![[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 Twenty
It was only mid-evening, but Madeline found the main floor of Section virtually empty. Without its customary noise and energy, it felt cavernous and abandoned -- the air noticeably chilly, the lights uncomfortably harsh. Within the room's vast expanse only a lone figure sat working: Jules, typing at one of the workstations, his thin face pinched in a frown of concentration.
As Madeline walked along, Jules glanced up and nodded to her in brusque greeting. She smiled at him fleetingly, then she raised her eyes toward Adrian's office. Adrian was there, as always; her back to the windows, she studied a map stretched out in her hands.
Madeline wrenched her gaze back to the floor. Once, years before, Adrian had caught her looking. When their eyes met, Adrian had beamed as if in victory, as if the very act of looking up provided acknowledgement of Adrian's inherent authority and Madeline's subordination. Since then, she had struggled to appear indifferent to her commander's presence; still, the compulsion to glance toward the office was irresistible.
Increasing her pace, she turned the corner into Munitions -- and then stopped short.
Next to the worktable, Walter and Lisa clutched each other in a tight embrace. As Madeline froze in surprise, they hurriedly pulled apart. Walter cleared his throat self-consciously; Lisa straightened her jacket and looked down at the floor.
Walter…and Lisa? How unexpected. But then she examined the two of them more carefully. Walter looked worried, not amorous. As for Lisa, she was dressed in grimy mission gear, her face smeared with dirt and puffy with signs of recent crying.
The embrace had been that of a friend comforting another, not that of lovers.
Interesting.
Madeline took a few slow steps forward, taking in Lisa's demeanor. The other operative wasn't particularly moody as a rule. While she was naïve about many things -- charmingly so, in fact -- Madeline had never known her to be fazed by violence or death on missions. To the contrary, she always exhibited a blustering bravado, as if being tough in the field could provide a counterbalance to her painful social awkwardness. What, then, could have upset her like this?
"Do you need something, Madeline?" Walter stepped in front of Lisa, as if to shield her from Madeline's assessing gaze.
Madeline smiled. Walter's protectiveness was sweet, like that of a devoted guard dog. She could almost see the raised fur and bared teeth.
"Yes, I do," she answered, then added pointedly, "but I don't mean to interrupt anything…."
Half-hidden behind Walter, Lisa shook her head. "No, don't worry about it." Despite the unconcerned words, her voice was slightly tremulous.
"What do you want?" Walter sounded reluctant and somewhat impatient.
Madeline ignored his tone, keeping her own strenuously pleasant. "You took notes when you tested the L-18 device?"
"Yeah."
"I'd like to see them."
"Okay. Stop by first thing in the morning and I'll have them for you."
He was already turning away when she spoke again.
"Morning won't be soon enough." When he stopped and looked back at her, she smiled apologetically. "Could you get them for me now, please?"
"Right this minute? It's kind of late."
"It's important."
He sighed loudly. "Fine. Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."
He threw a quick glance at Lisa and disappeared into a back corridor.
Madeline turned to Lisa, whose tearstained face belied her struggle to appear composed.
"Are you all right?"
Lisa hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, "Patrick's dead."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Madeline reached out and touched Lisa's arm.
So that explained it. Occasionally, field operatives developed battlefield bonds, especially if they had served together for any length of time. Over the next few weeks, Lisa could be expected to exhibit the typical trajectory of anger and grief. It would require some adjustment to mission profiles. Inconvenient, but unavoidable.
Fresh tears began rolling down Lisa's face. "It was so stupid. He died over nothing."
"What happened?"
"Adrian sent us out to retrieve Cyrus Norasty. A simple vehicle intercept. If we'd had a normal complement on the team, it would have been a quick snatch and run. The sort of thing we can do in our sleep."
"But…?" Madeline prompted.
"But Adrian sent us in with half a team and no air support, that's what." Lisa's voice filled with bitterness and rage. "There weren't enough of us to pin in the Red Cell convoy. They just shot their way straight through our roadblock, and we lost five people." Her expression hardened. "I almost cheered when Paul told Adrian off."
A clammy sensation of apprehension settled across Madeline's skin. "When he what?" she asked numbly.
Lisa gave a short laugh. "He called her an idiot, if I remember the choice of words right. And told her she must have slept her way to the top. Comm went so quiet afterwards I thought they'd all fainted in shock."
The clamminess penetrated Madeline's body and thickened into churning nausea. She stared at Lisa's face as if from a vast distance. The mouth was still moving, but no sound registered; the features shifted, distorting into disembodied abstraction.
Paul had lost his mind. His position with Adrian was already precarious, and she would never tolerate such open disrespect. If he continued to provoke her, sooner or later he'd be punished. Maybe even cancelled.
That is, if he hadn't been already.
At the latter thought, Madeline felt a dizzying rush of fear, but then a sudden, dreadful calm. It wiped all else clean, leaving only an icy resolve, devoid of emotion, almost serene in its certitude.
If Adrian had harmed Paul in any way, Madeline would kill her. She would stroll upstairs to the office, smile and offer a polite greeting, and send a bullet slicing through the woman's aristocratic forehead. And then she would accept whatever fate befell her.
No fear. No hesitation. No regrets.
Slowly, Lisa's voice became audible again. It seemed disconcertingly loud, jarring.
"Honestly, I was amazed he didn't get dragged down to Containment when we got back, the way he talked to her. But she always has cut him more slack than anyone else."
Madeline frowned, consciousness of her surroundings drifting back as her mind grasped the significance of Lisa's words.
"What happened, then? Where is he?" She could hear her voice sharpen, but she couldn't help herself.
Lisa stepped back, as if retreating from Madeline's intensity. "They debriefed, and then I saw him leave. I think he went home."
"I see. Thank you, Lisa." Turning, she began to walk toward the exit.
"What about Walter's notes?" Lisa called out.
Madeline halted, so anxious to depart the room she was afraid she might combust. Clamping down on her reaction, she looked over her shoulder at Lisa.
"Walter's right. It is late. I'll stop by in the morning. Give him my apologies for troubling him this evening." She paused, noting Lisa's bewildered expression. Perhaps more condolences were in order before she rushed out so precipitously. "Patrick was an outstanding operative," she said in grave voice. "We'll all miss him."
Lisa gave her a long look, tinged with what might have been skepticism -- or even hurt. "Yeah. Maybe some of us more than others."
***
Lisa stood motionless, a feeling of disappointment and isolation rolling over her like a cold ocean wave.
She knew her reaction was foolish, even as the emotions swam in chilly circles in the pit of her stomach. She could hardly expect Madeline to be grief-stricken: in Section, people died as a matter of daily routine. Even savvy veterans like Patrick. So why should anyone lament the occurrence of something so mundane?
Still, the man had been on Madeline's very first team when she arrived at Section One. He had helped her learn the ropes as a field operative and had watched her back on countless missions since. He was dependable, considerate, and generous, his taciturn demeanor never fully disguising his fundamental decency. He mattered, and his death ought to matter, too. But all Madeline had to say in his memory was that he was an "outstanding operative."
