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Fic: Succession, Chapter 12/31 (La Femme Nikita)
Title: 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 Twelve
It was a labyrinth, Paul decided. Even after studying the blueprint of Demetrios's residence for the past several days, he couldn't quite make sense of the layout. There were no direct paths from one end of the building to another; instead, he had to dodge left, then right, then back again, painstakingly moving from room to room and hallway to hallway.
The son-of-a-bitch did it on purpose, he thought in aggravation. Slowing down unwanted visitors would buy Demetrios time to escape. Or to prepare for a fight.
Turning left again, Paul rounded a corner into yet another hallway, straight into the path of a heavyset bodyguard. Reacting instinctively, Paul fired twice, then he stepped over the crumpled body to jog down the corridor.
He moved as rapidly as he could -- running, ducking, scrambling, shooting -- all while monitoring the progress of the team and barking curt orders when needed. Pausing inside an empty room, he caught his breath while he loaded a new clip, half listening to the battles raging throughout the house, and half listening over his transmitter to the sounds from the study. There, Demetrios and two assistants hid, awaiting the arrival of the invaders. Or rather, Demetrios, two assistants -- and two Section operatives.
Madeline and Charles were unarmed and outnumbered, locked in a room with three desperate men. It was up to Paul to get them to safety.
Their predicament, however, was part of the profile. When the retrieval of Demetrios had inexplicably become the mission's top priority, Adrian ordered Madeline and Charles to be present when the assault began. With them there to watch him, he would have no opportunity to slip away, and they could prevent any operative from killing him by mistake.
The only problem was that they couldn't carry guns. Demetrios's security detail patted them down and searched their bags upon each visit, and while they had successfully smuggled in bugging devices and detectors, heavy weapons were out of the question.
The amendments to the profile perplexed Paul. Why were they bringing Demetrios in at all? The original profile called for his elimination, along with his associates. Changing the profile placed Madeline and Charles in significant danger, for no good reason that Paul could fathom. But Adrian had been insistent, granting only one concession -- although she deemed guns, knives, and other weapons too risky, she did allow Madeline and Charles to carry small syringes containing a fast-acting sedative, carefully concealed in their clothing.
If they had been alone with Demetrios, the sedative might have been sufficient. Facing three armed men, they were essentially defenseless.
That left them only one option: to pretend to be as surprised by the raid as Demetrios was, to convince him they had nothing to do with the assault now taking place. As Paul listened over his transmitter, they shouted at Demetrios, accusing one of his bodyguards of having sold them all out. The assistants reacted angrily, defending their colleague; the high pitch of their voices betrayed their increasing panic.
Demetrios seemed -- by his statements, at least -- to believe Madeline and Charles. But there was something in his voice -- a cold grimness that set Paul's gut churning with anxiety. Then, when he heard Demetrios speak again, he knew.
"Annette, come stand behind me," Demetrios commanded. "It's not safe for you out in the open like that. And you, Geoffrey, get behind Kostis."
Paul's pulse quickened. Despite Demetrios's profession of concern for their welfare, he was placing Charles and Madeline in a perfect position to be held hostage.
There was a long silence over the transmitter.
"I think Annette's safer in the corner there," said Charles, finally, clearly recognizing Demetrios's intent. "And if you have an extra gun, you should give it to me. I'll help you hold them off."
The transmitter was quiet again, as Paul shot another guard in the chest and broke out into a run. Then there was a buzz of static.
"You'll go where I tell you," Demetrios said, his voice distorted but the menace clear.
Reaching the door to the study, Paul halted, gun ready, heart pounding. Another operative joined him: a young man, newly-added to Paul's team, perspiring and panting.
"Take out the assistants first," Paul whispered. "You go left, I'll go right. If you have to shoot the target, wound him only."
The man nodded.
On Paul's count, they broke down the door and burst into the study. Paul spun right, just in time to shoot a man standing next to Charles. From his left, he heard the other operative fire; a split second afterwards, another three shots rang out from the back of the room.
As Charles jumped to snatch up the dead man's gun, Paul whirled around. The second assistant lay sprawled on the floor -- as did the young operative. Demetrios stood behind a desk, his arm outstretched and shaking, clutching a gun that he pointed at Madeline. She was several feet away, too far even to consider disarming him; she regarded him with an expression of icy disdain.
Demetrios looked nervously back and forth between Paul and Charles. "If either one of you moves, I'll kill her," he rasped.
Paul felt the muscles in his face twitch in fury. He fingered his trigger, struggling to resist the urge to send a bullet exploding through the other man's skull.
Damn Adrian and her stupid orders.
"My orders are to bring you in alive, no matter what," Paul said through gritted teeth. "Personnel losses are expected."
Demetrios blinked, glanced back at Madeline, then back at Paul.
"However," continued Paul, breaking out in a chilly smile, "my orders said nothing about not blowing your balls off. And that's exactly what I'll do if you don't set your gun down now."
Demetrios paled. Muttering in Greek, he lowered the gun. He placed it on the desk in front of him and raised his hands.
"Come forward slowly," Paul ordered.
Demetrios obeyed, as Madeline stepped toward the desk and retrieved his gun.
"Stop," Paul said sharply. "Turn around and put your hands on your head."
Demetrios did so, and Paul holstered his gun and began searching him. When he found no weapons, he pulled on the man's shoulder to yank him back around, ready to march him out of the building and into custody.
But then, quite by accident, he caught a glimpse into Demetrios's eyes. They were dark, almost black, and spread wide in fear. The recognition of that fear slammed into Paul like a physical force. The man's terror thrilled him; he could feel it, smell it, almost taste it. It gave him a dizzying feeling of righteousness -- and power.
Power. After being powerless for all these weeks, power was suddenly returned to him. His sense of control over his destiny was restored. He savored the feeling as it swept over him, burning him with its energy, triggering a sudden hunger for retribution -- a craving that surged, then burst into mindless fury.
Unable to restrain himself, he slammed his fist into Demetrios's face. Upon contact, his fist exploded in pain, the skin sliced and torn by the other man's collapsing teeth. But the injury only increased his rage. As Demetrios staggered to one knee, his face streaming with blood, Paul kicked him savagely in the ribs.
"That's for even thinking about shooting her," he snarled, falling upon Demetrios and pummeling the man in a frenzy.
Demetrios curled up on the ground, huddling into a protective ball, as Paul pounded him mercilessly. Slowly, the man weakened and dropped his defenses; Paul grunted and hit even harder -- at the nose, the jaw, the ribs, the sternum -- throwing his full weight into every punch, his hands slick with blood.
"For God's sake, what are you doing?"
Charles's voice registered in Paul's mind, vaguely. But it was a nuisance to be ignored, a distraction from the steady rhythm of violence that he had given himself to. Beneath him, Demetrios grew limp, his head lolling from side to side with the force of each blow.
Paul continued at his task, single-minded and relentless, until he felt a force pulling him away. He looked up, disoriented, to see Charles wrestling him to the floor, poised to stick him with the syringe full of sedatives.
"Have you lost your mind?" asked Charles, kneeling over him with a look of dismayed astonishment. "You were about to kill him."
Paul shook himself back into awareness and looked slowly around the room. Demetrios lay still, his face streaming crimson. Paul looked back at Charles in confusion, but Charles had turned away, shouting orders for a medical team at the operatives who had crowded outside the door of the study.
