A/N: So, confession time: I've thought the last two episodes after hiatus were… a bit lacking. Way too little of the entire cast and too focused on just Michael and Nikita. I think you all know I love great Mikita action as much as the next person, but maybe it feels a bit forced to me? Psh, it's probably just because I love UST much more than RST.
Also, where the heck has my Birkhoff been? He's barely had any screen time, damnit! As a result, this chapter appeared to fix both issues for me. Whether you agree with my assessment or not, I hope you have fun reading this chapter like I did writing it!
Chapter Seven
A pleasant breeze ruffled the napkin on Birkhoff's lap, and he fumbled with it, finally wedging it under his thigh. He chased his anxieties with a swig of water, the condensation on the glass wetting his fingers, so he rubbed them inelegantly on the lapel of his jacket.
Nikita laughed at the spectacle of a very bewildered Birkhoff. "Come on, nerd," she chided as she sipped her wine, "it's just dinner."
Birkhoff scowled, his eyes darting around the restaurant. "Everyone's looking at us."
"No one is looking at us. You just think they are." Nikita signaled for the waiter and ordered a whiskey sour for her friend. When he stared daggers back at her, she replied, "A little alcohol will force you to relax. Now take a deep breath and look up at the stars." She motioned upwards, where the roof covering had been peeled back, revealing a clear view of the speckled indigo heavens.
Birkhoff did neither; instead he grumbled something into his water glass and averted his eyes to his waiting menu.
Nikita released a soft sigh and shifted her focus to the surrounding French Riviera washed in the purple and red hues of dusk. Sailboats and yachts bobbed in the marina as gentle swells rolled across the glinting expanse of the sea. In the distance, the shadows of mountains climbed into a veil of plum-tinted clouds. Rising above the din of the restaurant, Nikita heard music waft up from the Place du Casino as violinists set up shop for the evening.
"I don't even know what half of this stuff is," growled a frustrated Birkhoff as he slapped a hand against the corner of his menu. "Sea bream? That doesn't even sound edible."
"Don't be so melodramatic. You've never heard of chicken?"
Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he narrowed his eyes at her before returning to his options.
"Look, I'm sorry you got dragged into this," Nikita began in a low voice, "but you're doing just fine without your mouse and keyboard. You even look like a handsome grown-up. Amanda would be impressed." She reached out to lower his menu that he had cleverly used as a makeshift wall, and she found Birkhoff actually had allowed her a view of his vulnerable expression.
"I'm not—I'm not the James Bond," he began hesitatingly. "I'm the Q. Nobody would really buy you're with me unless I paid for you to be."
The corners of Nikita's eyes softened, and her hand traced down to rest her fingertips against his. "Any girl would wish to be in my seat right now." She held her friend's gaze and smiled reassuringly. "In fact," she added, moving her hand back to her wine, "I see one pretty young thing at the other side of the room has been keeping tabs on you since we came in."
Birkhoff turned around in his chair, but Nikita gave him a bit of direction so he wouldn't look so hopelessly obvious. "Nine o'clock, curly blonde hair, coral dress," she said over the lip of her glass, and his eyes followed. Sure enough, a petite woman with a feisty bob stared back brazenly.
Evidently satisfied with Nikita's discovery, Birkhoff tugged at his one sleeve and then took another long drink of his water. Nikita watched with satisfaction as he relaxed his posture and finally sagged back in his chair. "See, the field does have its perks," she added.
"Still think it would have been easier if you brought Michael here for this."
"Easier for you maybe," she said cryptically.
Birkhoff knitted his brow and rubbed his right ear impatiently. "Damn straight. Doesn't help that that overbearing homo erectus made me wear the earpiece."
"I guess he doesn't trust you. Wonder why."
"Probably because I can monitor his every move electronically." Another wince. Nikita wondered what Michael had growled in Birkhoff's ear this time.
"Maybe. Anyway, you and I have already been seen together. I'm sure Brusca has a tail on me; he's too careful not to. So he'll see me doing exactly what I told Brusca I'd do: say goodbye to my date. Michael will just have to get over the fact that it's not him." Nikita emphasized the last sentence for their invisible third party.
She dropped her napkin and casually turned to pick it up, spying her mentor alone at a table in the corner by the door. He was watching her, his dark eyes glinting in the soft lantern light nearby. Dragging the dark blue cloth up the length of her legs, she watched his defiant eyes follow its sensuous trek diligently. Nikita relished the quiver of frustration at the corner of his lips, visible even halfway across the restaurant. With a flourish, she smoothed the napkin across her lap and offered him a quick parting wink before returning to her date.
Across the table, Birkhoff sighed dramatically as he rolled his eyes and rested his head against his hand. "Fine," he said abruptly. "Michael says, 'Keep your eyes to yourself, rookie.' " Mockery infused his voice.
Nikita let out one incredulous laugh. She grabbed Birkhoff's wrist, startling him, and brought herself closer to his ear. By all appearances, they were a smitten couple in an intimate conversation, but as her lips drew close to his ear, she heard him stutter and begin to protest with half-sounds and syllables, unable to find a single word. Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita caught sight of the small white bauble implanted in the hollow of his ear, and she whispered firmly into it, "Say that to my face. Coward."
