Leaning back in her chair, Madeline dropped her head forward releasing the tension in her neck. Tension that recently seemed to be ever present. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was the same feeling she had had after Nikita's death - the knot in stomach that accompanied the sense that she was missing something. It had taken over a month for Madeline to exhaust her suspicions and finally let them, and Nikita, rest. Now that gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach was back.
Madeline closed her eyes. She needed to find the answers. Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind inward, backward in time a day, to the encounter with Operations that had triggered the rebirth of her unease.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The whoosh of her office door opening without the standard announcements immediately informed Madeline as to who had entered her office. Her features schooled into an impassive mask, She had looked up to greet Operations in her usual manner.
"Good Morning." Her tone was as usual - direct, purposeful, and even. Her eyes automatically performed the perfunctory scan of his body as she mentally accessed his disposition. She recognized the inordinate amount of tension in his stance which reminded her of a coiled rattler ready to strike at its victims. His eyes burned with frustration, anger, and wariness, - not only of her, but, it seemed, of life.
"I'm going to Paris. I have some unfinished business. I should be gone a week. You can reach me at the Paris substation if I am needed. I trust you can handle things while I am gone."
The curt, harsh edge in his voice sent warning signals blaring in Madeline's mind. He was holding something back. Her mind twisted around as she analyzed the possibilities.
"Of course. Is there something I should know?" Madeline responded fluidly.
For a moment, his grey-blue eyes had softened and she read in his regretful and pained expression his desire to confide in her - but, instead his expression cooled as he distanced himself from her.
"No. I'll contact you from Paris."
With a final wistful glance, Operations turned and walked from her office.
~~~~~~~~~~~
A two-toned beep emanating form her workstation terminal drew her from the images swirling in her mind. The pale, blue eyes of her long time companion still haunted her, hovering in the back of her mind, leaving Madeline to sit wondering what had happened? Something major was troubling him, yet no mission - pending or otherwise - could account for his behavior.
Executing a series of breathing exercises to calm, clear and focus her mind, she thought back, attempting to identify when Operations' behavior could be categorized as "normal". For the past month he had been reclusive - an oddity in itself - and seemed to be avoiding her, keeping his distance. There were times, when she would look at him and see the loneliness in his eyes, but he always pulled away. It was uncharacteristic and it worried her.
Her lips curled slightly, remembering his consternation over Nikita's mission to the small, quiet beach town. He had been annoyed that a simple favor was taking so long, and that he was wasting one, sometimes two, of his "best operatives" on such a low priority situation. She hadn't been able to resist pointing out to him his own statement – that he had called Nikita one of his best. Operations had given her his typical "peeved" look and waved it away. "Nikita is good," he had said, "but she is still annoying and insubordinate." She had suspected then that he missed having Nikita around. He enjoyed having her challenge him if for no other reason than it gave him someone to yell at.
It was later that day that Michael had called, requesting back-up teams to search for Nikita. In less than 24 hours, Nikita was dead. Operations hadn't been truly "normal" since. She had expected him to have some remorse or regrets – to mourn her in his own way and time –and then to snap back. And, for a while, it seemed he was doing exactly that. Then, for no reason she could identify, he had become more withdrawn.
Madeline hated not knowing what had happened, what was causing Paul to withdraw - even from her. Why wasn't he confiding in her?
Because you pushed him away, chastised him for reaching out emotionally, called it a weakness and scorned him because of it. Her own voice echoed through her mind. She felt sudden fear twist in her gut. She could see the strain on him; he wasn't a man to keep things bottled up, and having shut him out she left him with no one else to turn to? She felt regret - remorse – sink into her heart. Had she, in her attempt to protect everything they had fought so many years to accomplish, managed to destroy it?
A clear, calm certainty settled over her. She felt the gnawing in the pit of her stomach that had been reawakened by her encounter with Operations days before begin to quell. She simply would not let it happen. Somehow she would find a way to fix whatever was wrong. If he wouldn't tell her, she would use other methods. She would find her answers and God help whomever got in her way. Tapping the intercom button for systems, she called, "Birkoff. I need to see you in my office. Now. "
**************
"What the hell was taking so long?" The thought ran through Operations' head as he finally gave into the urge to pace that had plagued him all day. Rising from his seat to prowl the small waiting room, he began to second-guess his decision to bring Nikita to a civilian facility. While he still believed his reasoning had been sound, he regretted his limited immediate resources. He desperately wanted to grab some passing orderly or nurse and demand answers.
He forced himself to stop pacing and look out a nearby window. He knew his decision was right, regardless of the "limited resources." The chance of detection - by his own people or Oversight - if he had taken her to a Section facility was too high. Nor could he chance the repercussions if she was discovered and he was forced to order her cancellation. No, this was for the best. The Holtzenberg Clinic was amongst the best in the world and due to their unique clientele, it was unusually secure and discrete.
Operations swung around at the slight creak of door hinges, hoping to face the white-haired doctor who had greeted him at the air ambulance and finally have the answers he needed. Instead, standing in the doorway was an average sized, unremarkable man, with graying black hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Operations watched the two operatives that guarded him each step closer, a visible warning to the unknown intruder.
"Uh- I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here. I just needed to get out of the public waiting area. Do you mind?" The man stammered, his frightened eyes jumping from Operations to the guards and back again.
A quick appraisal told Operations that the man was no threat. He could feel the overwhelming despair that seemed to radiate from him. He signaled the operatives to stand down, then turned back to the visitor, gesturing to the stranger to take a seat before returning his gaze to the window. His brusque manner intended to discourage the man from asking any more questions.
The room lapsed into a silence that wrapped itself protectively around each individual and time seemed to slow. Again, the metallic sound of hinges moving as the door opened shattered the sheltering silence. Operations turned his head just as a tall, young, blond man wearing green surgical scrubs entered and looked anxiously first at Operations and his two companions, then at the dark haired stranger. Years of watching people told Operations that whatever the man came to say, he didn't anticipate it being well, or happily, received. He could feel the tensions tightening his muscles. "Excuse me, which of you is Mr. Jonathon Grant?" The newcomer spoke, his voice heavily accented.
As Operations looked away, the relief that washed over him was palpable - a startling and unwelcome revelation.
From his place by the window, Operations listened the nervous young doctor walked toward Jonathon Grant and sat across from him. He could visualized Jonathon Grant's shoulders tensing, leaving him frozen, only to slowly sag under the weight of his grief. The doctor's explanation finally ceased. The room seemed to hold its breath - as if even the inanimate objects waited for the torrent of emotions that were sure to come next.
"She's dying. My daughter is dying. That's what you're really saying." While Jonathan Grant's words were soft and unsteady, they were loud enough for Operations to hear and as the man's voice broke on the word daughter, he felt an invisible hand grip him by the throat. It was an emotion he - and every parent - recognized. The fear and pain associated with losing a child. He knew all to well how that one fear could take literal control of you – make every thing else in the world seem inconsiquential. When his own son, Stephen had been threatened by one of Section's missions, his fear had overridden all other concerns and he had turned to Nikita – not Michael – to save him. He had instinctively know that he could place the things he care most for in the world into her hands and she would protect them. Operations turned back to the view out the window, hoping he would find something outside to distract his mind away from the turbulent emotions that careered through him.
