Chapter 8: Through the Wormhole

It took just over three hours from Boston to reach the 'No Man's Land' of Vermont, and another twenty minutes past that to find June's safe-house within Canada's legal limits. The distance didn't matter to Nick. He had the freedom of a car and mostly-good music to sing along to. In former times, he reflected, he'd always been impatient with radio, changing stations as soon as they played a commercial or a song he didn't care for. Nowadays, any music was good music, and he had become far easier to please. Even the Backstreet Boys were acceptable to him now. Or perhaps his amenable mood was due to the sweet anticipation of seeing his two favorite girls…along with the Detroit-style pizza June had promised him.

And so he drove contentedly, arriving at the safe-house in mid-afternoon. His wife and Martha thought he was going to a secret conference with the leadership of the border patrol—that's what his travel documents said, and that's the story he was giving at the numerous checkpoints along the way. It helped to be the head of the Eyes. Nobody questioned him much, if at all.

He found the bare-bones, one-bedroom ranch house set unobtrusively among uncut grass and old trees. A warm, welcoming light shone through the dirty window. Nick switched off the car's engine and took his satchel from the back seat. He traveled light: just a toothbrush, change of underclothes, wildflowers he'd picked for June just past the border, and a set of small wooden animals for Nichole. Before leaving the Mercedes, he took his pistol out of its shoulder holster, removing the bullets and tucking them into his suit pocket. He couldn't have a loaded weapon around a child.

The house had no garage, but a canopy of trees offered some measure of protection from Gilead's spy drones. The whole area was forested, and the sweet scent of pine greeted Nick as he opened his car door. June had planted some flowers outside of the front entrance. He hadn't known she could garden; he associated that particular skill with Serena Waterford, never with June. But no matter. The flowers just added to the pleasant pine tree scent of the air: a smell that he would, from then on, always associate with her.

He knocked three times quickly: the same knock June had always used to enter his garage apartment at the Waterfords'. He liked the idea of sharing a secret code with her. So much of their relationship, since its very beginning, was clandestine. They were so good at hiding their feelings in public, relying instead on a shared look, an occasional touch of a hand or brushing of an arm. They couldn't get away with any more than that. It made them better appreciate their private moments together.

June must have seen his car arrive, because she opened the door almost immediately after the knock. She pulled him into the house, barely managing to close and lock the door before they fell into each other.

Nick held her tightly, wordlessly. She smelled like something floral, lavender maybe. His nose was really getting a workout here in Canada. Perfume wasn't allowed in Gilead—too frivolous—so perhaps June was making up for lost time now. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in for a long moment, then opened his eyes to see a little girl in mint green and white, sitting on the floor behind them. She smiled and waved hello. He waved back.

June prompted their daughter. "Who's here? Do you remember who this is?"

"Irst dada."

"That's right, your first daddy," June clarified for Nick. "He's here to see you. Can you come say hello?"

He gave June one last tight hug before releasing her. He knelt where he was, rather than moving towards Nichole. It was the same strategy he'd originally used with her mother: she had to be in charge, she had to set the tone. She'd come to him when she was ready. When Nick had met them at the abandoned school a few months previously, Nichole hadn't wanted him to hold her at all. Stranger anxiety was totally normal, June had assured him…or maybe the kid was just stubborn, like her mom. He shuddered at the idea that he was a 'stranger' to his own child, though of course he was.

Unlike their last meeting, Nichole was now in a more adventurous mood. She toddled over and held her stuffed dog out to the man. A Collie.

"That's a nice doggy. What's his name?"

"Woof." She spoke quietly but without hesitation.

"Woof?" He looked over his shoulder at June and smiled. "That's a very good name. Can I pet him?"

She nodded with a closed-lip smile, tilting her head to the side. It was such a June-like mannerism that Nick had to laugh. "You look just like your mommy when you smile like that. Unbelievable." He petted the dog gently. "Hi, Woof. Nice to meet you." He had no idea if he was speaking the right way or doing the right things—he had almost zero experience with children—but he figured June would correct him if he went off course. He just tried to keep his body still and speak softly, so he didn't scare the girl. It wasn't difficult; stillness was his habit in Gilead. "Woof, I brought you a few friends. Would you like to see?"

Nichole nodded energetically, so he reached over to open his backpack. Still kneeling, he handed the colorful wood box to her and helped her slide the lid off. Ten wooden animals, handmade in the former Massachusetts. A zebra, polar bear, tiger…all animals that a child in Gilead would never see, not in a book, not even on a now-banned television or computer. Growing up in Canada, however, gave his little girl that privilege.