An outstanding operative?
Pathetic. Even Adrian could have come up with something better than that.
"So where'd Madeline go?"
Startled, Lisa turned. Behind her, Walter stood clutching a notebook, his expression one of irritated mystification.
She blinked, her tension gradually easing. Thank God for Walter. Maybe people like Madeline didn't give a damn whether anyone lived or died, but at least someone did.
She shrugged. "She said it was too late after all, so she'll stop by in the morning."
Rolling his eyes, he tossed the notebook on a shelf. He made an exasperated face, but then his expression lightened.
"Hey, Lisa. Come back inside for a minute. I've got something for you."
Like a leprechaun promising a pot of gold, he beckoned and vanished into the storage area. Perplexed, she followed, peering into the narrow aisles to see where he had headed.
She found him waiting in front of a beaten-looking metal cabinet. The door squeaked as he yanked it open. He rummaged noisily inside for several moments and eventually pulled out a fat bottle of liquor. Grinning, he brandished it in the air; its tawny liquid gleamed as it sloshed to and fro.
"Kentucky's finest, bottled straight from the cask. I was going to save it for my birthday, but whaddya say we give it a little taste test tonight?"
She smiled sadly. What a sweet gesture. Too bad she wasn't in the mood.
"I'm sorry, Walter, but I think I just want to go home."
He grunted disapprovingly. "You and Patrick used to hoist a few after each mission, right?"
She felt herself stiffen. "Yeah. To celebrate making it through alive."
"Well, don't you think he'd want you to tonight?"
Her face twitched with the effort to control her expression. "He didn't make it through alive this time. What's to celebrate?"
"The fact that he's in a better place than us right now." He lowered himself unceremoniously to the floor. He sat back against the wall, bony legs sprawling, and patted the spot next to him invitingly. "Come on. Let's send off that big lug the way he deserves."
Reluctantly, she joined him on the floor. It was hard, cold and dusty, smelling of rancid grease and gunpowder. She stifled a sneeze and settled into a cross-legged position.
He twisted open the bottle and hoisted it into the air. "To Patrick." He took a sip and coughed explosively. "Damn fine stuff," he said.
He passed her the bottle. Taking it with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and took a swig. It tasted of brimstone and old leather, flaming all the way down her throat and into her stomach. Dribbles spilled from the corners of her mouth; gasping, she wiped them clean with her shirtsleeve.
"Good, huh?"
She couldn't yet speak; in response, she merely nodded. Painful might be a more accurate description -- but then again, it had cleared the tearful lump in her throat like an astringent. Maybe that was good, after all.
They passed the bottle back and forth in silence. She stared at the wall in front of her, allowing her body to warm.
Patrick would have liked this. Too bad he's not here to try it.
She frowned, recognizing the illogic of her last thought. If Patrick were alive, Walter wouldn't have opened the bottle in the first place. Unless…unless that bullet had killed her and not him. It could have happened that way just as easily -- the fact that it struck him was completely random.
Going on missions was like playing Russian roulette. Each pull of the trigger brought the loaded chamber closer; each empty click was a countdown toward death. First, his death. Eventually, hers.
"It's going be me one of these days," she announced morosely. "No one lasts forever out there."
"Jeeze, Lisa, you've got to stop saying things like--"
"No!" She threw him a sharp look. "I'm not going to pretend that everything's going to be okay, because it's not. And if you keep pretending, you're just insulting me."
He looked startled, then chastened. He said nothing, but he draped an arm around her shoulders protectively. She leaned in toward him but felt no real comfort.
It's not going to be okay. No miracles or happy endings.
"Can you promise me something?" she asked anxiously, her words spilling out before she could stop them.
Surprised concern filled his face. "Sure," he said gently. "What is it?"
This was going to be hard to explain. She'd better start from the beginning.
"I don't know if you remember, but when I first came here, I was pregnant. With twins, as it turned out."
"I remember that. They took them away afterwards."
"They did worse than that," she said, grimacing. "One of them was placed with an adoptive family. But they kept the other one here, for an experiment."
He shifted positions, looking vaguely uneasy. "Oh, yeah? How do you know?"
"Because I found him. They're raising him up on Level 16."
Abruptly, he removed his arm from her shoulders.
"Oh, man," he muttered.
"He's like a prisoner," she continued, letting the anger flow freely. "He barely ever goes outside, never interacts with anyone but a few teachers -- they're trying to turn him into some computer prodigy." She sat up straight, her anger surging into defiant pride. "But I've been helping him," she confided, her voice low but full of intensity.
His face paled. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, suddenly uncertain in the face of his apparent nervousness. "I've kind of…uh…made some arrangements with people. The head teacher on Level 16, Jules. I do them favors, and they make sure I can get him some luxuries here and there. It's not much, but…."
She stopped, losing control of her voice. He stared at her with a look of raw horror.
Was it a mistake to tell him? No, surely he would understand. If anyone in Section would, it was Walter. Walter, of the five percent club, who was always there when she needed a joke or a shoulder to lean on. He was the only one she could trust with this. And God, this was so important. She was going to die, she was sure of it, and she needed his help.
After a moment's pause, she gathered her courage. "If anything happens to me, I want you to promise that you'll look out for him. You know, just small things. Make sure his life isn't completely miserable." She looked at him pleadingly. "Can you do that for me?"
He covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Jesus, Lisa," he groaned. Then he looked up, with a strange expression that she couldn't quite interpret. "It's karma, come back to bite me in the ass. Serves me right, I suppose, after what I did."
She looked at him, unsure what to say.
He sat quietly for a moment, then he took a swig from the bottle and made a bitter face.
"I'm the one who picked him, you know."
"What?"
"Seymour. I picked him to stay."
She repeated his words in her mind -- once, twice, three times. It didn't make sense. He couldn't have meant what it sounded like. That wasn't possible. But then how did he know it was Seymour who stayed in Section? She hadn't mentioned any names.
"What do you mean?" she asked warily.
He shook his head. "I don't know why they picked me to choose. I mean, what do I know about that kind of thing? Maybe Adrian was testing me. Who knows?"
That wasn't an answer to her question.
"What did you do, Walter?" She spoke through gritted teeth.
He swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Well, one day one of the doctors took me in to see them, and said, pick one. I asked, how? And he said, just pick one. So, I did." His expression grew defensive. "I didn't have any choice, you know?"
Somehow, he had managed to choose between two helpless infants. He had decided, when she couldn't. She didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.
"How did you pick?"
He looked away. "I flipped a coin."
She stared at him for a moment, horrified. Then she started to laugh -- a bitter, disgusted laugh.
He flipped a coin. How sick. How horrible. And how completely Section.
Her laughter faded. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" Her voice was soft, but the question was an accusation.
"What good would it have done for you to know?"
