| Subject: REQUIEM (Gates of Hell spoiler) |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 11:57:04 02/10/02 Sun
Madeline watched as the door to her office slipped closed behind the retreating Michael. She pressed her lips together and turned towards Operations.
"We've made a mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"With Michael."
"In what way."
"He's been destroyed by this mission."
"He's been destroyed before, and come back stronger than before." Operations countered, reaching to light a cigarette.
"Not this time." Madeline said quietly, seating herself behind her desk.
"You sound serious." Operations said, pausing to take a puff.
"You saw how he refused to poison to Elena. I should have seen this coming, but with George breathing down our necks. . . ." She let her sentence fade.
Operations frowned. "Perhaps you're right. I'd almost forgotten that. Open rebellion from Michael is something I thought I'd never see."
"He doesn't fear us anymore." Madeline looked pensive.
"He'd better." Operations' frown deepened. "We still know where his wife and son are. We still have that leverage."
"No, you're wrong." Madeline pivoted slowly in her chair to face him. "Threatening either of them would be pointless, if Michael's dead. He knows that."
"You think he's suicidal?" Operations was actually shocked by the thought.
"Yes. I do."
"Well, what do we do about it, then?"
"I should think the answer is obvious." Madeline replied, folding her hands atop her desk.
Operations gave out a disgusted sigh.
"Nikita? I was just about to reassign her to abeyance! Now would be the perfect time, with George so pleased over this last mission."
"Do you have a better suggestion?" Madeline asked quietly, one eye arched with her question.
"Damn!" Operations replied, grounding out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
"I take it, you don't." Madeline replied.
"Would she help us?"
Madeline smiled, "I'm not planning to ask her to."
"Then what?"
"Michael no longer has a home to go to-so we set him up in an apartment, in the same building as Nikita, and let nature take it's course."
"And if it doesn't?"
"It will, with a little help. Once I have a profile written, I'll let you know."
* * *
"Hi, Sugar."
"Hi Walter." Nikita walked into his works shop and leaned
her hip against his worktable.
"What's up with the long face?"
"It's just this last mission. I feel so badly for Elena and Adam over what's happened."
Walter nodded, "Yeah. I know." He finished loading rounds into a pistol clip.
"Walter, did Simone ever tell you how she felt about Elena?"
"No, but then she wouldn't have. Simone put up with so much and never complained. I'm sure she wasn't crazy about the situation, but I also know, she never blamed Michael for it."
Nikita looked surprised. "You think I blame Michael?"
Walter raised an eyebrow, "Well, don’t you?"
"No, of course not. It's just, I can't understand how he could do it-marrying at Section's command, I mean."
Walter nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but it was Michael's job. I can't pretend I understand all of Michael's motives anymore than you do, Sugar. I just know he believes, really believes in what he does here. Or at least, he used to."
"Used to?"
"Yeah, have you seen him around lately?"
Nikita's heart jumped into her throat. "What do you mean?" The memory of Michael knocking away the poisoned glass of wine came to mind. Michael had deliberately disobeyed orders. Had he set himself up for cancellation because of it?
"Madeline has pulled him from duty and placed him on inactive status."
"Until when?" Nikita asked fearfully.
"Nobody knows." Walter replied soberly.
"Well, is that good, or bad or what?" She demanded to know.
"I don't know. All I know is that Michael's left Section, and all his teams have been reassigned. I was sure you knew all about it."
"No, I didn't." Nikita felt totally deflated over the news.
"Oh, that reminds me, I have something for you." Walter walked over to a drawer and pulled something from it."
"What is it?" Nikita asked.
"Something from Elena, for you." Walter said, placing a computer disk in her hand.
Nikita looked up puzzled, "How would she know where to find me?"
"She didn't--not really. When she got out of the hospital, she was told about her father, and told she was being placed in a witness protection program. She was totally distraught over not being able to contact you, so the Operative that had her and Adam moved, promised to locate you and let you know what happened to them. It was almost the only way they could get her cooperation--that and the thought that her father's people might want revenge on her and Adam, for being a part of the set up."
"What did they tell her about Michael's part in it?"
"That he was an innocent--that his death was an unfortunate accident."
