The Hard Light Of Reality

“Michael seemed like a god. Not afraid of anything. He knew me better than I knew myself. And even then, I knew it was part of the drill. Section wants you to imprint someone like a...like an animal.”

Perhaps, if you could remember when it started, everything would make more sense. If you could just pinpoint the exact moment when your heart and common sense diverged and you were suddenly, irrevocably, painfully in love, then maybe you could trust your feelings.

Perhaps, if you could remember when it started, you would still be in bed. You wouldn’t be sitting here alone, watching the sun come up, desperately trying to sort out your jumbled thoughts and untangle the myriad of strings that are attached to your life.

But you can’t remember when it started. You can’t remember a time when your eyes didn’t seek him out, when the first voice you picked out in a crowded room wasn’t his. Surely there was a time when the touch of his hand was just that - a touch, not a distraction or a challenge or an invitation, but if there was such a time - you no longer remember it.

You can’t remember what it was like to be indifferent to him, and that worries you more than everything else put together. Someone once told you – a lifetime ago, it seemed now - that Section liked to imprint their operatives like animals. At the time, you’d brushed it off, not wanting to consider the implications, telling yourself that nothing like that would ever happen to you. Telling yourself that you were nothing like that other girl, even though deep down you were afraid you were.

But what if it had happened? What if the Perez mission – something you still can’t think about without wanting to throw up -hadn’t been an isolated incident? What if you had - by falling in love with the man presently asleep in your bed – obediently completed yet another sequence profiled by the Powers That Rule Your Life?

The thought turns your stomach, and you hastily reach for the plate of crackers you decided were good enough for breakfast. Sipping your tea cautiously, you stare unseeingly at the suburban Parisian skyline. Yes, it would be nice if you could remember the moment you fell in love with Michael. The problem is that love is never polite enough to formally announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a convenient fanfare of shooting stars and fluttering white doves so you can carefully take note of the time and date. It just creeps up on you, every minute of every hour of every day, threading its way insidiously into your head and your heart until one day you wake up and you’ve passed the point of no return.

You really want to believe that you and Michael found each other of your own accord, but if you’ve learned anything after five years in Section, it’s that nothing is ever what it seems. You love him more than you ever thought possible to love someone, but you can’t stop worrying that this is just one more hoop through which you have just unwittingly jumped.

Perhaps it all started on your very first day in Section. After all, you had ended up rolling around on the ground together, his lips a scant whisper away from yours. But then you remind yourself that you had been literally bouncing off the walls with fear and confusion, and that whole day was – and still is - little more than a panicked blur. That night, though, you had remembered his eyes, and hated yourself for it.

Or perhaps it had been the first time he had really smiled at you. Two months into your training, he’d stopped you in the hallway and asked how you were doing. Taking his question at face value, you’d given him a detailed description of Madeline’s latest lecture on the subject of deportment and your total lack of aptitude for said subject. When you’d told him about the unfortunate ‘heel snapping’ incident with the $400 pair of shoes, he had grinned, and your stomach had lurched as though you’d just missed a step while walking downstairs. But the very next day he’d pushed you to the point of tears in the dojo, and you’d wanted to slam your fist into that smugly handsome face, so, well, perhaps not.

Maybe it was the first time you had kissed him. Not that pathetic buss on the lips you’d given him in Madeline’s office at her request, but the lip-scorching, tongue-tangling out-of-control beast of a kiss you had shared at Perry Bauer’s house the next day. It hadn’t been real, of course, but your body hadn’t known that. You had tasted that damn kiss on your mouth for days afterwards, and it had suddenly seemed impossible to meet Michael’s eyes without remembering the hard heat of his body pressed against yours.

A vivid mental picture of a creaking bed on a rundown boat flashes into your mind, and you put down the teacup and press your fingertips to your temples, as though that might possibly massage some sense back into your brain. Even now, nearly two years later, the memory of that night in Grenoble still has the power to quicken your pulse and hijack your power of coherent speech. That night was a revelation, and definitely more than just lust, more than just desire. But it had also blasted open a great big Pandora’s box of emotions that neither of you were ready to admit, let alone welcome with open arms. And then when Jurgen arrived in Section…You stop yourself before you can finish the thought. You’re already dealing with enough ghosts this morning – you don’t need one more.

The cool early morning air teases your bare legs, making you shiver. Goosebumps rise up on your thighs and you try in vain to tug your – Michael’s – sweater a little further down your legs. On any other morning, you would think that it was silly to be sitting on the cold terrace, shivering because you’re wearing nothing more than your underwear and someone else’s sweater. This morning, however, when you’d awoken fifteen minutes ago, both the bed and your bedroom seemed much too small. Much too crowded. So you fled before Michael could wake up and tempt you anew with too much bare flesh and those clever hands of his. You fled to the terrace and did your best to find both refuge and answers in the bottom of a teacup but so far, you’ve found neither.

