(LFN) Some Things You Lose (and Some Things You Just Give Away) (7/20)
Please see the Some Things You Lose (and Some Things You Just Give Away) Chapter Guide for story details including summary, warnings, disclaimers, etc.
Part Six: Paint a Heart Repeating, Beating, Don't Give Up
Some Things You Lose
(and Some Things You Just Give Away)
Part Seven: Getting to the Point That is the Hardest Part
Committee long ago became Nikita's least favorite part of Section, and even after three years, that hasn't changed. Every time she steps foot into Committee, it's because Bill has arrived to make her life miserable. This time isn't any different-and, to make things even better, Bill's brought Foster Hale along for the visit. Nikita lets out a resigned sigh when she sees them waiting for her, but presses on, plastering on a vague smile.
As soon as he sees her, Hale leaps to his feet, storming toward her. He always attempts to be intimidating, and ends up just coming across as an irritation, and sometimes she wonders if he doesn't realize that she could break his neck in less time than it takes him to build up to one of his red-faced, growling fits. She stops a few feet away from him, rocking back on her heel and eying him with a curious sort of amusement.
"You're trying to ruin everything! All of my work!" he snaps, pointing at her, and she narrows her gaze, glaring threatening at him until he at least has the good sense to get his finger out of her face. "Do you have any idea what kind of damage you may have caused?!"
Rolling her eyes, Nikita turns toward Bill-it's a measure of how her day's going, really, that she's counting on Bill to be the voice of reason here.
"I hear Paul and Madeline are being let out of their rooms now?" he asks blandly, resting back against the cushioned seat. His words sound innocuous, but Nikita knows they're anything but.
"Yes. And so far, without any complications," she says pointedly in Hale's direction. "They're fully functional, as far as I can tell. The only difference is their bodies. Perhaps Dr. Hale needs to have more confidence in his work."
"They're more fragile than they look," he insists angrily. "I specifically told you to keep them as isolated as possible, and under no circumstances should they be allowed to see each other."
"I wasn't aware that they had seen each other," Nikita lies, shrugging in innocent-looking confusion. "And if you think you can get two incredibly headstrong, stubborn people like them to do anything for an extended period of time while locked in cell the size of a shoebox, you're an idiot."
"One of my men tells me that they passed by each other in Comm-and recognized each other, if the look they exchanged was anything to go by! This cannot happen!" When Nikita doesn't seem satisfactorily ashamed in the face of his admonishments-really, she's too busy being relieved that he hadn't figured out anything regarding the previous night's 'secret meeting'-he too turns to Bill, repeating almost pleadingly, "You cannot let this happen…. It'll ruin everything my team's worked for. It's taken us too long to get the technology even this far."
Bill regards them both silently, finally leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands in front of him and resting his chin on his outstretched fingers. Only his eyes angle toward Nikita. "There've been no ill effects thus far?" he clarifies again.
"None," Nikita replies, shaking her head. "They're as efficient as they ever were."
He nods. "Fine. Let it be for now," he decides, raising his voice when Hale begins to protest. "For now. It's not as though we can't redo the experiment if this round fails."
Positively seething at this point, Hale just glares at them both, his stance and the tense set of his jaw making his disapproval clear.
"We can't just pull random people off the street," he grinds out. "We need well-suited matches. These were the best we found. If they-"
"Just for now," Bill repeats, holding up his hand to stop further interruptions. "If they start…"
"Glitching," Hale fills in through gritted teeth.
"…glitching, then we'll talk."
"Fine. Are we done?" Without waiting for an answer, Hale storms off toward the exit on the far side of the room. Nikita watches him go, waiting for the door to slide shut behind him before she returns her attention to Bill.
"Did you have time to look at the file I sent over?" she asks.
"Yes, and I've already told you how I feel about it," he reminds her, not without a hint of irritation in his voice. "Even if it weren't far too early to even be considering such a thing, I'd still think it was a terrible idea. Quinn will be perfectly capable if the need arises."
Nikita frowns, shaking her head. "I disagree. Her experiences and skills are not well-rounded enough for her to take this on anytime soon."
