A couple of hours later…

d2: + 2 years, 4 months

d3: − 8 months

Part XV: Sub-clauses

Nick felt the headache before he opened his eyes, but it wasn't as bad as he would have thought. Maybe his body was getting used to the alcohol.

He rolled around, expecting to have the bed to himself, but she was still there, lying on her back, sound asleep. He lay down on his side, shoving the pillow under his head, and watched her. Her face was turned the other way but he could see her profile. She seemed relaxed. At least off guard. And it wasn't hard to imagine her reaction if she knew he could see her like that. She would hate it. Being that vulnerable, that exposed. He couldn't but smile. Yeah, she'd hate it.

He wondered if it meant anything that she had fallen asleep but it probably didn't. If she hadn't just happened to be in the area, she had probably come all the way from Africa and in that case it was no wonder she was tired and exhausted. She would probably be asleep now even if they hadn't… Well. If they hadn't used up all this energy. It had definitely been different than last time, and the alcohol had nothing to do with that. It hadn't been as awkward.

Last time.

He had tried to think of it as a faux pas, a one-time faux pas. But now it had happened again.

Happened? It didn't just happen. It wasn't like he had slipped on something or accidentally gotten caught up in something. Last time she had been the one to take initiative but this time it had clearly been him. He had wanted this. And although his drunk mind had made a real effort to explain it with just that, with being drunk, he realized now that it was something else.

Maybe that's the saddest thing.

The truth was: listening to her had made him sad. Listening while she had walked them through the years, sharing details of her life she wasn't used to share. He could tell by the way she had been looking for a structure as she went ahead, unusual for her otherwise organized way of speaking, never saying one word more than necessary. Listening to the indifference in her voice, whether she had just rattled of facts and events without any sign of self-reflection or suddenly offered deep insights, in passing, in a sub-clause, between the lines, just like that. Not disclosing any delicate information, of course, no secrets, no names, nothing of interest for an investigator, but more about herself, he was sure, than she had ever told anyone before. It had made him sad.

Realization had made him sad. He had been right about a lot of things but he hadn't even been close to understanding. He had assumed it on a rational level but it wasn't until now that he really understood: she had disguised and feigned her feelings so many times, smothered them so extensively, by now she had lost the ability to tell what was real and what was fake. She hadn't said it explicitly but it had been impossible to miss. Just like the complete lack of hope. Not a lack of hope as in hopelessness. She hadn't given up her hope. It was more like…there hadn't even been anything to give up on. It had hit him when she had started talking about that day, the day that had ended in that interrogation room. Ended with him.

She had hesitated for a moment, then revisited it, seeming more and more to be talking to herself there, as if she had never allowed herself to dwell on the events. She had continued with her thoughts during the interrogations, with him, with Alberta Green, then quickly summarized the rest of the time until her release with a few words. And he had wondered if the memories of what had happened to her were too painful, or if she was ashamed, or simply thought of it as irrelevant. But she had moved on before he could have asked, to the events of the day she had bought her ticket out of prison. The day she had helped to stop the bomb, only she hadn't used those words anymore. The reunion with Jack, these few hours between life and death, how things had been, could have been, and somewhere in yet another sub-clause how they were likely to end: with one of them killing the other. And although she obviously accepted this prediction like a simple fact, an inevitable truth that she was at peace with, she had left no doubt that she would do everything she could to be the one still standing after their final encounter. And Nick had been strangely intrigued by her will to live. People were killing themselves for much less than what she had on her conscience, people were giving up hope for much less appealing reasons. And there it had hit him. Hope didn't seem to have anything to do with it. Not for her. It was as if the word, the concept didn't exist in her thinking anymore. Or at least he couldn't detect it anywhere, not once during all of her speech, and he couldn't remember having detected it earlier either. She was struggling, and trying, and fighting, doing her best to get the result she needed. Just, hope didn't really seem to be a variable. Not in the sense of sitting back and hoping for some force beyond her control to help, and neither in the sense of hoping for things to turn out alright in the end. Hope just didn't seem to be a part of her life anymore. He wondered if it ever had been.

He watched her lying next to him, still asleep, unaware of him watching her. He wondered if there was anything else that kept her going except the mere wish for her heart to keep beating and her blood to keep running through her veins. To live, if that was what it meant to live.

He wanted to ask her. Maybe it was the only question she would answer. Cause everything else, she wouldn't. Couldn't. She had said it herself: it was too late to make amends, and there was no going back for her. So how could she live with herself if she gives in to the questions and the doubts. How could she keep going with that.

All that had made him sad, and had left him with the need to…to make them both forget about it. He had expected himself to regret it once he was sober, at least to be worried about it. But he wasn't. Maybe it had been a desperate attempt, a crazy idea, but it hadn't felt that wrong and it didn't feel now either. Crazy, yes, but not that wrong.

Still looking at her, another memory flashed his mind. The fact that she's a beautiful woman has nothing to do with it? And letting his gaze travel over her face once more he couldn't deny that Phil was right: she was a beautiful woman. And although a part of him did worry now he wondered why he had never seen it before. As if he had been too caught up in seeing something else.

