| Subject: Chapter 255 - Part 2 (16 and over) (end of chapter 255) |
Author:
KatherineG.
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Wednesday, October 11, 07:27:33am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
He was concerned about these gazes, about all that was brewing within the barracks, until he actually saw the letter--and the handwriting of the woman he loved. The sigh he let out was nearly audible, before he tried to pull himself back into line; his gaze met his trainer's, as though the man himself had delivered it all the way from Hollywood, his words soft. "Thank you." Finally, he might be sane again.
He walked back to his bed, as the mail call continued, but very few eyes were suddenly focused on their own letters. Across from his cot, Elkins' slightly cracking voice asked, "Is it from Kitty?" Michael would have been surprised at the question--Eric never speaking to him, unless he had to--but he was too caught up in his new bounty; he almost answered in the negative--nearly forgetting the name his wife wore for the world--before nodding once. Merely hiding it wouldn't hold off the coming conflict any longer.
He could feel the eyes of his bunkmates watching him, as he opened the precious object carefully, almost lovingly--terrified of damaging it in any way. It had already been through so much, had come so far, had undoubtedly been subjected to so many prying eyes--like his beloved herself; he took out the letter reverently. He had no intention of damaging it any further now.
Even as he was watched, he could focus on nothing else. He read the missive silently, adoring her--his heart thumping in fear of anything he might find. The longed-for letter read:
My dearest Michael,
Dear God, I love you. I knew it before you left, but I never realized how much. Now that you're not here, everything is so terribly different. I barely want to face the days without you. Nothing seems real, unless you're with me.
I've been waiting for your letter like some spoiled little girl desperate for Christmas. I keep peeping in the mailbox as though my present will arrive at any moment. My disappointment when it isn't there is immense. Still, I understand better than she would. I know how much you must suffer. I only wish you were here with me again.
I don't write the above to berate you. As I've said, I understand. I'm just so desperate to hear from you. I don't think I fully realized how much I needed you to have a hope of getting through any day with joy.
My God. I just looked over what I've written so far and realized that I'm starting almost every sentence with "I." I suppose it's appropriate. All I can seem to think about lately is how much I miss you, how empty my life seems without you here. I'm turning into a very selfish creature without you near me.
Let me try to answer the questions in your last letter--even if they won't change this trend. The studio is what it always was, for better and worse. I'm eating well for our child, with the homemade food I, and frequently Angie or Susan, bring. If Premier, or anyone else, wants anything different out of me, there hasn't been too much sign, as yet. Any hints to the contrary haven't gone very far.
I and our child are well, then. He still hasn't made himself much known yet--only with the slightest of bulges which dear Rene is doing his best to conceal. I'm certain he's well, though; I know it. We'll both be here and happy, when you return.
The only other question you've had has been of Andrew. He's much as he was, ever-concerned for the health of any expectant woman. All of our friends have been kind; they look out for me. Try not to worry yourself on my behalf.
My only real fears are for you. You tell me so little of yourself and your moods. I know you can't give me details--and my grandmother, from her vast experience, tries to reassure me--but I would like to know a little more. Like you, I need to know that you're well. My greatest fears are that you'll be harmed, in any way. I can't ever bear the thought of a life without you.
I don't know what else I can say here, except to repeat how much I love you--how desperately I miss you. Our house is so silent and empty without you in it. While it's still the safe, comfortable home you gave to me with our marriage, it's not enough alone. I need you back. That's all I can think about, every single day.
I've just reread what I've written once more, and it makes me worry. I don't want you to think that I'm trying to manipulate you. Please don't feel guilty for your absence. God knows, I understand. But the days without you make me ache. I think I'll only be truly happy again when I'm once more in your arms.
*Please* take care of yourself. I can't bear the thought of a life without you.
Your needy, whiny little wife who loves you more than she can express,
Nikita
Oh, Lord. His heart ached to read this, entirely forgetting about those around him, about the fact that he was still the focus of most of the room's attention--absorbed by his dear one's soul. While he hated her self-doubts, this delusion she seemed to live under that she was any more needy or desperate for him than he was for her, her absolute devotion was plain. Mostly, too, she was well; he let out a sigh, thankful for her intelligence, her ability to say so much with so little. He only wished that he could look into her beautiful eyes again, as he heard her words of love.
He wanted to reread the letter, to do so a thousand times--but now was not the correct moment. He had managed to keep his original letter to her safe by keeping it secret; he sighed, refolding the precious document to put it back into its envelope. But this, sweet note was not half so well protected.
It was Ackerman who made this fact plain a moment later, standing up to stare at the return address on the envelope, as Michael was placing it in his front pocket; his look was disgusted, as always. "Nik-ete Se-mule?" He chuckled, grasping for it, but the actor made certain it was beyond his reach, without a fight. "Who the hell is that?"
The older man sighed. He had been afraid of this, didn't want to expose any of his wife's precious information to these buffoons. Still, there were some misunderstandings he didn't want--such as him having two wives; his gaze was calm, as he lay there, looking up. "It's Ni-ki-ta Samuelle." He couldn't help caressing it, thinking of her. "It's my wife's real name."
Ackerman was glowering at any response Michael might give--but, for once, Eric wasn't with him, was fascinated. "Kitty Ward's real first name is . . .?" He trailed off, not quite ready to try it.
