******************
Her life had gradually intersecated with his as stubbornly and intrusively as a bunch of nettles clinging to a robust oak.
He was the oak: strong, majestic , and classically proud; she was the nettle: prickly, wild and persistent.
Nikita Wolfe snorted amicably at herself and the strangness of her own comparison, gaining a curious glance from her junior coworker, who diverted his brown eyes from the computer screen and looked at her, waiting for her to speak.
'' What ? ''
She said mockingly, and arched her eyebrows. It was an effective show of bad temper she picked up at a young age watching her father, an ex-marine like few, during particularly annoying family reunions.
'' Nothing, nothing, uhu ''
Seymour Birkhoff returned to the internet research he was paid for, and in the land of virtually inexisting beings, at least for what concerned her.
They were good friends, and she didn't delude herself into thinking that he was really intimidated by her quirks, but was growing tired of all the disbelieving glances she got these days. Specially from Michael.
She brought to her lips the almost forgotten coffee, and shallowed the warm liquid, wondering once again why exactly she was there, working for the Samuelle Investigations, requested from a man who daily ridiculized her methods and beliefs.
She becamed involved in the paranormal because she had known, for longer than she had memory of, that in the world exhisted and operated forces , primitives and mysterious, that others couldn't see or understand when she could. Listening to their voices, seeing that she was special, had helped her to survive her childhood. She lived passing from one abusive family to another, to end in an psychiatric hospital when she was nine, where she had the undubious luck to met Madeline Wolfe, the doctor who had healed her emotional bruises and understood her newest patient wasn't making up stories, the first time that little Nikita ran to her ,describing in detail a vision of a younger Madeline having an abortion.
The alone woman she never called mother, as Paul Wolfe had been the alone man she never called Father, altrough he was sceptic, at first, about adopting a difficult and already grown child as her. They had adored her, and she adored them in return, yet she had not for second thought about giving up her gift, if even a such choice was been possible.
From the time she was nineteen, she knew her dream job was in the FBI, and read without embarassement books and articles about sex cult, serial killers and rhyte homicides. The dream became a reality, and then a nightmare.
Knowing or perceiving the truth behind the facts was a matter, and proving it, despite regulaments and procedures, was another. Even worse it was standing aside while she had dreams and visions that scared the hell out of her, comining too late on the homicide scene, or explaining her weirdest quirks to her older partner Roger, or being misjudged and undervalued for her being attractive and blonde.
Her condition was sufficiently difficult, even if she had not had the bad idea to get personally involved with the Assistant Director Petrosian. In her youthful candor, she saw in her superior all she liked in a man, the thrill of power, and the seduction of the forbidden fruit. She had wanted to observe with her eyes if he was the one they said, but the love she felt for him made her blind to his unbridled ambition, to his openly cultivated narcisism, his presumption, his chivalry what expected a whorty reward, and any other faults she discovered in the decline of their explosive office affair.
She belived she would love Egram forever, but in the aftmermath, bitterness was all the relationship left her with.
In this delicate situation, she and Michael Samuelle crossed paths for the first time. He was still working with the police, and she was assigned to collaborate with him at the case of the disappareance of a 3years-old-boy, Adam Volker. Thanks to every one of their conventional and unconventional efforts, they found the kid: dead, in an open field.
The parents were crushed and so was she. It didn't help her that the child molester was arrested. For weeks, the image of the Adam's little broken body followed her in her sleep and plagued her in her wake. That, and the desperate cries of his mother Elena, while she clung to him like she could guard him from futher harm. Detective Samuelle was hit by the tragedy as hard as she was, and although he didn't understand the extent of her feelings of guilt, they were unable to stay separated that night. She had invited him inside for a drink, and they slept together on her couch. He had known how to comfort her, and she was simply too tired to pass on the benefit of a good hug.
From then, they managed to keep in touch, and it was him, seeing how miserable she was in FBI, who persuaded her to resign, offering her to be his partner in his project of an Investigative Agency. During 5 years of partnership, she saw him at his worst and his best, had know all his family, his friends and his flings, and had no doubt she would fall for him. It was clear Michael wasn't a man who falls in love. He was far too loving of his freedom to let any of his conquests put him on a leash. She admired that attitude because her love life, after Egram, was a sequence of consistent failures. He respected her too much to take her in his bed and for this she was glad.
