4 September 2010
Nick's whole body was trembling with barely suppressed rage as Byrnes sauntered out of the house; the callous disregard SIS had displayed for their well-being, the way they had, quite deliberately, thrown Nick and Jen into danger and shrugged off Jen's injury left his blood boiling and his fists clenched hard down by his side. The first go round Abdul had been flippant about the possible risks of their work, but back then Nick had always felt as if Abdul was just trying to keep their spirits up, maintaining a facade of false confidence in order to keep Nick and Jen both in the road. Now, though, Abdul was dead and these bastards seemed to determine to press on until Nick and Jen were, too.
Jen, he reminded himself. He had to focus on something other than how badly he wanted to land his fist in the middle of McAllister's smug face, and Jen was hurting. SIS had pushed them to go to Hartono again, and Jen had gone with him, insistent that he not face the man alone, and she'd gotten shot for her trouble. That was something else he remembered, from before, the pain of a bullet darting across his arm, how useless he'd felt, unable to so much as make a fist for days, reliant on Jen - Trish, back then - to help him dress himself, to wash his bloody hair while he had to keep the bandage on his arm dry. She'd need him now, the way he needed her before, and not just to get her shirt off. The fear he remembered, too, that sense of the walls closing in, trouble coming for them, and nothing he could do to stop it, the hopelessness he'd felt, it all came roaring back to him with sudden clarity, and he knew she must have been feeling it, too, only worse now, because now they knew exactly how ugly things could get, and now they knew no one was coming to save them. SIS had promised to watch their backs, and they had failed.
"Hey," he said, softly, approaching her warily. Jen was still sitting on the sofa, her head hung low on her shoulders, her hair lank and mussed, blood staining the bandage on her arm. Even from a distance he could see her hands were shaking. As he spoke she lifted her head, and in her glorious eyes he saw all the rage and pain and fear he carried within his own heart.
"Let's get you cleaned up, eh?" he asked.
For a moment he thought she might tell him no. Jen had always been the sort who preferred to deal with troublesome emotions on her own, who stepped back and thought her way through problems instead of asking for help. At a time like this, when she no doubt felt helpless and used, she might not want comfort at all, might prefer a bit of privacy. If that was what she needed he'd give it to her, no questions asked, but he desperately hoped it wasn't. He wanted to take care of her, the way she deserved, the way she had always done for him when he needed it.
"Yeah, all right," she said. "I could do with a wash."
Nick held his hand out to her and she took it, let him lead her from the sofa back through that shitty, empty house to the en suite. The door closed behind them with a snap, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief when it did. Let SIS ask questions about what they were doing, holed up in the bathroom together; he'd tell them the truth, that Jen couldn't manage her clothes with one good hand, and he'd only gone into help. If he'd done it because he loved her, because he was desperate to talk to her without anyone overhearing, because he ached to hold her, that was nobody's business but his own.
"How do you want-" he started to ask her, but Jen interrupted him at once.
"Just get the bloody thing off me," she said, plucking at the thin shirt she wore with her good hand. She was all but vibrating with irritation, nerves shot from the panic of the day and the pain in her arm, and so Nick approached her slowly, breathing deeply and trying to calm his own clamoring heart.
"I didn't like that shirt, anyway," he told her softly as he began his work, starting with the makeshift sling they'd used to bind her arm. Carefully he untied it, and slid it out from around her neck.
"I hate these stupid clothes," she told him. They always had done; he and Jen preferred plainer, more professional wear in their daily lives, and the Claybournes' wardrobes had always been a sore spot for them. He felt bloody ridiculous every time he slipped into one of those gaudy patterned shirts, and he knew Jen hated Trish's skirts just as much.
"This is going to hurt," he told her as he caught the bottom of her shirt in his hands.
"I can take it."
Nick hummed; he knew she could, could take any pain, any grievance, any disaster thrown her way and march through it with her head held high, but he wished she didn't have to. She deserved better than this. As gently as he could he eased the shirt up, encouraged her to free her good arm before sliding the shirt off the other, doing his best not to tug on her skin or press against her bandages. She did not hiss or squirm or flinch; Jen stood ramrod straight before him, and her face betrayed not one ounce of self-pity or shame when she found herself stripped bare in front of him.
"Should I-"
"Take the lot of it off," she grumbled, and then added, "please," more softly this time, as if to make up for the brusque way she'd spoken to him so far.
"Buy a man a drink first," he said, stepping behind her to unfasten the clasp of her bra. It was a weak attempt at levity, but it succeeded in making her laugh, if only for an instant.
"We've done it all out of order, haven't we?"
She stood stock still while he stepped up close to her, let his hands follow the path of her arms as he slid her bra free, tossed it aside. In front of him she was warm and soft, and he wanted to let his hands trace over her skin, wanted to seek out all the pieces of her he remembered but had not seen for years now. It wasn't the moment for such exploration, however, and so he merely stepped back in front of her, and kept his gaze firmly fixed on his hands as he began to unfasten her trousers.
"We got married before we ever had a meal together," she continued then. She was right about that; he'd slipped a gold band on her finger in that shitty hotel the morning they'd first stepped into the Claybournes' lives. "And you kissed me before you ever even knew my name."