"I'm so glad," Nikita whispered, looking at the disk. "At least they left her with her love for Michael intact. Poor little Adam." Nikita blinked back tears.
"Yeah, poor kid." Walter swiped at his nose.
Nikita looked at the disk then stood to leave. "Thanks, Walter."
Nikita sat at her dining room table, inserted Elena's disk into her computer and clicked on the document named Nikita.
Dear Nikita,
I know you must be terribly upset over Michael's death and terribly confused that Adam and I have disappeared without a trace. I pray this reaches you, and can only trust the people who are to deliver it.
I now know why my father acted so secretively and will, to my dying day, wish I never tried to meet with him. If I had not, Michael would still be alive. He was a terrorist-even now I can hardly believe it, but it must be true, because my sweet Michael is dead because of him.
Could you please let the rest of Michael's family know what happened to him and to us? For fear of Adam's life, I cannot try to contact anyone myself and I've only met his Uncle Walter.
I don't know when I will ever see you again, or if it is even possible, but I wanted you to know how much your friendship has meant to Adam and me.
My poor Adam. I still can't bring myself to explain that his father isn't ever coming home, and he is so confused over our moving away. He cries for Michael and won't be comforted. Somehow, I think he knows.
There are some photographs of Adam and Michael that I have enclosed on this disk. I thought his family would like something to remember them by. Please tell them how sorry I am for their loss.
Elena
Nikita tearfully went through the photographs. There were so many happy moments in time captured forever. Elena with wedding cake on her fingers, feeding a laughing Michael-Michael tenderly holding his newborn son-Adam walking for the first time-Adam's first birthday-Michael asleep, with baby Adam draped, asleep, across his father's chest.
Nikita buried her head in her arms and cried. "Oh God, Michael, I'm so sorry, so sorry."
* * *
Michael walked down the street in the pouring rain. He knew he shouldn't, but he had to go home. There had to be something, some shred of his life left in the house. Maybe if he believed hard enough, Elena and Adam would still be there. There had to be something left . . .
He went around the back of the house, and tried his key in the kitchen door. It wouldn't turn in the lock and despair turned briefly to rage.
"Elena!" He ran to the window and pounded on it.
"Elena!"
The darkened house remained silent.
"Elena, please. . . I'm sorry . . ." Weeping, Michael slipped to his knees on the wet pavement of the back porch. He sat there briefly, then still determined to get inside, picked up a rock and broke the window in the kitchen door.
The house was empty. Every picture, every curtain, every piece of furniture had been taken. 'Housekeeping' had been mercilessly thorough.
Michael ran upstairs to his bedroom, and found the same, then ran to Adam's room. In the pale twilight of early evening, he could see little of his son's room other than it, too, was empty. No toys were left--not even a cookie crumb remained to attest to his little son's existence.
Gone. All gone.
Michael slumped to his knees against his son's closet and gave vent to his grief. How could he have bargained with his son's happiness? How could he have agreed to Section's demands? Michael couldn't believe he had lost everything all over again.
It wasn't enough that he'd lost Simone. It wasn't enough that he had done everything that Section had asked him to do for the past fourteen years. Now Section had taken his wife and son away, and coolly congratulated him for a 'job well done'.
When he'd been assigned the mission four years ago, he knew Operations was testing him. Michael had chosen to accept, because Vacek was the worst of the terrorist bombers. He showed no mercy, killing young and old, indiscriminately. He killed, as Michael had, blowing the innocent to bits, then arrogantly accepting "responsibility". It had been a bloody game, with Vacek always the chess master, always ten moves ahead.
Michael hadn't even expected to like Elena--after all, her father was a mass murderer. But Elena had reminded him of Simone, and had a sweetness and gentleness that was hard to ignore. She even accepted his long absences on Section's behalf without a word of complaint, although he knew she missed him a great deal. She had been a good wife to him and a good mother to Adam.
Michael hadn't even realized how much he had come to care for Elena until Operations asked him to poison her. Even understanding the reasoning behind the request, the very thought of doing it sickened him. In the end, he simply couldn't do it. He wondered, how he ever thought he could.
But his refusal hadn't been enough to protect her.
