There is a turmoil evident in each of us for different reasons as we stare at the phone I have dropped. "Sorry I interrupted," you say. You are worried you messed up something, and misread my expression to fit your concern.

"It's okay," I reply automatically, getting a hold on my horrified face. Your nonchalance indicates you don't understand the gravity of what just happened, having only seen my side of it. Small mercies, I guess. Maybe I can spare you the sudden fear in my gut, if I play this right.

You hitch the towel higher and stutter-step towards me with booted feet to keep your soles clean. "Who is Church?"

"A CIA operative," I manage to steady my voice. "The one who forced us to do the Albanian job in the past."

"The one with Billy," you say softly as you recall the story, sitting down next to me on the couch. Your short hair is damp tendrils sticking to your shoulders.

"Yeah. He's a bad guy. And now he knows I have a ...woman friend."

"So I did interrupt."

"No, no, it's just...not something I want getting around," I dismiss. "I piss a lot of people off, and you...well, you could be used against me." Half-truth, but not quite enough to get you off the subject.

"Did he hear me?" you demand.

"No, it's okay," I lie smoothly, if guiltily. "He just made a pass at me about inviting hookers to use the shower."

You pin me with a pointed look that says you don't buy it. "He did hear me," you surmise. "And he thinks I'm your girlfriend," you observe, more to yourself than to me. Your use of the term makes me suppress a flinch. I'd take 'girlfriend' over 'friend', 'roommate', or 'unrequited' any day.

"You burned a bridge? How so?"

Shit, you're like a dog with a bone. "He asked me for something, and I cut him off," I say. Another half-truth.

"I see," you say contemplatively. You seem to be easing off, thank God. I thought you were going to interrogate it out of me.

It finally hits me like a cosmic spanking that you're in a towel, and less than three feet from me. The edge of the towel comes to mid-thigh on you, and a few inches under your collarbone. There's one woolen layer between me and your warm, clean, wet body. I try not to get focused on the swell of your curves beneath the fabric.

You didn't hear what Church said, or his inflection when he said it. I can keep you safe from worry if I move this along. "I'll get some soap from storage. You go finish your shower." I don't know what makes me come to that decision, but you do not argue the logistics of privacy.

We part and head opposite ways down the hall. I dig out the olive green bar and carry it to the showers, my heart starting to thud a little harder. What have I done, lying to you so deeply? How will I keep yet another secret from you? What will I see from this side of the shower curtain?

The translucent curtain hides everything but your outline and your skin tone, and I pause to watch you tilt back your head of shampoo to rinse it out. White suds skid across the blur of your body like clouds streaking over a tawny sky. I heart changes from thudding to momentary skipping, like a record in an earthquake.

"Soap," I announce myself.

You stick out a dripping hand, and my fingers linger over yours and the bar. I can't see your face, hidden by the curtain, and you can't see mine, either. Such an impersonal interaction leaves room for fantasy, the thrill of having a faceless lover. You withdraw, and I have to leave or risk exposure. This hiding is wearing thin. A braver man would have - what? Stayed, stripped, and slipped under the stream with you? Leaned against the sink, waited for the water to turn off, and held out your towel? Offered to scrub your back? All things I want to do, but until I know where you stand, I can't risk it.

Visions of your blurred outline and Church's voice haunt me like ghosts. I am caught between the uncertainty of Church's veiled threat, and the absurd amount of desire I feel for you.

The guys all come over as planned, roaring up in pairs or singularly, with Christmas being last.

"Well if it ain't the Hogwarts Express, late as hell," crows Ceasar.

"Kiss my ass, Black Dynamite," replies Christmas without venom. Race could only be tossed around in a group as tight as ours.

"So we're all here, finally," I start, muttering the last part as a polite, greeting-esque jab to Lee. He settles himself leaning against his locker and bids me continue with a flourish of his hand. I regard all of them: perched on their bikes in the hangar, leaning or sitting on cargo boxes. You're sitting on the stairs to the plane, elbows on your knees, and I'm standing next to you. We haven't spoken much since Church's call, each wrapped up in our own secret worries and cares. "We've had a job offer," I announce.