What good would it have done? It would have showed he cared enough about her to be honest. It would have showed that she wasn't alone.
She rose to her feet unsteadily. "You're right," she said, looking down at him like a stranger. "It wouldn't have done any good at all."
***
As twilight faded, the light from the lamp grew stark. Harsh amidst the strengthening darkness, it cast sharp lines across the living room carpet and threw misshapen shadows against the walls. The contrast hurt Paul's eyes, but he ignored it; staring ahead, he roamed from one end of the room to the other, a restless nomad in a vain search for refuge.
Home should have been that refuge. It should have been a source of comfort and safety. Yet his apartment seemed as confining as a solitary cell, its familiar outlines more claustrophobic than welcoming.
He might as well have stayed in Section. In fact, he had expected to be detained there; with a perverse sense of pride, he had even welcomed the prospect. But when he returned from the mission and presented himself to Adrian, offering to debrief, she looked at him with a blank expression and shook her head. Then she simply turned away, as if he didn't exist.
No humiliating dressing-down before the other operatives. No scathing private rebuke. No punishment or repercussions of any kind. Nothing.
The lack of reaction was disorienting. Over the years, he had seen Adrian lose her temper at operatives many times: her icy viciousness was legendary within Section, but something he had learned to face without fear. In its absence, he found his courage ebbing, replaced by worry.
By the time he arrived home, however, the worry had given way to rage. It wrapped around his chest like a python, tightening relentlessly until he could barely breathe. Paralyzed, he stood motionless in the center of his living room -- hands clenched, muscles tensed, heart racing. The perfect military order of the surroundings was suffocating: he wanted to sweep the books from the shelves, smash the lamp against the wall, hurl the ashtray through the television screen. Destroy everything within reach.
Instead, he paced.
Hours later, he was still pacing, tracing a line back and forth across the floor, as if the sheer repetition might grind down his seething energy into something more controllable. Gradually, the ability to reason began to return to him. But his thoughts circled helplessly around the events of that afternoon, trapped in a sickening orbit around the mission. The mission -- and his failure.
No. Not his failure. Adrian's failure.
They had one of Red Cell's founders within their sights, and Adrian had let him live. Unbelievable. What was she thinking? Killing Norasty might not have stopped any of their operations, but that wasn't the point. It would have been a blow to morale, a symbolic victory against an organization that traded in such gestures.
By allowing him to escape, Adrian ceded the upper hand to Red Cell. Norasty himself would gain cult status: a super-terrorist, untouchable, too good for Section to catch. His enhanced reputation would breed more support, more members, more donations -- and more attacks.
If Adrian couldn't see that, then Section had already lost the war. Every mission they launched would be an exercise in futility; every death in the field an utter waste. He had witnessed that kind of senselessness once before in Vietnam and had ascribed it to civilian incompetence. There, it was easy to lay the blame on weak-willed politicians and ill-informed public opinion. He had thought that Section -- free of such hindrances -- would be different.
But if it wasn't any different, then what was the point?
There was no answer to that question. Or at least no answer he could bring himself to face.
Sharp raps at the door broke into his thoughts. He flinched in surprise, not quite believing what he had heard. The knocks came in a quick but distinct pattern: a code he had memorized, but hadn't heard in years -- in fact, hadn't expected to hear ever again. Cautiously, nearly certain he had imagined it, he approached the door and peered through the peephole.
It wasn't his imagination. Madeline stood in the hallway, hands clasped together, with a knowing expression that made him feel as if she could see right through the door.
Madeline. There, at his home, for the first time in over two years. There was an instant of shock, then a wave of gratitude. She had heard what happened and had come to console him. She would understand his frustration. Would think the way he did. Would know he was right.
He opened the door in relief. For several moments, she did nothing but stare back at him, her gaze cool, assessing.
"You're lucky," she announced. Her voice was mellifluous but laced with sarcasm, like a bite of bittersweet chocolate.
Taken aback, he stiffened. "Lucky I lost half my team? Or lucky we lost the target?"
"Lucky that you're still here to be angry about it," she replied, arching an eyebrow in a subtle motion of rebuke. "Somewhat surprising after your outburst."
He laughed in disappointment and disgust. "You came all the way here to lecture me? Isn't that a treat."
Her expression hardened. "I came here to make you see some sense," she said, her voice dropping in anger.
How dare she judge him? Off in her safe little research domain, showered with privileges by a strangely doting Adrian, she knew nothing of what he had been going through the past few months. She hadn't seen the deaths, or the cutbacks, or the missions that led nowhere. She hadn't felt the sting of having her opinion ignored or dismissed when it was once held so highly. She hadn't lost anything -- in fact, she seemed only to have gained what he once had.
That thought made her presence unbearable.
He grimaced. "Spare me, Madeline. I don't need to hear it. Especially not from you."
He started to close the door, but she grabbed his forearm to stop him, her fingers digging into his skin through his shirt.
"Paul, listen to me. Please."
He searched her eyes. There was an intensity in her gaze that hinted at something unidentifiable: worry, fear, maybe even desperation. It made him hesitate, even when his fingers itched to slam the door in her face.
He glanced back into his apartment. "Not here," he mouthed silently.
She nodded and released her grip on his arm.
He stepped into the hallway, allowing the door to fall closed behind him. Seizing her elbow, he marched her toward the stairs; he squeezed hard enough to hurt her -- probably hard enough to bruise -- but she didn't flinch, and she said nothing.
He kicked open the stairwell door and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut, echoing in the emptiness. He turned to face her and folded his arms across his chest.
"You've got something to say to me? Go ahead."
She took a sharp breath with what looked like fleeting nervousness, but then her expression quickly reverted to its usual calm ambiguity.
"Nothing can be gained from needless provocation of Adrian," she said smoothly, almost patronizingly. "Stop before it goes any farther."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you're inviting cancellation," she replied, a trace of exasperation breaking through the smoothness.
Of course. That was the direction he was headed in. To be honest, he had been prodding Adrian toward that end for quite a long time. Until this incident, it had been unconscious. Now, however, he had openly embraced the inevitable: if there was no place in Section for his ideas, then there was no place for him, either.
He sighed, suddenly drained of energy. "What difference does it make?"
Her face whitened, her dark eyes growing unnaturally large against the pallor of her skin. Then her jaw tightened and she gave him a violent shove against his chest. Caught by surprise, he stumbled back against the wall, the air expelling from his lungs in a painful gasp.
"Don't you dare say that," she said in a voice as cold as death. "Don't even think it."
The force of the collision with the wall set his anger exploding back into being.
"Why?" he demanded. "What do you care?"
He took several steps forward, daring her to reach for him again. But this time she remained motionless, doing nothing even as he came provocatively close.
He waited.
"Because Section needs you too much," she finally answered.
Not good enough. He shook his head.
"Section needs me." He gave a curt laugh. "How heartwarming. Somehow, I was hoping you'd give me a better reason."
