(LFN) Everyone Feels Broken Sometimes
Title: Everyone Feels Broken Sometimes
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: R? To be safe?
Author: jackiejlh
Character(s): Madeline, Operations, kind-of sort-of Mick Schtoppel
Warnings: Violence-some (sort-of) consensual, some imaginary, some otherwise-and copious amounts of blood. Also, everyone but Mick spends most of the fic naked. :D
Author's Note: This small-ish vignette is set between Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process and Some Things You Lose (and Some Things You Just Give Away, but you don't necessarily have to have read either for this to make sense. All that you'd really need to know is that Madeline has become aware that Nikita is working for 'Mr. Jones', and that the current public face of Mr. Jones is Mick Schtoppel… which, admittedly, all makes more sense if you've read the main story. Lol. This started out as 500 words of pure crack to try to jumpstart my reluctant muse, and then… got longer. Also, took a twist toward almost making sense (and ended with borderline romance…??). All of it's random as hell, but I figured I'd share anyway. Lol. That being said, please forgive me for the weirdness, because I truly have no idea where this all came from. I blame three-a.m. writing, which is usually to blame for most of my weirder stuff.
Disclaimer: Don't own LFN, obviously. Title came from the song "Color" by The Maine.
Summary: Madeline dreams, Mick is irritating, and Paul bleeds. A lot.
Everyone Feels Broken Sometimes
"So… where do you think we are?"
Madeline glares at him, but Mick just stares at her expectantly. Deciding to direct her gaze resolutely forward instead of at her traveling companion-at least the view is better, if more monotonous-she answers nonetheless, "Hell."
"Huh," he mutters, a sound more full of surprise than questioning, and then adds, "You never really struck me as the sort to believe in heaven and hell and all that."
"I don't," she replies, not sure why she's even bothering. Maybe it's just that they've been making their way down this alley for such a very long time, and the silence is almost more grating than the inane conversation. Or maybe she's bored. Or maybe it's because this is all in her head anyway, and if there's anyone who she's honest with more often than otherwise, it's herself-not always, she acknowledges, but usually.
Well, sometimes, anyway.
"You, my dear, are the very picture of contradiction." Mick slows a bit, then jogs a few steps to catch up-something he's been doing for the last hour-or-three, in between complaints that he's tired, that she walks too quickly, and that his feet hurt. "Did you know your ankles are bleeding all into your shoes?"
"I hadn't noticed," she answers blandly, all the while ignoring the stabbing pain that shoots up her leg with each step. She takes a moment to idly wonder why her preference for tall heels had to carry over into her dreams; surely, if she was going to end up somewhere like this, she'd have done better in something a bit more suitable for never-ending walks. But then, maybe this is just how she sees herself-always looking as though she just stepped out of the White Room. Sleek black jacket and skirt, shoes that eventually become painful after too many hours on her feet, and of course, the missing watch. She never wears one during interrogations; it wouldn't do to let those being interrogated catch a glimpse of it and make sense of the passing time. Better to let them think that each minute is an hour and each hour a day.
Not unlike her own situation in this moment, actually. She has no idea how long they've been walking. It seems like two days at least, but of course, she knows that when she wakes up, only a few hours will have passed. Maybe less. This could all be occurring in the space of a moment.
That thought would be a greater comfort if it didn't mean that she could have a perceived eternity of this ridiculousness to deal with before morning.
One of these days, she decides, she's going to figure out a way to train herself to wake up from these sorts of dreams at will.
"What do you think it says about you, that you know you're dreaming, and yet dream yourself here?" Mick asks from beside her, his voice cutting through the quiet, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she decides the silence was infinitely preferable. "And with me, of all people?"
It could mean a million things, she knows. This dark, litter-ridden, narrow alley could have endless symbolic meanings, and Mick's presence… well, he has been on her mind quite a bit lately, hasn't he? Or rather, Mr. Jones has. Not just the one Mick is pretending to be, but the Jones lurking in the shadows somewhere behind him, using Mick as the mask he shows the world. And then, of course, despite being little more than an errand-boy for the powers that be, Mick is a constant reminder of the trouble and danger she can already see looming on the horizon, drawing closer with each passing day.
