Finding Middle Ground
Chapter 1 -- The Middleman
Normally the Middleman prided himself on his fast reaction time. But when Wendy turned to him during a quiet moment in their main control room and held out a truth bomb, all he could do was stare. What is she trying to find out... Then she hit the button, and the energy wave hit them both.
The thought that Wendy had betrayed him didn't last a half-second. The next was, I gave her the idea, that time at the art gallery. The Middleman braced himself. The compulsion to speak only truth was unbreakable, but he had the training to be selective about which truth and how much. Wendy might have to frame her questions pretty precisely. Of course, she knew that. Did you sleep with Roxy Wasserman? wouldn't be so bad, or the bare literal answer to What was your name?
Why did you become the Middleman? had much more dangerous potential, or Do you think I'm going to die doing this job? Anything with the word 'love' in it he could probably evade. He'd planted phrases like "brothers in arms" and "like a little sister" often enough in the past. Do you want to have sex with me? would get a 'yes' from any heterosexual male with normal eyesight. Maybe he could get away with that too...
"Boss. Exactly how lonely are you?"
Desperate, needy lust wasn't loneliness per se, it could be handled in other ways. He focused on the present-tense verb. For sheer camaraderie, compared to not having her in his life... "It isn't so bad."
She threw the gadget angrily at a wall. "Don't give me that ..." The words kept coming, under an emotional pressure that had to be real as well as bomb-induced. Words that couldn't help being true. His head was spinning too hard to follow it all but she was talking about love, relationships, the impossibility of a true bond with someone when world-saving-sized secrets got in the way.
He thought -- hoped -- he knew why she was telling him this. He didn't dare ask. The truth bomb worked both ways. Any answer he got now would be transparently, even brutally, truthful. "... the Hell can you stand there in the lonely going not so bad?" Wendy demanded, almost shouting.
Her tone made him grin like an idiot; Wendy couldn't possibly be that upset about a hypothetical question. "I am telling the truth. I'm not lonely, or not much ... I have you now." He was able to stop short of, being near you on any terms is a thousand times better than nothing.
He'd been able to confuse her when they first met. Now she knew him too well, saw too much. Wendy's expression changed -- affection? Pity? He wouldn't refuse pity ... and her voice went softer. "Then my other question… how tired are you of being perfect hero boss man in charge all the time?"
Not betrayed, but definitely ambushed. His only chance was to run before he blurted out the answer, and his legs weren't listening to him. "God." His voice was too needy, too desperate. She was going to quit on the spot, disgusted or frightened away...
Wendy didn't speak, didn't move. She held out her hand.
The Middleman closed his eyes. This had every chance of ruining their partnership; he could barely imagine any better outcome. But she'd made it physically impossible for either of them to lie. This minute, at least; she wanted him. Even one minute would be something. When he opened them, Wendy's hand was still stretched out. He took it, floating in a near-trance of desire and confusion. Just once. Please.
She'd never seen his room before. That reaction certainly was pity, for the way he'd excluded every vestige of a personal life. Maybe I can't get away with that any more. Wendy wanted control, and he was happy to give it to her. She was younger than he was, but still a grown woman who had no inhibitions about saying what she did and didn't want. He couldn't go too far wrong if he let her lead.
And she knew him, it seemed, better than he did himself. Being undressed, caressed, letting someone else take charge was a blessed relief from carrying the weight of the world. Miracle Wendy. It couldn't be all pity. Her eyes were too bright with excitement. She said something about a work of art and nibbled here and there, giggling at his reactions. He drew her down, one hand on her back and the other buried in her hair. Letting go so she could get their uniform shirts and ties out of the way was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
He hadn't opened a bra one-handed since high school. He hadn't been this painfully, completely, no-blood-supply-left-for-brain-cells erect in nearly as long. He traced Wendy's narrow hipbones with his fingertips and was genuinely afraid of hurting her. "You're so tiny." He should have known that, being Wendy, she'd instantly decide to prove him wrong. He tried to apologize in advance for self-restraint that would clearly be measured in seconds. She wouldn't let him finish the sentence.
