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FIC: in the agony of parting [2/4] [la femme nikita]
in the agony of parting
by abby82
category: AU--Canon Divergence for season 4's "No One Lives Forever"
rating: Explicit
word count: 4023
disclaimer: they don’t belong to me, no money is being made. I’m only borrowing them.
author’s note: I originally had no intention of this being such a long story. I wrote the majority of this chapter, Michael and Nikita's first meeting in years, and then their intimate reunion within a short time span of each other. That was gonna be the story, but then other pieces started appearing and suddenly I had a longer and more involved story on my hands. Chapter titles come from Françoise Hardy's Tant de belles choses...
story began: October 2020
links: LJ | AO3 | Tumblr
summary: The Oversight pilot program is real. Nikita is free from Section One.
After eight years, happenstance brought Michael back into Nikita’s world. It was an ordinary morning on an ordinary Wednesday on an ordinary January.
After hopping from one city to another Nikita had now landed in Montréal. Her French was passable but never great. However, she had been struck by a wave of nostalgia when she’d decided it was time to leave New York City. As always, it was her sentimental side that got her in trouble. She felt cocooned by the Francophone city. Perhaps enough time had gone by where she no longer felt her heart clench every time she heard French accented English.
Leaving New York was difficult. It was where she’d truly begun to heal and feel more at ease. The paranoia that lingered in Paris and London had diminished greatly. She had an apartment in the East Village, a vibrant neighborhood at her doorstep, and a promising job coordinating for humanitarian workers.
Life…was good. She was friendly with her coworkers, accepted their invitations to after work drinks and even dated occasionally. Freedom was what she made of it and Nikita was determined to enjoy it to the fullest.
Marc Sheridan had been a welcomed new wrinkle in her life. They had struck up a quick friendship, but it easily blossomed into something more. A late spring downpour had caught her unprepared while she was out in Chelsea, so she popped into the nearest restaurant to wait it out at the bar.
The bartender was charming and handsome. His dark, thick hair was slightly undone and pushed off his face. Clear blue eyes complimented his sharp jawline and inviting smile. His long sleeve shirt was rolled up at the elbows, showcasing strong forearms.
Nikita easily engaged in a teasing back and forth with the bartender, who wore no name tag. It quickly progressed to him bringing out various appetizers for her to sample—delicious flatbread, marinated olives, perfectly seasoned shrimp tacos. The food and the conversation were wonderful.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble. You’ve absolutely spoiled me,” Nikita confided as he brought out a raspberry torte for her approval.
“No trouble at all. These are new dishes not on the menu. We’re testing them out, so the ingredients are on hand. The owner doesn’t mind. We often do it for friends with objective palettes.”
“Friends?’ I don’t even know your name ‘friend.’”
“It must have slipped my mind. My chivalrous side activated when confronted with a waterlogged mystery lady.”
“I’m Nikita,” she said in introduction.
“Nice to meet you, Nikita. I’m Marc,” he answered, as he offered her his hand.
Her skin tingled in anticipation just before their hands met. His grip was sure and warm. His hand enveloped hers in a gesture that lasted just a hair too long to be appropriate. In that simple exchange of niceties was that elusive thing that had evaded her for so long—chemistry.
When they parted, Nikita left with a smile on her face.
“Drop by next time you’re in the area,” Marc told her in farewell. “See if any of these dishes actually make it onto the menu.”
The next time she was in Chelsea, Nikita made specific plans to swing by the restaurant for dinner. She’d remembered Marc’s easy smile and his companionship; she couldn’t help herself. A different man was at the bar and Nikita tried not to be disappointed. She enjoyed her light dinner of matzo ball soup, paid her bill and prepared to leave when a voice called out.
“You making a run for it without saying hello?”
Marc stood before her, in a grubby gray T-shirt and smelling of dish soap.
“Your boss is a slave driver if he’s got you washing dishes now. Not a demotion I hope.”
“Nah, we all help where we can.”
