll make a difference," Zaf scoffs.
"Yeah." Again, Adam pauses, and Zaf can almost hear his hesitation. "Listen, I just got a call from a Doctor Wilson."
Zaf frowns, and turns his back to the corridor leading to the sleeping Jo. The sick feeling in his stomach tells him that he isn't going to like this conversation. "Isn't she the one who patched Jo up after she—" He cuts himself off. "After we got her back?" Resolutely, he ends with a question. He's not ready to deal with what happened just yet.
—he supposes that the gun in his grasp should reassure him, but all he feels is tension and fear and anger: he's seen the CCTV footage, although he saw the doubtful glances Adam and Harry exchanged as they showed it to him – Jo bruised, Jo bleeding, Jo broken—
"The same." Zaf hears Adam sigh. "She said that…" Adam tails off.
"Adam, what did she say?" Zaf bites down the line.
"You won't like it."
"I don't like a lot of things."
"Zaf…"
"You knew when you called that you were going to tell me." Zaf's voice is a fierce whisper. "So get on with it."
There is a long pause, and Zaf wonders if the line has been disconnected.
"Rape." Adam's voice is subdued.
His heart stops. "God, no." He runs his hand across his suddenly-haggard features, and finds himself unable to speak. The images flood his mind, and he feels sick. Jo's scream—the one he imagines—echoes in his ears.
"Zaf—"
"I'll kill the bastard."
"No, you won't." Adam's voice is firm. "You'll stay with Jo."
"Adam—"
"It's not a request." They are silent, for a moment, and then Adam speaks again. "And I think you're the only one she'll be able to connect with right now. She won't be comfortable at the Grid – and especially not with me, Harry and Malcolm."
Men. She won't be comfortable with men.
Zaf understands what Adam isn't saying, but he still wonders. "Why am I so special, then?"
He hears Adam snort disbelievingly. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."
Zaf quiets, and Adam waits. "She was tortured – we know that," he finally says softly. "I can deal with torture." There is a long pause, heavy with doubt and grief for a hurting friend. Friend? More than friend? Zaf doesn't know. "I don't think I can deal with this."
"You have to. For her sake." Zaf hears the shuffle of papers, and wonders how Adam can be working now that they know— He cuts himself off, again. "I'll tell the others that you're working from home tomorrow," Adam continues."And Jo has time off, anyway."
"Will you tell them?" Zaf asks quietly.
Adam pauses, and Zaf knows that the other man is fighting with himself as well. "I don't know."
There is silence again, and this time it is because the line has gone dead.
Zaf lowers the handset into its cradle, and stares into space.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
she lies on her back, and the sheets are satin. the skirt of her dress—black velvet, halter neck, must have cost a fortune—lies pooled around her waist. her legs are bare, and her softly tanned skin shines in the candlelight. handcuffs around her wrists shine too – handcuffs clipped around the cast-iron bedstead.
"romantic, no?"
she hates the sound of his voice. "get the fuck away from me!"
his fingers brush the delicate skin of the inside of her thigh. "talk to me like that again and i will kill you." his words are barely voiced as a threat – merely a statement of fact.
she forces down her fear. "i hate you."
"that's better."
his hands glide upwards. a whimper escapes her lips.
"ever been raped before?" his voice is a whisper of silk on skin – she feels his hands push her dress up further, baring her stomach. silk slides across her skin, and she really doesn't care about the irony of her previous thought.
"please, no, don't…" she knows that she is begging, and she hates it, but if it will stop him she will do anything.
"i thought not." he sighs, and she feels the bed shift. his knees press against either side of her hips, and her breathing quickens. she is terrified. "the first time is always the most difficult, too… it's a pity i won't have more time to play with you." he tuts. "these thugs have no appreciation for an artist," he confides. "they gave me one night. one night! that is no time at all… but, apparently, mi5 agents are quite a prize."
"please, let me go." her voice is a whimper and a whisper rolled into one.
steel slides against her skin. the velvet of her dress is cut away, and he tears the heavy fabric from her body. "and apparently they look after themselves well as well…" his tone is admiring, and she feels sick.
she tries to think of Zaf, and she doesn't know why, but she thinks of him and his touch and his voice, and she tries to ignore the physical world, but all she has to cling to is his voice and the fleeting accidental touches that they both try to ignore. it's not enough.
this man's touch is like burning acid on her flesh, and she can't think about anything else, and she screams, and she swears that Zaf's name is woven in with her cries.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
She is alone in bed.
