![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jaybee65Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Four
Cigarette in hand, Paul stalked toward Madeline's quarters. It was one in the morning, and she had been gone all evening -- out celebrating with her fellow team members, apparently, all of them oblivious to the fact that Adrian considered the mission a failure. He had checked for her return three times already, and with each hour that passed, he had grown steadily angrier.
He arrived at the door and jabbed at the buzzer with his thumb. If she didn't answer this time, he intended to bypass the security code and go in anyway. He would sit up all night waiting for her if he had to.
Those thoughts vanished when the door opened. She stood there, looking half-asleep and surprised to see him, her hair tangled in a dark mass that hung down against the rich maroon of her robe. She leaned on one arm against the doorframe. Oddly, the other was bound in a cast.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing serious."
He took a long drag on his cigarette. The anger coiled in his muscles; it seemed to warp the space around him as if he were emanating waves of heat. Watching him, however, she merely looked amused.
"Why don't you come in?" she said, arching an eyebrow.
She opened the door wider, and he pushed past her into the quarters. The room was sparsely furnished and dimly lit; a single table lamp provided the sole illumination. In her week at Section, she seemed to have collected no personal effects -- the coat tossed across the back of a chair was the only sign that anyone lived there.
He heard her close the door and he turned around to face her.
"Adrian was very happy with your performance on the mission," he said.
A look of mild surprise filled her face.
"But I wasn't," he added sharply.
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.
He started to pace. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he inhaled deeply, savoring the dry heat that filled his lungs. As he exhaled again, a stream of smoke swirled lazily into the air, clouding the already faint light of the room. Stepping through the smoke, he scowled at her.
"You disobeyed orders, undermined my authority, and placed the mission objectives in jeopardy."
She looked away so quickly that he couldn't be sure of her expression -- but he could have sworn that he saw a flash of guilt.
"I ordered you to guard the door," he continued. "Just where did you think you got the authority to countermand those orders?"
She turned back toward him with a look of almost serene confidence. There wasn't a trace of guilt in her face -- he must have imagined it, misled by shadows and wishful thinking.
"Brad was causing a problem," she answered coolly. "I solved it for you."
Her unruffled manner only aggravated him more. "You don't solve any problems unless I tell you to," he growled. "Is that clear?"
Her expression changed from calm to cold. "Yes, that's clear."
He glanced around the room, searching for someplace to tap the ash that hung precariously from the end of his cigarette. Seeing nothing and losing patience, he flicked it on the floor. She watched him with a look of disgust.
"Why do you think I ordered you to stay behind instead of Brad?"
"You think I'm inexperienced."
"Wrong."
By the way the color drained from her cheeks, he saw that she was caught off guard by his answer. Good. It served her right.
"Believe it or not," he said caustically, "I had a legitimate, mission-related reason for what I did. But I don't suppose you're interested in my telling you what that was, since you already know all the answers."
For the first time during the conversation, she began to look uncertain. "Go ahead."
He stopped pacing and took a stance directly in front of her. "There was a very strong probability that the tunnel was a trap. Someone had to stay behind and make sure that there was at least one viable exit. I chose you because I thought you were more reliable than Brad. I didn't trust him to tie his shoe unsupervised. But I did trust you."
"I see." She looked down at the floor.
"When you decided to start inventing your own orders, I was just about to cancel Brad and go into the tunnel myself." He waited until she met his eye again. "And if you're wondering why me and not you, it's very simple. I'm faster than you and have a hell of a lot more experience dealing with ambushes -- which it easily could have been, you know."
She held his gaze, but her expression was softer -- regretful, perhaps even chastened, although he couldn't quite be sure.
He took a step closer to her, less than a foot away, and gave her his hardest stare. "Frankly, it's sheer luck that you caught up with them in time. Another few seconds and it would have been too late."
She blinked, but didn't back away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to second-guess you. It won't happen again." While her words were apologetic, her voice was steady, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke.
He stared at her, stung with disappointment. He had hoped for real understanding, not mouthed words of regret.
"Back in the Ukraine," he said, "I followed your instructions without question -- even when they seemed completely insane -- because I trusted your judgment. But apparently you don't respect me enough to do the same." He shrugged, trying to hide his bitterness. "If that's how you feel, so be it. But as long as I'm your team leader, you will obey my orders, like it or not."
