A little later…
d2: + 2 years, 1 month
d3: − 11 months
Part XII: Fix it
He felt uncomfortable and desperately wanted to change his position, but he didn't dare to move. It would only stress the awkward silence that had fallen over the room as soon as they had left each other alone. He couldn't tell how long they had been lying like that, but the minutes seemed to stretch into eternity. At one point he had thought she could have fallen asleep, but she hadn't, of course. It would be completely out of character.
And sleeping with me wasn't?
He still couldn't believe what just had happened. It seemed too unreal, too absurd. He had to be dreaming. He wished he was dreaming. But he wasn't. He could still feel the beads of sweat drying on his skin, the scent of sex in the air, the taste of…
He swallowed.
Why? All his knowledge about the human mind, all the theories he had learnt and studied, used and put into practice couldn't help him generate a halfway satisfying answer now. He knew they had just reacted to the situation, that sex was a well-tried means to vent any kind of emotion - frustration, aggression, fear, sorrow, grief. And there had been plenty of stress and tension between them. But none of that could explain what seemed inexplicable. Not with her! Not with your… Not with whatever they were to each other.
He couldn't lay still any longer and moved his arm out from under his head, accidentally brushing against her shoulder and quickly jerking back. She didn't move.
He was surprised she was even there. He would have expected her to just get up and walk away without another word. But the fact that she was still lying there, with her back turned to him, silent but certainly awake, could only mean that she was just as distraught as he was. He wondered what was going on in her mind.
Wondering what's going on in her mind is what got me here in the first place, he thought grimly. He could complain all he wanted but she was right about one thing: until today she had never asked him to come to her, it had been his own choice. And neither could he claim that he hadn't been aware of the consequences. He of all people had known exactly what he had let himself in for. Just not that it would get him here. This part had been unforeseeable.
He shifted his head a little, staring at her back. He remembered how it had staggered him when he had pulled her shirt over her head. The scars shouldn't have surprised him, he had known they were there, had even witnessed her receiving one of them. But he hadn't been prepared to see them like this. To see her like this. And he had hesitated, and then reached out to slowly run his fingertips over one of them, holding his breath at the strange feeling it stirred up in him. But she had noticed the expression on his face, and stopped his hand before it could reach its destination. Before it could remind me who she is? Who I am? She had claimed his mouth for another hungry kiss, his hands to touch her somewhere else, and he had understood it wasn't him she needed. Still, her desire, her need for release had shocked him. Because it meant that he was right.
It had first dawned on him when she had told him she hadn't come to kill him, and he had hustled her into another admission. If I knew why you did what you did, I could maybe believe you won't do anything stupid in the future. It meant she wanted to believe it. She had wanted him to give her something she could use to justify not killing him. That was what she had come for, that was what she had hoped to find. An excuse, an argument, something to convince herself. And when he had offered her the most obvious reason she had lost the struggle with her newly found conscience. The struggle he had forced onto her.
He let his eyes travel over the back of her head, the strands of hair curling in her neck, and paused at her shoulders, noticing how they rose and fell just an idea every time she drew a breath. In a way she had let her guard down more than she ever could have done with words. Sleeping with him had been her last resort. To shut him up, to shut herself up, to make it all go away, at least for a little while. He understood that now. He knew why she had done it. What he didn't get was why he had done it.
The sex had been as impersonal as sex could be. It had been quick and boisterous, fierce not passionate, rough not tender. And most of the time, he hadn't been able to tell if their bodies had been busy attracting or rejecting each other. None of them had made a sound.
He moved his head back to its earlier position and stared up at the ceiling, remembering something Davis had told him once, after a long and stressful day at work. Go home, take a shower, and then find someone to fuck your brains out. I'd do the same if I was your age. He had laughed back then, but he didn't feel like laughing now. And he wondered what Davis would say if he knew he had taken his advice, because it was exactly what he had just done, what they had been doing.
