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

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

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

Wildhorn and Knighton
From the Broadway Musical, The Scarlet Pimpernel

Chapter One

The sun had set.

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

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

*~~*~~*

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nikita laughed.

~~~~~~~

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~

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

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

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

"When is Michael coming in?"

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

"Why?"

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

"So we let this play out."

"Yes."

*~~*~~*

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

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

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

"We have to do /something/,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Michael?"

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

"Michael." She repeated, her voice louder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"St. Just residence."

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

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

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

"I'll try."

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

Linda heard the phone disconnect before she place it back in the receiver. Taking a deep breath, she turned and started to walk toward the deck. She knew there was nothing she could do to reach Michael, he had effectively shut himself off from her. She just hoped that this Walter could help him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Has he said *anything*?"

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

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

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

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

"Do you want."

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

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

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

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

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

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

***********

Alicia McLean stood gazing at her reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her hospital room door. She had dressed in black jeans and a plain white tee-shirt. She was in her hospital room, alone for the first time since she had been brought there. She had been constantly surrounded by friends and family. Everyone had come to check on her - everyone but the one she needed to see - Michael. Until she could see him, talk to him, she knew she would never get the horrible images out of her head and start to heal. Her dark-brown hair, still damp from her recent shower was carefully brushed and pulled into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck.

A small, white bandage covered the stitches on her right temple and scrapes and fading yellowish bruises covered her face. She looked awful, but she knew that her face and body would heal, leaving only the scars on the inside. Absently, she fingered the gold chain and medallion round her neck, placed there by a paramedic. She had been clutching it in her hand when she was found beside the burnt car.

Walking to the door of her room, she opened it and glanced down the hall. Standing by the nurses station, just ten feet away, was Patrick, her husband. Alicia took a moment to look at him. His tall, lean frame was strong, but she could see the signs of stress and weariness in his posture. He turned around and met her gaze, smiling brightly at her. She could see so much in his blue eyes - pain, fear, gratitude and loss. As hard as these last few days had been on him, she knew he realized that they had been far worse for her, and for Michael. That was why he had agreed to her request to leave the hospital.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice deep and comforting.

Alicia walked from her room to him and leaned against his chest, drawing strength from the safety and love she felt in his arms. "No. I don't think I'll ever be *ready*. But I have to do it. I owe it to Nikita. Thank you for going with me."

Even to her ears, her voice sounded weak and afraid. She felt Patrick's arms tighten about her before releasing her altogether. Taking a step back, she accepted the hand he extended to her and then followed him out of the hospital along a prearranged route to avoid the awaiting press.

He had seen the same spectrum of reds, pinks and oranges that set the evening sky ablaze countless times. Yet, for Michael, there was no past, no future beyond this moment, beyond now, beyond Nikita. He could hear her steady approach behind him, felt the warm touch of her hand as it came to rest against his lower back when she reached his side. He felt one of her hands wrap around his waist and her other rest against his chest. Without thought, Michael placed his arm around her and pulled her to him so that the front of her body was firmly against his side. He felt her chest expand with her deep intake of breath, heard her sigh contentedly as she snuggled closer to him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. The ocean breeze carried whispered words to him. Three words created a sense of peace, of certainty and belonging unlike any he had ever known.

