The Path Less Travelled
Title: The Path Less Travelled
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Nikita, Michael, Walter, Adam, various OCs
Pairing: Michael/Nikita
Length: 2,564 words
Rating: R, I guess.
Summary: Set immediately post #507. Angst-filled, yet tinged with hope. Just like life, yes? It also contains dialogue from #507 that does not belong to me.
Author's Note:This story is written for my very dear friend nell65. It's her birthday today, but that's not the only reason I polished off this ancient La Femme Nikita plotbunny for her. I want to tell you, nell65, that you are one of my heroes, that you are amazing, and I hope the next stage of your life brings you more fulfillment and excitement than you ever expected. *hugs you tight*
~*~
She is numb as they bundle her into the waiting car, leaving behind her father, his crumpled body twisted with pain even in death. Leaving behind Michael, his beautiful face white with shock and regret.
For a few hours, a few moments, a few seconds, she’d had them both.
And now?
Now she has nothing but the power she’d never wanted. “I want his body brought back to Section,” she hears herself tell the Center operative who is busily punching intel into his PDA. “He’s to be buried in accordance with his wishes, not Center’s.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It takes several seconds for her to realise that he is addressing her.
~*~
“Nikita’s old man arranged a safe house for you and the kid.” Walter holds out a security pass key to Section’s most venerated operative, wondering how the hell it had all ended like this. “Guess he knew what was going to go down.”
Michael’s gaze flicks down to the pass key, then back up to Walter’s face. “We’re leaving Paris in the morning.”
“Thought you might.” Walter studies the other man carefully, feeling a grim satisfaction when he sees the sorrow gleaming in Michael’s eyes. “It’s going to be rough on her.”
Michael’s jaw tightens. “I know.”
Walter watches as Michael runs a scanner over the PDA in his hand, knowing from the beep that it’s just been wiped cleaner than the cleanest whistler ever invented. “This isn’t right.”
Michael’s hands tighten around the PDA. Walter sees the white of his knuckles. “No.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her for you,” he offers, the words prickling his throat like the tears stinging his eyes. “Until she can join you, of course.”
Michael clears his throat, his own eyes damp, and Walter knows neither of them can afford to believe the fairytale he’s trying to spin. “Thank you.” With that, Michael Samuelle shakes his hand firmly and walks out of his life.
~*~
“Mommy said you died.”
He runs his hand through his small son’s silky hair - the absurd thought that it’s too long pops into his head - then hugs him close to his chest. “I know. Some bad men told Mommy a lie. They told her I was dead.”
Adam processes this for a moment, and his father sees his next question dawning in his eyes. “Is Mommy really dead?”
“Yes.”
A small frown draws together Adam’s dark brows. “Can’t she come back too?”
Grief slices through him, briefly trapping his words behind clenched teeth. “No.”
Later that night, Michael watches his son as he sleeps, and thinks he can actually feel his heart breaking in two.
~*~
She makes the arrangements for her father’s funeral, then lets Walter holds her as she weeps. They sit on the terrace of her apartment, the cold wind slapping against their hands and faces, but she doesn’t care. Tomorrow, Walter tells her, she will need to decide what possessions she wishes to have moved to her new residence.
She gives him a dark look, and he immediately rummages in the bag on the floor beside his chair. “What’s your poison?”
“What have you got?”
“Bourbon.”
“I hate bourbon,” she says lightly, then holds out her glass. He fills it to the halfway mark, then watches silently as she downs it in two long gulps. It burns its way down her throat and into her empty belly. Grimacing, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sets the empty glass firmly on the floor beside her. “It does the job, though.”
They sit in silence for a few minute, then Walter sighs loudly. “Who would have thought it? That out of everyone, Section ends up with you and me.”
“Serves them right,” she says flatly, thinking that her mouth might split if she tries to smile.
He raises his glass to her. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”
“I can’t do this, Walter.” Maybe it’s the bourbon, maybe it’s sheer, blind panic, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Not without Michael.”
His smile is a sad one. “Would you rather he stayed?”
“Yes, I would,” she answers without hesitation, wrapping her arms around herself as she hunches down into her chair. “What does that make me?”
She feels the weight of his hand on her shoulder, and the tenderness in his voice makes her eyes swim with fresh tears. “Human.”
She stares at the lights of the city below until they blur. “It just hurts so much.”