Her breathing is ragged and her eyes wide – memories and images still flood through her mind, even though the dream—nightmare—is over. She is aware that those images will never quite leave her. That thought and that knowledge makes her sick, too.
She rolls onto her side, and stares listlessly into the shadows in the corner of her room. Vaguely, she wonders where Zaf has gone.
And then he is there, crouched beside her bed. His gaze takes and holds hers – as ever, she cannot look away. "Why didn't you say something?" he asks softly. His fingers rest lightly on top of her hand – she doesn't know if he realises he's doing it, but his fingertips are moving in tiny circles, stroking her skin, comforting and earthy. She focuses on his touch, not his words.
And then, with a jolt, Jo realises what he means. Her throat closes up.
Zaf sighs at her silence, and his fingers boldly intertwine themselves with hers. He doesn't speak either. He's waiting for her.
She feels the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "He wouldn't let me go," she whispers, her voice thick with remembered pain. "Ros said that if I could seduce him it would be all the better for the op, but he knew who I was and what I wanted and he wouldn't let me go…" Her voice trails off, and the tiniest of silvery tears slips down her cheek.
Without another word, as Jo shakes, Zaf leans forward and enfolds her in his arms. She grips the back of his shirt so tightly she wonders if it will rip, and she buries her face in his neck. She is crying now, and she can't stop the tears from falling.
She hates feeling this vulnerable, but she can't stop herself from losing her soul in him.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Her ragged breath is warm on his neck, and he fights to stop a shiver from tracing its icy fingertip up his spine. Right now, she needs his comfort – not that.
Jo's voice is barely a whisper, but he hears it loud and clear. "I can still feel his hands on me."
Zaf pulls her tighter to him. "He's gone," he answers, just as soft. "I won't let him touch you again. Ever."
He knows that normally Jo would have no problem with coming up with any number of remarks in answer to that statement, and that she probably has to this one, but she doesn't seem to be able to voice them. She is voiceless, and that realisation tugs at everything that makes him who he is. He tightens his grip on her and closes his eyes.
For a moment, a fragment in time, the world consists only of them and this embrace. But then Jo moves, and the lines that once blurred them apart are suddenly shattered.
He feels her lips press against his neck, and her nails digging into the flesh of his back.
What is she doing?
"Jo?" He tries to protest, but her name comes out choked. He can feel himself reacting instinctively to what she is doing, and he hates himself for it. "Jo, no."
Her hand leaves his back and moulds itself to the opposite side of his neck. A shudder runs through him, and he knows that she feels it.
His throat dry, Zaf pushes at Jo's shoulders, forcing her back. "No," he grates out. "You don't want this."
Jo's eyes are shining, and her hands are latched onto his body. She won't let go. "I need this," she whispers tightly. "I need to feel. I need to get the memory of him out of my head." She blinks, and a tear runs down her cheek.
He touches her cheek, and is startled at how cold it is. "If I let you do that, you will regret it in the morning," he tells her, and he knows that he is right. He tips his head towards her, and rests his forehead against hers. "Jo, I am here for you. But I won't let you hate yourself like that."
"I wouldn't ask anyone but you." She speaks softly, her eyes gazing into his. Sincerity runs through her.
Silence.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Zaf murmurs finally. "We're not—"
"But we are," Jo interrupts. "So what now?"
There are so many things he wants to say to her, so many things that are running around in his head. But he can't speak. What is there that he can say that can mean anything?
So he does the only thing he can think to do.
Zaf kisses Jo. It's not gentle: it's rough and hard and full of tongue and teeth and lips. It's the best kiss of his life.
He knows immediately that it is a mistake.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Adam looks up as one of the pods cycles open, and he frowns as Zaf steps out. What is he doing here?
He rises from his desk and strides over to Zaf, intercepting him before he can reach his own work area. "What the hell are you doing?" he hisses, keeping his voice low so the others don't hear. "I told you to stay with Jo."
Zaf stares back. "I need to work."
"I don't care. Go back. Look after her."
"I can't."
Adam is aware that Malcolm is watching them curiously over the top of his computer screen, and that Harry is studiously avoiding watching them. He takes Zaf's arm in an iron grip and drags him to his desk and pushes him down. With his fists propped on the other's desk, he leans forward. "Why not?"
"I made a mistake," Zaf answers. Adam sees the muscles in his shoulders tense. "I made a stupid mistake, okay? I can't stay with her."
"Zaf, did you listen to a single word I said to you last night?" Adam bites off. "A single word? I don't care what you did. You have to get back there."
"I kissed her, damnit!" Zaf snaps. "She was vulnerable, and I kissed her." He shakes his head. "I can't believe I did that."
