I know this instalment has been very long in the making, but a recent re-watch of this movie in full helped light a fire under my arse. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy.
My Only Weakness
…is knowing your secrets; I'm holding them close and I'm holding them tight.
It's late; just beyond midnight. Those left at the clubhouse are all pacing and waiting and tapping their pens; a cacophony of anxiety borne of the late hour and the knowledge that their leader is (once again, presumably) in dire straits. Mother's hand come out of nowhere, a mug of tea offered to her where she sits on the couch, mindlessly watching a midnight movie. Liz thanks him with a false smile, and he pats her back twice in solidarity.
"Crease is with him" he says, and though it doesn't make her feel better, she appreciates the effort. They were expected back just before dinner.
The knock on the basement side door is not wholly unexpected.
Liz just barely manages to not burn her hand as she places her mug on the table and rushes forward. Karl flings the door open and Crease comes rushing through, Bishop's arm up over his shoulders; he's holding a cloth to his eye with his free hand.
"We need ice" says Crease, and Karl rushes to the side cabinet to get it from the small bar fridge inside. (It should shock her, but it doesn't, that one of the first things they brought over to the new clubhouse was the first aid kit. Between Whistler's frequent self-electrocutions and Mother's propensity to break things, it's any wonder there's supplies left. The fridge had been intended as practical storage, but so far only houses a six pack, ice packs, and Mother's sandwich)
Crease dumps Bishop on the couch with a thump and a groan from them both, and Liz kneels into his vision instantly.
"What happened?" she asks him, looking furious and upset at the same time. There's a storm in her eyes that he recognises as Liz in teacher mode; that interesting mix of caring and utility that only the wrangler of children can muster in a time of crisis.
"The guy slugged me" he says. He takes the icepack that Karl offers and places it on his eye. There's a cut on his brow – probably where a ring connected with his face – but it has stopped bleeding and can be attended to once the swelling goes down a little.
"A little more than a slug" adds Crease, pointing at what is an obviously fractured rib with the way Bishop is holding himself. Martin just gives him a look of mock thanks, as though to say I'm in enough trouble already, but Crease knows there is no point keeping it from her. Liz pulls up his shirt on one side and sure enough it's already starting to bruise.
"You should go to the hospital" she says, looking at him now with less anger and more worry.
"I'm fine. It was just one good punch from a goon at the door"
"But that bruise-"
"There's nothing they can do for a fractured rib that I can't do here for myself. Wrap me up and send me on my way with a bill for my troubles? No thanks"
She knows he's right; she broke her toe once, went to Emergency, and all they did was splint it with the next one and charge her a week's wage for the bandage. She knows enough first aid to take care of him here, and he's been in enough scuffles to know what to expect. Still, there is a feeling that this shouldn't be happening (didn't he go legitimate so this wouldn't happen? didn't he promise her no more birds on their doorstep?) and she's mad about that.
"Another disgruntled client?" she asks with bite, pulling the ice away from his brow to check the wound hasn't opened again. It hasn't.
"No. Another disgruntled employee, whose side business of grifting the boss was discovered when we took the liberty of installing electronic firewalls on his accounting software"
She nods in understanding; not quite as bad as the boss ordering his thugs to sic 'em, but still… it doesn't necessarily make her feel better.
"Ended up staying back to work on the anomaly - took a few hours to work out it was him on another computer. When we did…"
He gestures vaguely to himself.
"Did you at least get paid on time for this one?" she asks.
Crease pulls out a cheque from his inner coat pocket.
"I'll bank it tomorrow" he says, "and make sure they clear your half into your account"
She gives her nod of thanks, and mutters a thank you for good measure. She doesn't want to sound callous, but their beautiful home has a mortgage, and more than once Bishop has had to chase unruly clients for their full payment. If he's going to endure a fractured rib, it can at least come with consolation of timely payment.
"Fellas, I think there's been more than enough excitement for one night" she says, and she looks at Crease beseechingly. The downstairs floor has a spare room for whenever the boys want to crash at the clubhouse, but tonight she just feels like bandaging up Martin and putting them both to bed, and with the way his ribs are they may well be taking the downstairs room for themselves. It's two long flights of stairs to their bedroom on the third level.
Crease, to his credit, understands what she's asking and wordlessly agrees. He gets to work rounding up the rest of them, ushering them all out for the evening; they all chorus goodbyes, but nobody lingers, and in a few short moments the basement exit closes behind them.
Liz runs her hand gently through Bishop's hair, her worry easing as she settles into the familiar feeling of resignation.
"Can you make it upstairs?" she asks softly.
"If you think for one second I'm sleeping on the same sheets that Mother occupies every other night…"
She laughs softly - barely a chuckle - but agrees with him. Those beds are due for a clean and their California King upstairs is just so lovely and comfortable.