He would question my sanity and either arrest me or institutionalize me.
He shook his head inwardly. What was wrong with him? When had he started losing his mind? And once again he tilted his head a little to watch her lying next to him. Nina Myers, former CTU agent, traitor, murderer, suspected terrorist. He could maybe justify playing games with her, trying to manipulate her, maybe explain why he had been so eager to see what was going on in her head. After all, he had spent a great deal of time trying to understand the likes of her, and that was why he had come to her, that was why he had helped her. To get a chance to figure her out. And somewhere along the way certainly to let his ego get revenge for the disappointment of their very first encounter. So far he could explain it all and more or less justify it to himself. But how could he possibly justify what had happened today? How the hell could he justify that she was lying next to him now, that he could still feel the taste of her lips on his, the touch of her skin against his, the scent of sex in the air.
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One hand under her cheek, she was lying still, staring along the line of her arm and at her other hand that was dangling over the edge of the bed. It had stopped trembling.
She had pulled him closer towards the end, closed her eyes when she had felt his face buried against her neck. She hadn't wanted to look at him and neither had she wanted him to look at her. So she had held on to him, clinging to his shoulder and his hip when their bodies had twitched under the contractions, effectively exhausting their last ounce of strength. He had collapsed on top of her, and she had kept her eyes closed a little longer, until she had felt him straightening up. And meeting the distraught, insecure look on his face, she had pushed him off of her and rolled onto her side, and only after a little while had she noticed the slight tremble in her hand. But it was gone now.
She swallowed, and lowered her gaze, staring into some indefinite space. She had to get up. She had to fix this. She had to do something. But she couldn't get herself to move. She was paralyzed. No, not paralyzed. It was just as if a part of her didn't care anymore. Or not enough anyway. All her mechanisms of self-protection had failed her.
She had come to see him to put an end to all this, to be able to move on, to get him out of her head. Him and all of his questions, the doubts he had planted in her. At least that was what she had told herself. She would kill him if she had to but maybe there was another way. You were hoping there was another way. Instead she had let him do it all over again. How naïve had she been - had she really thought he wouldn't jump at the opportunity? Had she seriously thought she would be strong enough this time? She had tested herself, she realized now. And she had failed.
Now what?
She felt him moving again behind her. Whatever he had been thinking before today, he could rest assured now that he had been right all along. And a part of her hated him for that, hated him because she wouldn't be in this place if it wasn't for him. She had been fine before he had started manipulating her.
Manipulating? Really? He wouldn't have been successful if there hadn't been some truth to it, would he? And how 'fine' had she really been? Hadn't she had her doubts already, hadn't she hesitated to get back in? Hardly because she had suddenly been afraid it could get dangerous. Wasn't it closer to the truth that she would have enjoyed being away from all the killing and betraying, playing and deceiving if there had been anything else to make her life worth living, anything else that made her feel as alive? And why had she never gone after Jack when even Nick had concluded that it would be logical to do so from her perspective? No, it wasn't all his fault. He had maybe aggravated it, but she had started coming off the track way earlier.
If for anything, she hated him for seeing her so weak but even that was only halfway true. She didn't hate him - she hated herself. For letting him see her so weak, for losing control like she had, for proving him right the way she had. And the real reason why she couldn't face him or even move, why even the thought of her gun had flashed her mind again for a brief moment, and why her hand had started trembling was because she was ashamed. For the second time today, for the second time in ages. Although, thinking of it now, she wasn't sure anymore about that either.
She gave them to him. Back then in Visalia, she had told herself she had simply faked being ashamed or embarrassed when Jack had told the agents why Faheen knew all their protocols. Our protocols. But now she wasn't sure anymore. He knows all our protocols. – She gave them to him. Dammit, she wasn't sure of anything anymore!
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, fighting the urge to just stay where she was, to just go on pretending not being there by not moving at all. Right. As if that was going to work.