Section's betrayal had honestly stunned him. After all Michael had sacrificed for it, he hadn't expected the Section to decoy him in order to harm his wife. That they had done so, with no regard for her innocence, or Michael's feelings in the matter, had enraged him at a level he'd never reached before.
Elena. Gentle, loyal, trusting Elena. Michael's self-loathing grew exponentially as he had watched Elena tearfully embrace her murderous father. Her father-he'd only been a target, until Michael heard her joy at meeting him. Elena the daughter, having found her father-Michael's father-in-law, his son's grandfather.
'Oh God!' Michael thought, 'Couldn't they have waited until he left her room to kill him? Was it so necessary to kill him in front of her eyes?' He could still hear her screaming.
"I'm sorry, Elena. I'm so sorry." He choked on his tears.
Sorry. How many times had Nikita thrown that word back at him? Was there something beyond sorry? If there was, Michael felt it now. Every thought convicted him. He'd risked everything precious to him in this life, his family, even Nikita's love--for what? It wasn't enough that Vacek was dead. It would never be enough, knowing his wife was alone and his son was without a father.
Adam. He could hardly bring himself to think about Adam. To speak his name was to drive a dagger through Michael's heart. The memory of his tiny body cuddled against him in bed to keep away the nightmares.
'Adam! Oh God, it was too much!'
Michael wept until he was exhausted. He lay facing the window in his son's room. Night had fallen, and with it a sense of finality. There was nothing left of his life. Nothing to savor. Nothing to hope for. Nothing to live for.
Losing Simone had been bitter. Thinking he had lost Nikita, had been even worse, but losing Adam, had redefined the word 'pain' in Michael's life.
He had nothing of his son. Nothing at all. Not even a photograph to remember him by.
Michael looked at the moon as it rose through the treetops. It's light was crisp and bright, nearly blue in color. Michael stared at it with weary, burning eyes, then with a rush of astonishment. Reflected in the moonlight, were two small handprints on the window. He crawled closer to be sure. The handprints remained, perfectly preserved on the small pane of glass.
Two tiny hand prints. All that he had left of his child.
Michael pulled out his pocketknife and began to feverishly pry the glass out of the window frame. After a few minutes, he had succeeded. Tears returned when he realized this was all of Adam that he would ever have.
* * *
"What's Michael's status?" Operations asked as he stepped down into Madeline's office.
"He's returned home." Madeline said soberly.
"Is he under surveillance?"
"I had him tailed." She returned.
"Successfully?" Operations was shocked.
"He doesn't care if he's caught. As far as I know he's been completely alone for the past several days. He's probably not eating or sleeping either."
"This is not acceptable. We can't let this continue. I have at least three missions that are sitting, waiting for Michael's involvement. I thought you had a plan."
"I do, but I can't very well drag him there, now can I?"
Operations began to pace. "Madeline, we have too much invested in Michael to just let him fade away like this."
"I tried to tell you, he was undergoing intense stress."
"He got over Simone. He survived Nikita's absence. He'll get over this too."
"Not without help." Madeline replied, shaking her head. "You have to understand. Michael wasn't expecting to feel this way, when he agreed to this mission. This is losing his son-his flesh and blood."
Operations thought about his own son, Stephen, and Madeline's words found their target.
"You're right--as always," Operations said with a small sigh. "Michael's always been so strong, so dependable, so predictable. I guess I've forgotten that he's not infallible." He regarded Madeline soberly, "Whatever it takes."
Madeline nodded, and gave him a faint smile of approval.
"Nikita?"
"Birkoff?" Nikita leaned against her kitchen sink with her cell phone in her hand. She was somewhat surprised at his call.
"Yeah, It's me." He was almost apologetic.
"What's going on?" Nikita asked quietly.
"I thought you'd like to know. They've decided to move Michael into your building."
"What about Michael's house? Elena's gone-"
"It's been sanitized. They won't let him return to it."
Nikita sighed, "Probably for the best anyway."
"Yeah, from what I'm hearing, you're probably right."
Curious, and concerned, Nikita asked, "Birkoff, has anyone seen Michael or talked to him?"
Birkoff sounded disappointed, "I was going to ask you the same thing. No, but the general feeling is, Michael's having a hard time over this last assignment."
"Look, Birkoff, do you know which apartment is Michael's?"