"I love you."

The words were simply spoken, as if they were an undeniable truth, a universal constant in a deep, softly accented voice.

He looked down at her and found her looking up at him. Her eyes were deep-blue eyes full of emotion and glistening with unshed tears. Michael felt warmth wash through his body. Nikita's loose, blonde hair drifted about her in the breeze. He reached to brush a tendril of hair from her face. Nikita's hand rose up to capture his and Michael savored the feel of her fingers laced through his own for a moment before releasing her hand to wrap his arms about her and pull her against his chest. Gently, he stroked her back. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the scent of gardenias that seemed to cling about Nikita. He felt her arms wrapping about his neck and pressing her body closer to his. Applying gentle pressure to the back of his head, Nikita drew him forward until their lips met in a gentle, soulful kiss. Pulling back, Michael gazed into Nikita's eyes, wanting to surrender himself to the unfathomable depths of love he saw there.

Slowly, her hands moved to cup his face between them. She stared at him with shocking intensity, as if trying to imprint the moment forever in her memory. He felt her fingers lovingly threading thru his hair, brushing loose, unruly strands behind his ears. Gently, Nikita caressed strands of his hair before she stepped back, out of his embrace.

"I love you, Michael."

He could see her mouth move, yet the words seemed oddly detached from her, from them. Michael stood motionless on the shore as his Nikita faded back into the light, hearing her words echoed in each wave breaking against the shore.

Walter stood in the doorway that led to the master bedroom, gazing at a sight that was at once endearing and heartrending. Michael lay curled in the center of the large bed, clutching a pillow to his chest. Walter had stood in that doorway, watching uninhibited expressions drift across Michael's normally ruthlessly-controlled face. He had seen relaxed peace of dreamless oblivion, the open expression of love and happiness Walter had never thought to see, and then he saw them vanish as Michael's face contorted with pain and fear. At times, Walter's eyes filled with tears which kept company with those that slipped from beneath Michael's eyelids as he struggled within his dreams. At other times, Michael would toss violently as if trying to escape some terror experienced only by him.

Now Walter watched as Michael's open, peaceful expression, a small smile curving his face, started to change to confusion and despair. Quietly, unable to watch the cycle play out again, Walter walked to the side of the bed and crouched down at its side.

"Michael," Walter called, trying to instill in his voice a balance he did not feel. "Wake up."

Walter watched as years of training kicked in and Michael's eyes snapped open. He could see the mercurial changes in his eyes as he processed information, saw the bewilderment at waking to Walter's face, the realization of why Walter was there, the deep pain caused by that realization and finally the emptiness. Walter watched the life fade from Michael's eyes.

"Come on, get up. You need to eat, and we have some things to go over. You need to make some choices about the arrangements. Linda Marshall brought by some photos for you as well. I thought we could look through them together."

Walter continued his monologue as he walked to a chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of black shorts and an olive green tee-shirt. "There are fresh towels in the bathroom. Take a shower. I'll go make lunch." Walter walked from the room and closed the door behind him leaving Michael sitting quietly on the bed.

Michael rolled onto his back, staring vacantly at the ceiling, still holding the pillow he had cradled in his sleep. It smelled of Nikita, a combination of musk and gardenias. He could feel the tears building in his eyes and the tearing emptiness that enveloped his chest. Images of her staring up into his eyes flashed in his mind. Her voice and the words in the dream echoed in his ears. He could still feel her hands gently caressing his hair. Rolling to his side and curling into a fetal position, he clutched the pillow tightly in his arms. Tears streamed from his eyes and he heard his whispered groan, "'Kita."

Taking a deep breath, he forced the pain back behind the walls of his mind. He couldn't think of her now, knew that the pain would consume him. Focusing instead on the immediate present, he climbed from the bed and strode into the bathroom, starting the shower. All his motions were rote - he didn't think, he just did. In less than 15 minutes, Michael had stripped, showered, dressed and shaved - his efficiency faltering only when he opened the medicine cabinet to retrieve the hair brush he kept there and found it full of Nikita's personal items. Her hairbrush, a few trace blonde hairs still woven through the bristles; her perfumes and body lotions. Moments passed as Michael stood silently staring at the evidence that she had been there. Then as if the items were meaningless, he retrieved his brush and a pair of scissors and shut the cabinet.

