She Was There II: Prayer
Chapter Seven
Madeline sat motionless behind her glass and metal desk, staring blankly at her suspended monitor, the words unnoticed on the screen. Instead, her mind's eye viewed past conversations with Nikita in startling clarity. Madeline could see every twitch of a facial muscle, hear the tones and quality of the words. She remembered clearly that first year Nikita had been an operative. How openly she cared and trusted her. Ironic that she had been the only one Madeline had trusted, even remotely, on a personallevel.
She remembered the long walk to Operations office, a small forgotten piece of her heart crying out in betrayal, of Nikita and of herself, as she prepared to tell Operations of Nikita's instability. She knew it would mean her cancellation and praying Michael could save her in time, set her free. Madeline knew the only way to save her would be to let her go, either to death or a new life. She had anticipated the fall out from Nikita's "death." But even with her return just over six months after her "cancellation", the wounds had never really healed.
Nikita no longer trusted any of them, with the possible exception of Walter. Madeline couldn't help but wonder if there was anything she might have said or done differently after Nikita's return.
For a long time, Walter and Birkoff had carried hostility toward Michael and he had been willing to accept it. Gradually, they had forgiven him but she doubted they ever forgot. She still caught signs of their distrust on occasion.
Before the cancellation, Michael had begun to laugh and smile again, if just barely. He never smiled now. The operative had returned full force with Nikita, but the man still lay hidden behind his walls. It was almost as if he fought the pain he had survived during her absence and feared having to endure it again. It seemed every time he found the courage or the will, fate would interfere, reminding him of the danger of loss.
Closing her eyes, Madeleine tried to force herself to review the situation to prepare for the briefing ahead. Instead, her mind focused on her most recent memory of Nikita.
~~~~~~~
"Do you have any questions, Nikita?" Madeline said with her trademark cool intonations.
"No, not really. All I am supposed to be is eyes, ears and possibly emergency back up, right? Sounds simple enough," the young blonde woman had shrugged her shoulders in a nonchalant manner, maintaining her bored expression.
Madeline watched her, searching her eyes and body language for any sign of unease. "What about Michael's role in the scenario? Do you a problem with that?"
"Why would I have a problem, Madeline? This isn't the first time Michael and I have played husband and wife. Besides, he will only be down on occasional weekends. At least this time we won't be under constant surveillance," she paused, her tone seemed as nonchalant as her body mannerisms, but Madeline noticed the slight untrusting element that began to creep into her eyes, "Will we?"
"No, not really. There is some, mostly on the entrances, and some cameras focused on the Roberds home," Madeleine paused before qualifying the statement, "in case they are needed. Nothing too invasive." Tilting her head slightly to the left as she swivelled her chair to get a better vantage point for her examination of Nikita, Madeline slid a PDA toward her.
"Your profile is on the PDA," Madeline continued. "You are a young, wealthy wife, born and raised in New Zealand and well educated. You met Michael three years ago when you came to the states to live with your father's family. Michael, who works in your father's company, stays in the city during the week for business, and will join you on weekends. Like I said before, the details are on the PDA."
"So when do I leave?"
"In a week. However, since the house is unfurnished, you will need to make some arrangements." Taking a CD from the drawer, she slid it along her desk to Nikita, "These are the schematics and some pictures and video of the house. Take a look. There is also a list of some local stores that I have set up accounts for you under your profile alias. I have included some suggestions as to the type of furnishings that may be appropriate.""Is that all?"
"Yes," Madeline spoke in her usual soft tone.
Nikita rose to leave.
~~~~~~~
The shrill sound of an electronic beep brought Madeline out of her reverie. She had ten minutes before her briefing with select members of Michael's team. She occupied her mind on the short walk to the briefing area with pondering the reactions she would receive when she presented the mission profile.
Chapter Eight
Gently, Walter closed and reflexively locked the front door behind Alicia and Patrick McLean, then leaned his head against it, weary and sad. Breathing deep to gather his strength, he walked back into the living room and quietly observed Michael. He had barely moved since Alicia had placed the medallion in his hand, only the small motion of his fingers gently caressing the image of Nikita's face indicating he was at all aware of his surroundings.
