ATTENTION: Stories marked with an * may contain material which would be better appreciated by those over 18. Parental Discretion is advised. This is your responsibility, not ours.
"The Art Of Letting Go"
Companion Piece to 'Blast From The Past'
Episodic - Walk On By
This is a companion piece to Blast from the Past. It contains spoilers for - and dialogue taken directly from - the S3 episode, "Walk on By". As always, all the characters of LFN remain the property of WB, USA and Fireworks Entertainment, and no copyright infringement is intended. This story contains a few instances of coarse language.
Chapter One
I hate the smell of hospitals.
I hate the cold air, the sterile white walls, the scratchy sheets, the contradictory sounds of clanking metal trolleys and soft soled shoes. I guess lots of people have unhappy hospital-associated memories, and I'm definitely no exception. I can count on one hand the number of times I've found myself in one, but each time has left its mark. For as long as I can remember, the smell of hospitals has made me feel sick to my stomach, even when I wasn't the patient. But now, lying in this cold bed, my heart almost pounding out of my chest as I wait for the door to open, the memories are a welcome distraction.
The day I worried over Madeline - cold and pale, lying in a spartan room - thinking I was now alone in a hopeless search for Michael. Shocked by how much I cared whether she lived or died, and not only for Michael's sake.
The day I watched Section operatives carry Michael's apparently lifeless body out of Elena Vachek's hospital room. I knew it wasn't real. I knew he wasn't dead, that I would see him when I returned to Section. Yet when I held Elena in my arms - knowing she was beyond consolation but also knowing I had to do what I could - my tears were as real as hers.
Remembering those moments makes my stomach hurt, but it's the last memory that's the most painful. It's something I've kept locked away in the dark vault in my mind, the vault that was blown wide open the moment Jamie told me that my mother was looking for me. I look around me, and feel the insane urge to giggle. How ironic.
It was the day that my appendix nearly burst. I remember it so vividly because it was the last time my mother was a real mother to me. It was the day she told her boyfriend to take a hike, she was taking her baby to the doctor. The day she yelled at the nurses that it was an emergency, and that someone had better look after her baby right now or else. My stomach was hurting so much, and all her yelling made me feel stupid, but inside I was so happy that I didn't care about the pain. Because I knew now that she loved me.
After the operation, I lay in my narrow hospital bed in a busy children's ward, drowsy and feeling sorry for myself, but I was happy because I remembered that my mother loved me. Soon she'd come to get me and take me home. Her boyfriend would have 'taken a hike' and she would fuss over me like she had before.
I was wrong. It was over a week before she reappeared. I know now that she must have been ordered to come by the doctors, or perhaps the police. She wasn't drunk yet, but she was getting there. She didn't hug me, just told me to get dressed, and muttered something about the nurses not brushing my hair and sending me home looking like a hobo. Hurt and angry, I dressed very slowly in the clothes I'd been wearing when admitted, wincing when I bent to pull on my jeans. It still felt as though there was a broken bottle tangled in my insides, but I bit down hard on my bottom lip, determined not to cry in front of her.
She'd taken me home in a taxi - complaining about the cost the whole way - then told me there was leftovers in the refrigerator. Before I could say something - anything - she'd picked up her coat and her bag, told me she was going out and not to wait up. Her parting shot was to look me up and down, then tell me to do something about my hair.
Ten years later, the memory is so fresh that I close my eyes, suddenly miserable, suddenly very grateful for the tube that's been hastily thrust up my nose.
I hate the smell of hospitals.
Chapter Two
He holds the door to the ward open for me, and I can't help staring at him. My mysterious private eye, with his pretty face and pretty words. His name is Michael. Twenty years ago, I would have thought he was a prize catch. Hell, even five years ago I would have set my cap at him. But today, I feel as though I'm a hundred years old. I feel as though my very bones are hollow, my blood cold and thin.
When he looks at me, his closed expression makes my stomach clench. "This way," he says softly, putting his hand beneath my elbow. He draws me towards a closed door along a deserted corridor and my heart begins to pound. My palms are damp. My baby is alive. My baby is behind that door.