"Nichole, do you like them?" he asked her. She didn't even look up. Busy playing.

"We had to change our names," June said. "Tuello made us. As a security precaution, you know."

Nick's face grew serious. "Good. That's a great idea. So what's your new name?"

"Julia Nichols. As an homage to you. Luke was not amused."

"I wouldn't think so." He scrunched his eyebrows. "You saddled our daughter with the name Nichole Nichols? She's gonna get beaten up on the playground."

June rolled her eyes. "I changed her first name too."

"Oh. To Holly?" he guessed. She nodded. He repeated the same words he had said when she'd first suggested that name. "Sounds right."

Nichole—Holly—played with her gift, while he sat on the floor next to her. June stood beside him. Clad in a mini-skirt, her bare legs brushed his arm warmly. He looked up at her, seeking her approval. From this angle, she looked like a goddess. Sunlight streamed in, hitting her hair like a halo. She was radiant. He pressed a reverent kiss into her bare thigh, feeling her muscles twitch under his lips.

"Don't do that," she chided him.

"No?"

"Well, not til later. Unless you want me to explode like a hand grenade right here."

"Nah, that'd be very messy. I don't want to have to clean that up. Besides, I was promised a pizza."

She laughed easily. "Oh, you think your woman's gonna cook for you?"

"I have it in writing," he argued, referencing the letter she's sent him. "I brought my sweet ass all the way to Quebec for deep dish."

"That's true, you did," she agreed, glancing at his posterior. "I'll bake the weird square pizza, as long as you kiss me like that some more after she's asleep."

He tried to look earnest. "I've scheduled half an hour into the itinerary for kissing."

"We have an itinerary?"

"Well, ideally." He reached into his bag again, belatedly remembering her gift. He held the slightly-wilted flowers out to her, and was rewarded with a beaming smile.

"You've never gotten me flowers before."

"If I stopped to pick flowers on the side of the road in Gilead, I'd probably get shot or something. So, yeah." He studied her face. "Long-stemmed roses apparently do not grow next to freeways, so I went with these. You like them?" He tried not to sound too hopeful.

She held the bouquet next to her heart. "Love them. Love you." She nudged her daughter. "Would you like to help me put these in a vase, Holly?"

"No." She was lining up her new animals, tallest to smallest.

"Well, okay then." To Nick, she added, "She knows what she wants."

"Like you."

"Yeah, it's good for a girl to be assertive. Except when she's two; then it's going to hellish. And maybe also when she's a teenager. I'm not looking forward to her rebellious years."

"We'll get through it. Two against one."

They played with Holly until her bedtime, stopping only to eat dinner. The small house smelled of oregano, pizza crust, cheese: Nick's new favorite scents other than June's perfume. The three of them sat around the small kitchen table. Cheerful blue and white checkered tablecloth, simple dishware, pizza, mixed salad, red wine. She asked him about his household, so they mostly discussed the people he didn't dare mention in his letters to her, along with Gilead politics and her plans for fomenting rebellion from Canada. Conversation flowed easily between them; he felt he could finally speak openly, in a way he almost never could in Gilead.

It was the sort of domestic tranquility that Nick had seen on TV but had never experienced, having grown up in a dysfunctional, abusive house. He felt like June, Holly, and he were a family. He was—not for the first time tonight—reminded of the various Star Trek episodes in which the crew would go through a wormhole and meet alternate versions of themselves in an alternate timeline. Here, in this safe-house, he was the wormhole version of himself.

In addition to the pizza, June had brought some other gifts for him. The most practical of the three were birth control and morning-after pills. Merely possessing them was a capital crime in Gilead, but they were highly sought after. There were still plenty of women there who wanted control over their fertility. Gilead's draconian laws had not ended that desire—just pushed it underground. Smuggling them through the black market would help hundreds of women, and would allow Nick to purchase information, goods, or maybe even intel on Hannah. The pills went into a black backpack, to be hidden in Nick's trunk.

The other gifts were more frivolous. Kenyan coffee beans: to June's surprise, Luke had suggested that one, along with a variety of chocolate bars. From her, a change of clothes. She hated the commander's uniform; it of course had plenty of negative associations for her, and besides, it was uncomfortably stiff and much too formal for playing on the floor with a toddler. She wanted Nick to be thoroughly relaxed at their weekend retreat from reality, and that began with sweat pants, wooly socks, and a soft cotton t-shirt.

