4 March 2005

As Nick pulled the car to a stop he lingered behind the wheel, warring with himself. It wasn't that he was unhappy to be home - for he had begun to think of this little house in Sydney as home, now, thinking of Melbourne less and less - nor was it that he feared what he might find inside. He knew what waited for him, when he stepped from the car and made his way into the house at last; Trish, beautiful, brilliant Trish, would be inside, perhaps whipping up something for their supper or perusing their stack of paper menus from local takeaways, trying to decide what she wanted to eat. Trish would be there, sweet, feisty Trish, who teased him and challenged him and delighted him in equal measure. She'd had lunch alone with Marcy, a rare opportunity for her to speak to the woman without a flock of eavesdropping harpies to take note of their discussions, and Nick did not doubt for a moment that if Marcy knew something worth knowing Trish would find a way to get it out of her. Nick had news of his own to share; Hartono had requested a meeting with the Claybournes for the following morning, to discuss the shipment of some delicate, off the books cargo. Nick rather suspected this might be it, the moment they were waiting for; if they could tie Hartono to something really preposterous, perhaps the live cargo that Frank had hinted at back at Christmas, they might have a chance to bring him down, for good.

None of that gave Nick pause, however. What bothered him, at present, was the small bouquet of flowers sitting on the passenger's seat beside him.

Trish had confessed to him in a quiet voice that morning that today was, in fact, her birthday. Her actual birthday, not Trish's; that was still a few weeks off. Funny that, he thought, that both he and his partner should share birthdays so close to their counterparts. If he had been the superstitious sort he might have thought it was a sign, or something, some indication that they were somehow meant for this, meant to play these parts, meant to find one another. Trish had been kind to him at his birthday back in January, and he meant to be kind to her now, had stopped off at a shop and purchased the flowers and a single cupcake. She had quite the sweet tooth, did Trish, and he thought she ought to have something, on her birthday.

Only now, now he wasn't so sure it had been the right decision at all. It had been just under three weeks since that night on Hartono's yacht, that night he'd lost his head completely, and kissed her. It was the stupidest thing he could have done, and he knew it; she'd been ready to go off to bed, to go to sleep, to continue this delicate dance where they were married in public and something else in private, but she'd been so achingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful, and the shine of the stars and the softness of her skin and the brilliance of her had left him mad, and foolish. It was Nick who pulled her in, Nick who kissed her, let her settle on his lap, let his hands wander. It was Trish who knew better, who'd pulled back from him - however regretfully - Trish who'd left him half-hard and miserable, wondering if he'd ruined things between them.

From that day to this she had been nothing but kind to him, and likewise had refused point-blank to discuss what happened. When he finally went below decks to join her that night she'd been sleeping, or pretending to be; she never fell asleep before he did, and he rather suspected she had only kept her eyes closed and her breathing even to spare them both the unpleasantness of discussing that kiss while they lay half naked in bed together. The next morning she'd been her usual self, grumbling when he woke her and yet sliding seamlessly into her role the moment they joined the others. So long as they were not alone she still reached for him, held his hand, brushed her fingertips against him with a smile, but in private she withdrew, and that continued once they returned to the house. She did not join him when he went to putter around the garden as she once had done, had taken to sitting in the armchair rather than next to him on the sofa, chose pajamas that covered her more fully despite the burn of summer in the air. It seemed to him that Trish had been trying to maintain the professional distance their work called for despite his monumental lack in judgement, and he knew he ought to be grateful to her, for finding the strength to carry on even after he had placed them both in such an unbearable position.

He might have felt rather guilty, about the whole thing, given the way she had retreated into her shell in the days since their clinch on the boat, had she not kissed him back, had she not, in the moment, given every indication that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. It was Trish who'd gladly sprawled herself across his lap, Trish who'd caught his face in her hands and brought him closer to her as if asking him for more, Trish who ground her hips down against him and gasped into his mouth when she felt him already beginning to harden beneath her. It was Trish who'd wound her fingers through his hair and held his face against her neck, rocking her hips so that he could almost feel the heat and the wetness of her through the layers that separated them. No, he did not doubt, not for one moment, that she had enjoyed that kiss, and so it was not guilt he felt, or not only guilt. Mostly it was frustration; he was sick and bloody tired of the lies and the clothes and the stupid job, sick of having to perform for the cameras every second of the day, sick of Hartono and Frank and the spreadsheets and the spooks' constant calls for updates. He was sick of Sydney, sick of keeping his mouth shut, sick of pretending.

Under any other circumstances it would have been easy, he thought. He wanted her, she wanted him. If they had been anyone else, anywhere else, he could have taken her out to dinner and held her hand in the car and smiled when she invited him in and then he could have blessed every inch of her skin with the affection, the admiration, the desire he felt for her until they were both sweaty and sated and happy, with one another. But the bloody spooks were watching their every move, hanging on their every word. You don't fuck us, and you don't fuck each other, that's what Abdul had told him. There was no telling what might happen, if they violated that rule now, but Nick knew it would not be pleasant. The spooks could kick him off this operation, but they could also get him blackballed from work, make sure no police department in the country would hire him, leave him penniless and homeless. They might even be able to charge him with something, although Nick wasn't entirely clear on that point. Worse still, though, they could do that to her, and Nick cared about her too much to risk her livelihood, her future, for a shag. He had promised to protect her, and now he had to protect her from himself. Somehow she had found the fortitude to reconstruct the boundaries between them, and he knew that he must do the same.

Only he'd gone and bought her flowers. Was that too much? He asked himself now. Would he have done it for someone else, someone who was just a mate? Probably not, but then most of his mates were men, and didn't go in for flowers or displays of sentimentality. Maybe it was different, if the mate in question were a woman. Maybe this was allowed.