Birkoff gave her the room number. "What are you going to do?"
"Just go talk to him-make sure he's okay."
"Man," Birkoff said softly, "He's gotta really be hurting, Nikita."
Nikita's eyes filled with tears and she bit her lower lip to keep from speaking until she could get her emotions in line.
"Yeah. Thanks, Birkoff."
Michael's apartment was three doors down on the same floor. Part of her knew that Section had moved him there for a reason, but at the moment, Nikita didn't want to think what that reason might be. It was enough that he was nearby.
Knowing Elena for those few days had been enough to love her for her sweetness. Nikita had wanted to hate her, but simply couldn't. It was impossible not to like Elena, and it took little imagination on Nikita's part to realize that Michael had loved Elena very much. Knowing that solved the many riddles of Michael's treatment of Nikita over the past two years. His reluctance to continue their affair after the night on the boat; his regret over the "mistake" they had made in sleeping together on the mission--in the context of his marriage to Elena, it all made perfect sense. He had been ashamed. He'd felt guilty over his betrayal of his wife's love, even if their marriage had been only a mission.
It had been a mission, in the beginning, Nikita was sure, but in the end, Michael had fallen in love with his little wife. And, in the end, Nikita had been the "other woman".
And yet . . .
Nikita knew, beyond doubt, that Michael loved her too. He'd risked himself too many times on her behalf, to have no feelings for her. And she loved him, despite the lies, despite all the times he'd hurt her, she loved him, now more than ever.
Watching him with Elena and Adam, seeing his tenderness towards them both, was proof positive that Michael was as good and decent as Nikita had always suspected he was, despite Section and all it's ugliness.
Michael loved and he loved with every fiber of his body and soul. And he could be hurt.
'She dies, they die.'
The look on his face when he'd said those words. . . the pain of that moment, was etched on Nikita's heart. She was suddenly very afraid for him. For as deeply as Michael could love, he could also hate and it was hate for himself that she'd seen in his eyes that night.
* * *
Nothing was locked. Nikita walked into Michael's new abode as easily as she walked each day into her own apartment. She had expected it, but it hadn't made the discovery any easier to bear.
What she hadn't expected was the music. Infinitely sad. A cello, weeping. . .
Nikita stepped closer and took a seat at his side. Michael didn't acknowledge her presence for several moments, then ceased his play. When he did look at her, it was with so real surprise that she was there.
"So, what are you doing?" she asked, trying to start a conversation.
"Playing the cello." He replied succinctly.
She softly admonished him over not having his security engaged. He didn't seem to hear, or care. Instead, Michael spoke of playing for his son. His expression was lost, almost ethereal. She thought if she touched him, he might just dissolve into thin air.
"It's his birthday today." Michael continued matter-of-factly. "I bought him a present."
A chill went through her as she noted, "That you can never give him?"
"Yes. That I can never give him."
"You're not well." She told him with a sense of growing horror.
"Who is?" he replied.
"Brevich has a recon photo." Nikita said, trying to make some lasting connection with him. He had to know he was in danger.
"If he comes," Michael said absently, plucking a string on his cello in preparation to play, "he comes."
"Do you want to die?"
"What's that to you?"
"What's that to you?" He had asked.
Nikita blinked back tears as the icy night wind wrapped itself around her. The cello had ceased playing about three in the morning, but his light remained on. She peeked in the window. Michael was curled in a fetal position next to the image of his son, with one hand pressed against the television screen.
'Oh, God, Michael. I'm losing you.'
But she wasn't going to give him up. Not yet. Not without a bloody fight!
* * *
"What is it, Nikita?" Growled Operations, standing in the briefing room.
"I need to speak with you."
"About?"
Nikita lowered her voice and looked around. When it was safe to speak and not be overheard, she
answered, "Michael."
Operations let the air out of his lungs with a little hiss. "Come to my office in three minutes."
"Well," Operations began as Nikita walked into his office, "what about Michael?"
"He needs help." Nikita said quietly.
"Oh? You noticed that, did you?" He returned with a sarcastic smile attached.
"Look," she returned angrily, "Michael is your most valuable Section asset. Aren't you going to do anything to salvage him?" Her blue eyes blazed. Fear of Operations faded, contrasted against her fatigue and worry over Michael.
