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He heard her sigh, saw her staring ahead for a moment before she put her hands around the keys and turned them in the ignition. The car started, and a moment later they moved over the field, slowly making their way back onto the road. He leaned his head against the window and peered outside.
How had things gotten so fucked up? When had he lost it?
Honestly? Probably the first time you've seen her, a mocking voice sneered in his head.But he wasn't sure if that was true. Rather when I first slept with her. But it felt just as inadequate as an explanation.
Maybe when he had started to work at Division. From that point on things had only gotten worse. Like life was all joy and happiness before, the same voice smirked again. Like his life hadn't always been a big mess.
Where did it go wrong? he wondered. He remembered the happy days of his childhood, being jaunty and light-hearted. So there had been something else once. Things had been simple. Until…what? Until his parents had died? No, it had become more complicated long time before that. When he had helped dragging a dead body up a stairway and throwing her down? When he had gotten blood on his hands?
You probably were a good and ambitious student before, he suddenly remembered Nina's words from when she had taken her turn in analyzing him. I'd say you were a very serious kid, didn't have too many friends your own age, probably got along with adults much better. She had been right. Of course, she had been right. Phil had not only been his best friend, he had even been his only friend. That didn't make their friendship worth less but… Yes, he had been a serious kid. Too serious for his age and it hadn't gotten better over the years. He had always felt too mature for his age, too grown up. Helping Phil covering up for the murder of his mum, losing his parents so early – it hadn't exactly antagonized that trend.
So, what it all comes down to is that things got fucked up when I started to think.
He hesitated, but the more he thought about it the more appealing the conclusion became. It was the pattern of his life, wasn't it? He had done alright at Division until he had started thinking too much, questioning what he was doing, questioning how he really felt about it. He had been teaching until he had started thinking about his past again and about how he could teach anything to those young, ambitious students. And he wouldn't be where he was now if he had just stopped thinking about her. At any given point really – after the first interrogation, after Tunisia, after the hotel… None of it would even have happened if he hadn't tried to understand her. If he had stuck to his own problems, his own messed up head. In the end, he had only himself to blame.
He glanced at her. Driving in silence, her eyes were empty, her face a blank mask. That's all there is, he tried to tell himself. No feelings underneath, nothing to save, nothing to fix. It would be so much easier if he could believe that.
Nothing to love, a thought flashed his mind, startling him, scaring him. And he made himself remember what she had done, just a few minutes ago, at the edge of that glade. Without as much as blinking, without batting an eyelid. Shouldn't that cure him from any absurd thought?
Yes, it should. But looking at her only made him having even more uninvited thoughts. Thoughts he couldn't stop from coming. Because he knew there was something underneath that mask. He just wasn't sure anymore if he wanted to know.
"If I hadn't showed up tonight," he finally broke the silence after a long while and noticed the quick glance she darted him. "If I hadn't showed up tonight - what would have happened?"
"Nothing," she shrugged. "Everybody would be on their way home now."
He nodded.
"And then? What about tomorrow? What about next week, next month? Is it just going to go on like that?"
"Probably," she stated with an indifferent voice, but he knew she wasn't that unmoved. Not with everything she had told him.
"You said you want to get out. So what are you waiting for?"
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Of course, he couldn't just let it go. He had to ask, had to know. And she couldn't keep herself from thinking that he deserved to know.
"I can't. Not yet."
"Why?"
"I have to wait for the right moment," she explained vaguely, but he didn't accept that either.
"And when would that be?"
She hesitated, wondering herself if she wasn't just fooling herself. Would that moment really ever come?
Yes, it will.
But was she really willing to take that step? Maybe her life wasn't exactly fulfilling, but it was everything she had. If she gave that up – what was she supposed to do? Just sit around somewhere on a tropic island? Watching the tides change, the seasons pass?
Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.
"You were right," she explained. "It's all about the money. I need one last job. A big one."
"So that you can make enough to disappear for good?"
"Steal enough. Yes," she confirmed, part of her shaking her head inwardly. Why was she telling him?
Calm down. It's not like he's going to tell anyone. She knew that. But still… It wasn't like her to trust anyone with that kind of information. She had never shared more than she absolutely had to and she couldn't see why she had to start breaking that habit now.
