Fic: Tango Circular (La Femme Nikita, Madeline/Operations, PG)
Title: Tango Circular
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Madeline, Paul (Operations)
Prompt: 044. Circle.
Word Count: Approx. 768
Rating: PG
Summary: A visit to Argentina prompts a conversation that goes in circles.
Author's Notes: This is set pre-series, but one could say there are mild spoilers for Season 2. Written for the fanfic100 challenge, and also offered to nell65 for her birthday. Nell, may you break out of circles and forge an exciting, new path!
Buenos Aires, 1988
“I’m starving,” said Paul. “Why is the meeting so late?”
“Ten o’clock is considered normal dinnertime here,” answered Madeline. “In fact, it’s a bit on the early side.”
He scowled and glanced at his watch. Still another hour to go, and he was ready to gnaw on the table.
“If you’re hungry, order something,” she suggested, using that hyper-rational voice of hers that made him want to do the opposite, just to be contrary.
“I can wait.” He spotted the elderly waiter across the room. “I’ll just get another coffee.”
Flagging down the waiter took forever. Madeline sat quietly, examining the pictures crowding the walls.
They stood out as foreigners, but that was intentional. They were almost certainly being surveilled, so they spent the day making a great production of being tourists. They wandered through an enormous opera house, shopped for souvenir knick-knacks until they couldn’t carry any more bags, and snapped countless photos of that ubiquitous obelisk with a heavy camera that he lugged on a strap around his neck. On the one hand, such frivolous activity made him anxious to get down to work. On the other, it gave him time with Madeline, and he was savoring it. He could almost -- almost -- forget that when they went home, she’d be returning to another man.
Now it was nearly over. Moretti would be meeting them in the café at ten, and they’d negotiate the delivery of the schematics over dinner. Or, well, pretend to negotiate, more accurately. The only payment that petty little weapons dealer could ever expect to see would be the wrong end of a gun barrel pressed between his eyes.
They waited in silence. A tango song played in the background, and the singer sounded like his heart was being wrenched right out of his chest. Paul couldn’t understand the lyrics. His Spanish was only passable, worse than his French. But Madeline had a flair for languages; she seemed to learn them effortlessly. It was one of the reasons she’d been steered into interrogation as a young operative.
“So, what’s he singing about?” he asked.
She cocked her head and listened. “Regret.”
“Regret about what?”
“Everything.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a bit melodramatic for my taste.”
“Why?” he asked, teasing. “You don’t have regrets?”
“I don’t dwell on them.”
“Neither do I. But I don’t pretend they’re not there, either.”
He hadn’t meant to throw down the gauntlet, but the words had tumbled out anyway. A dangerous spark lit her eyes.
“Perhaps you should. It’s called moving on with your life.”
He sat back, stung. The waiter arrived and set the coffee on the table with an ostentatious flourish. Paul muttered a curt “gracias” and the man vanished.
He’d crossed a line. Normally, he’d just keep charging forward, line be damned. This time, however, he knew he needed to make a peace offering. Mere weeks before he planned to strike at Adrian, it was hardly the time to antagonize his closest ally.
He picked up the coffee and took a slow sip. The aroma cleared his mind. “I’m all in favor of moving on,” he said. “But if you don’t look back at where you came from every once in a while, just to get your bearings, you might wind up going in circles.”
He smiled; she relaxed. Peace offering accepted.
“But that’s what kind of dance the tango is,” she said, indulging the pretense that that was what they had been talking about all along. “The man pursues. The woman retreats. All around the dance floor until they wind up right back where they started.”
“I see.” He chuckled. “Now I know why that singer sounds so frustrated.”
He took out a cigarette and flicked his lighter. As he filled the air with smoke, she turned her head to look at the door. She watched the other patrons come in and out of the café so intently, he thought their conversation was over. After several minutes, however, she returned her gaze to him.
“Going in circles isn’t necessarily unproductive,” she said. “It means the dance doesn’t have to end.”
Maybe she was right. Endings were always unsatisfactory. Disappointing. Boring, even. You got what you wanted, and then you didn’t want it anymore. What fun was that?
The door swung open, and Moretti walked in. He was early. Immediately, Paul sat up, shifting into predator mode, and he felt Madeline react in tandem. This was another dance altogether, one where they moved as one instead of in opposition.
He felt his pulse quicken. This was his favorite dance of all.