"Sweet!"

"'Bout damn time."

"Details, fearless leader."

This feels great, being on something, being active, being outside of my own swirling head. My team is frosty and raring to go. And you, even though there is trepidation in your eyes, are looking up at me trustingly and game-faced. You're ready, I'm ready. It's time to do this.

I mentally slap down the echo of Church's last words in my head: You take care now, Barney. You and your girlfriend...

"Mr. Dimitri Kresh, a Russian national," I begin, opening my laptop and the dossier in my email. "Needs professionals to escort his journalist daughter around the Himilayas. She is actively seeking the multiple rebel factions that use the mountains as staging grounds. From the info, I can only guess some of those factions are more friendly than others to an entitled white Russian woman asking questions about their causes and tripping around their caves."

The men snicker.

"Who is this Kresh guy?" queries Ceasar suspiciously. "We've been burned by mystery clients before."

I shrug. "As far as I know, that's his real name. I haven't done the research on him, yet. From what I can glean in the dossier, he's a businessman."

"What're we looking at for transport?" asks Christmas.

I scroll down. "We'll be on foot, mostly. We'll take the plane to the pickup point in Russia and be backpacking into the mountains with Miss Kresh."

"Nothing like carrying a third of your body weight in a deprived-oxygen environment," mutters Toll Road.

"We'll have a few days of conditioning in the foothills before Miss Kresh takes us higher," I reply, scrolling down to double-check the intinerary. "She's got scheduled meetings with several rebel groups, and she's been gaining their trust and setting up the meets for a few weeks."

"Last I looked at a world map, Russia is a haul from the Himilayas," comments Gunnar.

"We're acquiring Miss Kresh at the border of Russia and China, then skimming the thinner mountains all the way to the main range," I clarify. I spread out a world map and trace our route. "Like I said, we'll have a few days to get conditioned."

"How long is the job?" asks Christmas.

He asked the one question I was dreading to answer. I glance at you again. "About three weeks." You look down at your boots, letting it sink in. I wish I could put a hand on your bony back to comfort you, but this is not the time or place.

Ceasar shrugs. "We've had longer."

"What's the price tag?" asks Gunnar.

"Same as always."

"What about - " starts Yang. Oh, hell, he's going to start down the yellow-man-with-a-family road.

As one, the team shouts him down: "NO!"

He folds his arms indignantly. "I was going to say, you rude bastards, I sense a catch."

"Yeah, I feel a 'but' coming on," agrees Toll Road.

"Spill it, Barney," urges Christmas, starting to flip a knife end over end in his hand, a nervous habit.

"Nothing gets past you guys, huh?" I snort. With a glance to you for strength, I continue, "Trench Mauser already failed this job. Kresh is making him pay for us to clean up his mess."

The hangar is silent as a tomb while the men mull this over.

Ceasar whistles lowly. "That's..."

"Man," murmurs Yang, shifting positions.

"How is he twisting Trench's arm?" asks Christmas, the knife stopping its acrobatics. "The guy may be a prick, but he bows to no one."

"Asked the same question to Kresh, got nada," I say. "Must be good. Maybe video of him doing Zumba or some shit, because we know he's a rainbow."

The guys burst into laughter and jeers at that. There's no love lost from you, either, and you seem to revel in the opportunity to shake some tension.

"But why'd Trench fail?" continues Christmas, unwilling to let it go.

"I don't know why, and the dossier doesn't say," I reply, hating the excuses even though they are good ones. I straighten and look each of them in the eye, one by one. Time to earn my cut. "I know we can do this job. The intel says it's simple money. I'm sending the doss to each of you to look over, but I need a definite answer by tomorrow evening at the latest to take back to Kresh."

The men nod. They trust me.

"One question," asks Gunnar. "Is the daughter pretty?"

We laugh. There are a few more questions about logistics: where we'll be landing the plane, how we will approach the rebel factions with our client, what mindset we will assume (defensive, offensive, or subjective), what our backup plan is if we need to exfiltrate in one, six, or twelve hours, and much more.