The door opens and the world around me vanishes. For a few hazy seconds, all I can see is my child. Nikita. I look at my beautiful daughter and my eyes blur hotly with the tears I've held in for five long years. I was right. I knew you hadn't died, my poor baby. I would have felt it in my heart. The touch on my arm gently shepherds me toward the bed, and the reality of what I'm seeing slaps me in the face. There are tubes everywhere. She's as white as a ghost. She looks like a corpse. Or maybe she already is...Oh, god.
"My baby. My baby, what have they done to you?" The words come tumbling out of my mouth, but I hardly recognise my own voice. Without thought my hands have lifted to touch her, and I curl them into fists, fingernails digging into my palms, my head aching with a thousand unspoken questions. Is she in pain? Can I touch her? Feeling more helpless than I ever have in my life, I turn to the silent man beside me. "What have they done?"
His gaze meets mine, and it's all I can do not to turn away from the pity in his eyes. "When she was in prison, they offered her an alternative to incarceration. To be a part of a high risk, top secret medical experiment." He pauses, his gaze flicking to my poor daughter. "She knew what she was getting into."
A sob catches in my throat. This can't be happening. Not now, not now that I've finally found her. I was going to take her shopping, for Christ's sake! "How could they do this?"
He shrugs, and for a brief moment, I have the strangest feeling that he shares my feeling of helplessness. "Well, these things happen all the time."
I try desperately to control the shaking of my hands. I've never wanted a drink more in my life. "Is there any hope for her?"
He hesitates, then shakes his head. "The damage is total."
All I can do is stare - at him, and then at the bed. I want to scream. I want to tear my hair and throw things and sink to my knees and weep for my stupidity and my selfishness and my poor beautiful daughter. "Then why are they keeping her like this?"
His answer makes the bile rise to the back of my throat. "They were planning to use her body parts to do some other experiments." His touch on my hand is gentle, his handsome face serious. "But I was able to gain her release."
I swallow hard, trying to force words out through cold lips. "You...you mean I can take her home?"
Michael shakes his head. "No. But you can set her free." He glances at my daughter, then his eyes meet mine once more. "I'll let you say goodbye to her."
I stand frozen in the middle of the room, the sound of his receding footsteps barely registering. The click of the door shutting behind him seems very loud in the quiet room, and it jerks me into motion. I take one step toward the bed, then another, then another until I've sunk into a chair and am holding my daughter's hand. It's something I never thought I'd have the chance to do again and at the feel of her skin against mine, I start to cry. Through my tears, I study her face, trying to commit it to memory. No longer a gawky teenager, my baby is a beautiful woman. Even with all the tubes, her skin pallid, her hair tangled, she's beautiful.
"Nikita?" Just to speak her name feels strange, as though I've never said it before. I try again. "Nikita?" I don't know if she can hear me, but I have to try. I have to tell her everything I've been practicing in my head for the last five years, for my own sake as much as hers. "I was never a mother to you." Her hand is warm beneath mine and I squeeze it gently. "You know, when I...I think back on our time together, I feel like my heart is ripping out, and I'm so ashamed." I break off, overwhelmed by shame and tears and grief. I shake my head, angry with myself. Pull yourself together. For once in your life, be the grownup and take care of her.
"What I need to say to you, Sweetie, the reason I tried so hard to find you, is...is...that...that wasn't me. This is me." I lift my chin as I say the last words, truly believing them for the first time. I touch her tangled hair, and the sudden memory of our last visit to a hospital sears my conscience. Oh god, her appendix operation. Stricken, I squeeze her hand a little harder, willing her to open her eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes I haven't seen for an eternity.
She doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't twitch a single muscle. She lies motionless, her chest barely moving, her legs looking thin beneath the hospital blanket. Gathering together the last shreds of my rapidly vanishing courage, I force myself to keep going. "You're in my heart. And you always have been. And you..." My voice fails me, and I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and tell her that everything will be okay. "...and you always will be. You know, you know I'm sure that there's...there's one memory in there, a fond memory..." It's getting hard to breath. "...and that if you really try hard enough you can find it."
Please forgive me, baby. Please know that I always loved you. I never would have stopped looking for you.