“Use it.”
“How?”
“Let the pain remind you that you’re alive.”
She looks at him in despair. “Is that what you did after Belinda died?” His face closes up like a fist, and she knows she’s crossed a line. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay, Sugar,” he mutters gruffly. “If anyone’s got the right to mouth off tonight, it’s you.” He studies her for a moment, then reaches into the depths of his coat, coming up with a small PDA. He hands it to her without ceremony, then looks at her expectantly.
She touches the screen, and an address in central Paris flashes up on the screen. “What’s this?”
“An address.”
She feels her back teeth click together. “Yes, I can see that.”
“It’s the temporary home of two people who are leaving town in the morning.” He nods at the PDA. “I thought you might want to say a proper goodbye before they go.”
Curling her fingers around the PDA, she stares out into the darkness. She thinks of the first time she’d seen this view, the night Michael had brought her here, and something starts to burn deep in her chest. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she finally whispers, the possibility of seeing Michael one last time clutched tightly in her hands.
“I know, Sugar.” Shifting his chair closer, he puts his arm around her and pulls her close, close enough for her to put her head on his shoulder. “On the plus side, there’s a kid out there whose very happy his Daddy has come back from the dead.”
She feels her lips curve in the smallest of smiles, her face wet with tears she doesn’t remember crying. “Yes, there is that.”
~*~
He isn’t surprised to find her standing in the kitchen of the small apartment, only that it had taken her so long to come to him. “You came alone?”
“I’m not Operations yet.” She slips off her leather gloves - they’re black now, no longer bright blue, and he mourns the beginning of her transformation. “The board has caretaker powers for the next eight hours.”
“And then you take control?”
“Yes.” There is a wealth of pain in that one word, and his hands clench into fists in his struggle not to reach for her. Shrugging out of her heavy coat, she glances into the small room adjoining the kitchen. “Where’s Adam?”
He watches her hands as she runs them through the bright sweep of her hair. “Sleeping.”
She nods, her hands now smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her sweater. “How is he?”
“Confused.”
“Aren’t we all?” she mutters, then seems to catch herself, as though she’s veering from the conversational path she’d sworn to tread. “What time is your train in the morning?”
“Eight.”
“Rush hour.”
“Yes.”
“Makes it easier to blend into the crowd.”
She hasn’t looked at him since her first words, and his patience suddenly comes to an end. “Nikita, look at me.”
She takes a deep breath, then lifts her eyes to his. The pain in them hits him like a punch to the solar plexus, and he’s moving across the small kitchen before she has time to take another breath.
“I’m happy for you, Michael. Happy for Adam.” She’s crying silently now, shaking her head as he draws her closer, then her arms are around his neck and his are around her waist and a desperate hunger claws at his gut. He shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t make this more difficult than it already is. But he knows it will be years before he will be this close to her again, and he can no more stop himself from kissing her than he can turn his back on his son.
He touches his mouth to hers, tasting tears and heat, and she shifts closer, her body arching against his in silent invitation, and he decides that nobility is something he cannot afford this evening.
She tastes of bourbon and black coffee, and her skin seems to come to life beneath his hands. He memorizes it all, the soft hollow between her breasts, the silken clasp of her body as he sinks into her, the breathy gasp of determination as she pushes him higher and higher. As the last aftershock of pleasure echoes through his flesh, he realises they have been saying goodbye to each other from the moment they met.
They dress slowly, and he makes no pretence of not watching her, committing her beauty and her strength and her fearlessness to memory.
“Nikita-”
“Don’t.” She looks at him with dry eyes, her mouth set in a stubborn line he knows all too well. “Don’t make it harder than it already is.”
“This isn’t goodbye.”
She smiles, and it feels like a knife to his heart. “Liar.”
“Not to you.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, then she nods. “I won’t come to the train station.” She lifts his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m not strong enough to say goodbye twice.”
“Liar,” he says softly, his chest tightening as though being squeezed in a vise.
“Not to you. Never again.” One last kiss, hard enough to bruise his lips, then she puts her hands on his chest and pushes herself away from him. His last glimpse of her face reminds him of their first meeting. Blue eyes, glittering with emotion, ablaze in a stark white face.
He stands alone, listening for the sound of her footsteps long after he knows she’s gone, and knows she’s taken the better part of him with her.