"I think I'll manage the stairs" he adds, holding out his arm for her to help him up. She grasps his upper arm firmly and hauls, trying not to yank him hard enough to jostle his ribs. He can walk by himself (maybe Crease was just being dramatic when he half carried him in earlier), and so she leaves him to waddle gingerly towards the first staircase as she raids the first aid cupboard. She takes out a large bandage, a couple of butterfly clasps, plasters and antiseptic cream for the cut. Walking slowly behind him she follows him up the first flight of stairs and into the kitchen. She deviates just long enough to collect a second icepack and a tea towel, and then she follows him up the second flight of stairs and onto their private landing.
He walks into the bedroom and lowers himself slowly onto the bed with a hiss. She unceremoniously dumps her armful on the bed beside him and turns on the bedside lamp.
"Okay. Shirt off first" she says. Mercifully it's a button-down. She takes her time undressing him and wrapping him up with the bandage - gives him the second ice pack wrapped in the tea towel to put on his ribs. When she's done with that she helps him into a night shirt (another button down, and though he's usually a tee-shirt and boxers kind of guy, she bought him a nice pair of matching pyjamas for Christmas, and it's paying off now). Liz ducks into the ensuite to wet the corner of a face cloth, and then gently and with great familiarity, she starts to clean up the cut on his brow. She dabs on some antiseptic cream for good measure and places the plaster on gently, caressing the tabs down onto his skin.
He watches her the whole time with reverence; notes the way she tends to him with certainty while still being gentle, hears the little sounds she makes when she's comforting him. He doesn't necessarily like being her patient, or being injured, but it does give him a rare opportunity to watch her without any expectation of reciprocal care; to observe the way she moves without having to move himself, and allow her to be up close and inspect him without there being connotations of anything else. She looks so different to when he first knew her - the light softens her, but she is still older, her lines a little sharper, but her shoulders are also more relaxed than they were back then. She'd been in flux when they first met, transitioning into music full time after years trotting the global finance markets, working algorithms for the World Bank.
They had been fast-paced and explosive the first time they were together, a little more subdued yet still passionate the second time. In the end they had broken up because he couldn't give her what they had wanted - what they now have in this house; a firm foundation and a sense of normalcy. (He doesn't think broken ribs are necessarily part of that normalcy, but it's a step in the right direction away from NSA threats to life. Likewise, though she never said as much in all the time they were together, Bishop always imagined she wanted a family; perhaps the children at the school became her surrogate. In any case, it's more than he could ever have given her back then.)
She places what is left of her supplies on the side table on his side of the bed. He has pain killers in the top drawer and half a glass of water left over, probably from the previous night. He can't be bothered replacing it - he can deal with day-old water. He opens the draw, takes out two pills, downs it with the water and then looks at her for her next instructions.
He stands up and drops his pants, flicking his feet out of his shoes at the same time. It surprises him which movements hurt his ribs and which don't; he hisses sharply when he sits again a little too hard.
Liz goes to pull back the blanket and Bishop takes her wrist, sliding his hand until it takes hers gently.
"You know when you asked me if my whole heart was in this?" he asks, recalling a conversation that never quite sat right even when it was happening. "When you said you understood that not all of me was here… with you?"
"Yes" she says, not a hint of pain or resentment in her tone. She nods once, curiosity in her gaze. Maybe she thinks he's about to defend what happened tonight, but already his mind is racing ahead. A thousand thoughts come forth unbidden, none of them firmly clear but all of them screaming that tonight should not have happened, and that he can't afford to continue to allow it to happen.
"You were wrong" he says.
She sits by his side on the bed, holding his hand more firmly. She is listening intently with a frown on her face.
"I didn't argue it then – I thought you were right about me. But you're not"
He's staring at the carpet, a rhythmic beat thrumming in his side with his wound despite the ice. Perhaps this job carries inherent risk, even when it's conducted above board, but the nonsense tonight just reaffirmed what he had been pondering already; that he has yet to take full advantage of the greatness his new-found freedom can bring to his life, or the opportunities it opens to him. He had thought he was a glutton for punishment and danger; that it was hardwired into him from the time he was a young man cracking codes for fun. But no, not quite. Tomfoolery, perhaps, but not risk seeking. Morality over law; justice for the underdog. But he doesn't have that particular gene that demands unnecessary hazard for no gain. He didn't get a thrill from tonight; he got a little beating and a lot of worry for those around him.
He shakes his head at being so mistaken.
"I've been running from myself for so long I had almost forgotten what I really wanted" he continues, rubbing his fingers over her knuckles and then looking down at their joined hands. "I had almost forgotten what our dreams were the first time we were together"
She sighs deeply, sagging to the side, and he can feel the full weight of her unlived lives in the way her body presses against him. "I wanted you to commit, but I understood why you couldn't" she says, still without bite. "I don't blame you for that"
He shakes his head, looks up at her face, sees that she's staring at the floor a world away. She doesn't look at him, though he is sure she can feel his gaze on her.