"Imagine how she feels." Adam watches Zaf intently. "Did you even tell her you were going?"
Zaf's silence is more answer than Adam needs.
"Go. Now."
Zaf runs his hands through his hair. "Why can't Ros go?"
Adam thinks that he sounds like a whining child, and says as much.
"Bastard," Zaf comments.
"She will be needing you, Zaf. Maybe more than you know."
But then Zaf rails. "What the fuck do you know?"
"More than you, apparently." Adam fixes Zaf with a hard stare, and folds his arms. "Listen to me. Jo will be hurting, even though she won't show you. I don't care what you think, or what you did. I won't have her hurting when you could be helping her."
"What if she won't let me help her?"
Adam snorts. "I'm going back to my desk. When I sit down, I want to see you getting out of here."
As he strides back to his desk, he half doesn't believe that Zaf will do as he said, but when he sits down Zaf has gone.
Adam leans back in his chair, hands resting lightly on classified folders. He hears footsteps behind him, and glances back. Ros stands behind him. She frowns down at him. "What was that?"
He hasn't told her what he knows. He hasn't told anyone save Harry. So he shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. "He came in to pick up some paperwork. He's keeping an eye on Jo."
Ros nods, and Adam thinks that he's convinced her.
She leans down, her hand on his shoulder. "I know you're lying," she whispers, and steps away.
Adam shakes his head, and gets back to work.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
She is curled up on the sofa when he enters, and she doesn't look up.
Zaf has brought an armful of folders back from the Grid. He had thought that he might work today. As he sees her, staring listlessly at the flickering TV screen, he knows that Adam was right.
Bastard. He curses Adam again in his head, but he knows that he was right.
He dumps the files on the table, and switches the TV off. Jo still doesn't move, so he crouches down beside her. "How are you?" he asks.
She doesn't move. It's as if she is frozen – a princess carved in ice.
Zaf doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to touch her, but he knows that she needs his warmth.
He sits next to her on the sofa. "Jo?"
She looks over to him, and it's as if something has died within her eyes. He feels sick. Ignoring all warnings within his mind, he cups her cheek in his hand. His thumb strokes slow circles on her skin. "We will get through this," he says softly. "I promise you."
Jo finally looks at him – really looks at him. Before, she was just seeing him. Now, she looks, and her look chills him to the bone. "Why should I believe you?" she asks, and her voice is dead, too. "You don't care."
I care far more than I should.
That is a dangerous thought. He doesn't voice it.
Instead, he stills his thumb on her cheek. They sit in perfect stillness, asymmetric in their symmetry: dark and light, whole and… not-so-whole. "You shouldn't make assumptions, Jo," he says softly.
For the first time, she moves. A frown traces her forehead. She doesn't speak, though. He expects that.
"I'm sorry about last night," he continues quietly, and he really is sorry.
She looks away. "I thought that you'd come back," she says. "But you didn't." It's not an accusation, merely a statement of fact, and it tears at him. "I slept. I dreamt of him again."
Again. Maybe he would have been able to cope with those words, if not for the quiet 'again' tacked on the end. Abruptly, Zaf wants Jo back – Jo, not this quiet, subdued creature who was living in her body.
He knows that his gut instincts haven't been too good lately, but he still obeys them. The only thing he can think to do is hold her, and so he tugs her gently into his arms. She's stiff in his embrace for a moment, but then she relaxes, very slightly, and he begins to think that everything might be okay after all.
"Why did you leave?" Her voice is muffled in his shirt, and her fingers wind into the soft white material. "You left, and he came."
Zaf knows she isn't just talking about last night, and he hates that knowledge.
Jo looks gorgeous in the dress, and he looks her up and down appreciatively. She rolls her eyes at him – it's another one of their little games, and Zaf would never admit that it actually means something.
He can see the tension in her whitened knuckles as she grasps her small bag. "Are you sure that you'll be nearby?" she asks softly. She's unarmed—Harry's orders—and he knows she feels uncomfortable with it. After all, men who finance terrorists and condone cold-blooded killings aren't exactly pussycats.
Zaf nods reassuringly. "If it gets me another look at you in that dress, I'll be glued to you," he answers teasingly, his eyebrows arched enticingly. He may be flirting, but he is deadly serious. One mistake, and everything goes wrong. He knows that.
Jo smiles, and the smile shows that she understands. "Anything for a pretty girl."
"A pretty girl in a pretty dress," he corrects, before lightly pushing at her arm. "Go. I'll be watching you. Don't worry."
She nods, and turns away.