"Do? What in hell did you think yesterday's fiasco with Vanhaven was all about?"
Nikita gave a look of disgust, then planted both fists on her hips, "So, now what do you plan to do?" She growled back at him.
Operations eyes narrowed as he rested one hip on the railing that rimmed his office window.
"I'm open to suggestions," he said with a bitter smile. For a moment, he was actually proud of her!
"I have a plan." Nikita said soberly.
"Then let's hear it."
When Nikita finished, Operations gave her that evil little smile of his--the one that said he was sure whichever way the mission went, he was going to get what he wanted.
'No matter,' Nikita told herself. 'If the plan fails, I won't be around to care.'
"Well? Will you support my profile or not?" She waited, praying he wouldn't force her to beg. She would of course-but she hoped it wouldn't come to that.
"Fine. Download it to a PDA."
"Already done." She reached behind, took a PDA out of the waistband of her slacks and handed it to him.
He took it with a little nod. "You realize of course, if this doesn't work. . . "
"I'm canceled," she said flashing him with a nasty smile.
"That would be too bad." Operations retorted, pulling out a cigarette.
Nikita turned and walked out the door, "Yeah, right. . ." she muttered beneath her breath.
* * *
As the man continued pummeling her face, Nikita's hope began to fade.
Michael wasn't coming.
Operations would have no choice now but place him in abeyance and now Nikita had situated herself where she could no longer even protect him.
'Michael, I'm so sorry!'
She started to cry. Her assailant thought she was beginning to break.
"Tell me what I ask and it stops." Brevich offered.
"I told you…I don't even know who you are." Nikita said hopelessly. 'Just kill me and get it over with.'
Nikita leaned back to wait for the end. 'Michael. My poor Michael.'
Two shots were fired. Out of death came deliverance.
Michael had come.
Nikita leaned her bruised face against the cool window of the Hummer and listened to Michael report back to Section. Michael the machine. She cried silently with relief. He cared. He still cared. For her. In time, she would teach him to care about himself again, as well.
* * *
"You okay?" Michael asked quietly, after the debrief.
Nikita smiled faintly. "Yeah. You?"
"Better." He answered.
Her smile widened. "Good. Care for coffee?"
"Why not?"
* * *
As Nikita opened the door to her apartment, she remembered the last time she'd invited Michael in for coffee-or rather, he had invited himself. Then, as now, he had said little. But he was here, and for now, she would take what she could get.
"Have a seat," she said, taking his coat and hanging it in the closet.
He walked over to the French doors and gazed out into the early twilight.
"Uh, I have coffee or tea-if you prefer." Nikita said, pulling two cups from the cupboard.
"Coffee will be fine," he said softly, not turning around.
As Nikita prepared their beverages, Michael drifted around the room, first looking the art work on the walls, then sitting on the couch and picking up a book that lay there.
Nikita looked up to ask if he wanted anything to eat and froze. 'Oh God-'
"Baby and Child Care-Dr Benjamin Spock?" Michael read aloud, then looked over at her.
Nikita sucked in a deep breath, picked up the full coffee cups and walked over to where Michael was sitting. She sat the cups down and carefully took the book from his hand.
"I-umm, borrowed it from the library."
"Why?" He asked, puzzled.
"Well I've never . . . " She fumbled with the book, absurdly trying to hide it behind her back. "been around little children before. I wanted to know what to do and. . . what not to do . . ." she finished lamely.
"When babysitting, Adam." Michael finished softly.
Her face fell. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you." Her words were tearful whispers.
Michael got to his feet and walked over to the window, "It's not like I'm going to forget." He almost laughed through the tears.
Nikita sat on the couch, with her elbows on her knees. She dropped her head into her hands and tried desperately not to cry where he could hear. She'd hurt him again without meaning to.
Michael watched her for a moment, his heart breaking from grief and pride.
'Nikita. Just as betrayed as Elena had been. She had every right to hate him, yet she didn't.'
He returned to her side, gazing at her bowed head.
'So strong, she was, and so very tender.'
Michael knelt down, then moved to sit at her feet.
Nikita felt pressure against her thigh and turned and raised her head. Michael was leaning against her. He wrapped his arms around her leg and held on tightly, his head coming to rest in her lap.
