| Subject: CHRISTMAS PAST 1 |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 15:48:55 01/22/02 Tue
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Christmas Past 1" on 15:26:51 01/22/02 Tue
Nikita leaned against the French doors of her balcony and shivered as she watched the falling snow pile up against them. It would be Christmas in three days and, as usual at this time of year, she was miserable.
n an apartment across the street she could see children happily decorating their tree with lights, while she stood in solemn darkness. She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt so alone.
“Enough, Nikita!” She told her self sternly. “Stop the pity party and do something!”
'But what?’ She wondered, turning away from the window.
Her inner voice poised the question: ‘Go shopping?’
‘Shopping is no fun if you go all alone!’ She argued with herself, missing Carla.
‘Decorate the apartment!’ The inner voice offered.
‘For whom? Myself? ‘ Nikita pouted back. Nikita picked up her coat, then tossed it angrily back on the couch again.
Another Christmas alone. Forever, alone.
The only decent Christmas Nikita had ever spent was at her friend Julie’s house. The kindness of a friend had kept a ten-year-old Nikita from spending the holiday alone in an empty apartment while Nikita’s mother took off to a ski resort for the holiday’s with a male friend. Nikita’s Christmas gift from her mother had been ten dollars to spend for food for the four days she’d be gone.
“Ah Julie,” She whispered sadly, “If you only knew how much that Christmas meant to me.”
* * *
“So, what are you doing for Christmas this year?” Julie asked as she carefully colored the angel on the window with tempura paint.
“Uh, nothing much.” Nikita said quietly, sprinkling glitter on a construction-paper star.
“I thought you said you were going skiing.” Julie said, wiping a wayward drop of paint off her hand.
“Mom’s going skiing. I’m staying home.”
“How come?”
“I hate skiing! Wouldn’t be caught dead doing that!” Nikita lied; she’d never been invited to go.
“Do you think your Mom would mind if you came over to my house, then?”
“Your house?” Nikita was hopeful and afraid--afraid of seeming too desperate.
“Sure! Mom loves having guests on the holidays! My Uncle Don is coming home from the Navy with one of his friends. Think you can ask your Mom tonight?”
Nikita pondered the situation for only a moment. She loved going to Julie’s house. She wished it could be her house too, with all her heart.
“Okay. I’ll ask.” Nikita lied again. She had no intention of telling her mother anything about the idea, for fear her mother would forbid it, as she always did, when Nikita wanted something badly.
Nikita’s memories faded from her mind, disturbed by three short knocks on her door. Tugging her sweater down, she went to see who it was and found Michael on the other side.
Michael’s hair curled angelically on his forehead and around his ears as his short hair was beginning to grow out again. Large flakes of snow clung to the curls, seeming to indicate he had been out walking in the weather for quite a while.
“May I come in?” He asked, tugging off his gloves.
“You’re back, already?” Nikita said, smiling and pulling the door wide to let him enter.
“Operations scrubbed the mission an hour ago. No one’s sure why yet, but the Agency was behind the recall.”
“Are they going to reschedule?” Nikita asked, helping Michael off with his heavy black coat.
“Not for a few days--maybe not even until a few weeks.” He watched her lay his coat over a chair.
“You look cold. Want something to drink? Coffee?” Nikita offered, as she turned toward the kitchen sink.
“Coffee would be fine.” He said walking toward her, “But I need something from you first.” He caught her wrist before she could step further into the kitchen.
Nikita turned to ask what that might be, only to find herself in his embrace. She smiled, then shrieked as Michael’s cold hands stole up under her sweater and caressed her bare back.
“Michael! Your hands are like ice!” She grimaced comically and wiggled in his embrace.
He smiled subtly, “I know. But you’re nice and warm. I thought you could help me out a little.”
Nikita was surprised at his playfulness. This was a facet of Michael she’d never seen before. She gathered him close and they held each other for a long moment, before Michael kissed her cheek and released her.
Nikita was deliriously happy at their new relationship, yet sometimes a sense of foreboding nagged at her. It was as if she was afraid it was all a dream and couldn’t last. She even sensed that Michael felt the same way--happy, but almost afraid to trust that happiness to last.
“I have a favor to ask,” Michael began, as they seated themselves on the couch with their coffee in hand.
“What is it?” She asked, taking a tentative sip of the steaming brew.
“Madeline’s found me another house and I was wondering if you’d help me put it in order.”
