Paul stared out into the darkness of Madeline's quarters, his eyes focused on a picture that graced the far wall. It was a painting of an old manor house; grey brick, covered with vines. But it wasn't the house that was holding his attention. Instead, he was staring at the top corner of the painting, at a little pathway that led to a patch of colour – a patch that Madeline had told him was a garden.
To this day, he didn't know how she knew. Perhaps it didn't matter. Whatever the reason, the garden was there, as real in his mind as it had been in hers.
It had been vivid in hers.
Once, years ago, she had described it to him. He remembered every detail; from the position of the roses, to the height of the climbing vines. Every stem, every petal was as clear in his mind as if he'd seen it himself; as if he'd stood in the garden and watched as she tended and pruned.
It had been her escape.
And now it was his.
As Paul sat staring at the painting, his mind struggled to keep his eyes from straying. He'd come to her living quarters in an attempt to be close to her; in a attempt to still the part of his heart that was screaming to hold her. In a way, he had succeeded.
Madeline's presence permeated the room. The scent of her, the essence of what was her was all around him. It was in the bathrobe hanging on a hook by the door, in the teacup left almost carelessly on her night stand. It was in the satin pillow cases peaking out from beneath the down duvet and the night-gown folded neatly on the pillow. It enveloped him, engulfed him and enfolded him.
The problem was: he was suffocating. He was surrounded by all the things he loved about Madeline, yet he was struggling. His grief acted like a vice, tightening around his chest, leaving his lungs unable to take in air. With each passing moment the weight intensified, each breath became more difficult, his eyes clouding as an eerie vertigo surrounded him. The painting became an unfocused blur as tears welled up in his tired eyes. Gasping for breath, he felt his chest constrict as a wracking sob escaped.
Why?!
his mind screamed, rage and pain taking over where once the calm of the garden had control. Wiping angrily at his tears, Paul closed his eyes, fighting to bring the garden back into his mind. He struggled, and failed. The blue sky faded away to the blackness of Madeline's quarters; the climbing vines dissolved into wood panelling; and the cool breeze on his face was replaced by a continuing stream of warm tears.All that remained was the smell of roses.
The roses. He'd sent them to her quarters the previous morning, a private congratulations for their success at uncovering George's duplicity. They remained on the table where they'd been placed, untouched, the card still tucked in between two unfolding buds. She'd never had the chance to see them.
"Dammit, Madeline," he said aloud, his voice an angry whisper in the silence. "What the hell were you thinking?"
As soon as he voiced the question, he knew; and the realisation only made him angrier. She'd done it as a matter of honour. Her own. No one could control Madeline's fate; no one but Madeline. He'd learned that years ago and she'd proven it in her final show of defiance towards Mr. Jones. But where did that leave him?
In truth, Paul didn't blame her. Given the choice, he probably would have followed the same path as Madeline. Gallantly facing death to protect her; to protect all they'd built. He would sooner have given his life than owed his life to Nikita. But he hadn't been given the choice. She hadn't given him a warning…
Damn Madeline. Damn her for giving in so easily. Damn her for not giving him the choice.
Damn you for not letting me say goodbye.
Wiping viciously at the tears in his eyes, Paul stood, pacing the floor between the table and his chair. As he paced, his mind began digesting the events of the day, looking for that one single moment when her decision had been made; that one instant when she'd decided that she would die to protect them both.
He couldn't find it. There was no signal, no moment of realisation dawning in her eyes. She'd just…decided. She'd determined their fates, without a word to him.
How could you??
he asked silently, stopping his pacing to stand before the table. As he looked up, he caught his reflection in the mirror on the far side. How could you let her?His reflection didn't answer. Blue-grey eyes stared back at him, tense muscles showing his anger. The stare down continued for several moments, then suddenly the shoulders in the mirror slumped and the man fell to his knees, his face hidden in the palms of his hands.