Oh, bugger it, he thought. He reached out, grabbed hold of the flowers and the cupcake, and rushed out of the car and into the house before he could begin to second guess himself once more.

"I'm home!" he called as he opened the door, but Trish didn't answer. Likely she couldn't hear him; some terrible eighties pop ballad was blaring in the kitchen, and he grinned to himself as he kicked off his shoes, and let the music lead him to her.

When he found her he laughed; he couldn't help it. She wore a pair of soft black shorts and a white tank top, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that swayed as she moved, dancing round the kitchen to the beat of the music. It seemed she was trying to cook; there were several pots on the stove and dishes everywhere he looked. Trish always managed to dirty every dish in the house when she cooked, and he shouldn't have found that endearing, but he did just the same. Most miraculous of all, however, she was singing. And it wasn't some terrible shrieking or the low, half-hearted hum that was all he could muster. She was singing, and she was singing beautifully, and for a moment he simply leaned in the doorway, listening, for he had not known, before then, that she had such a marvelous voice, and had he not already been half in love with her the sound and the sight of her as she was now, free, and happy, would have been enough to tip him over the edge.

She turned suddenly and caught sight of him, stopping dead in her tracks, her voice giving out at once, though she offered him a sheepish smile.

"Don't stop on my account," he called over the music, and she laughed, rushed over to the little stereo to turn the volume down. Her song was finished, anyway; a newer, softer one began to play as Nick made his way into the kitchen.

"Sorry," she said.

"Nothing to be sorry for." Sweetheart, he added in his mind. He was trying not to call her that when they were alone, not anymore. "Decided to give the spooks a show, eh?" he teased her gently, gesturing vaguely towards the ceiling, the invisible cameras and mics that dogged their every step.

"They're going to watch anyway, might as well make it fun," she said shrugging, but then she raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, and he remembered the burdens he carried. "Are those for me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered at once, holding out the flowers and the cupcake to her. "Happy birthday."

She stepped up to him and relieved him of his burdens, her expression soft, now, not sheepish or distrusting or doubtful, but something else he could not quite name.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "They're beautiful."

In a reflexive sort of gesture she lifted the flowers to her face, her eyes fluttering closed as she breathed in the soft scent, and Nick's hands itched to reach out to her, to hold her, though he held himself in check.

"You ought to have something special," he said. "For your birthday."

She smiled up at him over the flowers, her face so sweet and lovely his heart nearly broke at the sight, and a lump of emotion lodged itself in the back of his throat, longing and disappointment swirling miserably inside him.

"I'll just-"

"Let me-"

They moved at the same instant, reaching for the cabinet that held their small collection of glass vases, and the smallest, softest of gasps slipped past her lips as her body came into contact with his.

He should have stepped back. He should have given her space, mumbled an apology, gone off to change his clothes, but she was lovely, and warm, and close, her arm against his chest, and when he looked down into her eyes he saw it, saw that her heart, like his own, was caught in the impossible tug of war between want and duty. Worst of all she let him see it, did not step away or duck her gaze but let herself stand with him, and let him see, that she did not hate him for what he'd done, that he was not alone in yearning. A second passed, and another, and another; they were hardly breathing at all, the pair of them, and tension seemed to spark in the air between them, but the spooks were watching, listening, and Nick felt keenly the need to do something, anything, to shake them both out of it.

"Dance with me," he said.

That was absolutely not what he should have done, but it was what he wanted to do. He wanted to hold her, to offer her some reassurance, wanted to find some way to be close to her that would not bring calamity down on their heads. Surely, he thought, they wouldn't be fired for a dance, and maybe if they danced he could whisper to her softly, tell her in words too low for the spooks to hear that he was sorry, that he missed the closeness they'd shared before the night he'd lost his head and kissed her.

"I do like this song," she said, and his heart gave a great leap in his chest as he realized she was not rejecting him as she perhaps ought to have done.

Carefully Trish laid her gifts down on the counter, and let him reach for her, one hand settling at the small of her back while the other wrapped around hers. It wasn't the first time they'd danced, but this felt different, somehow; the first time they had been hardly more than strangers, in a room full of people, all eyes on them and no room for error. Now they were alone, had drawn so much closer, learned so much more about one another. Now the warmth and the softness of her in his arms was not a foreign sensation but an achingly familiar one, and holding her now comforted him as much as it wounded him.

Slowly Nick bowed his head, let his cheek rest next to hers as they swayed together, bodies warm and comfortable at close proximity now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hardly audible over the music. In his arms Trish relaxed, just a little, let herself push even closer to him.

"I'm not," she whispered back. "Not about...that. I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Nick tightened his grip against her hand, held her close while they rocked together. Perhaps it should have hurt more, knowing that she felt as much disappointment as he did, knowing that she wished things were different, but in truth it reassured him. He knew, now, that he wasn't imagining it, that she had responded to him because she wanted to. He knew, now, that he wasn't alone, that she understood the frustration in his heart well, for she felt it herself. What a pair we make, he thought.

"Me, too," he told her. Maybe if things had been different, maybe if they'd met under different circumstances, maybe in another life they could have had each other, all of each other, the way they wanted. All they had, though, was this, a quiet dance in a borrowed house, a few precious moments when they could touch each other without fear. All they had was one another, and he was more grateful than words could say to have her. If he had to live this lie, there was no one he wanted by his side more than her, no matter how much it hurt.

Trish sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, and Nick just held her, dancing slowly in the fading light streaming in through their kitchen windows. It was enough. It had to be enough.