~*~
She stares at the smirking Center representative who has just been foolish enough to tell her that her request to leave Section for an hour has been denied. Her father’s death and Michael’s departure may have left her numb, stumbling over her own thoughts, but anger is a very good tool for clearing the head.
She gives him a brittle smile. “I’m sorry, perhaps you missed the memo.” Reaching beneath the v-neck of her shirt, she slowly withdraws the command key. “The board’s caretaker duties are over. I have command.” Dropping the key back inside her shirt, she jerks her head towards the door of the Perch. “Now please get out of my office.”
Simmons immediately assumes an air of flustered obsequiousness. “Of course, ma’am.”
Gladly concentrating on her irritation - anything to keep herself from thinking about what she’s about to do - she makes her way to Van Access. Part of her can’t help wishing the snarl of early morning traffic will sabotage her plans, but it only takes thirty minutes to reach the station, another five to find Michael where he’s waiting on the platform with his five year-old son.
Just like the night before in his temporary accommodation, there isn’t the slightest trace of surprise on Michael’s face as she approaches him. “I came to say goodbye.”
His whole face softens, and she marvels that she ever thought his mouth cruel, his eyes cold. It suddenly hurts to look at him, and she glances over his shoulder to where Adam is sitting, oblivious to the drama playing out in front of him. She wonders if he'll ever know just how much they have in common. They’re both children battling to survive their father’s legacies and, at this point in time, she has more faith in Adam’s recovery than her own.
“Take him as far away from here as possible.” Adam smiles at her and she knows that she’s smiling - she can feel the curve of her mouth - but the words taste like ash on her tongue. "Help him forget."
Michael's gaze travels over her face, warming her cold skin. "He'll be alright."
She hears the promise in his voice, but it doesn't chase the chill from her heart. “According to my father, I was born for this.”
Michael takes a deep breath, his eyes locking with hers. “There will come a time when Adam won’t need me any more.”
She swallows hard. Want and need are two different things, and it’s not fair that they should feel exactly the same. She knows there will never be a time when she doesn’t want this man, just as there will never truly be a time that his son won’t need him. She will not ask him to stay, but she will not - she cannot - say goodbye. "You know where I'll be."
They share a wry smile, and she hates that it's in this moment she feels closer to him than she ever has before. She knows there are half a dozen operatives watching them, but she refuses to let this last chance slip through her fingers. She takes one step, closing the distance between them. “I love you.”
His mouth is soft and warm, his kiss gentle enough to tear her heart to shreds. He pulls back, then forward again, his lips brushing her ear, his hands gripping her hips. “I love you.”
Her hands tighten on his arms as her heart convulses. This is what it has come to, she thinks. Seven years has ended with one single, perfect moment of pure understanding. She closes her eyes, memorizing the feel of his body against hers, the way the contours of his face seem to meld perfectly with hers, the scent of his skin. Finally, she makes herself pull away, sick at heart at the loss of his skin against hers. She looks at him, seeing something in his eyes she’s never seen before.
Peace.
Still holding her hand, he reaches for his son. For a few brief seconds, he has hold of them both, then he steps away from her, her hand falling empty to her side. Father and son vanish into the crowd, and as she watches them go, something inside her withers and droops. She dons her sunglasses with a graceless haste, then turns her back on the waiting train. Her legs are as reluctant to leave as her heart, but she forces herself to take one step, then another, then yet another. The click of her heels on the grubby tiles, the garbled voice blaring over the PA system, announcing the train’s departure. She barely hears any of it over the grief roaring in her head, but she keeps walking, moving without hesitation towards the burden of her father's legacy, because Michael was right.
She is strong enough to do this.
~*~
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Adam nods, evidently pleased, but there is a darkness in his eyes. “Good.” He turns and leans against him, humming under his breath as he flicks through the book hastily purchased from the train station newsstand, and Michael once again marvels at the resilience of children.
He thinks of Nikita, of the way her chin had lifted when she’d repeated her father’s words about being born to take on the role that will now consume every second of her life. She would be careful, he thinks. She will keep one eye on the horizon, knowing he will be waiting for her, finally letting herself believe he was speaking the truth when he said it was not goodbye. She will make it a priority to survive, if only to thumb her nose at all those waiting for her to stumble and fall. He smiles at the thought and, beneath his sorrow, something else struggles to break free.