She stared back at him. Slowly, her eyes filled with emotion: pain, defiance, and resentment, swirling together like a thundercloud.
"I need you," she said.
She needed him. Those were the words he had wanted her to utter, and yet hearing them was strangely unsatisfying. They were too easy, too ambiguous: an evasion, wrapped in a confession.
"Need me, how?"
She said nothing. Her eyes seemed to hold an answer, but he couldn't decipher it.
"Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?"
She remained silent, her gaze unblinking.
For a moment, he wanted to snatch her by the throat and choke an answer out of her. To squeeze until he hurt her, until she cried out, until she said something. Except that even then she wouldn't. She wouldn't give in, and he couldn't make her. He couldn't make her do anything. He had no more control over her than he did over Section. Or over his own life.
Once, he'd had everything. A woman who shared herself with him, and a future with meaning and promise. Then it had all slipped away, vanishing so gradually he hadn't known how to stop it.
But wishing for the past wouldn't bring it back. The question was: was there anything left?
Slowly, he reached out and touched her face. He moved almost automatically, more on instinct than with any conscious intent. He ran his fingers across her cheek, threaded them though her hair, traced them along her lips. Her skin was soft and smoother than he remembered; her cheek and jawbones felt so delicate he was afraid he might crush them. Afraid that maybe he wanted to.
She placed a hand against his cheek; disconcerted, he grasped and removed it. She slid both hands along his chest and shoulders; again, he pulled them away, this time more forcefully.
"Don't," he said sharply.
He couldn't control Section. He couldn't control her feelings. But he would control this -- it would be at his pace, and on his terms.
A look of confusion filled her face, but she stopped.
He shifted his hands from her face to her body. His palms followed the curve of her waist to her hips, absorbing her heat through the thin fabric, then slid down the length of her thighs. He slipped his hands underneath her skirt; there, nails dug into warm flesh, and fingers sought out yielding moistness.
She inhaled audibly, and he remembered that she'd said she needed him. Maybe not the way he wanted, but that didn't matter. Now, the fact that she needed him at all -- and acknowledged that need, at whatever level it existed -- would have to be enough.
He would make it enough.
With a sudden surge of energy, he forced her backwards, pinning her against the door. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, raised her skirt. Then he lifted her up and pressed against her so hard she gasped.
Anger transformed into desire; hopelessness gave way to determination. He moved swiftly, because he wanted to. He was rough, because it suited him. He took possession, because it was his right.
As he drove himself into her, gritting his teeth with the effort, she finally relaxed, utterly passive, and allowed him to do as he wanted. To take the lead, to draw what he needed from her.
Her gaze locked with his, and he knew she understood. Understood -- and accepted.
She accepted. When the realization struck him, his fury vanished.
He slowed his movement, the violence replaced with tenderness, and began to kiss a path along her neck. As he breathed in her scent, her hair fell like a silk curtain around his face, and he felt his mind clear, the haze of anger that had imprisoned him all night gradually lifting. Her acquiescence calmed him, helped him see alternatives.
He wasn't alone after all. He wasn't powerless. And while the past was irretrievable, he could still create a future.
***
With a sharp grunt, Paul dug his fingers into the back of Madeline's thighs, then abruptly ceased his movement. Standing motionless, he clutched her hard, pressing deep into muscle until she clenched her teeth in pain. His chest rose and fell heavily against hers; she could feel his heart pounding as his breath rasped in her ear.
She rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He smelled of the mission: of perspiration, blood, grime and death. Pulling him closer, she breathed him in. The scent soothed her; it was deep and rich with spent violence, like the soreness from where he had bruised her and the inner ache from the roughness of their coupling. She could give herself to it, let it overwhelm her senses. Let it block out everything else. Everything but an unsettling question.
Why had she come to him?
She knew better, and yet she hadn't been able to help herself. She had reacted on instinct, driven by anger, worry -- and need. Most of all, need. Almost beyond reason.
Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?
He had asked, but she hadn't answered. She couldn't answer. His question assumed there was a distinction. She wasn't certain there was.
She felt him pull away and opened her eyes. He avoided her gaze and began to fasten his clothing, tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants, buckling his belt. Suddenly self-conscious, she did the same, continuing to brush and smooth the fabric long after any wrinkles or flecks of dirt had disappeared.
Eventually, the silence grew awkward, and there was nothing to do but look at each other.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she replied.
Equilibrium had returned, reassuring and rational. She drew a slow breath, finally taking in her surroundings. The light in the stairwell flickered with a soft buzz of electricity; the air was stale and smelled of mildewed carpet. Noise from the floors above and below seeped in faintly: disembodied voices, distant music, a clatter of dishes and running water.
She looked back at Paul. He stood a few feet away, hands thrust into his pockets, regarding her pensively.
"What happened today?" she asked.
A look of surprise filled his face. "I thought you knew."
"I heard some people died, and you confronted Adrian. That's all."
For an instant, his jaw tensed, the bone jutting out and then rapidly retreating. "We had him," he said sourly. "And she made us let him go." He shook his head in a gesture of disgust. "She doesn't get it. Not anymore. She's holding us back."
She's holding us back. The remark stung her into awareness, like a sudden pinprick. He sees it, too.
"It's not just the missions," she said, keeping her voice steady even as her heart began to lurch. "It's the same in the labs."
"How so?" He smiled bitterly. "I thought she'd given you the keys to the place."
She gave a short laugh. "If only." The frustrations of earlier in the day flooded back. "We have technology, and we're not using it to its full potential. Because of her scruples."
She stifled a grimace, but she couldn't keep the distaste from her voice. Scruples, from a woman who thought nothing of enslaving thousands of people, or of executing those who failed to meet her arbitrary standards. The hypocrisy of it was sickening.
His gaze sharpened, his eyes transforming into circles of glittering blue ice. Once again, she could feel the anger emanating from him; it was palpable, like a cloud that darkened and chilled the air around him. But unlike before, when his rage seemed directed at everyone and everything, this time it was focused, concentrated on a single subject of odium. Instead of pushing her away, it drew her in; it surrounded her, filled her, and made her its own.
"The problem with Adrian," he said, his voice hoarse with derision, "is that she's a spy, not a soldier. She understands intelligence, but she doesn't know how to fight a war."
"And what Section faces now is a war," she said, nodding in agreement. "Against a new kind of enemy."
"You can't just outwit them. You have to obliterate them. It's not a Cold War; it's scorched earth. And Adrian doesn't have the stomach for it."
"No. But we do."
They held a look. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he weren't quite sure how she would react. Then he straightened his shoulders resolutely. "That's why she needs to be removed from the equation." He looked her steadily in the eye. A challenge, but also a plea.
She blinked. "That would be for the best." She smiled, trying to control her relief. No, more than relief. Joy. "For Section," she amended hastily, disturbed by the force of her emotion.
Not for me. Not for us. For Section.
"For everyone," he said.