Pain welled in Walter's chest and he turned, walked into the kitchen area, and busied himself pouring iced tea for himself and Michael. Ten minutes later, after having stalled as long as he could, Walter reentered the living room carrying 2 glasses of iced tea. Placing one in front of Michael, Walter then sat on the sofa opposite him. Knowing he needed to say something, but still unsure how to start, Walter fumbled through the box of pictures, pausing every once in awhile to watch Michael, who sat staring at the picture of himself and Nikita on the Fourth of July.
As he continued to shuffle through the pictures, a yellow sticky caught his eye. Pulling the flagged picture from the box, he was confronted by a profile shot of a smiling, obviously happy Nikita. Her golden hair was draped over one shoulder and her unhindered expression was open and loving. Finally, unable to bear the silence and the thoughts and memories it allowed, Walter spoke.
"Do you know what Belinda's last message for me was? That is wasn't such a bad thing to die on the happiest day of your life. She told Birkoff to tell me that after she was gone. She knew she was wasn't coming back. When she was gone, I was so consumed with pain. I had never felt so cheated in my life. I was so hurt. And angry. Angry at everything, at God, at Belinda, at myself. But most of all - angry at Operations for giving her a death sentence. I wanted to kill him. Nikita stopped me."
Walter leaned back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. His voice was thick with tears when he continued. "She said she needed me and that if I couldn't let it go for myself, then to let it go for her. I don't know what I would have done without her. It took me a while, but I let the anger go. Sometimes when it's the hardest to go on, I try to remember Belinda's smile, or her voice and I know that she died happy. Considering the life we all lead, it's enough to keep going." He stopped and glanced in Michael's direction and found himself staring into a pair of pained green eyes.
"Nikita loved you Michael, and she was happy here, with you, " Walter faltered, unsure of how to proceed, knowing nothing he said right now would ease an ounce of Michael's pain.
When Michael finally spoke, the words where choked out and his voice was barely above a whisper. Walter could still hear the bitterness that poisoned them.
"It was... an act. Just an illusion, a part to be played for The Section."
Walter could feel the muscles of his forehead contracting and his face twisting into an expression of shock, bewilderment and horror. 'How could he even think it was an act for Sugar?'
"An Act!! This is Nikita we're talking about! You can't possibly believe that!" his voice raised to almost a shout and was filled with disbelief. "Look at her, dammit!"
Grabbing the picture with the yellow post-it note from the box, he tossed it toward Michael and watched as it fluttered through the air, landing face up on the table. Walter watched as Michael reflexively obeyed Walter and looked at the picture of Nikita caught in profile as she gazed at someone or something just out of range of the camera. Her features were softened in an unguarded expression that was filled with love. A yellow post-it note stuck on the bottom, right corner read 'Nikita, staring at Michael...again.'
"Now tell me it was all an act Michael. Tell me she didn't love you!" Walter demanded in a hard tone not bothering to hide his own pain. He watched for any sign of reaction from Michael.
Hesitantly, Michael brushed his fingers against the picture of Nikita that Walter had tossed at him, then reached past it to the empty green glass vase. Gently his fingers stroked along the smooth, cool surface before he lifted it in his hands. Clasping both hands around, Michael closed his eyes and visibly struggled to maintain an even breathing pattern.
Although Walter could see Michael's struggle for control, he was taken aback by the violence of Michael finally losing the battle. With blinding speed, Michael stood and hurled the vase against the wall, the fragmented pieces of green glass falling to the floor. Michael whirled around to face Walter. In anguished voice, he angrily demanded, "Why?! Why did she go?! If she loved me, why did she want to leave me . . . here . . . alone?!"
Walter found himself staring dumbfounded at the remains of the vase, the sound of shattering glass echoing in his ears. Slowly he pulled his eyes away from glittering shards of glass that reflected green light across the walls and focused on the emotionally-ravaged man before him. Walter couldn't help but to notice the primal pain and fear reflected in Michael's eyes or hear it in his voice. Walter had never seen such pain clearly written on his face, ever. Not when they had "cancelled" Nikita and not when Simone died.