Birkhoff, confused and exhilarated by the close contact with his beautiful teammate, reacted immediately, swatting her away with a flick of his wrist. "I'm not an intercom for your sick foreplay."
Nikita smiled sheepishly. Poor Birkhoff. He sounded like a kid caught in the middle of two bickering friends. "I'm sorry, Birkhoff. Let's forget about Michael."
He gave her a skeptical look from behind his black frames. "You're not the one with him barking orders in your head."
"Fair enough," she replied evenly.
At that moment, their waiter approached them, looking polished and pristine in his starched white shirt and immaculate black pants. His shoes were so shiny, Nikita probably could have used them as mirrors to spy around corners. Maybe she'd keep it in mind for future missions.
What finally drew her attention from the waiter's shoes was the sound of exquisite French pouring from her companion's mouth. Birkhoff executed their order with barely a hint that he was American, and Nikita couldn't halt her eyebrows' ascent. A surprised smile overtook her face. Moments like this reminded her that Seymour Birkhoff was so much more than a computer geek.
As the waiter vanished back to toward the kitchen, Birkhoff trained his perturbed gaze on her. "What?" he snapped.
Nikita shrugged one shoulder and stroked the stem of her wine glass. "Nice work, nerd."
"Please. I went through all the same courses you did." He said it petulantly, but she was too observant to miss the wisp of his proud grin as it flickered across his face.
She leaned back in her chair and re-crossed her legs. "I know you're not used to dating real humans, but it is customary to tell your date she looks nice."
Birkhoff pursed his lips and gave a casual nod. "You look hot, Nikki."
"Okay, not exactly what I meant." She watched Birkhoff wince and imagined Michael probably said something threatening into his ear.
"Let's keep things simple," she continued after a moment. "Once our meal gets here, we'll eat. Then I'll find some pretense to make a show of a goodbye. I'll head back upstairs while you wait down here and have another drink. Good news is once this charade is over, you won't have to worry about going back undercover."
"And maybe that hottie will buy a broken-hearted man a drink." Birkhoff sat up a little straighter and glanced again at the blonde who had been studying him earlier.
"That's the spirit, nerd. Just check your cockiness until after dinner."
"Nice wordplay, Nik," Birkhoff commented with a genuine smile at last. Even Michael couldn't suppress his grin from the other side of the restaurant.
"I learned from the master of double entendre."
At the corner of the terrace nearest the sea, Nikita spied a roughly hewn man with skin the color of maple syrup and an indistinguishable tattoo peeping out from under his short sleeve. He was watching her, but not with the same devotion or delight that the blonde had when watching Birkhoff.
"Heads up," she said casually as she blotted her lips with her napkin. "Think I've spotted my tail at my ten o'clock." Michael confirmed the sighting by clearing his throat.
Nikita reached across the table and wove her fingers through Birkhoff's. He tried not to look shocked at the contact, but when he couldn't cover it, he retreated behind the curtain of his hair. It was actually pretty endearing, she thought.
"This is simultaneously weird and hot," he added with two very raised eyebrows.
"You need to get out more."
Birkhoff hesitated, the wheels in his head evidently turning quickly. "What about Division's hands-off policy?"
"Relax, Birkhoff. Percy's long arm doesn't extend to Monte Carlo unless you let it. Sometimes you just have to get hands-on."
"Like you and Michael in Banff?"
The question was meant innocently, but for the two parties on the other side of it, it was laced with heavy implications and potent memories. Nikita's hand stiffened in Birkhoff's. "I might use another frame of reference," she added cautiously at last.
She wished she could have ventured a look at Michael, but it was best not to add kerosene to that fire. He was probably avoiding her anyway.
The perfect exit from that uncomfortable conversation appeared in the form of her dinner salad and his rack of lamb. The couple ate primarily in silence because quite frankly Birkhoff was miserable at small talk. In the end, their shared discomfort added to the image of the dysfunctional, boring couple Nikita had promoted to Brusca and Alain.
As the waiter cleared their plates, the conclusion of their plan loomed on the horizon like the shimmering crescent of the Mediterranean moon. Before the check was even placed on the table, Nikita made her confession.
"I'm sorry, Seymour, but I just can't do this anymore." She slid both hands across the table cloth and grasped his clammy hands. She captured his eyes, fixating their slate grey depths on her alone.
"When we first met, you were so wild, so daring." She stroked his skin with her thumbs, and he couldn't resist breaking eye contact to wonder at her boldness. "You broke the law and laughed in the face of authority. And now you are the authority. I've got to be true to myself. If you ever find yourself itching for some adventure, you know my number."
"You're leaving me? In Monte Carlo?" he deadpanned.
Good, Nikita thought. So Birkhoff wasn't totally hopeless in field work. "We'll always have Paris."
She stood up and approached his rigid form. Placing his cheeks in both hands, Nikita drew her face down to his and planted a chaste but lingering kiss on Birkhoff's lips. Her eyes were closed; his were wide open.
When she pulled back, she gingerly straightened the glasses on his face and left him, mouth agape, watching after her as she strolled out of the restaurant.
As Nikita breezed past Michael, she dragged her thumb across her lips to slowly erase her smile. Michael's mouth was wide open too.
