| Subject: Chapter 210 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, October 26, 06:30:13am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (203 > )" on Monday, October 03, 07:35:40am
Dreams in the Dark (210/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
As it turned out, Peter wasn't the only one who was concerned with the pair that day--Nikita, too, beginning to fear. Despite the strength of her partnership with her beloved, despite all their heartfelt plans, each day which passed made the suspense of their fate that much worse, bringing the inevitable so much closer. They had worked so hard at having the strength to make it through--but it was the simple proximity of this unalterable pain which worried her constantly now.
She was sitting on the set, watching Michael and Susan preparing for their scene, as her fears goaded her yet again. Just the addition of the other actress--Premier's only real rival to her--made her anxious enough, their enemies' plans too clear. If she and Michael weren't careful, Madeline would win, had everything in place. And neither she nor the man she loved were likely to live long enough to regret it.
This truth rocked through her, as often as she had had to face it. Even the time they might survive after the coming attack--were they not successful--would seem eternal, would be far worse than death; this had always been the case. Still, to know that the evil Bauer was now part of the tutor's plots . . .
It was impossible to accept this change, the sheer terror enough to nearly make her scream; she had to willfully calm herself, trying not to give off too many outer signs of her fears--not wanting to give her enemies strength. But the truth was simply too much--the possibilities scalding. If she and her husband didn't win, if Michael were killed, while she was unlucky enough to survive, she would be left not only to the potential untender mercies of Hillinger--whom she was still convinced was involved with this plot somehow--but of Bauer, as well; her shudder went deep. It was a death sentence of the very worst kind. And the release from life would be the very least of her concerns.
She could barely take these truths in, certainly didn't want to; she had to work hard to muster up a smile for Michael, as he gazed over to her with concern, before pretending to concentrate on the scene before him once more--but her thoughts never really shifted. If either of the evil men got hold of her, she was doomed--would be the toy of the most sadistic, most inventive, of rapists. And, after they eventually tired of her--over the days or weeks that might take--she would have only the cruelest of mutilations to look forward to, as she was handed over to the brutal Formitz. It was unbearable--and it was absolutely impossible not to spend every second in fear.
This was where she lived now, was her only real focus. Even when she attempted to talk herself out of some of her terrors, they never diminished--every approach dismissed. While it was true that she was famous, that Bauer's conspirator rarely had such well-known victims, the attack itself could take care of such concerns. All the studio would have to do was claim her death. The police were well-paid, would go along with whatever they were told; a new thought shook her. And perhaps they would even have a body to substitute for her own.
The horror of this idea led her eyes toward her stand-in, the girl who now seemed so thoroughly uncomfortable in her own skin; Nikita had to keep her eyes from widening, forcing her attention back on the scene before her--but even that didn't help. Watching her beloved tempted by another woman couldn't exactly be said to be comforting--no matter how unlikely such a change might seem--Madeline's plots well-formed. There was now rarely a moment of her life when she could calmly sit and think.
She tried to take a deep breath, needed to get herself under control, as Petrosian finally began to film. But she couldn't dismiss her fears. Even her relationship with Michael couldn't soothe her, something between them becoming more volatile all the time; her soul clenched, the terror growing. But she couldn't fully face the truth of this shift and live.
It was difficult to focus, given the extent of her fears--all of them making her try hard not to wring her hands in despair, clenching her fingers forcefully to the armrests of the chair. Still, the changes between herself and her husband couldn't be denied--the waiting destroying them both. Every night seemed endless, the slightest sound nearly making them insane. But this wasn't all. And it was something in the chemistry between them which worried her the most.
It was this alteration she couldn't get used to, this she couldn't quite accept. It wasn't that they fought or even ever disagreed--their relationship quite harmonious, in that sense. No. It was more that their intimate life together had taken a turn. And, as devastatingly beautiful as this was, on many levels, it was impossible for her to accept without fear.
It wasn't so much that any damage had been done to their love--none of their devotion diminishing in the least. In fact, it was in the exact opposite direction where their problem lay. While she and Michael had nearly always been rather . . . uninhibited in their loveplay, now things had taken a turn for the truly fierce; they were barely even getting any sleep. Every night, once they were marginally convinced that the attack wouldn't come, they would turn to each other. But what followed was more the mating of wild animals than the tenderness of a couple in love.