Sitting down heavily on the sofa, Walter realized he had found the lost puzzle piece and could finally see the whole picture. Until the Glass Curtain incident, Michael had never really acknowledged Simone's loss, merely suppressed the pain and denied it. Nikita's presences had helped him face it, to get through it. When Simone had later chosen death over Michael, Nikita had been there as a balm for the pain. She had remained his reason to live and smile and then, after the botched Shay's mission, he had lost her too. Walter knew in his heart that, at least until this mission, Michael had never fully recovered from losing her for those six months or from the fear that it could happen again. Walter had watched for a year as Nikita struggled against the barriers Michael had erected in an effort to protect himself from the pain of losing her again. Had he finally opened himself up only to have this happen to him?
"Oh God, Michael. Nikita loved you! She would have moved heaven and earth to come back to you if she could. Don't ever think she wouldn't!" Walter's voice was soft, almost reverent in its tone. "If I know Nikita, she fought with every last breath to survive. You heard Alicia, and who knows what they did to her after Alicia was knocked out." Walter paused for a moment, at a loss for anything else to say to ease the pain and in too much pain himself to continue. With a broken voice, his eyes filled with tears, Walter whispered the one truth he was sure of in this disaster. "She loved you, Michael."
Slowly Michael turned away from Walter and walked to stand among the glittering green shards of glass and faced the ocean through the French doors. In a hushed voice barely more than a whisper, Michael choked out four words that echoed in Walter's own heart. "I want her back."
Chapter Nine
The gentle knock at the door seemed a godsend to Walter. He had stood staring at Michael's rigid back, uncertain what to say to him or how to help him. Just how was he supposed to respond to Michael's plaintive "I want her back"? Somehow, Walter knew that single phrase would haunt him for a long time.
Reaching the door, Walter swiftly pulled it open. Linda Marshall stood there, her head bowed and her hands fidgeting with a small box. Lifting her head at the sound of the door opening, she smiled.
"Hi, Walter. I'm sorry to intrude on you. I know you probably want some time alone with Michael . . . but well . . . Alicia called. She told me what Michael did to his hair. I thought you might need these," she extended the box to Walter. "It's electric hair clippers. I used them on my son. I don't know why I kept them, much less brought them here from New York. But if what Alicia said was true, you'll need them." She had spoken quickly, almost rambling.
"Uh . . . thanks Linda. You're right. I could use these," Walter said, titling his head a little, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were studying her. "Do you want to come in for a minute?"
"No, really, Walter. You and Michael both need sometime without guests and outsiders hanging about you. But, if you need me, you know where I am."
Linda stepped back from the door, turning to head down the steps. At the bottom of the landing she paused and half turned back to say, "Walter, how is he?"
Letting out a deep sigh, Walter sat down on the top step. "I wish I knew. He keeps so much inside, but at least he's reacting now. If you can consider despair an improvement. And," Walter stopped mid-sentence, considering the wisdom of proceeding.
"And?" Linda queried.
"And, I'm not so sure he can make it through this, even if he wanted to," Walter's voice held a resignation that frightened him. The fear that this could be the final blow to Michael had lingered at the back of his mind, but now, with it spoken aloud, it seemed to grow.
"Why? Don't get me wrong, I know how devastating this kind of loss is, but as crass as it seems, life goes on. It doesn't go away, but you do adjust."
Walter sighed deeply, thinking carefully on how he would translate the past few years to fit into the established profile. "Did Nikita ever mention Simone?"
"Simone? No." Linda's voice took on an ominous quality, as if she recognized something horrible were about to be revealed. Taking a deep breath, seemingly to fortify herself, Linda stepped forward and sat beside Walter on the porch steps.
"Simone was Michael's first wife. She was a beauty, an odd mix of a little sprite and a cold, calculating femme fatale. Most of the time, when I saw her at least, she was a smiling, laughing sprite, especially around Michael. But occasionally, I saw the other side. You crossed her or someone she cared for and watch out!" A small half-smile spread across Walter's face as he remembered petite little Simone tearing into Operations about his treatment of Birkoff. The smile faded as the memory receded. "They were very happy together. He was a different person then."
