| Subject: Chapter 272 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, February 26, 06:56:45am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (258>?) continued" on Monday, October 23, 07:10:30am
Extra warning: I'm rating this 16 and above for some *very* mild bad language.
Dreams in the Dark (272/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It was a day which never seemed to end, its nightmares lingering; even hours after her terrible encounter with Jones, Nikita wasn't at peace. From new allies with disturbing connections, to multiple reminders of the terrible ache of missing her partner, she couldn't quite rest. Still, she hoped for some imitation of it, once she finally reached her home.
This hope--as so often--wasn't to be. Helmut let her off, guided her to her door--only leaving, a bit uncertainly, when she assured him that everything was fine. But the assurance came too soon; she followed the raised, hurt voices toward the kitchen. She was more than a bit terrified of where this might lead now.
It wasn't that she feared an intruder, as she had the time she had fled from the house weeks ago; the voices didn't sound quite so threatening. It was more that she knew that whatever domestic harmony she had been able to enjoy for these last few weeks with her new helpers seemed to finally be at an end.
There was more to her dull horror than a realization that there might well be no sleep tonight, however. The sound of screaming voices had been a traumatic one for her, for many years. Having been raised in her mother's house--with both that woman's boyfriends' usual approach to confrontation and Bobbie's own, misguided maternal efforts--had made such sounds nearly painful to her. To anyone who hadn't grown up in such an environment, who had experienced a mostly peaceful childhood, such screaming would probably only elicit a headache or mild annoyance. But to a woman such as Nikita, the sounds put her right back in her mother's house--cringing in a corner, as she prayed that whatever beating or violation she endured this time wouldn't be as bad as she feared.
It was because of her background that she simply wanted to run and hide the second she heard the rising argument. But that wasn't an option anymore. She was now "the woman of the house." It was her place--in Michael's absence, especially--to deal with whatever troubles she might find.
This was exactly what her husband didn't want for her, of course, was the sort of trouble and strain from which he always wished to shield her. So long as he had kept her informed of whatever was happening, as well--didn't treat her as though she were a child who was incapable of processing such information, who was useless in aiding him--she wouldn't even have minded; there was a sigh, as she approached. But such an option wasn't possible just now.
She had come to just outside the door, was listening there, before she decided what to do. It was possible that this conversation truly was a private one, should just be left to the couple themselves to sort out--neither of them children; she would just leave them a note to tell them she was back. But, if it affected her, or if they seemed incapable of working through it themselves, she would have to intervene. Especially given the new terrors of the day, she couldn't afford to have a question mark hanging over her aides.
She listened, trying desperately not to feel like the intruder she knew she was. Annie's voice seemed stressed and tired, straining toward the upper registers. "How can you pretend that I'm not part of this?" There was a second of fuming silence, before she continued. "And how could you just leave her there? None of those people are trained in tactics. What is some *banker* going to do, if Jones's men attack his car on the way home? Offer them a savings account?"
There was another second of bristling silence, before Fredericks answered; his voice wasn't quite so loud as his wife's, but it was growing more annoyed all the time. "You think I was happy about leaving her there? After Mrs. Worth made me *promise* to keep her under guard every second? You think I don't understand the danger she's in?" There was a second where Nikita could nearly hear both of them growling. "Jesus!" There was the sound of stomping feet, but they didn't move very far. Fredericks' voice did become softer, though--sounded even a trifle hurt. "Besides, there's no reason to discuss it. It's not like you're even really my . . ."
It was at this point that Nikita came in, breaking up the scene between her two shocked helpers. Annie was standing in front of the sink, her arms crossed--looking far more intractable than the actress had ever imagined her; Fredericks' back was to her, his arms crossed as well, his body almost crammed into a corner of the kitchen. When she entered, they both stopped dead, a moment of supreme guilt on their faces, before Annie looked away--seeming much like the kicked puppy she too often tended toward. It was Fredericks who pulled himself back together enough to face their employer, finally turning to her--arms still folded but gaze professional--to address her quietly. "I'm glad you made it back well, Mrs. Samuelle." Nikita wondered whether the words were truly aimed at his wife, because Annie looked even more chastised than before, head sinking further toward the floor. "I'm sorry, if we disturbed you."