If you are perfectly honest with herself – something you only seem to manage every other day at the moment – you know exactly why you’re sitting out here while the man you love is asleep in your bed. Curling your hands around the warm teacup, you close your eyes, feeling the feeble beat of the rising sun touch your eyelids, and wonder if it was possible for your life to be any more complicated.

If it was just Section you needed to consider, then maybe you would still be in bed, revelling in all that warm bare skin and succumbing to those clever hands, instead of sitting out here on this cold terrace trying not to picture Centre’s reaction to this latest development in your life.

Perhaps they already know, you think, your heart sinking. Perhaps even now Mr Jones is reading a report detailing exactly what transpired in your bedroom last night. Swearing vividly under your breath, you take a quick sip of tea that completely fails to chase away the sudden twist of nausea spiraling through your stomach.

The city slowly stirs to life below you, and you know that your quiet thinking time has come to an end. You stand up, brush the crumbs from your borrowed sweater, take a deep breath, then tiptoe inside.

You feel strangely hesitant when you reach the bottom of the stairs leading to your bedroom. This conversation will be a turning point, no matter which direction you end up taking. Tugging the sweater down in a vain attempt to cover your backside in a manner befitting a lady, you take another deep breath, then climb the stairs.

He’s awake. You knew he would be. His eyes meet yours, and again you feel that ‘missed a step’ swoop in your stomach. You’re not sure how it is that he can look so comfortable in your bed when you know damn well he’s only slept in it twice, but then Michael always was the eternal chameleon.

You smile at him, trying to ignore the fluttering of your pulse. You’re quite sure that your skin never looked that good against those sheets. “Good morning.”

His voice is roughened by sleep and desire, and you abruptly sink onto the edge of the bed and reach for his hand, feeling as though you need to ground yourself. There are too many thoughts floating around in your head. His fingers curl around yours, and you do your best to sound matter-of-fact. “It feels strange.” He raises one eyebrow, and you drop your gaze to your entwined hands, stroking your fingers along his palm. “We’re really together now.”

The unspoken question hangs between you, and for a few seconds, you have no idea which answer you want to hear. Part of you is praying that he will take this decision out of your hands and tell you last night was a mistake; part of you just wants to burrow beneath the bedclothes with him and never come out again.

You resist the urge to put your hands around his neck and throttle him. He’s trying to give you a way out, if you want one. Putting the damn ball back in your court, just like he always does.

You give him a deliberately teasing smile, then look away, unashamedly stalling for time. “Well…” Your eyes meet his once more and you see the apprehension he’s not bothering to hide, and everything almost makes sense. Here and now, this almost makes sense, and your answer is suddenly very simple. “I want to be.”

Your chest feels tight and you look away once more, torn between quiet elation and barely controlled panic. You can’t tell him everything, but at least you can venture a soft, “Section won’t like it. What do you think they’ll do?”

The mattress shifts as he sits up and leans toward you, his voice as soft as the fingertips that stroke the curve of your neck. “We’ll have to see.” His fingers slide through your hair, pushing it aside with lazy intent. You swallow hard as his lips brush your skin, his mouth warm and soft, and you feel the familiar tug of desire low in your belly. You want to lean back against him, let yourself melt into him.

But, to your dismay, you can’t. You can’t because you want more. You want more than ‘we’ll have to wait and see’. You want him to tell you that he has a backup plan if this all goes to pieces. You want to shake him and tell him just how much is at stake here. But you can't. You can’t tell him your secrets any more than you could tell him that you didn’t want to be with him.

He kisses your neck again, the rasp of his morning beard scraping against your skin. His hand strokes your back through the sweater, then beneath the sweater, then lower, and you’re officially undone. You close your eyes, push the darkness from your thoughts and let the lust and love and need take over. Twisting in his arms, you kiss him softly, then fiercely, pushing him back onto the mattress, your feet kicking aside the sheets so your legs can tangle with his. His hands are touching your face and your breasts and between your legs and his kisses are almost hot enough to turn your insides to liquid. It’s almost enough to make everything make sense.