She could sense his gaze in her back and suddenly felt naked and exposed. And quickly getting up, she pulled her underwear up from around her ankles and put her top over her head before making her way to the bathroom where she closed the door behind her and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. She was freezing. She didn't have anything to do in here.
But she could hear him walking around outside and sat down on the toilet seat and waited. She had to compose herself before… Before what?
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Nick squatted down and swept the broken pieces onto the tray before he started wiping the wine up off the floor. It had been a cheap bottle anyway. He was lucky the floor was parquet though. Burton wouldn't have appreciated wine stains on his rug. I can replace the glasses, he thought, but I'll have to tell him. Let's hope he believes I'm really clumsy, breaking two glasses all by myself. He wasn't keen on explaining that he had had a visitor. Not that Burton could find out who or would even ask, but the mere thought of mentioning it made Nick feel uncomfortable. As if that was my biggest problem.
He threw the dishcloth onto the tray and carried it over to the kitchen where he emptied its entire load into the garbage can. He could buy a new dishcloth as well.
He turned around, and leaning against the counter his gaze almost automatically fell across the room and at the bathroom door. He kept staring at it for a while but then forced himself to look away and around the room to see if there was something else to do. There wasn't, and he turned around again, got a new glass and poured himself some water from the tap. It was more to keep himself busy but once the cold liquid ran down his throat he noticed just how thirsty he had been. He refilled and emptied the glass two more times before he put it down into the sink.
Walking back to the rear of the room where the bed was, he collected his pants and the shirt from the floor and threw them onto a chair. He was freezing a bit in just his boxers but didn't care enough to get fully dressed. His eyes fell onto the pile with her clothes, and again he couldn't but stare at them, unable to grasp all the thoughts running through his head. Somehow seeing them lying there made him more aware of what had happened than the sight of her naked figure some moments ago. And of what didn't happen.
He squatted down again, hesitated a moment but then reached out, carefully feeling the fabrics until he found what he was looking for.
It was a different gun than last time. He could tell even before he pulled it out of its holster and carefully weighed it in his hand. It was a similar type but definitely not the same weapon he had taken from her last time. And returned. He wondered what he should conclude from the fact that she had left it like that, not exactly well-hidden, in the same room with him. Was she simply careless or really that far from any thought of using it? He had a hard time believing that she had forgotten about it, but then again, he had to admit that he had, earlier, when they had stripped in a hurry. As if it suddenly hadn't mattered anymore that there was a gun in the room, or even, as if there suddenly hadn't been a gun anymore. And feeling the weight in his hand now, he wondered if he had been the one to be careless.
He let the empty holster drop to the floor and straightened up again, casting his eyes round the room. No more games. He could only hope he wasn't making a mistake but so far, he realized, he hadn't made any or at least no big one. He was still alive and she seemed far from the person she had been when he had first met her. Maybe that should worry me. Maybe he should be less proud and more concerned about the fact that he had been pretty good at playing her. It means I can get into her mind. And there was always the risk of getting lost in there.
He heard the water running in the bathroom and started moving. No more games.
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She drank another handful of the cold tap water, suddenly noticing how thirsty she really was. Not a big surprise actually but her mind had been focused on other things. She turned the faucet off and straightened up, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She wondered when she had started to get irritated by what she saw.
She wiped her mouth dry and turned around to leave the bathroom and face what was waiting outside. She realized she had been in here much too long but after everything that had happened it could hardly make a difference now. Hiding in here is not what gave you away.
She found Nick sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall in his back, his legs pulled up, forearms resting on his knees. He was smoking. And she was just about to think how she had never understood this concept of slowly trying to kill oneself when her eyes fell on the gun lying on the sheets at the foot of the bed. Her gun, of course.
Contemplating the implications, she kept looking at it for one, two seconds more before slowly letting her gaze return to Nick who, in his turn, kept staring at the tip of his cigarette.