¤¤¤

She woke with the feeling of someone watching her, and immediately remembering where she was and what had happened she rolled over onto her side, turning her back on him. Not because she was ashamed, it wasn't like last time. But she didn't feel like talking either. She had told him the truth: she didn't want to discuss any of it, she hadn't come to hear his opinion. She had just needed to get it out of her system.

She had realized it the day before, after finishing the latest job. Something had to change. All the sudden musing on the past kept her from focusing on the future. And while there was nothing she could do about her past, there was a whole lot she could and needed to do about her future. If she wanted to have one - and she did.

She heard him clearing his throat, and knew he was going to say something. Probably nothing you want to hear, she thought and tried to get up, but his hands were suddenly around her arms, holding her back. She tried to pull away.

"Nina," he said and she stopped struggling, immediately remembering the very first time he had called her by her name, and the way it had sounded. As if he knew her deepest places. It hadn't been true back then.

She rolled her eyes but lay back down on her side, and one of his hands let go of her while the other one loosened its grip around her arm, merely lying there and holding her in place.

"I know you didn't come here to talk," he said softly, "but you're here."

"Believe it or not, I didn't come for this either," she retorted, not hiding her annoyance. But he just chuckled behind her.

"You didn't exactly fight me off," he cited her own words, and rolling her eyes once more she didn't reply. If he was so eager to say something it was probably best to let him get to it.

He waited a few seconds and then withdrew his other hand as well, finally letting go of her. She didn't move, and he took his time before he started to speak.

"I know you don't want to talk about it. I know you can't."

She lowered her eyes, staring at the sheet in front of her, glad she didn't have to face him. And a part of her hated to admit that he had probably thought of it as well and therefore not forced her to turn around. Why? To make her comfortable? To get on her better side? Or to make her relax and think herself safe before he started manipulating her again? But what more could he possibly want after everything she had given him last night? She had told him almost everything, and the few things she had kept to herself were to stay with her and no one else.

"I can help you."

She made a disapproving face.

"I don't need help."

He didn't object, and for some reason his silence only increased her irritation. Maybe because she knew it didn't mean that he agreed. Maybe because it left her words hanging in the air, giving her time to doubt them.

"Besides, reminding me of the past every chance you get hardly helps," she added reluctantly. Hardly helps to forget.

It was silly but sometimes she really just wished she could forget it all, pretend it never happened. Pretend she had chosen a different life. Only she had no idea what that life was supposed to look like. Because deep down she knew, even if she could go back, as long as she was the same person she would do it all over again. Some would call it fate or destiny. She preferred to think that it was something that was in her nature. It would always lead her to the same choices.

"You don't really need me to remind you though," he interrupted her line of thought, and she understood when his fingertips brushed over the little scar at her shoulder, where one of Jared's bullets had grazed the skin. No, she didn't need Nick to remind her. Her own body was a much more persistent reminder.

"And I can help you," he insisted.

How? her mind exclaimed, but another question made itself heard even louder.

"Why? Why do you think you can help me? And why would you even care?"

"A, because I'm the only one who understands. And b, because we want the same thing," he explained calmly.

The only one who understands? She wished she could object to that.

"We don't want the same thing," she stated instead. "I want to get on with my life," she clarified. "You need to get a life."

"True," he agreed, and she could practically hear him smile. "And guess what – that's what I've been trying to do ever since I left Division. Just didn't work. Never found anything that seemed worth getting involved in, made me feel good or even just…more than occupied. It's like I'm numb. In fact, the only thing that does make me feel," he explained, "is you."

She frowned, and then glanced over her shoulder to give him a disapproving look.

"You feel alive around me because there's a good chance you'll die every time we meet. And you feel challenged because you have a sick desire to win some kind of psychological duel." She turned back around again. "That's all."

"Maybe," he admitted. "Probably. Or I just finally realized that you were right. That I spent too much time thinking about what's right or wrong, what I should do and what I'm expected to do, and now I want to get even. Play with fire, do something really forbidden. Or I feel guilty because I started all this and want to make it right. Because I'm the one who got you here." She could feel how he shrugged his shoulders. "Or maybe I just like sleeping with you."

"I get it," she cut him off before he could go any further. "I'm the new exciting challenge you were looking for all along." And she had only herself to blame for it. She should never have let things go this far. "There's only one problem: why should I play along? I told you, I'm not interested in therapy."

Hadn't he just claimed to understand that she couldn't talk any more?

"Neither am I," he replied to her surprise. "I want to leave the past behind, not rake around in it. And trust me – listening to all that once was enough. I have no desire to hear more."

She threw another skeptical glance over her shoulder before staring at the bed sheet again, trying to make her mind up about this. What he was suggesting was insane. It could never work and she didn't even want it to work! So tell him.

But a part of her hesitated.

"Does it really matter why?" he broke the silence, anticipating one of the questions on her mind. "I can help you. At least I'm the only one who has a chance. What do you have to lose?"

And she took a deep breath and cast her eyes round the room. Yeah, what did she have to lose?

"Just think about it," he asked. "Just think about it."

To lose? That wasn't quite the question. The question was did she need any help?