Pausing, Walter closed his eyes, focusing on controlling his emotions, before he continued. "Simone killed herself right in front of Michael. It destroyed him. We thought we had lost him, that it was only a matter of time until he took his own life. And then ..." A small smile crept across his face as he remembered the first time he had seen Nikita trailing behind Michael through the halls of Section. "And then came Nikita. I don't know how she did it, but within a few months Sugar had him smiling again. Not quite the old Michael, but far from the shell he had been."
Linda studied her hands as they lay clasped in her lap. "I knew something awful had happened to Michael. Nikita had hinted at it, but I just didn't realize. I'm sorry, Walter."
"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, too," Walter said, his voice hushed and resigned. The sound of the phone ringing inside the house interrupted him.
"You had better get that. I'll see you tomorrow, unless you need something," Linda said quickly as she rose from her place, her voice containing a barely suppressed relief.
"Thanks Linda."
"Bye, Walter," Linda said over her shoulder as she walked back toward her own home.
~~~~~~~
Walter made it to the kitchen before the phone had rung a fourth time. Grabbing the cellular phone, he answered, "Yeah?"
"Walter."
There was no mistaking Madeline's collected and precise voice.
"Yeah, this is Walter. What can I do for you, Madeline?"
"I just finished the preliminary briefing with the operatives that will be posing as Nikita and Michael's friends and family. You can access the profile from the secured link on either yours, Michael's or Nikita's laptops. I suggest you and Michael both study the information. It is imperative to maintain the mission according to the profile."
"I know. Don't worry. We'll be up to speed. Is there anything else?"
"Yes, actually. A few things. First, I contacted a funeral home in that area. I made some preliminary arrangements. They are expecting your call either this evening or tomorrow to finalize them. It will be a straight memorial service since her remains have already been returned to Section. It has been scheduled for late afternoon tomorrow. I have also arranged for a caterer to make some dishes for the reception following the service."
"Anything else?" Walter could hear the bitter, sarcastic bite in his words, but didn't care. He resented the amount of control she had taken over the situation.
"Just one more thing. I'm sending Birkoff. I will grant him extra leave time if you think he needs it once he arrives. However, that leave is also contingent on his staying close to your locale, preferably with you and Michael."
"Yeah, whatever," Walter's reply was curt, but he had about all he could take of Madeline's meddling and scheming.
"Good. I'm glad we understand each another. Goodbye Walter."
Folding the phone, Walter set it back on the counter and walked into the living room to give Michael the news. Better to just get it over with. Scanning the room, Walter's eyes finally settled on Michael's still form lying curled on his side, sound asleep on the couch, clutching the picture of Nikita. The yellow post-it note lay crumpled on the floor beside him.
Quietly, Walter walked over to the sofa, and covered Michael with the green chenille blanket, careful not to disturb him. If anyone needed a few hours of peace, it was Michael. Returning to the kitchen, Walter contacted the funeral home and made arrangements to meet later that evening before booting up the laptop that sat waiting on the counter . He hoped for Michael's sake that this all ended quickly.
Chapter Ten
The smell of garlic and tomato sauce caused his stomach to rumble from hunger and pulled Michael from a deep, exhausted sleep. Still in the sleep-induced fog, he imagined Nikita standing beside their glass dining room table, meticulously arranging the place settings and lighting candles. He smiled thinking that if she was cooking Italian that meant she was in a very romantic mood. One thing this mission's imposed domesticity had done for her was provide an opportunity to learn to cook, and Italian was what she did best. Inhaling deeply, Michael stretched his limbs and felt the gentle flutter of air as the picture he had cradled gently, even in sleep, slipped to the ground. With a sudden clarity, memories raced into his mind. Nikita was gone.
Opening his eyes, he allowed them to adjust to the dim light in the room before he swung his legs over the side of the sofa to the floor and pulled himself into a sitting position. Tossing the chenille throw into the corner of the sofa, as he leaned down and reached for the fallen picture. Immediately, upon seeing the image, he could feel tears begin to well in his eyes and the now familiar constriction in his throat and chest begin. "Nikita," he whispered, before he placed the picture down on the table. Taking a moment to gain control of his emotions, he rose from the sofa and walked into the kitchen.
