Written for the Bathtub Challenge 2005. Post-Season Five.

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“Well, aren’t you an old beauty?”

Her cupped hands brimming with antique jewelry, Nikita glances in the direction of Walter’s voice almost warily. He’s been in a rather peculiar mood all morning, and she really hopes she isn’t about to find him attempting to charm one of the locals. She’s not in the right frame of mind to rescue him from an outraged dowager.

Walter is flirting, but his target is unexpected. Hands on his hips, oblivious to the bustling market crowd, he’s gazing with something akin to reverence at an old claw-footed bathtub. “Aren’t you just lovely? I bet you could tell a story or two,” he coos, his eyes lovingly examining every pale curve. “I wonder how much they want for you.”

Nikita wants to ignore him. She wants to keep searching through this glorious cache of exotic old brooches and necklaces, but she knows Walter. If she doesn’t respond, he’ll keep talking to the bathtub. Not to mention, she reminds herself, that this rare day away from Section together is as much for his benefit as it is for hers. A few hours spent in the Parisian sunshine to remind themselves of the everyday world above their heads.

Their ever-present shadows have blended expertly into the crowd, although she can feel their presence like a prickling at the back of her neck. There are four of them today, as properly befitting her now year-old status. They had been, to a man, politely impassive when informed earlier that day that Operations and her Weapons Master wished to visit an antique market, and Nikita can’t help but wonder now what off-profile destinations they had visited with her predecessor.

“Sprucing up the bathroom at home, are you?” she says over her shoulder, her fingertips exploring the spiky edges of a particularly interesting filigree broach. “It’s a bit rustic, don’t you think?” When Walter doesn’t answer, she glances at him once more. He’s sitting on his haunches beside the tub, running a weathered hand over its underside as though checking the hull of an old boat for seaworthiness, happily oblivious to anything else.

She catches the tip of her tongue between her teeth, biting back a sigh, then reluctantly pours the glittering tangle of beads and coloured glass back into the waiting hands of the stall owner. “Sorry, I think I’m needed elsewhere,” she tells the woman with regret, “I’ll come back later.” The woman merely gives her a bland, “I’ve heard that one before,” half-smile, then turns hopefully to the next browser. After giving the filigree broach a last wistful gaze, Nikita makes her way to Walter’s side. When he doesn’t look up at her arrival, she lightly raps the top of his head with her knuckles. “Hello? Anyone home in there?”

He straightens up slowly, then beams at her. “Check it out, Sugar. Isn’t she a gem?”

She looks at the tub. With its generous depth and width, not to mention the ornately clawed feet, it really would have been something in its day. Sadly, that day appears to have been a very long time ago. Gem isn’t really the first word that springs to mind, but she gives Walter a bright smile. “It’s got a lot of character.”

He chuckles. “Thanks for humouring me, Sugar, but I’m not planning on soaking in it.”

“Then what…?”

“Thought I might start up my home-brewing again, that’s what,” he replies, making an almost indecent smacking sound with his lips. “I’ve got a hankering for some old-fashioned bathtub gin.”

Her nose wrinkles. “In that old thing?”

“You bet.”

“I thought that bathtub gin was just an expression.” She gazes doubtfully at the bathtub. “You actually cook it up in there?”

Walter grins. “The tub’s just for the mixing, Sugar. There’s a still and a rubber hose involved too, but I don’t want to get all technical on you.”

She trails her fingertips along the curved rim. “The porcelain isn’t in very good shape.” And the last thing I need right now is for you to make yourself ill on homemade moonshine, she thinks darkly, but can’t bring herself to voice such a killjoy thought in the face of Walter’s obvious enthusiasm.

“A couple of coats of sealant and she’ll be ready to go.” He taps the side of the old tub with one hand. “Look at the size of her – now that’s what I call a bathtub. It’s probably far too pricey for my pocket, though. Bloody French and their snooty antique prices,” he adds in an injured whisper.

Smothering a laugh, she hooks her arm through his. “You know, there’s a liquor store right there on that corner. Just there – see? We could just go and buy a few bottles of very nice gin.”

Walter shakes his head and pats her hand where it lays on his forearm. “Where’s the satisfaction in that?”

“Tonic. Lime. Ice.” She shrugs. “What’s not to like?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t know what you’re getting if you don’t make it yourself.”

Nikita doesn’t bother to hide her smirk. “Is this going to be another ‘antifreeze in the wine’ lecture?”

“Don’t forget the formaldehyde in the beer,” he says cheerily.

She blinks. “Formaldehyde?”

“Yep. Quite tasty, apparently.” He moves a few steps away to speak to the stall owner, but Nikita barely hears their conversation.

Formaldehyde, she thinks unhappily, the bright sheen fading from her afternoon.

Everything always comes back to death.

Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, she watches Walter as he animatedly discusses price with the stall owner, a wizened Parisian man who could be anywhere between sixty and a hundred years old. Walter’s deeply lined face is glowing, his hands a blur as he talks. Despite the niggling difficulties of translation – Walter’s French has never been his strong point - he looks happier than she’s seen him in weeks, even though she suspects he already knows he won’t be able to afford the damn thing.

Screw it.

“He’ll take it,” she says loudly, stepping to his side.

Walter frowns at her playfully, a sly grin belying his rebuke of, “Sugar, do you mind? I’m haggling here.” Merriment sparkling in his pale blue eyes, his face is alight with the simple pleasure of negotiating a bargain. An answering smile tugs at her own lips, and the darkness of her thoughts recedes ever so slightly. Death might stalk them both, but to give away the simple things is to give up.

Michael would approve, she realises with a sudden clarity that makes her heartbeat stutter. Although she’s quite sure he would have preferred to die of thirst rather than indulge in Walter’s homemade gin, she knows he would approve of the sentiment. She smiles wistfully, then pushes the thought away. She won’t think of Michael, not now. Not in the bright sunshine, doing nothing more important than looking at glittering trinkets. Not when there’s a chance of forgetting – at least for a few hours - that she still mourns his absence with every waking breath.

“He’ll take it,” she says again, this time in French. Pulling out her wallet, she hands the stunned stall owner several notes. “Will that cover it?”

The man nods, gazing at the money in his hand. “Oui, Madame.” He clears his throat as he lifts his head to peer at her. “About delivery…” he adds in English, but Nikita shakes her head.

“That won’t be necessary. Someone will collect it within the hour.” For a brief moment she again wonders if Paul Wolfe ever used his position for something so trivial, then smiles to herself. She may never know, but she has her suspicions.

A moment later, Walter squeezes her arm as they walk. “That was above and beyond, Sugar.”

“It’s just money, Walter. You can always give me a bottle from the first batch.” Glancing at his wrinkled face, there’s suddenly a lump in her throat the size of a fist. “Just go easy on the formaldehyde.”

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