| Subject: Chapter 287 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, April 25, 07:42:39am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
Extra warning: I'm rating this part 16 and above for bad language.
Dreams in the Dark (287/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It had probably been the longest five days of his life, the last 24 hours or so especially trying. Yesterday afternoon, he had graduated, had then left Manitoba and his unit behind--at last--and started on his return trip to see his wife. But the journey which was supposed to only take several hours had somehow stretched into an entire day; there were no words for it. He was just lucky he hadn't gone mad.
Still, Michael was back now, was walking onto the lot as though he had never left, his thoughts an absolute jumble. As of yet, no one had really seen him, beyond the guard at the gate, who had nearly gone into shock, allowing him to stroll through the grounds in solitary splendor--leaving him, thankfully, alone with his thoughts. He needed the time. It had just been so very long since he had been with his beloved, had been so damned long since he had held her; it was already driving him mad. If he didn't manage to pull himself together now, he was going to make a very explicit showing at their reunion.
He took a deep breath, guiding his thoughts carefully, moving them back through the frustrations of the last day. He had so longed to be able to get home to her yesterday, to find her in bed late at night on a Sunday--her one day off. But it wasn't to be. Even in the planes which Helmut had been kind enough to schedule him onto, he hadn't been carefree yet.
This fact annoyed him a little, having robbed him of at least several hours with his beloved; he ached, knowing that he had missed even a single second, his time here already too damn short. But the weather hadn't cared. They had run into two snowstorms, had been delayed overnight somewhere in Washington state; he didn't even care where. When the airline had told him, he had damn near just gone out and started walking. But he had had to remind himself that such foolishness wouldn't get him home to her any faster.
He had managed this feat of patience somehow, had then, finally, accomplished his journey. But, between the combination of military and civilian flights, the vicissitudes of the weather--and his own, bloody-minded impatience probably making life far more difficult for everyone--it hadn't been an easy trip at all.
There was another deep breath, as he looked around, reminding himself of the truth, repeating it constantly. It didn't matter now. Whatever the problems, whatever his frustrations, he *was* here; there would have been a smile, had he not been so almost fanatically desperate. And now he would finally have his chance to be near his wife once more.
It was this opportunity he had prayed for for months, this he had kept in mind with every new trial. It didn't even seem quite real. He rather expected that it wouldn't, not until it was over--and then it would be much too late to truly appreciate his luck.
He had to force himself to focus on his surroundings, doing his damnedest to bring himself into the moment. It was why he had turned down Helmut's offer to drive him here, had been thankful for the cab and the time alone. To be near Nikita again was too much like a dream, one he had had for months. He felt as though he were some distant fan who had created the fantasy of her, as though she would look at him pleasantly but distantly, wondering whom he was; he *nearly* understood Eric's feelings, half-feared he was just as deluded. As it was, he had a request from the man for a signed autograph, one he was none-too-ready to fulfill but which he would probably have to at some point. He needed all the friends he could maintain in his unit, if he were ever to be able to come home for good.
His thoughts were wandering, his desperation to be near her making him feel nearly as unreal as his return to this place after so very long. The lot itself didn't help. Here, everything was a fantasy: castles, alleyways, jewelry, friendship, love. Part of him couldn't help the fear, however irrational it was. What if he had just imagined Nikita's friendship? What if all of his love for her were only a dream? What if he truly *were* just another fan, waiting for her autograph? He passed a backdrop of a distant forest, feeling strangely, terribly out of place. What if . . .?
His next thought wasn't finished, which was probably for the best, Rene's voice stopping him--several soundstages away, the designer running toward him. "Michel!" He turned to look at his old friend, smiling, trying to calm himself. Perhaps he wasn't mad. Maybe he was really here, after all.
He was convinced of his solidity, at least, in the next moment, when his old friend flung his arms around him, capturing him in a tight, intense hug; Michael returned it, smiling. When the designer finally pulled away, hands on the top of the actor's arms, he looked as though he were gazing at a ghost, still seemed stunned; he was speaking quickly in French. "Is it really you? You look . . ." His eyes wandered over the darker man, one eyebrow finally raised, when his gaze came slowly back to his face; he clapped the actor's arm once before letting go. "Nikita's a lucky woman."
There was a semi-lascivious, and wholly friendly, grin on his old friend's face, as he watched Michael shake his head. This was their earlier friendship played out in full--and it made the actor realize something he had dearly missed. In the year during which they had barely spoken, much of the humor had disappeared from their bond; even once they had become closer once more, they hadn't entirely rediscovered it. Now--mostly, he was certain, with Nikita's introduction in their lives--Rene could approach him as he always had; Michael's eyes were warm, tender, as he clapped a hand briefly to his old friend's cheek. "I've missed you, too."
The designer let out a warm laugh, the type the actor hadn't heard from him in years. It was good to have it back. Their look held for one more moment, as both of them appreciated the change, understanding this breakthrough in full. Both of them knew the truth. Somehow, this was Nikita's doing. And it was only one of a thousand different changes Michael was ready to thank her for in depth.
"Come," Rene said at last, breaking the moment, leading his friend along, their mood still warm; his hand patted the darker man's back briefly. "We expected you hours ago." There was no need to explain who else made up the "we"; that was another, positive change in the designer's life. "Nikita could use you."
Such an announcement worried Michael, made him stare into his old friend desperately; only one of his questions came out. "Does she know I'm coming?" Because, if she did, and he were late . . .
His fears of worrying her were allayed by a shake of the lighter man's head; the actor's second thought quickly followed. "Is she hurt?" His heart thumped. Because, if he found her harmed in any way . . .
Again, fortunately, his fears were dismissed, Rene shrugging slightly. "Just tired, sick of the studio, and ready to tear out Petrosian's heart and feed it to him." Michael smiled at the thought, although the anxiety did show through; the designer shook his head. "She's coping well." His look moved in. "But she needs you, Michel. More than she's letting any of us know."
This news alone made Michael want to run. The only fact which stopped him was that he wasn't entirely certain which soundstage she was in. He could always have demanded the facts from some passing gofer, but he reminded himself to be calm. It had taken him hours to get here. Walking briskly with Rene, who clearly knew the way, was far saner now.
Sanity was a difficult quality to find, but he managed somehow, aided by the conversation. They discussed Nikita, as they approached the building--but knew not to focus on anything too deep here. At the studio, there were always eyes and ears. Anything more important would just have to wait.
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