It was after midnight, officially Christmas Eve, when Michael finally pulled into the driveway of the beach house. From the car, he could see light shining from within the house, lending it a warm welcoming feel. He was home.
Although he knew the lights were on as part of the automated security system, Michael allowed himself a moment to imagine Nikita sitting curled up on the sofa, quietly waiting for him. Steeling himself against the quiet that would greet him when he entered the house, Michael grabbed his bag from the seat beside him, exited the car and started walking toward the front door. Changing his mind midway, he veered to walk around to the back of the house.
Placing the bag on the steps of the deck, he walked down to the beach and stood just out of reach of the incoming waves. It had been two months since he had been here, and three since Nikita's death. The past two months had been good for him, giving him time to adjust to her absence. While he knew that he would never stop loving her or missing her, he was becoming accustomed to her absence.
The fact that his "section home" held no memories of Nikita made it a safe place to retreat to when the pain and memories became more than he could handle. Slowly, he had come to grips with his grief. While the pain would never completely fade, it had instead become a part of him.
He was ready to open himself back up to the memories, to feel the joy that came with them and not have it overshadowed by the pain. Closing his eyes, he let the memories wash over him. He felt her lingering presence, ghostly fingers that slid through his still-short hair, and hear her soft voice whispering his name. In his heart, she was there. Smiling, he slowly opened his eyes to see a vision of her standing on the beach just steps away from him. Dressed in off-white jeans, a turtleneck and a natural raw-wool sweater, she stood motionless, illuminated by the moonlight. Her sun streaked blond hair was pulled back behind her head, several strands escaping to frame her face, billowing in the ocean breeze. All Michael wanted to do was look at her. He was struck by the benevolence of a God who would allow him once last glimpse of his love and scared that even the slightest move would cause the vision to disappear.
"I miss you, Nikita. I always will, " he said, the words flowing easily from his lips, a bittersweet whisper.
A soft smile lit her face. Her eyes became bright with unshed tears. "I've missed you," he imagined her saying, her voice soft and husky.
The crisp, cold ocean breeze continued to blow gently about them, carrying with it the scent of Samsara. Closing his eyes once more, Michael inhaled the delicate scent, a quiet strength settling over him. He knew his love for Nikita, and the few memories he had of her love for him would be enough to carry him through whatever he would face in the future. He knew he was not alone. He had their "family "- Walter, Birkoff, and even the members of their team. And he had Nikita in his heart and soul.
Steadying himself, he opened his eyes and saw the image of Nikita still standing where she had been, her hand outstretched to him, her blue eyes brimming with tears. He wanted desperately to reach out and take her hand, to pull her into his arms, but knew it was an illusion, a final gift. It really didn't matter to him. What mattered was that in some form, even if only in the memory and hearts of others, she continued. She would live in his heart and the memory of her smile and laughter would strengthen him until he joined her.
"I love you, Nikita."
The words were so simple to say, yet they defined who he had become.
He smiled faintly at her, seeing the liquid streaming from her eyes. Instinctively,
he reached out to brush the tears from her face, wanting to reassure her
that he was alright, that he would be alright as long as he remembered
their love. He caught himself just before he touched her and, unwilling
to watch the illusion fade, Michael turned away and walked toward his home,
his future, knowing Nikita would always be a part of him.