A petite middle aged woman came out from the kitchen and made her way to the hostess up front. When she passed by them she called out, “Marc, don’t forget to call Dennis about the catering. We’ll never get him off our backs if he doesn’t hear back from you.”
Nikita reassessed him with an observational skill she hadn’t used in years, rather than the romantically curious one she’d used before.
“You’re the owner?” It was half question and half statement.
“Part owner.”
“Something you failed to mention.” Nikita wasn’t annoyed, but perhaps a little bothered that she’d missed all the signs during their last meeting. Marc had been generous with his time and the restaurant’s bottom line. They verbally tussled as she tried to pay for items that weren’t on their menu and therefore didn’t have a monetary value assigned to them. Her attempts at a tip were equally shot down. No bartender, no matter how indispensable, would have had that kind of leeway.
“Would it have changed your opinion of the food if I had? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t after me for my money,” He added conspiratorially. “Owning a restaurant is very glamorous, as you can see.”
Marc held his arms open to showcase the water and mystery stains all over his T-shirt, not to mention the sweat stains in the armpits.
“Clearly, next time I see you, you’ll likely be wielding a plunger and helping to unclog toilets.”
“Next time huh?” His right cheek dimpled attractively as he grinned. “If you play your cards right, I’ll allow you to help me. You might even get your own plunger.”
Nikita’s stomach did a little flip at the handsome but slightly awkward man in front of her. She responded to the lack of pretension in him.
“My God. Watching you flirt is painful,” interrupted the woman from earlier as she passed them to go back to the kitchen.
Clearly amused by the woman’s observation, he turned back to Nikita, “Can you stay for a drink? Help salvage my reputation.”
“Why not? I’m a sucker for a charity case.”
It was casual between them; just conversation and laughter. Nikita didn’t feel pressured. They hung out…a lot. Rangers games at the Garden, pick-up basketball games, the Christmas stalls at Union Square, and sunbathing at Tompkins Square Park.
Marc had his own life and never attempted to insinuate himself into hers, but she welcomed him without problem.
Marc was also an excellent cook and true to his word the first time they met, he did like testing potential recipes on friends. Only rather than hang out at the restaurant, he brought her to his home kitchen. It was small, but he moved easily within his space as he sautéed vegetables, prepped other ingredients, and provided a running commentary to her.
Currently his head was buried in his tiny refrigerator as he fished around in search of some Calabrian chillies he knew he had in there.
“Why have I never learned to label?” His muffled voice reached her. “How many hours could I potentially save if I didn’t have to open up every single container, and why do I have so many preserved lemons?”
“Because they’re tasty?” Nikita offered from the counter where she sat removing kale from its stems.
“Well, yeah, but I’ve already counted four jars…big ones too. Ha! Found them!”
Nikita watched him with affection. This feeling had been bubbling near the surface for months now. Marc had this sixth sense about what was safe conversation and what wasn’t. It allowed Nikita to open up and share at her own pace. He never prodded. Instead, he made himself available for Nikita to talk to and eventually she did.
In the last few months she’d really begun to learn who “Nikita” truly was.
She wasn’t a piece of street trash and she wasn’t a Section One operative. She had to determine who she was on her own and away from the circumstances that had shaped her life. She’d always thought that she’d done a pretty good job of maintaining her sense of self while in Section. When she got thrown back into the real world, she came to realize that there was so much about herself that she needed to get to know. When she did, she found she was eager to share that with someone. That someone was Marc. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. It was a different kind of vulnerability. It was an emotional vulnerability.
“Marc, when are you planning to ask me out?” Nikita asked abruptly.
“What do you mean?” He opened the jar and gave it an experimental sniff. “We go out all the time.”
“I mean on a real date. The kind where at the end of the night you let me kiss you.”
His eyebrows shot up at her statement. Nikita bit her lip in amusement.
“Really?” His nonchalance all gone. “You’d really go on a date with me?”
