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Date Posted: 15:28:09 05/03/02 Fri
Author: Repost Fairy
Author Host/IP: 64.193.19.25
Subject: Part 38
In reply to: Lila 's message, "The Beginning - Part 33 and Up" on 15:11:24 05/03/02 Fri

Part 38

Adrian read the report. It didn’t make any sense. Why would Paul allow them to escape? Didn’t he want Samuelle dead? She stood from her desk, left her study, and entered her garden. It was always easier to think amongst the plants.

“You should have let him kill me,” she heard Michael’s voice repeating in her head. She truly felt sad for the young man. Perhaps he would have been better off dead, but he was their only choice. The only one. Adrian shook her head, he had joined willingly, knew the risks.

Adrian was thinking about the next few days. After everything, it all came down to this. She watched a bird land on one of the many trees on her estate. She watched as it flitted from branch to branch, wondering what it was looking for. The branches shook as the bird moved from one to the next. The leaves blurred together like an impressionist painting. Adrian let herself be drawn into the moment, colors blending together, tree appearing as if in a dream.

“Dear God,” she said aloud, finally understanding what Marcotte and Wolfe had never told her. She stood from the garden and hurried, in a most lady-like fashion, back to her study. She lifted the telephone and waited.

“Madeline,” she said, “I need some information from you immediately.”

“What do you need?” Madeline asked, perhaps a slight suspicious.

“Send me everything you have on the three of them, forget Walter,” Adrian said.

Madeline was taken aback. “I’m not sure I can,” she said, wondering how she would abstract anything about Paul.

“Just do it, my dear,” she said, “You’ll thank me later.” Adrian hung up.

*************

Michael quietly opened the door to Nikita’s room. She was still sound asleep in the chair, but had pushed the blanket to one side. Michael picked it up to replace it, looking down at her legs and feet. One of her legs had a long, large scrape covered with dried blood, and both of her feet were dirty, bloody, and cold to the touch. He replaced the blanket and left the room.

Michael went to the kitchen, found a large bucket, and filled it with warm water. He carried it to a bathroom, got some soap, a sponge, and a towel. He tested to make sure the water was still warm and carried into Nikita’s room. He found a small stool and moved it in front of her chair. Michael soaked the sponge, rubbed some soap on it, and began to gently clean Nikita’s right foot. The sponge was large, round, supple and soft. He carefully stroked her foot with the sponge, wiping away the dirt and the blood. He plunged the sponge into the bucket, lifted it out, and squeezed out the grime. He looked into the bucket, and disapproving of the color of the water, he stood to leave, planning on refreshing the water.

“Don’t stop,” she said, opening her eyes.

“Clean water,” he said, leaving.

Nikita relaxed in the chair, her right foot tingling. Everywhere Michael had touched her foot with his hands, the sponge, felt alive.

Michael returned, carrying a bucket of fresh warm water. He sat back on his stool, and sunk the sponge into the bucket. He soaped it, squeezed out the excess and moved to her left foot. He massaged her foot gently with the soapy sponge. He lifted her foot, examining the stitches. He raised an eyebrow.

“A coffee cup,” she said, shrugging.

“You should be more careful,” he replied, pushing the edge of the sponge between her toes.

Nikita laughed, feeling relaxed for the first time in two weeks. “Actually,” she said, “I did it on purpose.”

Michael soaked the sponge in the bucket again, squeezed out the water, and returned to her foot. “Really?” he asked, smiling at her, eyes sparkling.

She waved her hand, “I’ll tell you later,” she said.

Michael smiled again, focusing his attention on her leg. He moved the sponge to the long scrape on her leg. He tenderly scrubbed the dried blood from it, recalling her falling in the woods from the chalet, refusing his help. He finished washing her leg and her feet, and picked up the towel to dry them. Michael wrapped the towel around her left foot, and massaged the fabric into her skin.

“That feels marvelous,” she said, sighing.

Michael glanced up at her, continued drying her feet, and said, “I’m glad.” Once satisfied that her feet were clean, dried, and warm, Michael gathered the cleaning instruments and moved them aside. He continued to rub her feet, enjoying this simple act.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Tuscany,” he answered, as if every human being on the planet should know that from the smell of the dirt outside.

“Oh, right,” she said, closing her eyes again, loving the mystery and the arrogance of this man.

Michael leaned over and kissed both her feet gently. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, standing to leave.

Nikita’s eyes ran over his body, and with her foot, she pushed him back sitting. “Michael,” she said, “I need to tell you what happened.”

