11 January 2010

Long day, longer night, that's what Jen's mum used to say. As she finally kicked off her shoes and sank gratefully onto her little sofa at home, Jen found those words echoing through her mind. It had been a long day - a long week, a long month, a long year - and though all she wanted to do now was sleep she knew her mind would not allow her such peace, not for a good while yet. Not with Harvey Pullman dead, and Simon having resigned after being accused of his murder, not with thoughts of Nick desperately trying to find that little boy running through her head.

It had been strangely like the old days, covering for Nick while he went rogue on his own investigation. Excusing his absence, playing the part of the nonchalant partner, worrying for him in secret; there was something terribly familiar about it, and she'd slipped into old patterns without even realizing it. They weren't chasing gunrunners and thugs, anymore; they had backup now, a team, a group of people around them who told the truth, and maybe Jen could have told the truth sooner, too. Maybe she should have trusted the boys to keep Nick's secret, but she hadn't. No one kept his secrets as well as she did.

In an effort to clear her mind she turned her thoughts towards dinner, but she had no sooner resolved herself to finishing off the half a limp salad still languishing in her refrigerator than there came a knock upon the door. Jen heaved herself to her feet, sighing; she knew before she opened the door what she'd find.

And she was right. It was Nick, leaning in the doorway, Nick with his jacket and tie long gone, Nick with his face drawn and haggard, Nick with a bag of Chinese takeaway in his hand.

"Hungry?" he asked by way of greeting, holding up the bag as if it were a peace offering, when they both knew it was just an excuse.

"I could eat," she answered, smiling.

The kitchen table was covered in bills and case files and dirty laundry, and instead of fussing about with cleaning it off they elected to eat together in the sitting room, the pair of them cross-legged on the floor with their food spread across her coffee table. For a few minutes they were quiet, opening containers of lo mein and rice and sesame chicken and twisting the tops off the two beers she'd pulled out of her fridge. Nick rummaged through the bag and found the chopsticks, passing one set off to her before taking the other for himself. He scooped out a piece of chicken like a pro; she'd taught him well, all those years before. Or maybe he'd just been a fast learner.

"I keep thinking," he said, still chewing his chicken, "about all those years Isobel spent sick to death worrying about Eddie." He swallowed. "All those years when Eddie should have been with his mum. All that time they should have had together. And now he's been ripped out of the only life he's ever really known, and he's got to start over. Christ, he's just a kid."

So that's what he wanted to talk about; not Simon's resignation, or what he had or hadn't done to Pullman, or whether any of them could have stopped him. Nick wanted to talk about the kid, the kid he'd searched so hard for all those years before, the kid he'd only just found, by sheer stroke of luck. That was his way, she knew; he couldn't control Simon, couldn't hold himself accountable for what Simon had done, or had done to him, but he could blame himself for the kid, and he was.

"You did everything you could for him," Jen told him softly. "Then, and now. Dorothy was smart back then, she covered her tracks well. You just had to wait for her to get sloppy, and the second she did you found Eddie."

Nick lifted his head, watching her; his eyes were full of hurt, but not on account of her, she knew. For all these years Nick had thought Dorothy was just a sweet old lady who'd made a mistake; he'd made excuses for her, protected her, and in the end it turned out that Dorothy was the one who'd stolen little Eddie away. It would take time for him to forgive himself for missing it, if he ever did.

"Yeah, but-"

"And Isobel cleaned herself up, didn't she? Who's to say she would have done that if Eddie hadn't been taken? He was safe, with Dorothy's son, and Isobel got her act together, and now they have a chance to be a proper family. Because of you."

Because Nick was a good man, because he never gave up. He could have stopped taking Dorothy's calls years before, could have refused to get involved when she came round to see him, could have foisted Isobel off on missing persons, but he hadn't. Once he took responsibility for something it was his, forever; Nick had never been the sort of man to walk away, and that was one of the things she'd always liked about him best.

"Thanks for covering for me," he said after a moment's pause, still watching her. This was familiar, too, sitting alone with him late in the evening, sharing a meal and a beer, talking about things they couldn't say to anyone else, toeing that line. It wasn't the first time he'd showed up at her door with dinner, and it wouldn't be the last. Maybe he needed it; there was a sense of normalcy, almost, that she felt when she was alone with him, that she never felt any other time, and she thought maybe he felt it, too. Like that was how it was supposed to be, the two of them, alone, and quiet. Maybe it was just the fact that they'd shared so much in the past, but somehow Jen didn't think so. It wasn't Wesley she wanted, with his ever-evolving charm and his terrible shirts; it was Nick, with his tired eyes, his soft voice, Nick sitting quietly across the coffee table from her, not complaining about having to sit on the floor instead of a chair, Nick who fought, every day of his life, just to help people.

"That's the deal, isn't it?" she answered. "I'll be your net, and you'll be mine."

I'll catch you when you fall, and you'll catch me, too. But what happens when we both stumble at the same time?

"Yeah," he answered, and then he prudently returned his attention to his chicken, and Jen took a long drink of her beer.