Hope.
~*~
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Characters: Nikita, Michael, Walter, Adam, various OCs
Pairing: Michael/Nikita
Length: 2,564 words
Rating: R, I guess.
Summary: Set immediately post #507. Angst-filled, yet tinged with hope. Just like life, yes? It also contains dialogue from #507 that does not belong to me.
Author's Note:This story is written for my very dear friend nell65. It's her birthday today, but that's not the only reason I polished off this ancient La Femme Nikita plotbunny for her. I want to tell you, nell65, that you are one of my heroes, that you are amazing, and I hope the next stage of your life brings you more fulfillment and excitement than you ever expected. *hugs you tight*
~*~
She is numb as they bundle her into the waiting car, leaving behind her father, his crumpled body twisted with pain even in death. Leaving behind Michael, his beautiful face white with shock and regret.
For a few hours, a few moments, a few seconds, she’d had them both.
And now?
Now she has nothing but the power she’d never wanted. “I want his body brought back to Section,” she hears herself tell the Center operative who is busily punching intel into his PDA. “He’s to be buried in accordance with his wishes, not Center’s.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It takes several seconds for her to realise that he is addressing her.
~*~
“Nikita’s old man arranged a safe house for you and the kid.” Walter holds out a security pass key to Section’s most venerated operative, wondering how the hell it had all ended like this. “Guess he knew what was going to go down.”
Michael’s gaze flicks down to the pass key, then back up to Walter’s face. “We’re leaving Paris in the morning.”
“Thought you might.” Walter studies the other man carefully, feeling a grim satisfaction when he sees the sorrow gleaming in Michael’s eyes. “It’s going to be rough on her.”
Michael’s jaw tightens. “I know.”
Walter watches as Michael runs a scanner over the PDA in his hand, knowing from the beep that it’s just been wiped cleaner than the cleanest whistler ever invented. “This isn’t right.”
Michael’s hands tighten around the PDA. Walter sees the white of his knuckles. “No.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her for you,” he offers, the words prickling his throat like the tears stinging his eyes. “Until she can join you, of course.”
Michael clears his throat, his own eyes damp, and Walter knows neither of them can afford to believe the fairytale he’s trying to spin. “Thank you.” With that, Michael Samuelle shakes his hand firmly and walks out of his life.
~*~
“Mommy said you died.”
He runs his hand through his small son’s silky hair - the absurd thought that it’s too long pops into his head - then hugs him close to his chest. “I know. Some bad men told Mommy a lie. They told her I was dead.”
Adam processes this for a moment, and his father sees his next question dawning in his eyes. “Is Mommy really dead?”
“Yes.”
A small frown draws together Adam’s dark brows. “Can’t she come back too?”
Grief slices through him, briefly trapping his words behind clenched teeth. “No.”
Later that night, Michael watches his son as he sleeps, and thinks he can actually feel his heart breaking in two.
~*~
She makes the arrangements for her father’s funeral, then lets Walter holds her as she weeps. They sit on the terrace of her apartment, the cold wind slapping against their hands and faces, but she doesn’t care. Tomorrow, Walter tells her, she will need to decide what possessions she wishes to have moved to her new residence.
She gives him a dark look, and he immediately rummages in the bag on the floor beside his chair. “What’s your poison?”
“What have you got?”
“Bourbon.”
“I hate bourbon,” she says lightly, then holds out her glass. He fills it to the halfway mark, then watches silently as she downs it in two long gulps. It burns its way down her throat and into her empty belly. Grimacing, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sets the empty glass firmly on the floor beside her. “It does the job, though.”
They sit in silence for a few minute, then Walter sighs loudly. “Who would have thought it? That out of everyone, Section ends up with you and me.”
“Serves them right,” she says flatly, thinking that her mouth might split if she tries to smile.
He raises his glass to her. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”
“I can’t do this, Walter.” Maybe it’s the bourbon, maybe it’s sheer, blind panic, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Not without Michael.”
His smile is a sad one. “Would you rather he stayed?”
“Yes, I would,” she answers without hesitation, wrapping her arms around herself as she hunches down into her chair. “What does that make me?”
She feels the weight of his hand on her shoulder, and the tenderness in his voice makes her eyes swim with fresh tears. “Human.”
She stares at the lights of the city below until they blur. “It just hurts so much.”
“Use it.”
