What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief.
-- Shakespeare

Michael walked wearily to his office after his debriefing. The mission had been a success, they had closure, and now, all he wanted to do was go home.

He slipped the disks into his top right-hand drawer and was about to leave when he noticed a familiar-looking brown lump laying on the desktop. Curious, he shook it out and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He bent down and picked it up, squinting at Nikita's crabbed writing. "I know it isn't your color, but I think it will fit."

The tips of Michael's lips twitched up. Of course, it would fit. She'd measured him several times, now that he thought about it.

When Nikita took up knitting, she'd endured a lot of good-natured ribbing from her co-workers. Walter asked if she were ready for him to make her a rocking chair and Birkhoff started calling her Old Maid. For that moniker, he earned her first finished work: a very dark purple, badly knitted sweater. One sleeve reached his rotator cuff; the other grazed his knuckles. Section tended to be cool, and since he sat most of the day, he usually wore long sleeves; now, Birkhoff wore Nikita's sweater constantly.

She'd started knitting as a quiet way to rid herself of tension before and after a mission. The longest and most stressful part of any job was transportation. People dealt with it different ways: one group played cards, a few read novels, some talked. Some people slept, but Nikita was usually too keyed up to rest. Even when she got home, it took her a few hours to unwind. Exercise wasn't usually possible, but Nikita had to keep busy, and she found knitting was a perfect outlet.

As a result, she was a pretty fast knitter. Birkhoff's sweater took her three months, but then, she had to unravel it and start over a few times. Michael's sweater took her only six weeks.

He'd caught her casually measuring the shoulders of his jacket as it rested on the back on a chair a few times; flying back from Rome, he half-woke up to find her measuring her arms against his. She'd planned all along to give it to him.

Michael folded it up and strode out of the office, feeling less tired than when he entered.

_______________________________

Michael awoke laughing.

He'd dreamed of Christmas -- the one where they'd gone to the Caribbean because Simone had never eaten jerk chicken. When they got there, they found that all the chickens within a 100 mile radius had been killed. The waiter told them poultry plague was going around, so they'd slaughtered the birds. But he could offer them a lovely fruit plate, or perhaps a nice fish?

The look on Simone's face was priceless. "I think Section did it," she confided to him, and he'd laughed.

Still smiling, Michael stretched and studied the sun on his bedroom wall. Midmorning, he guessed, and glanced at the clock. He'd put the sweater on the chair by the bed, and he reached out a long arm and snagged it.

At least she's improved, he thought optimistically. The stitches were very tight -- the result of stress, he supposed -- but they were mostly even. There were a few bulges here and there where she'd relaxed her grip, but for the most part, it was a pretty good job. The neck was a perfect oval and the sleeves were even.

Simone liked to see him in brown, too, he remembered. Somewhere he had chocolate-colored pants.

Michael got up and put on the coffee. Still thinking about the pants, he went to his closet, poking around in the depths. When Simone died, he'd packed up all her things and a good many of his, but he might have left something out ....

Only black garments hung in the closet.

Michael yawned, and without thinking too much about it, went to the hall and reached for the trap door to the attic. Before he knew it, he was on the attic floor looking at boxes.

So many, he thought, a little surprised. I'd forgotten how many I packed, I guess.

He broke the seal on the first box he found and was greeted with a subtle Simone scent, slightly spicy. Michael smiled and closed his eyes. Funny. When she'd first died, every remembrance was painful. It felt like his skin was being flayed, hanging in bloody strips. The second time she died, the old wounds reopened.

Now, something was different. The wounds healed, leaving behind shiny pink nerveless scar tissue. Instead of remembering her tragic, awful face as she bid him to leave, he remembered the way she looked when she laughed. When she joked with him. When she kissed him good morning. Her dismay when she was told there was no chicken, jerk or otherwise, in the Caribbean.

Michael chuckled again and reached in. The first thing he pulled out was a T-shirt. "I do whatever my Rice Crispies tell me to," the shirt proclaimed, and Michael smiled faintly.

Walter gave her the shirt for her birthday. She loved what she called a "pithy saying," and digging deeper, Michael pulled out her "Life's short - eat dessert first" shirt (which Madeleine hated), "PEZ: A treat to eat, a toy that's neat," "Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups" (purchased to get under Operations' skin) and "Runs with scissors." He remembered she'd considered marking out "scissors" and replacing it with "firearm," but decided against it in deference to Walter. Still chuckling, he looked around.