	The Hard Light Of Reality By: Kyara Caledonii Copyright June 19, 2004 “Michael seemed like a god. Not afraid of anything. He knew me better than I knew myself. And even then, I knew it was part of the drill. Section wants you to imprint someone like a...like an animal.” Vizcano to Nikita, “First Mission” *~~~~ If only you could remember when it started. Perhaps, if you could remember when it started, everything would make more sense. If you could just pinpoint the exact moment when your heart and common sense diverged and you were suddenly, irrevocably, painfully in love, then maybe you could trust your feelings. Perhaps, if you could remember when it started, you would still be in bed. You wouldn’t be sitting here alone, watching the sun come up, desperately trying to sort out your jumbled thoughts and untangle the myriad of strings that are attached to your life. I guess that’s the price you pay for having too many puppet masters, you think, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. But you can’t remember when it started. You can’t remember a time when your eyes didn’t seek him out, when the first voice you picked out in a crowded room wasn’t his. Surely there was a time when the touch of his hand was just that - a touch, not a distraction or a challenge or an invitation, but if there was such a time - you no longer remember it. You can’t remember what it was like to be indifferent to him, and that worries you more than everything else put together. Someone once told you – a lifetime ago, it seemed now - that Section liked to imprint their operatives like animals. At the time, you’d brushed it off, not wanting to consider the implications, telling yourself that nothing like that would ever happen to you. Telling yourself that you were nothing like that other girl, even though deep down you were afraid you were. But what if it had happened? What if the Perez mission – something you still can’t think about without wanting to throw up -hadn’t been an isolated incident? What if you had - by falling in love with the man presently asleep in your bed – obediently completed yet another sequence profiled by the Powers That Rule Your Life? The thought turns your stomach, and you hastily reach for the plate of crackers you decided were good enough for breakfast. Sipping your tea cautiously, you stare unseeingly at the suburban Parisian skyline. Yes, it would be nice if you could remember the moment you fell in love with Michael. The problem is that love is never polite enough to formally announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a convenient fanfare of shooting stars and fluttering white doves so you can carefully take note of the time and date. It just creeps up on you, every minute of every hour of every day, threading its way insidiously into your head and your heart until one day you wake up and you’ve passed the point of no return. You really want to believe that you and Michael found each other of your own accord, but if you’ve learned anything after five years in Section, it’s that nothing is ever what it seems. You love him more than you ever thought possible to love someone, but you can’t stop worrying that this is just one more hoop through which you have just unwittingly jumped. Perhaps it all started on your very first day in Section. After all, you had ended up rolling around on the ground together, his lips a scant whisper away from yours. But then you remind yourself that you had been literally bouncing off the walls with fear and confusion, and that whole day was – and still is - little more than a panicked blur. That night, though, you had remembered his eyes, and hated yourself for it. Or perhaps it had been the first time he had really smiled at you. Two months into your training, he’d stopped you in the hallway and asked how you were doing. Taking his question at face value, you’d given him a detailed description of Madeline’s latest lecture on the subject of deportment and your total lack of aptitude for said subject. When you’d told him about the unfortunate ‘heel snapping’ incident with the $400 pair of shoes, he had grinned, and your stomach had lurched as though you’d just missed a step while walking downstairs. But the very next day he’d pushed you to the point of tears in the dojo, and you’d wanted to slam your fist into that smugly handsome face, so, well, perhaps not. Maybe it was the first time you had kissed him. Not that pathetic buss on the lips you’d given him in Madeline’s office at her request, but the lip-scorching, tongue-tangling out-of-control beast of a kiss you had shared at Perry Bauer’s house the next day. It hadn’t been real, of course, but your body hadn’t known that. You had tasted that damn kiss on your mouth for days afterwards, and it had suddenly seemed impossible to meet Michael’s eyes without remembering the hard heat of his body pressed against yours. But none of that was love, you tell yourself. Lust, yes. Desire, definitely. But not love. Not then. So when? A vivid mental picture of a creaking bed on a rundown boat flashes into your mind, and you put down the teacup and press your fingertips to your temples, as though that might possibly massage some sense back into your brain. Even now, nearly two years later, the memory of that night in Grenoble still has the power to quicken your pulse and hijack your power of coherent speech. That night was a revelation, and definitely more than just lust, more than just desire. But it had also blasted open a great big Pandora’s box of emotions that neither of you were ready to admit, let alone welcome with open arms. And then when Jurgen arrived in Section…You stop yourself before you can finish the thought. You’re already dealing with enough ghosts this morning – you don’t need one more. The cool early morning air teases your bare legs, making you shiver. Goosebumps rise up