3 September 2010
She was waiting for him just inside the door; he had no sooner stepped into their new house than he saw her, arms crossed over her chest, eyebrow furrowed with worry. In silence he closed the door behind him, allowed her brilliant eyes the opportunity to rove over his figure and determine for herself that he was well, and whole, still in one piece after meeting up with Hartono. It wasn't a guarantee, his safety; he knew she must have spent every moment of their time apart anxious, thinking about all sorts of unpleasant things that might have befallen him while he was away. People who pushed Hartono had a bad habit of ending up dead, as they well knew, and the spooks were pushing hard. Too hard.
Something's gotta give, he thought as he looked at her, this beautiful woman who had become the center of his whole world, the only rock he could cling to in the churning sea of betrayal and violence he'd found himself caught up in.
"Jen," he said her name, softly. The word was hardly more than a whisper, falling from his lips without any direction from his conscious mind; he ached for her, for her warmth, her counsel, her closeness, for her voice and her hands and her brave heart, for her, his Jen. Only that morning - Christ, was it only that morning? - his resolve had snapped and the words had come tumbling off his lips, and they had nearly...they had almost…
Jen reached for him, caught hold of his hand and turned away, marching urgently down the corridor. She did not speak, but he didn't need her to; he knew precisely where she was leading him, and why, and so he followed her, down the short corridor, across their spartan bedroom, and into the cramped little bathroom they now shared. She turned the shower on while he locked the door behind them; old habits, and all that. Both of them knew what they were doing, were well practiced now in the art of hiding themselves from the spooks. SIS would probably be pissed to see them disappear from view, to know they were deliberately hiding themselves and their conversation from observation, but SIS could hardly interrupt; Hartono might have them under surveillance even now, and Ratcliffe had already been by the house once today - not to mention that bullshit with the fake home intrusion. For now, just for this one moment, they were safe, and blessedly, blissfully alone.
After everything they'd endured today, the near-miss in the sitting room, the terror of finding guns pointing in their faces, the anxiety of Hartono's visit, Jen's careful confession before Nick left her, the bloody stupidity of going to see Hartono again, after all of it, there was nothing Nick wanted more than to be alone with her.
"Are you all right?" she asked him. Once more she'd crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the far wall while Nick stood by the door. There was not so much distance between them, not really. Sink to his left, shower pounding to his right, Jen right there on the other side of this small room; it all felt familiar in a way that made his heart skip a beat. They had been a bathroom like this one - well, the bathroom in the Sydney house was bigger, better equipped, and cleaner, but still - when they'd fallen into one another's arms the first time. A room just like this one, a fear just like this one, a need just like this one, steam billowing through the air above their heads. Only this time, this time if he reached for her he'd be risking so much more than he ever had before. This time, it wasn't just the operation that hung in the balance; it was everything. It was their jobs, their homes, their friends, their lives, their future. Everything; she was everything.
"Yeah," he said, pushing himself up off the door and taking two short steps towards her. He wanted to close that space between them, finish what they'd started that morning. He loved her, she loved him, they were alone, and he could have gone for it, he knew. Could have reached out and let his fingers brush against her chin, encouraged her to raise up on her toes, to let him have what he'd been missing for the last five years. Could have, but didn't; it seemed cruel, somehow, to push her to make such a decision, to urge her to rush back into his arms when everything around them was so uncertain. It wouldn't be fair, because a kiss now wouldn't just be a kiss, a moment of madness contained within these few days - or weeks, or months - they were stuck in this house, but would instead be a tidal wave of change, sweeping over every aspect of their life. It would not be fair to rush her into such a decision, he thought, whatever her feelings for him, and so he did not push. Only stood, a little closer to her than before but not close enough to touch, and when she caught his eye he did not look away.
"It went ok?" she asked. "With Hartono?"
"Well as could be expected. He was irritated but he wasn't going to cause a scene in public. Sent me away with no promises, just said he'd call. His back is up. It's not gonna be pretty."
"Fuck," she sighed, scrubbing a weary hand over her face. Nick didn't often hear her swear these days - she was always too professional for that - but he could remember the way it sounded when she breathed that word in his ear, driven by passion rather than frustration, and he balled his hands into fists, trying not to think about how badly he wanted her, how badly he longed to bury himself inside the warmth of her and forget everything that existed outside that room.
"They've got a plan-"
"A bullshit plan-"
"They've got a plan," he insisted, glossing over her protest. "And we know Hartono. We'll keep our eyes open, we'll stay safe. Meet him in public again next time, if we can manage it. He's not gonna shoot us where other people can see."
For a moment Jen was quiet. There was nothing else to say about Hartono, or what would happen next; he'd told her all there was to tell, and all that was left to them now was to wait, and to hope. To wait, alone, in this cramped, dusty house, in that bed that was hardly big enough for the pair of them together, in this life they'd found themselves trapped in.
