| Subject: Chapter 220 - Part 2 (end of chapter 220) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, December 05, 07:03:10am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (203 > )" on Monday, October 03, 07:35:40am
He hadn't heard his beloved one move, hadn't noticed any change--so lost in his own haunting thoughts. Her soft, almost timid, call of "Michael?" then, rang like a shot through him, his eyes bolting open. A second later, he was at her side, holding her hand--his other on her face. However small a man he might be, he could never desert her again.
She saw all this in his eyes, was comforted by his devotion--as much as it was possible to be by anything, at the moment. She had taken in, at least, that she was in a hospital, understood what he had done for her. Had he not been there, she would have literally died of shock last night; her hand held his so tightly. She just never wanted to imagine a single second out of his presence again.
"We're safe?" she asked, once she finally found her voice. Given all that had happened, it was a little hard to believe.
He just nodded, telling her only one of the many things which had happened, as she had slept. "The studio thinks it was exhaustion." She gave him a look which finally forced out something resembling a smile. "That's the story they're circulating, at least."
This was comforting news--the last thing Nikita needing now to see the woman who had engineered this attack. Their solitude was enough. After a night like the last one, small mercies were more than acceptable.
This truth was acknowledged, the couple just looking at each other for several, long seconds, adoring--drawing strength. But it wasn't enough for Michael, his soul torn at his multiple failings of her. He couldn't even put them into words. "I'm sorry, 'Kita."
Oh, Lord. She had seen the look of apology in his eyes, was suddenly terrified, her hand going to her abdomen. "The baby . . .," she murmured. Whether she had actually had official word or not, she had come to be increasingly convinced of the truth; her soul seemed to mourn. If she had lost it . . .
"No," he whispered, leaning down long enough to gently kiss her lips. "As far as anyone knows, the baby's fine." His hand caressed her face all the more, as he tried to find some way to explain, her gaze so confused. "I'm sorry I failed you."
It wasn't working; she didn't understand. "What do you mean?" Had something happened since she had been sedated that he had yet to tell her about?
He could see the worry in her eyes, was amazed that he needed to explain--but he supposed she was just concealing her disappointment in him. His sigh was quiet, as he moved on--hating himself for addressing any of this, when they should have been focusing on her hurt alone. "I let you face them alone last night." His look trailed away guiltily. "And even once Fain arrived . . ."
He couldn't finish the thought, so disgusted with himself, on so many levels--but he was only met by her amazement. "What else could you have done? You didn't know they would lure me home. Or that Jamie and Hillinger . . ."
It was too much to go into again. She paused, the tears rising--images of what had happened to the gunman far too fresh in her mind; it was only her husband's gentle eyes, the stroke of his thumb over her eyebrow which helped her go on. "And Fain had a gun on us." Her look was quite upset. "What could you possibly do?"
She didn't understand, but he supposed he didn't expect her to. She was a woman--and women rarely understood the lengths men were supposed to go to in order to keep their loved ones safe.
He tried to explain, then, if gently, still more angry at himself for his inaction with Fain than anything else. The note--the forgery of his handwriting he had discovered in the handbag he had grabbed on his way out the door, women unaccountably fond of such things--had been a stroke of evil brilliance on Madeline's part, the letters she had had stolen from them a year or more ago clearly coming to good use at last. His failure to predict that trick was one thing. But that he had failed to protect her from the rogue guard, when he had already suspected what the man was . . .
He couldn't bear the thought, tried to make her see. "I should have shot him." It was the least a man should do for the woman he loved.
This was only his opinion, however--Nikita's eyes widening in horror. "What good would that have done? He would only have shot me, as well." And that said nothing at all of what might have then happened to his kidnapped son.
Michael shook his head, not seeing her point. "He didn't want to."
"But he would have," she argued, a little desperately. She was beginning to understand Roger's feelings more deeply, now that she would be a mother herself--knowing she would do whatever was necessary to protect her child, to raise it with Michael. It was useless to think that any affection the ex-guard might have had for them would have anyway counteracted his need to look after his son.