Link to my Prompt Table here.
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Madeline, Paul (Operations)
Prompt: 044. Circle.
Word Count: Approx. 768
Rating: PG
Summary: A visit to Argentina prompts a conversation that goes in circles.
Author's Notes: This is set pre-series, but one could say there are mild spoilers for Season 2. Written for the fanfic100 challenge, and also offered to nell65 for her birthday. Nell, may you break out of circles and forge an exciting, new path!
Buenos Aires, 1988
“I’m starving,” said Paul. “Why is the meeting so late?”
“Ten o’clock is considered normal dinnertime here,” answered Madeline. “In fact, it’s a bit on the early side.”
He scowled and glanced at his watch. Still another hour to go, and he was ready to gnaw on the table.
“If you’re hungry, order something,” she suggested, using that hyper-rational voice of hers that made him want to do the opposite, just to be contrary.
“I can wait.” He spotted the elderly waiter across the room. “I’ll just get another coffee.”
Flagging down the waiter took forever. Madeline sat quietly, examining the pictures crowding the walls.
They stood out as foreigners, but that was intentional. They were almost certainly being surveilled, so they spent the day making a great production of being tourists. They wandered through an enormous opera house, shopped for souvenir knick-knacks until they couldn’t carry any more bags, and snapped countless photos of that ubiquitous obelisk with a heavy camera that he lugged on a strap around his neck. On the one hand, such frivolous activity made him anxious to get down to work. On the other, it gave him time with Madeline, and he was savoring it. He could almost -- almost -- forget that when they went home, she’d be returning to another man.
Now it was nearly over. Moretti would be meeting them in the café at ten, and they’d negotiate the delivery of the schematics over dinner. Or, well, pretend to negotiate, more accurately. The only payment that petty little weapons dealer could ever expect to see would be the wrong end of a gun barrel pressed between his eyes.
They waited in silence. A tango song played in the background, and the singer sounded like his heart was being wrenched right out of his chest. Paul couldn’t understand the lyrics. His Spanish was only passable, worse than his French. But Madeline had a flair for languages; she seemed to learn them effortlessly. It was one of the reasons she’d been steered into interrogation as a young operative.
“So, what’s he singing about?” he asked.
She cocked her head and listened. “Regret.”
“Regret about what?”
“Everything.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a bit melodramatic for my taste.”
“Why?” he asked, teasing. “You don’t have regrets?”
“I don’t dwell on them.”
“Neither do I. But I don’t pretend they’re not there, either.”
He hadn’t meant to throw down the gauntlet, but the words had tumbled out anyway. A dangerous spark lit her eyes.
“Perhaps you should. It’s called moving on with your life.”
He sat back, stung. The waiter arrived and set the coffee on the table with an ostentatious flourish. Paul muttered a curt “gracias” and the man vanished.
He’d crossed a line. Normally, he’d just keep charging forward, line be damned. This time, however, he knew he needed to make a peace offering. Mere weeks before he planned to strike at Adrian, it was hardly the time to antagonize his closest ally.
He picked up the coffee and took a slow sip. The aroma cleared his mind. “I’m all in favor of moving on,” he said. “But if you don’t look back at where you came from every once in a while, just to get your bearings, you might wind up going in circles.”
He smiled; she relaxed. Peace offering accepted.
“But that’s what kind of dance the tango is,” she said, indulging the pretense that that was what they had been talking about all along. “The man pursues. The woman retreats. All around the dance floor until they wind up right back where they started.”
“I see.” He chuckled. “Now I know why that singer sounds so frustrated.”
He took out a cigarette and flicked his lighter. As he filled the air with smoke, she turned her head to look at the door. She watched the other patrons come in and out of the café so intently, he thought their conversation was over. After several minutes, however, she returned her gaze to him.
“Going in circles isn’t necessarily unproductive,” she said. “It means the dance doesn’t have to end.”
Maybe she was right. Endings were always unsatisfactory. Disappointing. Boring, even. You got what you wanted, and then you didn’t want it anymore. What fun was that?
The door swung open, and Moretti walked in. He was early. Immediately, Paul sat up, shifting into predator mode, and he felt Madeline react in tandem. This was another dance altogether, one where they moved as one instead of in opposition.
He felt his pulse quicken. This was his favorite dance of all.
Link to my Prompt Table here.