"You said much the same thing about yourself, if I recall," he points out, getting to his feet. "And with any luck, it won't be an issue in the near future."
"You're leaving Section at risk," she protests.
"Then I suggest you start working with Quinn more closely," he replies. "Or find someone else."
"Someone else has already-"
"I said no," he interjects without turning around. "This discussion is over."
And without another word, he disappears through the door.
Beyond frustrated, Nikita heads in the other direction, making her way back to her office. It occurs to her that as of late, she understands why Paul and Madeline had constantly been trying to oust-or kill-George. If anything, Bill is more irritating than George ever was.
She hadn't been expecting the conversation to end any differently, really, but it did serve a purpose, at least. It proved what she's suspected from the start-that if she's going to make this work, she's going to have to find another way. And frankly, the only ideas she has at this point will take far too long for her liking.
Perhaps, she thinks to herself, it's time to bring in outside help. Looking speculatively over the sleeping, nearly-silent Section, she nods to herself and climbs the steps to the Perch.
*
“That’s… touching,” Quinn says, peering over Nikita’s shoulder. The video recording of Paul’s cell is on the monitor, frozen at the image of Madeline lying with her ear pressed against Paul’s chest, a troubled expression on her face.
“Yeah,” Nikita mutters, sounding like she finds it anything but touching. She reaches out and hits a few keys on the keyboard, and the monitor goes dark. “I want Madeline’s guards reassigned,” she says, changing the subject abruptly. “They were hand-picked by Hale, and with him gone, I’d rather have his people doing something a little less… sensitive.”
Quinn nods, taking her usual seat on the other side of the desk. “Anyone in particular that you had in mind for replacements?”
“I’ll send you their files. I’d like the change made immediately.”
“Sure.” She waits expectantly for a moment, then stands up and heads for the door.
“I want Madeline in Comm during the missions from now on,” Nikita calls after her, and Quinn spins on her heel, an incredulous look spreading across her face.
“Hale said that they may not be able to handle extreme stress. Do you really want-?”
“Yes,” Nikita says evenly, her expression almost daring the other woman to challenge her. “If a simple mission caused Madeline ‘extreme stress’, she’d have fallen apart years ago. There’s been no indication that there’s a problem with her programming, and I’m tired of watching people die and missions fail. I want her there, effective tonight.”
Quinn hesitates for a long moment before nodding and quickly exiting the room.
*
She’s… comfortable. Maybe that shouldn’t surprise
her, but with everything that’s happened lately-
(what happened?)
(something terrible, but she can’t remember)
(why can’t she remember?)
-it’s been a while since she’s felt relaxed.
Arms tighten around her, and she opens her eyes,
glancing up to see-
(Paul)
(no, not Paul)
(he’s…)
(she knows, it’s at the edge of her mind, on the
tip of her tongue, and yet...)
-him watching her with eyes-
(hazel, he once said)
(she said no, too green for hazel)
(an old argument, over and over)
(pointless, but they repeat it anyway)
-that remind her of home, of a time before everything
went so completely, irrevocably wrong.. She turns her
head up toward him, resting her chin against his chest,
giving him a half-smile in the glaring light of late
morning. She glances around, and they’re in-
(not a cell)
(not Section)
-a-
(their)
- bedroom, the curtains open, the bed beneath them too
small, maybe, and yet more than enough space, lying as
they are
.
“I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day,” he says
softly, teasingly, and she-
(frowns)
-shrugs and grins, resting her head back down against
his bare chest. His heart beats out a familiar rhythm-
(like a lullaby, she once said)
(aren’t you too old for lullabies? he asked)
(there’s no such thing, and she laughed)
(she remembers, but doesn’t, and the memory
flits away before she can grab onto it)
-and she lets out a contented sigh. “I’m tired,” she
replies, her voice still heavy with the exhaustion that
never seems to go away these days. He just laughs.
A knock at the door interrupts the serenity of the
moment, and she rolls her eyes in exasperation.
“Can’t they let us sleep in just once?” Madeline-
(not me)
(of course it’s me)
(no... not quite)
(who am I?)