For a moment, Michael faced himself in the mirror, expressionless, feeling the weight of the shears. He closed his eyes.

Michael felt Nikita press against his back, felt her hands snake around his waist and her lips press against his shoulder in a gentle kiss. "Good morning."

Michael gazed at her through the reflection in their mirror amazed at how cheerfully she seemed in the morning. Slowly, she moved to stand beside him at the bathroom sink. She turned leaning against the counter and reached a hand up to brush a renegade strand of his hair behind his ear, taking his brush from his hand with her free one.

Michael stared at her questioningly and wondered at the sudden shyness in her expression. It took a solid exertion of his will for Michael not to break into a wide smile when Nikita returned her hand to his head, taming the unruly curls with her fingers.

"Will you promise me something?"

"What?" he asked, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"Don't ever cut your hair. I love it this way. Please?" she said, her fingers lingering in their caress.

Michael snapped his eyes open, dissolving the memory. He could still feel the phantom fingers that lovingly ran through his hair. Raising the scissors to the side of his head, Michael began to sever the unruly chestnut strands from his head, unable to bear the thought of someone else touching his hair. Silent tears fell from empty green eyes.

He exited the bathroom, his hair shorn, the amputated locks in the trash. The brush and scissors Michael left sitting on the counter.

************

Alicia nervously fidgeted with the gold chain around her neck, waiting for the door to Nikita's home to open. She tried to take reassurance in the comforting contact of her husband's hand resting gently on her lower back. Turning her head to looked into his ice-blue eyes, she tried to give him a reassuring smile. Deep inside, she was terrified of what lay on the other side of the door. She didn't know how Michael would handle what she was going to tell him.

When the door opened, Alicia found herself face-to-face with an older gentleman with sad, weary blue-gray eyes. He had thinning, long, gray hair worn in a ponytail, a red bandana tied around his forehead. His tee-shirt and black jeans, both worn and faded, only added to his aged-rebel look. Stepping aside, the older man gestured for them to enter the home.

"Hello, you must be Walter. I'm Alicia.." She started to introduce herself, her voice shaking with nervousness she couldn't contain.

"I know. Please come in," Walter cut in, his voice weary. "Michael is taking a shower, but he should be out in a minute. I was about to make some lunch, nothing special, just sandwiches. You're welcome to join us."

"Thank you, Sir. It is kind of you to invite us," Patrick responded after glancing to Alicia for unspoken approval.

"No one calls me sir. It is just Walter. Why don't you take a seat," he said gesturing to the sofa while he headed for the kitchen.

Alicia tilted her head and gestured for Patrick to follow Walter. She needed some time alone to gather her thoughts and her resolve. Absently, she registered Patrick asking Walter if he could help with anything and heard Walter setting him to work cleaning lettuce and cutting tomatoes.

Walking into the living room, she moved toward the plush off-white sofa. Gingerly, her muscles still stiff and sore, she lowered herself into the down-like softness and scooted back till her back was flush with the supporting pillows. Pulling her legs into her chest, she leaned into the corner and sank into the sofa's comforting embrace. Facing the direction of the master bedroom, Alicia watched for Michael to exit. In her heart, she dreaded what she was about to do, tormented that she'd promised Nikita that she would tell Michael all of what they'd endured at the hands of their abductors. She didn't pretend to understand Nikita's reasoning, didn't understand how telling Michael of the pain, humiliation and torture Nikita had suffered would help him. But she trusted her friend's knowledge of the man Nikita loved more than her own life.

Searching for something to distract her from the troublesome thoughts that plagued her, Alicia's eyes scanned the room. Immediately she noticed the cylindrical, green, glass vase. Leaning forward, she traced her fingers along the rim. The vase had always been reserved for Nikita's irises and now it stood empty. Alicia's gaze swept the room, noticing for the first time how empty and lifeless the room felt. The blinds, usually fully open, where half drawn, shutting out the bright daylight. The air, itself, seemed empty. There was no 'life' in it; as if it had been sterilized and closed off from the outside world. Alicia remembered how the smell of the ocean often lingered in this room, mixing with the soft scent of the candles that Nikita loved to burn. The votive holders, when filled with lit candles, cast patterns of refracted light dancing around the room. They sat dark and empty now.