It was obvious that he was trying to brazen it out, was hoping that she would just accept the apology and go away. Annie had clearly picked up on the approach, murmuring, "If there's anything I can get you before bedtime, please let me know." But it was all-too-clear that the conversation that had been raging was nothing like over yet.
They were waiting for her to leave them to continue their pain in peace, but their employer had no intention of allowing that. For one thing, half their argument had been about her, should be addressed. But, more importantly, she liked these people, was coming to depend on them--was learning to trust them. If there were some way she could help . . .
It was her usual desire to aid people, some sort of inborn altruism--one which had never quite been beaten out of her, no matter how many times the world had tried--which made her stay. Even if she knew she was intruding, she couldn't just turn her back on them. They needed help. The only logical next step to her was that she had to help them.
She propped herself against a counter, sighing quietly, looking them over for a long moment. Then, she pushed her purse onto it, letting them know that she wouldn't be gotten rid of so easily. Once she was certain they understood, she began--trying not to feel too lady-of-the-manor, even if her tone suggested otherwise. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
It took a second, both the couple's gazes turned completely away, but it was quite clear they didn't. Still, given the set-up of the house, they didn't have the authority to just demand that she leave; Nikita took advantage of the fact, trying to open them up. "I know you don't want me here, but I also know that this is, at least partly, about me." Her look met both of theirs, once their focus guiltily crawled back to her own. "You both know a fair amount about me by now." Her gaze deepened, very serious. "You know that I don't want to be kept in the dark."
This quiet demand wasn't enough, however, Fredericks finally drawing himself back up to face her. His look was polite but firm. "We understand, but it's not necessary." Nikita looked over to his wife, saw her bristling--wondered if it were the "we" in that sentence which had bothered her; it certainly might have infuriated the actress in her early days with Michael, if he had so cavalierly taken the authority to speak for them both. Her gaze returned to her bodyguard, as he went on. "We just have a few things to discuss." His face was nearly a mask now. "I'm sorry that we bothered you."
It was a stoic effort--but, just as her own words had shown, it wasn't enough to make her go away. Her eyes traveled the room, looking for a way to make this clear--discovering, a little guiltily, that she really had very little knowledge of this part of the house. She couldn't exactly be called the average homemaker. It was odd, especially given her background; the thoughts moved in, despite herself. In her youth, she had done all the cooking in the house, whenever there was enough food to eat. Still, even at those times when she and Michael actually cooked--which was rare--it was usually, oddly, her husband who did the work, telling her to wait in the living room, as he did; she couldn't help the small smile of reminiscence. She really did miss being pampered by him, in all his many ways.
She drew herself back to the moment with an effort, gaze finally alighting on a small table and two chairs in the corner of the room. She wondered for a second why she and Michael had never eaten there but realized that it was merely made as a seating area for the maid; her heart sank a little, even as she grabbed her purse, making her way over to it--showing her determination to wait out their reluctance to talk. She really did hate that she had become so disgustingly grand--but there was little to be done about it, right now.
She put her handbag on the table, perching herself on the chair, having turned it toward the couple and their conversation, and placed one elbow on the table to rest her cheek on her palm, making her position clear. Her gaze was firm. "I know you don't want me here, but I'm staying, until I know the rest." She looked them both over. "You can hate me for it later, if you want."
Her determination took away the last of their resistance, Annie, especially, deflating visibly. Her arms had uncrossed, her body language a little hopeless--gaze firmly on the floor, matching her quiet voice. "We don't hate you," she nearly whispered. But there seemed a world of meaning behind the comment, the origins of which Nikita was anything but aware.
She hoped she wasn't coming off as simply nosy--or as the grand lady demanding to know why her servants had dared to disturb her by thinking that they were allowed to have personal problems of their own. But she would worry about that later. It was clear to her just now that, wherever the argument she had interrupted went, she couldn't simply ignore it. It wouldn't be over, until it was thoroughly discussed.
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