Not that Mick, whether a creation of her subconscious or otherwise, needs to know any of this.
"I wouldn't know," she answers icily. "Be quiet."
"I'm only asking because it's interesting, isn't it? I mean, I get why you'd be in your own dream-you'd almost have to be, wouldn't you?-but here we are together, and-you really do walk too fast, you know-" he interjects, speeding up his pace yet again to walk at her side. "-and yet despite the fact that I'm probably here for a reason, you won't even have a real conversation with me." There's a distinct sound of pouting in his voice, and Madeline closes her eyes for a moment, almost physically forcing her exasperation to the back of her mind. "It's always orders and demands with you, isn't it? You really-"
"Mick," she interrupts, and she's not sure how a gun fits in her small jacket pocket or how she knows it's there, but it's in her hand in an instant and pointed directly at Mick's head. "Stop talking or I'll shoot you."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, and she almost lowers her hand, but then he points out hesitantly, if slightly quieter, "But then you'd be alone."
Madeline stops suddenly and he staggers a few steps back in order to keep from running into the gun that's aimed between his eyes. "Yes, and I'd have more comfortable shoes," she tells him with a smile that's more of a warning than a show of friendliness, and he frowns at her.
"They're really too big for you, aren't they?" he asks, glancing down at his own feet and then hers as if to judge the likelihood of her actually killing him for his footwear. "You'd look ridiculous, and they're brown; they'd hardly go with your-"
His words cut off abruptly as she pulls the trigger, and he collapses to the ground. Rolling her eyes, Madeline turns on her heel, carefully stepping over a broken bottle and around a small heap of trash before continuing on her way. Only the sound of footsteps pounding down the alleyway after her makes her pause, and she turns around, letting out a small sigh of frustration as Mick Schtoppel catches up to her, a gaping hole plainly visible in the center of his forehead.
"That really hurt," he complains, the expression on his face reminding her of a kicked puppy, and she turns away and continues on her walk, deciding it'd be best to just ignore him. "Did you really think you'd be rid of me so easily?"
"No," she admits truthfully. "But then, you are in my head. It's doubtful my own subconscious will manage to surprise me."
"You think so?" he asks, and something in his voice makes her turn just in time to see him rush at her, throwing his full weight against her and shoving her into the rough wall. Her head hits painfully against the brick, and she lashes out with the hand nearest to him, hitting him in the face. He doesn't even flinch, doesn't stop coming at her, and before she can move to hit him again or aim her gun, his hands wrap around her wrists, pinning them to the wall on either side of her head. He leans forward, bringing his mouth to her ear, and it's not his voice that she hears, but Nikita's, as he whispers, "Surprised yet?"
"Madeline!" she hears someone call, and she doesn't bother to turn her head; she'd recognize Paul's voice anywhere. The grip around her wrists tightens, the weight of Mick's hands almost painful, and for a moment she's certain that the brick behind her is crumbling and falling backward-and then she's awake, staring into Paul's eyes, lying down with her hands pinned to the bed instead of a wall.
Paul glares at her for a moment, and she doesn't drop his stare until she feels something warm and wet drip onto her lip. Finally dragging her gaze away from his eyes, she looks down long enough to see that his lip is bleeding, droplets of blood running down his chin.
"What are you doing?" she finally asks, resisting the urge to arch her neck in an effort to move her mouth out of range of the dripping blood. Paul frowns, finally releasing her hands, and rolls off of her, collapsing onto the bed beside her.
"You hit me," he answers, a hint of anger in his voice. "Twice."
"Oh," she replies after a moment, unsure what else there really is to say to that. It occurs to her, belatedly, that she should probably apologize, but she changes her mind when she turns her head to see him dabbing at his chin with the corner of the bedclothes
"You're getting blood on my sheets," she points out dispassionately, not able to bring herself to even move her hands from where they're resting on either side of her head, let alone sit up. Somehow she's woken up feeling more exhausted than she'd felt when she'd fallen asleep, which would be frustrating enough without Paul being in a snit over a bloody lip.
"So buy new ones," he replies uncharitably, and Madeline rolls her eyes, forcing herself to get up. Not bothering to reach for clothes or drag the blood-splattered blanket with her, she leaves the room and comes back carrying her laptop, settling onto the edge of the bed and balancing it on her knees.