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-One, 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 only mid-evening, but Madeline found the main floor of Section virtually empty. Without its customary noise and energy, it felt cavernous and abandoned -- the air noticeably chilly, the lights uncomfortably harsh. Within the room's vast expanse only a lone figure sat working: Jules, typing at one of the workstations, his thin face pinched in a frown of concentration.
As Madeline walked along, Jules glanced up and nodded to her in brusque greeting. She smiled at him fleetingly, then she raised her eyes toward Adrian's office. Adrian was there, as always; her back to the windows, she studied a map stretched out in her hands.
Madeline wrenched her gaze back to the floor. Once, years before, Adrian had caught her looking. When their eyes met, Adrian had beamed as if in victory, as if the very act of looking up provided acknowledgement of Adrian's inherent authority and Madeline's subordination. Since then, she had struggled to appear indifferent to her commander's presence; still, the compulsion to glance toward the office was irresistible.
Increasing her pace, she turned the corner into Munitions -- and then stopped short.
Next to the worktable, Walter and Lisa clutched each other in a tight embrace. As Madeline froze in surprise, they hurriedly pulled apart. Walter cleared his throat self-consciously; Lisa straightened her jacket and looked down at the floor.
Walter…and Lisa? How unexpected. But then she examined the two of them more carefully. Walter looked worried, not amorous. As for Lisa, she was dressed in grimy mission gear, her face smeared with dirt and puffy with signs of recent crying.
The embrace had been that of a friend comforting another, not that of lovers.
Interesting.
Madeline took a few slow steps forward, taking in Lisa's demeanor. The other operative wasn't particularly moody as a rule. While she was naïve about many things -- charmingly so, in fact -- Madeline had never known her to be fazed by violence or death on missions. To the contrary, she always exhibited a blustering bravado, as if being tough in the field could provide a counterbalance to her painful social awkwardness. What, then, could have upset her like this?
"Do you need something, Madeline?" Walter stepped in front of Lisa, as if to shield her from Madeline's assessing gaze.
Madeline smiled. Walter's protectiveness was sweet, like that of a devoted guard dog. She could almost see the raised fur and bared teeth.
"Yes, I do," she answered, then added pointedly, "but I don't mean to interrupt anything…."
Half-hidden behind Walter, Lisa shook her head. "No, don't worry about it." Despite the unconcerned words, her voice was slightly tremulous.
"What do you want?" Walter sounded reluctant and somewhat impatient.
Madeline ignored his tone, keeping her own strenuously pleasant. "You took notes when you tested the L-18 device?"
"Yeah."
"I'd like to see them."
"Okay. Stop by first thing in the morning and I'll have them for you."
He was already turning away when she spoke again.
"Morning won't be soon enough." When he stopped and looked back at her, she smiled apologetically. "Could you get them for me now, please?"
"Right this minute? It's kind of late."
"It's important."
He sighed loudly. "Fine. Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."
He threw a quick glance at Lisa and disappeared into a back corridor.
Madeline turned to Lisa, whose tearstained face belied her struggle to appear composed.
"Are you all right?"
Lisa hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, "Patrick's dead."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Madeline reached out and touched Lisa's arm.
So that explained it. Occasionally, field operatives developed battlefield bonds, especially if they had served together for any length of time. Over the next few weeks, Lisa could be expected to exhibit the typical trajectory of anger and grief. It would require some adjustment to mission profiles. Inconvenient, but unavoidable.
Fresh tears began rolling down Lisa's face. "It was so stupid. He died over nothing."
"What happened?"
"Adrian sent us out to retrieve Cyrus Norasty. A simple vehicle intercept. If we'd had a normal complement on the team, it would have been a quick snatch and run. The sort of thing we can do in our sleep."
"But…?" Madeline prompted.
"But Adrian sent us in with half a team and no air support, that's what." Lisa's voice filled with bitterness and rage. "There weren't enough of us to pin in the Red Cell convoy. They just shot their way straight through our roadblock, and we lost five people." Her expression hardened. "I almost cheered when Paul told Adrian off."
A clammy sensation of apprehension settled across Madeline's skin. "When he what?" she asked numbly.
Lisa gave a short laugh. "He called her an idiot, if I remember the choice of words right. And told her she must have slept her way to the top. Comm went so quiet afterwards I thought they'd all fainted in shock."
The clamminess penetrated Madeline's body and thickened into churning nausea. She stared at Lisa's face as if from a vast distance. The mouth was still moving, but no sound registered; the features shifted, distorting into disembodied abstraction.
Paul had lost his mind. His position with Adrian was already precarious, and she would never tolerate such open disrespect. If he continued to provoke her, sooner or later he'd be punished. Maybe even cancelled.
That is, if he hadn't been already.
At the latter thought, Madeline felt a dizzying rush of fear, but then a sudden, dreadful calm. It wiped all else clean, leaving only an icy resolve, devoid of emotion, almost serene in its certitude.
If Adrian had harmed Paul in any way, Madeline would kill her. She would stroll upstairs to the office, smile and offer a polite greeting, and send a bullet slicing through the woman's aristocratic forehead. And then she would accept whatever fate befell her.
No fear. No hesitation. No regrets.
Slowly, Lisa's voice became audible again. It seemed disconcertingly loud, jarring.
"Honestly, I was amazed he didn't get dragged down to Containment when we got back, the way he talked to her. But she always has cut him more slack than anyone else."
Madeline frowned, consciousness of her surroundings drifting back as her mind grasped the significance of Lisa's words.
"What happened, then? Where is he?" She could hear her voice sharpen, but she couldn't help herself.
Lisa stepped back, as if retreating from Madeline's intensity. "They debriefed, and then I saw him leave. I think he went home."
"I see. Thank you, Lisa." Turning, she began to walk toward the exit.
"What about Walter's notes?" Lisa called out.
Madeline halted, so anxious to depart the room she was afraid she might combust. Clamping down on her reaction, she looked over her shoulder at Lisa.
"Walter's right. It is late. I'll stop by in the morning. Give him my apologies for troubling him this evening." She paused, noting Lisa's bewildered expression. Perhaps more condolences were in order before she rushed out so precipitously. "Patrick was an outstanding operative," she said in grave voice. "We'll all miss him."
Lisa gave her a long look, tinged with what might have been skepticism -- or even hurt. "Yeah. Maybe some of us more than others."
***
Lisa stood motionless, a feeling of disappointment and isolation rolling over her like a cold ocean wave.
She knew her reaction was foolish, even as the emotions swam in chilly circles in the pit of her stomach. She could hardly expect Madeline to be grief-stricken: in Section, people died as a matter of daily routine. Even savvy veterans like Patrick. So why should anyone lament the occurrence of something so mundane?
Still, the man had been on Madeline's very first team when she arrived at Section One. He had helped her learn the ropes as a field operative and had watched her back on countless missions since. He was dependable, considerate, and generous, his taciturn demeanor never fully disguising his fundamental decency. He mattered, and his death ought to matter, too. But all Madeline had to say in his memory was that he was an "outstanding operative."
