| Subject: Chapter 246 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, July 12, 07:08:44am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Dreams in the Dark (246/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
The day continued, long and unsettling--the weight of their knowledge crushing them. The night before, they had witnessed the aftermath of a murder--yet no one who knew anything about it was able to see justice done.
The world's ignorance over Sondra's dreadful end was still pressing into their hearts, as Michael and Nikita made their way back toward their home from their meeting at Helmut's--uncertain over everything once more. Yesterday, before the premiere, they had been sad and wary but mostly resigned to their fate, trying to work up the certainty to help them through. Now, there was only emptiness. With the stand-in's death, with Madeline's cruel message using the girl's body, all hope was fading; their hearts thumped fearfully together. But they needed to change this pattern, if they had any prayer of survival.
They both knew this, were trying to act on the knowledge, as he drove her closer to their home. But what had once been a place of refuge seemed less-than-inviting now--the night before bringing back far too many memories; the actress's shudder went deep. All Nikita could think about was the murder she had once witnessed there.
It was perhaps this fact which was the cruelest of Madeline's presents to them, her choice of message far too familiar. This wasn't the first time the tutor had had deadly designs on one of her blonde properties, wasn't the first time she had turned her back on murder. For all the endangered pair wished that they could pretend that their enemy was powerless to carry through on her threats, the reality was far too stark. No one powerful in this town cared about anything but their billing--and the bottom line.
It was this truth which worried them most--Nikita's safety so uncertain. If it proved easier to be rid of her, in whatever sense, no one of any consequence would complain. And an unborn child? That was the stuff which only screenplays took seriously.
The endangered woman sighed, as they drew closer to home, knowing this all-too-well. Worse yet, she suspected that her husband's fears were correct, that Madeline did have some, imminent plan for disposing of their child. Suddenly, it seemed all-too-dangerous to eat or drink anything untested at the studio--seemed dangerous to even be there. A small accident on set could easily lead to a visit to the studio doctor--and heaven only knew what might happen after that.
She tried to take a deep breath, needing to steady herself, not wanting to be any greater a burden for her dear husband; she was that often enough. Every second he was near her was spent watching over her, ensuring that she was well; she tried to make the sigh silent. Maybe he would be better off being shipped very far away.
He heard the sigh she tried to repress, wanted to console her--but wasn't even certain where to begin. Although he could lie about their chances, he didn't want to, didn't want to buy off the woman he adored with such empty promises. Worse yet, he couldn't even give her the usual assurances, reminding her that he would be there to see her well. Instead--because of the vitriolic disgust of a refined but cruel killer, the bargains of a supposed ally, and the machinations of a very old enemy--he would be far away, entirely out of reach. If she needed any help, then . . .
He couldn't bear to finish out the thought, his heart aching at his uselessness. In his marriage vows, he had promised to love and honor her, but he was fulfilling neither one--his soul withering at his impotence. A real man would stay with her, would protect her--no matter what the odds; a real man was beside his woman till the end. His heart shuddered. But no. He was being chased far away, into another country, would leave her with those either overwhelmed by concerns of their own or too self-involved to understand her real needs. Instead of having her as his wife alone, with all that signified, she was still being kept as her father's child--and her father's intentions weren't positive ones at all.
It was this fact which goaded him, working its way into a terror in his deepest heart, making him fear for everything which would come. With Jones' interference in their marriage--or with his callous, distant observation of their pain--Madeline could get away with anything, even murder; his soul clenched. And it did him no good at all to realize yet again that this was clearly part of her plan.
He had to hold on tightly to the wheel, doing his best to keep himself under control--the useless rage threatening to break through. He couldn't even stand to ponder the potential future. He had no idea what would happen to the two of them if the tutor were successful in her plots to dispose of their child, wasn't at all certain what would happen to his wife after such a tremendous loss. Especially if he weren't beside, couldn't comfort, her, it might prove too much. And that devastation alone could destroy everything they had worked for.
He could barely manage to think over the possibility, fearful of how his wife might react to such a tragedy--almost fearing most that her guilt could outweigh even her sorrow; he had seen it too often before. More than once in his youth, there had been whispers of a woman who hadn't been capable of bearing a child, who had lost one along the way. Sometimes, probably worst of all, she had made it as far as giving birth, only to then have someone choose her life over her child's in a crucial and fatal moment; it usually wasn't a blessing, true condolences only occasionally expressed. Too often, such women found themselves pushed aside, the whispers growing behind their backs--especially if they were only first-time mothers. Then, it was said that they weren't "womanly" enough to give birth, or that they didn't deserve their own lives in the evil choice that had been made; too many times, their husbands agreed. Michael sighed. Even if he had never understood such logic, couldn't see why any man who truly loved wouldn't wish first for the safety of his heart's mate, it was often impossible to stop the talk--the idea growing like a cancer in a woman's mind. It was suddenly hard to watch the road, his heart aching. He just couldn't bear it, if his poor Nikita had to endure this, as well.
This possibility alone was brutalizing, his fears rampant after last night's hellish display--knowing that his need to protect her came to little other than words. For all he prayed that both she and their child would be well, he couldn't overcome the terrors. And, for all his wishes, if it came to a choice of the two, he already knew his answer. He needed Nikita. Their child, as yet, was just a far-off dream.
It was probably for this reason that he was able to think so clearly the way he did, the early stage of his wife's pregnancy making such notions far-too-simple. Right now, little Adrian--even with a name--was just a fantasy, an idea, not even a bulge on his wife's lovely body yet showing his existence, but Nikita was *real*. His heart clenched. And, until he could truly know and love his son, it was with his wife's health alone that all of his deeper concern lay.
There was a part of him which realized this truth now, a small part which understood. It wasn't that he was an uncaring father--never would be, his dreams of a life with his wife and children so very strong. But he would only be able to feel that he *was* a father, when he saw real evidence of the fact. Until then, it seemed too much a fantasy to believe.
It was this truth, as well as the lingering effects of his past mistakes, which drove the actor now, his need to see to his wife's safety wracking him. Only adding to it was the fact that Nikita was the one woman who had ever been his choice as the mother of his children--any previous examples accidents, at best. Poor Simone barely even fit into this category, his certainty over her child's parentage not very strong--her tortured past perhaps leaving more remnants than he had known. He might have tried to fight to marry her, would have raised her child as his own, no matter what the truth--*never* would have questioned or berated her, no matter what the true answers to his doubts--but the baby's creation hadn't been a conscious decision. With his beloved wife, it was--in spirit, if not in one particular act; his sigh was quiet. And that was what made little Adrian's existence seem even more a dream.
He had yet to get past any of these facts, couldn't make himself quite believe. Of course, if he were able to just be with her, to love and support her, during these months, belief would have become inevitable, his need to protect them both quickly firming, until it was unshakable. But there had already been too many decisions, all the traumas they had faced scarring him. He just couldn't shake the feeling that this supposedly joyous future was doomed to become an either-or choice.
It was this potential disaster which made him the saddest now, his fears for his wife growing with every thought--bringing out all his rage at the man who had so casually fathered her. It wasn't enough that they had survived so much, had proven themselves, and their love, so many times; his gaze moved over to her adoringly. No. The bastard who called himself her father was determined to see that they failed.
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