| Subject: Chapter 315 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, November 19, 07:05:42am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Chapter 307 - Part 1 (16 and above)" on Monday, October 22, 07:10:11am
Extra warning: There's a couple of mild swear words here. I'll rate this 16 and above, just to be safe.
Dreams in the Dark (315/318)
by Katherine Gilbert
It seemed all the more impossible, as he drew closer, was just so improbable that he had ever made his way back. But now, nearly six months after he had originally left for his training, almost three months since he had left for England--and almost a month and a half since his plane had been lost, since he had been convinced that there might be no return at all--he was approaching his own home again; the sigh he let out was replete, comforted. Finally, he would be with her--and then they could find a way to live together in peace.
This was Michael's certainty, as the taxi he had hired drove him back toward his house--toward what had only been a true home since Nikita had started to live there. While he was a little worried about what he might find, was sad that circumstances seemed determined to shock her with his returns, he had no deeper fears. Soon, he would be with her again--and they and their son would be a family at last.
He wasn't certain whether their child had been born yet--wasn't even sure that his wife was correct in her assumptions about its sex--but he was certain that everything would be well. All his earlier fears about her fate in childbirth, all his terrors about Jones's plans for her, were gone. After having experienced so much torment in his journey back to the U.K. from his plane's disappearance--after having experienced it and *survived*--he had no real anxieties left. If he had made it through so much and lived to tell the tale, so would she. All that was left before him was the reunion.
He had no idea at all what he would arrive home to find, therefore, couldn't have a clue. Yes, he knew that she had had to suffer his silence of the last month and a half, dearly wished that he could have done something about it, but fate hadn't been kind to him, in that regard. Ackerman was the only friend--if such a name could be used for him--who had visited in the infirmary, and he only once. The doctor had remained entirely unwilling to help telegraph his patient's wife; Flora, the cheerful nurse, had been kept constantly on the run by her duties--and Elkins, the only other person he knew well on the base, had never even visited. While he didn't grudge his comrade this fact, hadn't been at all upset over the loss of his company, Eric *had* been the one person who might have helped him, in that regard. But it had never happened. Apparently, it simply hadn't been meant to be.
This fact annoyed him a little, saddened him a great deal that he had kept his beautiful wife in such terrible suspense--the letters he had finally been given from her heart-wrenching in their pleas for an answer--but he never suspected that there had been any worse effects. There was no way he could--not if he wanted to retain what little sanity he had found.
This fact remained with him, even if his silence toward his wife *had* been total. Even after he had left the infirmary, receiving his discharge papers as he went, there had been little chance to communicate. He had been told that there was one ship which would be able to take him home, if he hurried. Once on board, the radio operators had also been little willing to help him--either too busy with their other duties or too concerned trying to maintain radio silence in fear of U-boats. Since he hadn't in any way wanted to bring on an attack through his greedy need to contact his wife, he hadn't pressed the point. But it had meant that his poor Nikita had continued to know nothing about his return.
He felt the guilt of this truth, as he watched the city passing by him, wondering over the fate which had caused it. Even after he had arrived back in New York, he had had to hurry to catch the first plane he could find. Once, he had stopped to make a call, but no one had answered. Given the fact that he could either catch the next plane or continue trying to connect, there hadn't been a real choice. She was probably out with their friends. It would do neither of them any good to simply talk, when he could be seeing her face-to-face, instead.
He had chosen this option without a second of doubt, only wished that there *had* been some way to let her--to let anyone--know of his arrival; his head shook, saddened but accepting. Even when he had been brought her lovely stack of letters to get him by in his hospital bed, he had seen little point in responding. He would be back by the time any letter got to her. Again, it seemed far more important that he focus on getting better--and then he could finally hold her in his arms again.
These were the reasons for his silence--his doctor's cold reassurances that his wife hadn't been worried with the details of his plane's loss giving him some room for hope. Instead, he had devoured her letters, loving her ever more with every one--each detail precious to him. Her fears for him touched his heart, made him wish dearly that he could take away all her anxiety. Her expressions of love made him ache to be near her. Even the ways she found to update him on the latest news about their companions--so much of it, by necessity, nearly in code--made him adore her for her intelligence. Besides, the "gossiping woman" persona she had used had worked--none of her information censored; his smile lingered. She was quite an amazing woman. And he was so damn lucky to be her husband.
It was this fact which held him now, his adoration of her complete. But the smile did fade a moment later, as he looked down toward his leg. He still wore a cast there, even if he had been allowed to trade the crutches for a cane--perhaps only temporarily. Of course, the doctor on the ship had been right--crutches far more useful. But he was returning to his beloved--and he wanted to present her with the most whole man he could be.
It was this fear which plagued him, though--the worry that he was no longer quite good enough. True, he had never believed that he had actually done anything to deserve her--no one could--but the strains of his injury, of his trek across half of Europe, had definitely taken their toll. In fact, once he had finally seen himself in the infirmary's mirror, he had been shocked at what looked back at him. Instead of the relatively-virile, if certainly maturing, star or the competent airman, he had seen only an old man; his heart thumped heavily. And he wasn't at all sure that this was what his wife deserved as payment for her long and silent wait.
The sadness of this fact was not new, having tortured him for the last two weeks, ever since he had been left in the safety of the infirmary to ponder it. Even once he had washed off the powder he had added to his hair--as well as shaving off the beard he had grown--he had still been left with a heretofore unprecedented salt-and-pepper effect. Even if Flora, his kind nurse, had told him that it made him look "distinguished," he wasn't at all fooled. Especially when combined with the deep lines which the beating of the sun had worn into the skin around his eyes, he thought that, at best, he looked grizzled. At worst, he probably looked like he should be his wife's grandfather; a shudder caught him, a sudden terror of her reaction remaining. However kind his beloved one was, she did not deserve to be saddled with the tattered remains of a crippled old man.
It was this lingering terror which accompanied him into the driveway of his home, even if he were quickly distracted; his car was there, although the Fredericks' car wasn't. He wasn't certain what that meant--trying his best to shift off his fears. But he did hope that his Nikita would be there to greet him now.
He wasn't at all certain that he was worthy of her--even more now than ever before; bits of white still shone among the auburn of his hair, although he had finally shaved off the beard which aged him so much further. Still, he needed her, would do his damnedest to love and cherish her; he opened the door of the cab, removing himself carefully, after paying off the driver. Maybe that alone would be enough.
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