I see prompt lists from time to time, this idea came from reading a "fake dating" prompt list. Nick and Jen as Trish and Wes in this story. K+.
I own nothing. Everything belongs to the keepers and creators of City Homicide. I'm just taking Nick and Jen out to play.
The summer sun was a welcome change after days of rain and days of intense, soul-crushing work with Muhammad Hartono. It was midafternoon and the day was blissfully quiet. Trish and Wes were in the back garden, a place they spent most of their free time. It was where they felt less confined, less controlled and censored, where they were free to simply be. Trish sat in her usual spot in the shade of the oversized umbrella, on the loveseat with its lush cushions, reading, trying to read. Wes had busied himself with yard work, one of the many domestic chores he claimed to enjoy, and just now, he had finished cutting the grass. She watched him over her book, the way Wes straightened, looking up at a bird that flew from a nearby tree and soared into the clear, blue sky. Her eyebrow arched above the frame of her sunglasses as he lifted his shirt over his head and revealed the hard muscles of his back, coated with the iridescent sheen of sweat. Trish swallowed hard as he toweled himself off, moving his shirt over his neck, his chest, and down over his stomach.
Flipping the damp fabric to rest over his shoulder, he turned to her. "Drink?"
Trish dropped her book into her lap and lifted her chin. "Sure," she smiled as she watched him take a few steps towards her, ducking under the edge of the umbrella, no longer squinting into the sun; he returned her smile.
"I think I'll have a beer. You?" He looked at her, hoping he wouldn't have to drink alone.
"Yeah. Perfect." She answered softly.
Wes returned a few minutes later to find Trish had repositioned herself on the loveseat, shifting over to make room for him. She had her bare feet tucked underneath her bum, and her elbow was propped on the back of the sofa, her head resting against her hand. Her book, now discarded, sat on the table next to an empty coffee mug and a stack of files she had worked on earlier that day.
Trish was a sight to behold, regardless of the situation. Her beauty was easy and natural, and it was moments like this when her true self was given a chance to shine through that Nick found himself most drawn to her. Today she wore a simple top, a colour as indescribable as the colour of her eyes, and a pair of navy shorts. She had twisted her blonde hair into a frayed knot, and the few strands that had worked their way free now moved with the gentle breeze. Her sunglasses, dark and oversized, no doubt chosen with purpose, to hide her fatigue and her fear, sat neatly on her face and highlighted the rosy glow the sun had left on her pale cheeks.
If Wes didn't know better, he would have sworn Trish was sleeping, but the corner of her mouth lifted as he came to a stop in front of her.
Trish opened her eyes at the sound of his quiet approach. Wes had cleaned himself up and put on a new shirt, and she felt her heart skip at the sight of him. He was tall and dark and unassumingly handsome, his strength hidden by his gentle way. Wesley was subtly obnoxious with a tendency for arrogance, per the script, but in moments like this, when they were alone and the act was dropped, he was calm and quiet, and Jen found herself taken by his easy spirit. Trish glanced at his hands; he held two bottles of beer in his left hand, and in the right, he carried the newspaper.
"May I?" He gestured with the newspaper to the empty cushion next to her. Trish nodded, and he held out his hand, allowing her to choose one of the bottles he had hooked in his fingers. His thigh brushed against the soft skin of her knee as he dropped himself down on the cushion beside her.
Their days spent living as The Clayborne's were long and harrowing, and now as the weeks turned into months, they were drawn to one another. Even when it wasn't required, when the pretense of husband and wife could be set aside, when Nick and Jen were granted a tiny bit of freedom to think and behave as they would if the bands of gold were removed.
But their rings never came off.
"To a day off," Wes said quietly, as he tipped the neck of his bottle in her direction, toasting the illusion of reprieve. Her smile was fleeting as she mimicked his gesture, gently tapping the mouth of her bottle to his, before tilting her head and taking a sip. He watched her and then lifted his bottle to take a long, slow drink.
They sat in silence for a minute, and Wes watched as Trish looked down at the newspaper that sat across his thighs. "You alright?" He asked softly; his voice was low, as though they were inside the house, trying to be discreet. Trish lifted her chin, and he stared hard at her dark sunglasses, wishing more than anything he could see her eyes. The twitch of her lips caught his attention, and when she didn't speak, he continued. "You haven't been sleeping." He pointed out his observation, dipping his head closer to her.
"No." She finally whispered in response, "it's been a tough week." Trish lifted the bottle to her mouth. As she tilted her head back, Nick wondered if he saw the sparkle of a tear beneath her sunglasses.