It was a ritual of their relationship that Nikita would talk humorously about his women, and Michael would laugh, complaining little seriously about her deviousness, half-attempting to defend them only to prod her sarcasm and laugh harder.
Yet lately it was getting harder and harder to hide how irritated she felt with the familiarity he showed around her, and to ignore the pain she felt if he entertained female company in her presence.
Sometimes, at night, she couldn't sleep and wondered where he was, if he was allright and if he too, was thinking of her.
Which Nikita knew it was impossible, at least in those certain terms; she wasn't the type of woman he was attracted to physically. She was too tall, too lanky, and too blonde, not to mention too flat.
Not my problem - she sternly reminded herself. She wouldn't ever risk the wonderful, deep, beautiful friendship they had for for some easy romance and casual sex. She pratically loved and respected him deeply like she loved and respected her parents. This stupid crush she was harboring toward him would just go away, if she had the patience to wait a little.
*Too bad patience isn't my strong suit.* She sighed soundly, frustated at the betrayal of the mind. She had no control when came to men.
*Why hell do I like only things that are no good for my health? *
'' Are you ok? ''
*Now, if even _he_ noticed, I'm really in trouble.*
She thought slanting a sceptical glance in the desk beside hers.
'' Why do you ask? ''
'' You seem a bit off lately. I almost would think you are ...''
'' What? '' *Could you sound more defensive?* She mentally scolded herself, and wished she could smack a book on her head for emphasis without looking like a total freak.
'' Sad ''
Birkoff seemed determined to not divert his gaze from the computer screen, and the thing unnerved her a little.
'' Not sad, bored to death of me '' she muttered. She stretched to give relief to the sore muscles in her legs and shoulders. Who knew she was actually in the same position so long?
'' In few words, I just need to get a life "- she reluctantly admitted, drinking last sip of her coffee -" outside there ''
Amused from her apparent annoyance at herself, her companion took off his tinted glasses and smirked at her, his face looking suddenly younger and fresher.
'' Since when ? ''
'' Since when, my dear Sey-mour , the most exciting engagement of my Saturday night is reordering the archives with you. ''
Nikita leaned back in her chair and pushed back her hair. She considered the decisively more enticing engagements of her life and work partner, who had ditched dinner with her in favor of one last hurrah with the puppy-eyed bimbo Lisa, next happy bride of the player-but-poor Robert Corliss. A match made in Heaven.
'' Envy Michael and his blossoming social life? ''
He replied to her with a hint of cynism, not entirely directed to his boss. In truth, he was thinking more of his brothers Jason and Gail. Mostly of Gail.
'' Don't laugh, you're no better than me. ''
'' Hey, I DO have a life! ''
'' Sure thing, in cyber space. ''
'' It isn't a sin to love technology. ''
'' Oh, Shut it up. You can love it and still be an official member of the Real World. I doubt Michael will kick your ass if you get some air. ''
She began to rummage in the second drawer of her desk and her hands emerged triumphant with lipstick and eyeshadow.
'' What are you doing? ''
'' I'm giving you two exact minutes to end anything you're doing, then we're going to pay a visit to Walter and Belinda. Saturday hasn't yet been completely wasted. '' '' It's late. ''
'' We're talking of Volare's. Open all night and the better half of the day; and - she paused for effect - this is New York City: it's never too late to go anywhere. ''
'' But I'm not dressed for going out? '' It was blatantly his last effort to win a battle already lost, and his complaint sounded more like a question.
'' Don't make excuses. I'm not dressed up either. ''
Birkoff looked her up and down while his friend got up and strode toward the bathroom. Nikita wore a blue chemise semi-trasparent and black fitting jeans; she was beautiful and in that outfit , he doubted she would looked out place anywhere . It wasn't too difficult remembering why he used having a crush on her. Right after G...
He put his glasses in place and turned off the computer. Maybe Volare's wasn't a such bad place to end the night .