These things weren't doing anyone any good up here. Simone hated waste.

Maybe it was time to clean house.

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

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay.
-- Shakespeare

Michael left late in the day, stopping by Section first.

"Walter."

Walter turned and slowly took in Michael's soft brown pants, the loafers, Nikita's sweater, and his eyebrows raised. "Yes?" he said carefully.

"You should have this." Michael lay the Rice Crispies shirt on Walter's table, and Walter grinned.

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. Where'd you find this?"

"I was cleaning house today."

It was a simple statement, but Walter nodded slowly. "Throwing things out?"

"Giving them away. There's a consignment store downtown. The proceeds go toward Ruth's House, that woman's shelter."

"Do tell," Walter grinned. "And I bet it's tax-deductible."

Almost light-hearted, Michael shook out the other bundle cradled in his arms and read gravely, "‘Dead men pay no taxes,' Walter."

Walter laughed, and Michael folded up the shirt. "For Birkhoff," he explained, turning, and nearly ran into Nikita. He took a quick step backwards, and Nikita caught herself on Walter's table. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"I have to give something to Birkhoff. Then I have errands to do," Michael answered.

"Want to grab some dinner afterward?"

He wavered, then regretfully declined. "Not tonight."

"Too busy?" She sounded disappointed, and Walter held his breath.

"Maybe we could go out for dessert and coffee later?" Michael suggested, and Nikita grinned.

"All right."

He turned to leave and she added, "It looks nice on you. I wasn't sure it'd fit."

He took two quick steps toward her and breathed in her ear, "It's a beautiful fit, and you knew it was the right size," and before she could protest, he was gone.

She blinked at Walter in surprise. "Did that just happen?"

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

No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
-Shakespeare

Michael stopped by the consignment store first. Two doors down was a flower stand, and still thinking about Simone, he picked out a small bunch.

There were whole weeks when he couldn't remember what her face looked like, or the timber of her voice. Then there were days like today.

He hadn't visited her for a long time. He'd gone regularly to her grave at first, but since her second death, he'd stayed away. After all, she wasn't there, any more than his son was.

Michael drove as close as he could, then got out of the car, walking carefully around her neighbors until he reached the black granite stone set flush in the grass.

The quote was by James Thomson, and Michael wondered for the first time if he should have gone with something else.

The chambers of the mansion of my heart,
In every one whereof thine image dwells,
Are black with grief eternal for thy sake.

No, he decided. He still felt grief when he thought of Simone, although the tone of his grief changed. Now he felt more sadness than anything else: sad that life wasn't different, sad that she'd committed suicide, sad that her life had not been easier.

"Michael, do what you have to do," she often said, a frequent phrase when he came home tired and sick of himself, of what he'd done.

He shook his head slightly. What would she think of him now?

Uncomfortably, he realized she wouldn't approve. She'd always grabbed every piece of life she could and she would have been very angry he'd mourned so long. "Michael, get OVER it," she often told him after a mission. "It's over and done with. Leave it alone."

He looked down at his brown-clad figure. He supposed technically he should be wearing either dark purple or gray for half-mourning, but then, he'd been in full mourning for so long ...

[For God's sake, Michael, you look like Queen Victoria.]

He grinned faintly. He'd heard her often when she first died, making funny little comments in his head, urging him during missions when he'd just as soon walked into the line of fire. Her voice always prodded him on.

[No. Not yet, Michael.]

Why not?

[It's not time yet. ‘Timing is everything,' isn't that what you always say?]

I'm so tired.

[Not yet.] Her voice was firm, and he'd obeyed.

He obeyed when he infiltrated hostile territory and it would have been so easy to not return. He obeyed when he was tortured and it would have been so easy to give up. The only time he slipped was when Nikita left.

He hadn't imagined Simone in a while though, and now he wondered why.

Her voice filtered through. [The brown looks nice.]

"You like it?" He looked down vaguely.

[I've always liked you in brown. And all that black ... well, it was a little much, Michael.]

"Maybe. But it seemed appropriate."

[Not anymore, though.]

