No-stay...
I don't care what you've said or done.
Don't go away.
Not now when life has just begun.
Come back!
And be the woman who I knew.
Help me to believe in you.
What on earth am I to do?

She's Gone,
This vision who was not quite real.
must move on,
Despite the pain. The pain will heal.
Oh Lord,
How could you let me love like this?
No one dies upon a kiss,
and only fools believe in bliss. ...

. . . God, No!
I'm broken, but I'm still alive.
And slow-ly
I will feel my soul revive
with time,
I'll find away to right this wrong.
If it takes my whole life long.
Lord, I'll fight my battles all alone
but make me strong...

Wildhorn and Knighton
From the Broadway Musical, The Scarlet Pimpernel


Chapter One

The sun had set.

Michael heard the water rushing against the shore as he watched as the moon's light rippled across the waves. She was laughing. Teasing him. "Come on, Michael. Walk with me." She leaned over him as he sat in a chair on their porch. Her expression was so full of life and joy. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. He could smell the gardenias on her skin. She looked so beautiful to him, wearing a simple coral-pink jersey sheath dress. A gentle ocean breeze blew her hair towards him. Reaching up to tame it, to feel its softness, the image dematerialized. He closed his eyes, willing the pain to stop, willing the tears not to fall.

He focused on the feel of the ocean breeze brushing against his skin. His sense became aware of the smell of the sea air - touched slightly with the scent of gardenias. He opened his eyes. Sandals in her hands, she stood in the surf, gazing up at the moon and stars. His Nikita. Her pale hair glistened in the moonlight, casting a glow about her. She was wearing a champagne colored slip dress with spaghetti straps that clung loosely to her curves. The dress, which flared around her hips and ended mid-thigh, fluttered against her in the breeze. Her head turned; she looked over her shoulder as if sensing his slow, complete perusal of her. Her head tilted slightly to the left as she gazed back at him; a slow, almost shy smile spread across her face. He wanted to go to her, touch her, whisper his secrets to her, tell her how alive even a simple smile from her could make him feel. But he couldn't seem to rise from his chair on the porch. She returned her gaze to the ocean and then turned around and walked back toward him, swinging her sandals by her side. He watched her approach slowly, his heart beating faster with each step she took. In no time, she was standing beside him. A hand reached out and brushed gently through his hair. He gently leaned his head into her touch, then half-turned to gaze up at her. Their eyes met. Her clear blue eyes held peace and love. He wanted to reach for her, pull her close against his body and cradle her there always. He watched as she slowly lowered her face, felt the whispering touch of her lips against his, then he heard her velvet voice in his ear, "I love you." He closed his eyes again, and reached for her. His hand contacted empty air. Breathing became hard; his body shook with the effort to control its pattern. His chest convulsed with the effort to take in and expel air, a whispered groan escaped his lips,-- "Nikita . . . " Tears squeezed out of tightly shut eyes he feared to open. He could still smell the gardenias.


Linda Marshall sat at her dressing table, comb in hand, staring at her reflection. The blotched redness of the skin around her eyes made them appear much more green than the normal hazel. Her hair hung wet and neatly combed down her back. She liked the color of her hair when it was wet, a much darker brown. But her Eric had loved her regular hair color. What she thought was a simple mousy light brown, he had called "spun gold." A small smile curled her lips as she remembered how he used to wax poetic about how her hair would light up in like gold in the sun.

Pushing the memories aside, Linda rose and walked to her bedroom window. She stood there, straining to see any movement from her neighbor's deck. It was nearing one a.m. He hadn't moved in five hours. He had been sitting on the deck since she and the others had left after dinner. They all needed time to retreat and lick their wounds, especially him. She knew the pain he felt. She had felt it herself once; was feeling it even now as she watched him.

Linda had bought the house on the beach to escape the memories of her home in New York City; to escape the violence that seemed to permeate the area. She had watched as her son and husband had been gunned down in the streets, victims of a random drive-by shooting. In the two years since that tragedy, she had learned to live with the pain, with the memories. She was finally ready to build a life for herself again, a new life.

A week after she had moved into her house, she noticed the moving truck pulling up to the house next door and the couple that pulled in just behind them. When she had introduced herself to her new neighbors, she hadn't expected to become such quick friends with Nikita. Linda remembered the open and disarming manner that was Nikita's, and how easy it had been to like and trust her. In the four months that followed, they had gathered a small but surprisingly close group of friends.