“How?”
“Let the pain remind you that you’re alive.”
She looks at him in despair. “Is that what you did after Belinda died?” His face closes up like a fist, and she knows she’s crossed a line. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay, Sugar,” he mutters gruffly. “If anyone’s got the right to mouth off tonight, it’s you.” He studies her for a moment, then reaches into the depths of his coat, coming up with a small PDA. He hands it to her without ceremony, then looks at her expectantly.
She touches the screen, and an address in central Paris flashes up on the screen. “What’s this?”
“An address.”
She feels her back teeth click together. “Yes, I can see that.”
“It’s the temporary home of two people who are leaving town in the morning.” He nods at the PDA. “I thought you might want to say a proper goodbye before they go.”
Curling her fingers around the PDA, she stares out into the darkness. She thinks of the first time she’d seen this view, the night Michael had brought her here, and something starts to burn deep in her chest. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she finally whispers, the possibility of seeing Michael one last time clutched tightly in her hands.
“I know, Sugar.” Shifting his chair closer, he puts his arm around her and pulls her close, close enough for her to put her head on his shoulder. “On the plus side, there’s a kid out there whose very happy his Daddy has come back from the dead.”
She feels her lips curve in the smallest of smiles, her face wet with tears she doesn’t remember crying. “Yes, there is that.”
~*~
He isn’t surprised to find her standing in the kitchen of the small apartment, only that it had taken her so long to come to him. “You came alone?”
“I’m not Operations yet.” She slips off her leather gloves - they’re black now, no longer bright blue, and he mourns the beginning of her transformation. “The board has caretaker powers for the next eight hours.”
“And then you take control?”
“Yes.” There is a wealth of pain in that one word, and his hands clench into fists in his struggle not to reach for her. Shrugging out of her heavy coat, she glances into the small room adjoining the kitchen. “Where’s Adam?”
He watches her hands as she runs them through the bright sweep of her hair. “Sleeping.”
She nods, her hands now smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her sweater. “How is he?”
“Confused.”
“Aren’t we all?” she mutters, then seems to catch herself, as though she’s veering from the conversational path she’d sworn to tread. “What time is your train in the morning?”
“Eight.”
“Rush hour.”
“Yes.”
“Makes it easier to blend into the crowd.”
She hasn’t looked at him since her first words, and his patience suddenly comes to an end. “Nikita, look at me.”
She takes a deep breath, then lifts her eyes to his. The pain in them hits him like a punch to the solar plexus, and he’s moving across the small kitchen before she has time to take another breath.
“I’m happy for you, Michael. Happy for Adam.” She’s crying silently now, shaking her head as he draws her closer, then her arms are around his neck and his are around her waist and a desperate hunger claws at his gut. He shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t make this more difficult than it already is. But he knows it will be years before he will be this close to her again, and he can no more stop himself from kissing her than he can turn his back on his son.
He touches his mouth to hers, tasting tears and heat, and she shifts closer, her body arching against his in silent invitation, and he decides that nobility is something he cannot afford this evening.
She tastes of bourbon and black coffee, and her skin seems to come to life beneath his hands. He memorizes it all, the soft hollow between her breasts, the silken clasp of her body as he sinks into her, the breathy gasp of determination as she pushes him higher and higher. As the last aftershock of pleasure echoes through his flesh, he realises they have been saying goodbye to each other from the moment they met.
They dress slowly, and he makes no pretence of not watching her, committing her beauty and her strength and her fearlessness to memory.
“Nikita-”
“Don’t.” She looks at him with dry eyes, her mouth set in a stubborn line he knows all too well. “Don’t make it harder than it already is.”
“This isn’t goodbye.”
She smiles, and it feels like a knife to his heart. “Liar.”
“Not to you.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, then she nods. “I won’t come to the train station.” She lifts his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m not strong enough to say goodbye twice.”
“Liar,” he says softly, his chest tightening as though being squeezed in a vise.
“Not to you. Never again.” One last kiss, hard enough to bruise his lips, then she puts her hands on his chest and pushes herself away from him. His last glimpse of her face reminds him of their first meeting. Blue eyes, glittering with emotion, ablaze in a stark white face.
He stands alone, listening for the sound of her footsteps long after he knows she’s gone, and knows she’s taken the better part of him with her.