“Why another house?” Nikita asked with some curiosity. “The one you have is wonderful.”
“It’s been compromised,” he said simply. Michael let his concentration drift to the cup he held in his hand; his expression grew thoughtful, almost sad.
“Oh,” was all Nikita thought to say. She knew it must be difficult for him, giving up the house with all its memories. She felt a little melancholy herself. That house held lovely memories for them both. But the move meant they could spend time together, she realized suddenly, and so she smiled.
“Sure! I’d love to! Does this mean we go shopping for curtains and stuff?”
“If you wish,” he replied, with a slight smile at her eagerness.
“Now, you’re going to be sorry! Did I ever tell you that I wanted to be an interior decorator when I grew up?” She laughed, which triggered him to smile a little wider.
“What kind of decoration was your Section quarters done in? Early or post-modern chaos?” He quipped with wry affection, remembering her graffiti adorned walls.
“Ah! Just for that, I’m decorating your bathroom in lime green!”
Nikita was awarded a point--Michael choked on his coffee at the thought!
* * *
“Michael! It’s beautiful! Like a country cottage!”
The house sat at the rear of a large wooded lot in one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods. Oak, blue spruce, and maple trees spread their sturdy arms against the leaden sky, catching the feathery flakes of heavy snow, as they continued to fall. Despite the fact that it was nearly dark, Nikita had insisted on seeing the house that evening. “I need to know what needs to be done, before we go buy stuff you don’t need,” she had argued.
It wasn’t a large house, although it had a basement and a second floor, but it was full of cozy amenities: Two fireplaces--one in the den, one in the bedroom upstairs, French doors into a small study, that had floor-to-ceiling oak shelves on one wall; a huge kitchen, with red brick floors and oak paneling; and a second set of French doors off the master bedroom onto a balcony.
Nikita recognized none of the furniture, and realized Madeline must have rented the house, or purchased it, already furnished. She was slightly disappointed, because the furniture was a perfect fit for the house--a kind of rustic, homey oak furniture, suited to a cottage or a farm house, with creams, browns, fern greens, and French blues throughout in the wall paper, carpeting and upholstery. No need for a decorator here!
“It looks perfect, Michael. I can’t see that you need any help.” She said in a puzzled voice.
“I have all this unpacking to do of my personal things,” Michael said, opening a door into the garage. There were at least ten boxes stacked and awaiting attention.
Nikita smiled again. Did he say personal things?
“Do you want to start tonight?” She asked, hoping she didn’t sound as excited as she felt.
“I thought we’d go out for supper first.” Michael replied, closing the garage door.
“Anything you have on hand, here, will be fine with me.” She said, starting to take off her coat and eager to get started.
Michael shook his head. “There’s no food in the kitchen yet.”
“Not a problem,” she smiled warmly. “Call out for pizza!”
For the next few hours, Nikita felt very domesticated. She folded towels and blankets, made beds, washed and put away dishes, with Michael at her side. They spoke very little, communicating on other levels, through touch and smiles, and the simple act of being together.
They felt almost normal! For a short time, there was no Section One, no assassins, no missions. There was just Michael, Nikita, and a home they were creating around themselves.
Nikita tugged a large box out of the corner of the garage and began to open it. Inside she saw the edges of several large picture frames. Reaching inside the box, she pulled out one of the frames and almost dropped it when she saw the painting.
It was of Simone and it was beautiful! She was lying nude, partially on her side, with her long, blue-black hair modestly covering most of her breasts. Instead of a bed, she was reclining on what looked like a floor of shiny, gray slate, which reflected her image. Her head was cradled against one arm as she looked at the artist with an expression caught somewhere between coy and passionate.
Nikita thought for a moment that Simone would breathe, it was so realistic. She leaned the painting against a nearby wall, and reached inside the box again to see what other treasures she could find.
She found a pencil sketch of Simone tenderly nursing her baby, and a second painting, in oils, like the first, of Simone asleep on a bed, her face captured in soft candlelight.
The last picture was a pastel of a sleeping baby on a fluffy white blanket--Michael’s son. Nikita sat down on the floor of the garage and stared at it through tears. Captured were all the innocence of babyhood, and all the love that surrounded it.
She felt him standing behind her before she heard him say: “I’d forgotten about these.”
Nikita looked up at him, “Did you paint them?”
“Yes.” Came his soft answer.
“They’re beautiful--wonderful. I didn’t know you painted.”
