5 September 2010

There was no need for subterfuge, in the end; just as Nick and Jen prepared themselves to leave their safehouse and go in search of answers Ratcliffe came for them, bundled them into his car and began the long drive back to the station, explaining as he went. The powers that be had pulled the plug on McAllister, decided that his cowboy antics weren't accomplishing anything, and were, in fact, were taking too big a risk. You're just two coppers on your own, Ratcliffe told them. And Hartono knows we're on to him. This has got too big. We'll need reinforcements. According to Ratcliffe, Byrnes - one of the few SIS agents they didn't completely hate - was already on his way to the station, prepared to brief the team and launch a joint operation.

An operation Nick and Jen both knew Jen could not be part of; her arm was all but useless, and she'd taken those bloody painkillers. Whatever happened next, Jen would observe it sitting behind a desk. Much as Nick would miss having her by his side, much as he wanted her to be present to share in the moment when Hartono finally, after everything, was made to pay for his crimes, a part of his heart couldn't help but be relieved that she'd be sitting this one out. Jen had suffered so much already, physically and mentally, and it would be easier for him to focus if he knew that she was safe, if he wasn't spending half his attention and energy in watching over her.

They entered the building together, the three of them, but as they stepped off the lift Jen pulled back.

"We'll meet you in there," she said to Ratcliffe.

"Now's not the time for a chat, Mapplethorpe," he grumbled. "Can't it wait?"

"We just need to change. Whatever happens next, we can't do it looking like this."

She waved her hand to indicate herself and Nick and their ridiculous, garish clothes. Privately, Nick agreed with her; he'd feel like an ass, walking into the briefing room wearing one of Wesley's patterned shirts with the stupid pearl snaps, and her skirt and sandals were hardly professional attire. They'd both be more comfortable - and better prepared - in their own clothes.

"Do what you like," Ratcliffe said. "I gotta talk to the brass first, anyway."

And so he left them, and Nick and Jen turned aside, made their way deep into the bowels of the station to the locker rooms where they each kept a spare change of clothes. Men's on one side, ladies' on the other; Nick looked from one door to the other, questioning his next move. He did need to change, but he figured Jen would need his help, and he didn't know which way to go first. His brain felt a bit scrambled, at present, events moving almost too quickly for him to keep up. He could only hope the briefing would provide him with some clarity.

"You go first," she told him. "I'll wait for you. I won't get far without you."

If they had been at home - his home or hers or the bloody Claybourne house, he couldn't say which - he would have kissed her then. Would have pulled her in close, and told her everything was going to be all right. She looked small, and scared, and tired, and he wished like hell he could take this pain, this uncertainty from her. But there were too many questions and not enough answers, and they were standing in the middle of the station, and so he only nodded, and left her. Inside the locker room he changed as quickly as he could; his shoes and trousers were fine, and he doubted, somehow, that SIS would want them back. That bloody shirt had to go, though, and as he buttoned up his own shirt, looped his half-tied tie around his neck and pulled it tight, he felt a little of his equilibrium returning. Clothes were only half the bargain, though; it would not be so easy to shed Wesley Claybourne entirely.

As soon as he was settled he walked back into the corridor, looked around furtively to assure himself that he was alone and unobserved, and then slipped into the ladies'. It was deserted save for Jen, standing alone by her open locker, her shoes discarded but otherwise still dressed. He took a moment to lock the door behind him - the last thing they needed, in this moment, was a witness - and then he went to join her.

"Let's get this over with," Jen sighed, and Nick just reached for her, his fingers already working on her shirt buttons. She'd chosen this blouse because she didn't have to pull it over her head, but she couldn't manage the buttons on her own, and taking it off would be Nick's job. He knew that already, remembered from the morning when he'd helped her put it on. It seemed like something that had happened in another lifetime, his hands on her skin, her eyes soft as she watched him, the air between them warm from the shower and full of promise for better moments to come.

"We're gonna get him this time, Jen," he told her as he worked. He kept his gaze focused on the buttons, and tried to ignore her pale skin, the soft tan fabric of her bra, the pounding of his heart. This little assignation was about efficiency, not passion, but she'd kissed him in bed just that morning, and standing this close to her he couldn't help but wonder what would become of them now, whether he'd ever get the chance to kiss her again. The first time undercover they'd known when their time would run out, had been given a chance to say goodbye, knew what waited for them and accepted it. This time, though, everything had fallen apart so quickly that Nick had no idea what it was she was feeling, what she wanted to happen next.

"We've said that before," she reminded him gently. "And you and I both know how dangerous he is when he's backed into a corner."

Nick finished the buttons and gently pulled the shirt away, helped her slide first one arm, then the other out of it until the shirt was off her, and he could shove it in her locker. As he did his gaze fell to his shoes; she was too beautiful, and his heart was too raw, for him to look at her head on.

"It's different this time," he said. Everything has bloody changed, and I don't know which way is up, any more.

"The skirt, too," she reminded him. She couldn't manage the zip one handed, either, and he'd be forced to bare her almost completely, and yet not be allowed to touch her. Christ, this was torture.

Gritting his teeth, then, he reached for the zip of the skirt.

"Promise me you'll be careful out there," she murmured, her voice low and soft over the sound of the zip.

"They might not even let me go in the field." Nick caught the skirt in his hands, and slid it down over her hips. He bent over as he went, and Jen rested one warm hand on his shoulder, holding herself steady as she stepped out of the skirt. It was a gesture borne of necessity, but he was grateful for her touch just the same; the time would soon come when she could not touch him at all. When they'd gotten dressed that same morning, standing alone in the bathroom in their underwear, she'd kissed his shoulder, but there were no kisses for him now, though, just quick, studied movements and an expression that looked an awful lot like sorrow in her eyes.