An outstanding operative?
Pathetic. Even Adrian could have come up with something better than that.
"So where'd Madeline go?"
Startled, Lisa turned. Behind her, Walter stood clutching a notebook, his expression one of irritated mystification.
She blinked, her tension gradually easing. Thank God for Walter. Maybe people like Madeline didn't give a damn whether anyone lived or died, but at least someone did.
She shrugged. "She said it was too late after all, so she'll stop by in the morning."
Rolling his eyes, he tossed the notebook on a shelf. He made an exasperated face, but then his expression lightened.
"Hey, Lisa. Come back inside for a minute. I've got something for you."
Like a leprechaun promising a pot of gold, he beckoned and vanished into the storage area. Perplexed, she followed, peering into the narrow aisles to see where he had headed.
She found him waiting in front of a beaten-looking metal cabinet. The door squeaked as he yanked it open. He rummaged noisily inside for several moments and eventually pulled out a fat bottle of liquor. Grinning, he brandished it in the air; its tawny liquid gleamed as it sloshed to and fro.
"Kentucky's finest, bottled straight from the cask. I was going to save it for my birthday, but whaddya say we give it a little taste test tonight?"
She smiled sadly. What a sweet gesture. Too bad she wasn't in the mood.
"I'm sorry, Walter, but I think I just want to go home."
He grunted disapprovingly. "You and Patrick used to hoist a few after each mission, right?"
She felt herself stiffen. "Yeah. To celebrate making it through alive."
"Well, don't you think he'd want you to tonight?"
Her face twitched with the effort to control her expression. "He didn't make it through alive this time. What's to celebrate?"
"The fact that he's in a better place than us right now." He lowered himself unceremoniously to the floor. He sat back against the wall, bony legs sprawling, and patted the spot next to him invitingly. "Come on. Let's send off that big lug the way he deserves."
Reluctantly, she joined him on the floor. It was hard, cold and dusty, smelling of rancid grease and gunpowder. She stifled a sneeze and settled into a cross-legged position.
He twisted open the bottle and hoisted it into the air. "To Patrick." He took a sip and coughed explosively. "Damn fine stuff," he said.
He passed her the bottle. Taking it with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and took a swig. It tasted of brimstone and old leather, flaming all the way down her throat and into her stomach. Dribbles spilled from the corners of her mouth; gasping, she wiped them clean with her shirtsleeve.
"Good, huh?"
She couldn't yet speak; in response, she merely nodded. Painful might be a more accurate description -- but then again, it had cleared the tearful lump in her throat like an astringent. Maybe that was good, after all.
They passed the bottle back and forth in silence. She stared at the wall in front of her, allowing her body to warm.
Patrick would have liked this. Too bad he's not here to try it.
She frowned, recognizing the illogic of her last thought. If Patrick were alive, Walter wouldn't have opened the bottle in the first place. Unless…unless that bullet had killed her and not him. It could have happened that way just as easily -- the fact that it struck him was completely random.
Going on missions was like playing Russian roulette. Each pull of the trigger brought the loaded chamber closer; each empty click was a countdown toward death. First, his death. Eventually, hers.
"It's going be me one of these days," she announced morosely. "No one lasts forever out there."
"Jeeze, Lisa, you've got to stop saying things like--"
"No!" She threw him a sharp look. "I'm not going to pretend that everything's going to be okay, because it's not. And if you keep pretending, you're just insulting me."
He looked startled, then chastened. He said nothing, but he draped an arm around her shoulders protectively. She leaned in toward him but felt no real comfort.
It's not going to be okay. No miracles or happy endings.
"Can you promise me something?" she asked anxiously, her words spilling out before she could stop them.
Surprised concern filled his face. "Sure," he said gently. "What is it?"
This was going to be hard to explain. She'd better start from the beginning.
"I don't know if you remember, but when I first came here, I was pregnant. With twins, as it turned out."
"I remember that. They took them away afterwards."
"They did worse than that," she said, grimacing. "One of them was placed with an adoptive family. But they kept the other one here, for an experiment."
He shifted positions, looking vaguely uneasy. "Oh, yeah? How do you know?"
"Because I found him. They're raising him up on Level 16."
Abruptly, he removed his arm from her shoulders.
"Oh, man," he muttered.
"He's like a prisoner," she continued, letting the anger flow freely. "He barely ever goes outside, never interacts with anyone but a few teachers -- they're trying to turn him into some computer prodigy." She sat up straight, her anger surging into defiant pride. "But I've been helping him," she confided, her voice low but full of intensity.
His face paled. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, suddenly uncertain in the face of his apparent nervousness. "I've kind of…uh…made some arrangements with people. The head teacher on Level 16, Jules. I do them favors, and they make sure I can get him some luxuries here and there. It's not much, but…."
She stopped, losing control of her voice. He stared at her with a look of raw horror.
Was it a mistake to tell him? No, surely he would understand. If anyone in Section would, it was Walter. Walter, of the five percent club, who was always there when she needed a joke or a shoulder to lean on. He was the only one she could trust with this. And God, this was so important. She was going to die, she was sure of it, and she needed his help.
After a moment's pause, she gathered her courage. "If anything happens to me, I want you to promise that you'll look out for him. You know, just small things. Make sure his life isn't completely miserable." She looked at him pleadingly. "Can you do that for me?"
He covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Jesus, Lisa," he groaned. Then he looked up, with a strange expression that she couldn't quite interpret. "It's karma, come back to bite me in the ass. Serves me right, I suppose, after what I did."
She looked at him, unsure what to say.
He sat quietly for a moment, then he took a swig from the bottle and made a bitter face.
"I'm the one who picked him, you know."
"What?"
"Seymour. I picked him to stay."
She repeated his words in her mind -- once, twice, three times. It didn't make sense. He couldn't have meant what it sounded like. That wasn't possible. But then how did he know it was Seymour who stayed in Section? She hadn't mentioned any names.
"What do you mean?" she asked warily.
He shook his head. "I don't know why they picked me to choose. I mean, what do I know about that kind of thing? Maybe Adrian was testing me. Who knows?"
That wasn't an answer to her question.
"What did you do, Walter?" She spoke through gritted teeth.
He swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Well, one day one of the doctors took me in to see them, and said, pick one. I asked, how? And he said, just pick one. So, I did." His expression grew defensive. "I didn't have any choice, you know?"
Somehow, he had managed to choose between two helpless infants. He had decided, when she couldn't. She didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.
"How did you pick?"
He looked away. "I flipped a coin."
She stared at him for a moment, horrified. Then she started to laugh -- a bitter, disgusted laugh.
He flipped a coin. How sick. How horrible. And how completely Section.
Her laughter faded. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" Her voice was soft, but the question was an accusation.
"What good would it have done for you to know?"