"What are you-" he starts to ask, and she interrupts him.
"Turning off the security feed." She can see the question in his eyes without even turning around, and so she adds, "You're practically lying in a pool of blood. Someone is going to look in here and think I've murdered you, and the last thing I want to deal with tonight is a team of operatives breaking down my door."
She begins to work her way through the surveillance programming, entering passwords and keycodes at random intervals, and he shifts around behind her, sitting up and tugging at the blanket-probably, she knows, to keep wiping blood on it, and so she doesn't feel bad about not moving to allow him to pull more of it toward him.
"Does it ever strike you as funny, how most of the world does their best to hide their sex behind closed doors, and people in Section knowingly and willingly get up to all manner of things in full view of cameras, the recordings of which are accessible to all and sundry?" he mutters in that half-asleep way of someone who's been hit with the rush of adrenaline that comes from being suddenly woken, and then left to sit idly when they realize they're awake for no discernable reason. She half-listens to him, decides he doesn't actually want an answer, and doesn't bother to reply.
Finishing overriding the cameras, she closes the laptop and sets it on the bed, pushing herself again to her feet and heading for the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."
"It's three in the morning," he points out in mild protest, and she pauses in the doorway.
"We have to be in at five anyway."
He considers that for a moment, then asks, almost hopefully, "Is there any benefit to me getting up now, versus an hour from now?"
"No." His playful smile fades a bit, and she rolls her eyes, continuing on to the shower. She doesn't bother to close the door, instead just turning on the water and stepping underneath the spray without waiting for it to warm. The shock of the icy water almost makes her gasp, but it does have the desired effect of waking her up a bit more-something she rather needs, after only two hours of sleep, not to mention only getting three the night before. Finally the temperature evens out, if only a little, and she just stands there for a moment, her head leaning against the wall, and lets the lukewarm water wash over her, her mind drifting back to her dream.
At some point, she knows, she's going to have to tell Paul. Tell him about Nikita, tell him about Mick. About Mr. Jones. Not yet-not until she knows everything, until she has something concrete to tell. But soon. She's not sure why she's so reluctant to do so, but she is, and perhaps it's the uncharacteristic uncertainty in herself that's making her so hesitant. The thought that she could have missed what was going on for so long… it's more worrying than anything Nikita, Jones, or Center may have in store for Section.
"Are you all right?" Paul asks, startling her, and the door of the shower slides opens as her eyes snap open to glare at him.
"I'm fine," she answers curtly, reaching to shut the door-pointless, really, because it's only glass, but she does it all the same-but he just holds it open, concern in his eyes. Of course. He really does know her too well, and in a way, that's worrying, too. With a withering glare, she adds, "I'm tired." When he doesn't seem convinced, she changes the subject. "I thought you were going back to sleep?"
"I was, but then there was this gorgeous woman showering twelve feet away from me…" he answers playfully, and Madeline rolls her eyes. He smirks, finally stepping away from the shower long enough to grab one of her hand towels and start mopping at the blood still dribbling down his chin.
"Are you planning on leaving bloodstains on everything I own?" she asks disdainfully, and he shrugs. Sighing, she reaches out and grabs his arm, pulling him toward her. "Get in here," she orders, and he doesn't seem inclined to disobey.
"Your showers are always too cold," he complains as he steps under the stinging spray of the water, reaching to turn up the temperature, and Madeline bats his hand away, snatching the hand towel from him and holding it under the water for a moment before using it to start wiping the blood from his face.
"I like them that way."
"You would."
She chooses to ignore that comment, instead just telling him, "Hold still."
He listens for a moment, then shrugs away from the hand towel and twists around to adjust the water anyway, raising it to an almost unbearable temperature. Tugging him a step closer, she positions him between her and the showerhead so that only drips and drops of water make it past his shoulders and onto her. She can already see the skin on his neck and shoulders turning a brilliant, angry red, and she shakes her head at his stubbornness, an expression that's half exasperation and half fondness creeping into her eyes.
"Did you break me?" Paul asks with a grin after a moment, his eyes following the movement of her hand even if he can't actually see what she's doing.