In the background he could hear the stranger as he his pain poured out of him, "We fought this morning. We're always fighting. My Nicole is . . . 16 years old, . . . but she's so headstrong. So stubborn." Mr. Grant's voice broke again before falling finally into a whisper. "She always has to be right. Never seeing beyond the now," he inhaled sharply and deeply, his exhaled breath emerging in a staccato fashion. "She was so angry with me, so annoyed. " Operations listened as the man paused again, this time biting back a sob, "I just want her to walk through that door and start fighting with me." His voice quivered and he stopped.
The young doctor took a steadying breath, "Mr. Grant. Your daughter did survive the surgery. She's in very critical condition. I don't want to give you false hope, however, if your Nicole is half as headstrong and stubborn as you say, I think she has a chance. Don't give up on her yet. Just. . . just make sure she knows how much you want her around. "
From behind him, Operations head the rustle of fabric as the doctor stood and walked to the door. It creaked again as it opened, causing a slight draft before it closed. Silence, once again, settled uneasily over the room, leaving each person to their private reflections. While Operations was very aware of the Jonathon Grant's stuttered breathing, his battle to control his sobs, he was more aware of his own reactions to the man's words. He found himself reliving all their confrontations and all the disappointing moments in recent briefings when no one had offered him a challenge. He realized he had come to expect it - even desire it. It kept him sharp, kept others sharp. Nikita made him think, and she never failed to remind him of their true purpose, even when it was most inconvenient.
Operation's mind was once again consumed with memories. He remembered clearly the frustration he had felt watching Lauren spar with Michael. She had been everything he wanted in an operative, yet she hadn't measured up. Grudgingly, Operations admitted to himself that Nikita, for all the times she annoyed and aggravated him, she would never have been able to do so if he hadn't cared. Somehow, somewhere along the line, a small, hidden part of himself must have recognized something in her. Like Madeline, she made him feel. And, unlike so many others, Nikita never backed down from him. He admitted to himself what he would never admit to another - he had missed her.
The swish of the door against the rug drew his attention. Looking up, Operations recognized the white-haired gentleman that entered the room - Dr. Helfgolt. Operations immediately walked to stand before him, getting straight to the point, he asked, "Doctor, how is Nikita?"
The doctor stared at him. Operations got the distinct impression that his own mental state was being accessed. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Dr. Helfgolt quietly gestured toward the two seats off to a corner of the room that faced each other over a small table.
Operations followed the doctor, choosing the chair that that backed to the wall. He clasped his hands tightly in his lap.
"Mr. Winston," Dr. Helfgolt began, his voice soft and soothing. "I am sure you understand how extreme your daughter's condition is. She's suffering from a myriad of conditions - most notably the dehydration and starvation. At this time, we are still trying to ascertain the full extent of the damage done to her system."
Operations found that even though the doctor's voice remained in the same trained, soothing tone, it sounded ominous in his ears. He noted the increase in his heart rate - almost as if it were happening to someone else.
"Your daughter's dehydration," Dr. Helfgolt continued, "has resulted in a condition known as Hypernatremia. What that means is that due to the dehydration, her blood sodium levels are extremely high. Nikita's blood work also indicates the possibility that her kidneys have shut down." Dr. Helfgolt paused in his explanation, as if waiting to see if Operations understood the situation. "We have begun treating the Hypernatremia. It is very important that we reduce her sodium levels slowly to prevent any permanent brain damage. Once her fluid and sodium levels are normal, we will begin dialysis to clean her blood of toxins. We are hopeful that once her body fluids, BUN and creatine levels - the blood toxin levels - are corrected her kidneys will resume functioning. I am sure you know that the next 24 hours will be critical. I am sorry, but until then I really can't even give you any indication of what you will be facing if she survives."
Operations felt like a metal band had been placed around his heart as the doctor outlined Nikita's condition, his final words causing the band to constrict mercilessly. It became difficult to take more than a shallow breath. The implications of the doctor's words barreled down on him– the possibility of permanent kidney and brain damage. Damage that would not kill her, but would render her useless to Section. After everything that had happened, would he still have to cancel her?
Operations wanted slumped forward in his chair – to lower his head into in his hands – but he refused to give into the desire. He forced himself to regulate his breathing, willing himself to calm. He felt a sudden, intense anxiety but he didn't have time to dwell on it now. He would have to analyze it later, right now he need this doctor to understand what his options were. Raising his head and straightening his posture, he locked his ice-blue eyes on the dark ones that belonged to Doctor Helfgolt.
"If?" He questioned, the full force of his venom rippling through the air with the single word. Sliding forward in his chair, Operations closed the distance between himself and the doctor. He allowed his anger and fear to radiate through his cold voice, "There is no "If," Doctor. You had better see that Nikita does survive – with no permanent damage. Are we clear?"
While the logical portion of his brain rankled at how unrealistic his demand was – he didn't care. Operations was keenly aware of the involuntary shiver that ran through the doctor - quite familiar with the look of fear that shaded the man's eyes. He was silently thankful that he had the forethought to make arrangements with the hospital administrator concerning Nikita's treatment and protection. There was no doubt that Doctor Helfgolt was completely aware of possible repercussions of his failure to just what was asked of him.
"We have her in a private ICU room. Would you like to see her?" The doctor stammered.
"Yes."
**************
Operation's footsteps echoed through the halls as he walked the final yards to the room where one of his best operatives lay. Each click of his heels against the linoleum flooring seemed to reverberate through him, a physical accompaniment to the anxiety that seized and grew with each footfall. The nearer he came to the door, the more demanding the memories became.
He could hear Dr. Helfgolt describing to him what he would see when he entered Nikita's room. He went into vivid detail about the machines, tubes, and wires that were connected to her. But nothing Dr. Helfgolt said as he escorted him to the room prepared him for what he saw when he entered the room.
The vibrant, defiant, force of nature that he had considered the bane of his existence was now a pallid and fragile figure splayed out on the stark, white hospital bed in the center of a large, sterile room. Quaking raked his body as he listened to the to pumping and wheezing of the ventilator, the subtle beeping of the heart monitors, and the continuous hum of the machines that controlled the intravenous pumps. His stomach turned at the sight of the catheter and large needles that ran into Nikita's body and were imbedded in her slack, lifeless arms. The catheter in a vein near the sub-clavicle bone carried a white fluid, the Total Parental Nutrition, which, he knew from the Doctor supplied Nikita with all the essential elements for survival - proteins, vitamins, electrolytes and other nutrients. Several other IV bags hung suspended over her, tubes leading to yet another needle in her arm, providing her with a steady flow of antibiotics, sedatives and god only knew what else.