What good would it have done? It would have showed he cared enough about her to be honest. It would have showed that she wasn't alone.
She rose to her feet unsteadily. "You're right," she said, looking down at him like a stranger. "It wouldn't have done any good at all."
***
As twilight faded, the light from the lamp grew stark. Harsh amidst the strengthening darkness, it cast sharp lines across the living room carpet and threw misshapen shadows against the walls. The contrast hurt Paul's eyes, but he ignored it; staring ahead, he roamed from one end of the room to the other, a restless nomad in a vain search for refuge.
Home should have been that refuge. It should have been a source of comfort and safety. Yet his apartment seemed as confining as a solitary cell, its familiar outlines more claustrophobic than welcoming.
He might as well have stayed in Section. In fact, he had expected to be detained there; with a perverse sense of pride, he had even welcomed the prospect. But when he returned from the mission and presented himself to Adrian, offering to debrief, she looked at him with a blank expression and shook her head. Then she simply turned away, as if he didn't exist.
No humiliating dressing-down before the other operatives. No scathing private rebuke. No punishment or repercussions of any kind. Nothing.
The lack of reaction was disorienting. Over the years, he had seen Adrian lose her temper at operatives many times: her icy viciousness was legendary within Section, but something he had learned to face without fear. In its absence, he found his courage ebbing, replaced by worry.
By the time he arrived home, however, the worry had given way to rage. It wrapped around his chest like a python, tightening relentlessly until he could barely breathe. Paralyzed, he stood motionless in the center of his living room -- hands clenched, muscles tensed, heart racing. The perfect military order of the surroundings was suffocating: he wanted to sweep the books from the shelves, smash the lamp against the wall, hurl the ashtray through the television screen. Destroy everything within reach.
Instead, he paced.
Hours later, he was still pacing, tracing a line back and forth across the floor, as if the sheer repetition might grind down his seething energy into something more controllable. Gradually, the ability to reason began to return to him. But his thoughts circled helplessly around the events of that afternoon, trapped in a sickening orbit around the mission. The mission -- and his failure.
No. Not his failure. Adrian's failure.
They had one of Red Cell's founders within their sights, and Adrian had let him live. Unbelievable. What was she thinking? Killing Norasty might not have stopped any of their operations, but that wasn't the point. It would have been a blow to morale, a symbolic victory against an organization that traded in such gestures.
By allowing him to escape, Adrian ceded the upper hand to Red Cell. Norasty himself would gain cult status: a super-terrorist, untouchable, too good for Section to catch. His enhanced reputation would breed more support, more members, more donations -- and more attacks.
If Adrian couldn't see that, then Section had already lost the war. Every mission they launched would be an exercise in futility; every death in the field an utter waste. He had witnessed that kind of senselessness once before in Vietnam and had ascribed it to civilian incompetence. There, it was easy to lay the blame on weak-willed politicians and ill-informed public opinion. He had thought that Section -- free of such hindrances -- would be different.
But if it wasn't any different, then what was the point?
There was no answer to that question. Or at least no answer he could bring himself to face.
Sharp raps at the door broke into his thoughts. He flinched in surprise, not quite believing what he had heard. The knocks came in a quick but distinct pattern: a code he had memorized, but hadn't heard in years -- in fact, hadn't expected to hear ever again. Cautiously, nearly certain he had imagined it, he approached the door and peered through the peephole.
It wasn't his imagination. Madeline stood in the hallway, hands clasped together, with a knowing expression that made him feel as if she could see right through the door.
Madeline. There, at his home, for the first time in over two years. There was an instant of shock, then a wave of gratitude. She had heard what happened and had come to console him. She would understand his frustration. Would think the way he did. Would know he was right.
He opened the door in relief. For several moments, she did nothing but stare back at him, her gaze cool, assessing.
"You're lucky," she announced. Her voice was mellifluous but laced with sarcasm, like a bite of bittersweet chocolate.
Taken aback, he stiffened. "Lucky I lost half my team? Or lucky we lost the target?"
"Lucky that you're still here to be angry about it," she replied, arching an eyebrow in a subtle motion of rebuke. "Somewhat surprising after your outburst."
He laughed in disappointment and disgust. "You came all the way here to lecture me? Isn't that a treat."
Her expression hardened. "I came here to make you see some sense," she said, her voice dropping in anger.
How dare she judge him? Off in her safe little research domain, showered with privileges by a strangely doting Adrian, she knew nothing of what he had been going through the past few months. She hadn't seen the deaths, or the cutbacks, or the missions that led nowhere. She hadn't felt the sting of having her opinion ignored or dismissed when it was once held so highly. She hadn't lost anything -- in fact, she seemed only to have gained what he once had.
That thought made her presence unbearable.
He grimaced. "Spare me, Madeline. I don't need to hear it. Especially not from you."
He started to close the door, but she grabbed his forearm to stop him, her fingers digging into his skin through his shirt.
"Paul, listen to me. Please."
He searched her eyes. There was an intensity in her gaze that hinted at something unidentifiable: worry, fear, maybe even desperation. It made him hesitate, even when his fingers itched to slam the door in her face.
He glanced back into his apartment. "Not here," he mouthed silently.
She nodded and released her grip on his arm.
He stepped into the hallway, allowing the door to fall closed behind him. Seizing her elbow, he marched her toward the stairs; he squeezed hard enough to hurt her -- probably hard enough to bruise -- but she didn't flinch, and she said nothing.
He kicked open the stairwell door and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut, echoing in the emptiness. He turned to face her and folded his arms across his chest.
"You've got something to say to me? Go ahead."
She took a sharp breath with what looked like fleeting nervousness, but then her expression quickly reverted to its usual calm ambiguity.
"Nothing can be gained from needless provocation of Adrian," she said smoothly, almost patronizingly. "Stop before it goes any farther."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you're inviting cancellation," she replied, a trace of exasperation breaking through the smoothness.
Of course. That was the direction he was headed in. To be honest, he had been prodding Adrian toward that end for quite a long time. Until this incident, it had been unconscious. Now, however, he had openly embraced the inevitable: if there was no place in Section for his ideas, then there was no place for him, either.
He sighed, suddenly drained of energy. "What difference does it make?"
Her face whitened, her dark eyes growing unnaturally large against the pallor of her skin. Then her jaw tightened and she gave him a violent shove against his chest. Caught by surprise, he stumbled back against the wall, the air expelling from his lungs in a painful gasp.
"Don't you dare say that," she said in a voice as cold as death. "Don't even think it."
The force of the collision with the wall set his anger exploding back into being.
"Why?" he demanded. "What do you care?"
He took several steps forward, daring her to reach for him again. But this time she remained motionless, doing nothing even as he came provocatively close.
He waited.
"Because Section needs you too much," she finally answered.
Not good enough. He shook his head.
"Section needs me." He gave a curt laugh. "How heartwarming. Somehow, I was hoping you'd give me a better reason."