She both feared and cherished this change, the internal contradiction not making her feel any more sane. Somehow, all their fear seemed to get displaced into their lovemaking--Michael's approach to her, her own need for such a path, nearly violent in its intensity; the facts, the fears, never quite left her. Anyone watching would probably be convinced that he hated her, was trying to kill her--or so she often worried in the aftermath. When they were entangled, admittedly, there wasn't much in her mind except the screaming need for more.
She didn't know how to accept this new truth, wasn't certain whether she should. In many ways, she feared that it wasn't healthy, was terrified that it only presaged some dangerous alteration in their love. After all, no matter how fierce they had been before, there had been more tenderness, as far as she could remember--their current path far more openly desperate. It was as though they wanted to devour each other, was absolutely cannibalistic in its need. And, even if their unbreakable devotion shone through it all, she wasn't entirely certain whether it were a healthy turn or not.
It was this question she had been grappling with ever since their wedding night, their love life showing no signs of calming--quite the reverse, becoming more incendiary all the time. And she wasn't certain, either, whether it was positive that her husband was *always* the one in control, the one to lead. While she knew that this was generally the way of things with men and women, she was unsure whether following in such trends could be said to be remotely helpful to them. After all, she had no desire to be like most other couples in a hundred different ways. Perhaps this was just another example of where they might go wrong.
This fear threatened to unhinge her, the waiting they were forced through making her feel far less than sane. It didn't help much to realize that the direction of their more intimate lives was one she needed completely, was one she might well have starved from desire without. More now than ever, she wanted her husband to be the one in control, needed to see in his every move, look, and word that he would go mad without her--that he was determined to go mad *with* her, if in a far more fulfilling way. Given the scope of her fears, it was the only real comfort she could gain--softer reminders of his love no longer enough. Perhaps he understood this as well; her sigh was soft. But none of this diminished her anxieties.
She was caught by them now, knew no pathway out. There was no way to escape the fact that Michael was her master at these times, owned every bit of her--turning her to every nuance of his need, making her beg to be his plaything. And she *did* need this, far more than she ever could express in words. Because there were simply no words he could give her anymore which could satisfy her hunger for his love.
She understood the necessity of such expressions, then, had no doubts at all about her own, ravenous part in such acts. It was more that she wondered whether such a desire was helpful--or even rational. Perhaps it was only a precursor to both of them going entirely mad.
There was no answer to this fear for her, just now, nowhere to look for one. And the worries were made no better by several facts she couldn't quite escape. Almost the least of these was the movie they were currently making, the one Susan had so recently been made part of. They had already filmed much of what they needed of her own parts, only a few love scenes between herself and her husband left. This meant, of course, that the attack could come at any time, Susan's parts filled in later; a shudder shook through her. And this fact alone made it much harder to sleep through a single night.
These weren't the end of her fears, however--so many pounding at her. One of the other primary ones revolved around what Michael had told her of his relationship with Simone, of their devouring need for each other--their hunger insulating them from a very cruel world. It couldn't comfort her. After all, if she were the same to him as Simone had been, that showed the lie in so many of his words, disproved so much she had believed. If she were killed, as the poor woman he had loved before had been, he might well get over her, move onto someone else. And, while such a redemptive prospect should have comforted her, it only made her feel a much deeper sort of pain.
She hated herself for this emotion now, hated the jealousy, the possessiveness, it brought out in her--all her thoughts so contradictory. While part of her in no way wanted to intrude on the love Michael had had for his late partner, another side wished fervently to be the only one in his heart. While part of her wished to know that her beloved could go on, and even be quite happy, if something were to happen to her, that other side again wanted to be the only one he could ever truly need. The emotions alone hurt her. It wasn't fair, she knew, to either of them--her wishes undermining them both. She was only wishing him unhappiness. She was hoping that he would never recover from her death.
This wasn't a healthy sort of feeling, she was certain, made her ache to know that it lived in her heart. Love was supposed to be charitable, kind, giving--not limiting and cruel, like this; she had to close her eyes, blocking out the scene before her. It just wasn't healthy that she felt this way at all.
She couldn't quite recover from her self-disgust, from her fears, no matter how much part of her might argue for such reprieve. Still, she didn't blame Michael for any of this, her fears placed firmly on her own shoulders--having entirely repressed her husband's repeated intentions, should she die. Even if he had been mistaken in how much he loved her, in how much she might mean--mixing up his need with his affection--she didn't much care. He *did* need--and that was enough. She had no desire to question his motives at all.
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