13 May 2005
"All right, sweetheart," Jen said softly, speaking to him as if he were a recalcitrant housecat, and not a full grown man head and shoulders taller than she was. "Here we go, Wes. Here we go."
He was leaning on her heavily, his eyes half closed, shuffling along as she led him through their bedroom, into the bathroom. For once she didn't worry about the cameras seeing both of them disappear into that room together; the spooks knew damn good and well exactly what had happened, and they knew Wesley would need her, now. There was a whole hell of a lot they didn't know, but just this once she knew she'd be granted a reprieve.
Friday the thirteenth, Jen thought grimly as she steered Wesley into the bathroom, eased him down to sit on the closed lid of the loo. It's meant to be unlucky, isn't it?
It had been, for them, damned unlucky. For the second time in two months they'd found themselves caught in the crossfire, dodging bullets and clinging to one another. For the second time in two months they'd watched someone they counted a friend die right in front of them, and nothing they could do to stop it. This time, though, they hadn't come through their ordeal unscathed; there was a massive gash along Wesley's bicep, hidden now beneath a heavy layer of bandages. His left arm, close to his heart; the arm he'd used to catch hold of her, draw her hard against him. A few inches to the inside, and he'd be gone, now, and her, too, probably.
"A bath, I think," Jen said, spinning away from him. His eyes were vacant, half from the pain meds the back alley doctor had given him when Abdul took him to get cleaned up, and half from grief. The mind had a way of shutting down, when life grew too terrible to bear; Jen had seen it often enough in her own life, felt it often enough, to recognize that the pain in his heart was worse than the pain in his arm. The doc had cut the sleeve clean off his shirt - good riddance, Jen thought, she hated those bloody awful shirts - but there was blood and dirt all over him, and her, too, from their tumble to the ground.
While she faffed around with the bath, trying to get the water as hot it would go, hot enough to purge them both of the horror of this evening, the silence settled heavy on Jen's shoulders. Ordinarily she didn't mind the silence, and especially not with him; Wesley had a way of making silence seem friendly, comfortable. He measured every word, and only spoke when he needed to, and most of the time he didn't need to anyway; she understood him well enough by now. She knew him, his clever mind, his gentle heart, his steadfast determination. She knew him, and she loved him, and he'd almost -
Jen drew in a ragged breath and closed her eyes, hoping to clear her head. But the sound of the water rushing to fill the bath and the silence from Wesley just sent her ricocheting back in time, back to the moment when everything had gone to shit. Again.
It was a Friday, and a pleasant evening, and they'd gone round to Frank and Marcy's for drinks. Frank had something on his mind and Wesley had been hoping the drinks would loosen him up, hoping that tonight they'd learn something that could move the operation forward. They'd all gone out to the garden to enjoy the last of the autumn sunshine, sipping cocktails and laughing. Marcy and Jen had been standing near the grill, talking about their next planned outing with the girls, and Wesley had been standing with Frank, watching him flip their steaks and talking about work. It had been the most ordinary sort of scene, out on the grass behind Frank and Marcy's palatial home, a place Wesley and Jen had been often enough for it to feel familiar, and safe. Wes thought maybe Frank might know something about a shipment of human cargo in the works, and maybe he did; it was too late to find out, now. It was too late, because while they'd all been standing around, chatting and drinking, a car had rolled by, and pop pop pop, the bullets had exploded into their little group.
Marcy screamed, Frank went down, Wesley dove for Jen, caught her round the middle and tackled her to the dirt, sheltered her head beneath his chest and waited for the horror to pass. He'd left himself exposed, again, risked everything to keep her safe. With her eyes closed Jen could still hear it, the rush of blood in her ears, Wes's panting breaths, Marcy's screams, ending abruptly. It was over as quickly as it had begun; the car peeled off, and Wes had caught her face in his hands, his eyes traveling over her, trying to reassure himself that she was all right. That was when Jen noticed the blood on his arm; he told her didn't even feel it, the bullet that sliced through his flesh like a knife, hot as hellfire. Maybe he hadn't; adrenaline was a funny old thing.