I'm only vaguely aware of the tears that roll down my face, dampening her forehead as I press my lips to her smooth brow. Her hair and skin smell faintly of flowers, and I am suddenly, almost absurdly grateful that the nurses are taking good care of her. "Please. I want...I want you to find it, please, and take it with you." She doesn't move. Her closed eyes don't even flicker. She's finally lost to me and I want to rage at the world. I want someone to blame. I want to find the closest bar and pour scotch down my throat until I feel nothing but oblivion.
No. I rise shakily to my feet. I'm not going down that road again. I can't take my eyes off my daughter, lying so cold and still. My insides are churning, my heart is pounding, but somewhere from deep inside, I feel a flicker of something that feels like strength. I won't fail you again, baby. Not this time. Her bright blonde hair feels soft and clean under my trembling fingertips, then I turn away from my daughter one last time.
Chapter Three
Loitering outside Michael's office, I ponder the wisdom of what I'm about to do. It's been two days since our ruse at the hospital - two days since I cried so much I thought the nurses would actually have to hook me up to a drip - and he hasn't spoken of it to me. Not a single word, only those damn searching glances when he thinks I'm not looking.
In those two days, I've made a sort of peace with a lot of things. My mother. Jamie. My years on the streets. I feel as though a lot of the bitterness in my heart has been lanced, my journey into the past slicing into my pain like a heated scalpel, healing even as it drew blood. For the first time in a long time, I don't feel as though I have unfinished business. The only person with whom I haven't made peace, I think sadly, is Michael.
After our performance for my mother, I waited for him to return to the room. He didn't. Instead, my phone rang thirty minutes after my mother had left me. It was Michael, sounding as cool, calm and collected as he always did. He told me that he'd taken my mother home, and would see me back at Section. When I didn't answer, he quickly added that it was safer for us not to be seen leaving the hospital together. For your mother's safety, he said quietly, and I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew it, but it didn't make me feel any better. It didn't stop me from feeling abandoned twice in one day.
My eyes now shift towards his closed office door. I know he's in there - Walter told me. Leaning against the hallway wall, I scuff the pointed toe of my shoe along the smooth floor. Without Michael's help, my mother's efforts to find me would have eventually brought her to Section's attention. Or worse, I think darkly, Centre's attention. Michael saved my mother's life. How do you thank someone for that?
I check my watch. I've been here for five minutes. This is stupid, I lecture myself. You can't just stand outside his office all day. Taking a deep breath, I knock on his door, then push it open without waiting for an invitation. Michael is standing beside his desk, a PDA in his hands. He doesn't look surprised to see me but then again, he doesn't look overcome with joy either. He just waits for me to speak, his gaze direct and watchful. Expectant.
For some reason, his lack of reaction to my unannounced arrival gives me the courage to start my little speech. "I just wanted to..." Our eyes lock and I hesitate, briefly losing track of my words. His eyes are burning into mine, and the air between us suddenly feels thick with too many unspoken thoughts. "...say thank you." It's not much of a speech, but I'm all too aware that he hasn't moved to engage the security on his office. Perhaps he's trying to tell me something, I think wryly.
Michael blinks, a slow fluttering of his eyelashes, but says nothing. I think of everything he risked to fix my problem, for no more reason other than I asked him to do so, and I'm again overwhelmed, both by his actions and the feelings that I seem helpless to control. "That's the kindest thing you've ever done for me. Thank you," I add hastily, conscious of the fact that I'm repeating myself.
Again he says nothing, but I feel as though I've been dismissed. Faintly frustrated by his silence, I nod, then turn towards the door. I only manage one step before my frustration wins out. I'm trying to thank you, Michael. Why are you making it so hard for me to thank you? I turn on my heel and, looking him right in the eyes, stride across the office toward him.
My intention is only to ask why he makes it so difficult for people to thank him for being a good person, but when I reach his side, something happens. I see the emotion darkening his eyes. I feel the warmth of his body. I smell his skin, the clean spicy scent that haunts my erotic dreams. In the space of a heartbeat, all my words and intentions fly out of my head. Obeying an impulse, an instinct stronger than willpower, I take one last step and touch my lips to his.