********
Her life had gradually intersecated with his as stubbornly and intrusively as a bunch of nettles clinging to a robust oak.
He was the oak: strong, majestic , and classically proud; she was the nettle: prickly, wild and persistent.
Nikita Wolfe snorted amicably at herself and the strangness of her own comparison, gaining a curious glance from her junior coworker, who diverted his brown eyes from the computer screen and looked at her, waiting for her to speak.
'' What ? ''
She said mockingly, and arched her eyebrows. It was an effective show of bad temper she picked up at a young age watching her father, an ex-marine like few, during particularly annoying family reunions.
'' Nothing, nothing, uhu ''
Seymour Birkhoff returned to the internet research he was paid for, and in the land of virtually inexisting beings, at least for what concerned her.
They were good friends, and she didn't delude herself into thinking that he was really intimidated by her quirks, but was growing tired of all the disbelieving glances she got these days. Specially from Michael.
She brought to her lips the almost forgotten coffee, and shallowed the warm liquid, wondering once again why exactly she was there, working for the Samuelle Investigations, requested from a man who daily ridiculized her methods and beliefs.
She becamed involved in the paranormal because she had known, for longer than she had memory of, that in the world exhisted and operated forces , primitives and mysterious, that others couldn't see or understand when she could. Listening to their voices, seeing that she was special, had helped her to survive her childhood. She lived passing from one abusive family to another, to end in an psychiatric hospital when she was nine, where she had the undubious luck to met Madeline Wolfe, the doctor who had healed her emotional bruises and understood her newest patient wasn't making up stories, the first time that little Nikita ran to her ,describing in detail a vision of a younger Madeline having an abortion.
The alone woman she never called mother, as Paul Wolfe had been the alone man she never called Father, altrough he was sceptic, at first, about adopting a difficult and already grown child as her. They had adored her, and she adored them in return, yet she had not for second thought about giving up her gift, if even a such choice was been possible.
From the time she was nineteen, she knew her dream job was in the FBI, and read without embarassement books and articles about sex cult, serial killers and rhyte homicides. The dream became a reality, and then a nightmare.
Knowing or perceiving the truth behind the facts was a matter, and proving it, despite regulaments and procedures, was another. Even worse it was standing aside while she had dreams and visions that scared the hell out of her, comining too late on the homicide scene, or explaining her weirdest quirks to her older partner Roger, or being misjudged and undervalued for her being attractive and blonde.
Her condition was sufficiently difficult, even if she had not had the bad idea to get personally involved with the Assistant Director Petrosian. In her youthful candor, she saw in her superior all she liked in a man, the thrill of power, and the seduction of the forbidden fruit. She had wanted to observe with her eyes if he was the one they said, but the love she felt for him made her blind to his unbridled ambition, to his openly cultivated narcisism, his presumption, his chivalry what expected a whorty reward, and any other faults she discovered in the decline of their explosive office affair.
She belived she would love Egram forever, but in the aftmermath, bitterness was all the relationship left her with.
In this delicate situation, she and Michael Samuelle crossed paths for the first time. He was still working with the police, and she was assigned to collaborate with him at the case of the disappareance of a 3years-old-boy, Adam Volker. Thanks to every one of their conventional and unconventional efforts, they found the kid: dead, in an open field.
The parents were crushed and so was she. It didn't help her that the child molester was arrested. For weeks, the image of the Adam's little broken body followed her in her sleep and plagued her in her wake. That, and the desperate cries of his mother Elena, while she clung to him like she could guard him from futher harm. Detective Samuelle was hit by the tragedy as hard as she was, and although he didn't understand the extent of her feelings of guilt, they were unable to stay separated that night. She had invited him inside for a drink, and they slept together on her couch. He had known how to comfort her, and she was simply too tired to pass on the benefit of a good hug.
From then, they managed to keep in touch, and it was him, seeing how miserable she was in FBI, who persuaded her to resign, offering her to be his partner in his project of an Investigative Agency. During 5 years of partnership, she saw him at his worst and his best, had know all his family, his friends and his flings, and had no doubt she would fall for him. It was clear Michael wasn't a man who falls in love. He was far too loving of his freedom to let any of his conquests put him on a leash. She admired that attitude because her love life, after Egram, was a sequence of consistent failures. He respected her too much to take her in his bed and for this she was glad.