Closing his eyes, he found himself remembering the terror of Madeline's kidnapping and his secret relief when Nikita had disobeyed orders and set out to save both Michael and Madeline. He remembered the feel of Madeline in his arms as he counted and evaluated her every breath in fear that it would be the last as a virus slowly killed her, praying Nikita and Michael would find the antibiotic in time. He struggled to repress the tears that came to his eyes as he how terrified he had felt that day. He remembered the look on Nikita's face when she walked through the door to Madeline's office, saw him cradling her on the floor. Her eyes had reflected concern and understanding as she had injected first Madeline, then him, with the antibiotic. He could hear her voice, cold steel as she demanded Medlab send help immediately to Madeline, no excuses. He remembered standing in the hall outside of Medlab and hearing several operatives gossiping about him and what he had done to get to Madeline, then her voice, Nikita's, telling them in no uncertain terms to 'shut up and mind their own business'. A weary smile curled his lips. Considering the way the operatives had scattered, he had no doubt that she had looked like an avenging Valkrye.
When he had opened his eyes, he returned his gaze to Nikita's emaciated form, and found himself biting back at the tightness in his chest and the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He owed her. He owed Michael. And for all his own protestations, he found that he cared. Somehow she had managed, in some bizarre, twisted way, to endear herself to him. He silently wondered when it had happened.
Slowly he had walked toward the bed, halting to stand at her side. Cautiously, he reached down and took her hand gingerly in his, careful not to disturb the blood oximeter that fitted over one of her fingers. It felt dry and ice cold and only managed to heighten his awareness of how precariously close she teetered on the edge. Unnerved, he turned to leave, and then reconsidered. Instead, he reached for a nearby chair and dragged it to the bed and sat down.
Shifting Nikita's hand so he held it between both of his, he lowered his head to rest on them and closed his eyes. He sat that way for a few moments, struggling within himself. Overall, he wasn't a religious or even remotely spiritual man. He had seen - done - far too much in his life to accept the idea easily of a merciful and loving father. Yet, in his darkest moments, when all else failed, he could hear the songs and stories of his childhood faith drifting up from his memory to anchor and comfort him.
Dear God, he prayed, I doubt I have the right to ask, but please - send her back to us, heal her. I know she deserves to find some peace but she is young, so young, and we need her. Michael needs her. . . . I need her. I am getting older, and I have cheated your judgement too many times already. When I am gone, it will be Michael's turn to continue the fight. He will need her strength, her compassion and support to survive. Please don't take her from us.
Slowly he opened his eyes again, and sat back in the chair and stared at Nikita. For a while, he just sat silently - listening and watching as the ventilator forced air into her lungs. On their walk toward the room, the doctor had told him to talk to her, that he believed she was strong willed enough to fight - so long as she still wanted to live. Knowing what he had put Nikita through, he doubted that she did. Somehow, he had to find the words to make her understand, to make her want to come back.
"I'm probably the last person you expected to come for you." The sound of his voice shocked him as it broke the deathly stillness of the room. "I don't understand exactly why I did it myself. Except that I owed you, Nikita. For Steven. For Madeline. I know your intentions - your motivation - was never protecting, or helping me, but I'm grateful." He had paused. Staring at her, still holding her hand, he had tried to find the words, a way, to make her believe him. Finally, tired of fighting himself and the world, he, for the first time in 20 years, let the words simply fall from his lips.
"That is not entirely true. When I first learned what had really happened to you, I was angry. Angry that I had been fooled, angry at the potential backlash it could cause, that some second rate terrorist could ruin everything I had worked so hard for - but I also found that I was angry at what had been done to you." He paused, exhaling slowly, "I know what it's like to love someone in Section, Nikita. I know what it is to fear for them. The feeling that they are your connection to what makes life livable. The feeling that if they die, the only thing left alive in you dies with them. It can make you desperate, and the loss . . . the loss can destroy you. I have spent a lot of time watching Michael since we lost you. He was devastated Nikita. I am not sure how he pulled himself together, but I do know he still loves you. I see it in his eyes. He needs you - the way I need Madeline. Someday, Michael will have my job, and when that day comes, he will need your strength and support.
On impulse, he had risen from his chair, leaned close over her. Raising her chilled hand to his lips, he had gently kissed her knuckles. "Come home to us, Nikita. We need you." He whispered into her ear, then carefully set her hand to rest beside her.
Straightening, he quietly left the room.
**************
Standing just outside Nikita's hospital door, Operations wondered what he would find inside. He prayed that she was improving. Prayed that today, he would finally hear the words that would free him from the constant fear that his rescue had come too late - that the damage done to Nikita was - by Section standards – too great.
Pushing the door open, he found himself taken aback by the presence of several doctors and nurses.
"Ah, Mr. Winston. You are just in time. Your daughter seems to have decided to turn a corner," Dr. Helfgolt said in a jubilant tone.
"How so, Doctor?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded wary.
"Well, it appears that her kidney function is improving. We'll decrease the dialysis treatments for now, and continue to monitor the blood toxin levels. We also lowered her ventilator level, and she seems to have adapted well. If she continues to improve at this rate, we may have her off the ventilator and dialysis by the end of the week. "
Operations found himself amazed at the range of emotion that swept through him – relief at Nikita's continued recovery - and fear of the reprisals he knew would be coming soon. Suddenly hesitant, he walked over to Nikita's beside and gently wrapped his hand around hers, feeling the warmth that had finally begun to return to her still ghostly-pale skin.
"Thank you, Doctor, " Operations said, his eyes never wavering from Nikita. "You've done incredible work."
"Your daughter did all the work, sir. My team and I just offered her what assistance we could."
Operations nodded his head, acknowledging the sincerity he heard in the doctor's voice. Releasing Nikita's hand, he grabbed the chair from the corner of her room and pulled it to h45 bedside. Settling himself, he waited as the medical staff quietly exited the room. Once alone, he pulled a scrambling device from his pocket and activated it.
Reaching out, he took hold of Nikita's hand. Gently rubbing his thumb across her palm, he realized how oddly comforting he found the tactile contact. Actually, the visits as a whole had become a comfort to him. With Nikita unconscious, he found himself saying things he thought he would never admit aloud.
"Well, Nikita. Birkoff finally did it. He asked to be assigned his own apartment. I wasn't going to allow it, but Madeline thought we should, so . . . yesterday, on his 23rd birthday . . . Birkoff moved out." Operations paused, gathering his thoughts. "I had hoped that Madeline would assign him your old apartment. I figured, by the time you returned, he would have had enough of living alone and easily give it up to you and I would have him back a section full-time. Leave it to Madeline to interfere. She gave your apartment to a level 1 op who just completed his training." He paused for a moment, watching Nikita's even intake and exhale of breath. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a small earpiece and placed it snugly in Nikita's ear. "I made a recording of Michael and Walter at Birkoff's first night in his new apartment. It's quite amusing actually. Birkoff and Walter really know how what they are doing when it comes to teasing Michael. I should warn you though, it does get a bit maudlin for a while. They still miss you, Nikita. "
He tapped the small device once and then sat back and for the next fifteen minutes, silently studied the blonde woman, wondering if she was aware of anything said in the room.