"The guy who pulled the bullet out of your leg - he's my best friend, always been, for as long as I can remember."
She couldn't stop her brain from saving the information, classifying it as maybe important since it could help her finding him if she had to. But most of all she had to wonder, of course. Why did Nick bring this up now?
She glanced at the gun again. Another game? She tried to give him a warning glare but he took no notice of it, his attention still riveted on the smoke rising from his cigarette to the ceiling.
"His family wasn't as…wealthy as mine but I don't think we were ever particularly aware of it. Until his dad lost his job and started drinking. Or maybe he started drinking first and then lost his job. It doesn't matter."
He took a deep drag before he continued, signaling he was going to take his time to tell the story, and she decided to yield the floor to him and see where it would take them. Anything was better than more of the same awkward silence or even worse – talking about what just had happened. The longer they would dance around it, the more she would regain some of the control.
"One day, we were about 12, 13, Phil and I had been out all day. Playing, roaming around, God knows what we were doing. It was summer."
She noticed the tone in his voice, the mix of casualness and nostalgia, as if he was about to tell some rather irrelevant tale of his youthful exploits.
"When he got home late in the evening, he found his mother in the hallway. Dead, with a nasty gash in her head, matching the shape of an old sports trophy lying next to her. Apparently, there had been some sort of fight when his dad had returned from the pub, dead drunk as usually. Phil found him upstairs in the bedroom, sound asleep."
He paused for another drag, then reached out for the ashtray on the nightstand, placing it between his legs. All the while avoiding to look at her.
"He caught up with me before I was home and made me go back with him," he continued, fumbling with his cigarette to tap the ash off the tip, making longer breaks throughout and between the sentences now. "He said he would have done it alone but…he wasn't strong enough. So I helped him. We dragged her body up the stairs, made it look like she had fallen down."
She was surprised how calm he seemed, how detached the expression on his face was.
"We cleaned up the blood that was too far from the foot of the stairs, then we went to get rid off the stupid trophy. We dumped it into the creek. Afterwards, I went home and he waited. Two hours later he called the cops."
Not detached. Just…at a loss. As if he was at a complete loss himself as to what to think of all this. What to feel at it.
"His dad was so wasted, it took them half an hour to wake him up. And when they told him, told him what Phil had told them - that his son had woken up at the sound of his wife falling down the stairs and that she was dead - he cried like a baby."
Another, somewhat more hasty drag on his cigarette.
"Of course, a proper forensic examination would have revealed how she had really died. But it was a small community, more of a neighborhood, no one wanted to ask questions that could have disclosed an ugly truth. Witnesses confirmed that his dad had come home before Phil, and Phil himself told them how he had still spoken to his mum before going to bed. While his dad had already been passed out and asleep. Why should he be lying?" He shook his head. "They all bought it."
She watched him stubbing out the cigarette and tilted her head back, contemplating the implications of what he had just revealed. And, of course, still wondering why he had chosen to tell her. Why now? Why at all? He had refused to give any clarifications on the matter earlier.
Finally, he looked up.
"It's probably not the dark secret you expected," he stated cynically, fishing for a reaction from her. But she stayed silent, patiently scrutinizing his features. He seemed uncomfortable.
"The most obvious question would be why we did it."
She took her time before she spoke, making sure she didn't miss anything in his face. Did he really just need to talk about it? Or was he up to something again? But she couldn't see anything indicating the latter. And it wouldn't be the first time he's spilling his beans.
She hinted a shrug.
"I'm guessing, he figured since his mother was dead anyway it wouldn't do him much good to lose his father as well."
For a brief moment he glared at her, as if he was frustrated that she so easily identified and so readily accepted this explanation. That she didn't shake her head or was horrified at the whole story? But he couldn't seriously have expected her to, and obviously realizing that as well he quickly cast his eyes down.