Paul closed his eyes and exhaled forcefully, suddenly aware of the pounding in his chest and the stabbing pain in his hand. When he opened his eyes again, he started. Standing in front of him was Madeline, looking down with an expression of horrified fascination -- first at Demetrios, then at him. As operatives huddled around Demetrios and lifted him onto a stretcher, she continued to stare at Paul. She stood like that, motionless, until Demetrios was removed from the room. Then, without a word, she turned and walked out.
***
Hearing a noise at the door, Adrian looked up from her desk. Madeline stood at the entrance to the office, still in the sandals and sleeveless white dress she had worn for the mission.
Adrian gestured for her to enter. "Explain yourself," she demanded as Madeline approached.
Madeline halted, looking disconcerted. She took a few more steps, stopping just short of the chairs in front of the desk, and assumed a stance at attention, hands clasped behind her. She seemed to be struggling to maintain a blank expression, but traces of anxiety and confusion shone through.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she said hesitantly.
Adrian folded her arms across her chest. "Our objective couldn't have been any clearer: retrieve Tassos Demetrios for interrogation. Yet Medical informs me that he's suffered irreversible brain damage and will be of no use to us whatsoever." She paused, allowing the news to sink in. "I want to know why."
"I can tell you what I saw happen," offered Madeline.
"I know what happened, Madeline. I've spent the past three hours debriefing Charles and the members of Paul's team. I hardly need to hear yet another blow-by-blow account. What I want from you is an explanation."
"I'm not sure I can give you one."
"Then you disappoint me," said Adrian. "A profiler ought to be able to read a situation like this. I thought you were much better than that."
Madeline swallowed hard, but said nothing.
"Of course, you are better than that, aren't you?" Adrian smiled knowingly. "You know very well what happened. The reason you don't want to admit to it is because you know it's your fault."
Madeline raised her eyebrows. "My fault?" she asked, her tone astonished.
"Quite so," Adrian snapped. "Your behavior on this mission was appalling. You acted reluctant and uncomfortable. Unhappy with what you were doing. It triggered some sort of protective instinct in Paul that overrode his common sense."
Madeline stared at Adrian for several moments, then averted her gaze.
"Do you know he reviewed the surveillance of you with Demetrios?"
Madeline looked up again, her eyes wide in shock.
"Yes, it's true," Adrian continued. "I only found out about it from Jules this afternoon. Had I known, I never would have allowed him to lead the team in Athens."
An expression of sickened understanding seeped across Madeline's face, turning it ashen.
"This cannot be allowed to recur. Is that understood?"
Madeline nodded.
Madeline's affirmative answer was a concession -- an admission that she agreed with Adrian's interpretation of events, that she believed that she might exert some negative influence over Paul's behavior. It should have been a victory of sorts. But to Adrian's surprise, Madeline's rapid capitulation only made her angrier.
"It's not just a matter of Paul's reaction, you know." Adrian allowed her voice to sharpen. "It's yours, even more so."
Madeline said nothing, but her expression was questioning.
"Your original profile called for Connie to play the part of Annette Pierce," Adrian said. "Why did you do that?" Her tone was innocent, but the question was anything but.
Madeline took a deep breath. "Connie bears a strong resemblance to Annette. I believed she would be a convincing substitute."
Adrian shook her head disapprovingly. "As I explained to you once before, physical resemblance was of minimal importance. Setting that aside, what were Connie's qualifications?"
"She's an experienced Level Two operative with considerable success at valentine missions. I thought the choice was entirely appropriate."
"Connie's performance as an operative has been exemplary. But her targets have been lower-level individuals. She's never dealt with anyone as sophisticated as Demetrios, nor have her assignments lasted more than a few days at a time. Demetrios would have seen through Connie in an instant."
Madeline reddened and looked away.
"You have more undercover experience than any other operative in Section," Adrian said. "You were the only person even remotely qualified to handle a mission of this magnitude. Yet you failed to assign yourself because you were uncomfortable with the scenario. Correct?"
She waited, giving Madeline a chance to respond, to deny what she was saying. She did not.
"And then when I revised the profile to assign you, you performed reluctantly and made your dislike of the situation abundantly clear to everyone else on the mission." Adrian's voice became acid. "You allowed your feelings to affect your work. Detrimentally."
"It won't happen again," said Madeline.
"I should certainly hope not."
She examined the other woman, staring until she was satisfied that her point had been made clear. There was no resistance in Madeline's demeanor, no defiance or even resentment -- only chastened acceptance and guilt. Watching her, Adrian felt an unexpected touch of pity.
"Your job involves writing profiles that require others to perform extremely dangerous or distasteful activities," she said, softening her manner slightly. "Do you think they'll have faith in those profiles if they see that you exempt yourself from carrying out tasks you dislike?"
"No," Madeline admitted.
"You see, my dear," Adrian explained, "those in the rank and file need to see that you're willing to do whatever it takes to achieve mission objectives. If anything, you need to be harder on yourself than you are on them. If they see that, then they'll trust that what you're asking them to do is necessary."
"Yes, ma'am."
There was a new-found conviction in Madeline's voice that hadn't been there a moment before. Interesting. Perhaps there was hope for Madeline yet. Despite her deep-seated weaknesses and baser tendencies, she seemed to be willing to improve herself. To put the Section first, in a way that few others would.
"You have potential, Madeline," Adrian said. "Perhaps more than I gave you credit for. But to reach it, you need to learn to be uncompromising with yourself. Force yourself to do what you least want to do. What you're most afraid of. Only then can you demand that of others."
She looked into the other woman's eyes. Madeline returned the gaze unflinchingly.
"You're right," she said solemnly. "Thank you."
***
The doorway pulled back with excruciating slowness. When it was halfway open, Lisa strode forward, tugging on her companion's hand to pull him inside. Tipsy, he staggered and grabbed her around the waist; his weight almost tipped her off balance, her ankles nearly buckling in the uncomfortable high-heeled shoes.
She had never felt so happy to step through Section's entryway -- not even this afternoon, when she had returned from eliminating one of Demetrios's buyers in Belgium, having led her very first team. That had been a moment of pride, a return in triumph. But this, this was relief -- relief that one of the most awful evenings of her life was nearly over, and that she had been able to get through it without showing her disgust.
Madeline had been right, as it turned out. When the goal was important enough, Lisa could do anything.
Even dress up like a bimbo and ask Jules out on a date.
"Ouf," he said, walking unsteadily and gripping her waist so hard it pinched. "So all this time, with the computers, you were just trying to get my attention?"
"Yeah," she answered sheepishly, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pressing into him. "You're just so good with computers, I figured that was the best way to make an impression. You know, learn how to do something that you would respect. Even though I'd never be at your level," she added hastily.
He laughed and shook his head. "Hmm, you went to such trouble! But I should have known what you really wanted with all those transfer requests." He looked down at her and smirked. "Hey, I might be more favorably inclined toward your application now. It's nice to have, uh, friends to work with, eh?"
She forced herself to look away, afraid that she might blurt out an unthinking response. You slimy toad, she thought. I wouldn't be interested in you if I'd had a lobotomy.
As they reached Comm, they disentangled themselves. Jules fell awkwardly into a chair; Lisa leaned against a table and folded her arms.
"So is it true, what they say about you?" she asked, trying to sound flirtatious.