“Background check finally came in,” she shrugged. “It turns out you’re not dangerous.”
“Nikita, would a man with six jars of preserved lemons be dangerous?”
She tried valiantly to suppress a smile.“I thought it was four?”
“I lied. I didn’t want to seem compulsive.”
“Let me give you a bit of advice,” she murmured as she reached over to shut off the burner and then closed the distance between them. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Never,” he whispered back before he lowered his lips to hers.
Bombings in Madrid and London; attacks in Kabul; drones lighting up the skies over Iraq. Marc could sense her agitation with each news cycle. In a post 9/11 world her feelings were insignificant in the grander scheme, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She waffled between seeking out every news source and wanting to distance herself entirely from it and live in ignorance.
She felt selfish for wanting a normal life away from all the death, the lies, and the manipulation, but she couldn’t escape it. Terrorism was on the mind of every ordinary citizen. There was no escaping its influence. The sense of trauma that afflicted the residents of the city weighed on her. The scars were more than just physical. They were psychological as well, but Nikita also witnessed moments of genuine compassion among the populace. It lifted her spirits. She wanted to be somewhere where people were good to each other.
Marc sometimes admitted to feeling out of depth when they did speak of global issues.
“You’re so in tune with everything, hon,” They were sitting on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of Christmas wrapping. “I can feel you vibrating. I hate seeing you so stressed about things you can’t control.”
The evening news had burst their little bubble of Yuletide merriment.
“There’s a whole world out there and everything is interdependent…like a giant jigsaw puzzle. They aren’t just regional conflicts. If you remove a piece of that puzzle—a leader, an alliance, a piece of their economy—something else moves in to fill the void. It’s not always good.”
Marc edged up next to her. He offered himself up as support for her oscillating emotions.
“You tend not to bring your work home with you. I sometimes forget that you deal with this every day…the human impact.”
Nikita could only continue to stare at the television and its reality shattering images.
“So what do we do about it?” He asked as he soothingly rubbed his hands up and down her arms.
Nikita knew what he was getting at. She needed to take a step back and turn off the damn television. She needed to accept and embrace the fact that there were people out there putting their own lives on the line on several fronts and to trust in their competency. She needed to accept and embrace the gift of no longer having to be out there with them.
She smiled gently at him, “We enjoy every second of our lives. We never know when it will be our last.”
She dragged his comforting weight on top of her and closed her eyes to savor it. When he kissed her, she focused on the smoothness of his face and on the slight wintery chapped texture of his lips.
Their lovemaking was more than a little awkward given everything they had around them, but Nikita didn’t want to move elsewhere. It was a memory she wanted to make. They giggled as they landed on and squashed rolls of wrapping paper. Plastic encased tape jabbed at them where they lay. Days later, when Marc’s parents opened the collection of loose leaf teas and hand painted dominos they’d been gifted, she and Marc snickered quietly at how they had to rewrap the gifts the following day. One of them or both of them, they couldn’t agree on who, had kicked the packaging while they withered naked and interlocked on the rug and tore the neat wrapping.
The comfort of family filled the air that Christmas morning. They’d opened presents, had a hearty breakfast, and lounged around while watching an assortment of family favorite holiday movies. Later, Nikita had spend the afternoon on the Sheridan’s New Rochelle porch with Marc’s mother, sister and sister-in-law while a gaggle of grandchildren played football with Marc, his father, and the other men. They comfortably enjoyed hot chocolate, and Nikita laughed merrily as she watched Marc get overrun by his nieces and nephews. His joyous smile helped Nikita bask in the warmth of family and how the Sheridans had easily welcomed her into it. Marc beckoned her in a plea for reinforcements and then she too was caught in the raucous horseplay that barely resembled a sport. It was a perfect Christmas holiday.
Change was in the air. Nikita just hadn’t realized how much so until it hit her between the eyes.