They sat up together, Jen and Wesley, and that was when Abdul turned up, running across the grass. Where he'd been hiding, how much he'd seen, why he hadn't stopped it - whether he even could - Jen didn't know. He'd dragged them to their feet and waited with them until the police arrived, and all the while Wes was bleeding. Jen had taken his good arm, looped it round her shoulders, done her best to hold him up. They couldn't talk, not with Abdul there, not with Frank and Marcy bleeding on the grass. Jen had wanted to check them both for a pulse, but Abdul had shot her a pitying look, and put an end to that at once. It didn't take long for the cops to arrive, and Abdul had flashed a badge and muttered something to them in a voice too low for Jen to hear it, passed off his card and then herded his charges away, just like that. There were men in suits coming across the grass as they departed; no doubt SIS intended to take over the investigation for themselves. They could have it, as far as Jen was concerned, she was done with this shit.
"All right, I think we're ready," Jen said, finally turning back to look at him. The bath was full and the door was locked; they were alone, again, but she felt as if she couldn't breathe, choking on her fear and her sorrow. Wesley looked as wrung out as she felt; his head hung low on his shoulders, and he didn't look up when she spoke.
"Here we go, sweetheart," she said, crossing the room to stand in front of him, kneeling at his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Abdul had taken them to an office that looked suspiciously like a veterinarians, and the doctor had opened the back door for them, bustled them through it with cool efficiency and not a single question. He'd cut the sleeve off Wesley's shirt, gave him pills to take and water to drink, and then cleaned and stitched his wound in record time. The bullet had just grazed him, but graze didn't do justice to the extent of the damage, to Jen's mind. The cut was deep, and red, and angry, and caked with blood. It would be days before he could raise that arm above his head, let alone carry anything. I'll carry it for him, Jen swore to herself as she knelt before him, reached for his shirt buttons and began to carefully unfasten them. He'd do the same for her if their roles were reversed.
The hollow look in his eyes was terrifying, and so Jen kept her gaze focused on her own hands. He was everything to her, the only person she could count on, and she didn't know what would become of her if she lost him. She damn near had, lost him, and her whole body shook at the very thought.
"Can you stand up for me, sweetheart?" she asked him gently when the buttons were undone. He nodded dumbly, and so she rose to her feet and then caught hold of him under his arms, guiding him as he stood. She'd never be able to lift him on her own, and so she didn't try, just held him steady while he pulled himself up with his own strength.
"This may hurt a little," she said, easing his shirt off one shoulder, and then carefully sliding it down his left arm. He hissed in pain when her hand grazed his wound, and she leaned in to kiss his bare shoulder by way of apology.
"These next," she said, and reached for his belt buckle. The trousers were easier to get off him than his shirt had been; he steadied himself with his right hand on her shoulder, his fingers clutching at her hard as if he were half afraid she might vanish in the next breath. She tugged his trunks down with his trousers and he stepped out of them, naked now except for his shoes. Ordinarily the sight of his bare body, broad and strong and hard with muscle, was enough to leave her weak with longing for him, but this was not a moment built for seduction; she was trying, in her own way, to protect him, to care for him, and lust didn't factor into the bargain.
"You, too?" he asked softly as he toed out of his shoes, still holding onto her shoulders. They were the first words he'd spoken since Abdul had found them in the garden, and his voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but she was relieved to hear it. Wherever he had gone to in his mind in the last few hours he was here with her now, and asking in his own way for her to join him. As if he were half-afraid to leave him, when she knew she never would.
"Let's get you in the bath first," she answered. She fully intended to join him once she was settled, but she didn't trust his legs to hold him while she undressed.
Carefully she led him across the bathroom, let him hold onto her as he stepped into the tub and slowly bent his knees, sinking beneath the water. The house might have been a bit lackluster in other departments, but the bathtub was a thing of beauty, for it was big enough to fit them both - if only just. The moment he was settled Jen turned her attention to her own filthy clothes, tugging them off as quickly as she could manage. Wesley watched her the whole time, but there was no heat in his eyes; he only looked tired, and sad, and the sight of him, made somehow small as he sat in the bath with his knees drawn up to his chest, tugged at her heartstrings. Ordinarily he was the one who held himself together while she fell apart, and she wanted, more than anything, to be strong enough for him now.
