| Subject: Chapter 247 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 247) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, July 17, 11:25:41pm
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
She knew she let out a little cry as soon as she saw the signature, tried to bite her lip a moment later--not wanting to worry her husband. They had enough on their minds lately without yet more fears to torment them; her heart thumped heavily. Maybe if she could just keep him from knowing about this one . . .
This might prove to be more difficult than she imagined, her husband hearing the sound she had given from the other room. Still, he thought that it must simply be caused by his wife discovering the photo he had put away, as well as several other letters the drawer had long hidden. He had even made certain that she knew where they were, was hoping that her curiosity would win out; he sighed quietly, hating that he had yet to explain. But, this way, she would discover this particular truth, without him having to break his promise of silence.
He waited for a second after he heard the noise, therefore, assuming, mistakenly, that he understood what it was. Still, one long sigh later, his other shoe and jacket now off, he made his way back toward the living room, preparing to explain. It wasn't like it was really anything to be ashamed of.
"Nikita . . .," he began, as he walked into the room, but his look was quickly clouded with furious worry, when he saw her face. This was not a woman who had simply looked over the stack of letters in the drawer--her knowledge of his past alone probably enough to fill in most of the details for her there. No. This was a woman who looked as though she had just seen a very persistent and terrifying ghost.
He was by her side a moment later, found that he was nearly snatching the letter from her hands--his mind snapping into its proper focus once more, remembering the envelope he had given her. He should have checked it first, could think of no one who would write her. But now the damage was done--his earlier distraction making way for it all. And all he could do was see where this led.
He had the letter in one hand now, the other wrapped tightly around his wife's, trying to reassure her for whatever terror she had just faced alone. Once his eyes quickly scanned her, making certain she was okay for the moment, they looked down at the page, heart thumping at what he saw. The letter, in a not-particularly-practiced hand, read:
Hey, sis,
I guess you weren't expecting to hear from me so soon. We've only met at the point of a gun. Kinda funny, really. Still, I've been thinking about our situation, and I've got a few ideas. So I've gotten my guards to sneak out this letter to make sure you know them.
I've been thinking about that night we met. I know you're not exactly what I was told, but I do think that Dad has a special place for you. I just want to make certain that you know what that means.
I guess you know that I'm being locked up in this place. Hell, you even know where this place is--you can't say that about many people who're still living. But I don't want you to get any ideas. A few mistakes in the way I handled business are *not* going to keep me from taking my rightful place as Dad's heir. You might be a cute little piece, but you sure don't know how to run this organization.
I hear you've gotten knocked up recently, which I guess is fine with Dad, since your husband's still living. Of course, I also heard something about him joining this stupid war that's going on, so Dad might just be finding another way toward getting the job done.
I guess none of this makes a lot of sense to you. We aren't exactly the kind of family you see on a Norman Rockwell cover. But what I really want to say is that, unlike Dad, I don't care much what you and your husband get up to. According to Greggy, when he was still kicking, you two used to fuck like rabbits--which I guess explains your "condition." Doesn't matter much to me. I sure as hell don't plan on being any brat's "Uncle Jamie."
Still, that idiot Hillinger was right about one thing. You are a pretty piece of tail; your husband got (or gets--right?) lucky. But don't think for a second that I'm going to let you replace me with Dad.
So that's what I wanted to tell you. I saved your ass by killing Hillinger; you protect mine by not having any thoughts of succession. This way, everything's fair. Don't disappoint me.
Merry Christmas,
Your Brother
Jesus. Michael's mind wouldn't stop spinning, the horror overwhelming. The missive just stank with the callous disregard of a boy who had always been given everything and never cared about anything but having more. In many ways, he wasn't even a very good intimidator--didn't have the finesse or the brains, the actor's mind spinning. Jones could manage it with all the authority of the casually blood-soaked; Madeline could do it with a smile and a subtle twist of the knife. But Jamie could only take a hammer and pound in the general direction of his victim--or his point; Michael's eyes scanned the jumbled words. He just wasn't bright enough to imagine anything else.
The actor's thoughts continued to tumble, his gaze now very far away; he didn't even realize that he had dropped the letter, was now holding Nikita tightly in his arms--wasn't letting go. But the fact that his poor wife's demented half-brother saw her as a threat made only too much sense, his embrace tightening further. Madeline had aimed well at the boy, had obviously hit her mark. Even if they had temporarily managed to convince him that his sister was harmless on the night of the attack, the tutor's words were clearly weighing on him, making him wonder whether he had made the right choice. That alone was disturbing. But the very fact that Jamie was still alive was cause enough to feel close to panic.
It was this panic which led Michael's thoughts, his need to protect his wife dismissed for far too long--making him slightly crazy. He was sick of having his life dictated to him, was sick of having to impress psychotics in order to be able to quietly love. In that moment, he didn't care about the dangers, didn't give a damn about public opinion. He only knew that they should run--and the sooner they started, the safer they would be.
He gave her a quick kiss on the side of the head, rising with his voice. "Get packed. Now." He was already almost out of the room, looking for his suitcase. "Take anything you'll need. We're not coming back."
It was this pronouncement which made Nikita blink, coming back at last from the shock the letter had put her in. "Pack?" she asked, still a little dazed. Just the gruff, commanding tone of her husband's voice was enough to throw her off--his words to her usually far more gentle--but the insanity of his obvious plan put her into nearly a dreamlike sense of horror. She blinked, coming out of it just slightly. "And go where?"