He raised his eyebrows and placed his hand on his chest in mock surprise. "About me? You mean the rumor about all the satisfied women? Oh, it's definitely true." He leered. "But maybe you'd like to judge for yourself."
Lisa forced her disgust aside and smiled. "Supposedly, you can hack into any of the other Sections at will. You're too good to stop, no matter what security measures they take."
"Oh, that rumor." He leaned back in his chair and plunked his feet on top of a nearby table, his expression smug. "Of course. I'm the best in all the Sections."
She placed her hands on her hips in a mocking gesture. "Oh, come on. No one's that good."
His smile vanished, replaced by a pout. "But I am."
"Look, you don't have to say that to impress me. I like you anyway."
He pulled his feet down and sat forward, turning his chair toward the computer on the desk next to him.
"I will show you," he said, his face clouding angrily. "I can access any network anywhere in the organization. I can even modify their data without them knowing it."
"No, no, Jules," she said, holding up her hand, her voice tinged with false concern, "you don't have to do this. It's too dangerous. I'm sorry I brought it up."
He glared up at her. "Pull up a chair. I will show you what I can and cannot do," he said with a scowl. "And besides, it's not dangerous, not for me."
Slowly, feigning reluctance, she pulled over a chair and sat next to him.
"Okay, if you want to prove you're a hotshot, hack into Section Four. I hear they have the tightest security of all. Tighter than ours."
"Section Four is nothing," he scoffed. "Amateurs, completely. They are totally useless."
He began typing, his fingers dancing over the keys. Lisa watched every keystroke avidly, committing the commands to memory.
As the monitor repeatedly flashed "Access Denied," Jules began mumbling to himself in French. He typed alternative commands, tried different access points, and changed his passwords, as Lisa began to wonder if she had gotten him too drunk to think straight.
For ten minutes, everything he tried failed, and his muttering began to transform into loud cursing. Then, his face red with frustration, he typed yet another command and hit the keys so hard Lisa thought he would break them. Waiting, he stared at the screen, frowning intently as if he could intimidate the computer into cooperating.
For a minute, there was nothing. Then, something new:
Logon successful
Request directory:
Jules smashed his fist down on the desk in triumph. "VoilĂ ! You see!"
He beamed at Lisa, who clapped him on the back.
"Wow, that is so cool," she said breathlessly. "You're amazing!"
He puffed his cheeks out in several loud exhalations, calming himself as his face returned to its normal color. Then he turned to her. "Okay, my friend," he said cheerfully, "shall we go on a tour of Section Four?"
She paused in apparent thought. "You said you could modify their data, right?"
"Of course."
"How about creating a non-existent operative? Just as a joke."
He snickered. "Oh, that's very good. Yes, all right. Let's go to their personnel directory, then."
"Fantastic."
He typed again and brought up a long list of names. "So," he said, winking, "who is this operative?"
"Hmmmmm, let's call her Patricia Gould."
He typed then name, then looked up. "Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Okay." He paused as he entered the information. "Oh, wait," he said, frowning, "most of the people there are children. We should make her younger."
"No, no," said Lisa, grabbing his arm. "They have teachers there, don't they? Make her a teacher."
"Mmm, all right, that should work." He typed again. "Done."
As Lisa watched over his shoulder, Jules filled in every datafield, following her suggestions. In a few short moments, Section Four had a new staff member. One whose vital statistics matched Lisa's exactly.
"Okay, finished!" Jules sat back again, laughing. "It will take them weeks to notice this, if ever. They are idiots, without any talent."
"What'll happen if they do?" Lisa glanced at Jules, trying to hide her concern.
Jules shrugged and made a face. "Nothing."
"You won't get into trouble?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" He smirked, and brought up one of the datafields again. "You see, there," he said, pointing, "where it indicates 'entered by JG'?"
Lisa leaned forward and looked, and her eyes widened. "Those are your initials! Why did you do that?"
"So they know it's only me, and not a real security breach," he said, giving her a knowing look. "If they see I've accessed the system, they'll just delete the file and keep quiet about it. It is too embarrassing for them to admit I outwitted them." He smiled. "I do this sort of thing all the time."
Lisa laughed -- this time a genuine laugh, and not a forced one. "You mean as long as you put your initials on all the files you modify, they'll never report it?"
"Exactly." He grinned triumphantly. Then his expression changed, as he looked her up and down more seriously. "Ah, but now that I've finished showing you clever party tricks, maybe I can show you something more interesting."
"Oh, gosh," Lisa replied, "you know, I'm feeling a little sick right now. I think I drank more than I should have." She giggled, putting her hand on her stomach. "But we'll definitely do this again real soon."
His face fell in disappointment. "But--"
She leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss. "Thanks for a great evening." She smiled and stood and walked off, leaving him shaking his head.
When she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, she leaned weakly against the wall.
Holy crap, she thought. That was a lot easier than I thought.
Of course, the hard part was just beginning.
***
The tea sat, untouched and neglected -- a bedtime ritual that seemed to bring Madeline no enjoyment this night. She hadn't really had any desire for it, but had made it out of force of habit; now, it languished on her coffee table, the scent of hibiscus slowly fading as it grew cold.
She had operated the entire evening out of habit, her mind shifting into a thoughtless autopilot from the moment she stepped through her door. She had showered, changed, eaten, washed dishes, thumbed through her small pile of mail, performed minor household tasks -- all while completely numb.
Being numb was better than allowing herself to think. When she tried to do that, her mind crowded with too many recollections. Images of Paul beating Demetrios to unconsciousness. The sound of Adrian's voice, telling her it was her fault. And worst of all, the memory of the thrill she had felt when she watched the blood spray from Demetrios's face. The sense of being rescued and avenged. A feeling of relief, so powerful that it had grown into joy -- and then turned suddenly dark, when she realized what the feeling really was.
She had wanted Paul to kill him.
Standing in that room, watching Paul rear back and then drive his fists into Demetrios, she had forgotten why they were there. The mission profile had ceased to matter, had ceased even to exist. Instead, she was entranced by the steady pattern of the blows; by the arc of Paul's arm as he twisted into each punch; by the way Demetrios's entire body shook, more and more limply; by the muffled smack of fists landing on flesh. It was horrible; it was repulsive -- and it was beautiful.
Beautiful.
Paul was killing a man with his bare hands, because of her, and she found it beautiful.
The implications of that realization were too disturbing to contemplate. So she pulled back, forced all thoughts from her mind, and became numb instead.
Numb was tolerable. Numb allowed her to sit, calmly, on her sofa, staring at the pattern on her curtains. Her gaze traveled up and down, following the blue, threadlike loop. It twisted endlessly across the dull gold fabric, soothing in its repetition -- first curving down sharply, then looping up and over, twisting sideways, and then down again. Over and over and over it curled, a visual mantra across a heavy cloth backdrop. She couldn't look away from it -- was afraid that if she did, she would start thinking again.
She didn't shift her gaze when she heard her door unlock and swing open. She didn't turn to see whose footsteps crossed the room toward her, didn't even look up when she felt the sofa sink down under someone else's weight.
She simply continued staring at the curtains, and when she spoke, it was in nearly a whisper.
"What have you done?"
There was a silence of several seconds.
"I don't know," Paul answered quietly.
It was then that she finally looked at him. He sat inches away from her, his forehead creased with a sharp frown, his eyes shining with barely repressed thoughts and emotions.
"I couldn't stop myself," he admitted.