“I don’t. Not any more.” He reached over and picked up one of the oils and carefully placed it back into the box.
Nikita felt his withdrawal from her as if it was a physical one. She quickly caught his elbow as he reached for the other painting. “Michael. Please--don’t.”
He hesitated a moment, before looking down at her.
Nikita pulled herself up and faced him. “Simone’s a part of you, a part of your life. There’s no reason to hide her from me.” To emphasize her sincerity, Nikita slipped her arms around him and drew him close. She felt the rigidity of his body slowly soften, then felt his arms wrap her closer still.
They stood together for a long moment before Michael said, “I wish you could have known her. She would have liked you.”
Nikita felt a light kiss against her hair before he released her.
“Looking at these paintings, I feel like I do know her. I know I would have liked her as well.” She answered truthfully.
It was late. Nikita sat on a barstool in Michael’s kitchen and added a few more items to a shopping list. She sighed, knowing it was well past time for her to get back to her apartment. But she was reluctant to leave. For the first time in years, she felt normal--like a real person, not a puppet doing someone’s bidding. And there was Michael--she looked into the den and saw him sitting in an easy chair watching the news. It was such a simple, common thing--Michael watching the news.
Nikita let herself pretend for a moment, that Michael was her husband; that this was their home; and their children slept peacefully in the next room. But it was only pretend. Some part of her knew that’s all it would ever be, while another still clung to miracles. Surely, there were still miracles. Wasn’t it almost Christmas?
Sighing, Nikita folded the shopping list and went into the den. She started to speak then noticed Michael was fast asleep. Asleep and at peace. She sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fire to watch him.
She examined him minutely, from the long lashes that lightly touched his cheek, to the soft curls behind his ears, and ached with love for him.
Michael. The Killer Angel. The Dark Angel. The feared, Angel of Death.
So many names, but in each, someone recognized the terrible beauty of this man.
Michael Samuelle. Even his name was poetry.
‘Nikita Samuelle,’ Nikita thought idly, then blushed. ‘What a stupid, school girl thing to do,’ she chastised herself silently and turned her head to watch the fire for a moment.
“I’m sorry.” Michael’s voice fell softly in the silence of the room.
Nikita turned her head, and raised her eyebrows. “For what?”
“For succumbing to jet lag,” He sat up straighter in the chair and rubbed his eyes with one hand.
“That’s okay. It’s late.” Nikita sat with her knees up and her arms wrapped about them, casually rocking back and forth in front of the fire.
“Thanks for the help,” Michael said benignly.
“Thanks for asking,” she returned with a shy smile.
“Are you tired?” He asked, getting to his feet.
Nikita’s face fell a little, before she rocked forward and got to her feet, “Yeah, I guess it is late. I’d better go.” She started to walk past him into the kitchen, but he gently snagged her arm and stopped her.
“Do you want to go?” He asked seriously.
Suddenly shy, she stammered, “Don’t--don’t you want me to?”
He stepped closer drawing her to him, so close she could feel the warmth of his body through her jeans.
“We have so little time together, Kita.” His voice was so soft it seemed he only breathed the words. He brushed his mouth with feather-lightness over her lips several times, before engulfing her mouth with a hunger that found answer in her response.
“Stay,” he said. “Please stay.”
Touch me! Let me see your eyes go green--go gray--as you labor above me.
Nikita watched Michael’s face in the light of the fire, his expression strained with passion, lost within himself and her. She saw desperation and sorrow mixed across his brow, as if he knew he raced against time and fate. As she knew, and blamed him not.
Love me! I need you more than life, and I’ll conquer death to keep you.
Michael looked down through half closed eyes, watching her face. Passion and tenderness; ivory and gold. Hope in her eyes as he kissed her. God help him, but he loved her! And God help her, because he could not give her up.
* * *
“Michael?” Nikita poured coffee into his cup.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking. It’s going to be Christmas in a couple of days, and you have a new house. . . .” She paused to pour herself a cup.
“Yes?” He asked again, before taking a sip.
“Well, I thought while we were out shopping for food and things--could we get a tree and decorate it?”
“A tree?” He frowned as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
“Uh-huh. Just a little one. It would look perfect over in that corner.”
A Christmas tree. Michael glanced over at the corner that Nikita indicated and gave the idea a moment to soak in, before he looked at her again.
There was an expression of hopefulness and longing on her face. It was such a simple request, a tree. “Of course,” he answered.