Closing her eyes against the bittersweet pain, she remembered the promise she made to Nikita.

~~~~~~~

Two odd men had been following them for a better part of their day as the troupe had shopped and talked. It had begun to unnerve the group - all of them except Nikita. Finally fed up, she had turned and marched straight up to the shadow-men. While the group of three women stood in shock, they watched Nikita "talk" to the men. Later, as the sun shone above them in the small café, they had teased Nikita about her lack of fear.

"I am not fearless; I just don't like being intimidated."

"Okay, fine! Name ONE thing you're scared of - and it better not be mice!" Alicia, a small, thin Hispanic woman with bobbed dark hair and large, chocolate-brown, almond-shaped eyes, laughed. Everyone was in high spirits.

The mood changed suddenly as a shadowed look crossed Nikita's face. Her eyes seemed to grow older and sadder immediately. A cold chill had run down Linda's back.

"Dying and leaving Michael," her voice was soft, almost a whisper. With a shuddering breath, she continued. "Death doesn't scare me, but leaving Michael behind alone does."

No one asked her why. Linda guessed that they all sensed what she had - that Nikita had reason to believe, to feel the way she did. The marked contrast in Nikita's personality, her sudden pensiveness, was frightening. While she wanted to know more, wanted to help Nikita, she knew that now was not the time. A sense of understanding, and a desire to banish the uncomfortable silence that had descended on the table, compelled Linda to act. In a blatantly suggestive manner, she said, "Well, Nikita, I promise you - If you up and die on us, I will personally make sure the beautiful male specimen you call a husband finds a reason to smile and laugh again--deal?"

Linda watched as the dismayed faces of her friends froze in shock before each one began to smile.

"I promise too, Nikita," Alicia said, smiling brightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Okay, count me in, too," Anna, in mock exasperation, chimed in. She winked one brown eye at Nikita, then flipped her golden blond hair over her shoulder.

Nikita laughed.

~~~~~~~

Opening her eyes, Linda gazed back at the deck, then slowly made her way over to a shirt box sitting on her bed. Pulling the lid off, she retrieved a picture of Nikita she had taken weeks before. "We won't let you down, Nikita, I promise." She whispered to the photo. Brushing the tears from her eyes, she placed the box of photos on her dressing table, climbed into bed and turned out the light.


Chapter Two


"You have to help her please. Get her out of the car! She's burning! Nikita! Please help her!" Alicia McLean rambled on incoherently. Her black hair matted to her head with blood and dirt. Her clothes were torn and burnt and hung like rags from her bruised, grime-covered body.

"Please miss, calm down. Come with us. We'll take care of you. It's all right now. Everything is going to be okay," the medic prattled on, his voice even in an attempt to calm and sooth the distraught, abused woman.

The woman seemed to calm down, then suddenly spun around, running back toward the burned-out husk of a car.

"NIKITA! Someone please help me. Get her out of the car. She'll burn to death!" the small brunette screamed before collapsing on the ground, rocking herself slowly and crying softly, "Please help her."