~*~
She stares at the smirking Center representative who has just been foolish enough to tell her that her request to leave Section for an hour has been denied. Her father’s death and Michael’s departure may have left her numb, stumbling over her own thoughts, but anger is a very good tool for clearing the head.
She gives him a brittle smile. “I’m sorry, perhaps you missed the memo.” Reaching beneath the v-neck of her shirt, she slowly withdraws the command key. “The board’s caretaker duties are over. I have command.” Dropping the key back inside her shirt, she jerks her head towards the door of the Perch. “Now please get out of my office.”
Simmons immediately assumes an air of flustered obsequiousness. “Of course, ma’am.”
Gladly concentrating on her irritation - anything to keep herself from thinking about what she’s about to do - she makes her way to Van Access. Part of her can’t help wishing the snarl of early morning traffic will sabotage her plans, but it only takes thirty minutes to reach the station, another five to find Michael where he’s waiting on the platform with his five year-old son.
Just like the night before in his temporary accommodation, there isn’t the slightest trace of surprise on Michael’s face as she approaches him. “I came to say goodbye.”
His whole face softens, and she marvels that she ever thought his mouth cruel, his eyes cold. It suddenly hurts to look at him, and she glances over his shoulder to where Adam is sitting, oblivious to the drama playing out in front of him. She wonders if he'll ever know just how much they have in common. They’re both children battling to survive their father’s legacies and, at this point in time, she has more faith in Adam’s recovery than her own.
“Take him as far away from here as possible.” Adam smiles at her and she knows that she’s smiling - she can feel the curve of her mouth - but the words taste like ash on her tongue. "Help him forget."
Michael's gaze travels over her face, warming her cold skin. "He'll be alright."
She hears the promise in his voice, but it doesn't chase the chill from her heart. “According to my father, I was born for this.”
Michael takes a deep breath, his eyes locking with hers. “There will come a time when Adam won’t need me any more.”
She swallows hard. Want and need are two different things, and it’s not fair that they should feel exactly the same. She knows there will never be a time when she doesn’t want this man, just as there will never truly be a time that his son won’t need him. She will not ask him to stay, but she will not - she cannot - say goodbye. "You know where I'll be."
They share a wry smile, and she hates that it's in this moment she feels closer to him than she ever has before. She knows there are half a dozen operatives watching them, but she refuses to let this last chance slip through her fingers. She takes one step, closing the distance between them. “I love you.”
His mouth is soft and warm, his kiss gentle enough to tear her heart to shreds. He pulls back, then forward again, his lips brushing her ear, his hands gripping her hips. “I love you.”
Her hands tighten on his arms as her heart convulses. This is what it has come to, she thinks. Seven years has ended with one single, perfect moment of pure understanding. She closes her eyes, memorizing the feel of his body against hers, the way the contours of his face seem to meld perfectly with hers, the scent of his skin. Finally, she makes herself pull away, sick at heart at the loss of his skin against hers. She looks at him, seeing something in his eyes she’s never seen before.
Peace.
Still holding her hand, he reaches for his son. For a few brief seconds, he has hold of them both, then he steps away from her, her hand falling empty to her side. Father and son vanish into the crowd, and as she watches them go, something inside her withers and droops. She dons her sunglasses with a graceless haste, then turns her back on the waiting train. Her legs are as reluctant to leave as her heart, but she forces herself to take one step, then another, then yet another. The click of her heels on the grubby tiles, the garbled voice blaring over the PA system, announcing the train’s departure. She barely hears any of it over the grief roaring in her head, but she keeps walking, moving without hesitation towards the burden of her father's legacy, because Michael was right.
She is strong enough to do this.
~*~
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Adam nods, evidently pleased, but there is a darkness in his eyes. “Good.” He turns and leans against him, humming under his breath as he flicks through the book hastily purchased from the train station newsstand, and Michael once again marvels at the resilience of children.
He thinks of Nikita, of the way her chin had lifted when she’d repeated her father’s words about being born to take on the role that will now consume every second of her life. She would be careful, he thinks. She will keep one eye on the horizon, knowing he will be waiting for her, finally letting herself believe he was speaking the truth when he said it was not goodbye. She will make it a priority to survive, if only to thumb her nose at all those waiting for her to stumble and fall. He smiles at the thought and, beneath his sorrow, something else struggles to break free.
Hope.
~*~