Shaking her head, she chided herself for being overly emotional and utterly melodramatic. Turning her attention again to the table, she found herself facing the image of a laughing, fully-alive Nikita, wrapped tightly in Michael's arms, head resting on his chest. Although Michael's lips were only barely curled upward, it would be impossible to mistake the light in his eyes for anything but peace and happiness. Reaching into the box of photos that sat on the coffee table, she withdrew the color 8x10 that had captured her attention. A small smile crept across her features as Alicia remembered the day it was taken, the Fourth of July. It was hard to believe that only been a month and a half since the picture was taken. Even harder to believe that she had only known Nikita and Michael for four short months. Smiling, Alicia let herself remember. Just before sunset, their 'gang' had gathered at Nikita's home for a cookout. She remembered Nikita fussing over food, making sure things were just how she wanted them, her constant nitpicking driving Michael up a wall in the process. Finally, Michael grabbed her and pulled her against his chest. Alicia could still visualize the parade of emotions that had crossed Nikita's face--suspicion, shock, embarrassment, and finally amusement-- ending when she had collapsed against Michael's chest, laughing hysterically. All because Michael had asked her if she needed his help to relax.

The gentle touch of Patrick's hand on her shoulder drew her back to the present. Looking up to him, she smiled and saw his shocked, stricken expression. Slowly, she turned to face in the direction he was staring. Michael stood not five feet from her, and she hardly recognized him. His beautiful green eyes, that once had sparkled, seemed as utterly blank and empty as his expression. The only evidence of the pain Alicia knew he felt was reflected in his uneven, brutally-chopped hair. She couldn't recall how often she had seen Nikita unconsciously touch or caress Michael's hair or gently brush it from his face.

Rising from the sofa, she carefully approached him, as if any quick movements would scare him away. With her left hand she still clutched the picture of Nikita. With her right, she tentatively reached up to touch an uneven patch of hair on the side of his head. With a swift violent jerk, and a quick step back, he moved out of range of her hand as if her very touch would burn him. Startled, Alicia dropped the picture and it floated soundlessly to the floor. Covering her face with her hands, Alicia cried, sinking against her husband when he pulled her into his embrace.

Standing in the kitchen doorway, Walter watched the scene play out, his own shock at Michael's appearance preventing him from saying the words that would have warned Alicia. He saw the look of shock and alarm cross Patrick's refined features, mirroring the fear and shocked dismay of Alicia's at Michael's violent rejection of her touch. For a split second, Michael's features took on a pained look before returning to the familiar cold mask.

Studying Michael closer, Walter noticed the small differences in Michael's demeanor from what he had witnessed in the past. When Simone had died the first time, Michael had shut himself down emotionally. When he had first arrived at the beach house to find Michael sitting on the deck with Linda, he had thought Michael had fallen into the same old pattern. Now Walter knew he was wrong. Walter's gaze followed Michael's line of vision and spotted the picture of Michael and Nikita. Examining Michael's eyes, Walter could see the truth buried beneath the shields he had erected, he could see the violent depth of Michael's grief.

Walking over to where the picture lay, Walter stooped to retrieved it. Standing, he faced Michael.

"Come on. Michael. Why don't you sit down?" Walter kept his voice even and waited for some response from the silent, devastated man standing in front of him.

"Michael." Walter repeated, his arm gesturing toward the loveseat.

Finally, in an evenly-controlled stride, Michael calmly walked toward the sofa and sat just off center, his body language demanding that everyone keep their distance. Relief flooded through Walter and he turned his attention toward Alicia and Patrick. He was expecting to apologize, but when he saw the looks of understanding and grief on both their faces, Walter knew it was unnecessary.

Alicia stood, her back leaning against her husband's chest, clutching the gold chain and medallion around her neck, watching the by-play between Walter and Michael. She could see how much Walter cared about Michael despite his stern tone.

When Walter gestured toward the sofa, Alicia assented gratefully, holding onto her husband's hand as she walked and settled herself, her body shifting so that she faced Michael. For a few minutes, Alicia watched him, noticing his struggle for control. Absently, her hand continued playing with the gold chain. Closing her eyes, she drew the image of her last moments with Nikita.