Delighted, Nick stripped and changed clothes as soon as he opened the gift bag. "You should've led with this one," he raved, holding the downy fabric up to his cheek. "Best present ever." After half a year in Canada, June had forgotten what a relief it had been to trade in starched handmaid dresses for jeans and sweatshirts.

By the evening, Holly was comfortable enough around her father to let him pick her up and slow dance with her. June had a Bluetooth speaker connected to her smartphone—she had to explain to Nick how that technology worked—and he scoured YouTube to find playlists of prom songs, perfect for father-daughter dances.

"This is Journey," he instructed Holly, speaking over Open Arms. "Early 80s. You have to like this band, even though they have a lyric about South Detroit, which isn't a real place. We just call that downtown. Or downriver. Or else Windsor, Ontario, which is technically what's south of Detroit."

June piped up from the couch. "How can Ontario be south of Michigan?" Sipping her third glass of wine, she was content to sit and watch Nick bond with their daughter. She'd only broken in for one dance, Foreigner's I Want to Know What Love Is. Cheesy, but she liked it. As she liked dancing with him.

"Detroit's the only city in the continental US which is north of Canada; it sort of curls—"

"Dada, stop," Holly ordered, putting her fingers over his mouth. She just wanted him to sing to her. He nodded and resumed the lyrics.

By eight o'clock, she was fast asleep in his arms.

He stood dumbly next to the portable crib, watching his daughter. Holly slept like nobody in Gilead ever did: limbs totally relaxed, face trouble-free, trusting that nothing bad would happen to her. June embraced him from behind, pressing her face warmly against his back. "Look what we made," he finally said in wonder.

"I know," she whispered back. "I love watching her sleep. She's so…completely at peace."

"That's just what I was thinking." It was nice to be understood, Nick reflected, at least by one person in the world. "We should go to bed, too."

She turned him around, brought her hands up to caress his hair. "Yeah, you had a long drive. You must be tired."

"Not even a little bit."

"But you want to go to sleep anyway?"

"Bed, not sleep. I have an itinerary, as I mentioned. What time does she wake up?"

"Six thirty or so. And unfortunately, she's a morning person, so she'll be bright-eyed and ready for action."

"So, I'll need eight hours of sleep—I always sleep soundly when I'm with you, much better than when I'm alone—which means we have just over two hours to make love before bedtime…."

"This is a very specific timetable."

"Yeah. I'm thinking we probably need the first half hour just to kiss, you know, make out like teenagers. We have to get reacquainted. It's been months since we, you know. We should go slow."

"You think you're actually going to stick to this go-slow plan?"

"Yeah, that's my goal."

"Uh-huh. And you think I've got the same plan in my head?" She did not feel like she needed any time to get 'reacquainted' with him or his body. She remembered just fine. But if that's what he needed to be comfortable, that's what they would do.

"I doubt it." He smiled affectionately. "You tend to have your own ideas."

His gaze dropped to her chest. He hadn't yet gotten used to her wearing clothes other than handmaid red; her sky-blue V-neck and short skirt would send Aunt Lydia into cardiac arrest…him, too, though for a different reason. He fingered her soft shirt, looking appreciatively at the hint of cleavage it displayed, and idly wondered what sort of bra she was wearing underneath. He considered pulling her shirt up, to find out. That would be skipping ahead in his plan, though, and now he felt a challenge had been issued. He was going to take it slow even if it killed him.

She interrupted his thoughts. "You know what you can get in Canada?"

"What?"

"Underwear that actually fits. And not just white cotton granny pants, either. All sorts of colors and styles."

"Stop reading my mind."

She grinned, wrapping one hand behind his neck, pulling him gently towards her. She hadn't been reading his mind as much as following his stare, but she wasn't going to admit that. She spoke in a husky whisper. "You've been thinking about my underwear?"

Nick sighed deeply. "Well, now I definitely am." He ran a hand down her arm, onto her leg, then under the skirt and up her thigh, to caress her backside. Something silky and form-fitting, with lace at the edges. Lots of lace. "Dear God," he murmured. She pulled her shirt off for him, and his thoughtful, slow-moving plan evaporated.

June awoke abruptly with a very warm blanket sprawled on top of her. Aware of her anxiety about feeling smothered by men, Nick normally slept under or next to her. Not that they'd been able to indulge in sleeping together very often. At the Waterfords' home, she had never dared stay in his apartment for more than an hour; she just ducked under the Guardians' flashlights in order to run up to his apartment, have frenzied, passionate sex, and then dash back to her prison of a bedroom. If they were in a daring mood, they'd cuddle afterwards, until Nick drifted off to sleep and she went back 'home.' The two months she'd spent in hiding at the Boston Globe was the only point at which they'd actually been together for several uninterrupted hours. Like a honeymoon of sorts, for a couple of limited means. But the Globe had been an anomaly, and they both knew it.