"That was then" he says. "But it's different now – we're different. My name is on the deed to this house, my business is legitimate and my record is clean. You teach both at the school and from home just like you always wanted to"
She sighs again, and this time meets his eye. She looks, if not outright annoyed, then frustrated by his line of questioning; she's not one to dwell or reminisce, and he knows he's lucky that he was able to walk back into her life the way that he did. She's trying to indulge him without getting mired down in what ifs.
"Martin, where is this coming from?"
He doesn't like the idea of having this kind of conversation while sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed. Come on he mumbles, scotching her to move up and recline with him on the bed, pillows fluffed behind their backs for comfort. She settles against his uninjured side, careful not to place her arm over him in a way that will put more pressure. He keeps his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close to his side, despite the discomfort.
"You've always wanted this life, Liz" he says. "This normal, picturesque life and now for the first time I can give it to you"
She hums happily. They're both equally proud of the home they're building here together.
"But more than that," he continues, "for the first time I want that too; I want all of it. No more coming home in the middle of the night, no more close calls. I'm giving up the side business, I'm going straight and narrow"
She sits up, still mindful of him, and looks at him square in the eye. He doesn't move, barely even blinks. This isn't a profound speech born of fear for his life tonight - he was in a scuffle, but they've certainly seen worse. No, this is him finally realising that he can't continue to live between realities; to sit on the fence between the man on the run and the man settling down. Why else would he work so hard to restore his name if not to embrace every mundane, ordinary aspect of real life? Why else would he work so hard to be here with Liz, if not to commit to her the way his former existence never allowed him to do?
"You have to be sure you're doing this for you, Martin" she says lowly. "Don't do this to impress me. I still love you either way. I'm still here, either way"
And that, he thinks, is the problem. They imploded and then broke apart once before, because he couldn't have this talk or promise these things. There is no coating it with nicety; his life on the run nearly ruined them for good, and he's old enough, and just about tired enough, to want to end it for good. Sneaking - the brand they were doing for years anyway - is a young man's game. He has a lifetime of playing spy under his belt for posterity, and now it's time to change direction, just like a younger Liz did for herself when she wanted more music in her life.
"You've been waiting for too long already" he says, and tucks a strand of her still-getting-longer hair behind her ear.
"I don't… understand what you're saying" she says, seeing more in his words; sensing a layer he's not articulating.
He wants to sit up, to hold her, to look her right on and make her understand the depth of his words, but the throbbing in his side reminds him to take it easy, so instead he takes her hand again.
"When we first met, you were changing your life – you were getting out of the World Bank and the corporate life, and you decided to settle here and teach music. You made a choice to go after what you wanted. And I couldn't give it all to you then…"
He watches her bow her head a little, breaking eye contact. She isn't one to dwell, but the past still echoes in her bones like anyone else. The late night talks between them in the early days, of changing direction and opening herself to new possibilities, and fantasising that a life away from jet-setting corporations might allow her to get married, have children, and work a little from home. All of these private thoughts she had once shared with him come swelling to the surface, and she feels bare under the weight of how deeply he knows her.
"… I can now" he finishes. She looks up at him. "If you wanted more… if you want the marriage and the family and a real suburban life… I will do that for you, in a heartbeat. You waited long enough for me, Liz… it's your turn now, and whatever you want I want to give it to you"
She looks dumbfounded, and very confused. It's not like him - no, this kind of compulsive emotional decision is exactly like him. More like, it's not something she had allowed herself to consider. She had long ago accepted that certain things wouldn't be available to her - that she may never get married, and that certainly she had never met a man besides Bishop that she would want to have children with; that she would want to do any of this domesticity with, to be frank. That he's coming to her now, just as she'd gotten used to silencing her biological clock, and sacrificing wedding plans for bathroom fixtures (which are finally, mercifully, installed) almost makes her angry. How dare he deny her for so long only to have such an epiphany now, and how foolish was she to think he wouldn't come around, and how many years have they wasted…
And yet… it gives her pause. Here is Martin - she swore herself off him so vehemently, and fell back into love with him just as fast, if she had ever stopped loving him at all. And he is offering her every tiny dream that had felled them years ago. Here is Martin, and her heart wants to take him in her arms and get started on that family right this very second. She squeezes his fingers and then lowers herself back into his side with a gentleness that doesn't give away the thump of her heart.
"Let me think about it" she says. But she has tears pricking her eyes and a smile on her face when his arm comes up and runs through her hair.
"Take all the time you need" he says, kissing her crown.