She stared at him, unable to look away from those pale eyes, remembering the look of triumph, of determined cruelty, that had filled them as he knocked Demetrios to the floor -- and remembering the awe and admiration she had felt upon seeing it. He gazed back at her, unblinking. There was no hint of cruelty now, only sad resignation.
"You listened to the surveillance," she said, the words slipping out unintended. She didn't want to talk about this, didn't even want to think about it, but the statement almost seemed to voice itself.
His eyelids fluttered briefly, then he closed them, frowning harder. "Yes."
"Is that why you hurt him?"
His eyes snapped open. She could feel his body tense next to her; the air around them seemed to sizzle.
"Yes." His voice rasped with suppressed emotion; his answer, and the sharp look that accompanied it, was at once a challenge, an accusation, and a plea.
Uncomfortable, she dropped her gaze away from his eyes. Trying to decide how to respond, she stared at his lap -- blankly, at first, but then her attention focused on his hands. They rested on his thighs, swollen and dark with bruises, the knuckles scraped raw. The back of one hand was heavily bandaged where he seemed to have a gash; the other bore angry red scratches. But it wasn't the injuries that kept her staring, that captured her in a feeling of fascination and dread.
It was the gold wedding band on one of his fingers.
She reached down to pick up his hand. Holding it, brushing a finger across the ring, she looked up at him.
"What is this?"
"It's the ring I wore when I was pretending to be Pierce." His voice was tight and strained.
"Why are you still wearing it?"
His expression grew in strength, as if his feelings had bubbled up to the surface, stopping just short of overflowing.
"Because I liked having it on," he said, his voice defensive, almost angry. "Because I could pretend it was a real one."
She frowned. "But--"
"Stop," he said. "I've answered enough questions. I'm tired of explaining myself." A strange look seeped into his eyes -- a seething brew of hurt, anger, guilt, and resentment that startled her in its intensity. "Besides," he added bitterly, "you never explain yourself to me."
Stung, she let go of his hand.
He grimaced and looked away. "Go ahead. Tell me I shouldn't wear it. Tell me I shouldn't have listened to the surveillance. Tell me I shouldn't have attacked Demetrios. Tell me all the things I've done wrong." He turned back toward her, his expression accusatory. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
She swallowed with difficulty as a lump grew in her throat. "Adrian blames me, you know."
He blinked rapidly, the look of anger subsiding. "What?"
"Everything you've done. She says it's my fault." She returned her gaze to the curtains, unable to continue looking at him. "I think she's probably right."
She felt him place his hand on her chin, pulling firmly to turn her face back toward him.
"Don't listen to her," he said. "She doesn't understand anything. I won't allow you to believe her. I take responsibility for my own actions."
Before she could answer, he kissed her, pressing against her so forcefully that she fell backwards against the sofa cushions. He leaned in even farther, his lips hard against hers, insistent and demanding. Taken by surprise, she resisted at first, then softened, opening her mouth and raising her hands to cup his face. As she relaxed beneath him, he grew even more aggressive -- his kiss, his tightening embrace, even the movement of his body was hungry, ferocious. He clamped himself around her, like an owner reclaiming stolen property; he pressed down on her heavily, as if she could never surrender to him enough.
Pinned in the corner between several cushions, she shifted, moving her arms so she could run her hands up and down his back. The movement caused her to fall even further backwards; she slid, the cushions spilling onto the floor, until she was prone. Paul pounced on her, kicking the coffee table in his haste. She heard the teacup clatter and smash as it tumbled off the edge.
He continued his assault, his chest hard against hers, his grip unyielding, his kiss relentless. Captive, she sank down into the sofa under him, surrounded by his presence, forgetting there was anything outside it. As his body began to warm, his shirt molded to his back with a faint layer of perspiration; through the fabric, she could feel his muscles flex and release when he moved. She traced her fingers in light circles to match the movement of his tongue on her throat, then dug them sharply into his back when he began to use his teeth. He flinched and clasped her harder; gasping, she responded in kind, which drove him into even more of a frenzy. They continued, each intensifying their attack, until they were both clutching at each other in a mindless desperation.
Eventually, their movements slowed, becoming calmer. Paul loosened his hold, then sat up and leaned back on his haunches, reaching down to ease her nightgown up and off. Then he just looked at her, for what seemed like an endless moment -- he said nothing, did nothing, as if he were waiting for something she couldn't understand. She closed her eyes and frowned, her breathing rapid and shallow, willing him to touch her, afraid she would lose her mind if he didn't. When she finally felt his hands on her, her pulse surged almost painfully. It was what she wanted, but it wasn't enough.
She wanted to seize him and pull him toward her, wanted to melt around him -- wanted to possess him completely, and him to possess her. She wanted these things violently -- with a desire that raged beyond control, verging into irrationality. The feeling was animalistic, instinctive, and…familiar.
Horribly familiar.
It was precisely the way she had felt earlier in the day, when she had wished for a man's death. It was that same craving, that same need erupting from somewhere deep within. The similarity of the emotion, the sense of wanting something so much that she threw away all reason, gave her a sudden chill.
She opened her eyes. Paul stroked her lightly, gently -- and yet his hands were so swollen that he couldn't straighten his fingers, the harsh color of the bruises and scratches a brutal contrast to her pale skin. His hands explored her body, their touch lingering and delicate, but only hours before they had been weapons of death. Each mark on his fingers, each swollen knuckle was a reminder of his rage, of his recklessness, of his loss of control.
And of hers.
Passion, like the rage it triggered, was a loss of control. And in Section, loss of control meant death.
Or maybe something even worse.
Passion had turned them into something monstrous: into the sort of man who engaged in bloodthirsty vengeance, and the sort of woman who took pleasure in seeing him do so. Passion, then, was a dangerous, irrational, corrupting force. It would be the means of their death or destruction. And so it had to stop.
It had to stop.
She sat up suddenly and pushed Paul's hands away, uncertain of her own intent. Somehow she found herself crawling towards him, her body seeming to move for its own reasons, following some programmed response that no longer required conscious awareness. She reached him, pushed him backwards until his back rested against the arm of the sofa, and snaked her arms around his neck. She rubbed against him provocatively, breathed in his ear, brushed her fingers through his hair, tongued along his earlobe -- then slid her hand down his chest, past his stomach, across his belt -- and listened to him groan.
His movements, now, were under her command. Even when he touched her, it was where her movements had suggested; his reaction, their pace, even her own arousal, were regulated, not spontaneous. It was then that she understood what she was doing.
She was performing.
She had retreated into the mechanical physicality of the act, where it was safe. Where he would react like any other man, when and how she directed. Where she could take her own pleasure, too -- but only because she allowed it.
She had stripped his clothes off and begun to ride him, crying out with physical release, calling out his name, demanding that he touch her and moaning deep in her throat when he complied. The more vocal she became, the more his expression changed -- first delighted, then confused, then almost dismayed. But in the end, the dismay gave way to desire, and he allowed her to take over. After all, he was a man -- and she knew what he really wanted.
Like the others, he wanted a performance. Except that this time so did she.
Performance had always been her weapon. At times, it had also seemed like a trap. Now, however, it was her refuge. Her universe.
Her identity.
************
To go on to Chapter Thirteen, click here.
Previous Chapters
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).
