2 September 2010
Nick lay stiff as a board, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. The bed was too small, smaller than the one they'd shared the first go around; he'd settled himself as far over on his side of the bed as he could without risking a tumble to the floor, but his shoulder was still brushing Jen's. Jen, who was equally tense, staring up at the ceiling and breathing slowly, deeply, in an exaggerated sort of way that let him know she was anxious and trying to calm herself down. They'd left the light on; they'd still not heard from Hartono yet, and neither of them would be ready to sleep until they did. If they ever did; the phone call from Wesley Claybourne might have spooked him, left him suspicious. Hell, if Nick were in his shoes he'd have suspicions aplenty. An old acquaintance turning up out of the blue, after years in prison, right when Hartono was on the verge of some big operation; the whole thing stank, and it didn't sit well with Nick. The first go round SIS had been patient, had given Nick and Jen the time and the space to earn Hartono's trust, to infiltrate his business, to be unobtrusive, to be careful. This time, though, everything was rushed. They were in too big a hurry, and they were making mistakes. The house, for one; it was rundown and the furnishings were pitiful, and there was no budget for buying the odds and ends that would make it seem like a home. And then there was that phone call, SIS breathing down their necks to reach out to Hartono as soon as possible, to push him for a meet instead of waiting for him to come to them as they'd always done in the past. McAllister's impatience was making him restless, and Nick and Jen were caught in the middle, their lives in the hands of a man they wouldn't dare trust.
The mobile chirped and Nick reached for it automatically, reading out the message for the benefit of the spooks who were no doubt watching them at that very moment while Jen laid her head on the pillow next to his, close enough to read the message for herself.
"Will meet tomorrow at 11:00. H."
"Is that it?" Jen demanded, her voice brittle with nerves. "No other details?"
"Short and to the point," Nick told her as he set the mobile aside. He wanted to say more, to offer her reassurances, but he knew the root of their problems at present was a man who might very well have been listening to their every word, and he chose caution over comfort, however much he wished he could do otherwise. "He hasn't changed."
"Is he coming with a deal or with a gun?"
Nick didn't answer her; he couldn't. Somehow he felt as if he and Jen knew better than this new crop of spooks how to handle Hartono; these men were convinced Hartono would respond to Wesley's urging, that he wouldn't do the dirty work himself, but Nick knew better. Nick had been there, when Hartono shot the informant in the container himself, and he had seen Hartono withdraw from pushy businessmen more times than he could count. Christ, didn't they read the notes from the first operation? Hartono was wary and dangerous, and SIS was bumbling around like this was their first time dealing with him.
Maybe it left a sour taste in Jen's mouth, too; she leaned over and switched off the lamp, and plunged them both into darkness. The darkness was more comfortable, for Nick; SIS couldn't see his lips moving, if he whispered to Jen then. He could close his eyes, and pretend he was somewhere else, in her bed across town, lying together at the end of a shitty day, the way they'd done so many times before. Only if he were in her bed he'd be more comfortable, and no one would be watching, and he wouldn't hesitate to roll over, to pull her into his arms. If he were in her bed she might have let him. Back in their own lives they were, he thought, right on the verge of something; she'd let him take her hand, dance with her in some shitty bar where no one knew their names, sighed and let him pull her in closer. Maybe he should have pushed for more, then. Maybe she'd wanted him to.
He couldn't now, though. Now when everything was fractious and tense, when they'd been ripped out of their own lives and thrust back into the Claybournes' skin. The first time around they'd fallen together slowly, found comfort with one another, and either SIS didn't care about what they got up to when they disappeared into the bathroom together or they figured it was good for their cover. Things couldn't be more different, now. There was no time to ease into it, and he was fairly certain McAllister would skin them both alive, tank their careers and worse, if they didn't perform exactly the way he wanted them to. There was a sense of impending disaster hanging over their heads that hadn't been there, before. Maybe because they'd chosen it, the first time, and this time it had been thrust upon them, and they'd had no say in the matter. Maybe because now he knew her, cared for her, loved her, even, maybe, and could not bear the thought of her coming to harm.
In the darkness he could still hear her breathing, unsteadily now, and so he ventured a quiet question.
"You ok?" he asked as softly as he could.
She turned to look at him, but all he could see was the whites of her eyes, watching him. What did she see when she looked at him now? His fear, his concern for her, the way he longed, with everything he had, to keep her safe? Whatever it was, she didn't look for long; she turned her head away, stared up at the ceiling again.
"I think I can do this," she said on a sigh, her words as soft as his own had been.
