Madeline, sleek and beautiful as ever in a black suit and heels, seemed to sense Birkoff's annoyance, and laid her hand gently on his sore shoulder, softly murmured her congratulations, and left him in peace, wandering towards the tower where she and Ops would deconstruct the mission over coq au vin and good red wine, pull it apart and analyze where the weakness was. Even though he knew she'd just praised him for a job well done, he also knew that she would turn her sharp gaze on the debrief and criticize each component that had not gone the way it was supposed to. As quickly as she'd soothed him, she'd lay the blame at his feet.
His shift over, he logged off and headed down the corridor to his quarters, his sneakers barely making a sound on the polished floors. Walter waved to him, beckoning him to talk a while, but Birkoff didn't feel much like talking these days. Not since Gayle. When Gayle dumped him, it hit him hard, so hard he still felt it now, in December, eight months later. When they were last together there had been daffodils on the lawn outside her apartment building. Now there would be snow, probably, although he hadn't been outside in months, except for riding along in the van on missions.
He closed the door behind him, not turning on the light. He was used to, and comfortable with, the glow from his three PC's, linked together in a daisy chain. It didn't matter what Walter and Nikita said about his living in Section, that he wasn't living at all. They were wrong. The only time he felt alive was when he was with the technology, when logic and pure science melded together for him, allowing him to feel as if he was in control of something. Logic never said no. Technology never questioned your authority or your judgement. Science never dumped you for some stupid jerk in Medical.
He sighed in the dark, sitting down in front of the center terminal, punching in his log on and his ID, then the confidential code he changed every day. Three new messages, none from Gayle's addy. Crossing his legs Indian style as he kicked off his sneakers, his hand found the cellophane bag next to the joystick. Oreos. He bit into one, the filling coating his tongue as he double--clicked on the first message.
B.--Intel received in Paris. Mission progressing on schedule. Will de-brief 26 December, 09:15 hrs. Have SIMM ready for phase two.
--M.
Birkoff stared at the date, then the red LED glowing 12-24 11:52am next to the computer. Christmas Eve. He'd known it was December, but Christ, how could he not realize it was Christmas already? Well, he laughed caustically, it's not like there's much caroling and eggnog down here.
There are no holidays in hell. The next message was from Walter.
Buddy, going out with a couple of very foxy ladies to a little bar I know. How about a little Xmas cheer? RSVP ASAP. Walter.
A wry little smile curled itself on Birkoff's lips. Good old Walter. Even losing the one woman he'd opened his heart to couldn't stop him from at least trying to find a way to escape from Section, if only in a bottle on Christmas Eve. He was tempted, but not enough.
"Walter, thanks for the invite, but I'm tied up. Have a couple for me. B."
The third message was from Nikita.
"Birkoff, look under the bed. Sorry I can't be there when you open it. Merry Christmas. Will see you when we get in from Algiers. Nikita."
Birkoff dropped to one knee and felt around under the bed until his hand hit something hard and slippery. He pulled the small silver box out and sat back down, holding it in his lap. It had been a long time since he'd had a Christmas present. It seemed appropriate that it should be from Nikita, the one girl in Section who was honest enough and cared enough to try and bring something normal into such a twisted place.
He opened the box. Inside, he found a pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses and a note. "Wear these when you go out. Eyes are the windows of the soul. Only raise your shades when you're looking at something, or someone, worthwhile. N."
He held the glasses in his hands for a long time, turning them over and over, feeling the weight of them against his skin. He stood up and switched on the light, walking to the mirror in the bathroom. He stared at his reflection. This is what they see when they look at me, he thought.
This is Birkoff, the computer geek that Ops needs and fears, uses and resents because I know things he cannot understand. This is Birkoff, whom Madeline sees right through, no matter how well I complete a task, she sees the insecurity and would never hesitate to use it. This is Birkoff, whom Michael barely notices, whom he uses like an attachment to the mainframe, and is surprised when he can't shut me off at night with a flick of a switch. This is Birkoff, whom Walter feels sorry for, yet envies because of my youth and potential, and resents because I will not use it the way Walter would. This is Birkoff, whom the world thinks is dead. This is Birkoff, whom Gayle said she loved once, and then took it back, but was surprised when the door to my heart locked behind her when she left.
Birkoff took his wire frames off, and slipped the sunglasses on. Cool, he whispered. How'd she get my prescription?
This is Birkoff, he thought to himself as he locked the door behind him and headed towards Egress, out into the world he shunned and feared, yet still longed to be a part of. This is Birkoff, whom Nikita understands, and cares about. Around him, people were scurrying around, last minute holiday shopping, wishing each other Merry Christmas. He walked amongst them, a ghost among the living, but did not feel sad.
He caught a glimpse of Gayle coming out of a shop, her arms full of packages. His first instinct was to run back to Section and the safety of his quarters, but then he took a deep breath, and walked towards her.
"Hey, " he said as casually as he could.
"Oh, hi, Birkoff!" Her face was pink with cold and exertion, the way it had been when... he swallowed hard. "Are you shopping, too?" She looked at his face searchingly, quizzically.
"Nah, just out for a walk." He smiled. No wonder she looked confused. The glasses hid his eyes, hid his embarrassment and hurt. She could always tell what he was thinking before by reading his eyes. Now she was off kilter, wasn't sure.
"Do you want to get some coffee, Seymour?" Damn, she still used the same perfume, he could smell it on the wind.
"No, I have some stuff to do. I'll see you later, though." He started down the street, then turned to face her. "Merry Christmas, Gayle," he said softly.
"Merry Christmas, Birkoff." He watched her hail a cab, saw it pull away. And as the cold stung his face, a tiny, healing tear ran under the frame of the sunglasses.
"Merry Christmas, 'Kita." he thought to himself, then headed off into the brisk December air.