The actor half-smiled, happy for any opportunity to repeat it, even one as potentially dangerous as this. "Ni-ki-ta." Eric repeated it, far less certainly, giving Michael a strange look; the woman's husband smiled, guessing what would come next--moving to forestall it. "It was some sort of private joke between her parents." Or so Adrian had hinted once. The reality of the name's origin was undoubtedly far less heartwarming than he intimated.
His immediate nemesis was still glaring, towering above him. "Is she Russian?" Apparently, he was better informed than he looked.
The besieged man's polite smile continued, his head shaking once. "No." At least, not on her mother's side. Her father's was one they were all better off not inquiring into.
No one else in the room knew this truth, but there wasn't much more to say on that score--even for his self-proclaimed enemy. Ackerman switched tactics, grinning--seeing that Eric's support for him was waning, torn as he was by his devotion to the star he worshiped. "You should let us all see it. I bet you movie stars are real flowery writers." The grin widened, clearly having found a path he could expect at least a few allies for. "Might teach us a thing or two about writing home to our own girls."
The tactic was obvious to the older man, but he didn't give in, blinking once--his face returning to its usual, blank look. "No." There were a few "aww"s, "come on"s, and "why not?"s in protest around him.
The younger man's grin widened, seeing his victim--knowing the support the room gave him, echoing some of his new allies. "Why not? Are you afraid we'll find out how much she doesn't love you?"
Nothing could be further from the truth, but Michael didn't take the bait; his hands behind his head, body seemingly relaxed, he continued on calmly--the older, wiser man softly lecturing the young upstart. "She's having my child soon." His gaze went deep. "Once you experience something like that, you'll understand why none of the details are intended for anyone but the father-to-be."
This argument effectively killed all opposition in the room besides Ackerman's--all the men much younger, many sympathizing or dreaming, a few just happy not to have to hear such, undoubtedly unpleasant, stuff. Gynecology was a subject most men wished to take on on only a *very* limited basis--obstetrics, not at all. Only Ackerman looked rebellious, leaning down toward him--opting for overt threat now that his supporters were gone. "Give me the letter."
The green eyes before him were calm, the body settled and unmoved. "No."
It was then the first physical break in the man's rage came--seeing an open target before him. Just as he was aiming what was likely to be a crippling punch at Michael's stomach, however, his victim rolled slightly to the side, bringing his own fist around toward Ackerman's back, punching him soundly in the kidney. The assault left most of the room blinking in surprise--both at the odd yet successful angle of the older man's punch and at his enemy's reaction. Bill Ackerman let out a slight scream, his body now crouching painfully on the floor. A moment later, Michael was stretched out on his bed calmly--and everyone else in the room was left to blink.
It was a situation which only somewhat befuddled Col. Simmons when he came in, having waited nearby after the delivery of the letter--expecting something, responding to the scream. What he found was a roomful of suddenly very-preoccupied men, one very definite bully groaning on his knees, and the oldest man there staring calmly at the ceiling. He had very few doubts but didn't act on his assumptions, looking around. "Anyone want to explain?"
No one did; no one wanted to get too involved. Finally, just to save face, Ackerman stood; it took awhile--and a lot of pained wincing. A moment later, he managed to regain his usual half-angry, half-stoic look. "I tripped." His glaring eyes dared the colonel to prove him wrong.
Brian wasn't the least bit fooled, but he also wasn't going to intervene just yet. There would be no witnesses to the fact that Ackerman had undoubtedly started it--and there was no questioning that Samuelle would get the full blame. If the younger man wasn't pushing for some sort of action from his superiors, the conflict hadn't yet come to its actual crisis. He would wait until it did, managed not to sigh. Michael would need whatever support he could give him then.
He looked around the room at the nearly 30 gazes which were determinedly focused elsewhere, managing not to laugh--the scene nearly scripted; his look returned to the wounded man's bed, taking a different tack. "It's no wonder. You're too damn big for the space between your bed and Samuelle's." He looked over at Willie on the other side of the aggressive man's cot. "Kane, trade beds with him." He gazed back to Ackerman, challenging him, even if he had to look up to do it. "Now."
"Yes, sir!" came a quick response from Willie, who rarely failed to give into whomever seemed the strongest threat at the moment; his fears of getting caught in the crossfire might well explain his intervention between the two before. Then, a lifetime's glare between the two men later, Ackerman added in a sullen echo of the words. Being further away from his target clearly hadn't been in his plans.
Brian sighed, as he looked around the room, waiting to see that the switch between the two men was well under way, before he decided to go; his eyes lingered on Samuelle, who appeared to be asleep. Simmons didn't believe that for a second. This man, this pampered actor--as Van Vactor had referred to him more than once, if not quite so politely--was definitely holding his own. Simmons could only be glad that his new commander was supposed to be gone soon, turning the training to come over to the RCAF; it would make his life simpler, his thoughts returning to the room. The real confrontation here was yet to come; his gaze returned to the wincing but angry Ackerman. And, when it did, it was going to take a hell of a lot more than a few orders to break it up.
Extra note: Once again, I know almost nothing of the actual training methods for this job, and I'm twisting around what I do know. Please forgive me, if you're much better informed than I am.
[End of Part 255]
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 