He tossed his cigarette to the floor. Grinding it out with his shoe, he turned to leave.
"Paul, wait."
He halted at the door, but kept his back toward her.
"I do respect you and admire you," she said. "Don't ever doubt that."
He turned around. "Then why haven't you been acting like it?"
She frowned and opened her mouth to answer, but before she could do so he spoke again.
"Ever since you got here, you've been avoiding me or pushing me away. What am I supposed to think?"
His words hung awkwardly between them; the silence that followed was palpable.
Her expression subtly tightened. "This hasn't been easy for me," she said slowly, reluctantly, as if the words tasted so sour she could barely stand to voice them. "You have no idea what it's like living undercover. Lying about who you are to every single person you meet. Having no one to trust but yourself. Being utterly isolated for years at a time. You don't know how hard that is." She walked over to a chair and sat down, fixing her gaze on a wall. "I spent ten years living like that. It became a habit. It became normal." She looked back up at him, and this time she was the one whose anger permeated the air. "It's not something you can stop, just like that. Even if you want to."
Paul knelt by her chair and grasped her by the shoulder. Now, he could see past the surface anger -- beneath it, no longer hidden, was a deep pool of hurt, loneliness, and fear. The realization sickened him. He had been so caught up in his own desires, in his own disappointment, that he hadn't even considered her situation. She had needed him, all this time -- not for the things he had offered, like training, advice, or protection, but rather for simple companionship and reassurance. Being who she was, she hadn't been able to ask him; being who he was, he hadn't been able to see it. Now, he could only hope that it wasn't too late -- that he could still give her what she needed, and that she could still accept it.
He outlined her jaw with his fingertip; she breathed in deeply, pupils dilating in response to his touch. As he felt her respond, he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Almost instantly, she began to yield beneath him, her lips delicate along his mouth, the sensations soft and warm. He knew, then, that he had no reason to fear -- it wasn't too late. Not for either of them.
***
As Paul's kiss deepened, Madeline struggled to maintain her equilibrium. She had thought that she had long ago left behind old memories, that her feelings for him were beyond recovery. But now, the sensation of his lips upon hers was just as she remembered it, and everything rushed back to her in vivid clarity. With a single embrace, it was as if time had fallen away -- as if she had been frozen and only now revived.
She placed her hand against the side of his face, her fingers on his temple, her palm cupping his cheekbone and jaw. He ran his hands along her body, first through her robe, then slipping underneath the fabric to stroke her bare shoulders and finger the straps of her nightgown. She couldn't help but gasp, almost overwhelmed by the feeling of his skin on hers, by a desire long suppressed but now awakened. Not simply desire for the touch of a man -- that she had had, when it suited her -- but for his touch, and what it conveyed. She had almost forgotten what it was like to connect with someone for any reason other than lust or boredom, or that such a connection was even possible. Now, she craved it, was poised to give into it completely -- until, unexpectedly, he pulled away, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and then rising awkwardly to his feet. "I can't stay like this anymore."
"What?"
He laughed. "On my knees. That hard floor was killing me." He chuckled again. "Why, what did you think I meant?"
"Nothing." She forced a smile.
His smile grew into more of a smirk. "You had an awfully shocked expression for someone who wasn't thinking anything. A little like someone who was afraid I was going to just walk off and leave."
She laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment. Her face must have given away her disappointment, which in turn revealed how much she had wanted him. She could tell by his smug expression that he had seen it, that he recognized how much power he really had over her, and that he relished seeing her reaction.
She took a deep breath and collected herself mentally. She had been about to plunge off the edge of a precipice -- had even wanted to, had yearned for the loss of control that it implied. But she could not allow that to happen. She would reassert control, then, by taking the initiative, by deflection, by shifting the focus of their interactions to her power over him -- a power that was safe, because she understood it. She would be with him because she chose to, not because she needed it; she would be with him on her terms, not his.
She got up from the chair and slowly walked over to him, then she slid her hand up his chest and traced light circles across it.
"I wasn't afraid of anything," she said teasingly, her voice low, almost a whisper. "After all, you wouldn't dare walk away from me."
She studied his expression. The smugness had faded, replaced by a more straightforward amusement. That was better, but not enough.
As she continued stroking him, she felt the rise and fall of his chest through the crispness of his shirt. She took a step backwards and looked him up and down languorously, possessively, admiring the leanness of his form. Then she shrugged the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. When his mouth twitched and his gaze wandered across her body, she knew she had him under her control -- that the need, now, was his, not hers.
