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abby82the most primitive form of comfort
by abby82
category: post-episode
rating: General
word count: 2,670
disclaimer: they don’t belong to me, no money is being made. I’m only borrowing them.
author’s note: This was written for Emm, who suggested in the comments of my canon divergent season 5 centric story "the hour of separation", "Perhaps you could write the dinner Nikita has with her father in S5? I always wanted to see more of their relationship"
I'll admit that I haven't really watched season 5 all that much. Perhaps three times through when I first binged LFN in 2020. I did, however, remember Peta's performance early on in the episode when she tells Walter about meeting her father. She was so good in it and she perfectly convey's Nikita's state of mind as she's trying to process everything that she's just discovered. There's a mixture of disappointment, confusion, and anger on her face. He's "all business" is her assessment of Mr. Jones. That initial meeting didn't give her what she was looking for. It was definitely a highlight of the season for me.
story began: April 2023
story finished: November 2023
links: LJ | AO3 | Tumblr
summary: Nikita and Mr. Jones break bread.
“Have you ever had Hungarian, Nikita?” Mr. Jones asks her after they’re seated at their table. The restaurant is small. Clearly family run and squeezed into a narrow alley between a tailor and a small bakery in Montemartre. It’s not likely to attract a more cosmopolitan clientele. She and Mr. Jones, he with his silent and omnipresent bodyguards and she with her best Michael at his most aloof impression, look out of place. Only a few tables are occupied and the smell of paprika is so strong that it settles in her nostrils.
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Paris is, of course, the crown jewel of the gastronomical world. There’s something for everyone. Michelin star restaurants…kebab stands. Where does your preference lie?”
She smooths her hand across the crisp, dark linen of the tablecloth before her.
“Nowhere in particular. I’m always open to new experiences.”
“I find that Hungarian is a rather unpretentious cuisine. It feeds the soul.” He leans forward and speaks in a congenial way. Humor dances in his eyes. “It sticks to your ribs, especially on a cold winter’s night. It’s not a bad way to break bread with someone either.”
Nikita takes his peace offering at face value and she allows herself to be more receptive to him.
“The owner of this establishment is from Zalaegerszeg in western Hungary near the border with Austria. What makes this particular restaurant stand out is that unlike others, it doesn’t try to cater to local tastes. It is unapologetically Hungarian without an ounce of consideration to French palates.”
Nikita smiles at that. She can appreciate the sentiment.
“They’re giving France the middle finger.”
Mr. Jones laughs. “Precisely.”
“You know a lot about this place,” she observes. “Do you know the owner?”
“No, I don’t. I merely enjoy a good meal and its ability to help break down barriers.”
Her being face to face with Mr. Jones is not where she ever expected to be. She put the idea of a father out of her mind years ago. It was always a none issue. “He didn’t want us,” her mother would sometimes say. Given their circumstances, it was difficult to argue.
After George suggested that Operations had had her father killed, Nikita began to feel burning outrage on behalf of a man she never knew, a mother who did, and herself, who was robbed of the opportunity. Killing Operations was never something she’d ever considered, it wasn’t in her nature, but given the hell of the recent past that she’d endured, the possibility was something she relished entertaining. She wasn’t proud that she let her morals get compromised that far, but she was exhausted by all the games. The familiar weight of the gun in her hand gave her comfort and a sense of control that had been sorely absent around that time.
Then there was Madeline’s stomach churning suggestion that Operations was her father. The rationale appeared sound but she was no happier with the suggestion.
She was still processing the reality before her and the disappointment that many had cautioned her about when she set out to discover why she’d been recruited into Section. She certainly got her answer, with something just as important added in. The revelation left her confused, somewhat unmoored, and yes, still angry.
“Well, I brought my appetite,” she offers.
“Were you often hungry…before?”
Nikita considers the question and determines that she’s not offended.
“Often enough.”
“What did you do?”
“You don’t know?”
