| Subject: Chapter 275 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, March 12, 07:29:29am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
Extra warning: I'm rating this part 16 and above for a few mild curse words and some sexual thoughts.
Dreams in the Dark (275/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
Some truths always remained. Problems came; problems were confronted; life went on. Or, at least, the daily exercises of living seemed to continue. Without his wife beside him, that was all any of it could really amount to.
Over a week had passed since Nikita's confrontation of her father, but there was no way for her husband to know about this yet. For Michael, it had been two weeks since he had had any word from his wife, two weeks since he had had some marginal reason to live. In that time, he had managed to work out many of his problems with his fellow recruits, even Ackerman mostly grudgingly silent after their fight. The rest of the unit was fully on his side now. Apparently, the caveman approach appealed to many of their philosophies.
He didn't care particularly about such details, his existence here much like the one he had once kept up at the studio--a routine of physical labor and rote activity which helped to numb him to the pain of life. While some of his training now did involve actual thought--their work as air observers certainly an example, that practice now more constant--it was actually a relief, when it came. For a few hours, he could pretend that there was some other focus in his life; a deep, quiet sigh slipped from him. But such an illusion was always doomed to fade.
He was on his way back from KP duty again--from the punishment he and Ackerman had found themselves in after their fight. His hands were red and raw from washing hundreds of dishes. It was a fact he wouldn't normally even have noticed, but the ironies did start to sink in. As little as he would have thought it before, he had been pampered. Even with Madeline's constant games, a life at the studio had made him unbelievably soft.
It was this truth which Ackerman had objected to in the actor, this which had always made him lash out. Of course, the younger recruit had no real idea of all Michael had been through, of the tragedies he had endured; even after the fight, he had no idea of the man's real strength. Still, the fact that the actor had spent the last 16 years or so in Hollywood had been enough to seal Ackerman's hate. Whether because of his perceived pampering or his exposure to less-conventional lifestyles, "the great Samuelle" had seemed the very epitome of decadent, effeminate helplessness.
Michael, of course, had always known the lie to this--had seen, as well, his self-made enemy's many, less-than-pleasant psychological quirks, the ones which had made his hatred burn so especially deeply. After all, it wasn't simply the softness Ackerman had objected to; it was anything which didn't fit his own ruthless, almost sadistic, definition of masculinity. That the actor had never had any particular desire to follow that path had been the very last temptation the man had needed to want to do his worst.
The younger recruit, then, was a misogynist--hated anything tender, thoughtful, or quiet as a reflection of all those feminine traits he abhorred. But Michael was seeing now that the man's perception of his original softness wasn't entirely off-the-mark. During his days at the studio, he had been tested again and again by tragedy and psychological attack, but little had been demanded of his body. It went through its days--quite long ones, admittedly--with no real fear of starvation, with little physical labor done or expected. Mostly, he just had to look good--and that was a duty which was pretty much antithetical to heavy lifting.
He knew that the lack of physical demands on him wasn't always the truth for other stars--the women, especially, often made to starve themselves. The camera, after all, was unforgiving--a perfectly attractive woman in person made to look unacceptably plump. Many almost stopped eating altogether--were forced to by the studios. But he had been lucky. Through some genetic quirk of fate, his body maintained the shape which the world considered perfect for men.
This truth led him on to several others, as he and his fellow recruit trudged silently back to the barracks from their duty; even their recent detente hadn't made the man chatty. The first of these was the fact that Michael had lived at the studio for nearly too long, had become overly-accustomed to its ways. While acting was more physically grueling than the average person ever considered--12-15-hour days, no bathrooms on set, the endless boredom of waiting combined with the fierce concentration of getting a scene right, even if it took hour upon hour and dozens of takes--the stars themselves still lived fairly pampered lives. Even in the midst of a depression which saw so many thousands becoming jobless, then homeless, he had always had a quite pleasant roof over his head and more than enough food for his table. His house even had the unheard of luxuries of its own air conditioning and a swimming pool--even if the latter had taken on truly devastating associations for him. He had never had to worry about whether he or his family would starve; he sighed, staring down at his raw hands surreptitiously. But he had become so used to these privileges that he didn't even remember to question them anymore.
It wasn't so much the way he had acclimatized to Hollywood which worried him now, however--even if he was seeing it more fully than he had for sometime. No--it was more a fear of how Nikita might react to him, once she saw him again; his sigh was silent. He didn't want her to think that she had made the wrong choice in giving him her vows.
It wasn't that Michael saw his wife as spoiled or finicky; it was only recently that she had been able to take even the most basic needs of life marginally for granted. It was more that he still felt the need to win her, to be worthy of her; his heart ached a little, as he stared sadly ahead. He just didn't want her to question whether any of her suffering was worth it, once she saw him again.
This was one of the fears which tore through him lately, mixing in with the constant ache of her absence; he wasn't even entirely certain whether it was his previous softness or current raw state which he feared might repel her the most. Ever since he had first begun to realize how much he needed her, how deeply he loved her--in other words, ever since he had stopped deluding himself, after that first instant he had met her--he had wanted to be a man she could both trust and desire, had gone out of his way to remold himself to her forms. Even in their first night together as lovers, it had been true--his approach with her slower and softer than anything his body had clamored for. But it had always been his fear that she would change her mind, that she would see him and sigh with regret for attaching herself to him, that she would look down at the outer signs of the child growing within her and wonder whether she had done the right thing. He imagined it sometimes, to his terror. What if he went back, and she didn't want him? What if he went back and saw her regret? His eyes closed momentarily. That would be the end for him, truly. What purpose could life possibly give him, if he couldn't have her love?
This wasn't all there was to his emotions, though; he was a greedy man, he knew. Her simple love wasn't enough. He also wanted her desire, her need. He wanted to be the only man to ever know her completely--body and soul. He wanted to look in her eyes forever and see her absolute devotion. There were times when he realized, to his fear, that he would willingly destroy the world for her sake; his shudder went unnoticed by his comrade. But it was this truth alone which would no doubt horrify his gentle wife.
His next sigh was nearly audible, the mask he wore for his fellow recruits only held up with a ruthless effort--but it didn't help the doubts. There were even times when he feared that he would make her disappear completely, just as she had told him she worried about, too; there were times when he almost wanted it. There was just something about the sweet way she surrendered to him, especially in their most intimate moments, that made him almost understand the world's approach to marriage. In it, the wife was supposed to mostly disappear, existed only as a subordinate of and helpmeet to her husband. If she took the stage, in any area, it was with his permission, even his goading--was done more for his benefit than for hers. She gave birth to his children, cleaned his house, entertained his boss and colleagues, and flattered his family and social equals. More than anything, she looked good, because it would make him look good. Nothing she ever did was for herself alone.
Michael had seen these requirements for sometime, mostly on a subconscious level, had never entirely embraced them. For one thing, such a woman simply seemed too dull--which, he supposed, was why a husband's, sometimes multiple, affairs were always expected to be tolerated by his wife. But he had never quite wanted that. His desire had always been for someone who challenged him, for an equal who could call his every whim out for what it was; he almost smiled, thinking of his Nikita, before the look faded entirely. But always, in these visions, he was the eventual victor. And it was this, more than anything else, which worried him just now.
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