He takes a final moment to admire the way the black velvet flaunts her body, and thanks whatever deity watching over him that he works with such a beautiful woman. Then he swings away and raps three times on the back of the security van. Adam opens the door, and raises an eyebrow at him.
Zaf smiles innocently. "What?"
Adam rolls his eyes. "I don't know how she puts up with you."
Zaf laughs.
It never occurs to him that something might go wrong.
"I know," he replies softly, and he is replying to both as well. "And I'm sorry."
'Sorry' seems ineffectual, but it's all he can say.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks after a moment.
Jo shifts against him, her fingers still stubbornly woven into the front of his shirt. "Not yet," she replies, and that gives him hope. 'Not yet' means he is on his way to forgiveness; 'not yet' means that she will be okay.
Or he hopes that is what it means. He has no room to hope for anything else.
They sit like that for a long time, holding onto each other so tight that it hurts.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
he knows that he is dreaming, but that knowledge doesn't stop him. this has already happened, and he hated it then – he is used to reliving his lowest moments in his dreams.
he is waiting. adrenaline thrums through his veins – adrenaline and fear. the adrenaline is normal. the fear, not so much.
but this is different.
and now, he isn't waiting any more. he's running, and the door is kicked open. his gun is cold in his hands, and there are armed men at his back, but he abruptly feels so shocked that he thinks he's going to collapse.
but he hides it. it's his job, and he does it well.
it takes no time at all to subdue the target, and then he crouches down beside her. there is noise and bustle behind him, and indignant cries that echo in the lavish hotel room, but it doesn't matter. he kneels at her side, and speaks her name quietly.
she doesn't look up. she shakes.
he sheds his jacket and gently tips her forward. she doesn't react as he wraps her in his black jacket.
he is just glad that he can no longer see the bloody gashes that run along her back. "Jo?" he asks.
she is wide-eyed and shaking, knees pulled to her chest and fingers gripping her forearms. she is naked, in more ways than one. he reaches out and touches her cheek, his fingers shaking. "Jo?"
as his fingers touch her skin, she shies violently away, fingers grasping at the lapels of his jacket and dragging it closed over her shoulders. he has never thought of her as small before, but as he sees how big his jacket is on her, he hurts.
blood begins to stain his jacket, and his heart jolts. he doesn't care about how she will react – he surges forward and picks her up. she immediately goes stiff in his arms, and then looks up at him, fear in her eyes.
but then something else joins it. recognition. "Zaf?"
he can't help but smile, even though he can feel the dampness of her blood through his wrecked jacket. "yeah. it's me."
pain spasms across her face. "it hurts, Zaf."
his heart clenches, and he moves for the door. there are medics with the others outside – he can get her to them, and she'll be fine.
he looks back down at her, and her eyes are closed.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
He wakes with a gasp caught in his throat, and he feels sick.
The sheets are wrapped tightly around him, tangled in his legs. Zaf struggles against the enclosing material, and tries to calm his pounding heart.
She's not dead. She's alive.
He pads out of his room and down the corridor. Jo's door stands ajar, and he looks through. She is sleeping, and he feels his heart begin to slow. "Thank you," he breathes softly, leaning against the doorway. He doesn't know who he is thanking, but that doesn't stop him.
The life he leads is far from charmed, but there are a few bright spots in the darkness.
Her eyes open, and he gets the strange feeling that she hasn't slept. "Zaf." It's not a question, and not quite a statement. More a confirmation.
"Jo." One syllable. So much unsaid.
"Stay with me?"
He nods, and doesn't smile.
Zaf slips into her bed, and takes her in his arms. His body fits behind hers as if they were cast from the same mould – he hides his face in her shoulder and holds her tight around the waist. There is something inside him that whispers that there are professional boundaries to be kept, and that he should leave her and go back to his cold bed.
The last time he left her she was broken.
Never again.
"Zaf?" Jo's murmur of his name is almost reverent.
Zaf chooses not to read into her tone. "Yeah?"
There is a pause. "I think I love you," she whispers.
His heart skips a beat. "Jo—" he chokes, but can't continue.
Jo doesn't speak. She turns in his arms and leans her forehead against his – her eyes are closed, and for the first time since she returned to their home she is smiling.
Zaf vaguely wonders what is happening, but he doesn't question it. Right here, right now, this is perfect. Tilting forward, he brushes his lips across hers – the faintest touch of skin against skin.
"I think I love you too," he answers, and she smiles more.
Zaf and Jo lie together, and everything is forgotten. Tomorrow can wait.
¤ ¤ ¤ end ¤ ¤ ¤