"Were you going to tell me?" he asked, and she could hear how he made an effort to make it sound indifferent, casual, as if he didn't really care. "Were you going to tell me what you're planning?" he repeated when she didn't answer.
"What do you think?" she countered and he finally fell silent.
She stole another glance at him, suddenly becoming aware again of the shape he was in.
"Where's your stuff?"
"In a locker at the airport," he muttered hesitant.
"Well, you can't show up there like this." They were not in the United States but even European Airport Security would wonder about a passenger looking all beat up and bruised and ask a whole lot of questions. "We need to find a motel or some place to get you cleaned up." And get this cleared up. She couldn't just drop him off like that.
Why not? What do you want to do instead? Sit and hold his hand?
This was why she would never have told him. A simple goodbye without him having any idea it was the last one – it would have been so much easier. Now things were all complicated again and the last illusion of ease had vanished.
It's still not complicated. Make sure he's alright, say your goodbyes, leave. How much less complicated could it be?
They drove in silence for a long time, until she finally spotted a motorway motel and pulled onto the parking lot. It wasn't hard to get a room, no questions asked, no problems with the check-in, and a few minutes later she maneuvered Nick inside without anyone noticing his condition.
He still hadn't said a word and the look on his face made it clear that he didn't want any help from her. So she just watched him getting out of the car, still holding his side, grimacing against the pain, and let him have it his way. If it made him feel better…
Once inside, he slumped down onto the bed, shifting between lying and sitting to find a comfortable position while she locked the door and checked the room. Checked the window, the visual range she had on what was going on outside, discerning dead angles and possible covers. It was more than unlikely that anyone would find them here, even look for them, but she checked anyway. At least it gave her something to focus on.
Finally turning around again, though, she just stood there, insecure what to do next. She hadn't planned for this, and for once, she didn't know what to do.
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Standing by the window, looking at him, she seemed indecisive about how to deal with the situation. And he realized he hadn't seen her like that before. He had seen her hesitate or weighing her options but never like this. Almost a bit nervous, almost a bit at a loss.
Her cell phone rang and he watched her checking the display, noticed the change in her face when she was suddenly focused and composed again. She aborted the call but moved towards the door with the device in her hand.
"I have to make a call," she stated curtly and gave him a quick glance as if expecting some kind of reaction, but he just stared back, keeping his own expression motionless.
She walked out and he sighed, leaning his head back against the pillow. It was probably about the job. She would have to explain to someone what had happened – or rather what she wanted whoever she was working for to think had happened. He wondered what kind of story she would come up with. And what would happen if she wasn't convincing enough.
They'd kill me, her words echoed in his head. I'm no threat as long as I'm playing by the rules. But he doubted that tonight had been playing by the rules. Killing her own people and lying about it - probably not what was expected of her.
He searched his pockets for his cigarettes and lit one, inhaling deeply before his rips protested, causing him to cough and groan at the pain.
The problem was he believed her. He believed all of it. That she didn't really have a choice now, that she hadn't really had a choice back then in Africa. He had wondered himself how many people were after her, only he had never seriously pursued the question. How does she protect herself? How does she avoid surprises like the one with Travis and Jared? If he had, maybe he would have figured it out by himself, done the math. If they were able to find her there, why shouldn't they find her in Africa, find her permanent residence. If she still had one there. She could have moved to Alaska for all he knew.
That's cause you don't know too much, do you? the irritating voice inside him mocked again.
No, he had been too busy living in a fantasy world. He couldn't even blame her for not being honest with him. It wasn't like he had pressured her. He had just been stupid enough to assume that she wasn't…that she had somehow changed.
Right. What had he been thinking she was doing all day? Translating manuals and articles? With all her knowledge, experience and background, all her credentials? He shook his head. She was right. He could be so naïve…
No, it all made sense and he believed her. It was something else that was hard to take in.
The truth is, I can't see myself making any other decision than the one I made.
As if she was fine with it. As if she didn't think there was anything wrong about it. No regrets, no guilt, no conscience.
No, that wasn't true. And it wasn't what she meant. She had just repeated something she had already explained to him before, that night at his apartment, when she had told him about that side in her that needed the adrenaline, the thrill, the kick. That only felt alive when the stakes were high, that knew she was doing something horrible but couldn't feel anything at it. He knew about that part of her. And she hadn't revealed anything new by telling him again tonight. So why was he acting all shocked and surprised now?