Nikita arrived at her apartment to find a still warm Margherita pizza, a nice rosé open, a silent Mets game on TV and Marc sprawled on the couch with a notepad on his lap. An impressive stack of CDs was on the coffee table. A melancholy female voice singing in French emanated out of the stereo speakers. A voice that jogged something vital from the recesses of her memory.
“You’re just in time, hon,” Marc called out when he heard her keys land on the entryway table.
“David wants to class up The Bar with some new music. He’s leaning towards some frou frou French tunes. Whatdaya think? I don’t know what she’s singing, but it sounds nice. Does it make you wanna buy a cocktail?”
Marc rose from his recline to give her a peck on the lips and began to corral the scattered CDs. Nikita had drifted further into the apartment, picked up the CD case and drew a deep breath. The face may have aged (hadn’t they all) but the voice was the same. This time she didn’t sing about her waning youth but about bidding farewell to a great love. Nikita was hit with an overwhelming wave of longing.
Michael chopping vegetables in his secluded cabin, Michael’s firm thigh below her head as he lightly carded his fingers through her hair, lulling her to sleep, Michael not asleep (the breathing pattern was wrong) next to her on a full bed, and Michael in her apartment looking like he’d accept an invitation to her bed if she offered it—she didn’t.
She fought to keep her emotions under control. She was unprepared for this reminder from her past to intrude upon her where she least expected it. Nikita fought the tears that welled in her eyes.
When she didn’t say anything Marc looked at her full on, his attempts to tidy up abandoned. His face shadowed over with concern.
“Hey, hey what’s this?” Marc reached over to stop the CD player. “She’s not singing about satanic cultists is she? That’s not exactly the vibe we’re going for.”
Sweet man that he is, Marc used bad jokes to bring a smile to her face. She gave him a half-hearted laugh for his troubles as he steered her to sit on the couch. “Nikita, talk to me, please.”
“I’m sorry. It just sort of hit me. The intensity of it…it’s kind of surprising after all this time.”
Marc knew she’d spent some time in France. It was part of her backstory. He also knew that she’d had a passionate love affair while living there. When concocting a fake background it was always best not to stray too far from the truth. It made it easier to seem lived in.
Marc was an intelligent man. He didn’t need much evidence to reach the right conclusion, that Nikita was thinking of a past love. He also didn’t hold it against her.
“Good memories I hope,” he said as he affectionately tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He reached for her hands and held them in support.
“Bittersweet.”
“We can’t go through life without picking up a couple of scars here and there. Some of us more than most, huh.”
Nikita didn’t answer him but she did tighten her grip on his hands, trying to convey that she appreciated his understanding.
“So, how do you feel about Coldplay and Maroon 5? No strong emotions there?”
She’s laughed, mostly out of relief that Marc knew exactly how to move past the awkward moment Nikita thrust upon them.
“No, none.”
“Then it’s done, decision made. Screw the French,” he said with great aplomb. “Go wash the day off…relax. I’ll pour you a glass of wine, it’s from California, and I’ll take you some dinner. How’s that?”
“Thank you,” she replied and she meant it too.
Her apartment was a little more spacious than most but the bathroom was much too small to accommodate a tub. She often longed for the luxury, but right now she was grateful she didn’t have one to mock her resurfaced memories. Memories of a wet and amorous Michael, their relationship in its infancy, were not what she needed.
Nikita turned the water in the shower on to scalding and watched as her skin turned pink with the heat. She wanted to feel something other than sadness.
Unbidden, the memories came to her anyway.
At the end of their evening, she had walked Michael to her front door where he gathered his leather jacket. Nikita hovered achingly close but not touching him. She was barefoot and felt very exposed.
“Goodnight,” she offered as she leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek, but it was really the corner of his mouth. Michael returned the intimate gesture. His lips were soft and warm on her face.
His right hand caught her left and he brought it up between them. His thumb traversed the peaks and valleys of her knuckles.