**************
Late November
Everyday, on his regular visits to the hospital, Operations watched Nikita's painful struggle. It wasn't obvious to anyone just passing by, but he could see it - or rather feel it. Everyday, he watched for even the slightest sign of improvement - she never disappointed him. But the improvements were small and he knew as only one who had been there could, the price her soul paid for each minuscule proverbial step away from the peace of death.
Looking out from his perch, Operations stared beyond the even, methodical movements of those below. Today was the end of one chapter of Nikita's struggle - and the beginning of another. Dr. Helfgolt had called to tell him that Nikita was beginning to regain consciousness. Over the last weeks, he had watched as she clawed her way back and not for a minute did he doubt that she would wake up, and full recover--regardless of how Dr. Helfgolt had cautioned him. Dr. Helfgolt didn't know Nikita.
She would need help, though, to continue to recover. More help than he could give her. More help than the realities of Section would allow him to give her. Operations had spent the last few hours trying to work out a way to approach Madeline - to tell her that Nikita was alive. Yet the more he thought on it, the more unsettled he felt. Finally, he gave up. He pushed himself away from his ledge and exited his office.
As Operations walked across the catwalk to the stairs that would lead him to staging area, he spotted Michael leaning over Birkoff's shoulder. He watched as Birkoff straightened his shoulders and cocked his head. His lips quirked into a smile when he saw the hand Michael had rested on the back of Birkoff's chair fly up and smack Birkoff in the back of his head. He watched as Birkoff dipped his head forward, the swung his body around to look up at Michael, his expression a mix of annoyance, curiosity and amusement. He watched as a wide grin spread across his face. Even from the distance, Operations knew if to be a pure, genuine reaction. Turning his gaze to look at Michael, and found him smiling.
They had finally moved on with their lives without Nikita. In a bizarre twist, he found it comforting to know he had not been entirely wrong in his assessment of his operatives. Operations made a mental note to talk to Madeline about Michael's and Birkoff's efficiency ratings, but he had a suspicion that both were performing at or above there highest ratings. How would Nikita's return affect that? All things he would have to talk to Madeline about - this would be a delicate situation.
As he walked down the stairs and his eyes drifted to Walter's alcove. He stood at his workbench, working, as he always was, with some gadget. Across from him stood an empty stool. How would he react to the news that Nikita lived? How would her experience affect him? Did memories of their shared prison camp experience still haunt him during the long nights?
"What do you want?"
The brisk, curt tone snapped Operations out of his musing. He found himself standing in front of Walter's workstation.
"Come with me," Operations said, not quite sure why, but this one last time, he followed his gut.
"Where to?" Walter's tone remained quarrelsome, distrusting.
Operations looked down at his hands, and for a moment he could feel Nikita's still frail hand clutching at his reflexively. He knew she was strong enough to make it back, but she was going to need help and support and he doubted she would take it from him. Aside from Michael, Walter was the only they both could trust.
Turning to face Walter, he dropped his cold mask into place, allowed his voice to cool to ice, "Don't ask questions. Just do what your told." Turning his back, he strode forward leading the way out of Section one.
**************
Walter remembered staring out the front windshield at the deceptively peaceful facade of the exclusive, private hospital. The well-manicured grounds seemed to blossom with life, even in the cold, dead of winter. The very facade contradicted the valiant struggles that existed within its walls.
Nikita is alive. He said the words to himself again, his mind struggling to accept what the man beside him was saying - to accept what this man had done. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that Operations was still talking, and that they had left the car, yet he didn't really hear him or register his changing surroundings.
"How long?" The words should choked and horse to Walter's ear, the voice oddly unfamiliar and even though it was his own.
"A month." The answer was simple, flat.
Anger surged through Walter. A month! He turned then, faced Operations, his vision red with unfocused rage. "You've known she was alive for a month and you just let us suffer thinking she was dead?" The words were low and vicious and screamed with violence intent.
"Don't make judgements on things you know nothing about. You weren't here, you don't know. She's been here a month and only today has she shown signs of regaining consciousness. Up until last week, I didn't even know if she would regain full use of her kidneys. We still don't know if there will be any lasting nerve, organ or muscle damage."
Walter didn't the words, he was too angry and deep down, ashamed as well. Nikita was alive, when all rights - be they nature or Section ordained - she should be dead. The fact that she lived was all that mattered. Slowly, the anger ebbed away, leaving only hurt and resignation. "Just take me to her."
"I am." The words were bitter and cold. Operations turned on his heel and continued down the long hall. He came to a door, and without pause or any other indication, he opened the door and entered, shutting it behind him.
Standing at the closed door, Walter shut his eyes. He strained to hear any indication of life on the other side, waiting to hear even a whispered word for Nikita's mouth.
The door opened, and a smiling, middle-aged woman with brown hair and kind, light-brown eyes almost walked into him as she tried to leave the room. He vaguely registered her apology, but as she slipped past him time stopped.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, and leaning slightly over her, Operations blocked his view of Nikita. All Walter could see was the thin, ashen hand that lay gently on her stomach and clasped in the Operations' hand. He was talking to her in a voice that contained a lulling quality Walter had long forgotten.
He remembered it now. He'd last heard it in the POW camps when Operations - Paul - had used it to help focus, soothe and encourage his men, to keep them hanging on - to keep them surviving. It was the voice of a man he had found convenient to forget had ever existed.
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed it - the subtle movement of her hand, the tighten of her grasp around Paul's hand, the sound of her head shifting on the pillow as she turned toward his voice. She mumbled something unintelligible - seeming to grow distressed. Paul's body shifted as he reached up toward her face, perhaps to stroked back her hair. He continued to talk to her, and from his distance across the room he could barely hear Nikita's soft murmuring as she settled back into a peaceful oblivion.
Walter found himself drawn across the room only to frozen at his first real sight of her. For a moment, one horrible moment, he thought he was too late. She lay so deathly still and quiet. None of the energy he associated with her was evident in any way.
Feeling eyes focused on him, Walter slowly turned his head and looked straight into the blue eyes of a man he wanted to hate. For the first time in more years than he wanted to count, Walter was forced to acknowledge something in the other man's eyes – something human and pained. He watched as Operations – Paul - shifted his attention back to Nikita. Leaning forward, he caressed her face and then leaned forward and whispered softly into her ear.
Standing, Operations turned to face him. The slowly, he extended the hand he still had clasped around Nikita's toward him and gently placed her hand in Walter's. A shadowed expression passed over Operations' face and Walter could feel the other man's reluctance to let go even as he withdrew his hand from Nikita's – leaving her hand resting solely in Walter's palm.
Nikita shifted unconsciously in her sleep and Walter turned his attention back to ward Nikita. Gently he began to talk softly to her, "Shhh. Nikita. It's okay, Walter's here, Sugar. I'm here." A cool draft of air brushed across the back of his neck. Looking up, Walter watched the door to the room close behind the retreating figure. "Well, all be, Sugar. You did it again – melted another heart of ice."