The door opened and she was back, her expression not giving anything away but he was sure things had gone well. No need to worry she hadn't been convincing.
She walked into the room, dropping her cell on the table next to the small TV set, and gave him a disapproving look when she noticed the cigarette. He knew she didn't like it and he usually didn't smoke when he was with her.
"I thought you had quit."
"I'll quit smoking when you stop killing people," he retorted, taking a last drag before stubbing out the butt.
She rolled her eyes but didn't reply, taking her jacket off and tossing it over the only chair in the room.
"You should take a shower or at least wash your face," she suggested, looking as if she was already making plans again.
I want to get out, her words from earlier suddenly echoed in his mind. Why had she even bothered to tell him?Why had she explained, no, actually defended herself? She never did.
He hesitated.
"Why didn't you tell me you're working again?"
"Because I knew you wouldn't understand," she remarked offhandedly, once again making her way over to the window and peering outside.
Surprised at the unexpected admission, he stared at her back, not sure if this was a good thing or not, or what to make of the fact that a part of him was relieved at her answer. Because I knew you wouldn't understand…
"Since when do you care? Since when do you care if anyone understands, or what anyone thinks of you?" What I think of you.
Turning her head an idea, she stared at him, obviously realizing as well that she had given away more than she had intended to. And once again, he made the rare observation of seeing her insecure, speechless even, apparently, at least for a moment.
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She turned back to the window, smothering a heavy sigh. Whether he had trapped her intentionally or not - she had made a mistake.
"I don't," she tried to save what was left to save. I don't. If she did, it meant that she cared about him"If I did, I wouldn't have let things get this far." She glanced over her shoulder, quickly looking him up and down. "And if I cared about you, I wouldn't have let you get in the middle of all this, would I?" she tried to make her case. "I would have insisted that you stay away from me." But the smirk on his face told her he wasn't buying it.
"Maybe someone else would see it that way," he stated, his voice heavy with mockery, "but you're not that noble. You're hardly the unselfish martyr putting your own interests aside for the sake of someone else. You don't believe in self-sacrifice."
Peering out into the darkness, she wished she could object but the problem was that he was right and they both knew it. She really wasn't that noble.
"No, you told me to stay away from you because you were afraid of what would happen to you – not to me. To you. And you only gave in when you realized I'm good for you."
Good for me? She wanted to protest. Where's the good in this?
"You keep meeting with me because you get something out of it. Something you need, something that's worth the trouble and the risk."
"Yes," she admitted, seeing her chance to gain the upper hand again. "It was your idea to find some distraction in each other and I admit it was a good one." She sneered. "I hope you're not going to blame me now for taking your offer."
He snorted. "A distraction? That's all it was to you, huh?"
"As hard as that must be for your ego – that's exactly what it was. Nothing more."
She heard him move and darted another glance over her shoulder, seeing him getting up from the bed and to his feet, an amused expression on his face.
"You know, if you want to get out, you shouldn't wait too long. You used to lie a lot better than that."
She tried to think of a good response but frankly couldn't come up with any. She didn't know what to say.
"If you were just looking for a good distraction," he continued, moving towards the bathroom door, still pressing one hand onto his side, "you could have picked up some random guy any time. No need to cling to me of all people. And if you really didn't give a damn about me, you wouldn't have shot three of your own men to save my sorry ass. Not that you cared about them but killing them is trouble, and you're avoiding trouble whenever you can." Reaching the bathroom, he leaned against the doorframe for a second, supporting himself before making his last point. "And that's also why you weren't going to tell me. Why you would have played along until that last job would have come up and then just run off and disappeared without ever letting me know why." She turned her back on him again. "It's easier, it's avoiding trouble. Because you do care - and that, that is trouble. At least from your perspective."
She still didn't say anything, focusing on not moving, on not encouraging him even more than she already was by staying so passive.
A few moments later, she heard the bathroom door being slammed shut behind him.
She kept staring into the dark, struggling a little longer but then finally giving up. He was right and she realized she was too tired to make up explanations just to stay in her blissful state of denial. It wasn't that blissful anyway.
You get something out of it. Something you need, something that's worth the trouble and the risk.