-groans. He laughs again, nudging at her to sit up.
.
“Hey, Joey needs you,” Becca-
(Who?)
-yells through the door, and then there’s another knock-
-ringing through the cell. Madeline wakes with a start, looking up to see a guard standing in the open doorway, his fist raised to knock on the wall again. He drops his hand when he sees Madeline finally looking at him.
“Bad dream?” he asks in an almost friendly tone, and she glares at him. She doesn’t recognize him; he must be new to the guard detail. She’s not sure what a change in guards could mean, but she’s not going to question it just now; perhaps this guard, with his cheerful, sheepish grin in the face of her irritation, will be the weak link she’s been waiting for.
“Operations said they need you in Comm a little early today,” he continues, then adds apologetically, “No time for breakfast, I’m afraid.”
“What time is it?” Madeline asks, sitting up and raking her hand through her sleep-mussed hair.
He glances at his watch. “Nearly three a.m.”
Wonderful.
Caught between hoping she’ll actually get to work on something interesting for a change and wondering if this is just Nikita’s way of getting back at her and Paul for not broadcasting their plans to all of Section, Madeline climbs out of bed.
*
You’re getting to work actual missions? the message says, and Madeline glances surreptitiously over at the latest new guard before clicking in the window and replying.
Yes. Jealous?
Paul must hear the teasing tone in her words, because he answers back, Of course. I’ve barely been within thirty feet of Comm since they brought me back.
Madeline rolls her eyes. Shouldn’t you be working? she types, then glances at the clock which is only just now creeping past four a.m. and adds, Or sleeping?
She can almost see his irritated shrug. Bastards got me up. Don’t know why.
Hesitating for a brief moment, Madeline finally asks, Did you get new guards recently?
No, he replies. Why? Did you?
Yes, she answers, but then sees Nikita heading her way and types out a quick, Talk later, before closing the window and clicking back over to the profile she’d been working on.
“Quinn said the mission went well,” Nikita says as she approaches.
“It wasn’t a particularly difficult one,” Madeline answers, half-wondering why on earth she had to be woken up so early for what had really, in the end, turned out to be a run-of-the-mill assassination attempt. A successful one, she notes without any real pride in the fact; anyone could have profiled this. Nikita, certainly. Even Walter, and profiling had never been one of his strengths.
Nikita inclines her head in agreement before walking away, stopping in Munitions where Walter was waiting for the mission’s operatives to arrive and turn in their gear.
It's interesting, in a way, she thinks; Nikita’s style of leadership, if it can really be called that-Madeline has her doubts on that point-has always reminded Madeline of Paul, in a way. Less disciplined, perhaps (though on occasion, that has been debatable), more naive and more selfish (that, too, has sometimes been reversed in Nikita's favor), but very similar. And like with Paul, Madeline had expected Nikita would have found her own… well, Madeline. But as far as she can tell, Walter and Quinn share equal parts in the role now, and yet… it doesn't seem quite the same.
Of course, Nikita was also a Center spy for years without even her closest friends knowing, so perhaps she preferred to work alone, without confidantes or allies.
Pushing the thought away for the time being-she'll return to it one day, she thinks, but at just this moment, it's of little importance-Madeline turns her gaze back to her computer and her mind back to the reason for the replacement of her guards. She's rarely been kept in the dark about anything Section-related since Paul claimed the Perch all those years ago, and the sheer amount of things she's no longer privy to is starting to wear on her already limited patience.
*
She doesn't hear from Paul for nearly four days, and then one day a message appears, as if their conversation had never been interrupted.
Nikita ordered the change in guards.
Madeline's gaze drifts up to the Perch, to where Nikita's standing at the window, watching the operatives mill around beneath her.
Any idea why? she replies.
Still working on that.
Weighing her options, Madeline finally settles herself on a course of action that even she thinks is ill-advised, but also feels is necessary. Being watched as she is, she can't gather the information needed; Paul, it seems, has more access to people willing to provide him with information. We need to talk. Arrange something?
I'll see what I can do, he answers a moment later.
SWBB, she sends before closing the message; really, sooner would not only be better, but at this point, simply prudent.