Michael sat. “It’s ok, we’ll talk later,” he said. He saw the determination in her eyes, and added, “It doesn’t matter.”

Nikita closed her eyes, and shook her head. “It does matter,” she said, eyes filling with tears.

Michael placed his hands around her feet, feeling the pulses in her ankles. His eyes radiated understanding at hers. “We all do what it takes to stay alive,” he said.

Nikita fought her tears. “But I can’t explain what I did, and I want to. I hated him and I let him touch me…” She stopped fighting her tears, remembering O’Brien moving inside of her, her desperation to please him.

Michael stood and moved over to her chair. “It’s ok,” he said again, “you should sleep.” He picked her up and brought her over to the bed, carefully laying her down. He tried to stand, and move away, but Nikita refused to let him go, holding onto him tightly as if she were dangling from a tall building, afraid she would fall. He held her, waiting for the storm to subside.

Nikita finally allowed him to rest her back on the pillow. Her red-rimmed blue eyes were filled with unspoken emotions. “Michael, he was…”

Michael put his finger to her lips, stopping her from speaking. “Sshh,” he said. He leaned forward and replaced his finger with her lips. He kissed her gently, released her, and ran his thumb along the side of her face. “Sleep,” he said, as he stood up from the bed. As soon as he stood, she was asleep. Michael tucked the blanket under her chin and left.

************

“How is she?” Walter asked, still sitting in his chair on top of the villa.

“Unclear,” Michael answered as he sat.

“What are you an eight ball?” Walter yelled. “Unclear, try again later!”

“My sources say no,” Michael answered, recalling the silly answers from the magic eight ball.

Walter laughed, “Sometimes kid,” he said, “You surprise me.”

Michael sat next to Walter. “What happens next?” he asked.

Walter snorted, “Hell if I know.”

“The reunion?” Michael asked.

“Ah, Jesus Michael,” Walter said, “I don’t know!”

Michael was frustrated with this game. “What’s next?” he asked again.

“Fah,” Walter said, “Wait and see, just like the rest of us.” He got up from his chair and pointed his finger at Michael. “There are things you don’t understand,” he said.

“Explain,” Michael said.

Walter walked away, heading for the stairs to take him to a nap. “When you’re both ready, we’ll talk,” he said as he disappeared down the stairway.

Michael wasn’t sure if Nikita would ever be ready. He wasn’t sure if he was ready. He didn’t know what happened to her while she was with O’Brien, but the picture of her lying on the bed, legs spread, waiting for O’Brien, plagued him. If he hadn’t already killed him, he would have killed him. Michael didn’t want to be angry, shouldn’t be angry, but was angry.

He looked out over the glorious Tuscan hills. Lush greens, patterns of agriculture carved in the dirt, red terra cotta roofs dotting the scenery. How do you think Simone felt, he asked himself. Slept with Elena more times than he could remember, not disliking it. Doing it because it was a job, and then he had a son. Even sometimes looking forward to her submissive pleasure. He closed his eyes, hating how he felt, hating that this had happened to her, and completely blaming himself. If they survived, he would make it up to her, he would. But first he had to let go of the anger.

************

“What are you working on?” Paul asked, as he entered her office.

Madeline continued typing, focusing on the screen, rushing to complete her task. “Nothing,” she answered.

Operations walked over to her desk and looked over her shoulder. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” he said, seeing his name appearing on the screen.

“Data request from Adrian,” she sputtered.

“Why isn’t someone else working on that?” he asked, “You don’t need to waste your time on small requests.”

Madeline dropped her hands, and tilted her head towards him, “Adrian thinks your hiding something,” she said, “and so do I.”

Laughter filled her office. Operations walked away from her desk, moving towards her display of bonsai trees. “You manage these plants so well,” he said, his back to her.

“Thank you,” she said, uneasily.

He shifted his body away from the plants, and faced her. “Madeline?” he asked. The auburn-haired vision of assuredness blinked at him. “When are you going to realize that I cannot be managed like these plants?”

“Is that a challenge?” she asked, delighting in the possibilities before her.

“I think I like that look in your eye,” he said, smirking.

Madeline slowly ran her eyes down and then back up Operations’ body. She met his eyes, held them, and ran her eyes down his body again. “I think I see a challenge,” she said huskily.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Madeline stood from her chair and walked over to him. Men.

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  • Part 39 - language, suggestive (not sure) -- Repost Fairy, 15:31:45 05/03/02 Fri
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