Subject:  Chapter 1 |
Author:
Cynaera
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Date Posted: 12:48:15 01/16/02 Wed
In reply to:
Cynaera
's message, "Two Hearts Beat As One (Sequel to "From A Child's Eyes)" on 12:45:47 01/16/02 Wed
Two Hearts Beat As One (Sequel to "From A Child's Eyes")
P.J. was dead. The timeline was clearly etched in Michael's mind, each event marked as if with neon ink. It had been a month since P.J. had opened his beautiful, generous heart to the nearly-dead people in Section One, before surrendering his own life. Three more weeks since Michael had gone to Nikita's apartment, braved her wrath and unbelief, and had confessed his feelings to her. Another week since that epiphany.
Now, Michael sat at the briefing table - an almost nauseatingly familiar scenario. He'd repeated it, time after time, day after day, month after year after eternity… The repetitiveness of it grated on his nerves, unbeknownst to Operations. Michael put his best face forward, listening, even though he already knew the parameters, had pre-planned them a hundred ways long before the briefing had taken place. He was bored - but more than that, he was scared…
He thought of Nikita, and that moment a week earlier. He recalled that afternoon he'd confessed his love for her. He remembered the way she'd stared at him for almost a full minute, those cornflower-blue eyes amazed and astonished, a touch disbelieving - and then the ecstasy when she'd thrown her arms around him and held him as if defying a tornado to bear them away.
For a few short minutes, then, Michael had been complete. He remembered those precious, cherished moments as he sat at the briefing table, half-listening to a scenario he'd already pre-planned. It allowed him time to daydream - of Nikita, her warm, naked body on top of his, pressed from neck to knee, her heart pounding against his, her breath hot, hushed, urgent against his cheek as she whispered her desires to him and he'd twisted their bodies until he was dominant… They hadn't been intimate since the Armel mission, and Michael had had plenty of time to conjure up new fantasies of Nikita…
"…Mission leaves in two hours. Michael, assemble your team," Operations was saying to him. Michael had to squirm a bit in his chair - his abstraction had taken its toll on his body, and his erection would be obvious to anyone should he stand. Squeezing his eyes shut, Michael forced himself to think of math, of blood, of dead bodies. His erection receded like a deflated balloon, and when he knew his black pants would reveal nothing of what he'd been thinking seconds earlier, he stood up with an air of decision. His green eyes met the eyes of everyone in the room, re-establishing dominance - and then he exited, his spine straight, his eyes glued to the far wall, seeing nothing.
As Michael walked to munitions to get his gear, he thought of Nikita. He remembered the look in her eyes when he'd told her he loved her. He savored the feel of her arms around him, her sob in his ear, her breath against his neck. He cherished every nuance of that moment - he'd memorized it, because he knew it would most likely have to sustain him through all types of hell, courtesy of Section One.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nikita strolled to van access, loaded for bear. She had more heavy artillery than most small battalions in the Marines, and she wondered, though not too much, of what kind of mission she was a part. She had hoped to see Michael, but he wasn't present, and she entered the van with a sense of disappointment. She remembered when he'd told her he loved her, nearly two weeks earlier. She remembered his eyes - so green it almost frightened her. She could still feel his hands on her, his breath against her face as he whispered endearments in French to her, not knowing she had learned the basics and could recognize what he was saying to her. She'd felt something melt inside her - he had told her she was his life, his love, his soul, his dream, his friend…
Now, Nikita was in the mission van, heading to a destination out of her control. She knew her job - she was to enter the building, access the safe, obtain plans to a nuclear plant in the area, and get out without detection. It seemed simple - a cut and dried operation, and she knew she had Birkoff monitoring her every move. She would be as safe as she could be, within Section constraints. Yet, with her recent experiences - namely, P.J. and his undeniable influence on her, and Michael's confession to her - Nikita was unsettled. She could feel Michael in her blood, in her head - as easily as she could hear P.J. telling her to trust her kidneys… Kidneys go deeper than the heart, he'd said. They aren't as easily confused or distracted. Nikita had laughed, then - but now, she realized that thirteen year-old boy knew more about life than she'd learned in all her life on earth. She chose to remember his words, to keep him in her heart and mind and let him guide her, like a muse, or a beacon…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Michael waited at Birkoff's station - he watched the monitors, and every few moments, he asked about the progress of the mission. Birkoff would normally have snapped a rude response at being so closely monitored. He knew, though, that Michael was concerned for Nikita, and so he kept his mouth shut and just reported what he knew. Suddenly, he heard a voice in his head - Seymour, I'd give almost anything to be where you are… You have a gift, a way to make the world a better place…
Birkoff caught his breath, hoping Michael hadn't seen his lapse. He saw the profile, saw that Nikita was safe, and he said, with an air of confidence, "Information confirmed. Nikita's okay. She's outta there."
