22 September 2005

Wesley always slept well. Nevermind the cameras, and the mics, nevermind the lies and the danger, nevermind the stink of Hatrono's cigarettes and the stupid shirts that filled Wesley's half of the closet, nevermind the bite of fear and the endless swirling of her nerves; Wesley always fell into sleep easily, deeply, warm and solid and unmoving at her back. For over a year now she'd been asking herself the same question: why doesn't it bother him? How could he be so calm, so steady, when Jen felt herself in danger of flying apart at the seams? Nothing ever seemed to rattle him; he was quick on his feet, and utterly unflappable, and even now, when everything was about to come to a crashing halt, when the life that they had built in this beautiful house was about to turn to ashes in their hands, he had whispered goodnight, and drifted off to sleep as if nothing were amiss, while she was trembling from head to foot, a thousand questions, what ifs and possible outcomes, swirling through her mind like some kind of manic film reel.

So much had changed, over the last year. When Jen first accepted this assignment she'd thought she'd be gone no more than a month, had thought that the undercover training might serve her well as she sought to move up the ranks of the State Police - nevermind that she'd never be able to talk about it - had thought it might even be fun. She knew better, now. She's seen friends killed, watched her initial deadline of a month pass in a wisp of smoke, turn to two months, to six, to thirteen. When she first met Wesley, when he was no more than a stranger to her, she'd found him almost alarmingly bland, detached and seemingly devoid of any sort of personality, but over the last thirteen months she'd learned the truth of him, the strength of him, the passion that burned within his chest, quiet, like the lull before a lightning strike, quiet, like the sea receding before a tsunami. How was she supposed to carry on without him, now? How was she supposed to go back to her little house, her empty bed, her desk in the Fraud department, and pretend like she had never lost everything, like she hadn't found love and been shattered by its impending loss, like she had never known the sound of a gunshot and the spray of blood and the oppressive, terrible silence, after?

When she'd first accepted this assignment there were so many things she hadn't known. She'd never had a legend, never checked a dead drop, had never dived off the back of a millionaire's yacht and swum through crystal glass waters, had never been married, never seen a honeytrap in action, never thought of herself as a cleanskin. So many nevers, and now they were all never agains, and she didn't know where to put it all, the hatred she felt for this life and the terror she felt at the impending loss of it.

It would have been easier, she thought, if Wesley were coming with her, but he wasn't, couldn't, wouldn't; he was on the verge of disappearing back beneath whatever rock he'd crawled out from under, slipping beneath the waves, vanishing as easily as if he had been no more than a figment of her imagination, as if he had never been real at all. Two days from now she'd wake up in her own bed, and wonder if any of it had ever happened, or if this whole year - and Wesley himself - had been no more than a dream.

Behind her he stirred, and his heavy arm slipped out from underneath the doona, draped itself over her waist, the weight and the warmth of him a comfort and a curse. Most nights he reached for her, asleep and yet drawn to her somehow, and most nights she relaxed back against his chest, let his warmth and his certainty seep into her bones and lull her into dreams. Most nights she welcomed his touch, sighed and let herself be swallowed up by him, but tonight the way he held her brought tears to her eyes, and she turned her face into the pillow to silence the sound of her weeping.

Come morning it would all be over; come morning, he wouldn't be hers, any more. Come morning, her life would end, and start over, and she had never been good at beginnings. Come to think of it, she'd never been much good at endings, either.

"You're thinking very loudly." His voice was deep, and low, and so quiet she felt more than heard the words come rumbling up out of his chest. They'd long since learned how to hide their conversations from the mics, how to hide their hands from the cameras; if he pressed his lips to the back of her neck, if he buried his face in her hair and murmured softly to her the words would be too muffled for the watchers to pick them up, and Jen and her Wesley could keep their secrets. Strange, she thought, how that seemed almost normal to her now.

"I'm fine," she whispered into her pillow. A lie, one of many; the lies dripped from her lips so easily now that she could almost hate herself for it. Almost, but not quite, for lying was what they required of her, and by all accounts she'd done a sterling job.

"Like hell," he grumbled, and his arm tightened its grip on her waist while his other reached for her beneath the doona and oh, but she was powerless to resist him.

She turned in his arms, easily, and they flowed together, the way they always did, the navy doona hiding the way her body reached for him, and his for her, the way his thigh slipped between her legs and her hands caught in his vest, pulled him in closer.

"Talk to me," he whispered, sliding his arm back underneath the covers so that his hand could reach for her face. His palm settled warm and heavy against her cheek, and his thumb stroked her skin gently, down to brush against the full swell of her lip, and she could not stop the tears that came pouring out of her then, as she thought how tenderly he touched her, thought how much she adored him, thought how much she would miss him.

