Once again their conversation ended in barely concealed hostility. Paul stood at the window of the perch and watched as Nikita stormed across the floor below. How she seethed, every muscle tense as she obstinately refused to grant him the pleasure of a backward glance. His own anger was equally unmistakable, he was sure, as people hurriedly averted their gazes when he met their eye.
Yet, he found himself oddly conflicted, his apparent anger a stern front, not entirely real. He was angry, it was true, but that wasn't everything. By the end of their conversation, he'd wanted nothing more than to take hold of Nikita's shoulders and to shake her. To wake her up and make her see the truth. For her to understand. She had such potential but spent so much time fighting against the people on her own side that she rarely put it to any real use. Wasted potential and wasted energy.
Paul longed for her to sit still, to be open for just long enough for him to find the right words in order to explain. Instead she constantly frustrated him. Her acceptance eluding them both. Which left him angry, frustrated and feeling unnaturally hollow inside. More than anything she made him feel old and fallacious, which only served to increase his anger. She was a constant reminder of his failure. She was his failure. Storming around Section, wrapped up so tightly in her self-righteousness and conscience that she couldn't see beyond either. And he had no way of reaching her. Of bridging the gap between them with words or actions.
He blacked out the perch and retreated to the relative safety of his desk, another symbol of the distance that sat between them. From here he could send Nikita to her death with a word and she could see no further beyond that than he could beyond her irritating righteousness. There was simply too much tension and too many years between them. Paul had lived through a war, abeyance missions and torture. She had survived training and a handful of missions that made her think she was better than the rest. Nikita thought the world was against her. He knew it was.
All of which made him want to reach out to her more, to find some way in which to teach her or to show her that they were on the same side. That she could learn so much from him and Madeline and Walter in his own unique way. She wanted none of it, though, and it only made his muscles tense and blood boil. No matter how much she frustrated him, Paul's inability to overcome it frustrated him more. He had never liked puzzles. They needed to be solved.
Paul glanced over as the door opened and Madeline strode confidently forward. She rarely knocked and he wondered whether there was anything he could have been doing behind closed doors that she wouldn't take in her stride. She had seen him at his very worst and hadn't turned away. He was careful, all the same, to school his expression into placidity as she took everything in. She came to a halt in front of his desk, hands neatly folded in front of her, and cocked her head just so. He looked away.
"Nikita?"
He nodded solemnly and looked up in time to see the flash of understanding in her eyes. Her jaw tightened a fraction, and he wondered if she really understood at all. After a moment she nodded as well, "Let me think on it. In the meantime..."
He allowed himself to be drawn in by Madeline's words, and allowed the current bane of his existence that was Nikita to fade into the background once again. He took quiet reassurance that Madeline was on his side over the matter. Sooner or later Nikita and he would have to resolve the issues between them. His last fleeting thought on the matter was whether it was even possible, before Madeline touched his arm lightly and she had all of his attention. His posture relaxed and tightened again, as she redirected his frustrated energy down different paths. He knew she was handling him, but they both knew this particular dance too well, and he was willing to let her lead from time to time. At least for a little while.