“I imagine what I know is quite sanitized. Summarizations on a page. I’d rather hear it from you.”
Nikita slowly taps her finger on the table, thinking about Mr. Jones’ request. She looks into his eyes. Eyes that match her own.
“Have you ever been hungry?” She asks him.
“Yes.”
She waits for him to continue.
“Food shortages during the war,” he elaborates. “German bombers raiding the city made life unbearable for some and impossible for most.”
He looks at her straight on, conveying a glimpse of his life’s story as unemotionally as possible.
“I was a young boy then, and rationing made things scarce, but I doubt we experienced the same thing,” he concludes and redirects the conversation back to her.
Nikita contemplates her water glass for a second before answering.
“It’s not like skipping breakfast because you’re rushed in the morning or being so tired that you can’t even bother to eat something because sleep is much more tempting. It’s more. Just more.”
She lets her thoughts take her back to those years she spent living day by day. Of the friends who would shoot up just to dull the pain of being unwanted. Of the constant concern to stay safe and away from not just law enforcement but those wanting to take advantage. And of the generosity of those who didn’t look at her and her friends like they were a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes.
“It’s being so hungry that you forget you’re hungry. It’s being so hungry that when you finally do eat, you throw it up immediately and your first thought is how completely wasteful that was. You instantly feel stupid for not thinking things through.”
Nikita can almost taste it. The bitter bile that accompanies the sense of failure as she looks at the regurgitated remnants of the first food she’d had in days. The lingering aftertaste that she can’t immediately wash out of her mouth because there was no water, soda or even booze to accompany her wasted meal.
She wasn’t offended earlier by the line of questioning, but she’s getting there.
“But that’s not what you’re really asking, is it? You’re more interested in the lesson.” Nikita lets a trace of bitterness enter her voice. “What did being hungry teach me?”
What did her mother see in this man? What did this man see in her mother? What made him think that she, the daughter he never knew or likely never held in his arms, was the perfect test subject for his little social experiment? Those aren’t questions she can ask. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
“It taught me to plan ahead, so that I could minimize long periods of going without. It taught me concentration, because without it, I’d be taken advantage of in my weakened state. It taught me patience, because once you throw up some free lo mein and egg rolls because you ate too fast, you realize it’s more than a damn shame.”
“Skills that Section One refined, but didn’t teach.”
The look of self-satisfaction on Mr. Jones’ face annoys her. The pride she took in taking care of herself all those years feels somewhat tainted in knowing it was a lesson he orchestrated for her to learn.
“It’s what you wanted. You wanted me resilient and able to survive long before I was dragged into the Section. Mission accomplished.”
Nikita sighs and wonders if her being here was a good idea after all. Can she get over the lingering resentment she feels over being left to fend for herself?
A waiter approaches them, but one look from Mr. Jones sends him back into the kitchen.
“The reports you received. Did they ever tell you that I had food poisoning once and that I had to be admitted into an all night clinic?”
Mr. Jones’ face softens ever so slightly and Nikita catches a glimpse of the man who had invited her to dinner earlier.
“Yes, they did. We had access to your charts. I remember,” he pauses. His tone is contemplative. “I remember that your temperature was worrisome and there was concern for your kidneys.”
“What did you do?”
“Other than continue to monitor you…nothing.”
“Nothing,” she repeats. The loneliness she felt that night is not something she likes to revisit. She could have died that day and no one would have mourned her. Mr. Jones would likely have simply written her off as not good enough. How could he grieve for a daughter he never knew?
“How about the Gelman process?” Nikita decides to press. “It was barbaric and you let it happen.” She scoffs lightly. “I imagine that if in my conditioned state I’d even come close to revealing anything about Centre you would have just had me killed.”
Mr. Jones says nothing. It’s enough of an answer. She doesn’t dare mention the debilitating side effects she recently exhibited.