****
Inspired by the Song "Bring Him Home" in Les Miz
Madeline closed her eyes. She needed to find the answers. Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind inward, backward in time a day, to the encounter with Operations that had triggered the rebirth of her unease.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The whoosh of her office door opening without the standard announcements immediately informed Madeline as to who had entered her office. Her features schooled into an impassive mask, She had looked up to greet Operations in her usual manner.
"Good Morning." Her tone was as usual - direct, purposeful, and even. Her eyes automatically performed the perfunctory scan of his body as she mentally accessed his disposition. She recognized the inordinate amount of tension in his stance which reminded her of a coiled rattler ready to strike at its victims. His eyes burned with frustration, anger, and wariness, - not only of her, but, it seemed, of life.
"I'm going to Paris. I have some unfinished business. I should be gone a week. You can reach me at the Paris substation if I am needed. I trust you can handle things while I am gone."
The curt, harsh edge in his voice sent warning signals blaring in Madeline's mind. He was holding something back. Her mind twisted around as she analyzed the possibilities.
"Of course. Is there something I should know?" Madeline responded fluidly.
For a moment, his grey-blue eyes had softened and she read in his regretful and pained expression his desire to confide in her - but, instead his expression cooled as he distanced himself from her.
"No. I'll contact you from Paris."
With a final wistful glance, Operations turned and walked from her office.
~~~~~~~~~~~
A two-toned beep emanating form her workstation terminal drew her from the images swirling in her mind. The pale, blue eyes of her long time companion still haunted her, hovering in the back of her mind, leaving Madeline to sit wondering what had happened? Something major was troubling him, yet no mission - pending or otherwise - could account for his behavior.
Executing a series of breathing exercises to calm, clear and focus her mind, she thought back, attempting to identify when Operations' behavior could be categorized as "normal". For the past month he had been reclusive - an oddity in itself - and seemed to be avoiding her, keeping his distance. There were times, when she would look at him and see the loneliness in his eyes, but he always pulled away. It was uncharacteristic and it worried her.
Her lips curled slightly, remembering his consternation over Nikita's mission to the small, quiet beach town. He had been annoyed that a simple favor was taking so long, and that he was wasting one, sometimes two, of his "best operatives" on such a low priority situation. She hadn't been able to resist pointing out to him his own statement – that he had called Nikita one of his best. Operations had given her his typical "peeved" look and waved it away. "Nikita is good," he had said, "but she is still annoying and insubordinate." She had suspected then that he missed having Nikita around. He enjoyed having her challenge him if for no other reason than it gave him someone to yell at.
It was later that day that Michael had called, requesting back-up teams to search for Nikita. In less than 24 hours, Nikita was dead. Operations hadn't been truly "normal" since. She had expected him to have some remorse or regrets – to mourn her in his own way and time –and then to snap back. And, for a while, it seemed he was doing exactly that. Then, for no reason she could identify, he had become more withdrawn.
Madeline hated not knowing what had happened, what was causing Paul to withdraw - even from her. Why wasn't he confiding in her?
Because you pushed him away, chastised him for reaching out emotionally, called it a weakness and scorned him because of it. Her own voice echoed through her mind. She felt sudden fear twist in her gut. She could see the strain on him; he wasn't a man to keep things bottled up, and having shut him out she left him with no one else to turn to? She felt regret - remorse – sink into her heart. Had she, in her attempt to protect everything they had fought so many years to accomplish, managed to destroy it?
A clear, calm certainty settled over her. She felt the gnawing in the pit of her stomach that had been reawakened by her encounter with Operations days before begin to quell. She simply would not let it happen. Somehow she would find a way to fix whatever was wrong. If he wouldn't tell her, she would use other methods. She would find her answers and God help whomever got in her way. Tapping the intercom button for systems, she called, "Birkoff. I need to see you in my office. Now. "
**************
"What the hell was taking so long?" The thought ran through Operations' head as he finally gave into the urge to pace that had plagued him all day. Rising from his seat to prowl the small waiting room, he began to second-guess his decision to bring Nikita to a civilian facility. While he still believed his reasoning had been sound, he regretted his limited immediate resources. He desperately wanted to grab some passing orderly or nurse and demand answers.
He forced himself to stop pacing and look out a nearby window. He knew his decision was right, regardless of the "limited resources." The chance of detection - by his own people or Oversight - if he had taken her to a Section facility was too high. Nor could he chance the repercussions if she was discovered and he was forced to order her cancellation. No, this was for the best. The Holtzenberg Clinic was amongst the best in the world and due to their unique clientele, it was unusually secure and discrete.
Operations swung around at the slight creak of door hinges, hoping to face the white-haired doctor who had greeted him at the air ambulance and finally have the answers he needed. Instead, standing in the doorway was an average sized, unremarkable man, with graying black hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Operations watched the two operatives that guarded him each step closer, a visible warning to the unknown intruder.
"Uh- I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here. I just needed to get out of the public waiting area. Do you mind?" The man stammered, his frightened eyes jumping from Operations to the guards and back again.
A quick appraisal told Operations that the man was no threat. He could feel the overwhelming despair that seemed to radiate from him. He signaled the operatives to stand down, then turned back to the visitor, gesturing to the stranger to take a seat before returning his gaze to the window. His brusque manner intended to discourage the man from asking any more questions.
The room lapsed into a silence that wrapped itself protectively around each individual and time seemed to slow. Again, the metallic sound of hinges moving as the door opened shattered the sheltering silence. Operations turned his head just as a tall, young, blond man wearing green surgical scrubs entered and looked anxiously first at Operations and his two companions, then at the dark haired stranger. Years of watching people told Operations that whatever the man came to say, he didn't anticipate it being well, or happily, received. He could feel the tensions tightening his muscles. "Excuse me, which of you is Mr. Jonathon Grant?" The newcomer spoke, his voice heavily accented.
As Operations looked away, the relief that washed over him was palpable - a startling and unwelcome revelation.
From his place by the window, Operations listened the nervous young doctor walked toward Jonathon Grant and sat across from him. He could visualized Jonathon Grant's shoulders tensing, leaving him frozen, only to slowly sag under the weight of his grief. The doctor's explanation finally ceased. The room seemed to hold its breath - as if even the inanimate objects waited for the torrent of emotions that were sure to come next.
"She's dying. My daughter is dying. That's what you're really saying." While Jonathan Grant's words were soft and unsteady, they were loud enough for Operations to hear and as the man's voice broke on the word daughter, he felt an invisible hand grip him by the throat. It was an emotion he - and every parent - recognized. The fear and pain associated with losing a child. He knew all to well how that one fear could take literal control of you – make every thing else in the world seem inconsiquential. When his own son, Stephen had been threatened by one of Section's missions, his fear had overridden all other concerns and he had turned to Nikita – not Michael – to save him. He had instinctively know that he could place the things he care most for in the world into her hands and she would protect them. Operations turned back to the view out the window, hoping he would find something outside to distract his mind away from the turbulent emotions that careered through him.