"And you were his best friend." She rolled her eyes. "Of course you helped him." You are that kind of guy. Someone to rely on, to trust, who would risk everything for the right person. She couldn't hide her contempt. Until you wake up in the real world and find out life doesn't work like that. Life didn't reward idealistic delusions. No one could be trusted. Not if you wanted to get somewhere, not if you wanted to make it through. It's hard enough to trust yourself at times.
"He said he didn't want them to send him off to some foster family, to take him away from everything he knew," Nick continued, staring down at his hands. "From me. His best friend."
Of course, Nick had a different opinion on that matter. He had been willing to go a long way for his friend and that was probably why his friend, in his turn, had done the same for him. Treating a gunshot wound and not informing local authorities about it was a serious offense and he had hardly risked his medical license for her, a stranger he didn't even know. No, he did it for Nick. But Nick had asked the favor of him.
She pushed the thought aside, not giving her mind a chance to dwell on it. Instead she focused on Nick again.
So, that's the wrong you're trying to make right. He had covered up a murder and felt he had blood on his hands. She sneered to herself. No wonder he had chosen just her to confess to - she knew better than anyone what it meant to have bloody hands.
"He told me: just a few more years," Nick remembered. "Just a few more years and I'm free to go wherever I wanna go and do whatever I wanna do." He sighed. "I don't know how he did it. How he could live in the same house with his dad, stay in the same room with him. I could hardly breathe every time I was there. The first year I couldn't even set a foot in the house. And every time I see that hallway, I still feel I have to throw up."
He fell silent again.
"What happened to his father?" she asked, mostly to keep him talking.
He gave a snort of contempt.
"Took him five years to drink himself to death. Phil says he spent his days sitting in his armchair, alternating between drinking and crying. Rambling on about how he had been a bad husband, causing his wife nothing but grief and trouble, and how he had been drunk the night she died. How it maybe would never have happened if he had been awake or how he at least could have spared his son to find her." He took a deep breath. "At first I thought it was the guilty conscience that racked him. That he knew very well what he had done." He shook his head an idea. "But, I don't know, Phil never confronted him, they never talked about what had really happened that night. Maybe his dad wanted to believe so badly what was in the police report, he actually thought it was the truth. Or maybe he really had no idea what he had done."
"What did Phil think?" she found herself asking, contributing to the strange conversation for the second time already. But despite the fact that it kept them away from another, much more sensitive subject she couldn't deny that she was curious now.
"He kept saying his father just believed what he wanted to, but I think in the end he wasn't so sure anymore either." He shrugged. "I don't know if he doubted because it got harder to watch his father die or if it got harder to watch because he doubted. He says it doesn't matter and that he doesn't care. What's done is done."
"Smart man," she remarked, earning herself another brief glare. She rolled her eyes. "Does it make a difference?"
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He stared back at her for a moment, then slowly lowered his gaze. Did it?
"I mean, what's really bugging you?" she asked mockingly, moving to walk over to where the rest of her clothes was still lying on the floor. "Whether or not Phil's dad knew what really happened or your own part in this whole tragic episode?"
"I bet you think it shouldn't bug me at all," he retorted, watching her picking up her pants and putting them on, annoyed with how indifferent she was. Not that he had expected her to be particularly moved, but… Hell, he didn't know what he had expected.
The typical smile appeared on her face while she finished with the last button on her jeans. There was nothing left of the insecurity or the embarrassment he had spotted earlier.
"Is that why you're telling me all this? To get my expertise?"
He opened his mouth to protest. I told you because I wanted to ease some tension, defuse the situation. To spare you the embarrassment. That's why I told you. Wasn't it?
He hesitated. Her expertise? Was she completely off track? Or could there be some truth to it?
She seemed to have sensed the doubts on his mind and gave him a challenging look.
"Come on. We made such progress today, I think we really connected," she sneered, her voice heavy with sarcasm. And he was taken aback at how she had gained the upper hand again. He could swear just a couple of minutes ago she would have shot him for any comment on what had happened between them and now she was mocking him with it.