Madeline finishes wiping the blood off of his face and moves to his neck, probably rubbing the rough towel against his skin a bit harder than is strictly necessary, and answers in a deadpan tone, "Only a little." She idly wonders if he realizes that he doesn't just have a split lip, but also telltale marks of his teeth actually biting through his lip, and decides that if he doesn't know yet, she'll let him figure it out himself.
"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" he presses, his gaze flicking up to meet her eyes, and she looks away, focusing instead on washing away blood that's not even there anymore.
"No."
He scowls. "That's hardly fair. I think being woken up by a punch in the face earns me an explanation."
Sometimes, she muses, his stubbornness is somewhat less than endearing.
"How about I just offer to let you hit me back?" she suggests icily. "Would that be fair then?"
He glares at her for a moment, then sighs and looks away. "One of these days you should make that offer when I actually want to hit you."
"It wouldn't matter; you'd never do it anyway," Madeline points out, half-wondering if she's actually right about that. Some part of her almost hopes that she's not. That he'd once, just once, do something that she couldn't forgive. Life would be easier, she thinks, if she knew with total certainty that there wasn't a single person in the world that she could trust.
Paul looks angry at her words, and she can't seem to stop herself from goading him further. To prove him wrong, or to prove herself right, or just to be contrary because sometimes she gets tired of knowing all the answers before the questions are even asked.
"Or am I wrong about that?" she asks, her tone full of a taunting sort of dare, and for a moment she thinks he's going to turn around and leave-but then, that wouldn't be Paul. Instead he pushes her back against the shower wall, and she gasps at the icy chill of the tile pressed against her skin. For a second she's back in her dream, a too-strong, too-agile, too-alive-for-having-a-bullet-in-his-head Mick trapping her there, but it's only Paul-of course it is; isn't it always?-holding her, Paul's fingers wrapped around her wrists, Paul's lips capturing hers in a demanding, bruising kiss. She leans into it, into him, and maybe because she's tired, or maybe because of the feeling of his skin pressed against hers has always been more of a distraction than she'd like to admit, she doesn't realize what he's doing until his teeth catch her lip and bite down.
A pained gasp escapes her in her shock, the sound muffled against his cheek, and she thinks that any other, normal person would probably push him away, or try to bite him back, or at least yell at him. But then, neither of them are what she'd really call normal. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Paul's words play through her head, from the time before he realized that one day she'd agree with him and use it as a reason to start pushing him away: "We're always at our most fucked up when we're together, aren't we?"
Yes, we are, Madeline mentally answers him for the thousandth time, and she doesn't try to stop him, but instead relaxes against him again. Only when she tastes blood-maybe his, maybe hers, she's not sure-does he stop.
"Now we're even," he says quietly, staring down at her with what might be a challenge to counter her own and might just be love-if she weren't so set against allowing such a thing.
She glances down, watching blood drip onto her chest, run between her breasts and down her stomach, turning a muted pink as it catches droplets of water on her skin, and runs her tongue over her lip, wondering how readily apparent it is that the cuts there were made by teeth.
"What?" he asks quietly, and she can already hear the defensive caution in his voice, as though he's afraid he's gone too far. She sighs inwardly and mentally resigns herself to the fact that he will probably always fit in the exception-that-proves-the-rule category when it comes to her distrust of people in general.
"I was just wondering how we're going to explain this," she says, arching one eyebrow, her gaze stopping at his damaged lip before lifting to meet his eyes.
He grins. "I don't make a habit of explaining myself to anyone," he says. He doesn't add, "Except you," but she can see it in his eyes anyway, and she gives him a knowing look and returns his smile with one of her own.
As if just realizing he still has her wrists trapped against the wall, Paul slowly lets go, reaching to take the hand towel from her. He holds it under the spray of water again, then turns it until he finds a large patch that's still white instead of a reddish-pink, and with a softly-muttered, "My turn," gently starts to wipe the blood from her chin.
Leaning her head back against the wall, Madeline closes her eyes, focusing on the steam filling the air, the sharp tang of blood on her tongue, the feeling of the towel pressing painfully on her bruised, torn lip and Paul's fingers gently brushing against her cheek, and tries not to let herself wonder how many more moments like this they'll get before Mr. Jones's plans, whatever they are, bring the world crashing down around them.