For another hour or so they picked at their dinner, neither of them particularly committed to the endeavor, neither of them saying much. That was something else she'd always liked about Nick; they could talk, if she wanted, or they could sit in silence, and either way she was comfortable. He was comfortable, for her, never made demands of her or pushed her for more than she was willing to give. If she'd wanted to talk about Simon they could have faced it, but she didn't, and so they didn't. Simon's implosion was over, now; whatever he'd been struggling with, whatever he'd gotten himself mixed up in, it didn't matter, any more. He wasn't the Simon he had been, before, and the man he was now had chosen to walk away from them. They would mourn him, quietly, but life soldiered on. No time to stop and lament for what might have been, and no reason to, in any case; the thing was done. And she knew without need of conversation that Nick felt the same, that he'd already accepted it. Dunny would be grieving and Matty would be confused but Nick had watched the whole sorry play unfold, and he wouldn't waste his breath asking questions they'd never find the answers to.

"You ever think about quitting?" Jen asked him suddenly. She'd been thinking about Simon, and she'd been thinking about the closest she'd ever come to quitting herself, the first time she'd ever fired her gun and killed somebody. Close, but not close enough; the kid had been a menace, and he'd have killed her, or Simon, or his own bloody mum, if she hadn't gotten there first. She'd rationalized it, and gone right back to work, thrown herself back into the job that meant everything to her. But it was the same job that had left Simon a hollowed out shell of himself, and she was wondering, now, if the same fate lay in store for her. Who would she be without the job? She couldn't even imagine it. But then, Simon probably hadn't been able to imagine it before now, either.

"Sometimes," Nick answered, and the casual way he said it let her know he was telling the truth. The thought of it sent a chill lancing through her heart; after so long without him, after all these months of rediscovering how much more she liked to work with him beside her, the thought of going into work and not seeing his face was terrifying to her.

"What would you do, if you weren't doing this?"

"You'll laugh."

Jen smiled; just like that he'd made her curious, eased the tension between them; just like that, he'd made her feel better.

"I won't," she promised him. "Tell me."

"Construction," he said. She did laugh, but not because it was funny. It was just the last thing she'd expected him to say, somehow, and she couldn't even picture it, Nick with his uni degree and his years of training going off to swing a hammer all day.

"You said you wouldn't laugh!" he wore an expression of mock wounded pride; he was enjoying himself, she could tell.

"I did, I'm sorry. So. Construction."

"Yeah. I've always liked building things, making things. Bought a dump of a house just so I could fix it up myself. I can run electrical wiring and do a bit of plumbing, carpentry, that sort of thing. Sometimes I think it would be nice to just work all day, and come home at night knowing I'd made something useful."

And somehow, as incongruous as it had seemed at first, she realized she could see it. He'd always been fixing things up at the house, back when they were Trish and Wesley, had always liked working with his hands. He wanted to make things, not unravel them. And their work, what they did, was as much about destruction as it was resolution. Most of the crimes they investigated left a trail of wounded hearts behind them, families shattered by the dark truths they'd uncovered. Just like today, like finding little Eddie; Nick had knit Isobel's family back together, by returning her son to her, but he'd destroyed a family, too. Would little Eddie miss the people he thought were his parents? They'd surely grieve the loss of their "son", and Dorothy would spend time in prison, separated from her own children, and poor Isobel who was so relieved to have her son back had been handed a fae child, a changeling nothing like the infant she recalled. Nothing was as clear cut as they wanted it to be.

"You are useful, Nick," she told him softly.

He smiled that lopsided smile of his. "So are you, you know," he answered, his voice as soft as her own had been.

For a moment they sat, smiling at each other, thinking the sorts of thoughts they both knew were not allowed, given their current circumstances. Nick broke first; she'd told him no more, and he remembered her rules better than she did, sometimes. He made his excuses, rose to his feet, and she drifted along behind him as he made his way towards the door.

In her heart, Jen knew he didn't have to leave, and she knew he didn't want to, either. All it would take was one word from her; all she'd have to do was call his name, tell him wait, or please, and she knew he'd break, knew he'd gather her into his arms like he had done all those years before, knew he'd carry her back to her bed and give her everything she ever wanted. But only if she asked for it, only if she let him. And she wanted to let him; Christ, she wanted him to hold her, and never let her go. But if she gave into that want now, everything else would be lost. After the debacle with Simon their team was under extra scrutiny, and they couldn't take the risk. Maybe Nick was ready to trade in his badge for a toolbelt, if that's what it took for them to be together, properly, but Jen wasn't ready to let him. She wanted him beside her at work, wanted to watch him do what he did best, wanted to know they were both right where they needed to be. The current state of affairs made sense; any alternatives were cloaked in shadow, and she feared what lay in that darkness.

For a moment they lingered by the door; Jen wasn't quite ready to let him go and Nick wasn't quite ready to leave. She stepped up close to him, intent on opening the door for him, but as she did he hung his head, and her cheek brushed against his, and time seemed to stop. She could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, the shaky exhalation of his breath across her cheek. She could feel her heart crying out for him, and she could almost hear his answer. Why shouldn't we? She asked herself. Just once. After everything that's happened, Simon and the kid and all of it, why can't we take care of each other?

Because it wouldn't be just once, a calmer voice seemed to answer her from the depths of her mind. Not with him.

"Thanks, Jen," he whispered, and then he saved her from herself, opened the door on his own and stepped out into the night, and Jen just watched him go, feeling relieved and disappointed in almost equal measure.