Nikita longed to kiss him fully on the lips, but common sense won out. It wouldn’t be right. She meant what she said. Engaging in something casual would eventually cause her heart to fracture. She was gluttonous. She wanted Michael without restrictions, to indulge in him and him in her whenever they wanted. Years ago she would have jumped at the chance at living in the moment. She’d even advocated it in the weeks after her return to Section, still high on the heady aftermath of Michael’s touch. Her skin had burned for months in all the intimate places he’d touched.
“Thank you for having me.” He was so close she could feel his words rather than just hear them. Michael pulled back and his eyes took her in one final time before he lowered her hand and let go. “Goodnight.”
And then she was alone with the music of Françoise Hardy and some waning candlelight.
Business for Marc was good. Despite the strange combination of charming and awkward that could sometimes lead to him being underestimated, he had an excellent knack for what restaurant goers were looking for. His recipe development was a painstaking process, but in the end the result was something to marvel at. When coupled with the sharp business acumen of his partners, their little collection of restaurants were thriving.
When the initial proposal to try expanding outside of Manhattan was brought up, Marc laughed it off. Nikita knew he had no desire to rule the world. He liked the little niche he’d carved out for himself. However, the prospect of exploring a different market’s food scene did intrigue him. At his business partners’ urging, he and Nikita visited Seattle on a lark. He’d never been and she could take in some sightseeing.
It was on the flight back as Marc excitedly talked about the eclectic and dynamic atmosphere that Nikita could see something was about to happen. It would mean relocating. Marc was a New Yorker born and bred. This was a huge decision for him. His family and friends were on the East Coast, but this was something he’d worked his entire life for. Now was the time to take the chance. Seattle was calling him and he also wanted Nikita to come with him.
This was it wasn’t it? The next logical step in their relationship. She genuinely liked Marc. If pressed, she would even say she loved him. Not the way she wanted to love Gray (the promise of instant family), but didn’t. Not the way she wondered if she could love Jurgen (the promise of understanding). Not the strong, protective emotions (she never figured out if it was love) she felt towards Helmut. And not the consuming, couldn’t breathe, willing to risk everything love she had for Michael. Her love for Marc was comfortable and easy and everything a normal person wanted. The normal person she’d tried to become in the last six years since leaving Section. It held the promise of a future. She thought she’d succeeded, but if she was hesitating and not automatically accepting then perhaps she’d only been fooling herself. A relationship she can do, but this…this.
Nikita had used humor to deflect his invitation.
“Seattle? You sure you’re not just trying to scare me off?”
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Nikita. I want to share everything, my whole world with you. I want you to come with me.”
Her stomach had done somersaults at his words. The emotion in his eyes, that had once filled her with happiness now filled her with apprehension. He’d never brought up marriage, but there had been tiny comments that suggested that Marc saw himself with her for a very long time. Marriage would naturally be something they’d eventually consider. They never discussed their views on the institution, but there was never anything to indicate that either of them were opposed to the idea.
Marc needed to go apartment hunting and he was spending more time flying out to the west coast to do his part of the new business responsibilities. It gave her time to think over his invitation and her overall relationship with him. The way he would endearingly snore when he was exhausted. His borderline obsession with perfecting this paella recipe he’d once tasted in Spain. Marc, who liked to sing in the shower (badly), but he didn’t care. There was no artifice with him. He was as good and decent as he appeared.
Marc had healed her. Without Marc she didn’t know where she’d be.
“Please think about it.”
And she did. She obsessed over it. What would their lives be like? One apartment or two? Where would she work? Was she willing to uproot her entire life to be with him?
In the end, she couldn’t do it. The tears she shed were real. The hurt tore at her heart. The confusion on Marc’s face would haunt her for a long time. Alone in her apartment she cursed Michael and his hold on her even after all this time. She cursed herself and her attachment to a man she’d never see again.
So Nikita gave her two weeks notice, packed her bags, gave away what she couldn’t take with her and headed north, seeking both the familiar and the strange. She was gone before Marc himself departed.