| Subject: Chapter 257 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, October 18, 07:11:43am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Dreams in the Dark (257/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
As weeks went, it had been a long one--long and painfully cautious. Still, the wariness was a necessity, for so many reasons--his sigh deep. He only wished that his wife's latest letter hadn't been among the reasons for his fears.
It certainly had, though, was probably taking the major place in Michael's thoughts just now; the fact that concern for Nikita didn't hold that place unrivaled only showed how serious his other anxieties had become. Just the few details she had sent him were cause enough for worry, his heart aching. He only wished that he weren't so certain there was more she was holding back.
He didn't really blame her for her caution, knew that she both didn't wish to have such details potentially read by others and that she had no desire to split his focus any further. His life here was certainly causing him enough problems, the situation with Ackerman, especially, becoming far more problematic recently. Ever since he had briefly bested the man during that first would-be attack, the younger recruit had been fuming. And he--as well as everyone around him--understood all too well that their differences would not be settled quietly.
Michael had been preparing for this unpleasant outcome, needed to be cautious. While, thus far, Ackerman had only acted out of opportunity, never planning his attacks in the long term, the actor knew he couldn't trust that this situation would continue forever. His new enemy was bright, far more intelligent than he frequently showed. If the man were underestimated for long . . .
It was this danger he was attempting to avoid, needing to watch for the recruit's next plan. And he suspected, all too deeply, that there *would be* a plan. Bill Ackerman was, in some ways, well suited to the military. If their classes were helping to teach them anything, it was strategy.
Michael had no real idea of what the man's new approach might be, wasn't even certain of what had caused his obvious hate, other than a simple dislike of anything or anyone with French leanings. Still, none of this really mattered. His new "comrade" loathed him, would never be a friend. All he could do was try his best to predict and survive.
It was here that his focus had been centered, lately, here that he needed to keep it. But Nikita's latest letter was already fraying at the edges of his concentration, scattering his thoughts; his heart ached. If only he could be at home to help her with his vigilance now.
This wasn't a possibility, wouldn't be, until he survived this; he had reminded himself of that fact at least a hundred times today. None of his reminders helped. Just the hints in her latest letter, the clear truths of Madeline's current plans, were chilling his blood; the shiver stabbed at him. He had very little attention left to give to his surroundings.
This was a dangerous situation, could get him hurt, at best. Not only did their classes require a *huge* amount of concentration--their lessons in air surveillance today their last ones to be given solely on the ground--but Ackerman's aggressiveness was also taking a turn--his heart freezing at the thought. And it was the direction it was taking which needed to preoccupy him now.
He was trying to remind himself of this fact, the younger man's silent glaring containing more than a bit of triumph, of late. It only confirmed that he had grown more wily, had finally begun to plot. Michael had to be cautious. If his mind were entirely focused on his poor Nikita, he would miss all the clues--until the jaws of the trap were snapping closed around him at last.
There was an attempt to repress the shiver, his soul so thoroughly scattered and preoccupied. But he had yet to come up with a sane answer. How did he focus on some small fool's juvenile dislike for him, when his Nikita was the focus of a far more deadly enemy? How could anything else hope to compete with such horror? He couldn't even be there for her, couldn't be the shield against their schemes; the terror ran deep. What in God's name could he possibly do, if they managed to truly hurt her this time?
He had no answer for this terrible possibility, was simply making his way back early from supper--barely having tasted the meal. While this was probably for the best, as with most institutional food--cooking cheaply and in bulk leaving little opportunity for the creation of delicacies--he could only think about getting back to the barracks, about writing back to her. If Ackerman's plans centered around him just now, he could certainly be in trouble. His only thought was about protecting his beloved.
This wasn't a possibility for him anymore, wouldn't be again--at least unless he could make it out of all this alive and functioning--but he couldn't think about such necessities now. His Nikita had hinted at so many terrors, had left so much more unsaid, he was certain. What he could possibly say, either to protect or encourage her, he had no idea. The sigh lingered. But the fact that he had to try was no less obvious for that.
He couldn't stop thinking about his fears, as he made his way further away from his colleagues. Despite the light tone of the letter--a tone put on solely for any others who might read it, he was sure--her situation had been made clear. Madeline had gone from simply trying to wear her down to actively creating accidents on the set; he probably--to both his slight disgust and gratitude--had Shears to thank for saving her from them. Had the sandbag fallen on her--what the bag had even been doing there was a bit of a mystery, although he supposed the cover story would be that it was a counterweight--her injuries would have been severe, at best. Had she survived, she could well have ended up paralyzed; their child, certainly, would have been lost. The shudder he gave went very deep. And that would undoubtedly have been the end of all comfort the precious woman would ever know again.
His heart ached at this truth, terrified by all it said--but it wasn't even the worst part of his beloved's current situation. This had only been Madeline's opening salvo, the rest of her plan far more insidious. After it, she had every intention of forcing Nikita toward the infirmary and Chernov; the anger rocked him. And whatever his wife might have faced after that was far too terrible to contemplate for long.
This truth didn't stop him from doing so, his mind reeling with the hideous implications. That their child would have been sacrificed--had the tutor's plot been successful--was only the simplest of them. While he had no desire at all to lose their unborn son, the child was still only a sweet sort of theory to him; Nikita was real. And if anything on earth caused her pain . . .
He was nearly shaking with his rage, with the desperate need to be back by her side, protecting her. But that wasn't to be. Even if he survived this whole ordeal--wherever it might take him--there wasn't even a guarantee that he could stay by his wife's side unmolested after it. Mr. Jones had only, apparently, made it clear that he wanted them separated, had been talked into making it temporary. The sort of plans that man might have for them once he returned . . .
He couldn't think about this, could focus on nothing except his need to be back near his beloved. It was only his concern for her which ever really filled his soul for long.
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