Christ, he wanted to touch her. It was killing him to see her so afraid, and him unable to do anything about it. The first time around she'd been green and out of her depth; she'd not been a copper as long as he had, then, hadn't worked on Homicide, yet, hadn't had to fire her gun or duck from an incoming bullet. SIS had kept her in the dark, unaware of the prize asset they'd landed for themselves, and she'd been grumpy about finding herself on the back foot. Now, though, he'd spent a year working with her in Homicide, and he'd seen how her confidence had grown, how she'd become one of the best coppers he'd ever known. She wasn't green, any more; she was steadier, now, and stronger, the best partner he'd ever had. Maybe finding herself back in Trish Claybourne's clothes had brought back those old doubts, he thought. Maybe she was worried she was no better off now than she had been the first time. That wasn't true, and Nick knew it, but somehow he didn't think she'd thank him for saying it.
She was too stiff, too tense; she wouldn't be drifting off to sleep any time soon, he thought as he settled his head on the pillows, close enough to her to smell the soft scent of her shampoo. Maybe he should say something. But what reassurance could he offer her? This operation seemed doomed to end in calamity, and he wouldn't lie to her about that. SIS was watching, and he couldn't distract her with thoughts of what they'd do when they got back home; he didn't know when - or if - they'd ever make it back home, and besides, maybe this whole thing would sour her on him, remind her that they weren't meant to be anything other than colleagues, would make her want to run as far and as fast from these memories as she could. If only he knew what she wanted, maybe he could have given it to her, but there were too many questions, and not enough answers.
There was only one thing he could say to her, and so he shifted his head just a little bit closer to her, unwound his arms from across his chest and let his fingertips brush against the back of her hand.
"Hey," he whispered. "I've got you."
He could give her nothing more than that, that promise he had made to her so long before, tried so hard to keep. Whatever happened, with this operation and after, whatever she needed, he would be there for her, to support her, to protect her, always. That woman owned him now, he knew; maybe she always had done.
"I can't do this without you," she whispered back, turning her hand over and catching hold of his, their fingers winding together beneath the duvet. It was telling, he thought, that she'd say such a thing to him; she must have been worried, as he was, that they were in for trouble, and she must have been terrified, as he was, that one or the other of them might be lost in the bargain. It was too terrible to contemplate; after everything they'd been through, their first marriage, their time apart, their shocking reunion, every moment of every day that had passed since, they were now, more than ever, a matched set. They belonged with one another, Trish and Wesley, Nick and Jen, and their names were meant to be said together.
"I'm right here, sweetheart," he breathed. And I always will be.
She sniffled, just a little, and he realized then that she was crying. If it hadn't been for the cameras he would have hauled her hard against him, let her bury her face in his neck, would have kissed her, told her he loved her. No maybes, this time; the touch of her hand, and the way his heart cried out in response to it, settled that for him, once and for all. He loved her, and all he wanted was a life where he could do so freely, without fear. A sudden urge to rip off the duvet, take her by the hand, and run straight out the door washed over him; what he wouldn't give, to put all this shit behind them. To find some place quiet where they could just be, not coppers or spooks or anything but Nick and Jen.
Maybe one day, he tried to tell himself. Maybe when this is over…
Then what? He kept coming back to that same question. Even if they survived this job unscathed there were other considerations. Their jobs for one; they couldn't shag and work together at the same time, and he would never allow himself to be the reason Jen lost Homicide. And there was Jen herself to consider; she'd let him hold her, let him sleep beside her, let him draw her into his arms and dance her round the kitchen, but back in their own lives, in their own homes, was he really what she wanted? Or was it only that she was comfortable with him, still trying to work out where Trish and Wesley stopped, and Nick and Jen began? Nick had found the answer to that question for himself already; as far as he was concerned, there was no Trish and Wesley. All of it, every touch, every quiet word, every dance, every kiss, had always been Nick and Jen, his heart reaching out for hers. But did she feel the same? Could she ever?
He didn't know, not really. Before now he'd been ready to bide his time, to wait and see what decision Jen might come to, if any. But if this operation went tits up, he might lose her for good, and then what would become of him?
Everything is changing, he thought. The ground was shifting beneath his feet, sand receding into a shadowy sea. He felt himself lost, stumbling, hurtling towards something, but he did not know, yet, what that something might be. He could only pray that it was her; Jen was his touchstone, his dearest friend, the only person in the world who mattered to him, and he would not, could lose her, not now.
Lying there, breathing in the scent of her, her hand warm and soft in his, the sound of her unsteady breaths filling his ears, he tried, like hell, to hold on. To this moment, this connection, this feeling of her beside him, but she had always been a comfort to him, and in the comfort of her his eyes closed, and sleep stole slowly over him.