The question made her partner stop dead for half a second, before he shook his head, his back still to her. It didn't matter a damn; his thoughts switched away from such minutia. Why was she wasting time? He gazed back to her, the look almost callous in his fear. "Just pack."
This wasn't any reaction she could have expected--had her brain been capable of any sort of expectations, in her shock. Still, she had to stop him, seeing far more clearly than he did, just now, for all her astonished horror of the last few minutes; her voice made him pause, as she rose, her tone moving with it. "And go *where*, Michael?" She could see his shoulders tense but had to get through to him. "Europe--Germany? England?" She shook her head, the anger and frustration making her sarcastic, despite any good intentions she might have had a moment before. "Hey, how about China or Japan? Those will be *great* places to be, just now." It wasn't like he was exactly thinking this through.
She could see him simmering, his muscles tightening in front of her, and made herself take a deep breath, trying for control--without much success, her voice only slightly softer. "Think about what you're saying. There's nowhere on earth we can run where my father can't find us." She snorted, shaking her head in horror. "There's not even that much of the world left to run to." Not that wasn't at least half lost in a war, anyway. She had to close her eyes, bracing herself for the truth. "No matter how little we might like it, we're stuck." There was a pause, as she wondered if he were really listening--could only hope. "We can only get out of this, if we play by their rules."
It was this last statement which destroyed the last thread of his sanity, however, the tiny line which had held it together finally snapping under the pressure. "Their rules?" A heavy breath left him--the steam rising from a superheated, and possibly cracked, engine. He turned back to her, was across the room suddenly, in only two steps--eyes glaring. "Where have their rules gotten us? What have we gained?" Both his hands grabbed her upper arms a moment later, the rage and fear driving him--unaware of his own, furious power. "They've nearly killed you--would have raped you and tossed your body out like Sondra's, if we hadn't gotten damn lucky!" He wasn't even aware that he was shaking her, his fingers bruising. "Now, they want to separate us just to kill us--and you want to stay here?!"
There was a terrible second without any sound at all after this--the moment only broken by Nikita's sobbing gasp. She was barely aware, consciously, that her husband's touch was hurting her, was terrified by his eyes more than anything else. For the first--for the only--time, his anger was more than she could handle, bringing out all the trauma of her past. In her fearful mind, she was facing one of her mother's boyfriends--or Fanning, or Hillinger, or Bauer. Even in their most ferocious lovemaking--in Michael's most controlling moments as a lover--she had never been afraid. But now . . .
The terror only lasted an instant--lasted for the entire, endless heartbeat it took him to really look in her eyes, his own suddenly widening. And, in that moment, he saw two choices before him. He could either let her go and turn away--shattering something precious between them with distance alone--or he could hold her more gently than he ever had before. He chose the latter--or something inside him did, at least--his arms around her to draw her very close, his previously furious breaths only now starting to calm. It was a second later that he realized the lone tear on her hair was his own.
They were sitting on the couch a few moments later, neither of them quite certain how they had gotten there, the whole incident threatening them as suddenly and shockingly as though it were the first tremors of an earthquake. But they had gotten lucky--the stronger quake not coming. All that was left to do was to make certain there was little which needed to be mended in the aftermath.
It was awhile before he could speak again, before his own horror at his actions--at the terror he had brought her--would allow it. Finally, the long sigh emerged, the words following. "I'm sorry, Nikita." He held her so very close, hand rubbing tenderly over the part of her arm he had harmed, her own arms around him lovingly. "I'm so very sorry."
It was his absolute tenderness, the soul she knew so well, which brought her fully back--the past which had threatened to swamp her, the one which had seemed all-too-close these last few months, suddenly receding; her sigh went deep. Still, she thought she understood several new things, as well. Had this only been the first sign of something far more terrifying in her partner--of all the cruelty she had witnessed so often in her mother's house--she would have left without looking back. But it wasn't. More than anything, it was a sure indication of the fact that both of them had the undeniable power to make the other crazy--her own fury having boiled over occasionally, as well; she almost smiled. But neither of them were questioning that truth anymore.
She let him hold her, his tenderness reassuring, the love he felt for her absolute--warming her to her soul; her own arms surrounded him more thoroughly. A moment later, she kissed his cheek gently before finally meeting his eyes--ready to tell him the other piece of knowledge she had just, so terribly, gained. "Don't ignore me like that again, Michael. Don't try to make our decisions alone. Every time one of us does that . . ." Her head shook.
Lord. He knew, understanding her now--his eyes closed on his saddened nod. She was right--about everything--as little as he might like it, this time. Still, he did find her tender, intelligent gaze a moment later, wanting her to know. "I promise," he whispered. Every time they had ever done that, they had left the other with immutable scars; the love shone in his eyes. It was only when they made their decisions as one, when they trusted the whole they formed, that either of them was really sane.
The rest of the evening couldn't really be described--some communication not translatable into language. There was simply a knowledge and love which showed in their shared look, an agreement on every part of their lives--no matter how terrifying some of them might be. Perhaps the future seemed dim, the threats they faced mounting perilously, but neither would run away. So long as they had each other--wherever the other might be--they would make it through. Any amount of healing was possible with that.
[End of Part 247]
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