She knows instantly that she must have hit a nerve when she notices that Mr. Jones’ cheeks have taken on a ruddiness that was only hinted at when he forcefully told her about how security considerations influenced his policy to never interfere with her life. Good. Why should she be the only one getting upset?
“Did you and Michael Samuelle really think you could get away with the reckless behavior you were engaged in?” His tone is clipped and his countenance almost patronizing. “It’s what motivated Operations and Madeline to enact the Gelman Process.”
The verbalization of what she had sometimes thought of shocks her. If she hadn’t succumbed to her desires and the thrill of having Michael’s undivided attention, it’s likely she could have avoided the Gelman Process. In some ways, thinking that felt far more insidious than her feeling like she’d already betrayed Michael with her thoughts. It felt more damning than when she finally turned their world upside down and gave Michael up to Grenet and the long string of events that culminated with them parting under a necessary but heartbreaking lie.
“Are you trying to tell me that I…that we brought it on ourselves?” The accuracy of his assessment grates her but still doesn’t prevent her from feeling insulted.
“You should never have gotten involved,” he says with some force. “Your assignment was simple. Observe, report, and most importantly…survive. The relationship unnecessarily made you a target.”
Those days of clandestine meetings and almost desperate couplings are incredibly vivid, but even more vivid is the memory of Michael’s passion. It was all consuming. Even while she worried about discovery, she was equally entranced by the strength of Michael’s love. Any words of caution she could have voiced immediately faded away when his lips touched hers. The tenderness of his touch, despite their urgency, left her sleepless at night, all while her stomach was twisted in knots at the inevitable endgame that would likely tear them apart.
“It wasn’t wise,” she admits quietly. “Knowing that Michael was committed to us and willing to defy Section was a heady experience. He…he was supposed to be something for me…a little bit of happiness.”
“And were you…happy?”
“It was stressful.” Her words have a brittle quality to them. She’d never voiced some of these thoughts aloud. It was dangerous, even if she’d had someone to confide in. “Even after all his lies and manipulations, I didn’t like lying to him. I wasn’t just making reports to Centre anymore. I was starting to feel detached from everything around me. The Gelman Process changed me. I still feel different. There’s a part of me that feels foreign, like a remnant of that strange person I became. In the end, hurting Michael was more painful than I could have ever imagined. He went on his abeyance mission believing everything that we’d had was a lie. I wish things could have been different.”
Mr. Jones looks at her in understanding. Perhaps she was too quick to dismiss his claims of how “painful” his detachment had been all those years ago.
“Life is about choices, Nikita. Once they’re made, they’re made. Don’t waste your energy on regret. Take the experience, learn from it and grow.”
It sounded like something Michael would say.
“You’re not sorry,” Nikita points out.
“No, I’m not. I stand by my decision all those years ago.”
It’s something she’s going to have to come to terms with if this partnership is going to work.
“Would you do it again?”
“In a heartbeat. Section One needs you, Nikita.”
“Even if I don’t need Section.”
“I disagree.”
Nikita resists the urge to roll her eyes.
“Whatever.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement. She’s seen the gesture a few times already.
“You’ve shown great strength already, Nikita, especially with regards to your former mentor. You put your personal feelings aside for the greater good.”
“So any hopes and dreams that I may have of a life away from Section are irrelevant. You will continue to dictate the course of my life.”
“‘A life away from Section’. It was within your power to have it. You and Samuelle had sunk your files. You had nothing but the open sea before you. We would have, of course, caught up with you eventually, but by revealing yourselves, you cut short that life you speak of. You did Nikita. So all this talk about dreams and a life away, is just that, talk. You do understand what’s at stake here.”
Yes, she did. She let the possibility of reforming Section One into a more humane but still effective organization take precedence over the possibility of a life with Michael on the outside. Her words to Michael that first night they made love were not a lie. Her six months on the outside were not what she had expected. She’d changed too much in the three years that she spent within Section. There was no going back. She assessed every situation like an operative. The paranoia was stifling. Always alert and aware of those around her made the transition difficult.