~~~~~~~

Alicia sat in a state of shock at the foot of a large tree in the middle of a forest clearing, clothes torn and body tattered. Nikita, her body broken from the repeated rapes and beatings she had suffered, lay cradled in her arms. Alicia could vaguely hear Nikita talking to her, trying to tell her something. She could make out the urgency in her tone and felt Nikita pressing something, the necklace, into her hand. Alicia strained to focus on what Nikita was saying and managed to make out the last part of her desperate plea. "Tell him . . . please. He'll. . . need to . . . need to know." Nikita's voice had been soft and weak. The words broken with her efforts to control her breathing.

Alicia remember the feel of Nikita's warm blood as it flowing over her hands as she held the remnants of Nikita's shirt to the wound in a vain effort to stop the bleeding. "No, please, Nikita. It's going to be fine." She had cried the words desperately through a stream of tears, half hysterical with fear. The last thing she remembered was being grabbed away from Nikita and shoved against another tree, her head slamming into the trunk. Nikita's bloody and crumpled body was the last thing she saw as she lost consciousness.

~~~~~~~

Opening her eyes, Alicia removed the necklace. Holding it in one hand, she drew it to her lips. Reached behind herself, she clasp her husband's hand and said a silent prayer for guidance and strength.

*************

Patrick McLean felt the tightening of his wife's tiny hand around his, and squeezed hers in return, turning his hand so he could grasp it gently. The previous night, he had sat by her bedside, holding her hand, stroking her hair and murmuring soft words to her in an attempt to ease her through the troubling dreams that plagued her even in a drugged sleep. He had watched as she had tossed in her sleep, struggling physically to evade invisible hands that tormented her. So many times in those dark hours when Alicia had cried out for him or Nikita, Patrick had wanted to reach out, wake her and take her in his arms to soothe her, comfort her and himself. But each time, her words, sometimes mumbled unintelligibly, and others crystal clear and terrifying, had stopped him. At the doctor's urging, he listened as Alicia's subconscious worked through the terror as he sat by her side whispering reassurances. That night he learned just how much he had to thank Nikita for and prayed she knew just how much her sacrifices meant to him.

Now, Patrick sat watching Michael and his wife alternately. He couldn't help but wonder if Alicia was prepared to handle not only her own pain, but Michael's as well. He knew his wife was a caring, empathic person who seemed to absorb the pain of others. Looking at Michael, he couldn't help but feel his pain.

Two nights ago, when the police had informed them that Alicia had been found and Nikita was, most likely dead, Patrick had been too relieved to take much notice of Michael. He had learned from Anne and Rob how frighteningly Michael's reaction had been. Anne had said he had been calm and unemotional. His only reaction was to pull out his cellular phone and make a call. His only personal recollection of Michael from that night was the feeling that something about the situation was wrong. Patrick knew from the few occasions spent in Nikita's company and from from his wife's nightmarish recollections of the kidnapping, that Nikita was better prepared to deal with the dangerous and terrifying situation. She should have been the one to survive, not Alicia. He realized that Michael believed that as well. Patrick couldn't shake the feeling that he should be the grieving widower, trying to make sense of chaos.

When he heard the sound of his wife's slightly trembling voice, Patrick slid himself closer to her on the sofa, pulling one of his hands from her clasped hand and gently rubbing the small of her back.

"Michael, I made Nikita a promise before she died. I don't understand why," Alicia's voice faltered when Michael looked up at her and their eyes locked.

Even Patrick could see that Michael's green eyes were shining with restrained tears, and he recognized the pain and confusion Michael refused to allow to show on his face. Turning his attention back to his wife he could see the tension in her grip as she struggled for her composure.

In an amazingly calm and even tone, Alicia continued, "I don't understand why she wanted you to know all of it, but I trust her reasoning." She paused momentarily, taking a deep breath. "After we were taken, those *men* drove for a few hours, mostly on back roads."

Patrick could hear the anger and disdain that oozed from Alicia pronunciation of 'men'.

"They seemed to know exactly where they were going. I am not sure how long it was, but when they stopped, they pulled us from the car, keeping a gun on each of us, and started to shove us toward another car. I panicked. I started crying and I couldn't move. I watched as one of them aimed his gun at my head, and I *still* couldn't move. I just . . . stood there." As she spoke, Patrick could hear the mix of pain, anger, frustration and sorrow in her voice and the accentuation of her words.

"Then Nikita was there standing in front of me. She kept whispering to me and held out her hand to me. I don't remember what she said. I just remember taking her hand."

Patrick heard the small bit of wonder and relief that echoed in Alicia's words, her hand reaching out to a phantom only she could see. She shuddered a bit then, as if drawn back to the present.

"I don't remember much after we reached their camp, only Nikita's voice talking to me and her arms around me."

Alicia paused, taking a deep breath to fortify herself for the words that would follow.

"At the camp, there were two more men. They shoved Nikita and I toward some trees and ordered us to sit there. One of them, I don't remember which, took the car we came in and left. The other three," she paused again, focusing on keeping her breathing deep and even. "The other three decided to have some . . . fun. The two newcomers encouraging the original . . . captor. He walked over to me, started to feel up my legs, under my skirt, until Nikita stopped him." Even now Alicia could feel the callused hand linger long her inner thigh. Looking down at the medallion and chain resting in her hand, the memories swept into her consciousness.