In the background he could hear the stranger as he his pain poured out of him, "We fought this morning. We're always fighting. My Nicole is . . . 16 years old, . . . but she's so headstrong. So stubborn." Mr. Grant's voice broke again before falling finally into a whisper. "She always has to be right. Never seeing beyond the now," he inhaled sharply and deeply, his exhaled breath emerging in a staccato fashion. "She was so angry with me, so annoyed. " Operations listened as the man paused again, this time biting back a sob, "I just want her to walk through that door and start fighting with me." His voice quivered and he stopped.
The young doctor took a steadying breath, "Mr. Grant. Your daughter did survive the surgery. She's in very critical condition. I don't want to give you false hope, however, if your Nicole is half as headstrong and stubborn as you say, I think she has a chance. Don't give up on her yet. Just. . . just make sure she knows how much you want her around. "
From behind him, Operations head the rustle of fabric as the doctor stood and walked to the door. It creaked again as it opened, causing a slight draft before it closed. Silence, once again, settled uneasily over the room, leaving each person to their private reflections. While Operations was very aware of the Jonathon Grant's stuttered breathing, his battle to control his sobs, he was more aware of his own reactions to the man's words. He found himself reliving all their confrontations and all the disappointing moments in recent briefings when no one had offered him a challenge. He realized he had come to expect it - even desire it. It kept him sharp, kept others sharp. Nikita made him think, and she never failed to remind him of their true purpose, even when it was most inconvenient.
Operation's mind was once again consumed with memories. He remembered clearly the frustration he had felt watching Lauren spar with Michael. She had been everything he wanted in an operative, yet she hadn't measured up. Grudgingly, Operations admitted to himself that Nikita, for all the times she annoyed and aggravated him, she would never have been able to do so if he hadn't cared. Somehow, somewhere along the line, a small, hidden part of himself must have recognized something in her. Like Madeline, she made him feel. And, unlike so many others, Nikita never backed down from him. He admitted to himself what he would never admit to another - he had missed her.
The swish of the door against the rug drew his attention. Looking up, Operations recognized the white-haired gentleman that entered the room - Dr. Helfgolt. Operations immediately walked to stand before him, getting straight to the point, he asked, "Doctor, how is Nikita?"
The doctor stared at him. Operations got the distinct impression that his own mental state was being accessed. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Dr. Helfgolt quietly gestured toward the two seats off to a corner of the room that faced each other over a small table.
Operations followed the doctor, choosing the chair that that backed to the wall. He clasped his hands tightly in his lap.
"Mr. Winston," Dr. Helfgolt began, his voice soft and soothing. "I am sure you understand how extreme your daughter's condition is. She's suffering from a myriad of conditions - most notably the dehydration and starvation. At this time, we are still trying to ascertain the full extent of the damage done to her system."
Operations found that even though the doctor's voice remained in the same trained, soothing tone, it sounded ominous in his ears. He noted the increase in his heart rate - almost as if it were happening to someone else.
"Your daughter's dehydration," Dr. Helfgolt continued, "has resulted in a condition known as Hypernatremia. What that means is that due to the dehydration, her blood sodium levels are extremely high. Nikita's blood work also indicates the possibility that her kidneys have shut down." Dr. Helfgolt paused in his explanation, as if waiting to see if Operations understood the situation. "We have begun treating the Hypernatremia. It is very important that we reduce her sodium levels slowly to prevent any permanent brain damage. Once her fluid and sodium levels are normal, we will begin dialysis to clean her blood of toxins. We are hopeful that once her body fluids, BUN and creatine levels - the blood toxin levels - are corrected her kidneys will resume functioning. I am sure you know that the next 24 hours will be critical. I am sorry, but until then I really can't even give you any indication of what you will be facing if she survives."
Operations felt like a metal band had been placed around his heart as the doctor outlined Nikita's condition, his final words causing the band to constrict mercilessly. It became difficult to take more than a shallow breath. The implications of the doctor's words barreled down on him– the possibility of permanent kidney and brain damage. Damage that would not kill her, but would render her useless to Section. After everything that had happened, would he still have to cancel her?
Operations wanted slumped forward in his chair – to lower his head into in his hands – but he refused to give into the desire. He forced himself to regulate his breathing, willing himself to calm. He felt a sudden, intense anxiety but he didn't have time to dwell on it now. He would have to analyze it later, right now he need this doctor to understand what his options were. Raising his head and straightening his posture, he locked his ice-blue eyes on the dark ones that belonged to Doctor Helfgolt.
"If?" He questioned, the full force of his venom rippling through the air with the single word. Sliding forward in his chair, Operations closed the distance between himself and the doctor. He allowed his anger and fear to radiate through his cold voice, "There is no "If," Doctor. You had better see that Nikita does survive – with no permanent damage. Are we clear?"
While the logical portion of his brain rankled at how unrealistic his demand was – he didn't care. Operations was keenly aware of the involuntary shiver that ran through the doctor - quite familiar with the look of fear that shaded the man's eyes. He was silently thankful that he had the forethought to make arrangements with the hospital administrator concerning Nikita's treatment and protection. There was no doubt that Doctor Helfgolt was completely aware of possible repercussions of his failure to just what was asked of him.
"We have her in a private ICU room. Would you like to see her?" The doctor stammered.
"Yes."
**************
Operation's footsteps echoed through the halls as he walked the final yards to the room where one of his best operatives lay. Each click of his heels against the linoleum flooring seemed to reverberate through him, a physical accompaniment to the anxiety that seized and grew with each footfall. The nearer he came to the door, the more demanding the memories became.
He could hear Dr. Helfgolt describing to him what he would see when he entered Nikita's room. He went into vivid detail about the machines, tubes, and wires that were connected to her. But nothing Dr. Helfgolt said as he escorted him to the room prepared him for what he saw when he entered the room.
The vibrant, defiant, force of nature that he had considered the bane of his existence was now a pallid and fragile figure splayed out on the stark, white hospital bed in the center of a large, sterile room. Quaking raked his body as he listened to the to pumping and wheezing of the ventilator, the subtle beeping of the heart monitors, and the continuous hum of the machines that controlled the intravenous pumps. His stomach turned at the sight of the catheter and large needles that ran into Nikita's body and were imbedded in her slack, lifeless arms. The catheter in a vein near the sub-clavicle bone carried a white fluid, the Total Parental Nutrition, which, he knew from the Doctor supplied Nikita with all the essential elements for survival - proteins, vitamins, electrolytes and other nutrients. Several other IV bags hung suspended over her, tubes leading to yet another needle in her arm, providing her with a steady flow of antibiotics, sedatives and god only knew what else.