It was a labyrinth, Paul decided. Even after studying the blueprint of Demetrios's residence for the past several days, he couldn't quite make sense of the layout. There were no direct paths from one end of the building to another; instead, he had to dodge left, then right, then back again, painstakingly moving from room to room and hallway to hallway.
The son-of-a-bitch did it on purpose, he thought in aggravation. Slowing down unwanted visitors would buy Demetrios time to escape. Or to prepare for a fight.
Turning left again, Paul rounded a corner into yet another hallway, straight into the path of a heavyset bodyguard. Reacting instinctively, Paul fired twice, then he stepped over the crumpled body to jog down the corridor.
He moved as rapidly as he could -- running, ducking, scrambling, shooting -- all while monitoring the progress of the team and barking curt orders when needed. Pausing inside an empty room, he caught his breath while he loaded a new clip, half listening to the battles raging throughout the house, and half listening over his transmitter to the sounds from the study. There, Demetrios and two assistants hid, awaiting the arrival of the invaders. Or rather, Demetrios, two assistants -- and two Section operatives.
Madeline and Charles were unarmed and outnumbered, locked in a room with three desperate men. It was up to Paul to get them to safety.
Their predicament, however, was part of the profile. When the retrieval of Demetrios had inexplicably become the mission's top priority, Adrian ordered Madeline and Charles to be present when the assault began. With them there to watch him, he would have no opportunity to slip away, and they could prevent any operative from killing him by mistake.
The only problem was that they couldn't carry guns. Demetrios's security detail patted them down and searched their bags upon each visit, and while they had successfully smuggled in bugging devices and detectors, heavy weapons were out of the question.
The amendments to the profile perplexed Paul. Why were they bringing Demetrios in at all? The original profile called for his elimination, along with his associates. Changing the profile placed Madeline and Charles in significant danger, for no good reason that Paul could fathom. But Adrian had been insistent, granting only one concession -- although she deemed guns, knives, and other weapons too risky, she did allow Madeline and Charles to carry small syringes containing a fast-acting sedative, carefully concealed in their clothing.
If they had been alone with Demetrios, the sedative might have been sufficient. Facing three armed men, they were essentially defenseless.
That left them only one option: to pretend to be as surprised by the raid as Demetrios was, to convince him they had nothing to do with the assault now taking place. As Paul listened over his transmitter, they shouted at Demetrios, accusing one of his bodyguards of having sold them all out. The assistants reacted angrily, defending their colleague; the high pitch of their voices betrayed their increasing panic.
Demetrios seemed -- by his statements, at least -- to believe Madeline and Charles. But there was something in his voice -- a cold grimness that set Paul's gut churning with anxiety. Then, when he heard Demetrios speak again, he knew.
"Annette, come stand behind me," Demetrios commanded. "It's not safe for you out in the open like that. And you, Geoffrey, get behind Kostis."
Paul's pulse quickened. Despite Demetrios's profession of concern for their welfare, he was placing Charles and Madeline in a perfect position to be held hostage.
There was a long silence over the transmitter.
"I think Annette's safer in the corner there," said Charles, finally, clearly recognizing Demetrios's intent. "And if you have an extra gun, you should give it to me. I'll help you hold them off."
The transmitter was quiet again, as Paul shot another guard in the chest and broke out into a run. Then there was a buzz of static.
"You'll go where I tell you," Demetrios said, his voice distorted but the menace clear.
Reaching the door to the study, Paul halted, gun ready, heart pounding. Another operative joined him: a young man, newly-added to Paul's team, perspiring and panting.
"Take out the assistants first," Paul whispered. "You go left, I'll go right. If you have to shoot the target, wound him only."
The man nodded.
On Paul's count, they broke down the door and burst into the study. Paul spun right, just in time to shoot a man standing next to Charles. From his left, he heard the other operative fire; a split second afterwards, another three shots rang out from the back of the room.
As Charles jumped to snatch up the dead man's gun, Paul whirled around. The second assistant lay sprawled on the floor -- as did the young operative. Demetrios stood behind a desk, his arm outstretched and shaking, clutching a gun that he pointed at Madeline. She was several feet away, too far even to consider disarming him; she regarded him with an expression of icy disdain.
Demetrios looked nervously back and forth between Paul and Charles. "If either one of you moves, I'll kill her," he rasped.
Paul felt the muscles in his face twitch in fury. He fingered his trigger, struggling to resist the urge to send a bullet exploding through the other man's skull.
Damn Adrian and her stupid orders.
"My orders are to bring you in alive, no matter what," Paul said through gritted teeth. "Personnel losses are expected."
Demetrios blinked, glanced back at Madeline, then back at Paul.
"However," continued Paul, breaking out in a chilly smile, "my orders said nothing about not blowing your balls off. And that's exactly what I'll do if you don't set your gun down now."
Demetrios paled. Muttering in Greek, he lowered the gun. He placed it on the desk in front of him and raised his hands.
"Come forward slowly," Paul ordered.
Demetrios obeyed, as Madeline stepped toward the desk and retrieved his gun.
"Stop," Paul said sharply. "Turn around and put your hands on your head."
Demetrios did so, and Paul holstered his gun and began searching him. When he found no weapons, he pulled on the man's shoulder to yank him back around, ready to march him out of the building and into custody.
But then, quite by accident, he caught a glimpse into Demetrios's eyes. They were dark, almost black, and spread wide in fear. The recognition of that fear slammed into Paul like a physical force. The man's terror thrilled him; he could feel it, smell it, almost taste it. It gave him a dizzying feeling of righteousness -- and power.
Power. After being powerless for all these weeks, power was suddenly returned to him. His sense of control over his destiny was restored. He savored the feeling as it swept over him, burning him with its energy, triggering a sudden hunger for retribution -- a craving that surged, then burst into mindless fury.
Unable to restrain himself, he slammed his fist into Demetrios's face. Upon contact, his fist exploded in pain, the skin sliced and torn by the other man's collapsing teeth. But the injury only increased his rage. As Demetrios staggered to one knee, his face streaming with blood, Paul kicked him savagely in the ribs.
"That's for even thinking about shooting her," he snarled, falling upon Demetrios and pummeling the man in a frenzy.
Demetrios curled up on the ground, huddling into a protective ball, as Paul pounded him mercilessly. Slowly, the man weakened and dropped his defenses; Paul grunted and hit even harder -- at the nose, the jaw, the ribs, the sternum -- throwing his full weight into every punch, his hands slick with blood.
"For God's sake, what are you doing?"
Charles's voice registered in Paul's mind, vaguely. But it was a nuisance to be ignored, a distraction from the steady rhythm of violence that he had given himself to. Beneath him, Demetrios grew limp, his head lolling from side to side with the force of each blow.
Paul continued at his task, single-minded and relentless, until he felt a force pulling him away. He looked up, disoriented, to see Charles wrestling him to the floor, poised to stick him with the syringe full of sedatives.
"Have you lost your mind?" asked Charles, kneeling over him with a look of dismayed astonishment. "You were about to kill him."
Paul shook himself back into awareness and looked slowly around the room. Demetrios lay still, his face streaming crimson. Paul looked back at Charles in confusion, but Charles had turned away, shouting orders for a medical team at the operatives who had crowded outside the door of the study.