A small part of her was almost relieved when she was approached by Centre. If she couldn’t go back and going forward was not what she had expected, she was willing to adapt and adapt meant considering Centre’s offer.
Section One does important work. As much as she hated being inside Section, she could see the value of its role in protecting innocent lives. She simply could not abide by its tactics. Perhaps she was more than a little naive, but when presented with the opportunity to make things better, she took it. It would have been easier with Michael. It would have been a life of them forever looking over their shoulders, but they would have been together and together they’d learn to discover how love and freedom could shape their future. If they ever cross paths again, she hopes that someday Michael can forgive her. Her love for him is great and even though he didn’t ask for it, his freedom was the only thing she could give him. He’d selflessly gifted Nikita her freedom four years ago. It set her on the path she’s on today. She hopes that the course of his life will now be of his choosing.
Nikita opens her menu and looks away from the man who had revealed himself as her father. She can feel his eyes assessing her. Her initial disappointment with Mr. Jones’ detached temperament eventually made way to curiosity. She came because she was interested in learning more about him, the man, not the composed head of Centre.
In the end, it will all come down to trust. If she and Mr. Jones are going to accomplish anything, they need to trust each other. His dinner invitation seemed like the perfect place to start.
“So what’s good here?”
Everything was written in Hungarian. The list of dishes thankfully came with a brief description of the ingredients in French and English.
“You can’t go wrong with the Paprikás Csirke,” Mr. Jones answers, not bothering to open his own menu.
“I think to start I’ll have Malna Piskotatekercs.”
Mr. Jones’ mouth opens slightly and his brow furrows in confusion.
“That’s a dessert.”
“I know,” she replies uncaring. “My life on the street also taught me to enjoy the simple pleasures when you can get them. That concept extends to dessert.”
“Each moment we live may be our last.”
“My question to you is, will I be enjoying it alone?”
-30-
Notes: "Food is the most primitive form of comfort.”—Sheilah Graham
by abby82
category: post-episode
rating: General
word count: 2,670
disclaimer: they don’t belong to me, no money is being made. I’m only borrowing them.
author’s note: This was written for Emm, who suggested in the comments of my canon divergent season 5 centric story "the hour of separation", "Perhaps you could write the dinner Nikita has with her father in S5? I always wanted to see more of their relationship"
I'll admit that I haven't really watched season 5 all that much. Perhaps three times through when I first binged LFN in 2020. I did, however, remember Peta's performance early on in the episode when she tells Walter about meeting her father. She was so good in it and she perfectly convey's Nikita's state of mind as she's trying to process everything that she's just discovered. There's a mixture of disappointment, confusion, and anger on her face. He's "all business" is her assessment of Mr. Jones. That initial meeting didn't give her what she was looking for. It was definitely a highlight of the season for me.
story began: April 2023
story finished: November 2023
links: LJ | AO3 | Tumblr
summary: Nikita and Mr. Jones break bread.
“Have you ever had Hungarian, Nikita?” Mr. Jones asks her after they’re seated at their table. The restaurant is small. Clearly family run and squeezed into a narrow alley between a tailor and a small bakery in Montemartre. It’s not likely to attract a more cosmopolitan clientele. She and Mr. Jones, he with his silent and omnipresent bodyguards and she with her best Michael at his most aloof impression, look out of place. Only a few tables are occupied and the smell of paprika is so strong that it settles in her nostrils.
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Paris is, of course, the crown jewel of the gastronomical world. There’s something for everyone. Michelin star restaurants…kebab stands. Where does your preference lie?”
She smooths her hand across the crisp, dark linen of the tablecloth before her.
“Nowhere in particular. I’m always open to new experiences.”
“I find that Hungarian is a rather unpretentious cuisine. It feeds the soul.” He leans forward and speaks in a congenial way. Humor dances in his eyes. “It sticks to your ribs, especially on a cold winter’s night. It’s not a bad way to break bread with someone either.”