Closing his eyes, he found himself remembering the terror of Madeline's kidnapping and his secret relief when Nikita had disobeyed orders and set out to save both Michael and Madeline. He remembered the feel of Madeline in his arms as he counted and evaluated her every breath in fear that it would be the last as a virus slowly killed her, praying Nikita and Michael would find the antibiotic in time. He struggled to repress the tears that came to his eyes as he how terrified he had felt that day. He remembered the look on Nikita's face when she walked through the door to Madeline's office, saw him cradling her on the floor. Her eyes had reflected concern and understanding as she had injected first Madeline, then him, with the antibiotic. He could hear her voice, cold steel as she demanded Medlab send help immediately to Madeline, no excuses. He remembered standing in the hall outside of Medlab and hearing several operatives gossiping about him and what he had done to get to Madeline, then her voice, Nikita's, telling them in no uncertain terms to 'shut up and mind their own business'. A weary smile curled his lips. Considering the way the operatives had scattered, he had no doubt that she had looked like an avenging Valkrye.
When he had opened his eyes, he returned his gaze to Nikita's emaciated form, and found himself biting back at the tightness in his chest and the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He owed her. He owed Michael. And for all his own protestations, he found that he cared. Somehow she had managed, in some bizarre, twisted way, to endear herself to him. He silently wondered when it had happened.
Slowly he had walked toward the bed, halting to stand at her side. Cautiously, he reached down and took her hand gingerly in his, careful not to disturb the blood oximeter that fitted over one of her fingers. It felt dry and ice cold and only managed to heighten his awareness of how precariously close she teetered on the edge. Unnerved, he turned to leave, and then reconsidered. Instead, he reached for a nearby chair and dragged it to the bed and sat down.
Shifting Nikita's hand so he held it between both of his, he lowered his head to rest on them and closed his eyes. He sat that way for a few moments, struggling within himself. Overall, he wasn't a religious or even remotely spiritual man. He had seen - done - far too much in his life to accept the idea easily of a merciful and loving father. Yet, in his darkest moments, when all else failed, he could hear the songs and stories of his childhood faith drifting up from his memory to anchor and comfort him.
Dear God, he prayed, I doubt I have the right to ask, but please - send her back to us, heal her. I know she deserves to find some peace but she is young, so young, and we need her. Michael needs her. . . . I need her. I am getting older, and I have cheated your judgement too many times already. When I am gone, it will be Michael's turn to continue the fight. He will need her strength, her compassion and support to survive. Please don't take her from us.
Slowly he opened his eyes again, and sat back in the chair and stared at Nikita. For a while, he just sat silently - listening and watching as the ventilator forced air into her lungs. On their walk toward the room, the doctor had told him to talk to her, that he believed she was strong willed enough to fight - so long as she still wanted to live. Knowing what he had put Nikita through, he doubted that she did. Somehow, he had to find the words to make her understand, to make her want to come back.
"I'm probably the last person you expected to come for you." The sound of his voice shocked him as it broke the deathly stillness of the room. "I don't understand exactly why I did it myself. Except that I owed you, Nikita. For Steven. For Madeline. I know your intentions - your motivation - was never protecting, or helping me, but I'm grateful." He had paused. Staring at her, still holding her hand, he had tried to find the words, a way, to make her believe him. Finally, tired of fighting himself and the world, he, for the first time in 20 years, let the words simply fall from his lips.
"That is not entirely true. When I first learned what had really happened to you, I was angry. Angry that I had been fooled, angry at the potential backlash it could cause, that some second rate terrorist could ruin everything I had worked so hard for - but I also found that I was angry at what had been done to you." He paused, exhaling slowly, "I know what it's like to love someone in Section, Nikita. I know what it is to fear for them. The feeling that they are your connection to what makes life livable. The feeling that if they die, the only thing left alive in you dies with them. It can make you desperate, and the loss . . . the loss can destroy you. I have spent a lot of time watching Michael since we lost you. He was devastated Nikita. I am not sure how he pulled himself together, but I do know he still loves you. I see it in his eyes. He needs you - the way I need Madeline. Someday, Michael will have my job, and when that day comes, he will need your strength and support.
On impulse, he had risen from his chair, leaned close over her. Raising her chilled hand to his lips, he had gently kissed her knuckles. "Come home to us, Nikita. We need you." He whispered into her ear, then carefully set her hand to rest beside her.
Straightening, he quietly left the room.
**************
Standing just outside Nikita's hospital door, Operations wondered what he would find inside. He prayed that she was improving. Prayed that today, he would finally hear the words that would free him from the constant fear that his rescue had come too late - that the damage done to Nikita was - by Section standards – too great.
Pushing the door open, he found himself taken aback by the presence of several doctors and nurses.
"Ah, Mr. Winston. You are just in time. Your daughter seems to have decided to turn a corner," Dr. Helfgolt said in a jubilant tone.
"How so, Doctor?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded wary.
"Well, it appears that her kidney function is improving. We'll decrease the dialysis treatments for now, and continue to monitor the blood toxin levels. We also lowered her ventilator level, and she seems to have adapted well. If she continues to improve at this rate, we may have her off the ventilator and dialysis by the end of the week. "
Operations found himself amazed at the range of emotion that swept through him – relief at Nikita's continued recovery - and fear of the reprisals he knew would be coming soon. Suddenly hesitant, he walked over to Nikita's beside and gently wrapped his hand around hers, feeling the warmth that had finally begun to return to her still ghostly-pale skin.
"Thank you, Doctor, " Operations said, his eyes never wavering from Nikita. "You've done incredible work."
"Your daughter did all the work, sir. My team and I just offered her what assistance we could."
Operations nodded his head, acknowledging the sincerity he heard in the doctor's voice. Releasing Nikita's hand, he grabbed the chair from the corner of her room and pulled it to h45 bedside. Settling himself, he waited as the medical staff quietly exited the room. Once alone, he pulled a scrambling device from his pocket and activated it.
Reaching out, he took hold of Nikita's hand. Gently rubbing his thumb across her palm, he realized how oddly comforting he found the tactile contact. Actually, the visits as a whole had become a comfort to him. With Nikita unconscious, he found himself saying things he thought he would never admit aloud.
"Well, Nikita. Birkoff finally did it. He asked to be assigned his own apartment. I wasn't going to allow it, but Madeline thought we should, so . . . yesterday, on his 23rd birthday . . . Birkoff moved out." Operations paused, gathering his thoughts. "I had hoped that Madeline would assign him your old apartment. I figured, by the time you returned, he would have had enough of living alone and easily give it up to you and I would have him back a section full-time. Leave it to Madeline to interfere. She gave your apartment to a level 1 op who just completed his training." He paused for a moment, watching Nikita's even intake and exhale of breath. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a small earpiece and placed it snugly in Nikita's ear. "I made a recording of Michael and Walter at Birkoff's first night in his new apartment. It's quite amusing actually. Birkoff and Walter really know how what they are doing when it comes to teasing Michael. I should warn you though, it does get a bit maudlin for a while. They still miss you, Nikita. "
He tapped the small device once and then sat back and for the next fifteen minutes, silently studied the blonde woman, wondering if she was aware of anything said in the room.