The medic slid up behind her and gently pushed a needle into her arm. Then he lifted her in his arms, carried her away from the cooling wreckage, skillfully maneuvering to avoid the sight of the zipped body bag and placed her in the ambulance.

~~~~~~~

Madeline leaned across her desk and cut off the monitor before turning to the man sitting across from her.

"Have the remains in the car been identified?" Operations questioned, swiveling his chair to face her, his voice almost clinically matter-of-fact. He could have been talking about a stranger.

Her studied him, her gaze steady. He wore one of his usual black, tailored suits, a grey, button-down shirt and dark-grey tie. His posture was relaxed. Nothing about him indicated they were talking about anything other than day to day business. Tilting her head slightly to the right, and laying her hands in her lap, Madeline responded. "As best as they can be, given what was left to examine. The body was virtually incinerated. We have been able to determine that it was female and the body does match Nikita's proportions. That, along with Alicia McLean's insistence that they get Nikita out of the car leads me to believe that it is Nikita," Madeline responded, her voice was soft, controlled and even.

"When is Michael coming in?"

"I think he should stay out in the field."

"Why?"

"I think his cover as a 'grieving husband' will allow Michael to deal with Nikita's death. Actually, it might force him to deal with the entire situation. I think if we do otherwise, we risk losing Michael all together. In addition, we can send in another team temporarily as "family" to help Michael with the mission."

"So we let this play out."

"Yes."


The ringing of the phone awoke Linda from a restless sleep. "Yes?"

"Linda, he's still out on the deck! Has he been out there all night?" Anna's words were rushed.

"Deck . . . Michael?" Linda replied in a sleep-slurred voice. She came fully awake as she realized to what Anna was referring. "He's still out there?" Quickly she reached for the clock - 8:00 A.M.

"We have to do something,"

The edge in Anna's voice struck a cord in Linda. The fear and frustration was palatable. Both were quiet for a while.

"I thought Nikita was over reacting, being a bit dramatic." Anna's sniffled, her voice shaking slightly. "I am scared, Linda. Things like this aren't supposed to happen here. They just aren't supposed to happen - period!"

" I know Anna, I know." Linda whispered into the mouth piece. She knew Anna was on edge, feeling helpless, frightened and totally unprepared to deal with what had happened. There nothing Anna could do to help Michael. "You're going to visit Alicia today?"

"Yeah. Bob and I are going over around two."

"Good, take care of Alicia and Patrick. They're going to need all the support we can give them to get through this. I'll see to Michael. I'll talk to you later tonight."

"All right." Anna's relief at not having to deal with Michael just yet was clear in her voice. Linda couldn't blame her, nothing in her life had prepared her for the fears she was probably experiencing now. "Call me if you need anything." Anna added plaintively.

Linda hung up the phone and climbed out of bed. She walked into the kitchen and turned on the TV out of habit. The newscaster's words sent a chill down her spine:

". . . Authorities are still searching for the perpetrator of one of the most hideous crimes to occur in the Madison Beach area in two decades. Two days ago, two women were car-jacked at gun-point on the streets of the small beach town. Yesterday, a burned-out car was found containing what is believed to be the remains of one of the women, although a positive identification has not yet been made. The second woman was found near the car. She appeared to have been raped, and severely beaten. In a press con. . ."

Linda turned off the TV, unable to hear more about the horrific happenings of the last week. One of her friends lay in a hospital room, and another in a drawer in the morgue. Walking back to her room, she pulled on a pair of jean shorts and a clean, dark-green tee shirt. She dragged her brush quickly through her hair before pulling it back in a low ponytail. Stopping in her kitchen, she grabbed some fresh fruit and bagels and tossed them into a bag. Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a fresh container of orange juice and a package of cream cheese and placed them in the bag, as well. Linda walked out her back door and crossed the distance between her house and her neighbor's deck.

She slowed her pace as she came closer to the deck. She could see Michael sitting in one of the chairs. He wore the same clothes as the night before - black pants and a black tee shirt. His hair hung limply about his face and his eyes seeming to focus on a point just across the deck from him.

"Michael?"

No reaction. A feeling of trepidation caused her to increase her pace, she approached the steps leading up to the deck.

"Michael." She repeated, her voice louder.

Michael shook his head as if to clear it, then turned toward the direction of the voice. A shiver ran down Linda's spine. For an instant, she recognized the soul-piercing pain in Michael's green eyes. It was a pain with which she herself was far too familiar. But then, as if a switch was thrown, his face and eyes transformed eerily. Linda couldn't shake the feeling that Michael was no longer there.

Steeling herself, she slowly climbed the steps and placed her bag on the table. "You've been out here all night. You need to eat and you need to rest."