After all, if she's half-right in her suspicions, then things can't really happen quickly enough.
Part Six: Paint a Heart Repeating, Beating, Don't Give Up
Some Things You Lose
(and Some Things You Just Give Away)
Part Seven: Getting to the Point That is the Hardest Part
Committee long ago became Nikita's least favorite part of Section, and even after three years, that hasn't changed. Every time she steps foot into Committee, it's because Bill has arrived to make her life miserable. This time isn't any different-and, to make things even better, Bill's brought Foster Hale along for the visit. Nikita lets out a resigned sigh when she sees them waiting for her, but presses on, plastering on a vague smile.
As soon as he sees her, Hale leaps to his feet, storming toward her. He always attempts to be intimidating, and ends up just coming across as an irritation, and sometimes she wonders if he doesn't realize that she could break his neck in less time than it takes him to build up to one of his red-faced, growling fits. She stops a few feet away from him, rocking back on her heel and eying him with a curious sort of amusement.
"You're trying to ruin everything! All of my work!" he snaps, pointing at her, and she narrows her gaze, glaring threatening at him until he at least has the good sense to get his finger out of her face. "Do you have any idea what kind of damage you may have caused?!"
Rolling her eyes, Nikita turns toward Bill-it's a measure of how her day's going, really, that she's counting on Bill to be the voice of reason here.
"I hear Paul and Madeline are being let out of their rooms now?" he asks blandly, resting back against the cushioned seat. His words sound innocuous, but Nikita knows they're anything but.
"Yes. And so far, without any complications," she says pointedly in Hale's direction. "They're fully functional, as far as I can tell. The only difference is their bodies. Perhaps Dr. Hale needs to have more confidence in his work."
"They're more fragile than they look," he insists angrily. "I specifically told you to keep them as isolated as possible, and under no circumstances should they be allowed to see each other."
"I wasn't aware that they had seen each other," Nikita lies, shrugging in innocent-looking confusion. "And if you think you can get two incredibly headstrong, stubborn people like them to do anything for an extended period of time while locked in cell the size of a shoebox, you're an idiot."
"One of my men tells me that they passed by each other in Comm-and recognized each other, if the look they exchanged was anything to go by! This cannot happen!" When Nikita doesn't seem satisfactorily ashamed in the face of his admonishments-really, she's too busy being relieved that he hadn't figured out anything regarding the previous night's 'secret meeting'-he too turns to Bill, repeating almost pleadingly, "You cannot let this happen…. It'll ruin everything my team's worked for. It's taken us too long to get the technology even this far."
Bill regards them both silently, finally leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands in front of him and resting his chin on his outstretched fingers. Only his eyes angle toward Nikita. "There've been no ill effects thus far?" he clarifies again.
"None," Nikita replies, shaking her head. "They're as efficient as they ever were."
He nods. "Fine. Let it be for now," he decides, raising his voice when Hale begins to protest. "For now. It's not as though we can't redo the experiment if this round fails."
Positively seething at this point, Hale just glares at them both, his stance and the tense set of his jaw making his disapproval clear.
"We can't just pull random people off the street," he grinds out. "We need well-suited matches. These were the best we found. If they-"
"Just for now," Bill repeats, holding up his hand to stop further interruptions. "If they start…"
"Glitching," Hale fills in through gritted teeth.
"…glitching, then we'll talk."
"Fine. Are we done?" Without waiting for an answer, Hale storms off toward the exit on the far side of the room. Nikita watches him go, waiting for the door to slide shut behind him before she returns her attention to Bill.
"Did you have time to look at the file I sent over?" she asks.
"Yes, and I've already told you how I feel about it," he reminds her, not without a hint of irritation in his voice. "Even if it weren't far too early to even be considering such a thing, I'd still think it was a terrible idea. Quinn will be perfectly capable if the need arises."
Nikita frowns, shaking her head. "I disagree. Her experiences and skills are not well-rounded enough for her to take this on anytime soon."
"You said much the same thing about yourself, if I recall," he points out, getting to his feet. "And with any luck, it won't be an issue in the near future."