"He was such . . . a good little boy," he said, his voice breaking into sobs.
Nikita bit her lip, and blinked away tears. She wrapped him in her arms and held him close.
"I know," she said rocking him and stroking his hair. "I know."
'Just like his daddy.'
Tears.
Nikita watched them fall and felt such thankfulness that Michael trusted her to see them. She'd seen him cry twice before--over Simone, and then again when he stood over his friend Rene. Now, it was for Adam.
Tears, from the Angel of Death! The man that struck terror in the hearts of terrorists, wept in her arms.
Nikita thought back to the time Michael had briefly lost his memory. That "Michael" had been gentle, almost sweet in nature. It was that "Michael" she held again in her arms: the loving Michael that had cuddled his son; the remorseful Michael who couldn't poison his wife, the vulnerable Michael who played with despair upon a cello . . .
* * *
Michael stared at the cold dregs remaining in his cup, then squinted at the dawn's light flaring through the window. Nikita, seeing his discomfort, got up and closed the curtains.
"So," she continued, after getting another cup of coffee for them both, "you were there when he was born?"
Michael gave a wistful smile, and answered, "I delivered him."
"What? Wow, are you serious?" Nikita sat back down, across from Michael on the carpet and handed him his cup.
"Elena insisted she wanted to have him at home. We were supposed to have a midwife, but Adam decided to come early, at three in the morning on a stormy night, and Nina--our midwife--got stuck in a snowdrift and missed the birth by about fifteen minutes."
"Wasn’t Elena frightened?" Nikita asked, sipping her coffee.
"Elena? No!" He smiled at the memory. "She was calm as a rock through the entire ordeal. Was a good thing too, she had to talk me through what to do. I was terrified I'd drop him. He was so tiny." His smile grew sad for a moment, before taking another sip of his coffee.
“I know,” Nikita said, nodding, “Adam showed me his photo album.”
She smiled--wearily, Michael thought. They had been talking all night, or at least, he had. Nikita had mostly listened.
Both fell silent for a long moment, then Nikita set her empty cup on the coffee table.
“Michael, you’ve never said,” she paused to find courage and looped several strands of hair behind her ear nervously, “did you love Elena?”
“She reminded me a lot of Simone,” Michael said simply, putting his cup next to hers. He watched Nikita’s face. Her eyes dropped and she crossed her arms in front of herself protectively.
“Oh,” she said sadly.
“I loved my wife, Nikita. But Simone was my wife, not Elena.” He reached over and cupped Nikita’s chin in his hand.
She looked up at him with moist, china-blue eyes.
“There were times that I wished I did love Elena. She deserved to be loved. But after I lost Simone, I couldn’t feel anything. For three years, the only real emotion I had was for Adam. Then Madeline gave me a task, to train you.” He paused, and gently stroked her cheek with the edge of his thumb. “Did I ever tell you, one of the hardest things I ever had to do, was leave you in that restaurant with the gun?”
Nikita smiled through tears, “No, you didn’t.” She leaned into his arms and he gathered her close.
“Come, cher. You need to sleep. I’ve kept you up all night.” Michael whispered in Nikita’s ear as he stroked her hair.
She nodded, suddenly feeling as tired as he was saying she was. She let him lead her up the short steps to her bed and got in it, fully clothed.
“Stay?” she asked, even as her eyed dipped lower.
“Until you get to sleep,” he promised, lying down next to her.
The last thing Nikita remembered before drifting off to sleep, was a gentle pressure against her mouth, and one word, softly spoken.
“Merci.”
It was late in the day when Nikita awoke and found Michael gone. She lay abed a long while, thinking of all he had confided in her, the night before. For the first time since she had known him, Nikita felt she was beginning to understand him.
The phone rang and spurred her to get up.
“Yes?”
“Josephine.”
Michael met Nikita at the rear entrance to Section and both descended in the elevator to the main floor. Since nearly every inch of Section was under constant surveillance, neither spoke of their evening together, but nothing prevented them from looking at each other and enjoying the closeness of the elevator, even if it was only briefly. They touched only once, when Michael’s hand gently rode her hip as they left the elevator.
End
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