Michael, in an uncharacteristic gesture of approval, clasped Birkoff's shoulder warmly, briefly, then whispered, "Thank you." He was gone before Birkoff could recover from the contact of the hand on his shoulder…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Debarkation was as expected - five operatives, dressed in black, exhausted-looking, but clearly glad to be alive. Nikita was the last one to leave the van, as usual. She always waited for everyone else to leave before she debarked - it was an obscure deference to courtesy, handed down from some relative or other, and she'd never shed the shroud of responsibility. Michael had recognized it early on in their tenure together as mentor and trainee, and it had always been a source of amusement, and a painful sort of catch in his throat.
When Nikita exited the van, she glanced up from her distracted reverie to see Michael standing there, his eyes gliding up and down her form as if checking for wounds. She froze - allowed him to appraise her condition, a small smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. When she saw his body relax and his eyes become their normal shade of green, she proceeded to debriefing. The mission had been flawless, and she knew it had been because Michael had overseen the whole thing.
As she walked down the shadowed hallway to debrief, she felt and heard several things. She felt Michael's eyes on her, watching her walk. She felt his scrutiny, and his approval. She heard P.J.'s voice in her ear, saying, He loves you, Nikita - he's just scared to say it. Don't give up… She saw his face, his blue eyes filled with admiration and a touch of impishness as he tugged her pigtail and said, "Race ya to the cafeteria!" They both had known he couldn't win that race, but he'd challenged her anyway, and she'd accepted, gladly letting him win, happily letting him accuse her of letting him win. It became a game with them - she would let him get away with something outrageous, and he'd call her on it, then they'd both laugh. She couldn't count the number of times, now, that she'd hugged his skinny body close to her and clung, unwilling to let him go. And the same number of times, he'd hung in her arms, his eyes closed, his thin arms tight around her neck, as if his heart would break if he released his hold.
Nikita felt tears smarting in her eyes, and she didn't fight them anymore. It was no use - if she didn't cry when she felt like it, she'd only go home and cry until her body hurt, and she figured it was better, and easier on her health, if she just let it happen in public, where she would be forced to curtail it somewhat and spare her body the wracking sobs and wrenching pain. She didn't tell Michael, even though he asked her, once in awhile, how she was. She didn't want to unload on him, when she knew he was hurting as much as, or perhaps even more than, she was. Of all the people who had bonded with P.J. during his brief tenancy at Section One, Michael was the last person anyone had expected to take him under wing. Yet, he had, in his quiet, unobtrusive way.
When P.J. had turned up missing one day, Operations ordered security to do a thorough check of the facility to locate him. He was nowhere to be found. A subsequent search revealed that Michael, too, had seemingly gone A.W.O.L. Operations, with a strange, knowing smile on his face, had ordered the search discontinued. He knew the two of them were together, though he didn't know where. It hadn't occurred to Operations to wonder why P.J.'s tracker wasn't working…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Michael walked down the dock to the edge of the lake where he'd spent a confession-filled afternoon with P.J. two months ago. The boy had pulled secrets out of him that he had never told anyone else, and he'd done it in complete innocence. His questions had been deceptively innocuous, seemingly childlike. It hadn't been until later, back at Section, that Michael had realized he'd been thoroughly interrogated by a thirteen year-old boy with a baseball cap, a bald head, baggy pants, and impish blue eyes that were doomed to extinction - and he'd surrendered the information so easily he would have been cancelled immediately, had it been Section doing the questioning.
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