The second she was bare she slid into the tub behind him. They'd not done this before, shared a bath, but she'd thought about it. Wondered what it might be like to lie back against his chest, soaking in the water, soaking in the warmth of him. Her imaginings had never been anything like this, her behind him, the soft hair of his thighs brushing against her smooth skin, the muscles of his back tight with tension, the meeting of their bodies desperate, and joyless.
"Come here," she said, wrapping her arms around his middle and gently pulling them both back so that she could lean against the edge of the tub and he could lean against her chest. Wes sighed as they moved, some of the tension leaving him as the water sloshed around them, relaxing into her embrace. They settled together, quiet and warm, and Jen kept her arms wrapped tight around him, his head resting against her shoulder.
"Are you all right?" she asked him.
He didn't answer her, not right away, and she knew that he was warring with himself, trying to find the words to express just how far from all right he was. She let the silence settle, pressed a kiss against the side of his head and held him, waiting.
"It should have been us," Wesley said after a moment, and Jen's heart leapt into her throat. She'd never heard him so dejected before, and it scared her almost more than the bullets had done. "Hartono knows someone is informing on him, and he's taking people out. People are dying because we…"
His voice gave out, and he scrubbed his good hand across his face, and Jen just held him tighter. Through all the fear and chaos of the last few hours she hadn't taken the time to consider the full ramifications of the attack, but Wesley had. He had, and the conclusion he'd drawn left her stunned and heartsick. It wasn't Frank who was informing SIS about Hartono's movements, but Frank was spilling secrets to Wesley. Frank thought he'd just been chatting to a mate, and it had cost him his life, while Wesley lay warm and safe in Jen's arms, still breathing. If it hadn't been for them, Frank would still be alive, and Marcy, too, and Christ, they had children, those poor little kids-
Tears stung the corners of Jen's eyes, and she pressed her face close to his cheek, trying to find comfort in the warmth of skin-on-skin, in the beating of his heart beneath her arms.
"We didn't know," she said miserably.
"We did," Wesley answered. "Damn it, Trish, we knew exactly what we were doing. Who's going to be next? Is every person we talk to going to die? What happens when...what happens when it's one of us?"
"It won't be," she hissed, flattening her palm over his beating heart, holding him hard to her. In her arms he sighed, and covered her hand with his own, their fingers sliding together.
"What happened today...that's on Hartono, Wes. He did this. And we are going to catch this bastard, and he is never going to hurt anyone ever again."
She said the words fiercely, as if she believed them, as if they were true. It had to be true, and she had to believe it, because if they failed, if all this grief and misery didn't bring Hartono down in the end, Jen didn't know how she'd live with herself. The sacrifices she'd made, the months of her life she'd lost, the towering sorrow she'd feel when she was finally forced to let Wesley go; she had to find meaning in it, could not resign herself to living out the rest of her days drowning in regret and mourning for every mistake she'd made, every human life lost along the way.
"Let's get you cleaned up," she whispered, and reached for the shampoo. Wesley let her, let her gently sluice water over his head, let her run her fingers through his hair until all the filth came away. The first time he'd held her, the first time he'd buried himself inside her, the first time their world came to an end and she found peace in his arms, he'd washed her hair. At the time she'd wanted to return the favor; he had been so tender, so reverent in the way he cared for her, and she'd wanted to do the same for him, to let her hands whisper devotion across his skin. That first time the hot water had given out and the moment had been ruined, but she had her chance, now. And so she touched him gently, and began to hum as he lay in her arms, his eyes closed, his powerful body relaxed and soft against her. This man, this dear man, carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Jen was determined to do whatever she could to lighten the load, to remind him that he did not walk this road alone.
Darkness had come for them. Frank's death meant that there was no one else for Hartono to take his business to, no one else to hear his secrets and do his dirty work. He would give it all to Wesley, and the peril they found themselves in had increased a hundredfold. The next time Hartono went looking for a mole in his operation there would be no one else to bear the blame but Wesley.
He'll have to get through me first, Jen thought grimly as still her fingers worked through Wesley's soft hair. This man was hers, and she would not give him up without a fight.