Michael's mind was quiet. The sun was beginning to set, casting long gold streaks across the browning grass and the flowers on her grave.

[Still looking back, Michael?]

"I don't know what you mean."

[Yes, you do. Always thinking of the past, never of the future.]

It was an old argument; even dead, she could irritate him, Michael thought. "There is no future. I belong to Section. Just like you did."

[You belong to whom you wish to belong.]

Unbidden, he got a sudden clear image of Nikita curled around him while on their last mission. Her head rested on his shoulder, her left arm and leg slung half over his body, skin warm and smooth against his, long strands of her hair against his face. Her nightgown was tangled in their feet at the bottom of the bed, and in her sleep, her fingers curled around his neck in gentle comfort.

[Go on, Michael. Someone is waiting for you.]

"You mean Nikita. I still don't feel quite ..."

[I want you to be happy.]

"I don't remember how. Anyway, it's too late."

[She'll help you remember. Go on. It's not too late. She's even made it easy for you. She knew you wouldn't wear anything brighter than brown. Go on.]

Michael sighed and agreed. "All right," he said. "I will."

Michael strode back to the car, casting one last glance behind him. He slid into his seat and turned on the ignition. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe she hadn't eaten yet.

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

My days among the dead are past.
-- Robert Southey

For the second morning in a row, Michael awoke laughing.

Nikita was sprawled underneath him, and when he opened his eyes, he looked directly into her calm blue ones.

Uncomfortable, he started to move away, but Nikita caught him and kissed him, hard. She held him close until he responded, then relaxed her hold. "Good morning, Michael."

"Morning." He looked down at her for permission to move away, and she brushed his hair from his face. Then she leaned up and kissed his chin, his mouth ... somehow, Michael found himself entangled in her once again, and he shifted so he didn't rest so heavily on her.

"It's okay if you dream about her," Nikita breathed against his cheek, and Michael froze.

"What?"

"I don't mind." She pushed him away just a bit so he could see her face, and she traced a light line from his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.

"How --"

She smiled and ran a finger along his lower lip. "You talk in your sleep."

Michael pulled back, studying her. If she talked about anyone else in her sleep, he would have been devastated. Not because he was naive enough to believe there hadn't been others before him, but because he was a jealous man and couldn't stand the thought of anyone else being in Nikita's mind, particularly if she were sleeping next to him.

"I'm not jealous," she confirmed, and looking in her eyes, he knew it was true.

"Why not?"

Nikita stretched, a long, languorous, sinew-elongating movement, and loosely rested her arms around his neck. She rubbed his temple with the heel of her hand, and his face turned toward her touch. "Because," she said simply, "Every day, you choose to be with me instead of being alone."

Michael rolled over onto his back considering her viewpoint, and Nikita propped herself up on an arm, tracing invisible twirls on his chest. "Now, if she were here, I might have a problem," she said diplomatically. "I've never been good at sharing."

"You don't mind about the dreams." It was a statement, not a question, and he looked at her curiously.

"I don't mind when you wake up happy," she clarified. "And it's much better now than it used to be." Stunned, Michael stared at her.

Her alarm sounded, and she reached over Michael to turn it off with a smack. He caught her arm and pulled her down on top of him and she let out an involuntary "ooof."

"Than it used to be?" he asked.

She tried to wriggle free, but steel arms held her to him, and giving up, she relaxed and rested her chin on her wrists. "You used to dream," she said softly, focusing on his shoulder so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "Awful dreams. Worse than mine about the rats. You never remembered in the morning, though, so I didn't want to bring it up. But now, things are different. You're different."

Was he? Still keeping a firm hold on Nikita, Michael probed his mind, a normally scary, dark place he didn't like to think about. But now, instead of flat black, the darkness faded to a soft purple. And parts of that were fading to blue, like a fading bruise.

He was changing. Slowly but certainly, something was pulling him, helping him to be a better person. He would have liked to blame Nikita, with her optimistic view and her kind disposition, but the slow sea change was not entirely due to her, he knew. This kind of metamorphic change came from within.

"It's late," she murmured finally after several minutes. She fully expected to be released, but while Michael's grip relaxed, he didn't let go. Instead, he kissed her, a long, slow, warm fusion of spirits that left Nikita's eyes closed and skin tingling.

"It's not too late," he whispered between kisses.