Michael’s reward was the look of pure joy on her face. “Great! I’ll add it to our list!”
Our list. Michael gazed out the window at the still falling snow and felt his worried heart plummet to his toes. That’s how it had started with Simone--with the word ‘our’.
For the past several weeks, Michael pondered Madeline’s recent actions on his behalf. She had both ignored Nikita’s recent attempt at freedom, and his own attempt on Operations’ life.
‘Why,’ he wondered, ‘when Madeline frequently canceled operatives for much less?’
Part of him wanted to believe that his service to Section had earned him some freedom to pursue some type of personal happiness, while another waited for the other shoe to drop. How long, he wondered, would he and Nikita be allowed to be with each other before Section demanded ungodly payment for the privilege?
As Michael watched Nikita clear the table, and start to French braid her hair, in her rush to get ready to go shopping, he let loose a mental sigh. Sooner, or later, Madeline would beg payment for her cooperation in sheltering them both, and he shuddered to think what that payment might be.
“Okay! Ready!” Nikita beamed at him. Her smile was as wide and as eager as a child’s. Despite the countless compromises demanded of her soul because of the Section, there still remained a stubborn spark of innocence in her. It was what he loved about her the most. He stared at her, still amazed at the effect her beauty had upon him.
“Hey! If you keep looking at me like that, we’ll never get out of here.” She ruffled his hair playfully with both hands, her voice half-kidding, half-serious.
Michael reached out a hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet.
“Oh! Look!” Nikita skipped over to the store window and examined the Christmas decorations. Michael followed her, at a slightly more sedate pace, and looked beneath his raised sunglasses to give his full attention to Nikita’s find--a tree decorated in lace, pearls, and assorted angels of all colors and sizes.
“They’re old fashioned--perfect for your house!”
Michael nodded less concerned for the appropriateness of the ornaments than he was in seeing the pleasure Nikita was getting from shopping for them.
“Okay?” She asked, wanting confirmation that he had accepted her choice.
He nodded with a faint smile when she took his hand in hers and led him inside.
It felt so strange to be touched in public, where everyone could see, that Michael was a little disconcerted. But Nikita was so happy, he made an attempt to relax and enjoy himself as well.
They entered the shop and Nikita led him over to the counter to inquire about the window display.
The woman behind the counter was in her sixties, had a jovial expression, white hair and vibrant, blue eyes that seem to twinkle on their own.
“Hi!” Nikita nearly gushed with enthusiastic happiness. “I was looking at the ornaments in the window. You know, the angels on the tree? Do you have them all in stock?”
The woman smiled apologetically, “I’m sorry. We’re all out of those ornaments. They went so fast this year--the angel craze is still going strong.”
Nikita sighed, her smile fading. She felt utterly disappointed, and ridiculously close to tears.
The woman glanced at Michael and back at Nikita, before asking sweetly, “Is this your first Christmas together?”
Michael surprised himself and Nikita by answering, “Yes.”
The saleswoman’s smiled widened and she gave Michael a conspiratorial wink. “Well, in that case--if you really want those ornaments, and don’t mind the fact they are ever-so-slightly used, I could go pull them off the tree in the window and box them for you.”
Nikita’s smile bloomed brighter than before. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“Not at all!” The woman chuckled. “No point in having a display, if you don’t have any more in stock, now, is there?”
“I can help, if you want?” Nikita offered, taking off her hat and gloves.
“If you’d like.”
Michael watched the two women retire to the window to gather the ornaments and took a moment to scan the store, noting the number and locations of all points of egress. It was a habit and it shook him at how ingrained his training had become. It was difficult, even off duty, to behave like a normal person, when he wasn’t even sure what ‘normal’ was anymore.
Pulling off his gloves, Michael walked down the isles of knickknacks, lights and keepsake ornaments, suddenly realizing that a Christmas tree’s function was to shelter gifts beneath its boughs. What could he give Nikita? What would she like?
He glanced over at her, and caught her eye for a moment. She pursed her lips at him, blowing a playful kiss, before turning back to her task of boxing the ornaments. That simple act stirred something deep inside him--a sense of belonging, of hope.
What could he get her, he wondered, to show how much she meant to him?
Michael’s eye suddenly caught sight of a keepsake ornament. It was of two small tots, dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus--both bent at the waist, with eyes closed, chastely kissing--with a banner at their feet that read, ‘Our First Christmas’ and the year. He picked it up and smiled a secret smile.
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