She stared back at him. Slowly, her eyes filled with emotion: pain, defiance, and resentment, swirling together like a thundercloud.
"I need you," she said.
She needed him. Those were the words he had wanted her to utter, and yet hearing them was strangely unsatisfying. They were too easy, too ambiguous: an evasion, wrapped in a confession.
"Need me, how?"
She said nothing. Her eyes seemed to hold an answer, but he couldn't decipher it.
"Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?"
She remained silent, her gaze unblinking.
For a moment, he wanted to snatch her by the throat and choke an answer out of her. To squeeze until he hurt her, until she cried out, until she said something. Except that even then she wouldn't. She wouldn't give in, and he couldn't make her. He couldn't make her do anything. He had no more control over her than he did over Section. Or over his own life.
Once, he'd had everything. A woman who shared herself with him, and a future with meaning and promise. Then it had all slipped away, vanishing so gradually he hadn't known how to stop it.
But wishing for the past wouldn't bring it back. The question was: was there anything left?
Slowly, he reached out and touched her face. He moved almost automatically, more on instinct than with any conscious intent. He ran his fingers across her cheek, threaded them though her hair, traced them along her lips. Her skin was soft and smoother than he remembered; her cheek and jawbones felt so delicate he was afraid he might crush them. Afraid that maybe he wanted to.
She placed a hand against his cheek; disconcerted, he grasped and removed it. She slid both hands along his chest and shoulders; again, he pulled them away, this time more forcefully.
"Don't," he said sharply.
He couldn't control Section. He couldn't control her feelings. But he would control this -- it would be at his pace, and on his terms.
A look of confusion filled her face, but she stopped.
He shifted his hands from her face to her body. His palms followed the curve of her waist to her hips, absorbing her heat through the thin fabric, then slid down the length of her thighs. He slipped his hands underneath her skirt; there, nails dug into warm flesh, and fingers sought out yielding moistness.
She inhaled audibly, and he remembered that she'd said she needed him. Maybe not the way he wanted, but that didn't matter. Now, the fact that she needed him at all -- and acknowledged that need, at whatever level it existed -- would have to be enough.
He would make it enough.
With a sudden surge of energy, he forced her backwards, pinning her against the door. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, raised her skirt. Then he lifted her up and pressed against her so hard she gasped.
Anger transformed into desire; hopelessness gave way to determination. He moved swiftly, because he wanted to. He was rough, because it suited him. He took possession, because it was his right.
As he drove himself into her, gritting his teeth with the effort, she finally relaxed, utterly passive, and allowed him to do as he wanted. To take the lead, to draw what he needed from her.
Her gaze locked with his, and he knew she understood. Understood -- and accepted.
She accepted. When the realization struck him, his fury vanished.
He slowed his movement, the violence replaced with tenderness, and began to kiss a path along her neck. As he breathed in her scent, her hair fell like a silk curtain around his face, and he felt his mind clear, the haze of anger that had imprisoned him all night gradually lifting. Her acquiescence calmed him, helped him see alternatives.
He wasn't alone after all. He wasn't powerless. And while the past was irretrievable, he could still create a future.
***
With a sharp grunt, Paul dug his fingers into the back of Madeline's thighs, then abruptly ceased his movement. Standing motionless, he clutched her hard, pressing deep into muscle until she clenched her teeth in pain. His chest rose and fell heavily against hers; she could feel his heart pounding as his breath rasped in her ear.
She rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He smelled of the mission: of perspiration, blood, grime and death. Pulling him closer, she breathed him in. The scent soothed her; it was deep and rich with spent violence, like the soreness from where he had bruised her and the inner ache from the roughness of their coupling. She could give herself to it, let it overwhelm her senses. Let it block out everything else. Everything but an unsettling question.
Why had she come to him?
She knew better, and yet she hadn't been able to help herself. She had reacted on instinct, driven by anger, worry -- and need. Most of all, need. Almost beyond reason.
Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?
He had asked, but she hadn't answered. She couldn't answer. His question assumed there was a distinction. She wasn't certain there was.
She felt him pull away and opened her eyes. He avoided her gaze and began to fasten his clothing, tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants, buckling his belt. Suddenly self-conscious, she did the same, continuing to brush and smooth the fabric long after any wrinkles or flecks of dirt had disappeared.
Eventually, the silence grew awkward, and there was nothing to do but look at each other.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she replied.
Equilibrium had returned, reassuring and rational. She drew a slow breath, finally taking in her surroundings. The light in the stairwell flickered with a soft buzz of electricity; the air was stale and smelled of mildewed carpet. Noise from the floors above and below seeped in faintly: disembodied voices, distant music, a clatter of dishes and running water.
She looked back at Paul. He stood a few feet away, hands thrust into his pockets, regarding her pensively.
"What happened today?" she asked.
A look of surprise filled his face. "I thought you knew."
"I heard some people died, and you confronted Adrian. That's all."
For an instant, his jaw tensed, the bone jutting out and then rapidly retreating. "We had him," he said sourly. "And she made us let him go." He shook his head in a gesture of disgust. "She doesn't get it. Not anymore. She's holding us back."
She's holding us back. The remark stung her into awareness, like a sudden pinprick. He sees it, too.
"It's not just the missions," she said, keeping her voice steady even as her heart began to lurch. "It's the same in the labs."
"How so?" He smiled bitterly. "I thought she'd given you the keys to the place."
She gave a short laugh. "If only." The frustrations of earlier in the day flooded back. "We have technology, and we're not using it to its full potential. Because of her scruples."
She stifled a grimace, but she couldn't keep the distaste from her voice. Scruples, from a woman who thought nothing of enslaving thousands of people, or of executing those who failed to meet her arbitrary standards. The hypocrisy of it was sickening.
His gaze sharpened, his eyes transforming into circles of glittering blue ice. Once again, she could feel the anger emanating from him; it was palpable, like a cloud that darkened and chilled the air around him. But unlike before, when his rage seemed directed at everyone and everything, this time it was focused, concentrated on a single subject of odium. Instead of pushing her away, it drew her in; it surrounded her, filled her, and made her its own.
"The problem with Adrian," he said, his voice hoarse with derision, "is that she's a spy, not a soldier. She understands intelligence, but she doesn't know how to fight a war."
"And what Section faces now is a war," she said, nodding in agreement. "Against a new kind of enemy."
"You can't just outwit them. You have to obliterate them. It's not a Cold War; it's scorched earth. And Adrian doesn't have the stomach for it."
"No. But we do."
They held a look. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he weren't quite sure how she would react. Then he straightened his shoulders resolutely. "That's why she needs to be removed from the equation." He looked her steadily in the eye. A challenge, but also a plea.
She blinked. "That would be for the best." She smiled, trying to control her relief. No, more than relief. Joy. "For Section," she amended hastily, disturbed by the force of her emotion.
Not for me. Not for us. For Section.
"For everyone," he said.
************
To go on to Chapter Twenty-One, click here.