She walked past him, and entered the house. Walking straight through the living room area, she ignored the feeling of 'Nikita' that permeated the room. Arriving in the white, modern kitchen, she opened the cabinets and pulled out two cobalt blue tumblers. Her lips curled up in a half smile as she felt the weight of the glasses. The 'solidiness' and cheerful color of the glasses reminded her of Nikita. Placing the cups on the counter, she opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out two knives. Finally, she grabbed two plain white plates from the cabinet, gathered the glasses and the knives, and walked back to where Michael still sat on the deck.

After placing a plate and a glass before Michael, Linda pulled the orange juice from the bag and filled his glass half way.

"Drink", she commanded. Michael's only response was a empty, blank stare. Linda could not detect any sign he had heard her until Michael lifted the glass and drank some of the liquid. Smiling at him, Linda pulled the fruit, bagels and cream cheese from the bag. She gestured to the food and waited to see what he would do. He didn't move. She could feel the hair stand up on her back at his dead stare. Slowly, one of his hands reached out and retrieved an orange, but even then his gaze never faltered.

"Michael, I know it doesn't mean much right now, but you still need to take care of yourself. I've been there Michael," her voice caught and she stopped, unsure how to go on. She could see no reaction in him, as if there was a wall between them; a wall she couldn't climb.

The ringing of a phone drew her from her reflection, saving her from having to find something, anything to say to him. The phone rang a second time and Michael still did not react, Linda rose and went into the house and to answer the phone.

"St. Just residence."

"Uh, is Michael there?" a voice unfamiliar to Linda responded.

"Yes, he is. But he isn't taking calls right now. May I ask who is calling?"

"Walter. I'm Nikita's uncle. Could you please tell him I am on the phone? He'll talk to me."

"I'll try."

"Wait!" Walter called to her before she set the phone down. "How is he?" His gruff voice grew tentative, faltering and Linda could hear the small hesitation in his words. Silently she scolded herself for allowing her voice to so clearly betray the hopelessness she was feeling.

"Not good. Frankly, I am very worried. It's like he isn't here anymore. I know it sounds strange, but..."

Walter interrupted her, "No, that doesn't sound strange. Don't bother putting him on the phone. I should be there in less than an hour. Can you stay with him 'til then?"

"Yeah, sure. We will probably still be around back on the deck. Just come around the back of the house."

"Thank you."

Linda heard the phone disconnect before she place it back in the receiver. Taking a deep breath, she turned and started to walk toward the deck. She knew there was nothing she could do to reach Michael,


Chapter Three


Walter stood with his back to the master bedroom door, dismayed at how easy it had been to convince Michael to take a sedative. Michael had just stared at him with that damn blank gaze of his, extended his arm for Walter to administer the shot, then turned and walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. No resistance. No reaction. No visible emotion.

Taking a breath, Walter thought of the lack of presence in Michael's eyes. It was almost as if the Michael he had known was only a shadow and with Nikita's passing, the light had gone out. Trying to shake the chill that ran down his spine, Walter examined the room before him for the first time. Everywhere there seemed to be bits of Nikita and Michael. The room screamed out to him that this was their home. It seemed surreal to Walter as his eyes scanned the large, open room. Slowly, Walter walked into the room and over to the large single-paned glass French doors that were surrounded on the sides and above by large decorated glass windows. Walter absently stared out at the awe-inducing view of the ocean. He wondered how often Michael and Nikita had simply stood here admiring this panorama. Turning from the view, he walked over and dropped into the large, overstuffed, off-white sofa that sat in the center of the room. His fingers absently toying with the green chenille throw blanket lay draped haphazardly across the sofa's back. Walter examined the furniture around him, noting the matching loveseat - littered with colorful pillows - that was positioned at a ninety-degree angle to his left. Matching cherry wood, mission-style end tables sat on either side of the sofa, a sleek black lamp on each. In front of him, a cylindrical, translucent-green glass vase containing fifteen wilting, blue-violet Japanese irises sat on a rich, cherry wood, mission-style coffee table. Unconsciously, Walter touched the soft petals of the dying flowers.

"Michael bought those for her the Friday before she was taken."

Startled, Walter looked up to see a woman with dark-blonde shoulder-length hair and tired, sad, deep-brown eyes, holding a large brown bag and a traveling food container. His eyes trailed her as she moved across the room to sit on the loveseat, placing her bag and container by her feet. Her eyes locked on the flowers, her mouth curled up in a bittersweet smile.