"They'd be stupid not to. But you have to come back to me, Nick."

He should not have looked at her then, when she was mostly naked and he was holding her skirt in his hands. He shouldn't have given in to his own weakness, his own need for her, but he did it just the same, compelled by the soft sound of her voice, and he found in her gaze the same wretchedness he felt in his own heart. They loved one another, they could not have one another, and their temporary escape was over already. They'd been seconded to SIS just long enough to break both their hearts, had not been given enough time to work through the obstacles that faced them, and the risk of Nick not coming home was greater now than it had ever been. Hartono had switched from guns to bombs, had something major in the works he would defend every way he knew how, and the man had never been hesitant to kill before. He'd murdered Abdul's entire family, for God's sake, wife and little kids, too, just for revenge. What he might do, if he ever got his hands on the fake Wesley Claybourne, didn't bear thinking about. It would be the cruelest trick of fate, Nick thought, if he had finally heard Jen tell him that she loved him, only for him to die the same day.

"I will," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I promise, sweetheart, I won't ever leave you."

Jen's lower lip wobbled, her eyes blinking back tears, and Nick gave up all pretense of professionalism and pulled her tight against his chest. "I swear," he whispered against her hair, her hands fisting in his shirt as she clung to him. It was a promise he had no right to make; he didn't know what was coming for him, what horrors lurked out there in the world, but he made it just the same. Nothing save for death could keep him from her side.

"I love you," she whispered back, her breath warm against the column of his neck. "But I hate this."

The lies, the fear, the doubt, Nick hated it, too. He hated to think that he had finally found her, the only woman who'd ever made him think about forever, the only one he'd ever truly loved, and might even now be standing on the brink of losing her. Even if they survived this day, there was no telling what the future might bring. They couldn't sleep together and work together, and Jen valued her job too highly to ever let it go, but Nick could not imagine falling asleep without her by his side, not ever again. After everything, the bullets and the blood and four years of separation and everything that had happened since, he had found her, and he could not, would not ever let her go without a fight.

"I love you, Jen," he told her. "And we are going to get through this, and we are going to sort everything out, and we are going to be all right."

The clock was ticking; no matter how much he might wish he could simply stand there holding her forever, Nick knew they could not afford to linger. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head and then pulled away, reaching for her trousers.

"I'm sorry," she said, settling her hand once more on his shoulder, letting him guide one bare foot and then the other into her trousers, keeping hold of him as he gently pulled the fabric up her legs, settled the trousers in place around her hips. He let his fingertips brush against her stomach, as he reached for the button, that touch the smallest piece of reassurance, the warmth of her skin a comfort to him.

"Me, too," he told her. "But this isn't the end."

With the trousers sorted he reached for the purple blouse she'd set aside, shook it out while she stepped into her shoes, and then raised the shirt over her head. Jen swore, softly, as she slid her wounded arm through the sleeve, and the sound of her pain pierced his heart like a knife. If I ever get the chance, he thought grimly, I'll put a bullet between Hartono's eyes. For Howard, and Davis, and Frank and Marcy, and Abdul, and for Jen. I'll kill the rotten bastard myself.

"Maybe," she told him, watching him as he pulled her blouse down to meet her trousers, hid her skin from view at last, "maybe when this is done we can finally charter a boat like you wanted."

In the bath the night before she'd told him no, told him that they couldn't even contemplate such a thing, not so long as they worked together. He knew why she was telling him yes now; they needed a dream to cling to, a hope for brighter days. When the dust settled she might well change her mind again, but terror and heartache made a person want to reach for joy, however impossible it might be to attain. He tried to remind himself of their predicament, tried not to get his own hopes up; the day's not over yet, he thought. There was no telling what shape they'd be in, what she'd really want, by the time this thing was through. But it was nice to dream.

"I'd like that," he told her, and reached behind her, gently lifted her hair out from beneath her collar. The only thing left was her sling, a gauzy thing that would cradle her arm close to her chest, keep it safe while she healed. That was all he wanted, in the end, Jen safe, and healed, and with him.

Carefully he hooked the sling in place, and let his hands settle on her hips, looking her over and searching for anything out of place. All was as it should be; she was beautiful, and in her own clothes she looked like Jen, again, not the girl who'd first captured his interest but the woman he'd fallen in love with.

"You ready?" he asked her softly.

"No," she answered, and her voice shook when she spoke.

"Me, neither."

They had to go, but neither of them moved an inch; to take a single step now would be to put them both once more on the road to ruin, barreling down the tracks with no hope for peace until Hartono was caught or Nick himself was dead. For a moment they lingered, frozen; in two days' time they had gone from friends to lovers, no matter that he'd not had the chance to bury himself inside her. She had taken up residence within his heart once more, and he could not breathe for wanting her. If only he could have taken her hand and marched out the door, left the station behind and taken them both somewhere else, somewhere far away, somewhere safe, he would have done it in an instant. He would have, but he couldn't; they had a job to do.

"Time to go," she whispered. Slowly she lifted herself up onto her toes and pressed a gentle kiss against his lips, but then she was walking away, Nick's hands sliding slowly away from her body, fingers grasping for a warmth that did not last. He couldn't resent her for leaving this moment behind; it was always meant to end. Taking a deep breath, then, he followed her out of the locker room, down the corridor, into the briefing room, and when someone ribbed them about being late he only said blame Mapplethorpe, and the team smiled at them, indulgent and relieved and curious all at once, and once more Nick took all the love he felt for her and all his dreams for the future, and tucked them away deep in his heart.