Michael watched as Walter, standing in front of the oven, was apparently preparing to grasp the glass lasagna dish with bare hands. "You might want to use potholders," Michael said.
Startled, Walter lost his balance and fell forward toward the hot oven. With reflexes built from years of training, Michael swiftly reached out, catching Walter by the shoulder and steadying him. Shaking off Michael's hand, he turned around, his expression reminding Michael of a peacock with his feathers ruffled.
"Shit, Michael. You can't just sneak up on a person like that!" Walter exclaimed, shaking his hand to relieve the sting of the burn he had received while reaching out to catch himself. "I need to get you a bell or a proximity alarm or something," he mumbled under his breath.
"Sorry," Michael said softly, his eyes scanning the kitchen. "Can I help?"
"Uh- no, table's set." Walter stammered, as he took in Michael's resigned expression. "Why don't you have a seat. The lasagna is almost ready, I think," his voice trailed off toward the end as he turned back to examine the dish.
Walking to the table, Michael stopped suddenly and stared, bewildered, at the setting. Thanks to Madeline's tutelage every operative learned complete table etiquette before they 'graduated'. Obviously, Walter did not have the benefit of such lessons. Either that, or he simply didn't care; Michael hoped for the former.
A chill ran down his spine. What he suspected was a bottle of wine was sitting in the center of the table. However, considering it had a screw top, he wasn't quite sure it was actually meant for consumption. What truly baffled Michael was where Walter had found it; Nikita didn't even use the cheap stuff to cook.
Turning his attention away from the dubiously labeled "wine", his eyes were drawn to a white plastic bag of bread with yellow, red and blue dots. "Wonder bread? Surely they weren't having Wonder bread with dinner?"
On the right side of each dish was a coffee saucer, and as there were no coffee cups present, he assumed Walter had mistaken them for bread plates. He inwardly cringed at haphazardly folded paper towels at each setting, and the Pepe Le Pew jam jars in place of glasses.
Reaching out, Michael lifted one of the jars from the table, a small smile tugging at his mouth at the memory it evoked. He had seen them at a yard sale Nikita had dragged him to and had purchased them for her as a surprise. When he had returned the next week, Nikita had spent hours teasing him, calling him "Pepe". As he set the glass back on the table, he turned his attention back to Walter, and saw that he had retrieved the lasagna from the oven and was now walking slowly toward the kitchen table.
Sighing, Michael set to work.
From his vantage point by the oven, Walter causally observed Michael as he studied the table. He could see the two sides of Michael functioning almost as one, yet still distinct. The operative took in his surroundings with a critical eye, but it was the man who actually seeing and recognizing.
Turning, he took the lasagna dish from the oven and began to walk toward the table just in time to see Michael lift one of the Looney Tunes jars from the table. A small, sad smile curled Michael's lips, and Walter found himself curious about whatever memory it had evoked for him. He stopped when Michael turned to him, a bewildered expression on his face, just before he turned to the drawer behind him, and quickly pulled out a heat pad and set it on the table. Confused, and even more curious, Walter watched as Michael gathered the saucers, the bread, and the Pepe le Pew glasses and returned them to their proper place in the cabinets. "What the hell is he doing?" Walter thought, totally perplexed.
With the ease of longtime familiarity, Michael acquired two small plates, wineglasses and a loaf of French bread and began to reset the table. Once finished, he walked to the corner and inspected the bottles in the ornate metal wine rack. Selecting one, Michael uncorked the bottle, poured some in each glass, then set the bottle on the table.
Throughout, he had moved swiftly, with his usual economy of motion, but also with a naturalness that spoke volumes. Walter suddenly found himself remembering the surveillance footage from the Armel mission and how easily Michael and Nikita had settled into their roles. He considered that perhaps, after four months, it had ceased to be a role for either of them on this mission. He didn't know if he should wish that had been the case or dread it.