She did. And she used to think that it was just these few hours of forgetting and ignoring, the refuge they created every time they took off from the real world. The way he sometimes looked at her, the way he almost seemed to see something else than everybody else, something else than she saw herself when she looked in the mirror. Never longer than a few moments but she remembered every one of them. It felt good as long as it lasted but hurt even more when it was over. And it always was eventually. And she could see even that in his eyes then: the process of realization, remembrance, awareness, and finally - inevitably - guilt.
If she cared about him, she would have ended it? Spared him the inner struggle? Well, the thought had hit her. But he was right – she didn't believe in self-sacrifice. He had something she needed, and he was a grown-up, old enough to make his own decisions. If he thought he could take it, she wouldn't try to convince him otherwise.
She had thought it was the part where he made her forget that made her come back time after time and that was worth all the trouble and even the pain of the inevitable disillusionment right after. But that was only half the story, only half the truth. Now she realized that she needed that disillusionment just as much. To remind her of what she was, what she had been, and what she didn't want to be anymore. To remind her of what she had to do if she ever wanted to be able to see something different in the mirror again. And he was the only one who could give her that. She could find someone who didn't know, who just saw a façade, a stranger - whatever they wanted to see. But Nick was the only one who knew what he was dealing with, saw who she really was.
She sighed. And who still sticks around. Why was that?
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Nick put his hands around the edges of the sink and leaned closer towards the mirror, waiting a few seconds before looking up and meeting his own reflection. He really was in a bad shape.
The blood on his face and shirt had dried by now, the skin around his left eye had started to turn into a dark blue, and just the sight of it all brought the pain back. He tried to take a deep breath and more pain shot through his body, reminding him that his face wasn't the only body part they had worked on. He smothered a groan and straightened up, trying to make it easier on his lungs and airways.
He noticed his hand twitching and then his whole body started shaking while he watched himself turning paler. He could feel his blood pressure rising.
About time, he thought sarcastically, knowing it was his brain finally processing what had happened tonight and his body working it out. He could have died.
No, I could die any given day of my life. That was not the point. It was not just the theoretical possibility of death he had faced tonight – he had been seconds or a few inches away from dying. If his capturers had decided to finish him off without consulting their boss, if Nina had decided he wasn't more important than her deal going off smoothly, not to mention if he had managed to get them both killed in a stupid car accident.
He let go of the sink and clenched his fists in a weak attempt to gain control over his body, but in vain. Realizing he had to let his body have it its way, he tumbled back and leaned against the shower stall.
This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He should be sitting somewhere behind an oak desk, reading, writing, researching. Analyzing, theorizing, maybe teaching. He wasn't supposed to get involved into terrorist activities, witness whatever sale it was they had just made. The closest he had ever gotten to all that was in the interrogation rooms and offices at Division, and even there just second-hand, just from a safe distance. And there was a reason why he had turned his back on all that. But at least he had been on the right side back then. Hadn't he? Everything he had done had been meant to do good, to stop crimes and attacks, to protect innocent lives, innocent citizens. Maybe he had been too soft for the job but the thing itself had been good, no? Division, intelligence services, the government – that was the right side, wasn't it? The good side.
Really? He stared at his reflection. What side exactly was that? The side of this country. But is everything that is best for your country automatically good? Is supporting dictators and financing terrorists good as long as it secures resources and destabilizes a political enemy? Are human rights and the rule of law negligible from time to time? Is the definition of good that bendy? Are you?
It was true - everything he had done at Division he had done to help averting crimes, foiling attacks, to protect innocent Americans. But did that mean he had been on the right side?
No, it doesn't. And that was why he had left Division, why he couldn't do his job anymore. There's no such thing as good and bad. There were just sides. A lot of them. And there's probably no such thing as innocence. He had seen too much to remain in blissful ignorance. And it was also why he couldn't teach anymore. He couldn't talk about what he had seen, but how could he not tell the truth he had found? How could he teach young students but only teach them a limited fragment of the complex world he was supposed to prepare them for? He had tried to keep it simple, to stick to his field. But every now and then he was reminded of the rest, asked to leave his ivory tower. Every time he took off and ran.
He shook his head, again trying to clench his fists and stop the shivering. Let's not lose perspective here. Whatever reasons he had for leaving Division and for messing up his life – it didn't change a thing about what had happened tonight. No one had forced him to go after Nina, no one suggested to him to get close to her.