She backed out of his reach and laughed, deep in her throat, as she led him around a corner to the small alcove that hid the bed. She sat on the end and waited for him to join her.
"Is this better than kneeling on the floor?"
"Much."
She leaned over and kissed him again, this time aggressively. He responded in kind; he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing and pulling her against him. She reached up to begin unbuttoning his shirt, but, to her frustration, fumbled, the cast hindering her movements.
She laughed. "I don't seem to be able to do this."
"Allow me."
He sat back and pulled off his clothes while she watched. His movements were lithe and quick, like a predator -- they had a certain dangerous quality to them, an almost threatening determination. He tossed the clothes to the floor, then reached over and pulled her nightgown off over her head. Before she could move again, he pushed her backwards, falling on top of her and kissing her hungrily.
He covered her with his warmth and enfolded her in the firmness of his muscles; she breathed in his scent, tasted his skin, yielded to the pressure of his body against hers. His touch was alternately demanding and delicate: he seized her hair, pulling it to bare her neck, then brushed along the pulsing jugular with light kisses; he shoved her shoulders down against the mattress, then gently drew his tongue down her chest. She groaned and shifted beneath him, unable to think clearly, except to realize that she no longer seemed in control.
Subtly, gradually, the power had shifted again in his favor. Once again, she needed and craved him, responded to his initiative, rather than he to hers. Trying to lessen the strength of her reaction, she closed her eyes and concentrated on pure physical sensation, telling herself that what she felt was simple arousal. For a time, it worked -- with her eyes closed, he could be anyone, just a means to a self-gratifying end. But when she felt him sink into her, she forgot herself and opened her eyes. Above her, the first thing she saw was his eyes: sharp, steel-blue, and glittering. They looked into her, pierced straight through her, and, with a look of silent understanding, banished all notions of power altogether. In that look, he told her that he had been struggling with the same need, the same weakness as she -- and he too had lost.
In truth, there was no control for either of them. To her surprise, she no longer cared.
************
To go on to Chapter Five, click here.
Prior Chapters
Previous Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Cigarette in hand, Paul stalked toward Madeline's quarters. It was one in the morning, and she had been gone all evening -- out celebrating with her fellow team members, apparently, all of them oblivious to the fact that Adrian considered the mission a failure. He had checked for her return three times already, and with each hour that passed, he had grown steadily angrier.
He arrived at the door and jabbed at the buzzer with his thumb. If she didn't answer this time, he intended to bypass the security code and go in anyway. He would sit up all night waiting for her if he had to.
Those thoughts vanished when the door opened. She stood there, looking half-asleep and surprised to see him, her hair tangled in a dark mass that hung down against the rich maroon of her robe. She leaned on one arm against the doorframe. Oddly, the other was bound in a cast.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing serious."
He took a long drag on his cigarette. The anger coiled in his muscles; it seemed to warp the space around him as if he were emanating waves of heat. Watching him, however, she merely looked amused.
"Why don't you come in?" she said, arching an eyebrow.
She opened the door wider, and he pushed past her into the quarters. The room was sparsely furnished and dimly lit; a single table lamp provided the sole illumination. In her week at Section, she seemed to have collected no personal effects -- the coat tossed across the back of a chair was the only sign that anyone lived there.
He heard her close the door and he turned around to face her.
"Adrian was very happy with your performance on the mission," he said.
A look of mild surprise filled her face.
"But I wasn't," he added sharply.
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.
He started to pace. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he inhaled deeply, savoring the dry heat that filled his lungs. As he exhaled again, a stream of smoke swirled lazily into the air, clouding the already faint light of the room. Stepping through the smoke, he scowled at her.
"You disobeyed orders, undermined my authority, and placed the mission objectives in jeopardy."
She looked away so quickly that he couldn't be sure of her expression -- but he could have sworn that he saw a flash of guilt.
"I ordered you to guard the door," he continued. "Just where did you think you got the authority to countermand those orders?"
She turned back toward him with a look of almost serene confidence. There wasn't a trace of guilt in her face -- he must have imagined it, misled by shadows and wishful thinking.
"Brad was causing a problem," she answered coolly. "I solved it for you."
