2 September 2010
The door swung closed behind Ratcliffe, and they were suddenly, oppressively alone. They hadn't been alone since they returned to the station from the bathhouse, not properly. There had been people underfoot at the office, and then they'd been saddled with Allie, and then the spooks had swept them away, kept them under surveillance in the warehouse overnight while they tried to study their legends. They hadn't even been alone in the bloody taxi; it had been driven by a spook, and Jen had no doubt the man had been listening out for any conversation between them. But they were, now, alone, the house still and silent as a grave, no other bodies milling about, just Jen and Nick, utterly, completely alone. Alone but for the cameras and the microphones; the spooks were always watching, and the memories came washing over Jen in waves at the thought. Memories of whispered conversations, hiding their hands and their tears from the cameras, memories of him, Wesley, and Nick, all of him, as he had been, before. Touching her gently, speaking to her kindly, protecting her, always.
It had been different, the first time they'd found themselves alone in a temporary home. She hadn't known him, then, and they hadn't been in any particular hurry. They'd explored their new house, and Wesley had made her a cup of tea, and they'd talked about shopping and dinner, dancing carefully around one another, so new to the experience, to each other. This time, though, SIS had told them to reach out to Hartono as soon as they were settled, pushing them for a quick entry into his world. Maybe that made sense, she tried to tell herself; they'd gone slow the first time because Hartono didn't know them, because they needed to handle their introductions carefully. This time he knew them well, knew that they had worked for him, gone to jail for him; maybe this time things would be easier.
"Jen," Nick started to say, his voice very low. The expression in his eyes was a worried one, and Jen understood that worry all too well. Everything was different, now; they knew exactly who Hartono was, exactly how dangerous he could be, and they knew, too, that when SIS said indefinitely they meant it. When the first job started Jen had thought she'd be in Sydney no more than a month or two, and thirteen months later she'd been so shattered by the work she hardly knew who she was, any more. Four years before her own life had been less settled, and the choice to leave it behind had seemed an easy one. Now, though, now she and Nick both had something to go home to. He had his house, had found his way back to Homicide, and she had her work, and her friends, and they had each other, the quiet chats over drinks, the terrible nights when they fell into bed clinging to one another, unable to sleep without the other one near. Hiding the growing closeness between them was easy when all they had to do was dodge their friends; how were they meant to do it now, to share the same space under the watchful eye of SIS and not give themselves away entirely?
"Let's get settled," she said, a bit too brightly. That's what SIS had told them, to ring Hartono when they were settled. They'd given Nick a mobile with Hartono's number programmed into it, pressed it into his hands while taking his own away, stranding both he and Jen once more in a web of lies and treachery. A petulant part of her heart wanted to take that mobile and smash it, to take Nick's hand and run like hell for home, but she knew that she could not, and so decided the best thing for them both would be to simply rip the plaster off. Put their meager belongings away and ring Hartono now, before they had a chance to think better of it.
Nick had dropped their bags in the sitting room, and so that's where Jen went next. She walked away from him, quickly, not wanting to see the hurt on his face, the knowing look in his eyes. Somehow he had always known, when she was scared, when she was troubled, when she was hiding behind a facade of certainty, and she didn't need a reminder of her own vulnerabilities now.
With her bag in hand she made her way down the corridor. Perhaps this house, like the Sydney house, had a spare bed somewhere, but she didn't bother looking for it, not this time. That was a pretense she didn't have the energy to keep up. If they were going to get through this she would need him beside her, no matter how much it might hurt.
The master suite was small, like the rest of the house, and so was the bed in the center of the room. Jen flung her bag into a corner and walked to the window, trying to ignore the sight of that bed, that silent, damning reminder that she would be spending her next few nights - and perhaps more than a few - next to him. A few times since he'd walked back into her life they'd found themselves in bed next to each other, desperately seeking comfort, but it had not happened again since June, since Nick killed William Clegg and wept in her arms. Something had changed between them that night, she knew. She'd felt them hurtling towards something, closer than they ought to have been; the longing she felt to hold him had grown so strong it brought a lump to her throat just to think of it now. He'd not come back to her bed since that night, but they'd been spending more and more time together outside of work, and there had been that chilly night in August when he'd held out his hand to her, danced with her, the warmth of him a temptation and a curse. She wanted him, she knew that now, felt that want flooding through her veins every time he drew too near, but she could not have him. Their jobs, their futures, depended on their ability to keep things professional, to maintain the boundaries their work - and now their government - demanded of them, but she wanted him, his warmth, his certainty, his love, all of him, every bit, and the wanting hurt like no other hunger she'd ever known.
I don't think I can do this, she thought, staring out the window. How was she meant to conceal her feelings, to keep her distance from him, when he had once again become the only person in the world she could trust? How were they ever going to make it through this nightmare in one piece?