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: R? To be safe?
Author: jackiejlh
Character(s): Madeline, Operations, kind-of sort-of Mick Schtoppel
Warnings: Violence-some (sort-of) consensual, some imaginary, some otherwise-and copious amounts of blood. Also, everyone but Mick spends most of the fic naked. :D
Author's Note: This small-ish vignette is set between Off-Label Uses for the Gelman Process and Some Things You Lose (and Some Things You Just Give Away, but you don't necessarily have to have read either for this to make sense. All that you'd really need to know is that Madeline has become aware that Nikita is working for 'Mr. Jones', and that the current public face of Mr. Jones is Mick Schtoppel… which, admittedly, all makes more sense if you've read the main story. Lol. This started out as 500 words of pure crack to try to jumpstart my reluctant muse, and then… got longer. Also, took a twist toward almost making sense (and ended with borderline romance…??). All of it's random as hell, but I figured I'd share anyway. Lol. That being said, please forgive me for the weirdness, because I truly have no idea where this all came from. I blame three-a.m. writing, which is usually to blame for most of my weirder stuff.
Disclaimer: Don't own LFN, obviously. Title came from the song "Color" by The Maine.
Summary: Madeline dreams, Mick is irritating, and Paul bleeds. A lot.
Everyone Feels Broken Sometimes
"So… where do you think we are?"
Madeline glares at him, but Mick just stares at her expectantly. Deciding to direct her gaze resolutely forward instead of at her traveling companion-at least the view is better, if more monotonous-she answers nonetheless, "Hell."
"Huh," he mutters, a sound more full of surprise than questioning, and then adds, "You never really struck me as the sort to believe in heaven and hell and all that."
"I don't," she replies, not sure why she's even bothering. Maybe it's just that they've been making their way down this alley for such a very long time, and the silence is almost more grating than the inane conversation. Or maybe she's bored. Or maybe it's because this is all in her head anyway, and if there's anyone who she's honest with more often than otherwise, it's herself-not always, she acknowledges, but usually.
Well, sometimes, anyway.
"You, my dear, are the very picture of contradiction." Mick slows a bit, then jogs a few steps to catch up-something he's been doing for the last hour-or-three, in between complaints that he's tired, that she walks too quickly, and that his feet hurt. "Did you know your ankles are bleeding all into your shoes?"
"I hadn't noticed," she answers blandly, all the while ignoring the stabbing pain that shoots up her leg with each step. She takes a moment to idly wonder why her preference for tall heels had to carry over into her dreams; surely, if she was going to end up somewhere like this, she'd have done better in something a bit more suitable for never-ending walks. But then, maybe this is just how she sees herself-always looking as though she just stepped out of the White Room. Sleek black jacket and skirt, shoes that eventually become painful after too many hours on her feet, and of course, the missing watch. She never wears one during interrogations; it wouldn't do to let those being interrogated catch a glimpse of it and make sense of the passing time. Better to let them think that each minute is an hour and each hour a day.
Not unlike her own situation in this moment, actually. She has no idea how long they've been walking. It seems like two days at least, but of course, she knows that when she wakes up, only a few hours will have passed. Maybe less. This could all be occurring in the space of a moment.
That thought would be a greater comfort if it didn't mean that she could have a perceived eternity of this ridiculousness to deal with before morning.
One of these days, she decides, she's going to figure out a way to train herself to wake up from these sorts of dreams at will.
"What do you think it says about you, that you know you're dreaming, and yet dream yourself here?" Mick asks from beside her, his voice cutting through the quiet, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she decides the silence was infinitely preferable. "And with me, of all people?"
It could mean a million things, she knows. This dark, litter-ridden, narrow alley could have endless symbolic meanings, and Mick's presence… well, he has been on her mind quite a bit lately, hasn't he? Or rather, Mr. Jones has. Not just the one Mick is pretending to be, but the Jones lurking in the shadows somewhere behind him, using Mick as the mask he shows the world. And then, of course, despite being little more than an errand-boy for the powers that be, Mick is a constant reminder of the trouble and danger she can already see looming on the horizon, drawing closer with each passing day.
Not that Mick, whether a creation of her subconscious or otherwise, needs to know any of this.