~~~~~~~

The rough hand stopped just short of its target. It wasn't until she heard Nikita's voice that she realized that Nikita had moved to crouch by her side, her hand grasping their captor's, preventing his further advancement.

"Don't," Nikita's voice was low and feral. .

"What . . .you offering yourself in her place?" he asked. His snide remark was met by the cheers and course laughter of his comrades.

"Don't touch her!" Nikita replied in sharply clipped syllables.

In one quick motion, much to Alicia's relief, Nikita removed the offending appendage from her body by twisting his arm, causing the captor to howl in pain. Her relief was short lived. Almost immediately, she registered the sound of safeties being removed from guns. Glancing up at the remaining two captors, she saw one gun aimed at her, and one at Nikita.

Alicia turned her head toward Nikita and concentrated on keeping her breathing even, trying to quell the rising panic. She heard one of the men tell Nikita to let the captor go, saw Nikita's slow and careful movement as she did as she was told.

"Well now . . . which's it to be? You or her, Blondie?" The captor angry voice slurred the words together as his eyes roamed freely over Nikita.

Fear shot through Alicia as the loathsome hand resumed its journey up her leg.

"Don't! Do what ever you want to me, just don't hurt her." Nikita pleaded.

Tears streamed down Alicia's face as the captor slithered across her body, reaching for Nikita. She wasn't sure if they were tears of gratefulness at being spared the degradation that man had wanted to impose on her, or tears of shame that she had not been able to make the same sacrifice for Nikita.

Alicia watched as he grabbed Nikita, sliding one had between her legs, the other reaching for a knife in his back pocket. Unable to turn away, she watched as he shoved Nikita's skirt up and then cut her underwear away from her body before shoving her from her crouched position onto her back. Forcing her legs open, he positioned himself between them and unzipped his jeans. With one brutal lunge, he slammed into Nikita. Terrified, Alicia backed herself up against the tree, drawing her legs up to her chest, and gently rocked back and forth.

Dazed, Alicia watched as first the captor and then his comrades took their turns beating and raping Nikita. Through it all, Nikita never uttered a sound, and Alicia watched, horrified as the three men continually escalated their attacks on her, trying to force a reaction. Finally, one turned toward Alicia, and she watched as Nikita lunged for him. In one terrifying moment, she saw one man take aim at Nikita and saw her body jerk in midair as the bullet tore through her shoulder, bright red blood spraying over her.

Rushing to her side, Alicia gathered Nikita in her arms and pulled her toward the tree. From behind, one of the men grabbed her, tearing open her blouse, and trying to fondle her. Desperately, she struggled to free herself from his grasp, trying to reach to Nikita. Reaching back toward her assailant's face, she jammed her thumbnails toward his eyes. He shoved her to the ground violently before he kicking her in the stomach. "Stupid bitch!" he spat at her and stormed off to join his comrades.