He couldn't have stopped it, there was nothing he could have done. Her fate had been sealed when Jones entered Committee that morning. He hadn't been able to protect her…
"Nooooo…." he cried, voice hoarse with tears. "Noooo…."
The tears were flowing freely now, into his palms, down his cheeks and onto the floor. His body was wracked with sobs, one coming atop the other, barely giving him time to catch his breath between them. The past 24 hours had passed like a dream for him, and now, he was awakening into a nightmare.
She was gone…she was gone, and he was alone. So very alone…
"Please come back…" he whispered, a silent prayer; a voice unheard in the darkness.
She's never coming back…
His mind whispered cruelly to his soul, and his heart shattered, a million pieces of fragile glass, trampled beneath the truth. The truth he hadn't wanted to see. His chest heaved and he clasped his arms around it, an unconscious action of facile comfort."Noooo…." he whispered, his will breaking. "It's not true…."
It is…
His mind replied. She's gone…"Madeline…" he moaned, head cradled in his arms. Slowly, he rocked back and forth, body trembling with exhaustion and pain. "Don't leave me alone…"
As his sobs gave way to rapid tears, he rose, his body struggling to maintain its upright position. Staggering, his haze filled mind brought him to her bed, where he collapsed, exhausted. Her scent permeated his nostrils once more and fresh tears erupted from his eyes, soaking the sheets below.
"I can't do this alone," he whispered to her empty quarters, her pillow clasped tightly to his chest. "I don't want to do it alone…"
The sleep of the emotionally weary pulled him into its grasp, leading him into darkness as his tears continued to fall. He slept fitfully, tormented by memories; memories that faded as quickly as they began, leaving him, even in his dreams, alone.
*****
Paul awoke with an emptiness inside him. There were no more tears to cry, no more questions to be answered. His anguish spent, all that remained was the pain. The pain of knowing he would never see her smile again, of knowing he would no longer have her council to guide him. The unending torment of knowing she was gone.
The sound of her laughter echoed through his mind as he lay on her bed, breathing in her essence from the sheets. The desire to stay there for eternity lapped at the back of his mind, as the warmth of her sheets brought back memories of the heat of her body against his. It would be so easy to remain there. To ignore the world, to let Section shudder and fall in his absence. What did it matter anyway? What did any of it matter, without her by his side?
The beep of Madeline's comlink interrupted his thoughts, jarring him temporarily out of his stupor. Turning over, he watched the green light blink of her console for a moment, before pulling the duvet up over his head, blocking the interfering presence from his gaze.
He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to discuss. To hell with them all.
"Sir?" The accented voice came tentatively over the comlink, grating on Paul's fragile nerves. "Sir, are you there?"
No.
Paul thought to himself, focusing his thoughts on a stray memory that flitted through his mind. I'm not.He and Madeline were dancing. He held her tightly in his arms as they danced, feeling the sway of her hips against his, the brush of her hand softly on his shoulder. The feelings were vivid, the whisper of her voice alive in his ear. She teased him; running her hand down his side, and tucking it into the waistband of his pants…
"Sir? Mr. Wolfe?"
The memory faded, the touch of her hand all too real on his hip. They weren't going away. "What is it?" he growled, curling himself more deeply under the covers. The world had invaded only temporarily; surely they would let him sleep…
"Sir," the voice said nervously, a mild stutter invading the lilt. "Dinner is awaiting you in the Tower."
"I'm afraid there's been some mistake, Christopher." Paul replied, his confusion mounting. "I didn't order dinner."
"I know that, sir. Ms. Madeline informed me that you'd be dining in the Tower this evening. "
Paul breath caught in his throat and he moaned against the pillow, closely his eyes tightly. "I- I'm sorry, Christopher, you haven't been informed…I'm afraid that Madeline - "
"Won't be able to attend dinner tonight," Christopher said, cutting off Paul before he could get any further. It was clear from the chef's tone that he knew the events of the day before and Paul sighed, grateful he didn't have to explain.