on your thighs and you try in vain to tug your – Michael’s – sweater a little further down your legs. On any other morning, you would think that it was silly to be sitting on the cold terrace, shivering because you’re wearing nothing more than your underwear and someone else’s sweater. This morning, however, when you’d awoken fifteen minutes ago, both the bed and your bedroom seemed much too small. Much too crowded. So you fled before Michael could wake up and tempt you anew with too much bare flesh and those clever hands of his. You fled to the terrace and did your best to find both refuge and answers in the bottom of a teacup but so far, you’ve found neither. If you are perfectly honest with herself – something you only seem to manage every other day at the moment – you know exactly why you’re sitting out here while the man you love is asleep in your bed. Curling your hands around the warm teacup, you close your eyes, feeling the feeble beat of the rising sun touch your eyelids, and wonder if it was possible for your life to be any more complicated. If it was just Section you needed to consider, then maybe you would still be in bed, revelling in all that warm bare skin and succumbing to those clever hands, instead of sitting out here on this cold terrace trying not to picture Centre’s reaction to this latest development in your life. Perhaps they already know, you think, your heart sinking. Perhaps even now Mr Jones is reading a report detailing exactly what transpired in your bedroom last night. Swearing vividly under your breath, you take a quick sip of tea that completely fails to chase away the sudden twist of nausea spiraling through your stomach. The city slowly stirs to life below you, and you know that your quiet thinking time has come to an end. You stand up, brush the crumbs from your borrowed sweater, take a deep breath, then tiptoe inside. You feel strangely hesitant when you reach the bottom of the stairs leading to your bedroom. This conversation will be a turning point, no matter which direction you end up taking. Tugging the sweater down in a vain attempt to cover your backside in a manner befitting a lady, you take another deep breath, then climb the stairs. He’s awake. You knew he would be. His eyes meet yours, and again you feel that ‘missed a step’ swoop in your stomach. You’re not sure how it is that he can look so comfortable in your bed when you know damn well he’s only slept in it twice, but then Michael always was the eternal chameleon. You smile at him, trying to ignore the fluttering of your pulse. You’re quite sure that your skin never looked that good against those sheets. “Good morning.” He watches as you walk toward the bed, his gaze drifting downward to study your bare legs. “Good morning.” His voice is roughened by sleep and desire, and you abruptly sink onto the edge of the bed and reach for his hand, feeling as though you need to ground yourself. There are too many thoughts floating around in your head. His fingers curl around yours, and you do your best to sound matter-of-fact. “It feels strange.” He raises one eyebrow, and you drop your gaze to your entwined hands, stroking your fingers along his palm. “We’re really together now.” The unspoken question hangs between you, and for a few seconds, you have no idea which answer you want to hear. Part of you is praying that he will take this decision out of your hands and tell you last night was a mistake; part of you just wants to burrow beneath the bedclothes with him and never come out again. His eyes never leave your face. “If we want to be.” You resist the urge to put your hands around his neck and throttle him. He’s trying to give you a way out, if you want one. Putting the damn ball back in your court, just like he always does. You give him a deliberately teasing smile, then look away, unashamedly stalling for time. “Well…” Your eyes meet his once more and you see the apprehension he’s not bothering to hide, and everything almost makes sense. Here and now, this almost makes sense, and your answer is suddenly very simple. “I want to be.” He doesn’t smile, but a wealth of emotion glitters in his eyes. “So do I.” Your chest feels tight and you look away once more, torn between quiet elation and barely controlled panic. You can’t tell him everything, but at least you can venture a soft, “Section won’t like it. What do you think they’ll do?” The mattress shifts as he sits up and leans toward you, his voice as soft as the fingertips that stroke the curve of your neck. “We’ll have to see.” His fingers slide through your hair, pushing it aside with lazy intent. You swallow hard as his lips brush your skin, his mouth warm and soft, and you feel the familiar tug of desire low in your belly. You want to lean back against him, let yourself melt into him. But, to your dismay, you can’t. You can’t because you want more. You want more than ‘we’ll have to wait and see’. You want him to tell you that he has a backup plan if this all goes to pieces. You want to shake him and tell him just how much is at stake here. But you can't. You can’t tell him your secrets any more than you could tell him that you didn’t want to be with him. He kisses your neck again, the rasp of his morning beard scraping against your skin. His hand strokes your back through the sweater, then beneath the sweater, then lower, and you’re officially undone. You close your eyes, push the darkness from your thoughts and let the lust and love and need take over. Twisting in his arms, you kiss him softly, then fiercely, pushing him back onto the mattress, your feet kicking aside the sheets so your legs can tangle with his. His hands are touching your face and your breasts and between your legs and his kisses are almost hot enough to turn your insides to liquid. It’s almost enough to make everything make sense. If only you could remember when it started.**