"The first Friday after Nikita and Michael had moved in here, my husband and I were lounging out on the deck with Nikita," she titled her head toward the French doors and the deck beyond and then turned her eyes toward him. Walter noticed immediately the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. "I hadn't met Michael yet - he had left a few days before on business or something. We were all standing at the rail, staring out at the moon, when I felt Nikita turn around. I turned to see where she was looking, and there was Michael, dressed in a black suit, leaning against the door frame, staring at her and holding an iris like these. Each Friday after that he would bring her irises, always adding one more. I remember a Friday a few weeks after that. Nikita, Alicia, Linda, and I were having lunch here on the deck. Michael called to let her know he wouldn't be coming down that night. Anyone could see how disappointed she was - not angry; but sad. Not five minutes after she returned to the table, the doorbell rang. When she came back, she had 3 irises and a note from Michael. She had this silly smile on her face. She said, 'One iris for each week we have been here.' "

Anna looked down at her hands, sighed, then suddenly looked up at Walter. "I'm sorry, I guess I should introduce myself. Anna Roberds. I'm a. . . friend of Nikita's. I saw Linda Marshall today at the hospital; she said you were here. I figured there probably wasn't much here to eat, even if you wanted to cook, so I brought over some lasagna." Her hand motioned to the food container, "and some soda, fruit, lunch meats. I wasn't sure what you would like, but I figured you wouldn't want to leave Michael."

"Thank you, that was very kind of you," Walter replied. He could feel the tightness building in his throat. It had been so easy to imagine his sugar as he listened to the words. It still seemed so unreal that she was gone. Sitting with this "friend of Nikita's" became suddenly uncomfortable for him, looking around the room his eyes spotted the articles at Anna Roberd's feet. "Let me put that away." He stood and took the bag and container from Anna and strode to the kitchen. After putting the groceries in the refrigerator, he hesitantly walked to the doorway leading back to the living room.

Anna stood by a low, mission-style, cherry cabinet with four paneled doors that stood against the wall across from the sofa. Resting on the right side atop of the cabinet was a brass desk lamp with a rectangular green glass shade standing beside an 8X10 picture in a beautiful silver frame, and a collection of leather bound books. Walking up to stand beside Anna, he watched as she lifted the picture frame. Walter's heart broke as he recognized the picture Madeline had insisted Michael and Nikita pose for prior to being sent on this mission. A wedding portrait. They stood together in front of what appeared to be a stone wall covered in climbing red roses, Michael in a black tuxedo with a collarless white shirt. Nikita wore a simply-cut, sleeveless, white-satin dress that was fitted to the waist and then slightly belled out, a white chiffon scarf draped across her neck and hung down her back. Her hair was pulled up in a French twist with several loose tendrils framing her face. Nikita fairly glowed - she exuded life and happiness. Michael seemed to be at peace with the world, with himself. They looked as if they had been born to stand together in such a fashion. With all the horrible things Walter had suffered in his life, there were few things about which he felt truly bitter. He had one more to add to his list now, that his Sugar and Michael had only be allowed to love in illusion. Unable to bear looking at the picture, Walter turned away and walked back to the sofa. Dropping his body down, he slumped forward, resting his head in his hands.

"How is he?" Anna asked placing the picture back on the cabinet, before she, too, returned to her seat.

"Not good." Walter responded, not looking up.

"Has he said *anything*?"

"No, not yet." Walter could feel Anna's eyes on him.

"Do you know if he has made any arrangements?" her voice hesitated, hardly more than a whisper.

Arrangements. The word buzzed in Walter's head, conjuring images of beautiful Nikita, his Sugar, lying in a satin box, the lid closing, locking her away, being entombed under the earth. Walter could feel his pulse racing, tears stinging his eyes and falling down his cheeks. In all the years he had been in Section, never once had he been to a funeral for a fallen comrade. He had not even been able to bury his wife. How was he going to be able to bury the one truly live thing he had in his life?

"No," he managed to choke out that much of an answer and heard her slow exhale of breath.

"Do you want."

"No, I'll take care of it."

He knew his words sounded curt, but the pain he felt was far too fresh. His eyes caught the wilting irises again. His mind superimposed the image of Nikita, lying cold and waxen in a coffin. With a speed unknown to him, he grabbed the flowers from the vase and dashed the few feet to the kitchen, throwing them in the trashcan and slamming the lid down. When he turned around, he saw that Anna stood by the French doors, tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Walter began in remorse. "I didn't mean. . ."

This time Anna cut him off. "No, it's okay. I understand. I wanted to do that the moment I walked in the door. Listen, if you need *anything, even someone to just sit with you, call me or Linda, our numbers are on the fridge."

She hesitated a moment, bowing her head. Then she lifted her head, staring him straight in the eye. "Linda has taken some photographs of Nikita, many of them with Michael. She had intended to make a photo album for them for their anniversary next week, but I think you and Michael could probably use them more now. She said she would bring them over tonight.

"Thank you." It was all he could say. He watched her nod her head in an affirmative motion, biting her lower lip before smiling a sad, bittersweet smile, and walking out the doors toward her home.