"It's dinner for one, sir," he continued, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. "The lady ordered it be served promptly at 7 pm. It's almost that time now. I thought you'd want to be informed."
"Dinner for one?" Paul repeated, lifting himself wearily onto his elbow, his interest piqued.
"Yes, sir. She ordered it late yesterday evening. She said – " he paused, clearing his throat nervously. "She said that no matter what happened, dinner was to be served promptly"
"I see. And she said that I'd be dining alone?" Paul was curious now, his anger rising. Late yesterday evening. She'd ordered dinner just before her meeting with Jones. She'd had time to contact Christopher, time to ensure the Tower was prepared. If she'd had time for that, why hadn't she contacted him? Why hadn't she let him know her suspicions? Why hadn't she let him say goodbye?
Damn her.
"That's what she said, sir.," Christopher replied calmly. " She said to contact you at seven."
Rising and crossing the room to the table, Paul fingered one of the roses gently. "I'm afraid I'm not very hungry, Christopher. Madeline was mistaken about my appetite. Whatever you've made will have to keep."
"Umm…" Christopher began, and Paul heard him gulp nervously over the comlink. "She said you'd say that, sir. And she told me you'd be angry with her. But - " he paused, the trepidation becoming too much for him to continue. Paul heard him breathe a ragged breath before he continued. "But, she wanted me to pass along a message…"
"For God's sake, Christopher," Paul snapped, breaking off the head of the rose he'd been stroking. "Spit it out!"
He heard Christopher gasp and that only angered him more. Dammit. He was sick of her games. Sick of her need for control. "Christopher," he began, trying, and failing, to keep his tone even. "What did she say?"
"She – she said, 'One last dance…' I don't know what it means, sir… " he continued quickly, " I mean, she didn't expl – "
"I'll be right up," Paul cut him off, pacing towards Madeline's console and shutting down the com system. When silence invaded the room once again, Paul sat heavily on the edge of her bed, head clasped once again in his hands. This time, no tears fell, but the ache in his heart opened into an abyss. One last dance..
She was giving him his goodbye. She'd known. She'd known from the moment that Jones entered the compound that their world was coming to an end; that somehow, irrevocably, they would be torn apart. She'd known and she had planned.
But she'd also seen what he had only just realised. She'd recognised that neither of them would have been capable of a face to face goodbye. There were too many years between them, too much history, too much love. To meet face to face would have destroyed them both. It would have left them both lost, at a time when they needed to be on their guard. They'd needed to present a controlled façade to Jones and Nikita, and Madeline had seen, far better than he had, that that would have been impossible if they'd shared their last moments.
Now, she was giving him what she had denied herself. Closure.
*****
The door to the Tower opened before Paul, revealing the interior to his curious gaze. It was much like he expected – dimmed lighting, candles, soft music. The table in the corner was set for one, a bottle of champagne cooling beside it. As he entered, Christopher approached him from the far side of the room, walking tentatively.
"Sir," he said, stopping before him and smiling. "Dinner will be ready in moments. Please have a seat. "
"Thank you," Paul replied quietly, standing in the centre of the room and looking around warily. As he stood, memories stirred.
Madeline stood on the far side of the room, a glass of champagne in her hand, a smile lighting her face. She raised a finger to signal him closer, the glimmer in her eye highlighted by the candles.
Her laughter echoed throughout the room as they sat on the couch in the corner, sharing the plate of chocolate strawberries that sat between them. Reaching out with her napkin, she wiped his chin, before leaning in to lick the offending chocolate off his lips.
He held her closely in his arms as they danced, hands resting at the small of her back, her head resting against his chest. He whispered softly in her ear and she smiled, tightening her own grip on his body and raising her head to kiss him tenderly on the lips.
They lay entwined on the couch, bodies wet with exertion. His hands clutched her buttocks tightly as she rode atop him, her hands exploring his chest and face. A grunt broke the silence as she collapsed upon him, both of them sated with passion.