You listen attentively, but do not interject your opinion. This is the work of a mercenary, and you are tasting it for the first time. The brightness of your eyes suggests fascination and thrill at being able to take it in, like it's the workings of a secret society. You probably wish you had something to take notes with or some shit, you little sponge.

While Ceasar and Yang duke it out with their respective opinions about what weapons would work best in the cold, wet, and windy climate, I study you as you watch them bicker fondly. They're quickly becoming your friends, too, if they aren't already. You catch me looking, and smile, but I can see the connotations in the expression. You want to talk to me. Something is weighing on your mind. Glad to know we're on the same wavelength: I need to talk to you, too.

You lean in to say, "Are you going to tell them about Church?"

I consider it. Should I complicate things? "There's something else, guys," I start, silencing the debate. They deserve to know. "Church made himself known today, and offered us a job, too. A paying job."

"I assume you turned him down like my drunk grandma," says Christmas hotly.

"There's a first," snarks Yang. "What'd the bastard want us to do?"

"Damn right, I turned him down," I reply. "We're not going through that goat rodeo again, trust me. He wanted us to play the opposite side of Kresh."

"He wanted us to kill Miss Kresh?" asks Gunnar with a frown. "That doesn't make any sense. What has he got to gain from that?"

"Or the CIA, for that matter," agrees Ceasar, mirroring Gunnar's frown.

"It's a mystery, for sure," I say, reluctant to move the conversation along. I have a nagging feeling I'm missing something, like one hip holster is empty and I'm off balance. "And one that concerns us little, if any. Our job, if we accept, is to protect Miss Kresh from anyone who seeks to harm her, including the CIA."

Toll Road nods, but rubs his chin. "Still, it makes me wonder."

We round out the conversations and debates within an hour and the men split. You rise as the last taillight receeds into darkness, and stretch your body until it is one long, lean line from toes to fingertips. "What a day," you sigh.

I blink out of my trance at the sliver of midriff you flashed, and agree, "Yeah. I got a couple of things to talk to you about, too. Wanna go inside?"

You nod, itching to say what was on your mind during the intel meeting.

We walk inside, and I grab a beer for me and a Blenheim Ginger Ale for you out of the fridge. You told me the non-carbonated folk version of Blenheim was a Nepalese thing. You tried the stuff when Toll Road suggested it, and have loved it ever since. I don't see how: it has more bite to it than any alcohol I've ever had. But then, you prefer the pink cap, the hottest stuff. You settle on your favorite barstool, at the end of the bar.

You raise your bottle and tilt it with a clink against mine. After a careful swig, you break the silence. "Barney, I am not as naive as you like to think," you start with gentle insistence. "Church threatened me, didn't he?"

I lean against the sink and sigh. Damn, you guessed what I had planned to keep from even the team. "How'd you know?"

You smile in a way that doesn't reach your eyes. "It is written on your face. And in your shoulders."

"Shoulders?'' I echo.

"You are tenser when something is on your mind."

So much for years honing a poker face. I've bluffed my way through countless guns aimed at my balls, and you manage to pick me apart in ten seconds. "He implied a threat," I conceed. "But he's smart enough not to make one outright."

You nod, burdened by the necessary acceptance. "So he might try something while you're gone, or he might not."

"Pretty much, yeah." I hate the unknown as much as you. I can tell it wears on you. "And there's no guarantee I'm even going anywhere," I reason futilely.

That wrings a wry smile out of you. "You heard your team in there. It is almost a done deal." You fall into silence again, and pick the wrapper off your bottle with a thumbnail. After a while of me sipping and waiting and you gathering your thoughts, you say, "I guess I'm a little afraid, honestly."

"Afraid of Church?" I ask. "Because I can put a hit out on him. I'm a badass that way."

You snort and shake your head at my bravado. "Afraid of Church some, but not as much as you think," you say, astutely reading my creased brow. What are you, a damn mentalist? "Church is just one man," you continue. "And from what you told me, he sounds like he's occupied with something."

You picked up on what's been tapping on my shoulder since Church's call. "You're right. He is busy with something. He said he had 'extenuating circumstances' that kept him from offering the job in person. That's not his style, unless something has his attention."

"It could be he is setting up to carry out the killing of Miss Kresh, despite you."