"I hate this," she whispered.
"I know," Nick ducked his head as he answered, scuffed his shoes against the bathroom tiles
"And I don't want you to leave me again."
The expression on her face was desperate, almost, as desperate as Nick's own heart, miserable and scared and yet full of longing and he took two more steps, drawn in by the inexorable gravity of her beauty. He could not resist her; he'd never been able to hold himself back from her before, and now was no different.
She was still leaning against the wall, and so he reached for her, gently, let his palm press against her cheek, watched the way her eyelashes fluttered at the contact. That morning it was Jen who'd touched him; Nick had been too bloody terrified that he'd ruined their friendship to take such a risk, but she'd done it. She'd looked at him, and seen the yearning in his eyes, and reached for him, then, prepared to answer his declaration of devotion with a kiss. Would she answer his touch in kind now? In this moment when they were both frightened and heartsick and a hair's breadth from disaster?
"I won't leave you," he whispered fiercely. "Never."
For a moment her eyes locked on his, turning the word over in her mind. She knew what he meant, the promise he was making to her; Jen always knew just what he was thinking. And in this moment he was thinking how he loved her, how he loved to dance with her, drink with her, sleep with her, make love with her, go to the bloody shops with her, how every single moment of every single day was better with her in it, and how he would do anything in his power just to keep himself by her side, for as long as he drew breath. He would not leave her, not in this life or the one that would come after, the life waiting for them back home.
Jen turned her head, and pressed a gentle kiss to his palm, her lips soft and warm, sealing his vow there in the steam-filled bathroom of that shitty little house they both hated.
"I do, you know," she breathed. He felt the words in the brush of her lips against his skin, and shivered despite the warmth of the room. You know how I feel about you, he'd said to her, and she had not answered him with words, then, but he rather felt she was now, that she was thinking, even as he was, of what could have, would have happened between them if only they'd been allowed a moment's respite.
"I know," he said, very softly.
"And I…" her voice trailed off, her eyes soft as she stared at him, and he stared right back, his fingers tensing softly against her cheek.
"I know," he said. He did, and she did, and fuck it, he thought, and used the hand still cradling her face to pull her towards him. Just a little, just a tilt of her chin, and he saw a smile dance across her lips as he leaned towards her. Those perfect lips parted, and Nick drew in one long, slow breath, their noses brushing together for an instant, soft, comfortable, familiar, re-learning all the ways they could slot into place against one another. Smiling, hardly breathing, heats racing, his nose nuzzled against her cheek for a moment, but then she reached up and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, and he was powerless to resist her. He closed the space between them and let his lips brush hers once, softly, but Jen was having none of it. Of the pair of them she had always been the more impatient, and now was no different; her tongue surged past his lips and he wrapped his arms tight around her, hauled her hard against him as their kiss raced from soft and sweet to blindingly intense in a moment. She tasted the same, smelled the same, felt the same, and his heart sang in his chest. Kissing her felt like nothing so much as coming home, relief and joy and comfort all at once.
Deftly he turned them, hoisted her easily up onto the counter by the sink and stepped at once between her parted thighs, let her legs lock round his hips while her fingers drifted softly through his hair and her tongue slid against his own. It had been like this, the first time between them - and several times after that - and while Nick would have given anything to have her in a proper bed, his bed, there was a beautiful sort of symmetry to it, he thought. Starting over, not for the first time, nor even really for the second, forging themselves anew, pledging their devotion with gentle hands and heated words. It had been five years since the last time he'd touched her, kissed her, loved her, five years of yearning and near misses. It had been more than a year, now, of quiet drinks and falling asleep beside her but keeping his hands to himself, more than a year of pretending she was a mate, same as any other, and his resolve was at a breaking point. She was all he wanted, and she was here, kissing him messily, scraping her nails against his scalp, using the leverage of her legs around his waist to rock him against her. He was half-hard from the memory of her alone, and the current vision of her blonde hair, softly curling at the ends from the steam, her grey eyes wide and bright, her hips lithe and lovely beneath his hands, was working wonders for the other half. The rest of it could wait, he thought, the conversations about what came next and what they'd be to one another; right now, he had to have her.
And so he redoubled his efforts, caught her bottom lip between his teeth until she whined, let one of his hands trail over her soft thigh, heading for the warmth between her legs, but he never made it. The shrill blaring of his mobile tore them both out of the moment; he was reaching for it almost before he'd stopped kissing her, but by the time he held the phone to his ear they had both let go of any hope of continuing this dalliance. Jen sighed, and let her head fall forward to rest on his shoulder as Nick answered the call.