"We can have an early dinner," he offered quietly. "An early night?"
His care and concern for her wellbeing had remained consistent from the beginning, and weeks ago, Jen had determined that his thoughtfulness was not just a calculated part of some endgame to get her to sleep with him. In a way, she already was, and one sleepless night she smiled through her realization as Wes reached out for her in his sleep; his kindness and consideration seemed far too genuine.
"Yeah," she looked over at him and smiled. "That sounds good."
A rustling sound came from the other side of the garden. "Knock, knock!" Trish turned her head, and Wes followed her gaze, and they both groaned softly in unison. There was never a day of rest.
Their rings never came off.
Abdul Supomo made his way through the garden gate first, and in his shadow was another, far more threatening imposition. Trish crumpled, bowing her head towards Wesley's shoulder. Whether it was for show or not, her gesture clearly conveyed her annoyance. The men crossed the yard.
"Sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Clayborne." Muhammad Hartono very nearly sounded sincere.
Trish smiled sweetly with a sigh. "Oh, It's no bother. Please," she gestured to the empty chairs across from where they sat, "would either of you like a drink?" She pulled her feet out from underneath her and motioned to stand, slipping into her role with ease.
Both Abdul Supomo and Muhammad Hartono eyed her carefully, for different reasons, of course, and it was the way Hartono's eyes lingered over her appearance that made them all a little uneasy. Abdul sat heavily in a chair. "Yeah, sure." He nodded to the bottle in Wes's hand. "Whatever you're having."
Trish smiled and turned to Hartono, anticipating the other man's usual request. "Water for me, please, Mrs. Clayborne."
Trish's smile tightened, and she blindly stepped into her thongs. "Wes, another?"
"Why not," he grinned at their company as he blindly tucked the newspaper between his leg and the arm of the sofa. Leaning forward, he perched his elbows on his knees, "what brings you here?"
Trish knew that Hartono was watching her as she walked away, and as the door to the house closed behind her, she heard him asking Wesley if it would be prudent to wait for her return, so she hurried. Jen considered fixing her appearance, trying to look more Trish-like, but thought better of it and simply retrieved a glass of water and two bottles of beer from the fridge while her mind raced in aggravation. Why were they here, unannounced?
The conversation had inconveniently started without her and carried on without acknowledging her return. Trish silently handed Hartono and Supomo their drinks, and in doing so, she quickly pieced together that there had been a change of plans. A shipping container they had arranged to come in later in the week was now arriving early, which meant it would need to be maneuvered through customs and unloaded two days ahead of schedule. This sudden change was by design, Hartono had purposefully diverted this small shipping order to test The Clayborne's authenticity, and everyone in the garden knew it. The masterminds behind this whole operation had anticipated this as well and warned Trish and Wes not to cling to any one plan too tightly.
"Tomorrow?" Trish asked, trying her best to feign surprise while she questioned the change in plans. She looked firmly at Hartono, but it was Supomo who confirmed the date change. Nodding thoughtfully, she turned towards her husband. As she moved, he looked up at her, and she silently cursed her dark lenses. She had an idea and needed him to see her for it to work.
Their objective had been clear from the beginning, and by all accounts, they were succeeding. They had gained Hartono's attention and earned enough of his trust under the pretense of competence and greed, the convincing illusion of successful import/export specialists, reliable and respectable, with somewhat loose morals. But there was more to playing The Clayborne's, and that side of their fallacy, Nick and Jen living together as husband and wife, was seldom explored.
"Thanks, Hun." Wes took the beer from her outstretched hand, and still, she took a step closer to him. In the exchange, their fingers brushed together, and the faintest flicker of a smile played across his lips.
She turned and lowered herself onto the loveseat next to him, and in doing so, she placed her hand down on his thigh and eased herself back. Immediately she noticed the tension in his body, his muscles having tightened under the strain of indulging their unexpected guests. Trish pulled her feet up, tucking them beneath her so that her knees were angling towards him.
Hartono watched as she settled herself, his dead eyes searching the dark lenses of her glasses, but eventually, he lost interest and turned to Wesley and spoke directly. "You have all of the correct paperwork. Nothing has changed but the date."
Trish's hand felt cold settled over his leg, and Nick noticed the pressure of her fingers change, subtly tightening her grip at Hartono's misogynistic dismissal. Wes nodded along with Hartono's explanation, and his hand subtly covered hers, his thumb gently tracing the length of her baby finger. "I'm sure we can make this work," he confirmed with confidence.