When the heat bled through the potholders and began to burn his hands, Walter quickly moved to join Michael at the table. Placing the dish on the pad, Walter took a seat, picked up the spatula and began to carve out a large section of lasagna. Sliding the spatula beneath the section, he swiftly lifted it from the pan and maneuvered it to above his plate.
A choked off laugh echoed the splat sound of the lasagna layers landing in several places between Walter's plate and the pan. Walter wasn't sure what startled him more, the lasagna sliding from the spatula or Michael's halted chuckle.
"What's so funny?" Walter asked, ribbing him.
Michael nodded toward the mess, "Nikita did that." Pausing, he leaned back in his chair and raised his wine glass to his lips. "She never wanted to wait for the dish to cool enough to serve." Michael's hand idly caressed the wineglass, his voice was softer than usual, as if part of him was back in another time, sitting across from Nikita.
"Nikita made lasagna?" Walter's voice betrayed what an incredulous thought that seemed to him.
Michael nodded once. "Anne Roberds attended a culinary college in New England. Nikita thought that having Anne teach her to cook would be an easy way to keep an eye on her."
"Man, I would have loved to see that. Sugar cooking." Walter shook his head in disbelief.
Michael just stared at him, then bowed his head, appearing to concentrate on the food on his plate. A strained quiet filled the room. Occasionally Walter would glance up, hoping to find a reason to reopen communication.
Finally finished with his portion, Walter pushed his plate away from him and leaned back, studying Michael in earnest. A slow smile spread across his face. Taking his dish, Walter rose from the table and placed it in the sink. Turning back to the table, Walter stared first at Michael, then at the cabinet that contained the glassware. Walking to the cabinet, he withdrew one of the Pepe Le Pew glasses Michael had returned there earlier and went back to the table. Setting the glass before Michael, he resumed his seat. He looked Michael straight in the eye and smiling devilishly, he said, "Tell me about this!"
For a minute, Walter didn't think Michael would answer. Then, slowly, Michael reached out a hand and took the glass. Turning it in his hand, Michael stared hard at the glass, but didn't seem to be really seeing it. Lowering the glass until it rested on the table, but still in his grasp, Michael looked up at Walter and smiled.
"I saw these at a yard sale. I thought Nikita might enjoy them so I bought them. I left them for her to find after I went back to Section. She liked them, for some reason, she insisted that Pepe reminded her of me." He nodded toward the cup.
"Pepe? Pepe Le Pew? You reminded her of Pepe Le Pew?" Walter tried to maintain a straight face. Staring Michael in the face, he imagined Nikita in the place of ever-silent "Kitty", struggling to escape the grasp of the ever talkative and attentive "Pepe". A chuckle began low in his chest, rising till it exploded from him as riotous laughter.
After a few moments, Walter tried to regain control of himself. He closed his eyes, and began taking deep and even breaths. Opening his eyes, he wiped the moisture from them and looked at Michael. A shy, half-smile softened his features, and Walter could read both amusement and the echo of pain in his eyes. Slowly, Michael's lips drew in, and Walter could see the concerted effort he was exerting to reign in his emotions.
It was Michael's own stuttered laughing that started Walter's again. He wasn't sure how long they sat there laughing and exchanging seemingly innocuous anecdotes and memories of Nikita, but for Walter the release had felt good; cathartic. He hoped it had done as much for Michael.
Walter knew they might be late, but he figured he should at least try to fix Michael's hair before they went to the funeral home to finalize arrangements. Taking a towel from the linen closet, Walter picked up the box that contained the electric shears and headed back to the kitchen where he could hear Michael cleaning up the dishes.
He entered the kitchen just as Michael closed the dishwasher. Straightening, Michael looked from him to the box and towel and then raised his face till their eyes met. Walter could easily read the question in them, "Hair clippers. We need to fix your hair before we go out."
Michael just continued to stare blankly at him, and Walter sensed no conciliation. "Come on, Michael. It won't take long, and you really need it."
"No."
"Michael, have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Now sit down and let me fix your hair."
Michael didn't move, his expression blank and neutral, but his stance screamed, "You are not touching my head."