"I wouldn't know," she answers icily. "Be quiet."
"I'm only asking because it's interesting, isn't it? I mean, I get why you'd be in your own dream-you'd almost have to be, wouldn't you?-but here we are together, and-you really do walk too fast, you know-" he interjects, speeding up his pace yet again to walk at her side. "-and yet despite the fact that I'm probably here for a reason, you won't even have a real conversation with me." There's a distinct sound of pouting in his voice, and Madeline closes her eyes for a moment, almost physically forcing her exasperation to the back of her mind. "It's always orders and demands with you, isn't it? You really-"
"Mick," she interrupts, and she's not sure how a gun fits in her small jacket pocket or how she knows it's there, but it's in her hand in an instant and pointed directly at Mick's head. "Stop talking or I'll shoot you."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, and she almost lowers her hand, but then he points out hesitantly, if slightly quieter, "But then you'd be alone."
Madeline stops suddenly and he staggers a few steps back in order to keep from running into the gun that's aimed between his eyes. "Yes, and I'd have more comfortable shoes," she tells him with a smile that's more of a warning than a show of friendliness, and he frowns at her.
"They're really too big for you, aren't they?" he asks, glancing down at his own feet and then hers as if to judge the likelihood of her actually killing him for his footwear. "You'd look ridiculous, and they're brown; they'd hardly go with your-"
His words cut off abruptly as she pulls the trigger, and he collapses to the ground. Rolling her eyes, Madeline turns on her heel, carefully stepping over a broken bottle and around a small heap of trash before continuing on her way. Only the sound of footsteps pounding down the alleyway after her makes her pause, and she turns around, letting out a small sigh of frustration as Mick Schtoppel catches up to her, a gaping hole plainly visible in the center of his forehead.
"That really hurt," he complains, the expression on his face reminding her of a kicked puppy, and she turns away and continues on her walk, deciding it'd be best to just ignore him. "Did you really think you'd be rid of me so easily?"
"No," she admits truthfully. "But then, you are in my head. It's doubtful my own subconscious will manage to surprise me."
"You think so?" he asks, and something in his voice makes her turn just in time to see him rush at her, throwing his full weight against her and shoving her into the rough wall. Her head hits painfully against the brick, and she lashes out with the hand nearest to him, hitting him in the face. He doesn't even flinch, doesn't stop coming at her, and before she can move to hit him again or aim her gun, his hands wrap around her wrists, pinning them to the wall on either side of her head. He leans forward, bringing his mouth to her ear, and it's not his voice that she hears, but Nikita's, as he whispers, "Surprised yet?"
"Madeline!" she hears someone call, and she doesn't bother to turn her head; she'd recognize Paul's voice anywhere. The grip around her wrists tightens, the weight of Mick's hands almost painful, and for a moment she's certain that the brick behind her is crumbling and falling backward-and then she's awake, staring into Paul's eyes, lying down with her hands pinned to the bed instead of a wall.
Paul glares at her for a moment, and she doesn't drop his stare until she feels something warm and wet drip onto her lip. Finally dragging her gaze away from his eyes, she looks down long enough to see that his lip is bleeding, droplets of blood running down his chin.
"What are you doing?" she finally asks, resisting the urge to arch her neck in an effort to move her mouth out of range of the dripping blood. Paul frowns, finally releasing her hands, and rolls off of her, collapsing onto the bed beside her.
"You hit me," he answers, a hint of anger in his voice. "Twice."
"Oh," she replies after a moment, unsure what else there really is to say to that. It occurs to her, belatedly, that she should probably apologize, but she changes her mind when she turns her head to see him dabbing at his chin with the corner of the bedclothes
"You're getting blood on my sheets," she points out dispassionately, not able to bring herself to even move her hands from where they're resting on either side of her head, let alone sit up. Somehow she's woken up feeling more exhausted than she'd felt when she'd fallen asleep, which would be frustrating enough without Paul being in a snit over a bloody lip.
"So buy new ones," he replies uncharitably, and Madeline rolls her eyes, forcing herself to get up. Not bothering to reach for clothes or drag the blood-splattered blanket with her, she leaves the room and comes back carrying her laptop, settling onto the edge of the bed and balancing it on her knees.