Her husband didn't answer this entirely, his words rather cryptic. "I could have protected you from him."
It took her a second, but his truth did sink in at last--her gaze widening in horror. "You were going to use yourself as my shield, were going to sacrifice yourself for me?" Her voice almost rose, before she looked over to the open door worriedly, lowering to a whisper again; the sound was hoarse from fear, pain, and enforced sleep. "How would that have protected me, Michael? Why in God's name do you think I'd want to live without you?"
He was unconvinced, gaze gently persuasive. "Our child?"
To his surprise, her head shook. "No. It's not enough." They had had many versions of this conversation before--although the addition of their child was a new twist to them. But her earlier attitude hadn't changed; his look showed his shock, as she explained. "Without you, I have no desire to be a mother. I have no desire to be alive." And any child they might have would be better off not being born, just to be immediately abandoned. Her eyes probed him, a little horrified. "I thought you knew me well enough to understand that by now."
He did, really--or did most of the time. But the guilt was too strong, at the moment. He just continued his terrible point--soul ensnared by its toxic tendrils, not seeing its effect on her. "He might not have shot. I could have taken him out."
This argument was too much for her, wasn't what she had woken up for; her hands grabbed his face, holding him close to plead with him--her breathing erratic. "No." She only just remembered to keep her voice down. "I don't want you to be a murderer, Michael." Her tone dropped, barely perceptible in her pain. "I don't want either of us to be."
Lord. He did understand this, but . . .
He never got a chance to speak, his beloved wife's look sinking so deep into his soul, begging him to understand. "We got a second chance last night. We gained the opportunity to live together without fear or guilt." Her eyes begged him, her desperation rising. "Isn't that what you want?" Her hand stroked over his cheek, so hoping he could understand. "Because I need my *husband* now." She bit her lower lip, so close to tears--emotions still utterly distraught from the night before. "I don't want to live any life except the one you and I share completely."
Lord. He could see this, knew she needed him, and had to close his eyes at the lingering torment in his soul. While he understood her pleas, knew she wasn't just covering for his failings, his sense of despair hadn't really disappeared; the look returned, so adoring. But he would have to put such feelings away for now. He did love her. And, whatever his lack of help to her last night, he could be strong for her now; his fingers stroked along her face. It was probably all he had left to give.
He changed his positioning, then, sitting on the bed beside her, his arm around her, holding her close--kissing her head. His promise, at least, was entirely genuine. "I'm here, Nikita. I won't let you suffer." And maybe, too--some very small part of him whispered--this was what both of them needed. Maybe he could also get past the torment of last night; maybe both of them could. He held her close, closing his eyes. "I love you." Perhaps there was nothing else which mattered anymore.
They comforted each other with their simple presence, drawing all the strength they could. It would take them both awhile to start to heal, to find the courage to--but the listener outside their door feared for them. There was only so much new horror the pair could take.
Neither of the couple knew it, but Adrian was standing sentinel outside, ensuring no one came close enough to hear their conversations--smiling dimly at anyone who passed, as her thoughts moved on. She couldn't talk to them now; they needed this time alone. All she could do was wait. The inevitable, unfortunately, would come at last.
She hated this fact now but saw no way out. She had made a demonic bargain last night, one which would have to be carried out, sooner or later; her sigh lingered. But maybe there was time. If she let them heal for a month or so, Jones would probably wait. It was only then that she would have to tell them about the terrible deal which had saved both their lives.
The couple warmed each other inside the room, unaware of anything which awaited. What they did know was that they were still together. And--with the multiple terrors they had somehow just survived--they knew that was all they could really ask for, just now.
Extra note: The "rabbit test" was the accepted method of testing for pregnancy for many years. Long before a thousand home pregnancy tests became available, a woman had to go to a doctor and (I believe this is the process--I am *not* a medical expert) have some of her blood or fluids injected into a test-subject rabbit. If the rabbit lived, the woman wasn't pregnant. If it died, she was. It's yet another reason to be thankful for modern technology.
[End of Part 220]
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