She came down on him like an avalanche. He let out a guttural sound that was lost under her squeal. Of delight, going by the yielding, wet warmth. He clutched desperately, pulled her down still harder. Years of meditation and focusing exercises be damned, he was out of time and she couldn't possibly be ready...
Her muscles closed on him like a vise, first on purpose and then in a convulsive, helpless rhythm. Random sounds fell from her lips. Her skin seemed to glow. He'd be content to die watching her, and for an instant he thought he was. Their eyes locked while she was still in ecstasy; seeing that shattered his control completely. He made a small, formless sound. No words, but the world shifted on its axis. He couldn't stop watching her face and he was giving away too much, showing too much. How completely she could own him, for one thing, if she lifted a finger to ask. She'd held out her hand.
Wendy snuggled down beside him, made a satisfied noise when his arms went around her. That had to mean something good. She leaned her cheek against his. A drop of moisture, a tear. He had a pretty good idea whose.
He'd do anything Wendy asked of him. He was afraid let's pretend this didn't happen might be first on the list. She certainly cared for him. It didn't follow that she wanted unconditional devotion. The 'just once' resolution had disappeared like snow in a blast furnace. Even in a state of blissful exhaustion his body kept making a dazzling array of suggestions under the heading "next time." His conscience, in counterpoint, presented an equally long list of reasons any liaison would be a disaster. Starting with the fact she already had a boyfriend and continuing to subheadings about age differences, professional conduct, life expectancy, and every character flaw he'd ever found in himself.
He'd told her once that even true love didn't always work out. Using considerable care not to reveal, by tone or expression, which love he meant. This could never be simple. Ignoring his yearning for her had been hard in practice but kept their working relationship stable. If a romance went sour, the aftermath could be anywhere from awkward to intolerable. Whether she realized it or not, in this arena she was the one with all the advantages. Wendy had a name, an art career, a network of friends; she was perfectly capable of walking away from him for good. Technically he ought to threaten her or send her to Greenland if she left the Middle-organization. He never would, and she did know that. If this wrecked them as friends, even as colleagues, then ...
Then she'd be fine. Disappointed probably, maybe lonely. Her friends would flock to cheer her up. Wendy was far too sensible to mope for long. And if she left him, she'd leave the constant danger of their profession as well.
That's all right, then. Risking himself, physically or emotionally, was simple. Feeling hope was the disorienting part. He buried his fingers in her hair. The casual touch, the implicit permission to stay pressed against her bare skin, felt more intimate than actual coupling. She deserved every intimacy he could give her. "Dubbie." He swallowed. "Wendy Watson. I should tell you my name."
Her dark eyes had hints of hazel when they were this close, subtle flecks of gold and green. Glowing with an affection that saw his nervousness without judging it. She leaned in, pressed their lips together. "I like nicknames. Gonna call you mine."
I think that's been my real name since the moment we met. "It's a deal," he said, no flippancy at all. Turned so that his chest and stomach spooned full-length against her back, for the most comfort in the too-narrow bed. She adjusted his arm a little where it wrapped around her waist, then settled in with a contented wriggle. He'd never felt this bonded to a lover, this free of boundaries. Not when he was in the Navy, trying to court a woman and keep secrets from her at the same time. Certainly not ... he shied away from the older memory.
The past could still hurt him, but so much less than before. He couldn't work up the energy to distrust himself with the scented silk of Wendy's hair against his face. She knew so much about him already. He'd never have to lie to her, never have to wall her out of the most important parts of his life. Maybe I don't have to choose anymore between being The Middleman and being a man.
"It's a deal," he heard her whisper as if answering his thoughts. His eyes had already drifted closed. With Dubbie warming him, heart and body, it was easy to let go and sink into sleep.