Trish smiled easily. "I'll check and see who we have in customs tomorrow," her tone procedural and matter of fact, "I'll go in early and move things around…." Wes lifted his hand off his wife's and placed it on her leg, above her knee. Trish looked up at him and finished her thought, "…free up our afternoon."
"Great," Wes mumbled as he looked down at her, his fingertips dancing slowly over her smooth skin. Quickly turning his attention back to their guests, he smiled, a bit smugly, "Trish'll see to things."
Supomo nodded, "I'll meet you at the shipyard at 3:00, as we arranged." And then their handler began rehashing the details of their plan, not because Trish and Wes needed reminding, but because it was an opportunity for Hartono to add something, anything, a small incriminating detail that could be used against him. Yet, as expected, Hartono remained silent, far too practiced and calculated to speak freely. Nick took a chance and quickly glanced at their target and was somewhat surprised; Hartono's usual apathetic expression had shifted with a look of subtle curiosity as he watched Wes's hand play lazily at Trish's knee. Wes turned his attention back to Supomo while he slid his hand, as far as he dared, up his wife's thigh.
"We'll be there," Wes confirmed smoothly as Trish's other hand covered his, stilling his progression and changing the direction of his flirtatious exploration.
It excited Jen to have Wesley's hand on her leg, moving up her thigh, and if their circumstances were different and their life didn't feel like a voyeuristic sideshow, she might have indulged him a little longer. Instead, Trish laced her fingers with her husband's and casually settled their joined hands over her knee once again. However, Wesley's hand was bigger than hers, and he took advantage of it; wriggling his fingers free, he slowly traced lazy patterns over her knee, and Trish couldn't help the subtle blush that painted the skin at the base of her throat.
Eventually, the conversation moved from business to the inevitable, the previous afternoon's footy match, with both Abdul and Wes reviewing plays and laughing about the visiting team's folly. Jen smiled to herself; she had a suspicion that the man behind Wesley genuinely enjoyed football, as he seemed a little too passionate for The Demon's success. Glancing between the two men, who had found an easy conversational middle ground, she wondered if Abdul cared about football or if he was simply putting it on. For his part, Hartono sat glass-eyed and silent and appeared entirely disenchanted with the other men's discussion. Trish smiled at him, an attempt at congeniality, which, as expected, he did not reciprocate.
Trish lifted her hand and picked at a small bug that had stuck itself to Wesley's shirt. No longer restrained, he immediately took advantage of the diversion and allowed his hand to move down her leg, turning his knuckles over to drag down her smooth calf. Nick knew he was taking liberties, but he found that he was enjoying himself and wondered if maybe she was too, as she settled her hand back in her lap rather than redirecting him a second time.
Hartono's eye's flickered, and he stood rather abruptly, leaning forward to put his glass on the table. "We'll let you get back to your afternoon." He stated with a nod, bringing an end to the conversation between Wes and Abdul. Wesley tensed and shifted, moving his hand back to Trish's knee, preparing to rise and walk their guests out. "We'll see ourselves out, Mr. Claybourne. Good afternoon," Hartono turned to Trish, "Mrs. Claybourne."
Abdul looked to Hartono and then turned back to The Claybourne's; his gaze shifted between them wearily as he rose from his chair. "Contact me first thing if you have any problems with these new arrangements," he said simply, turning the conversation back to business. "Tomorrow. 3:00." He reminded them before turning away and leading Muhamad Hartono from the back garden.
Trish and Wesley didn't move; they didn't breathe or blink or speak until the gate closed and they heard the distant sound of a car engine turning over. Wesley let out a soft chuckle and gently nudged his shoulder into Trish's. His voice was low when he spoke. "Do you reckon we made him uncomfortable?"
Jen had pulled her lips in, biting back her smile. "I don't know?" Shaking her head, she kept her eyes on the garden gate. "I wonder?"
Nick hummed beside her, and she turned. Trish watched the small flare at the base of his neck pulsating as his heart rate slowed and she gave a gentle squeeze with her hand that still rested on his thigh. Her eyes dropped to Wesley's hand settled on her knee.
Wes took a deep breath; he kept his eyes on the garden gate as the tension in his body slowly began seeping away, and the weight of his arm settling more heavily over Trish's legs, pulling them even closer to his own. He glanced over to her, watching her face for any sign of discomfort, as he blindly reached for the newspaper. He did his best to flip it open one-handed but failed. Trish lifted her hand that sat in her lap to help him, and together, they opened the paper. Together they absentmindedly scanned the first page.
"Maybe next time they'll ring first," Nick mused wryly, "instead of just stopping 'round." Jen leaned just a little more of her weight into him and laughed, an easy, breathy laugh, her first in ages.