Nikita takes his peace offering at face value and she allows herself to be more receptive to him.
“The owner of this establishment is from Zalaegerszeg in western Hungary near the border with Austria. What makes this particular restaurant stand out is that unlike others, it doesn’t try to cater to local tastes. It is unapologetically Hungarian without an ounce of consideration to French palates.”
Nikita smiles at that. She can appreciate the sentiment.
“They’re giving France the middle finger.”
Mr. Jones laughs. “Precisely.”
“You know a lot about this place,” she observes. “Do you know the owner?”
“No, I don’t. I merely enjoy a good meal and its ability to help break down barriers.”
Her being face to face with Mr. Jones is not where she ever expected to be. She put the idea of a father out of her mind years ago. It was always a none issue. “He didn’t want us,” her mother would sometimes say. Given their circumstances, it was difficult to argue.
After George suggested that Operations had had her father killed, Nikita began to feel burning outrage on behalf of a man she never knew, a mother who did, and herself, who was robbed of the opportunity. Killing Operations was never something she’d ever considered, it wasn’t in her nature, but given the hell of the recent past that she’d endured, the possibility was something she relished entertaining. She wasn’t proud that she let her morals get compromised that far, but she was exhausted by all the games. The familiar weight of the gun in her hand gave her comfort and a sense of control that had been sorely absent around that time.
Then there was Madeline’s stomach churning suggestion that Operations was her father. The rationale appeared sound but she was no happier with the suggestion.
She was still processing the reality before her and the disappointment that many had cautioned her about when she set out to discover why she’d been recruited into Section. She certainly got her answer, with something just as important added in. The revelation left her confused, somewhat unmoored, and yes, still angry.
“Well, I brought my appetite,” she offers.
“Were you often hungry…before?”
Nikita considers the question and determines that she’s not offended.
“Often enough.”
“What did you do?”
“You don’t know?”
“I imagine what I know is quite sanitized. Summarizations on a page. I’d rather hear it from you.”
Nikita slowly taps her finger on the table, thinking about Mr. Jones’ request. She looks into his eyes. Eyes that match her own.
“Have you ever been hungry?” She asks him.
“Yes.”
She waits for him to continue.
“Food shortages during the war,” he elaborates. “German bombers raiding the city made life unbearable for some and impossible for most.”
He looks at her straight on, conveying a glimpse of his life’s story as unemotionally as possible.
“I was a young boy then, and rationing made things scarce, but I doubt we experienced the same thing,” he concludes and redirects the conversation back to her.
Nikita contemplates her water glass for a second before answering.
“It’s not like skipping breakfast because you’re rushed in the morning or being so tired that you can’t even bother to eat something because sleep is much more tempting. It’s more. Just more.”
She lets her thoughts take her back to those years she spent living day by day. Of the friends who would shoot up just to dull the pain of being unwanted. Of the constant concern to stay safe and away from not just law enforcement but those wanting to take advantage. And of the generosity of those who didn’t look at her and her friends like they were a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes.
“It’s being so hungry that you forget you’re hungry. It’s being so hungry that when you finally do eat, you throw it up immediately and your first thought is how completely wasteful that was. You instantly feel stupid for not thinking things through.”
Nikita can almost taste it. The bitter bile that accompanies the sense of failure as she looks at the regurgitated remnants of the first food she’d had in days. The lingering aftertaste that she can’t immediately wash out of her mouth because there was no water, soda or even booze to accompany her wasted meal.
She wasn’t offended earlier by the line of questioning, but she’s getting there.
“But that’s not what you’re really asking, is it? You’re more interested in the lesson.” Nikita lets a trace of bitterness enter her voice. “What did being hungry teach me?”
