PROLOGUE: The Nature of the job..

A/N: Ok, so another Doyle/Nadia story! What can I say? I'm hooked and they're so much fun to write about! This story has no relation to my other one, and is told from the characters POV in first person, based six months after Season 6. It's kind of (hopefully) action-y and switches between characters at various places in the story. I thought it would be interesting to do it that way so we can see how they think. Going to throw some other characters POV's in there as well (Chloe, Bill, maybe even Jack's), as the story progresses. Hope you like the first couple of chapters. Reviews appreciated and they make me write faster.

Disclaimer: Most of the characters ain't mine. I wish they were because then you could guarantee both Ricky and Marisol would be back in Season 7. Nope, they belong to um, what's that production company called again…? Some of the characters DO belong to me however, and I'm having fun playing with them. I wish real people were this easy to manipulate..

Rating: Lots of language and a suggestion of adult themes, so let's give it an M. Just because I follow the rules.

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Doyle…

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I never wanted to hurt her, but the second my hands had closed around her throat, I could see that was exactly what I'd done.

It's the worst part of my job- interrogating suspects. Despite how skilled I am out in the field, but contrary to popular belief, I really don't "get off" on torturing people. Those ridiculous rumours started way back when I first got out of the academy and since then they've kind of escalated and taken on a mind of their own. Just because I graduated with commendations in fieldwork and clandestine operations, particularly with interrogation techniques, some people seem to think I'm the anti-Christ. I have the somewhat notorious reputation throughout CTU offices of being 'ruthless.' 'Cold.'

Whatever. It's not like it bothers me that much or even like I play up to the tag.

Anyway, we're kind of getting a little off-track here.

So, as I calmly sat down facing her in that cramped holding room that day, my eyes were imploring her to tell me the truth as I looked up at her bewildered face. To tell me the truth, not to make this harder than it needed to be.

I didn't want to hurt anyone. Especially not her. The resentment I could so clearly see in those eyes of hers kind of socked me right in the gut, y'know? Usually it's all to easy to ignore the feelings of those I'm interrogating, because usually I can see right off they're guilty but with her it was different from the start and the usually logical side of my brain was telling me that in this instance, the facts just didn't add up. Maybe it's because she was a beautiful woman or something and I could quite clearly sense how confused and frightened she was, I don't know, it just felt off somehow. My heart just wasn't in it this time.

Focus Mike, focus.

In that room she was defiant, arrogant- proud as I loomed over her doing my whole bad cop scenario. I kind of admired that about her. She was adamant that despite all the evidence presenting itself, she was not working with terrorists. She was innocent.

It's not like I never heard that excuse before. Hell, there were nuclear weapons out there and I snapped, frustrated. All I wanted was answers. I usually got them, she was going to be no different. So, I resorted to violence, ignoring what was staring me right in the face all along: the whole goddamn time she'd been telling me the truth.

I wasn't proud of my behaviour.

Afterwards when I had to let her go, she'd spat insults at me, and her accusations hurt. She was so angry and humiliated at what I'd just put her through.

I didn't know why it mattered so much to me what she thought about me or thought she knew about me, but looking down into those fiery brown eyes of hers that glistened with unshed tears, and seeing the imprint of my fingers outlined on the delicate skin of her neck, I knew that it did. I actually cared what she thought about me. For the first time in a long while it seemed to matter to me what someone else actually thought about me.

I wanted to prove to her that whatever she'd heard, it was wrong.

But first, it was time to concentrate on the job in hand.

To my surprise, she came right back to work after the whole interrogation business. If that had been me, I would have been too pissed off to do anything as I can be kind of hot-headed like that. I was mortified that I'd read her so wrong and had even considered she could be a traitor, my apologies seemed so inadequate.

Futile.

She'd really hate me now and I knew I deserved it.

I couldn't look her in the eye at first, I felt so remorseful for how I treated her in that room. I scared her.

Fair enough, sometimes I kind of enjoy a power trip, but it certainly wasn't warranted with her, or justified.

Over the next 12 hours of that horrific day, in fits and starts, I think I managed to redeem myself with her in some way, though I don't exactly know what I did, but I felt that we maybe reached some kind of understanding.

I wouldn't have described myself as being in her good graces exactly, but I felt that on some level, she got me. It was there in the way she looked at me, scrutinising me like she was trying to read me and the nuances in her voice when she spoke to me. She started the day off kind of impatiently and indifferent toward me, but approaching the end I could see her becoming more relaxed, more accepting of me I guess.

She knew that deep down I wasn't the heartless bastard that everyone perceived me to be, this women that I barely knew and it kind of scared me a little how she seemed to get me so well. It's the nature of the job, that's all- cause's people to act rashly, perhaps even a little extreme. Doing something like this… it eventually gets to everybody.

Some people more than others. I think maybe she started to realise that.

When she'd urged me to "be careful" before I went out into the field that time, I thought there was more she wanted to say to me, but her eyes were hooded, shielding her true emotions, kind of how I do.

I'm an expert at keeping things hidden, locked away. With her though, something in me suddenly and inexplicably shifted. I wanted her to see me for the person that I really am. Away from all this. When I'm not constantly tormented by the thoughts of work and the 'shoulda, woulda, coulda's' that always seem to weave their way through my mind.

I merely nodded at her considerate urging, face impassive as always, but wanting to say more to her though I know I never will. To thank her for her worry, amazed that she even appears to give a damn about me, to say sorry for being such a bastard...

Sorry for hurting her.

I suspect it will always be that way with us- so many things will forever be left unsaid, but that's the nature of the job, and I guess the way it needs to be.

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