"What are you-" he starts to ask, and she interrupts him.
"Turning off the security feed." She can see the question in his eyes without even turning around, and so she adds, "You're practically lying in a pool of blood. Someone is going to look in here and think I've murdered you, and the last thing I want to deal with tonight is a team of operatives breaking down my door."
She begins to work her way through the surveillance programming, entering passwords and keycodes at random intervals, and he shifts around behind her, sitting up and tugging at the blanket-probably, she knows, to keep wiping blood on it, and so she doesn't feel bad about not moving to allow him to pull more of it toward him.
"Does it ever strike you as funny, how most of the world does their best to hide their sex behind closed doors, and people in Section knowingly and willingly get up to all manner of things in full view of cameras, the recordings of which are accessible to all and sundry?" he mutters in that half-asleep way of someone who's been hit with the rush of adrenaline that comes from being suddenly woken, and then left to sit idly when they realize they're awake for no discernable reason. She half-listens to him, decides he doesn't actually want an answer, and doesn't bother to reply.
Finishing overriding the cameras, she closes the laptop and sets it on the bed, pushing herself again to her feet and heading for the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."
"It's three in the morning," he points out in mild protest, and she pauses in the doorway.
"We have to be in at five anyway."
He considers that for a moment, then asks, almost hopefully, "Is there any benefit to me getting up now, versus an hour from now?"
"No." His playful smile fades a bit, and she rolls her eyes, continuing on to the shower. She doesn't bother to close the door, instead just turning on the water and stepping underneath the spray without waiting for it to warm. The shock of the icy water almost makes her gasp, but it does have the desired effect of waking her up a bit more-something she rather needs, after only two hours of sleep, not to mention only getting three the night before. Finally the temperature evens out, if only a little, and she just stands there for a moment, her head leaning against the wall, and lets the lukewarm water wash over her, her mind drifting back to her dream.
At some point, she knows, she's going to have to tell Paul. Tell him about Nikita, tell him about Mick. About Mr. Jones. Not yet-not until she knows everything, until she has something concrete to tell. But soon. She's not sure why she's so reluctant to do so, but she is, and perhaps it's the uncharacteristic uncertainty in herself that's making her so hesitant. The thought that she could have missed what was going on for so long… it's more worrying than anything Nikita, Jones, or Center may have in store for Section.
"Are you all right?" Paul asks, startling her, and the door of the shower slides opens as her eyes snap open to glare at him.
"I'm fine," she answers curtly, reaching to shut the door-pointless, really, because it's only glass, but she does it all the same-but he just holds it open, concern in his eyes. Of course. He really does know her too well, and in a way, that's worrying, too. With a withering glare, she adds, "I'm tired." When he doesn't seem convinced, she changes the subject. "I thought you were going back to sleep?"
"I was, but then there was this gorgeous woman showering twelve feet away from me…" he answers playfully, and Madeline rolls her eyes. He smirks, finally stepping away from the shower long enough to grab one of her hand towels and start mopping at the blood still dribbling down his chin.
"Are you planning on leaving bloodstains on everything I own?" she asks disdainfully, and he shrugs. Sighing, she reaches out and grabs his arm, pulling him toward her. "Get in here," she orders, and he doesn't seem inclined to disobey.
"Your showers are always too cold," he complains as he steps under the stinging spray of the water, reaching to turn up the temperature, and Madeline bats his hand away, snatching the hand towel from him and holding it under the water for a moment before using it to start wiping the blood from his face.
"I like them that way."
"You would."
She chooses to ignore that comment, instead just telling him, "Hold still."
He listens for a moment, then shrugs away from the hand towel and twists around to adjust the water anyway, raising it to an almost unbearable temperature. Tugging him a step closer, she positions him between her and the showerhead so that only drips and drops of water make it past his shoulders and onto her. She can already see the skin on his neck and shoulders turning a brilliant, angry red, and she shakes her head at his stubbornness, an expression that's half exasperation and half fondness creeping into her eyes.
"Did you break me?" Paul asks with a grin after a moment, his eyes following the movement of her hand even if he can't actually see what she's doing.