What did her mother see in this man? What did this man see in her mother? What made him think that she, the daughter he never knew or likely never held in his arms, was the perfect test subject for his little social experiment? Those aren’t questions she can ask. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
“It taught me to plan ahead, so that I could minimize long periods of going without. It taught me concentration, because without it, I’d be taken advantage of in my weakened state. It taught me patience, because once you throw up some free lo mein and egg rolls because you ate too fast, you realize it’s more than a damn shame.”
“Skills that Section One refined, but didn’t teach.”
The look of self-satisfaction on Mr. Jones’ face annoys her. The pride she took in taking care of herself all those years feels somewhat tainted in knowing it was a lesson he orchestrated for her to learn.
“It’s what you wanted. You wanted me resilient and able to survive long before I was dragged into the Section. Mission accomplished.”
Nikita sighs and wonders if her being here was a good idea after all. Can she get over the lingering resentment she feels over being left to fend for herself?
A waiter approaches them, but one look from Mr. Jones sends him back into the kitchen.
“The reports you received. Did they ever tell you that I had food poisoning once and that I had to be admitted into an all night clinic?”
Mr. Jones’ face softens ever so slightly and Nikita catches a glimpse of the man who had invited her to dinner earlier.
“Yes, they did. We had access to your charts. I remember,” he pauses. His tone is contemplative. “I remember that your temperature was worrisome and there was concern for your kidneys.”
“What did you do?”
“Other than continue to monitor you…nothing.”
“Nothing,” she repeats. The loneliness she felt that night is not something she likes to revisit. She could have died that day and no one would have mourned her. Mr. Jones would likely have simply written her off as not good enough. How could he grieve for a daughter he never knew?
“How about the Gelman process?” Nikita decides to press. “It was barbaric and you let it happen.” She scoffs lightly. “I imagine that if in my conditioned state I’d even come close to revealing anything about Centre you would have just had me killed.”
Mr. Jones says nothing. It’s enough of an answer. She doesn’t dare mention the debilitating side effects she recently exhibited.
She knows instantly that she must have hit a nerve when she notices that Mr. Jones’ cheeks have taken on a ruddiness that was only hinted at when he forcefully told her about how security considerations influenced his policy to never interfere with her life. Good. Why should she be the only one getting upset?
“Did you and Michael Samuelle really think you could get away with the reckless behavior you were engaged in?” His tone is clipped and his countenance almost patronizing. “It’s what motivated Operations and Madeline to enact the Gelman Process.”
The verbalization of what she had sometimes thought of shocks her. If she hadn’t succumbed to her desires and the thrill of having Michael’s undivided attention, it’s likely she could have avoided the Gelman Process. In some ways, thinking that felt far more insidious than her feeling like she’d already betrayed Michael with her thoughts. It felt more damning than when she finally turned their world upside down and gave Michael up to Grenet and the long string of events that culminated with them parting under a necessary but heartbreaking lie.
“Are you trying to tell me that I…that we brought it on ourselves?” The accuracy of his assessment grates her but still doesn’t prevent her from feeling insulted.
“You should never have gotten involved,” he says with some force. “Your assignment was simple. Observe, report, and most importantly…survive. The relationship unnecessarily made you a target.”
Those days of clandestine meetings and almost desperate couplings are incredibly vivid, but even more vivid is the memory of Michael’s passion. It was all consuming. Even while she worried about discovery, she was equally entranced by the strength of Michael’s love. Any words of caution she could have voiced immediately faded away when his lips touched hers. The tenderness of his touch, despite their urgency, left her sleepless at night, all while her stomach was twisted in knots at the inevitable endgame that would likely tear them apart.
“It wasn’t wise,” she admits quietly. “Knowing that Michael was committed to us and willing to defy Section was a heady experience. He…he was supposed to be something for me…a little bit of happiness.”
“And were you…happy?”