Paul closed his eyes and exhaled forcefully, suddenly aware of the pounding in his chest and the stabbing pain in his hand. When he opened his eyes again, he started. Standing in front of him was Madeline, looking down with an expression of horrified fascination -- first at Demetrios, then at him. As operatives huddled around Demetrios and lifted him onto a stretcher, she continued to stare at Paul. She stood like that, motionless, until Demetrios was removed from the room. Then, without a word, she turned and walked out.
***
Hearing a noise at the door, Adrian looked up from her desk. Madeline stood at the entrance to the office, still in the sandals and sleeveless white dress she had worn for the mission.
Adrian gestured for her to enter. "Explain yourself," she demanded as Madeline approached.
Madeline halted, looking disconcerted. She took a few more steps, stopping just short of the chairs in front of the desk, and assumed a stance at attention, hands clasped behind her. She seemed to be struggling to maintain a blank expression, but traces of anxiety and confusion shone through.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she said hesitantly.
Adrian folded her arms across her chest. "Our objective couldn't have been any clearer: retrieve Tassos Demetrios for interrogation. Yet Medical informs me that he's suffered irreversible brain damage and will be of no use to us whatsoever." She paused, allowing the news to sink in. "I want to know why."
"I can tell you what I saw happen," offered Madeline.
"I know what happened, Madeline. I've spent the past three hours debriefing Charles and the members of Paul's team. I hardly need to hear yet another blow-by-blow account. What I want from you is an explanation."
"I'm not sure I can give you one."
"Then you disappoint me," said Adrian. "A profiler ought to be able to read a situation like this. I thought you were much better than that."
Madeline swallowed hard, but said nothing.
"Of course, you are better than that, aren't you?" Adrian smiled knowingly. "You know very well what happened. The reason you don't want to admit to it is because you know it's your fault."
Madeline raised her eyebrows. "My fault?" she asked, her tone astonished.
"Quite so," Adrian snapped. "Your behavior on this mission was appalling. You acted reluctant and uncomfortable. Unhappy with what you were doing. It triggered some sort of protective instinct in Paul that overrode his common sense."
Madeline stared at Adrian for several moments, then averted her gaze.
"Do you know he reviewed the surveillance of you with Demetrios?"
Madeline looked up again, her eyes wide in shock.
"Yes, it's true," Adrian continued. "I only found out about it from Jules this afternoon. Had I known, I never would have allowed him to lead the team in Athens."
An expression of sickened understanding seeped across Madeline's face, turning it ashen.
"This cannot be allowed to recur. Is that understood?"
Madeline nodded.
Madeline's affirmative answer was a concession -- an admission that she agreed with Adrian's interpretation of events, that she believed that she might exert some negative influence over Paul's behavior. It should have been a victory of sorts. But to Adrian's surprise, Madeline's rapid capitulation only made her angrier.
"It's not just a matter of Paul's reaction, you know." Adrian allowed her voice to sharpen. "It's yours, even more so."
Madeline said nothing, but her expression was questioning.
"Your original profile called for Connie to play the part of Annette Pierce," Adrian said. "Why did you do that?" Her tone was innocent, but the question was anything but.
Madeline took a deep breath. "Connie bears a strong resemblance to Annette. I believed she would be a convincing substitute."
Adrian shook her head disapprovingly. "As I explained to you once before, physical resemblance was of minimal importance. Setting that aside, what were Connie's qualifications?"
"She's an experienced Level Two operative with considerable success at valentine missions. I thought the choice was entirely appropriate."
"Connie's performance as an operative has been exemplary. But her targets have been lower-level individuals. She's never dealt with anyone as sophisticated as Demetrios, nor have her assignments lasted more than a few days at a time. Demetrios would have seen through Connie in an instant."
Madeline reddened and looked away.
"You have more undercover experience than any other operative in Section," Adrian said. "You were the only person even remotely qualified to handle a mission of this magnitude. Yet you failed to assign yourself because you were uncomfortable with the scenario. Correct?"
She waited, giving Madeline a chance to respond, to deny what she was saying. She did not.
"And then when I revised the profile to assign you, you performed reluctantly and made your dislike of the situation abundantly clear to everyone else on the mission." Adrian's voice became acid. "You allowed your feelings to affect your work. Detrimentally."
"It won't happen again," said Madeline.
"I should certainly hope not."
She examined the other woman, staring until she was satisfied that her point had been made clear. There was no resistance in Madeline's demeanor, no defiance or even resentment -- only chastened acceptance and guilt. Watching her, Adrian felt an unexpected touch of pity.
"Your job involves writing profiles that require others to perform extremely dangerous or distasteful activities," she said, softening her manner slightly. "Do you think they'll have faith in those profiles if they see that you exempt yourself from carrying out tasks you dislike?"
"No," Madeline admitted.
"You see, my dear," Adrian explained, "those in the rank and file need to see that you're willing to do whatever it takes to achieve mission objectives. If anything, you need to be harder on yourself than you are on them. If they see that, then they'll trust that what you're asking them to do is necessary."
"Yes, ma'am."
There was a new-found conviction in Madeline's voice that hadn't been there a moment before. Interesting. Perhaps there was hope for Madeline yet. Despite her deep-seated weaknesses and baser tendencies, she seemed to be willing to improve herself. To put the Section first, in a way that few others would.
"You have potential, Madeline," Adrian said. "Perhaps more than I gave you credit for. But to reach it, you need to learn to be uncompromising with yourself. Force yourself to do what you least want to do. What you're most afraid of. Only then can you demand that of others."
She looked into the other woman's eyes. Madeline returned the gaze unflinchingly.
"You're right," she said solemnly. "Thank you."
***
The doorway pulled back with excruciating slowness. When it was halfway open, Lisa strode forward, tugging on her companion's hand to pull him inside. Tipsy, he staggered and grabbed her around the waist; his weight almost tipped her off balance, her ankles nearly buckling in the uncomfortable high-heeled shoes.
She had never felt so happy to step through Section's entryway -- not even this afternoon, when she had returned from eliminating one of Demetrios's buyers in Belgium, having led her very first team. That had been a moment of pride, a return in triumph. But this, this was relief -- relief that one of the most awful evenings of her life was nearly over, and that she had been able to get through it without showing her disgust.
Madeline had been right, as it turned out. When the goal was important enough, Lisa could do anything.
Even dress up like a bimbo and ask Jules out on a date.
"Ouf," he said, walking unsteadily and gripping her waist so hard it pinched. "So all this time, with the computers, you were just trying to get my attention?"
"Yeah," she answered sheepishly, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pressing into him. "You're just so good with computers, I figured that was the best way to make an impression. You know, learn how to do something that you would respect. Even though I'd never be at your level," she added hastily.
He laughed and shook his head. "Hmm, you went to such trouble! But I should have known what you really wanted with all those transfer requests." He looked down at her and smirked. "Hey, I might be more favorably inclined toward your application now. It's nice to have, uh, friends to work with, eh?"
She forced herself to look away, afraid that she might blurt out an unthinking response. You slimy toad, she thought. I wouldn't be interested in you if I'd had a lobotomy.
As they reached Comm, they disentangled themselves. Jules fell awkwardly into a chair; Lisa leaned against a table and folded her arms.
"So is it true, what they say about you?" she asked, trying to sound flirtatious.
He raised his eyebrows and placed his hand on his chest in mock surprise. "About me? You mean the rumor about all the satisfied women? Oh, it's definitely true." He leered. "But maybe you'd like to judge for yourself."