Her unruffled manner only aggravated him more. "You don't solve any problems unless I tell you to," he growled. "Is that clear?"
Her expression changed from calm to cold. "Yes, that's clear."
He glanced around the room, searching for someplace to tap the ash that hung precariously from the end of his cigarette. Seeing nothing and losing patience, he flicked it on the floor. She watched him with a look of disgust.
"Why do you think I ordered you to stay behind instead of Brad?"
"You think I'm inexperienced."
"Wrong."
By the way the color drained from her cheeks, he saw that she was caught off guard by his answer. Good. It served her right.
"Believe it or not," he said caustically, "I had a legitimate, mission-related reason for what I did. But I don't suppose you're interested in my telling you what that was, since you already know all the answers."
For the first time during the conversation, she began to look uncertain. "Go ahead."
He stopped pacing and took a stance directly in front of her. "There was a very strong probability that the tunnel was a trap. Someone had to stay behind and make sure that there was at least one viable exit. I chose you because I thought you were more reliable than Brad. I didn't trust him to tie his shoe unsupervised. But I did trust you."
"I see." She looked down at the floor.
"When you decided to start inventing your own orders, I was just about to cancel Brad and go into the tunnel myself." He waited until she met his eye again. "And if you're wondering why me and not you, it's very simple. I'm faster than you and have a hell of a lot more experience dealing with ambushes -- which it easily could have been, you know."
She held his gaze, but her expression was softer -- regretful, perhaps even chastened, although he couldn't quite be sure.
He took a step closer to her, less than a foot away, and gave her his hardest stare. "Frankly, it's sheer luck that you caught up with them in time. Another few seconds and it would have been too late."
She blinked, but didn't back away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to second-guess you. It won't happen again." While her words were apologetic, her voice was steady, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke.
He stared at her, stung with disappointment. He had hoped for real understanding, not mouthed words of regret.
"Back in the Ukraine," he said, "I followed your instructions without question -- even when they seemed completely insane -- because I trusted your judgment. But apparently you don't respect me enough to do the same." He shrugged, trying to hide his bitterness. "If that's how you feel, so be it. But as long as I'm your team leader, you will obey my orders, like it or not."
He tossed his cigarette to the floor. Grinding it out with his shoe, he turned to leave.
"Paul, wait."
He halted at the door, but kept his back toward her.
"I do respect you and admire you," she said. "Don't ever doubt that."
He turned around. "Then why haven't you been acting like it?"
She frowned and opened her mouth to answer, but before she could do so he spoke again.
"Ever since you got here, you've been avoiding me or pushing me away. What am I supposed to think?"
His words hung awkwardly between them; the silence that followed was palpable.
Her expression subtly tightened. "This hasn't been easy for me," she said slowly, reluctantly, as if the words tasted so sour she could barely stand to voice them. "You have no idea what it's like living undercover. Lying about who you are to every single person you meet. Having no one to trust but yourself. Being utterly isolated for years at a time. You don't know how hard that is." She walked over to a chair and sat down, fixing her gaze on a wall. "I spent ten years living like that. It became a habit. It became normal." She looked back up at him, and this time she was the one whose anger permeated the air. "It's not something you can stop, just like that. Even if you want to."
Paul knelt by her chair and grasped her by the shoulder. Now, he could see past the surface anger -- beneath it, no longer hidden, was a deep pool of hurt, loneliness, and fear. The realization sickened him. He had been so caught up in his own desires, in his own disappointment, that he hadn't even considered her situation. She had needed him, all this time -- not for the things he had offered, like training, advice, or protection, but rather for simple companionship and reassurance. Being who she was, she hadn't been able to ask him; being who he was, he hadn't been able to see it. Now, he could only hope that it wasn't too late -- that he could still give her what she needed, and that she could still accept it.
He outlined her jaw with his fingertip; she breathed in deeply, pupils dilating in response to his touch. As he felt her respond, he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Almost instantly, she began to yield beneath him, her lips delicate along his mouth, the sensations soft and warm. He knew, then, that he had no reason to fear -- it wasn't too late. Not for either of them.
***
As Paul's kiss deepened, Madeline struggled to maintain her equilibrium. She had thought that she had long ago left behind old memories, that her feelings for him were beyond recovery. But now, the sensation of his lips upon hers was just as she remembered it, and everything rushed back to her in vivid clarity. With a single embrace, it was as if time had fallen away -- as if she had been frozen and only now revived.