“It was stressful.” Her words have a brittle quality to them. She’d never voiced some of these thoughts aloud. It was dangerous, even if she’d had someone to confide in. “Even after all his lies and manipulations, I didn’t like lying to him. I wasn’t just making reports to Centre anymore. I was starting to feel detached from everything around me. The Gelman Process changed me. I still feel different. There’s a part of me that feels foreign, like a remnant of that strange person I became. In the end, hurting Michael was more painful than I could have ever imagined. He went on his abeyance mission believing everything that we’d had was a lie. I wish things could have been different.”
Mr. Jones looks at her in understanding. Perhaps she was too quick to dismiss his claims of how “painful” his detachment had been all those years ago.
“Life is about choices, Nikita. Once they’re made, they’re made. Don’t waste your energy on regret. Take the experience, learn from it and grow.”
It sounded like something Michael would say.
“You’re not sorry,” Nikita points out.
“No, I’m not. I stand by my decision all those years ago.”
It’s something she’s going to have to come to terms with if this partnership is going to work.
“Would you do it again?”
“In a heartbeat. Section One needs you, Nikita.”
“Even if I don’t need Section.”
“I disagree.”
Nikita resists the urge to roll her eyes.
“Whatever.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement. She’s seen the gesture a few times already.
“You’ve shown great strength already, Nikita, especially with regards to your former mentor. You put your personal feelings aside for the greater good.”
“So any hopes and dreams that I may have of a life away from Section are irrelevant. You will continue to dictate the course of my life.”
“‘A life away from Section’. It was within your power to have it. You and Samuelle had sunk your files. You had nothing but the open sea before you. We would have, of course, caught up with you eventually, but by revealing yourselves, you cut short that life you speak of. You did Nikita. So all this talk about dreams and a life away, is just that, talk. You do understand what’s at stake here.”
Yes, she did. She let the possibility of reforming Section One into a more humane but still effective organization take precedence over the possibility of a life with Michael on the outside. Her words to Michael that first night they made love were not a lie. Her six months on the outside were not what she had expected. She’d changed too much in the three years that she spent within Section. There was no going back. She assessed every situation like an operative. The paranoia was stifling. Always alert and aware of those around her made the transition difficult.
A small part of her was almost relieved when she was approached by Centre. If she couldn’t go back and going forward was not what she had expected, she was willing to adapt and adapt meant considering Centre’s offer.
Section One does important work. As much as she hated being inside Section, she could see the value of its role in protecting innocent lives. She simply could not abide by its tactics. Perhaps she was more than a little naive, but when presented with the opportunity to make things better, she took it. It would have been easier with Michael. It would have been a life of them forever looking over their shoulders, but they would have been together and together they’d learn to discover how love and freedom could shape their future. If they ever cross paths again, she hopes that someday Michael can forgive her. Her love for him is great and even though he didn’t ask for it, his freedom was the only thing she could give him. He’d selflessly gifted Nikita her freedom four years ago. It set her on the path she’s on today. She hopes that the course of his life will now be of his choosing.
Nikita opens her menu and looks away from the man who had revealed himself as her father. She can feel his eyes assessing her. Her initial disappointment with Mr. Jones’ detached temperament eventually made way to curiosity. She came because she was interested in learning more about him, the man, not the composed head of Centre.
In the end, it will all come down to trust. If she and Mr. Jones are going to accomplish anything, they need to trust each other. His dinner invitation seemed like the perfect place to start.
“So what’s good here?”
Everything was written in Hungarian. The list of dishes thankfully came with a brief description of the ingredients in French and English.
“You can’t go wrong with the Paprikás Csirke,” Mr. Jones answers, not bothering to open his own menu.
“I think to start I’ll have Malna Piskotatekercs.”
Mr. Jones’ mouth opens slightly and his brow furrows in confusion.
“That’s a dessert.”
“I know,” she replies uncaring. “My life on the street also taught me to enjoy the simple pleasures when you can get them. That concept extends to dessert.”
“Each moment we live may be our last.”
“My question to you is, will I be enjoying it alone?”
-30-
Notes: "Food is the most primitive form of comfort.”—Sheilah Graham