Lisa forced her disgust aside and smiled. "Supposedly, you can hack into any of the other Sections at will. You're too good to stop, no matter what security measures they take."
"Oh, that rumor." He leaned back in his chair and plunked his feet on top of a nearby table, his expression smug. "Of course. I'm the best in all the Sections."
She placed her hands on her hips in a mocking gesture. "Oh, come on. No one's that good."
His smile vanished, replaced by a pout. "But I am."
"Look, you don't have to say that to impress me. I like you anyway."
He pulled his feet down and sat forward, turning his chair toward the computer on the desk next to him.
"I will show you," he said, his face clouding angrily. "I can access any network anywhere in the organization. I can even modify their data without them knowing it."
"No, no, Jules," she said, holding up her hand, her voice tinged with false concern, "you don't have to do this. It's too dangerous. I'm sorry I brought it up."
He glared up at her. "Pull up a chair. I will show you what I can and cannot do," he said with a scowl. "And besides, it's not dangerous, not for me."
Slowly, feigning reluctance, she pulled over a chair and sat next to him.
"Okay, if you want to prove you're a hotshot, hack into Section Four. I hear they have the tightest security of all. Tighter than ours."
"Section Four is nothing," he scoffed. "Amateurs, completely. They are totally useless."
He began typing, his fingers dancing over the keys. Lisa watched every keystroke avidly, committing the commands to memory.
As the monitor repeatedly flashed "Access Denied," Jules began mumbling to himself in French. He typed alternative commands, tried different access points, and changed his passwords, as Lisa began to wonder if she had gotten him too drunk to think straight.
For ten minutes, everything he tried failed, and his muttering began to transform into loud cursing. Then, his face red with frustration, he typed yet another command and hit the keys so hard Lisa thought he would break them. Waiting, he stared at the screen, frowning intently as if he could intimidate the computer into cooperating.
For a minute, there was nothing. Then, something new:
Logon successful
Request directory:
Jules smashed his fist down on the desk in triumph. "VoilĂ ! You see!"
He beamed at Lisa, who clapped him on the back.
"Wow, that is so cool," she said breathlessly. "You're amazing!"
He puffed his cheeks out in several loud exhalations, calming himself as his face returned to its normal color. Then he turned to her. "Okay, my friend," he said cheerfully, "shall we go on a tour of Section Four?"
She paused in apparent thought. "You said you could modify their data, right?"
"Of course."
"How about creating a non-existent operative? Just as a joke."
He snickered. "Oh, that's very good. Yes, all right. Let's go to their personnel directory, then."
"Fantastic."
He typed again and brought up a long list of names. "So," he said, winking, "who is this operative?"
"Hmmmmm, let's call her Patricia Gould."
He typed then name, then looked up. "Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Okay." He paused as he entered the information. "Oh, wait," he said, frowning, "most of the people there are children. We should make her younger."
"No, no," said Lisa, grabbing his arm. "They have teachers there, don't they? Make her a teacher."
"Mmm, all right, that should work." He typed again. "Done."
As Lisa watched over his shoulder, Jules filled in every datafield, following her suggestions. In a few short moments, Section Four had a new staff member. One whose vital statistics matched Lisa's exactly.
"Okay, finished!" Jules sat back again, laughing. "It will take them weeks to notice this, if ever. They are idiots, without any talent."
"What'll happen if they do?" Lisa glanced at Jules, trying to hide her concern.
Jules shrugged and made a face. "Nothing."
"You won't get into trouble?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" He smirked, and brought up one of the datafields again. "You see, there," he said, pointing, "where it indicates 'entered by JG'?"
Lisa leaned forward and looked, and her eyes widened. "Those are your initials! Why did you do that?"
"So they know it's only me, and not a real security breach," he said, giving her a knowing look. "If they see I've accessed the system, they'll just delete the file and keep quiet about it. It is too embarrassing for them to admit I outwitted them." He smiled. "I do this sort of thing all the time."
Lisa laughed -- this time a genuine laugh, and not a forced one. "You mean as long as you put your initials on all the files you modify, they'll never report it?"
"Exactly." He grinned triumphantly. Then his expression changed, as he looked her up and down more seriously. "Ah, but now that I've finished showing you clever party tricks, maybe I can show you something more interesting."
"Oh, gosh," Lisa replied, "you know, I'm feeling a little sick right now. I think I drank more than I should have." She giggled, putting her hand on her stomach. "But we'll definitely do this again real soon."
His face fell in disappointment. "But--"
She leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss. "Thanks for a great evening." She smiled and stood and walked off, leaving him shaking his head.
When she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, she leaned weakly against the wall.
Holy crap, she thought. That was a lot easier than I thought.
Of course, the hard part was just beginning.
***
The tea sat, untouched and neglected -- a bedtime ritual that seemed to bring Madeline no enjoyment this night. She hadn't really had any desire for it, but had made it out of force of habit; now, it languished on her coffee table, the scent of hibiscus slowly fading as it grew cold.
She had operated the entire evening out of habit, her mind shifting into a thoughtless autopilot from the moment she stepped through her door. She had showered, changed, eaten, washed dishes, thumbed through her small pile of mail, performed minor household tasks -- all while completely numb.
Being numb was better than allowing herself to think. When she tried to do that, her mind crowded with too many recollections. Images of Paul beating Demetrios to unconsciousness. The sound of Adrian's voice, telling her it was her fault. And worst of all, the memory of the thrill she had felt when she watched the blood spray from Demetrios's face. The sense of being rescued and avenged. A feeling of relief, so powerful that it had grown into joy -- and then turned suddenly dark, when she realized what the feeling really was.
She had wanted Paul to kill him.
Standing in that room, watching Paul rear back and then drive his fists into Demetrios, she had forgotten why they were there. The mission profile had ceased to matter, had ceased even to exist. Instead, she was entranced by the steady pattern of the blows; by the arc of Paul's arm as he twisted into each punch; by the way Demetrios's entire body shook, more and more limply; by the muffled smack of fists landing on flesh. It was horrible; it was repulsive -- and it was beautiful.
Beautiful.
Paul was killing a man with his bare hands, because of her, and she found it beautiful.
The implications of that realization were too disturbing to contemplate. So she pulled back, forced all thoughts from her mind, and became numb instead.
Numb was tolerable. Numb allowed her to sit, calmly, on her sofa, staring at the pattern on her curtains. Her gaze traveled up and down, following the blue, threadlike loop. It twisted endlessly across the dull gold fabric, soothing in its repetition -- first curving down sharply, then looping up and over, twisting sideways, and then down again. Over and over and over it curled, a visual mantra across a heavy cloth backdrop. She couldn't look away from it -- was afraid that if she did, she would start thinking again.
She didn't shift her gaze when she heard her door unlock and swing open. She didn't turn to see whose footsteps crossed the room toward her, didn't even look up when she felt the sofa sink down under someone else's weight.
She simply continued staring at the curtains, and when she spoke, it was in nearly a whisper.
"What have you done?"
There was a silence of several seconds.
"I don't know," Paul answered quietly.
It was then that she finally looked at him. He sat inches away from her, his forehead creased with a sharp frown, his eyes shining with barely repressed thoughts and emotions.
"I couldn't stop myself," he admitted.
She stared at him, unable to look away from those pale eyes, remembering the look of triumph, of determined cruelty, that had filled them as he knocked Demetrios to the floor -- and remembering the awe and admiration she had felt upon seeing it. He gazed back at her, unblinking. There was no hint of cruelty now, only sad resignation.