My face darkens. "I'd like to see him try."

You tick a brow. "So would I."

I rest my hand on the counter, and look at you unhappily. "I'm sorry I kept this from you. You know I just wanted to protect you from something so up in the air, right? Not let you worry senselessly?"

You nod, not holding it against me, bless you. "I know. I would do the same. But it is not enough to make you stay, is it?"

The elephant that has been tiptoeing around the room for nearly two months has decided to trumpet. "No, it's not," I say. "I have to earn a living. You get that, right?"

You duck your head and nod, but displeasure still radiates from your tense neck and shoulders.

"Hey," I get your attention softly. "What's really bugging you?"

You shrug, and bite your lip. "It's stupid."

"Not if it bothers you. Spill it, missy."

The corner of your mouth twitches as the sentiment. "I guess I am afraid of you getting hurt. Or worse."

I put down the beer bottle and scratch my beard stubble, considering how to best answer you. "My job ain't holiday sales at Macy's, Meera. I carry a gun. To use against other people with guns. It was dangerous long before I met you."

"But now I know you!" you outburst, meeting my eyes with a fierce desperation to make me understand. "And I care what happens to you, Barney. Even if you don't."

We're quiet for a few moments in the wake of your words. The place is silent, save for the ticking of some fans and a clock somewhere. It's dark outside now, and the waning moon begs entrance to the windows, spreading faint silver pools across the floor and abandoned furniture. You're hunched over your now-empty bottle, hiding your face with a hand cradling your forehead. I'm struck by the passion in your exclaimation: I can feel the power of it like heat from a blaze roaring just feet away. You care that much? I don't think anyone ever has. You worry about my safety as much as I worry about yours?

"I care about you, Barney," you whisper. A tear plinks on the glass bottle.

"Meera," I chide softly, walking over. "Don't cry. It's not worth that."

You laugh-sniffle. "Why do you say that? You are worth crying over, you know."

I'm at a loss for words. You're scared that you'll be left without me. I get that all too well: I know what it would mean if I was left without you.

It means I love you.

So, following logic, what does that make me to you?

"Shh," I shush. I step behind you and rub your upper arms soothingly. "Don't cry," I say again.

Your fingers stifle the movements of my left hand, and you coax my hand into interlacing with yours. There I stand, one hand captured. I wrap the other around you, and pull your back to my chest, balancing my chin on your shoulder. You tip your head until your eyes are buried in my hair, and try to pull yourself together. We stay tangled until my hair is wet from your warm tears.

"Meera," I murmur, untangling from all but your hand. I move to the side so that our mutual hold makes you rotate on the stool until you face me. I thumb a wayward tear from your cheek, and my palm stays cupped around your jaw. Your big brown eyes search mine for the rest of my words, but they are fast running dry.

"I have to tell you something," I begin, looking for your urge to continue.

"What?" you breathe, focusing on me.

"I care about you, too," I say. But having a bolt pop loose on the dam with those simple words makes the whole thing buckle and groan and creak. Leaving it at that would be a cop-out of epic proportions. I've come this far. I shouldn't, can't, won't back down. "More than care," I continue, hastily garnering my wits. "Meera, I - "

You shock me like a bucket of icy water.

There's a microexpression I have no time to read, a shift in your seat, and then your lips are crashing on mine.

I wake up with a gasp like a drowning man breaking the surface. The scratchy, pilled texture of the couch throws me for a moment, and the dark room does little to help. Was I just kissing...?

I figure out where I am, and try to steady my pounding heart. Did that really happen? No, but I wish with my entire being it had. Swinging my legs off the couch, my foot hits something that falls with a clink. I feel for it. A beer bottle. Five, in fact.

My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and I can make out the oscilating fans and the lump in your bed. Scrubbing my face, I happen to touch my lips and the dream comes rushing back.

God, that felt so real. I'm bitterly disappointed that it wasn't, and it wells up inside me acidicly.

I look to your sleeping form again. I can feel the job looming over me, like a personal thundercloud ready to crack lightning over my head.

I have got to tell you, before I go on this job.

I need answers, or I might not get another chance.

The question now is: when?