Nikita flopped across her bed on her back, hugging a pillow to her chest and sighing loudly in the darkness. The mission had been brutal - she'd been expected to perform at peak efficiency, even though she'd already been sent on three other missions, one after another. She'd averaged about four hours of sleep a night, for the last month. Now, having survived the intense debrief, all she wanted to do was bond with the inside of her eyelids. It was after midnight.

She hadn't seen Michael at all. The last time they'd been close had been when he'd kissed her on the cheek after Adrian had been captured. It had been his goodbye to her, she knew. He hadn't been able to say the words she'd always longed to hear. He'd closed off as completely to her as if she were already dead.

Already dead. She FELT already dead. She was exhausted, yet she could not find sleep. Her mind kept racing from one topic to another at breakneck speed, never stopping anywhere long, the mental trip almost as draining as her physical ordeal had been.

Nikita finally dragged herself off the bed and into the bathroom, stripping and showering quickly, washing her hair. All the while her hands were soaping her body, she imagined larger, more inquisitive hands on her, exploring deeper places, caressing and soothing, asking questions of her flesh, demanding answers...

She shut the faucet off, stepped out and toweled off almost viciously, the coarse texture of the terrycloth abrading her already bruised and sensitive skin. The pain felt good - it was self-inflicted, unlike the pain she'd endured on the last three missions. Her heart hurt - her mind burned, her body ached from numerous wounds, but the wound that drove her to tears was not physical, but emotional. Michael.

It always came down to Michael. How could he shut her out so completely? How could he act as though she did not exist anymore, when at one point not so long ago, he'd almost raped her in his desperation to be a part of her? How could he blithely go on without her even though she was still with him?

Nikita shook her head to dislodge the image of Michael which had embedded itself in her brain. The sight of him, standing naked in the moonglow in the belly of the barge where they'd made such passionate, wondrous love in Lyons, his face peaceful and pensive, his muscles accented by shadows and light...

She'd touched him, everywhere. And he'd allowed it - no, he'd BEGGED for it, his voice hoarse and whispered as his hands roamed over her as if to memorize every curve and ripple, every nuance of her form. "Please, Nikita," he'd uttered softly, his lips against her mouth, breathing her breath. "Touch me..."

And she had. Oh, how she had... Even now, remembering that night, she had to fight back a wave of laser-sharp desire. No one had ever done to her what Michael had done that night. No man had ever sent her so completely out of her senses.

They'd wrestled passionately, gasping half-sentences, mouths open, searching, hands everywhere, bodies locking, separating, and locking again. Michael had seemed starved for her then - even when she'd tried to pull away for a moment to catch her breath, he'd clutched her tightly to him and renewed his caresses and kisses as if he were terrified of being alone. His throat had worked, but no sound had come out and in the end, he'd been reduced to showing her his feelings rather than saying them to her.

Nikita knew sleep wouldn't be her companion tonight. She wrapped her chenille robe around her, combed out her damp hair, and set about fixing a cup of chamomile tea, hoping the soothing properties would relax her troubled mind enough to allow her a few precious hours of dreamless slumber...

Propped up in bed, sipping her tea, she tried to lose herself in a thick novel, but her attention was drawn elsewhere, to her future, however tenuous it would be. She was still in a sort of probationary state with Operations and Mad'laine. Her open challenge in front of Adrian would, in other circumstances, have sealed her fate, but for some reason, the powers that be had chosen to keep her alive. In a perverted sense of justice, she was given more missions, allowed less downtime, and was kept so busy that even a glimpse of Michael had been impossible.

Of course, Nikita knew the game. They were killing her slowly, using her to their advantage as long as possible before her body or her mind gave out and she made a fatal mistake. If she were killed on a mission, they would not have to answer to Michael, or to oversight. Operatives died on missions - even the best ones were not immune to time and unforeseen occurrences.

Nikita wondered, as she held the book face down on her stomach, why she was fighting so hard for life, when up to that point, life to her had always included joy and wonder. There was no joy now, no sense of wonder. Nothing caused her heart to leap with surprise and pleasure - nothing and no one. Except Michael.

*Dammit!* she swore silently. *There he is again! Why can't he leave my mind alone?* She felt almost like a child in the midst of a violent tantrum - she resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears and kick her feet in frustration. The chamomile tea wasn't helping. She needed drugs - lots of them, strong ones. But the only drug that had ever worked to help her sleep had been Michael's soothing touch, so infrequently bestowed and so cherished.

Nikita finally got out of bed and dressed hurriedly. She needed to get out of the apartment - needed to think, or to stop thinking. She needed to-In that instant, she knew.

~~~~~

She roamed the halls of Section, watching the skeleton crew of operatives staring intently at their computer screens or walking like shadows throughout the caverns and mazes of concrete that made up the Section. She took a deep breath, knocked on the door of Michael's office, and waited for a moment. Hearing no response, she tried the door. It was locked. Defeat stabbed her like a physical pain - it had never occurred to her that he would not be there.

Swallowing her disappointment, Nikita turned away from the door, not knowing where she could go now. Tears stung her eyes. She'd needed Michael so badly - needed to talk to him, to just see his eyes... She really WAS already dead, if she could not ever be near him again.

Resigned, she knew then what she had to do. She would not let Section One kill her. She would not let them take what lay in her hands alone to sacrifice. She would not let them triumph in her pain.

As she made to leave, blinded by the tears, she walked straight into someone, then stepped back, murmuring an apology without looking up. She tried to go around the person with whom she'd collided, then froze when she heard the voice.

"Nikita." Whispered, sensual, rich with warmth. Michael. Oh, God, Michael. She felt fingers clasping her shoulders. She could not meet his eyes - to do so would be to fall forever, and she had an end game of her own to complete. A finger touched her chin, raising her face. "Look at me, Nikita."

Unwillingly, dreading what she knew was coming, she looked into his eyes and prepared for the fall. His hand glided back to her shoulder.

Green met blue - they were so close Michael could have kissed her, or killed her. Nikita could not look away - could only stare into his eyes, mesmerized, galvanized, helpless.

So softly she almost could not be sure she'd heard him, Michael uttered, his lips nearly touching hers, "I love you, Nikita...I have always, and will always, love you."

And he let go of her arms and stepped away from her, leaving her dazed and shaken as he walked away from her. She did not see his hands clench into fists, did not know that after he'd turned away his eyes filled with tears, had no clue that from the moment he'd kissed her cheek to the moment he'd turned his back he had felt, every second, as though he were already dead...

~~~~~

Somewhere, in another part of the world, the sun rose, a bird began to sing, a heart began to beat, and life went on. In Section One, despite the darkness, two hearts discovered that "already dead" was no longer an option... The End