She sat cat-like in the arm chair near the couch, hair pulled back in a careless knot. He sat at her feet, stroking idly at her knee as she read to him. Looking down on him, she smiled…
"Sir?"
Paul's head turned in the direction of the voice, the memories fading to darkness around him.
"Sir?" Christopher said again, placing a hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, of course." Paul replied, flinching away from the masculine touch on his shoulder. It wasn't right. The touch should have been softer, more gentle. It should have stroked his arm in comfort…it should have been hers. Her smile continued to flit behind his eyes, and he smiled as well, turning towards the chef slowly.
The man spoke to him gently, taking his hand away. "Dinner is served, sir. Please have a seat?"
"Of course."
Christopher nodded and walked back towards the kitchen, leaving Paul to seat himself at the table. He stared through the candle light towards the other side of the table, all too aware of Madeline's absence. The room was horribly empty without her; without her smile to light it; without the touch of her leg against his beneath the table. It was all so vacant.
A lone tear found its way down Paul's cheek to fall onto the tablecloth. He hadn't thought he had tears left to cry, and yet, it seemed they were never ending. Running a hand along his cheek, he wiped away all evidence of the tear, looking up to see Christopher enter with his meal.
"What do we have this evening?"
"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, sir," Christopher said, stooping to place the covered plate on the table. "Let me pour your champagne. Then I'll leave you to yourself."
"Thank you, Christopher."
"You're welcome, sir." He poured the champagne quickly and left the room, leaving the cover on the dish he'd placed before Paul.
Sighing, Paul lifted his glass in a toast, allowing his tears to flow freely once more. "Madeline," he began, turning his gaze towards the chair across from him. "You gave me so much… " he paused momentarily, struggling to put his feelings into words. "I couldn't have survived this long without you, I wouldn't have wanted to… Your faultless logic kept me sane. Your courage kept me strong. Your love kept me anchored. To my love… I hope you found your garden…"
Paul sipped at his champagne, allowing the memory of her garden to overtake him once more; the vines and roses entwined with her smile. Finally, he placed his glass down on the table, leaning back on the chair and taking in the scene around him once more.
He was alone. There was no laughter to accompany his meal, no warm smile. Tonight, he would sleep by himself, without her body to keep him warm, without her heartbeat to comfort his tired mind. Tomorrow, he would breakfast alone; her console unlit, her chair empty.
No.
His heart whispered, accompanied by the painful cry of his soul. Why go on? Why live another day? Madeline had been his life, she'd kept him anchored, she'd kept him sane. She was the only one who knew him. Paul, not Operations. To her, Paul Wolfe had been a man; to most he was demon, lacking in compassion, lacking in understanding.In truth, he only lacked one thing, and until yesterday, he'd had that. Until yesterday, he'd had someone who believed in him…
Rising from the table, Paul walked across the room to the couch, his hand slipping into the interior pocket of his jacket. It was there, as it always was, lying heavy against his chest. Ironically, it had been a gift from Madeline, given to him on the day they'd taken over the Perch. Running her hand over his chest, she'd placed it in his pocket herself, sliding her hand around the back of his jacket when she'd finished. "This will keep you safe," she'd whispered. "When I can't be there…"
He pulled it out now, laying it gently on his lap. It seemed oddly appropriate.
More memories came back to haunt him as he cocked the gun. Her standing confidently before Adrian, eyes blazing with anger. Her calm composure against implacable odds. The breakfasts they'd shared as colleagues. The nights as lovers.
The memories came and went quickly, but each was ingrained on his soul. Each could be recalled with vivid detail as they flashed before him. Each memory made him more determined.
He couldn't go on. Their lives were entwined.
With the gun pressed firmly to his temple, he allowed one last image to invade…and this one brought a knowing smile…
*****
They stood at the end of pathway, hand in hand. It rose up the hill in a fine line, its gravel covering unworn by time and footprints. At the end of the pathway, far in the distance, was a patch a colour…