"Ask what you really wanted to ask me," she added, performing yet another transformation and being almost serious again all of a sudden. And he recognized this certain expression on her face that he couldn't really grasp although he had seen it a couple of times now, recently more often than earlier. It was confusing him every time again because there were so many elements to it. The usual mockery and a mild dose of contempt, paired with sarcasm, of course, and that touch of superiority. As if she was one step ahead already and knew how the story would unfold anyway. But there was more. And much to his surprise, he suddenly realized now that it was sadness. He had wondered about it earlier, mistaken it for pity, but it was a sad resignation. As if she not only knew what was lying ahead but also that it was inevitable, whether she liked it or not. Well, if she liked it there would be no reason for resignation in the first place.
He had to stifle a laughter when he realized how right she was. They had indeed made progress, he really felt that he understood more than before she had showed up today. He just wasn't sure whether he was comfortable with it. Progress regarding what? To where?
The frown on her face told him he hadn't been too good at hiding his amusement, and he considered sharing his absurd thought but wasn't sure if it was a good idea to lead the conversation into that direction. As much as her little insinuation about their recent physical activity had been a demonstration of how she was back in control, it had also been an admission that it was a sore spot. Hence the mockery. You don't sneer at something that doesn't bother you. It was basic psychology, and he wondered if she had missed this part of her message or if she had conveyed it intentionally. To tell him not to go there without actually saying it. He could very well believe her capable of it, but maybe he was interpreting too much into it now. Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, he let it go.
Ask what you really wanted to ask me.
"Why should I care what you have to say?" he asked instead, stalling of course and not very good.
"Because it's why we're here," she explained, still that same expression on her face. "It's why you came after me in Tunisia, why you stopped by at the hotel, why you didn't hand me over to the cops, and why you asked your friend to get that bullet out of my leg, prolonging our little tête-à-tête." She paused a moment, as if to let her words sink in properly. "I guess you wanted to ask then already, but you chickened out. And it was so much more fun to play me."
Again she waited a moment before she continued, watching his reaction carefully. Giving him enough time to protest, he realized, but remained silent.
"I'm sure it was a nice bonus, but it's not what you really need from me."
"And what is that?" he asked, instantly regretting it although, at this point, it didn't really matter anymore what he said or didn't.
"Answers, some advice," she offered. "Someone who understands. Who's been there, done that, who knows what you're talking about. All of it."
Was she right? He had racked his brains so often about why she kept coming back into his life, why he kept pulling her in, he couldn't tell the difference anymore between what was true, what had become true over the years, and what he had talked himself into believing. It had seemed so convenient to explain it all with his ego. That he had just wanted to break her because he had failed the first time. But deep down he knew it didn't explain anything. Since when was his ego that oversized anyway? It had never been before. And why should he be so obsessed with just her? He had screwed up other interrogations but there was nothing he could be blamed for regarding her case. Then why? Why couldn't he let it go, let her go? Why if not for the reason she had just pointed out?
"Tell me I'm wrong," she sneered, not hiding the pleasure she took from playing his own game with him. "Tell me there's nothing you want to ask me, nothing you need to hear from me."
Was there? He wasn't sure anymore. There had been in Tunisia, she was right about that. She hadn't exactly pressured him to pour his heart out about why he had left Division. In fact, he remembered he had been so eager to finally get it off his chest, he doubted she could have stopped him. And why should he have told just her of all people if not for the simple reason that he had expected her to understand, hoped to get some sort of approval or confirmation from her. And I got it. Wasn't that part of the reason why he had been able to move on, why he had stopped second-guessing his decision to quit? She was right about Tunisia, there had been something he had needed to hear from her. But what about the rest? What about now? Was she right about that as well?
She kept giving him that superior look of hers for a moment longer before she came slowly walking towards the bed. Towards the gun.
She's leaving.