She placed her hand against the side of his face, her fingers on his temple, her palm cupping his cheekbone and jaw. He ran his hands along her body, first through her robe, then slipping underneath the fabric to stroke her bare shoulders and finger the straps of her nightgown. She couldn't help but gasp, almost overwhelmed by the feeling of his skin on hers, by a desire long suppressed but now awakened. Not simply desire for the touch of a man -- that she had had, when it suited her -- but for his touch, and what it conveyed. She had almost forgotten what it was like to connect with someone for any reason other than lust or boredom, or that such a connection was even possible. Now, she craved it, was poised to give into it completely -- until, unexpectedly, he pulled away, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and then rising awkwardly to his feet. "I can't stay like this anymore."
"What?"
He laughed. "On my knees. That hard floor was killing me." He chuckled again. "Why, what did you think I meant?"
"Nothing." She forced a smile.
His smile grew into more of a smirk. "You had an awfully shocked expression for someone who wasn't thinking anything. A little like someone who was afraid I was going to just walk off and leave."
She laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment. Her face must have given away her disappointment, which in turn revealed how much she had wanted him. She could tell by his smug expression that he had seen it, that he recognized how much power he really had over her, and that he relished seeing her reaction.
She took a deep breath and collected herself mentally. She had been about to plunge off the edge of a precipice -- had even wanted to, had yearned for the loss of control that it implied. But she could not allow that to happen. She would reassert control, then, by taking the initiative, by deflection, by shifting the focus of their interactions to her power over him -- a power that was safe, because she understood it. She would be with him because she chose to, not because she needed it; she would be with him on her terms, not his.
She got up from the chair and slowly walked over to him, then she slid her hand up his chest and traced light circles across it.
"I wasn't afraid of anything," she said teasingly, her voice low, almost a whisper. "After all, you wouldn't dare walk away from me."
She studied his expression. The smugness had faded, replaced by a more straightforward amusement. That was better, but not enough.
As she continued stroking him, she felt the rise and fall of his chest through the crispness of his shirt. She took a step backwards and looked him up and down languorously, possessively, admiring the leanness of his form. Then she shrugged the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. When his mouth twitched and his gaze wandered across her body, she knew she had him under her control -- that the need, now, was his, not hers.
She backed out of his reach and laughed, deep in her throat, as she led him around a corner to the small alcove that hid the bed. She sat on the end and waited for him to join her.
"Is this better than kneeling on the floor?"
"Much."
She leaned over and kissed him again, this time aggressively. He responded in kind; he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing and pulling her against him. She reached up to begin unbuttoning his shirt, but, to her frustration, fumbled, the cast hindering her movements.
She laughed. "I don't seem to be able to do this."
"Allow me."
He sat back and pulled off his clothes while she watched. His movements were lithe and quick, like a predator -- they had a certain dangerous quality to them, an almost threatening determination. He tossed the clothes to the floor, then reached over and pulled her nightgown off over her head. Before she could move again, he pushed her backwards, falling on top of her and kissing her hungrily.
He covered her with his warmth and enfolded her in the firmness of his muscles; she breathed in his scent, tasted his skin, yielded to the pressure of his body against hers. His touch was alternately demanding and delicate: he seized her hair, pulling it to bare her neck, then brushed along the pulsing jugular with light kisses; he shoved her shoulders down against the mattress, then gently drew his tongue down her chest. She groaned and shifted beneath him, unable to think clearly, except to realize that she no longer seemed in control.
Subtly, gradually, the power had shifted again in his favor. Once again, she needed and craved him, responded to his initiative, rather than he to hers. Trying to lessen the strength of her reaction, she closed her eyes and concentrated on pure physical sensation, telling herself that what she felt was simple arousal. For a time, it worked -- with her eyes closed, he could be anyone, just a means to a self-gratifying end. But when she felt him sink into her, she forgot herself and opened her eyes. Above her, the first thing she saw was his eyes: sharp, steel-blue, and glittering. They looked into her, pierced straight through her, and, with a look of silent understanding, banished all notions of power altogether. In that look, he told her that he had been struggling with the same need, the same weakness as she -- and he too had lost.
In truth, there was no control for either of them. To her surprise, she no longer cared.
************
To go on to Chapter Five, click here.
Prior Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three