| Subject: Chapter 235 - Part 2 (end of chapter 235) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, April 10, 07:06:59am
In reply to:
Katherine Gilbert
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (chapters 221--?)" on Monday, February 13, 07:24:07am
Chris Davenport came into the green room, glancing over the two worriedly; he and Michael exchanged a nod, before the interviewer moved over to the actress, his gaze evaluating her. "Morning sickness?" She smiled wanly in agreement--although it was anything but morning, at the moment. "Yeah. My sister . . ." He trailed off, eyes moving to a clock on the wall. "Stay there," he ordered, before he left.
This was an odd, and brief, encounter, left the couple staring curiously at each other. But the exchange had had a less-than-pleasant effect on the actress, Chris's concerned reminder of her illness only making the lingering sensations worse; she sighed heavily, head hanging, her lips pressed tightly together. If only any part of this day were going to get better now.
This wasn't looking likely, Michael coming over to place his hand on her shoulder--but it was all he could really do. Sometimes, he was discovering, the role of father-to-be was a very difficult one--entailing all of the worry and none of the control; he squeezed her shoulder tightly, before letting her go, not wanting to overwhelm her with body heat, if she needed air. All he could hope was that the unpleasant feeling would pass once more.
This hadn't happened very often, these last few days, but there was little else to pray for. Especially now that their trip was proving to be such a struggle for endurance, both emotionally and physically, all he could focus on was her immediate health--and his fervent wish to see them home again soon.
This wasn't entirely likely, their two-day or so tour of two cities lasting them an entire, lengthy week; they were only lucky that the studio had decided to cut the trip short, giving them a little over a week after it to recover before Christmas--aside from whatever appearances the studio might demand. And they still had the rest of today and much of tomorrow to get through on their visit here--not to mention the three-day journey home on various trains; his sigh lingered. They weren't likely to see the inside of their house again very soon.
They were both saddened over this, both just wished to God that they could get back to some sense of privacy and sanity. But still the wait continued--Davenport's return, with a glass of some, unidentifiable, and unappetizing, liquid, gaining their eyes and only part of their attention. But there was nothing to do except make their way through.
"Drink," the tall man ordered, holding the glass out to her, breaking her, momentarily, from her fears. But other worries came quickly; she wrinkled her nose unconsciously, less than tempted by the look of the stuff. He didn't let her question, moving it further toward her. "Don't ask. Just drink." His eyes were concerned. "You'll feel better soon."
She was rather uncertain about that, took the glass cautiously--entirely missing the silent conversation which went on above her, carried on solely in the look between Michael and his old friend. It was only her husband's voice which finally broke through, his gaze still locked with Davenport's. "Drink."
This might not be an easy task--but she trusted Michael's judgment. She took a deep breath before quickly downing the stuff, drinking as rapidly as possible--terrified of what the taste of it might do to her. Once she was finished, she sat there bemusedly for a second before letting out a terrifyingly-loud burp; her hand covered her mouth, as she stared, aghast, at her companions. She was, after all, right next door to a radio studio. It didn't take long for the fear to occur to her that her distinct uncouthness was the very last piece of advertising she and her husband needed, at the moment.
She wasn't just worried for her wider, potential audiences, however. Here before her was a man who was almost a total stranger; her husband could probably take it, already understood that she had never been refined. Still, Davenport undermined the worry, only laughing. "The room's soundproof." He took the glass from her, starting to leave. "Just make sure you've finished doing that, before we're ready to air."
His amused acceptance of her less-than-social behavior might have been encouraging, another time, but today it was hard to cheer her up; she sighed heavily, her head falling into her hand, as she wondered at this particular fate. Why was it that she only felt better when she was acting as though she were raised in a barn? Her mind turned. Well, she practically was--might well have been better socialized if she had been--but . . .
Her voice was a sigh a moment later, even if her husband was smiling. "Why do you put up with me again?" The smile deepened, as he stooped to kiss her head. But she never did seem to understand how deep his adoration went.
He tried to explain this to her again a moment later, smiling all the while--watching her body jump slightly, as she repressed the furious array of burps. At least she was looking better; he would have to ask Chris what was in the concoction. "Because I love you," he whispered, his hand on her shoulder; only her sigh return, making him smile. "And I'm always glad to see you healthy."
Well, it had done that, at least, the sense of sickness beginning to pass away; she sat up, looking at him, wondering--but her thoughts became broader, turned far more sober, when she did, her gaze saddened. "Why are we always in these situations?"
That, really, was a far more appropriate question--their lives never simple. Perhaps they had found each other, had finally been able to start living together, had even survived what had been intended to be a fatal attack--but still their enemies railed. Now, if they didn't handle this interview impeccably, they might soon find that the country lost its respect for them, too; the look caught. And that was a fate which neither of them would be able to withstand for long.
They both knew this, sighing more deeply, as an assistant came to give them a two-minute warning, ready to herd them into the studio. Still, through all the pain and doubt, their eyes were strong, holding all of their love; only one thing really mattered. They *would* get through this somehow, would find a way to keep their marginal safety through the country's support. Eventually--whatever war awaited them--he would return to her; her smile was quiet, strong. And then they could finally begin their new lives as one.
Extra notes: I'm not entirely certain of Hedda's pre-U.S.-involvement stance on WWII, am only judging from the general feeling of the country and the press. If I've erred here, forgive me. She just makes a good representative of wider media opinion.
You might remember Chris's involvement in this story from *many* chapters ago; he's an old acquaintance of Michael's who aided Nikita and her husband-to-be when they wanted to announce their official engagement, despite Madeline's opposition. It's also been mentioned that his character here is African-American but passing for white. He wouldn't be allowed to hold his current job in this time, if he weren't keeping up this pretense.
[End of Part 235]
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