It was a ritual of their relationship that Nikita would talk humorously about his women, and Michael would laugh, complaining little seriously about her deviousness, half-attempting to defend them only to prod her sarcasm and laugh harder.
Yet lately it was getting harder and harder to hide how irritated she felt with the familiarity he showed around her, and to ignore the pain she felt if he entertained female company in her presence.
Sometimes, at night, she couldn't sleep and wondered where he was, if he was allright and if he too, was thinking of her.
Which Nikita knew it was impossible, at least in those certain terms; she wasn't the type of woman he was attracted to physically. She was too tall, too lanky, and too blonde, not to mention too flat.
Not my problem - she sternly reminded herself. She wouldn't ever risk the wonderful, deep, beautiful friendship they had for for some easy romance and casual sex. She pratically loved and respected him deeply like she loved and respected her parents. This stupid crush she was harboring toward him would just go away, if she had the patience to wait a little.
*Too bad patience isn't my strong suit.* She sighed soundly, frustated at the betrayal of the mind. She had no control when came to men.
*Why hell do I like only things that are no good for my health? *
'' Are you ok? ''
*Now, if even _he_ noticed, I'm really in trouble.*
She thought slanting a sceptical glance in the desk beside hers.
'' Why do you ask? ''
'' You seem a bit off lately. I almost would think you are ...''
'' What? '' *Could you sound more defensive?* She mentally scolded herself, and wished she could smack a book on her head for emphasis without looking like a total freak.
'' Sad ''
Birkoff seemed determined to not divert his gaze from the computer screen, and the thing unnerved her a little.
'' Not sad, bored to death of me '' she muttered. She stretched to give relief to the sore muscles in her legs and shoulders. Who knew she was actually in the same position so long?
'' In few words, I just need to get a life "- she reluctantly admitted, drinking last sip of her coffee -" outside there ''
Amused from her apparent annoyance at herself, her companion took off his tinted glasses and smirked at her, his face looking suddenly younger and fresher.
'' Since when ? ''
'' Since when, my dear Sey-mour , the most exciting engagement of my Saturday night is reordering the archives with you. ''
Nikita leaned back in her chair and pushed back her hair. She considered the decisively more enticing engagements of her life and work partner, who had ditched dinner with her in favor of one last hurrah with the puppy-eyed bimbo Lisa, next happy bride of the player-but-poor Robert Corliss. A match made in Heaven.
'' Envy Michael and his blossoming social life? ''
He replied to her with a hint of cynism, not entirely directed to his boss. In truth, he was thinking more of his brothers Jason and Gail. Mostly of Gail.
'' Don't laugh, you're no better than me. ''
'' Hey, I DO have a life! ''
'' Sure thing, in cyber space. ''
'' It isn't a sin to love technology. ''
'' Oh, Shut it up. You can love it and still be an official member of the Real World. I doubt Michael will kick your ass if you get some air. ''
She began to rummage in the second drawer of her desk and her hands emerged triumphant with lipstick and eyeshadow.
'' What are you doing? ''
'' I'm giving you two exact minutes to end anything you're doing, then we're going to pay a visit to Walter and Belinda. Saturday hasn't yet been completely wasted. '' '' It's late. ''
'' We're talking of Volare's. Open all night and the better half of the day; and - she paused for effect - this is New York City: it's never too late to go anywhere. ''
'' But I'm not dressed for going out? '' It was blatantly his last effort to win a battle already lost, and his complaint sounded more like a question.
'' Don't make excuses. I'm not dressed up either. ''
Birkoff looked her up and down while his friend got up and strode toward the bathroom. Nikita wore a blue chemise semi-trasparent and black fitting jeans; she was beautiful and in that outfit , he doubted she would looked out place anywhere . It wasn't too difficult remembering why he used having a crush on her. Right after G...
He put his glasses in place and turned off the computer. Maybe Volare's wasn't a such bad place to end the night .
********