The soft sound of his footfall behind her alerted her to his presence; he had followed her to the bedroom, though he seemed to be keeping his distance. Jen knew that if she turned to face him she would find him leaning in the doorway, watching her quietly; she could almost see the expression on his face when she closed her eyes, for she knew him well, and she knew he would not hide his heart from her, even as he tried to keep his distance. That was his way, giving her space, never intruding without invitation. He would be waiting, she knew. Waiting for her.
"I hope I sleep better this time," she said, staring out the window. For thirteen months she'd been sleep-deprived, unable to close her eyes until the small hours of the morning, plagued by fears and doubts. She turned to face him, and there he was, in the doorway, watching her, his eyes soft and sad, looking exactly the way she'd known he would. Looking like this was breaking him in half, having to stay on the other side of the room, not being able to say the words she knew he was so desperate to give voice. They were being watched, now, and he would mind his tongue, but he could not shield his eyes from her. For a moment she looked at him, the exhausted slump of his shoulders, the dejected expression in his eyes. The stupid bloody shirt they'd given him to wear was hideous, but the leather jacket he'd tossed over it was quite nice, she thought. It suited him, and she wondered idly whether he owned anything like it, whether he might want to.
"You," she said, trying and failing to smile, "you always slept well."
It was always Nick who fell asleep first, always his soft steady breaths that lulled her into dreams. Nothing ever seemed to bother him; he had managed the strife and uncertainty of their life the way he did everything, calmly, quietly. And most nights as he slept he had turned to her, and wrapped her in his arms, and she had melted back against him, safe and content.
Nick didn't answer her, not with words, but she saw the flicker of sorrow on his face. Did it bother him, that she hadn't slept easily beside him? Did he miss it, sometimes, the quiet domesticity, the comfort of having her near? Would he have told her so, if only the spooks weren't listening?
Slowly Jen crossed the room, settled herself down on the bed, and Nick heaved himself off the doorframe, and came to sit beside her. She hadn't asked for him, but she wanted him with her, and he knew it. He settled heavily on her left side, his arm and shoulder pressed firm to hers, a reassurance in the touch, and in silence he held out his hand to her. Without a moment's hesitation, she took it.
Jen knew what this was, why he had offered her his hand, the unspoken promise he had made, in reaching out for her. I'll be your net, and you'll be mine, that was the vow they'd made to one another. When she'd left him all those many years before she had thought their separation put an end to that promise. She'd thought she'd never see him again, thought she forget it all, as if it had been no more than a bad dream. But then he'd returned to her, and had continued to fight for her, with her, to support her and shoulder her burdens in this life, in precisely the same way he had done before. He had made a promise, and he had kept it, and he was reminding her of that now. Whatever came next, she would not be alone; he would be with her now and always, not a stranger but a partner, a mate, her best friend in all the world, the one person she loved more than anyone else.
"You ready for this?" he asked, drawing the mobile from his pocket, holding it out in front of him. "Once I make the call there's no backing out."
Am I ready? She asked herself. Ready to face Hartono again, ready to sink once more into Trish Claybourne's skin, ready for the lies, ready to share her life with Nick, all of it, not just a few minutes over a pint but all her nights and all her mornings and every piece of herself, indefinitely? He waited for her, watching her, still and quiet. Nick knew that of the pair of them she was the one who'd had the most trouble with the work, the first time around. It was Jen who had chafed at being left out, feeling as if her hands were tied, as if she couldn't do enough, Jen who had hated the lies and dodging the cameras more than he did, or more than he'd let her see. And even though they had no choice, even though SIS had them both over a barrel, even though their previous agreement had been sealed in blood and could not be violated, he had tried to offer her a choice, a chance to run, to turn back, to ask for a reprieve. And she loved him for it, however foolish it might have been.
"Make the call," she said with as much conviction as she could muster. Waiting wouldn't change things. Waiting wouldn't make it easier to see Hartono again, wouldn't banish the worries that plagued her. You have to forget about everything else, she told herself as Nick dialed the phone. She had to forget about Duncan and Matt and the rest, the questions they might have, the battles they would be hard pressed to win without Jen and Nick there to help. She had to forget about her house, and the work Nick was doing to fix up his sitting room, and the dance they'd shared in the pub. The time had come to set it all aside, and get back to this, to Trish and Wesley, to his hand wrapped around her own, to Hartono and guns and shipments and the bloody spooks.
As the phone began to ring Nick turned towards her, and after a moment he spoke.
"Mr. Hartono," he said, and the sound of that name in his mouth lanced through her sharp as a knife. "Wesley Claybourne." He paused for a moment. "Yeah," he said then. "Yeah, it has been a long time."
Not long enough, Jen thought darkly. A lifetime would not have been long enough, to go without hearing that man's voice again. But the call had been placed, and the wheels were turning, and there would be no going back from this. It had begun.