"Michael, we don't have time for this. We have to get to the funeral home. Now go over there and sit down."
"No closer," Michael stated as Walter began to walk toward him.
Walter stopped, knowing damn well what Michael was capable of and not wanting to be on the receiving end. Sighing, Walter gave in. "Fine, if you won't let me do it, will you trust Linda?" After waiting for a few moments, he received an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Setting down the towel and clippers, Walter picked up the phone and dialed.
"Linda? Walter. Listen, I've got this problem. Do you think you could come over and fix Michael's hair? He won't let me within ten feet of him with these things."
Chapter Eleven
It is almost over. Walter kept repeating those words silently to himself. All he wanted was for this day, this nightmare, to be over.
His experience the night before at the funeral parlor had been horrendous. Madeline had done her usual excellent job making the arrangements. In the end, it came down to choosing the flowers and a picture to display. Madeline sent several pictures to the undertaker, taken from the photos shot used as part of their cover. Michael had refused them all. Finally, Walter had called Linda, and she had graciously brought the negatives of some candid shots of Nikita. The funeral home had made arrangements for a large picture to be printed on short notice. The battle over the flowers had been almost as bad. Madeline had chosen red roses. Michael wanted irises. In the end, Michael won.
When they returned to the house, Walter went over the mission profile with Michael, discussing who would play what roles. A group of operatives from headquarters, most from Michael's personal team, would portray neighbors, assorted family and co-workers. Operations would participate as Nikita's father. Birkoff would be Nikita's younger half-brother. Although Walter was glad Birkoff could be there, he figured Operations only motive was to check up on Michael, and that worried him.
Hours after retiring for the evening, Walter had lain in bed watching and listening for Michael to finally call it a night and go to bed. Finally at two am, Walter had crept out of his room to find Michael sound asleep on the sofa. Walter was not surprised; he knew Michael was avoiding painful memories. After covering Michael with a blanket, Walter had finally been able to return to his bed and drift off to sleep.
The memorial for his Sugar had been surreal. Over the years, he had known many operatives that had been cancelled or lost in action, but never had those losses been acknowledged with a memorial, not even his Belinda. So attending one for Nikita seemed more like an act than reality. Part of him still believed, no matter how he rationalized it, that when he returned to section, Nikita would be waiting.
He and Michael had met up with Birkoff and Operations at the Our Lady of Mercy Catholic church. Both had been visibly shocked by Michael's appearance, Birkoff so much so that he had been at a loss for words. And while Michael's "blank stare" had been firmly in place, his pain was still plainly visible to those who knew him.
The first thing Walter had seen upon entering the small church was an enlarged version of one of the pictures of Nikita taken by Linda Marshall. It was the one of Nikita looking at Michael, her love for him clearly written on her face. He had almost panicked then, suddenly feeling the reality of it all closing in on him and not wanting his Sugar's death to be anymore real than it was already. It had been Birkoff's exaggerated breathing pattern and Michael's sudden rigidity that had allowed him to push the panic off. When Belinda had died, Nikita had been the one who had helped him find a way to survive the pain. Now Michael and Birkoff needed him in the same way, and he wasn't going to fail them or Nikita.
The funeral service had been short and poignant. Patrick McLean and Linda Marshall had both spoken, reflecting on how short their time with Nikita had been and how deeply she had managed to touch them. When the priest asked if anyone else wanted to say something, Walter had been surprised when Ken from systems had stood up. Although his words of respect were short and vague, Walter found them more painful to listen to than both Patrick and Linda's eulogies.
He had been grateful when the service had concluded. Operation's pulled Birkoff's bag from the truck of the limo, leaving him in the care of Michael and Walter and headed back to Section One. He had been equally grateful when Linda had offered her guest room for Birkoff. She instinctively understood that Michael was not ready to deal with his "brother-in-law."
Sighing, Walter looked around the room, silently observing the people who had gathered in Michael and Nikita's beach house. The various operatives whose covers had allowed for them to remain, now stood in groups around the room quietly conversing. Sitting on the sofas, Linda, Alicia, Anne and a few other local men and women looked through the box of pictures sharing stories. A group of neighbors had gathered in the dining room close to the buffet. By the window in between the two local groups stood Birkoff, staring out at a lone figure on the beach: Michael.