I don't close my eyes or open my mouth. There's no time. The kiss is over almost before it begins, but it still ignites every nerve ending in my body. I step back, my breath unsteady as I belatedly realise that I've just issued a challenge. We stare at each other for a moment. Michael says nothing, does nothing. He just looks at me, his vivid eyes glowing with both surprise and longing, his lips still slightly parted from my kiss. Sensation prickles along my skin like the scrape of sandpaper on tender wood. The air around us crackles with sexual energy, and I know that it's time to get the hell out of his office. Whatever has just happened between us, this is neither the time nor the place to deal with it.
I don't look back, but I can feel his eyes following me as I leave the room in silence, then catch me again through the glass window of his office. For once, his intense scrutiny doesn't make me feel self-conscious. I manage a small smile in return, my pulse quickening as his gaze travels over my face, then I turn and walk away.
An hour later, I'm alone in the deserted dojo, sweaty and exhausted after doing my best to kill myself. I needed to do something to settle my mind, and being on close quarters standby meant that it was either a case of taking out my frustration and confusion on a real punching bag, or a hapless human substitute. Never a good idea, I muse wearily about the second option.
I wipe my face and the back of my neck with the workout towel, then toss it to the floor between my feet. I do feel better - my heartbeat is almost back to normal after my blistering workout, my skin glowing softly with heat. All the kinks in my shoulders are gone, and my thoughts feel pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. The only problem is that I'm too relaxed - when my mother's words flash unbidden into my head, I'm totally unprepared for the grief that surges from nowhere.
You're in my heart. And you always have been. And you always will be.
The swell of emotion hits me like a bloody tsunami, and my eyes fill with the tears I thought I'd defeated. My chest is tight, my face hot. I dash my damp eyes with the back of my hand. Awkwardly. Angrily. You lost her a long time ago. Get over it. But my emotions are in charge today, and they're not listening to me one little bit. Resting my elbows on my parted knees, I put my head in my hands and let the tears come. Let the watchers see me crying, I don't care. If they ask, I'll tell them I sprained my fucking ankle.
After a few minutes, I retrieve my towel from the floor so I can wipe my face and blow my nose, my eyes swollen and sore. Is this what it's going to be like from now on? The mere thought of her and I'll burst into tears? Everything seemed so much easier when I could pretend that I wasn't missing out on anything, that I was better off without my old life. When I could tell myself that my mother was a rotten drunk who didn't love me.
I twist the towel in my hands. Knowing she loved me hurts more than thinking she didn't. Forcing myself to lie as still as death in that hospital bed while she poured out her heart to me - saying the words I'd waited so long to hear - was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. When she took my hand in hers, I was fourteen years old again, and it was all I could do not to curl my fingers trustingly around hers.
My eyes prickle hotly with the threat of fresh tears, but I blink them determinedly away, then take several deep breaths. I can't undo what's been done, and while part of me can't help wishing I'd never known she was searching for me, I know I will always treasure the bittersweet memory of her weeping at my bedside.
When I hear footsteps, I don't bother to look up. A few seconds later they stop in front of me, but I still don't bother to look up. I know who it is. "Did she believe it?"
His answer is almost a sigh. "Yes."
"I wish I could have talked to her," I keep my head bowed, screwing up my face, determined not to let the tears return. "I wish I could have told her that I forgive..." I break off, my throat too tight to let any more words out.
We're alone in the dojo, but I'm still shocked by his touch, by the warm hand that lightly cradles my head then strokes my damp hair, the gesture unknowingly mimicking my mother's last touch. "She knew."
I shut my eyes tightly as he walks away. The lump in my throat is the size of the Eiffel Tower. When I hear the door open, I lift my head, my tear-blurred eyes finding him just as he is about to leave. "Thank you, Michael." It's barely a whisper, but somehow he hears.
He turns back, and I see the memory of our kiss in his eyes. After a long moment, he bows his head, and in that instant, I know that everything between us has changed. "You're welcome."
The End.
LFN STORYBOARD ARCHIVES MAIN PAGE
Send suggestions and comments to Genevieve by clicking HERE.