"Hey, you kissed me," he reminded her as he bent his knees, tugged knickers and trousers both down off her hips and tried not to look at what had been revealed beneath them.
"In the bathroom? That was-"
"On the boat."
She was stark naked, now, and he was still fully dressed, and it was impossible not to look at her, the soft slope of her breasts, the smooth expanse of her belly, the lean shape of her thighs. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, thinking how beautiful she was, but he jerked his gaze back up to her face quickly, and that smile faded fast, for Jen was frowning, ever so slightly.
"I'd forgotten about the boat," she said, and she sounded like she regretted it.
"I didn't," he told her, and then he stepped away, intent on running the bath. The bath here was shitty, too, smaller than the one in the Sydney house had been, but it looked clean, and that was good enough for Nick. The roaring of the water through the pipes helped to drown out the racing of his heart, which had begun to pound at the memory of Jen in that damnable green bikini, sprawled across his lap on the deck of Hartono's yacht with the stars twinkling above them.
"I can't wash my hair," she said to his back. He knew what she was really trying to tell him; he'd started the bath for her, which was of course the whole reason they'd come into this room in the first place, and she was asking him to stay with her, to help her.
"I can," he said, and took a deep breath before turning back around to face her. Christ, the sight of her naked took him like a punch to the gut; she was so bloody beautiful, and the only thing in the world that mattered to him, and it was killing him not to touch her.
"I won't be much help," she said, gesturing towards him, but there was a knowing look in her eye, and Nick grinned a bit ruefully as he reached for the buttons of his own shirt. She'd given him a show, while he undressed her; he supposed it was time to return the favor.
"You loved that boat, didn't you?" she said, leaning back against the counter and not even pretending to look away as he undressed. "You kept talking about it, how we could charter one ourselves and go on a vacation."
"I looked into it after I got home," he confessed as he quickly shed himself of Wesley Claybourne's stupid clothes. "I wouldn't want to buy one, it's too much work, but I thought it would be nice to take one out for a while."
"Did you ever do it?" she asked curiously. He was naked, now, and half-hard from the sight of her, and he raised his head slowly, and found her watching him, and nothing but warmth in her bright eyes.
"Didn't want to go alone," he answered. Before she could question him further he turned back to the bath, and found it full enough for their purposes. Slowly he sank himself into it, sighing as the warmth of the water seeped into his aching muscles, and as he settled he held his hand out to her. Jen took it, let him hold her steady as she stepped between his parted thighs.
This is dangerous, he thought, but he reached for her hips, and guided her slowly down until she was sitting between his knees. Jen sighed, too, and leaned back against his chest, and Nick gave up any pretense of restraint. Instead of holding himself back he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, and bowed his head to press a kiss against the curve of her shoulder.
"We could do it now, you know," he told her while her good hand trailed warm water over the slope of his thigh. "When this is done. We've both got leave time owing. We could take a boat, disappear for a few days. Just you and me, no cameras, no murders. Sunshine and blue water."
Jen hummed, and he hoped it was because she enjoyed the picture he painted as much as he did.
"I could teach you how to fish."
"What makes you think I don't know how to fish?" she asked him archly. Her wounded arm was resting on his knee, held up out of the water, but her good hand found his, resting against her stomach, and her palm ran softly over his fingers in a way that made him long to kiss her again.
"Do you?"
"No."
They both laughed, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder again.
"It would be fun," he said, returning to his dream of a vacation he knew in his heart they'd never take. "We'd just swim, and eat, and sleep." Do more than sleep, he thought, but though they had both of them found the courage to confess to the feelings they carried in their hearts he did not want to appear presumptuous, and so he kept that thought to himself.
"You know we can't, Nick," she said softly, miserably.
"Why not? When this is done -"
"When this is done we will still be on the same crew. You know the rules. We can't work together and sleep together. And the brass will be watching us more closely than ever now that they know we lied to them."
Nick took one slow, deep breath, tried to savor the soothing heat of the water and the comforting weight of her in his arms, tried to think his way through the problem she'd presented him. She was right, of course - she always was. You don't screw the crew, everybody knew that. But Christ, he couldn't imagine letting things go back to normal when this op was done, watching Jen walk away from him every night, knowing he loved her, knowing she loved him, and yet still not being able to do anything about it. He was tired of other people telling him where to go, what to say, how to live. It was bad enough on the op; he wouldn't tolerate it in his own life.
"Jen," he said, speaking slowly and trying to keep the passion he felt for her from turning his voice harsh. "Please don't ask me to give you up again."
It had been hard enough the first time, when he didn't know her name, when he thought he'd never see her again. If he had to wake up every morning and work beside her, pretending all the while she meant no more to him than Matt or Duncan, he was fairly certain it might kill him.
"I don't want you to," she whispered, and she pressed her hand against him, laced her fingers through his and held on tight. "I just don't know what to do and everything is too confusing. Nick, I'm on heavy painkillers, don't ask me to make life changing decisions right now."
"You're right," he said, because she was. "I'm sorry."
"Can we just...can you just hold me, for a little while?" her voice was soft, and sad, and it broke his heart to hear her sounding so lost.
"As long as you want." Forever, he thought, if you'll let me.
Slowly Nick leaned back, and Jen went with him, and they both closed their eyes, and held on tight.