"You're leaving Section at risk," she protests.
"Then I suggest you start working with Quinn more closely," he replies. "Or find someone else."
"Someone else has already-"
"I said no," he interjects without turning around. "This discussion is over."
And without another word, he disappears through the door.
Beyond frustrated, Nikita heads in the other direction, making her way back to her office. It occurs to her that as of late, she understands why Paul and Madeline had constantly been trying to oust-or kill-George. If anything, Bill is more irritating than George ever was.
She hadn't been expecting the conversation to end any differently, really, but it did serve a purpose, at least. It proved what she's suspected from the start-that if she's going to make this work, she's going to have to find another way. And frankly, the only ideas she has at this point will take far too long for her liking.
Perhaps, she thinks to herself, it's time to bring in outside help. Looking speculatively over the sleeping, nearly-silent Section, she nods to herself and climbs the steps to the Perch.
*
“That’s… touching,” Quinn says, peering over Nikita’s shoulder. The video recording of Paul’s cell is on the monitor, frozen at the image of Madeline lying with her ear pressed against Paul’s chest, a troubled expression on her face.
“Yeah,” Nikita mutters, sounding like she finds it anything but touching. She reaches out and hits a few keys on the keyboard, and the monitor goes dark. “I want Madeline’s guards reassigned,” she says, changing the subject abruptly. “They were hand-picked by Hale, and with him gone, I’d rather have his people doing something a little less… sensitive.”
Quinn nods, taking her usual seat on the other side of the desk. “Anyone in particular that you had in mind for replacements?”
“I’ll send you their files. I’d like the change made immediately.”
“Sure.” She waits expectantly for a moment, then stands up and heads for the door.
“I want Madeline in Comm during the missions from now on,” Nikita calls after her, and Quinn spins on her heel, an incredulous look spreading across her face.
“Hale said that they may not be able to handle extreme stress. Do you really want-?”
“Yes,” Nikita says evenly, her expression almost daring the other woman to challenge her. “If a simple mission caused Madeline ‘extreme stress’, she’d have fallen apart years ago. There’s been no indication that there’s a problem with her programming, and I’m tired of watching people die and missions fail. I want her there, effective tonight.”
Quinn hesitates for a long moment before nodding and quickly exiting the room.
*
She’s… comfortable. Maybe that shouldn’t surprise
her, but with everything that’s happened lately-
(what happened?)
(something terrible, but she can’t remember)
(why can’t she remember?)
-it’s been a while since she’s felt relaxed.
Arms tighten around her, and she opens her eyes,
glancing up to see-
(Paul)
(no, not Paul)
(he’s…)
(she knows, it’s at the edge of her mind, on the
tip of her tongue, and yet...)
-him watching her with eyes-
(hazel, he once said)
(she said no, too green for hazel)
(an old argument, over and over)
(pointless, but they repeat it anyway)
-that remind her of home, of a time before everything
went so completely, irrevocably wrong.. She turns her
head up toward him, resting her chin against his chest,
giving him a half-smile in the glaring light of late
morning. She glances around, and they’re in-
(not a cell)
(not Section)
-a-
(their)
- bedroom, the curtains open, the bed beneath them too
small, maybe, and yet more than enough space, lying as
they are
.
“I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day,” he says
softly, teasingly, and she-
(frowns)
-shrugs and grins, resting her head back down against
his bare chest. His heart beats out a familiar rhythm-
(like a lullaby, she once said)
(aren’t you too old for lullabies? he asked)
(there’s no such thing, and she laughed)
(she remembers, but doesn’t, and the memory
flits away before she can grab onto it)
-and she lets out a contented sigh. “I’m tired,” she
replies, her voice still heavy with the exhaustion that
never seems to go away these days. He just laughs.
A knock at the door interrupts the serenity of the
moment, and she rolls her eyes in exasperation.
“Can’t they let us sleep in just once?” Madeline-
(not me)
(of course it’s me)
(no... not quite)
(who am I?)
-groans. He laughs again, nudging at her to sit up.
.
“Hey, Joey needs you,” Becca-
(Who?)