He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the plastic wall in his back. Who exactly was he making excuses for – for himself or for her? He could philosophize all he wanted but the fact remained that what she had done – and obviously still did – was wrong. He could see her reasons, understand her way of thinking, or put himself in her shoes for a while, but it didn't change a thing. And for once it was really simple: either he could live with it or not. There was no middle ground.
No, but there's always retreat. And why shouldn't he pull back? Even if he had been right, even if she cared, if she had some sort of regret and a conscience – it obviously wasn't enough. She couldn't even bring herself to say it, let alone act on it. And even if she wanted to change…
He had tried the best he could, but maybe she was right - maybe she couldn't be fixed. She wasn't willing to let him try to say the least. And he couldn't see any longer what had made him believe he should be the one to do anything about it.
He was so tired and he sank down to sit up against the wall. Why was he putting himself through all this when she so obviously rejected his efforts? Why should he be the one to struggle when she avoided it? He was done here.
Time to go home. It wouldn't spare him the struggle with his conscience over what had happened but it would make things easier. And safer. He would just wait a little, sit here and let his body catch up with everything. With the shock. He shouldn't be shocked really, should have known better. But what could he say – he really could be shockingly naïve.
He heard the door creaking and felt her standing there but didn't look up. He could imagine the mocking expression on her face and he didn't want to see it right now. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing, find a steady rhythm, set the pace for himself. In and out, in and out, in and out…
He sensed her moving, heard the faucet being turned on and water running but kept his eyes closed. He would tell her. He would tell her and then he would leave. He just needed to gather a bit more strength. In and out…
Something wet touched his face and he jerked his eyes open to see her kneeling in front of him. It was a wet towel being run over his forehead, soaking up the cold sweat, almost softly moving on to wipe away the dried blood. Meeting her eyes, he wasn't sure what it was he saw in them. She seemed serious. For once, there was no mockery, no smirking. But it certainly was yet to come. Sitting around on the filthy floor, shaking, shivering – not quite the tough behaviour she was used to.
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He brought his hand up to stop her, to push her away, and she withdrew her own, leaving it to him to keep the cool towel pressed against his forehead. He did and closed his eyes once again and she sank further back, sitting down opposite him with as much space between them as possible in the narrow room.
"Not quite a surprise," he remarked with a shaky voice, looking at her defiantly. "At least one of us shows a normal reaction."
A human reaction, she thought. That was what he meant. A normal person wouldn't be that unmoved by what had happened, wouldn't be as indifferent as she was. She had let her gaze trail off but feeling him glare at her, she looked up again as she spoke.
"I knew you would despise me if I'd told you." I knew there's no way you could handle knowing I'm still active.
She had to force herself not to avoid his eye but seeing how startled he was didn't make it easier, reminding her of the magnitude of her admission.
"You're right," she stated curtly. You're right about everything, she wanted to tell him but couldn't. The words just froze on her lips. She couldn't bring herself to say them. Too strong was the part of her that told her not to make herself that vulnerable. Why exactly? She didn't know anymore. And somewhere, almost secretly, she hoped that he would understand anyway, that he would see it in her eyes if she just kept riveting them on his.
You're right. I tried not to let it come this far because I knew we might end up here. And a part of me still wishes I had never given my consent, never let it happen, never gotten this attached. But I do get something out of it, she thought sadly. And I didn't want it to be over.
He was returning her gaze, his tired eyes staring back at her, but she couldn't read in them, couldn't tell if he understood or not.
"I don't know what you saw in me," she suddenly continued aloud, "but I didn't want you to stop seeing it. Because whatever it is, you're the only one who can see it." She couldn't. "And every time you remember what I am, every time you feel guilty about it," she had to pause, "I do too."
He just stared at her with his mouth open and his breathing still a bit shaky, and although a part of her wanted to know what was going on inside of him, it was probably better not to know. It was hurting enough already.
Hurting? It wasn't hurting.
Not yet maybe, but it will.
He blinked, and she cast her eyes down, letting her gaze wander over everything that wasn't him, swallowing, and feeling every muscle in her tense, aching to get away.
"You should lie down for a moment and get some rest," she suggested, getting up to her feet and making her way to the door. "I can drop you off at the airport later."