Walter had just started moving toward the group of Section operatives when he heard Birkoff's exclamation. Turning in that direction, he saw Birkoff standing just beyond the dinning room, staring red-faced at the bewildered group of neighbors.
"What's wrong with you? Is that all you care about, who catered this 'little reception'?" his voice was tight with emotion.
Hoping to avoid an incident, Walter strode over to Birkoff. "It's okay, Seymour," Walter started in what he hoped was a soothing tone, trying to find a way to explain that some people focused on inconsequential things to avoid dealing with something scary or painful.
"No, it's not okay! Nikita deserved better than that! All she ever did was try to help people." Turning away, Birkoff stormed out the French Doors and onto the beach.
Only half shocked at the outburst, Walter quickly made moves to go after him. Linda's voice stopped him. "Don't Walter. Let him go. He's upset. All he knows is that he is hurt and angry. If it wasn't this it would have been something else."
Walter stood with his back toward Linda, watching Birkoff plop himself down on the sand. Sighing, he resigned himself to the truth in her words. "I know. I. . ."
"Just hate to see him in such pain and not be able to help?"
Nodding his head, Walter turned first to face Linda. "Thanks," he said, simply. Then he turned to the operatives gathered in a corner of the room, his face clearly saying that this "incident" was not to be reported. They each nodded subtly before returning to their conversation.
Turning back to watch out the window, Walter repeated over and over, in his mind. "It's almost over."
It was over. Nikita was truly gone. Michael had only attended one other memorial service for someone he loved, and that had been for his parents. However, those memories had only partially prepared him for what he would face once he walked through the church doors. It was the bittersweet sense of closure he had not been prepared for. Before, the thought of Nikita being dead had seemed unreal. Now, although it was painful, it was real.
It was that fact which had driven Michael outside to the ocean. As soon as he had been able, he had stealthily and gracefully slipped out the doors and walked to the edge of the water, just out of reach of the waves. Listening to the crashing rhythm of the surf, he allowed the memories to drift over him, welcoming the pain and the joy they brought to him. He allowed himself to imagine Nikita playing in the surf, her laughter rising freely into the air. For the first time since he had been told of Nikita's death, Michael felt her presence not as a haunting specter, but as a comforting spirit.
Turning to walk toward the house, he saw Birkoff sitting not far from him. Slowly he walked up to him and took a seat beside him, staring out over the waters.
"She's really gone," Birkoff's voice was barely a whisper.
Michael could feel Birkoff's eyes on him. Keeping his eyes on the horizon, he considered what he could say to help him. Finally, he turned and met Birkoff's stare.
"She's free," Michael answered, listening to Nikita's laughing voice in his heart, knowing it would always be with him.
It was over. The guests had finally left, leaving only Linda and himself inside the house. Trying desperately to keep busy and not to think of what he had just experienced, Walter gathered all the empty dishes and carried them to the kitchen while Linda help to gathered the left over food and put it away.
"Walter, do you have a match? I want to light some of the votives. This place smells like one too many expensive colognes."
Half laughing at her statement, he suggested, "Try the drawer in the end table."
After a few moments of rustling, he heard the strike of a match, followed by, "Walter, come here, quick."
Although he had heard no trepidation in her voice, he nonetheless hurried out into to the living room. He found Linda standing just of the side of the French doors, staring out.
Walking up, he stared out in the direction she was focusing on. Michael sat beside Birkoff on the beach, one hand resting gently on his shoulder. Walter stared transfixed. He could see they were talking, occasionally one or the other would take a deep breath, exhaling slowly like they were attempting to gain control of rampaging emotions. Periodically, Birkoff would swipe a tear from his eye. And every once in a while he would see them smile in profile, or their bodies shake with gentle laughter.
"Well I'll be," was all Walter could think to say. In his heart, he now knew that everything was going to be okay. In his mind he could hear his Sugar laugh and tell him he never should have doubted.