Madeline finishes wiping the blood off of his face and moves to his neck, probably rubbing the rough towel against his skin a bit harder than is strictly necessary, and answers in a deadpan tone, "Only a little." She idly wonders if he realizes that he doesn't just have a split lip, but also telltale marks of his teeth actually biting through his lip, and decides that if he doesn't know yet, she'll let him figure it out himself.
"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" he presses, his gaze flicking up to meet her eyes, and she looks away, focusing instead on washing away blood that's not even there anymore.
"No."
He scowls. "That's hardly fair. I think being woken up by a punch in the face earns me an explanation."
Sometimes, she muses, his stubbornness is somewhat less than endearing.
"How about I just offer to let you hit me back?" she suggests icily. "Would that be fair then?"
He glares at her for a moment, then sighs and looks away. "One of these days you should make that offer when I actually want to hit you."
"It wouldn't matter; you'd never do it anyway," Madeline points out, half-wondering if she's actually right about that. Some part of her almost hopes that she's not. That he'd once, just once, do something that she couldn't forgive. Life would be easier, she thinks, if she knew with total certainty that there wasn't a single person in the world that she could trust.
Paul looks angry at her words, and she can't seem to stop herself from goading him further. To prove him wrong, or to prove herself right, or just to be contrary because sometimes she gets tired of knowing all the answers before the questions are even asked.
"Or am I wrong about that?" she asks, her tone full of a taunting sort of dare, and for a moment she thinks he's going to turn around and leave-but then, that wouldn't be Paul. Instead he pushes her back against the shower wall, and she gasps at the icy chill of the tile pressed against her skin. For a second she's back in her dream, a too-strong, too-agile, too-alive-for-having-a-bullet-in-his-head Mick trapping her there, but it's only Paul-of course it is; isn't it always?-holding her, Paul's fingers wrapped around her wrists, Paul's lips capturing hers in a demanding, bruising kiss. She leans into it, into him, and maybe because she's tired, or maybe because of the feeling of his skin pressed against hers has always been more of a distraction than she'd like to admit, she doesn't realize what he's doing until his teeth catch her lip and bite down.
A pained gasp escapes her in her shock, the sound muffled against his cheek, and she thinks that any other, normal person would probably push him away, or try to bite him back, or at least yell at him. But then, neither of them are what she'd really call normal. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Paul's words play through her head, from the time before he realized that one day she'd agree with him and use it as a reason to start pushing him away: "We're always at our most fucked up when we're together, aren't we?"
Yes, we are, Madeline mentally answers him for the thousandth time, and she doesn't try to stop him, but instead relaxes against him again. Only when she tastes blood-maybe his, maybe hers, she's not sure-does he stop.
"Now we're even," he says quietly, staring down at her with what might be a challenge to counter her own and might just be love-if she weren't so set against allowing such a thing.
She glances down, watching blood drip onto her chest, run between her breasts and down her stomach, turning a muted pink as it catches droplets of water on her skin, and runs her tongue over her lip, wondering how readily apparent it is that the cuts there were made by teeth.
"What?" he asks quietly, and she can already hear the defensive caution in his voice, as though he's afraid he's gone too far. She sighs inwardly and mentally resigns herself to the fact that he will probably always fit in the exception-that-proves-the-rule category when it comes to her distrust of people in general.
"I was just wondering how we're going to explain this," she says, arching one eyebrow, her gaze stopping at his damaged lip before lifting to meet his eyes.
He grins. "I don't make a habit of explaining myself to anyone," he says. He doesn't add, "Except you," but she can see it in his eyes anyway, and she gives him a knowing look and returns his smile with one of her own.
As if just realizing he still has her wrists trapped against the wall, Paul slowly lets go, reaching to take the hand towel from her. He holds it under the spray of water again, then turns it until he finds a large patch that's still white instead of a reddish-pink, and with a softly-muttered, "My turn," gently starts to wipe the blood from her chin.
Leaning her head back against the wall, Madeline closes her eyes, focusing on the steam filling the air, the sharp tang of blood on her tongue, the feeling of the towel pressing painfully on her bruised, torn lip and Paul's fingers gently brushing against her cheek, and tries not to let herself wonder how many more moments like this they'll get before Mr. Jones's plans, whatever they are, bring the world crashing down around them.