Here, in this house, it was very different. She hoped fervently that this would become their new normal. Right now, Nick was fast asleep on top of her, his face pressed into her shoulder, lips warm against her skin. He kissed her periodically, even in his sleep. They'd clung to each other as usual, desperately afraid that this night would be the last one they shared. June always thought that way; she tried to memorize him, remember every detail, just in case this night really was the last. Tonight had felt different, though. Slower, certainly, since they didn't need to rush. Sweeter, more tender, and peppered with murmured declarations of love, which was not their habit. Watching Nick play with Holly for hours was a very different type of foreplay than they were used to. The role of father suited him well and proved irresistibly sexy to June. Maybe he'd found her mothering skills equally attractive—he'd been just as insatiable in bed as she.

"Mama?" Holly called, softly at first, then with increasing urgency.

Damn, already? June caressed Nick's scarred back, trying to roll him off of her. He'd earned the scars after he'd helped Holly escape to Canada; Waterford had ordered him lashed as punishment. Nick considered it a small price to pay. Once again, June thought smugly of Waterford's swaying corpse. Fuck him for hurting Nick. So glad I killed him. Holly shouted for her again, pulling her thoughts back to the present. "Baby," she told him softly, "I need to get up."

"Don't leave me," he mumbled into her neck, not for the first time tonight.

"Go back to sleep," she soothed. "I'm just going to get our daughter before she…."

"Mama!" Holly's patience had abruptly worn out, and she howled in protest.

Panicked by her screeching, Nick sat straight up in bed, then rolled over, fumbling with the nightstand to find his pistol.

"No, no, no," June told him, taking his right hand before he could grab a gun. "Holly's fine, she just yells when she wakes up. She's fine, everything's okay." She wasn't used to seeing him agitated; he was usually so stoic, much more stable than she ever was. But now, his wild, confused eyes darted around, not knowing where he was. The weak morning sunlight coming through the drawn curtains wasn't enough to illuminate the bedroom. She took his face in her hands and made him look at her. "Everything's fine," she repeated with assurance.

"Why is she screaming?"

"It's just her way. She's my alarm clock nowadays." She saw the tension leave Nick's shoulders and his face relax. With one last caress to his cheek, she turned away from him and picked his t-shirt up from the floor, to use as a nightgown. Then she padded over to Holly's crib in the living room to greet her baby.

He fell back against the pillows. "Tell her that ringtone sucks," he called.

Nick could feel his belly clenching more and more with each passing mile. The closer he got to Boston, the worse he felt. He was out of the wormhole now and back into his bullshit-filled, anxiety-ridden life. The twenty-one hours he had just spent in June's little border house formed the best day of his entire life. In his 27 years, he had endured plenty of bullshit and had considered it pretty much the norm. Until yesterday. He had now seen what his life could be. A real life, with light and hope, joy and meaning.

Holly had taken her nap just after lunch, and June and he had gone straight back to bed for round…three? Four? Whatever. Another round. He couldn't get close enough to her. "When do you have to go home?" she'd whispered at him.

"I am home," he'd answered earnestly. Held firmly in her steady arms, legs tangled with hers, silken hair tickling his chest. Holly snoring softly in the adjacent room, safe and happy. This was the only place Nick had ever felt truly at home, and he was loath to leave. But once Holly had woken up from her nap, he'd painfully said his goodbyes. Staying any longer would invite disaster. A commander who defects…his household would surely be held accountable. Sarah and Kevin executed, Kathryn imprisoned until the baby's arrival. He had no confidence at all in Putnam's ability—or desire—to keep his house safe, even if Blaine was the one to get Naomi and Angela out. Warren Putnam had no sense of loyalty, no matter what deal he made with Nick.

His car turned onto his quiet tree-lined street. It was around five o'clock; he'd made really good time getting home, despite his reluctance to arrive. The kitchen probably smelled of freshly baked bread and whatever Sarah was preparing for dinner. Not pizza, of course, but comforting nonetheless. There were two black vans in his driveway. He parked alongside them. Eyes? His first thought was that he'd missed a meeting or perhaps some important event, and they were here to brief him. But then the black-clad, no-nonsense Eyes exited their vehicles and came towards him. Nick's next thought was oh, shit.

"Blessed evening, gentlemen," he tried. That was all he got to say before being shoved into the back of their van.