**************
Late November
Everyday, on his regular visits to the hospital, Operations watched Nikita's painful struggle. It wasn't obvious to anyone just passing by, but he could see it - or rather feel it. Everyday, he watched for even the slightest sign of improvement - she never disappointed him. But the improvements were small and he knew as only one who had been there could, the price her soul paid for each minuscule proverbial step away from the peace of death.
Looking out from his perch, Operations stared beyond the even, methodical movements of those below. Today was the end of one chapter of Nikita's struggle - and the beginning of another. Dr. Helfgolt had called to tell him that Nikita was beginning to regain consciousness. Over the last weeks, he had watched as she clawed her way back and not for a minute did he doubt that she would wake up, and full recover--regardless of how Dr. Helfgolt had cautioned him. Dr. Helfgolt didn't know Nikita.
She would need help, though, to continue to recover. More help than he could give her. More help than the realities of Section would allow him to give her. Operations had spent the last few hours trying to work out a way to approach Madeline - to tell her that Nikita was alive. Yet the more he thought on it, the more unsettled he felt. Finally, he gave up. He pushed himself away from his ledge and exited his office.
As Operations walked across the catwalk to the stairs that would lead him to staging area, he spotted Michael leaning over Birkoff's shoulder. He watched as Birkoff straightened his shoulders and cocked his head. His lips quirked into a smile when he saw the hand Michael had rested on the back of Birkoff's chair fly up and smack Birkoff in the back of his head. He watched as Birkoff dipped his head forward, the swung his body around to look up at Michael, his expression a mix of annoyance, curiosity and amusement. He watched as a wide grin spread across his face. Even from the distance, Operations knew if to be a pure, genuine reaction. Turning his gaze to look at Michael, and found him smiling.
They had finally moved on with their lives without Nikita. In a bizarre twist, he found it comforting to know he had not been entirely wrong in his assessment of his operatives. Operations made a mental note to talk to Madeline about Michael's and Birkoff's efficiency ratings, but he had a suspicion that both were performing at or above there highest ratings. How would Nikita's return affect that? All things he would have to talk to Madeline about - this would be a delicate situation.
As he walked down the stairs and his eyes drifted to Walter's alcove. He stood at his workbench, working, as he always was, with some gadget. Across from him stood an empty stool. How would he react to the news that Nikita lived? How would her experience affect him? Did memories of their shared prison camp experience still haunt him during the long nights?
"What do you want?"
The brisk, curt tone snapped Operations out of his musing. He found himself standing in front of Walter's workstation.
"Come with me," Operations said, not quite sure why, but this one last time, he followed his gut.
"Where to?" Walter's tone remained quarrelsome, distrusting.
Operations looked down at his hands, and for a moment he could feel Nikita's still frail hand clutching at his reflexively. He knew she was strong enough to make it back, but she was going to need help and support and he doubted she would take it from him. Aside from Michael, Walter was the only they both could trust.
Turning to face Walter, he dropped his cold mask into place, allowed his voice to cool to ice, "Don't ask questions. Just do what your told." Turning his back, he strode forward leading the way out of Section one.
**************
Walter remembered staring out the front windshield at the deceptively peaceful facade of the exclusive, private hospital. The well-manicured grounds seemed to blossom with life, even in the cold, dead of winter. The very facade contradicted the valiant struggles that existed within its walls.
Nikita is alive. He said the words to himself again, his mind struggling to accept what the man beside him was saying - to accept what this man had done. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that Operations was still talking, and that they had left the car, yet he didn't really hear him or register his changing surroundings.
"How long?" The words should choked and horse to Walter's ear, the voice oddly unfamiliar and even though it was his own.
"A month." The answer was simple, flat.
Anger surged through Walter. A month! He turned then, faced Operations, his vision red with unfocused rage. "You've known she was alive for a month and you just let us suffer thinking she was dead?" The words were low and vicious and screamed with violence intent.
"Don't make judgements on things you know nothing about. You weren't here, you don't know. She's been here a month and only today has she shown signs of regaining consciousness. Up until last week, I didn't even know if she would regain full use of her kidneys. We still don't know if there will be any lasting nerve, organ or muscle damage."
Walter didn't the words, he was too angry and deep down, ashamed as well. Nikita was alive, when all rights - be they nature or Section ordained - she should be dead. The fact that she lived was all that mattered. Slowly, the anger ebbed away, leaving only hurt and resignation. "Just take me to her."
"I am." The words were bitter and cold. Operations turned on his heel and continued down the long hall. He came to a door, and without pause or any other indication, he opened the door and entered, shutting it behind him.
Standing at the closed door, Walter shut his eyes. He strained to hear any indication of life on the other side, waiting to hear even a whispered word for Nikita's mouth.
The door opened, and a smiling, middle-aged woman with brown hair and kind, light-brown eyes almost walked into him as she tried to leave the room. He vaguely registered her apology, but as she slipped past him time stopped.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, and leaning slightly over her, Operations blocked his view of Nikita. All Walter could see was the thin, ashen hand that lay gently on her stomach and clasped in the Operations' hand. He was talking to her in a voice that contained a lulling quality Walter had long forgotten.
He remembered it now. He'd last heard it in the POW camps when Operations - Paul - had used it to help focus, soothe and encourage his men, to keep them hanging on - to keep them surviving. It was the voice of a man he had found convenient to forget had ever existed.
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed it - the subtle movement of her hand, the tighten of her grasp around Paul's hand, the sound of her head shifting on the pillow as she turned toward his voice. She mumbled something unintelligible - seeming to grow distressed. Paul's body shifted as he reached up toward her face, perhaps to stroked back her hair. He continued to talk to her, and from his distance across the room he could barely hear Nikita's soft murmuring as she settled back into a peaceful oblivion.
Walter found himself drawn across the room only to frozen at his first real sight of her. For a moment, one horrible moment, he thought he was too late. She lay so deathly still and quiet. None of the energy he associated with her was evident in any way.
Feeling eyes focused on him, Walter slowly turned his head and looked straight into the blue eyes of a man he wanted to hate. For the first time in more years than he wanted to count, Walter was forced to acknowledge something in the other man's eyes – something human and pained. He watched as Operations – Paul - shifted his attention back to Nikita. Leaning forward, he caressed her face and then leaned forward and whispered softly into her ear.
Standing, Operations turned to face him. The slowly, he extended the hand he still had clasped around Nikita's toward him and gently placed her hand in Walter's. A shadowed expression passed over Operations' face and Walter could feel the other man's reluctance to let go even as he withdrew his hand from Nikita's – leaving her hand resting solely in Walter's palm.
Nikita shifted unconsciously in her sleep and Walter turned his attention back to ward Nikita. Gently he began to talk softly to her, "Shhh. Nikita. It's okay, Walter's here, Sugar. I'm here." A cool draft of air brushed across the back of his neck. Looking up, Walter watched the door to the room close behind the retreating figure. "Well, all be, Sugar. You did it again – melted another heart of ice."
****
Inspired by the Song "Bring Him Home" in Les Miz