"I should be happy," she said, and he smiled at her softly, knowingly in the darkness.

"We get to go home tomorrow," he said. A statement of fact, an admission of understanding. They had both wanted, for so long, to slake off these legends they'd assumed and find their way back to their own lives, and now that the moment was upon them they found that the dearest wish of their hearts was not the blessing they had once believed it to be, but was instead a cleaving, a desolation. When he spoke the word home, Jen heard in his voice the same disappointment that swirled within her; they had been so long in this place that it had become their home, that the memory of the people they had been before had faded, that the thought of leaving had become almost intolerable. To them both. How could she carry on without him? Jen wondered as she looked into his face, his warm, dark eyes, his hair fluffy and mussed from sleep, his chest broad and strong and warm where her hands rested against it. She had forgotten, somehow, what it was to be without him, and now she was going to have to learn.

"We knew this day was coming," he reminded her.

I didn't think it would come so soon, she thought, but she did not speak those words aloud, because she recognized the folly in them. Already she and Wesley had been trapped in this house far longer than they'd ever dreamed; their homecoming had arrived half a year behind schedule. It was not soon; it was far too late. And yet, still, the ending of everything felt rushed, somehow, and she would have given anything for just a little more time.

But what would you do with it, if you had it? She asked herself. It made no difference if the op ended tomorrow, or in six months, or in another year; it was always meant to end, and when it did, she and Wesley were always meant to end with it. Wesley wasn't even his name, not really. He had a name, and a job, and a home, and a family, and she didn't know anything about any of it. She knew him, and yet she didn't, and never would. Come tomorrow they would be separated, and she would never see his dear, sweet face again. She would never dance with him, never feel the warmth of his hand against her hip, never feel the brush of his lips against her neck, never know the ragged, wretched ecstasy of holding him tight between her thighs in the backseat of a car far from prying eyes, ever again. She would be without him, forever, and forever suddenly felt like such a long time.

"I don't know how to do this," she whispered. She didn't know how to leave him, didn't know how to untangle her feelings about him, about this life they had led, the choices they had made, the price they had paid for those choices. She didn't know how to put all this behind her, didn't know how to walk back into the station in Melbourne a week from now and pretend she'd been on secondment to the Sydney police, and not running guns for a terrorist and falling in love with a stranger. She didn't know where to put it, these memories, this life that had become her own, did not know how to merge the two halves of her very self into one without shattering them both.

"Hey," he whispered, the pad of his thumb pressed against her chin. "I've got you, remember? Whatever happens. I'll look after you."

He was talking about the operation, she realized. He thought she was just worried about what might happen come morning, when they were to meet Hartono at the dockyard, when SIS and the Federal Police were meant to come storming in and arrest everyone in sight, including them. He thought she was just worried about the job, and she almost laughed in his face.

"What happens when you aren't there any more?" she asked him softly, miserably, her voice wobbly with tears, and his brow furrowed, and she knew then that he understood. Wesley reached for her, his hand sliding away from her face and down over her side beneath the doona, warm fingers spreading against the small of her back and pulling her into him. Jen wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in the warmth of his neck and let him hold her.

"I'll find you," he whispered against her hair.

"You know you can't," she answered, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. They were hundreds of miles from the place she called home, and he didn't know her name, or what she did for work, and she wasn't allowed to tell him, anyway. But what if you did? A little voice whispered in the back of her mind. The operation's over. SIS would never need to know. You could tell him, and he could find you, and then…

And then what? Would he still love her, if he knew her as she was? Would she still need him, when she was back in her own life? What if they saw one another again, out there in the real world, and found that the connection between them had only flourished in strife, and would wither in the doldrums of a normal life? What if I'm not what he wants, after all?

"I will," he said stubbornly, and she could not help but smile. He meant it, she knew. It was impossible, and he meant to do it anyway. He could never hope to find her, but he'd promised her, just the same. Would they still think about each other, years from now? Would he lie in bed with some other woman and remember how it used to be, with her? Would she compare every man she met to him, and find them all wanting, and drift off to sleep alone, dreaming of him? Would anything ever make sense again?

"Don't forget me," she whispered. His warmth and the sudden vacuum created by the rushing absence of adrenaline left her exhausted, and perilously close to sleep. She had wanted to stay awake all night, talking to him, but she knew now that she could not; she could hardly keep her eyes open, and it wouldn't have done her good, in any case. The end was coming, and missing a night's sleep would not delay the inevitable.

"I won't remember anything else," he answered.

And then sleep came for her, sheltered in his arms, and she knew nothing of the world until the sun rose in the morning.