-yells through the door, and then there’s another knock-
-ringing through the cell. Madeline wakes with a start, looking up to see a guard standing in the open doorway, his fist raised to knock on the wall again. He drops his hand when he sees Madeline finally looking at him.
“Bad dream?” he asks in an almost friendly tone, and she glares at him. She doesn’t recognize him; he must be new to the guard detail. She’s not sure what a change in guards could mean, but she’s not going to question it just now; perhaps this guard, with his cheerful, sheepish grin in the face of her irritation, will be the weak link she’s been waiting for.
“Operations said they need you in Comm a little early today,” he continues, then adds apologetically, “No time for breakfast, I’m afraid.”
“What time is it?” Madeline asks, sitting up and raking her hand through her sleep-mussed hair.
He glances at his watch. “Nearly three a.m.”
Wonderful.
Caught between hoping she’ll actually get to work on something interesting for a change and wondering if this is just Nikita’s way of getting back at her and Paul for not broadcasting their plans to all of Section, Madeline climbs out of bed.
*
You’re getting to work actual missions? the message says, and Madeline glances surreptitiously over at the latest new guard before clicking in the window and replying.
Yes. Jealous?
Paul must hear the teasing tone in her words, because he answers back, Of course. I’ve barely been within thirty feet of Comm since they brought me back.
Madeline rolls her eyes. Shouldn’t you be working? she types, then glances at the clock which is only just now creeping past four a.m. and adds, Or sleeping?
She can almost see his irritated shrug. Bastards got me up. Don’t know why.
Hesitating for a brief moment, Madeline finally asks, Did you get new guards recently?
No, he replies. Why? Did you?
Yes, she answers, but then sees Nikita heading her way and types out a quick, Talk later, before closing the window and clicking back over to the profile she’d been working on.
“Quinn said the mission went well,” Nikita says as she approaches.
“It wasn’t a particularly difficult one,” Madeline answers, half-wondering why on earth she had to be woken up so early for what had really, in the end, turned out to be a run-of-the-mill assassination attempt. A successful one, she notes without any real pride in the fact; anyone could have profiled this. Nikita, certainly. Even Walter, and profiling had never been one of his strengths.
Nikita inclines her head in agreement before walking away, stopping in Munitions where Walter was waiting for the mission’s operatives to arrive and turn in their gear.
It's interesting, in a way, she thinks; Nikita’s style of leadership, if it can really be called that-Madeline has her doubts on that point-has always reminded Madeline of Paul, in a way. Less disciplined, perhaps (though on occasion, that has been debatable), more naive and more selfish (that, too, has sometimes been reversed in Nikita's favor), but very similar. And like with Paul, Madeline had expected Nikita would have found her own… well, Madeline. But as far as she can tell, Walter and Quinn share equal parts in the role now, and yet… it doesn't seem quite the same.
Of course, Nikita was also a Center spy for years without even her closest friends knowing, so perhaps she preferred to work alone, without confidantes or allies.
Pushing the thought away for the time being-she'll return to it one day, she thinks, but at just this moment, it's of little importance-Madeline turns her gaze back to her computer and her mind back to the reason for the replacement of her guards. She's rarely been kept in the dark about anything Section-related since Paul claimed the Perch all those years ago, and the sheer amount of things she's no longer privy to is starting to wear on her already limited patience.
*
She doesn't hear from Paul for nearly four days, and then one day a message appears, as if their conversation had never been interrupted.
Nikita ordered the change in guards.
Madeline's gaze drifts up to the Perch, to where Nikita's standing at the window, watching the operatives mill around beneath her.
Any idea why? she replies.
Still working on that.
Weighing her options, Madeline finally settles herself on a course of action that even she thinks is ill-advised, but also feels is necessary. Being watched as she is, she can't gather the information needed; Paul, it seems, has more access to people willing to provide him with information. We need to talk. Arrange something?
I'll see what I can do, he answers a moment later.
SWBB, she sends before closing the message; really, sooner would not only be better, but at this point, simply prudent.
After all, if she's half-right in her suspicions, then things can't really happen quickly enough.