Slowly, Alicia crawled toward Nikita, once again pulling her toward the tree. Leaning her back against the trunk, she pulled Nikita into her arms, and held the now dirty and bloody shirt over the bullet wound. Time ceased to have meaning for her as she gently rocked Nikita in her arms, all the while murmuring the words to "On Eagle's Wings", the only hymn she could remember. Sometime in the following hours, dusk turned to night and Alicia became vaguely aware of Nikita's voice. Forcing herself to concentrate, she was able to hear part of Nikita's plea for her to tell Michael what had happened to them. In a moment of sickening clarity, Alicia realized that Nikita didn't expect to survive. She felt Nikita gently tugging at one of her arms, struggling to place something in her hand.

"No, please, Nikita. It's going to be fine." Alicia cried softly, desperate and terrified.

Alicia once again felt herself being grabbed from behind just before she was thrown against another tree. The sudden impact sent her head snapping back and impacting forcefully with the trunk. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she could vaguely make out the movement of Nikita's lips, "Tell him about St. Michael."

~~~~~~~

The first thing Alicia was aware of as she returned to the present was the dampness of her shoulder. Little by little the memory receded, replaced by awareness of the present. She could feel Patrick's hand clasping hers, the slight pressure of his head resting against her shoulder, and his silent tears soaking into her shirt. Glancing up, her eyes first met with Walter's shocked and pain filled blue-eyes. She could see his chest heaving in an effort to control his breathing. She watched as he silently excused himself, retreating to the kitchen.

She turned her gaze back to Michael and realized he sat stoically on the loveseat, his expression unchanged. Slowly, Alicia pulled away from her husband and knelt beside Michael, giving him time to adjust to her proximity before she moved closer or spoke. Behind her, she heard Walter reenter the room and hoped his presence would lend Michael some comfort. Tentatively, Alicia reached out and took one of Michael's hands. She waited for him to pull away, grateful when he didn't. Taking the necklace that she had clasped, she gently placed it in Michael's hand and then closed his fist around it.

"Nikita bought this the day before we were taken. The medallion is the Archangel Michael. He's the patron saint of law enforcement and the leader of God's Army of Light. It reminded Nikita of you. I am not sure how, and I could never get her to tell me why. All she would tell me was that it did. She was wearing it when we were taken. I am not sure how she hid it, only that she wanted you to have it."

Leaning over, Alicia kissed his hand before rising to feet. Turning toward her husband, her eye once again caught sight of the 8X10 taken on the Fourth of July. Reaching down, she lifted the picture and turned back to face Michael.

"Michael, Nikita once told me that the only thing that really scared her was dying and leaving you behind. I badgered her for a week before she told me why. She was scared that you'd shut yourself down, or worse, get careless with your life. Although she wouldn't give me specifics, she said that you had reacted that way in the past. She was so scared that if anything happened to her, you wouldn't let anyone help you get through the pain. She loved you . . . so . . . much. Don't let them steal that love, Michael."

Alicia let the tears fall from her eyes unbidden, gently lying the picture on the table in front of him. Turning back to her husband, she smiled and accepted his outstretched hand. Quietly she followed him from the room toward the front foyer. Turning back, she found Walter standing behind them. Impulsively, she walked to him and embraced him. "I don't think we will be staying for lunch. I think you both need time alone," she whispered to him and felt his answering nod of his head against hers .

"Thank you," Walter said, pulling back from the embrace. Then staring her straight in the eye, his voice calm and sure, he continued, "You gave her death purpose. I think he'll see that, too. When he's ready." By the time he finished, his voice had grown thick with restrained tears.

All Alicia could do was nod her head affirmatively before placing a kiss on his cheek. Turning away, she and Patrick left Nikita's home for their own.

*************

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.

************

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."

************

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.

*************

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.”

************

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.