"You listened to the surveillance," she said, the words slipping out unintended. She didn't want to talk about this, didn't even want to think about it, but the statement almost seemed to voice itself.
His eyelids fluttered briefly, then he closed them, frowning harder. "Yes."
"Is that why you hurt him?"
His eyes snapped open. She could feel his body tense next to her; the air around them seemed to sizzle.
"Yes." His voice rasped with suppressed emotion; his answer, and the sharp look that accompanied it, was at once a challenge, an accusation, and a plea.
Uncomfortable, she dropped her gaze away from his eyes. Trying to decide how to respond, she stared at his lap -- blankly, at first, but then her attention focused on his hands. They rested on his thighs, swollen and dark with bruises, the knuckles scraped raw. The back of one hand was heavily bandaged where he seemed to have a gash; the other bore angry red scratches. But it wasn't the injuries that kept her staring, that captured her in a feeling of fascination and dread.
It was the gold wedding band on one of his fingers.
She reached down to pick up his hand. Holding it, brushing a finger across the ring, she looked up at him.
"What is this?"
"It's the ring I wore when I was pretending to be Pierce." His voice was tight and strained.
"Why are you still wearing it?"
His expression grew in strength, as if his feelings had bubbled up to the surface, stopping just short of overflowing.
"Because I liked having it on," he said, his voice defensive, almost angry. "Because I could pretend it was a real one."
She frowned. "But--"
"Stop," he said. "I've answered enough questions. I'm tired of explaining myself." A strange look seeped into his eyes -- a seething brew of hurt, anger, guilt, and resentment that startled her in its intensity. "Besides," he added bitterly, "you never explain yourself to me."
Stung, she let go of his hand.
He grimaced and looked away. "Go ahead. Tell me I shouldn't wear it. Tell me I shouldn't have listened to the surveillance. Tell me I shouldn't have attacked Demetrios. Tell me all the things I've done wrong." He turned back toward her, his expression accusatory. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
She swallowed with difficulty as a lump grew in her throat. "Adrian blames me, you know."
He blinked rapidly, the look of anger subsiding. "What?"
"Everything you've done. She says it's my fault." She returned her gaze to the curtains, unable to continue looking at him. "I think she's probably right."
She felt him place his hand on her chin, pulling firmly to turn her face back toward him.
"Don't listen to her," he said. "She doesn't understand anything. I won't allow you to believe her. I take responsibility for my own actions."
Before she could answer, he kissed her, pressing against her so forcefully that she fell backwards against the sofa cushions. He leaned in even farther, his lips hard against hers, insistent and demanding. Taken by surprise, she resisted at first, then softened, opening her mouth and raising her hands to cup his face. As she relaxed beneath him, he grew even more aggressive -- his kiss, his tightening embrace, even the movement of his body was hungry, ferocious. He clamped himself around her, like an owner reclaiming stolen property; he pressed down on her heavily, as if she could never surrender to him enough.
Pinned in the corner between several cushions, she shifted, moving her arms so she could run her hands up and down his back. The movement caused her to fall even further backwards; she slid, the cushions spilling onto the floor, until she was prone. Paul pounced on her, kicking the coffee table in his haste. She heard the teacup clatter and smash as it tumbled off the edge.
He continued his assault, his chest hard against hers, his grip unyielding, his kiss relentless. Captive, she sank down into the sofa under him, surrounded by his presence, forgetting there was anything outside it. As his body began to warm, his shirt molded to his back with a faint layer of perspiration; through the fabric, she could feel his muscles flex and release when he moved. She traced her fingers in light circles to match the movement of his tongue on her throat, then dug them sharply into his back when he began to use his teeth. He flinched and clasped her harder; gasping, she responded in kind, which drove him into even more of a frenzy. They continued, each intensifying their attack, until they were both clutching at each other in a mindless desperation.
Eventually, their movements slowed, becoming calmer. Paul loosened his hold, then sat up and leaned back on his haunches, reaching down to ease her nightgown up and off. Then he just looked at her, for what seemed like an endless moment -- he said nothing, did nothing, as if he were waiting for something she couldn't understand. She closed her eyes and frowned, her breathing rapid and shallow, willing him to touch her, afraid she would lose her mind if he didn't. When she finally felt his hands on her, her pulse surged almost painfully. It was what she wanted, but it wasn't enough.
She wanted to seize him and pull him toward her, wanted to melt around him -- wanted to possess him completely, and him to possess her. She wanted these things violently -- with a desire that raged beyond control, verging into irrationality. The feeling was animalistic, instinctive, and…familiar.
Horribly familiar.
It was precisely the way she had felt earlier in the day, when she had wished for a man's death. It was that same craving, that same need erupting from somewhere deep within. The similarity of the emotion, the sense of wanting something so much that she threw away all reason, gave her a sudden chill.
She opened her eyes. Paul stroked her lightly, gently -- and yet his hands were so swollen that he couldn't straighten his fingers, the harsh color of the bruises and scratches a brutal contrast to her pale skin. His hands explored her body, their touch lingering and delicate, but only hours before they had been weapons of death. Each mark on his fingers, each swollen knuckle was a reminder of his rage, of his recklessness, of his loss of control.
And of hers.
Passion, like the rage it triggered, was a loss of control. And in Section, loss of control meant death.
Or maybe something even worse.
Passion had turned them into something monstrous: into the sort of man who engaged in bloodthirsty vengeance, and the sort of woman who took pleasure in seeing him do so. Passion, then, was a dangerous, irrational, corrupting force. It would be the means of their death or destruction. And so it had to stop.
It had to stop.
She sat up suddenly and pushed Paul's hands away, uncertain of her own intent. Somehow she found herself crawling towards him, her body seeming to move for its own reasons, following some programmed response that no longer required conscious awareness. She reached him, pushed him backwards until his back rested against the arm of the sofa, and snaked her arms around his neck. She rubbed against him provocatively, breathed in his ear, brushed her fingers through his hair, tongued along his earlobe -- then slid her hand down his chest, past his stomach, across his belt -- and listened to him groan.
His movements, now, were under her command. Even when he touched her, it was where her movements had suggested; his reaction, their pace, even her own arousal, were regulated, not spontaneous. It was then that she understood what she was doing.
She was performing.
She had retreated into the mechanical physicality of the act, where it was safe. Where he would react like any other man, when and how she directed. Where she could take her own pleasure, too -- but only because she allowed it.
She had stripped his clothes off and begun to ride him, crying out with physical release, calling out his name, demanding that he touch her and moaning deep in her throat when he complied. The more vocal she became, the more his expression changed -- first delighted, then confused, then almost dismayed. But in the end, the dismay gave way to desire, and he allowed her to take over. After all, he was a man -- and she knew what he really wanted.
Like the others, he wanted a performance. Except that this time so did she.
Performance had always been her weapon. At times, it had also seemed like a trap. Now, however, it was her refuge. Her universe.
Her identity.
************
To go on to Chapter Thirteen, click here.
| Part One | Part Two |
|---|---|
| Chapter One | Chapter Seven |
| Chapter Two | Chapter Eight |
| Chapter Three | Chapter Nine |
| Chapter Four | Chapter Ten |
| Chapter Five | Chapter Eleven |
| Chapter Six |