The briefing room was empty except for Michael. It was after two A. M., and he sat at the table, his hands resting palms-down in front of him. His eyes were a dark, frightening green, like a moss-grown bayou. He fought for some kind of balance, desperately needing to rise above what had happened earlier the previous day.

The mission had seemed simple - plenty of backup, little resistance - almost like a vacation, as far as profiles went. He had led the team of six operatives, including Nikita, into the abandoned bunker in southern Nevada, prepared for heavy return gunfire but expecting little. On the flight to the drop-point, he and Nikita had exchanged subtle jokes, and the atmosphere had been almost like that of a family. Michael's heart had quickened its beat in response to Nikita's smile and gentle teasing, but he hadn't been at liberty to reciprocate, to let her know she was appreciated and needed.

Now, it was too late. She was gone, and Michael sat alone, fighting his guilt and self-hatred. He thought, I could have touched her - I could have smiled at her. I could have told her I valued her life..." He'd had no way of knowing, then, that the picture-perfect mission would turn treacherous and deadly. He'd been prepared for it as an operative, but he hadn't really prepared for it as a man. The line he'd so carefully drawn between his Section-life and his "Michael-life" had been blurred during those moments when Nikita's scream had rent the air and she'd been viciously torn from his care.

Going back in time, Michael remembered, vividly, every word he'd said to her in his office, when he'd tried to explain why he'd left the wire on her and used it to bring down Jurgen. As expected, she hadn't lashed out at what had been done to Jurgen, although she'd disagreed with the methods used - Michael knew she recognized the necessity of the action taken. She'd been deeply hurt by his personal betrayal of their intimacy. She'd given herself to him unreservedly that night he'd come to her in Lyons. Their love had been wild and joyous and frightening - Michael had fought fantasies of a night such as that, every day he was in Nikita's presence and every moment he was away from her. He'd struggled for emotional balance and control, even when he'd begun to believe she hadn't made it out of the building before it exploded. Even when he'd started to resign himself to the probability that Nikita was dead, he'd still had the too-real fantasies in the night - he'd still come awake sweating and gasping from any number of dream-encounters with her.

He couldn't even feel disgust with himself anymore - he'd shut off so many of his emotions after the debriefing that he honestly didn't believe he felt anything at all. He truly was dead, and he resigned himself to that fact. The mission became everything and nothing to him. He performed for Section - he got the job done, but he didn't care who or how many died in the process. He even secretly wished someone would kill him on a mission, just so he could finally be free of his pain.

That night in Lyons, when the team had been ambushed, Michael had known about the two shooters drawing beads on him. He could have cut them down - he'd heard their footfall. But it didn't matter in that moment - he had deliberately turned slowly, praying they would open fire and take him down with a barrage of bullets. It would be quick and painless, all in the line of duty, and no one would mourn his death.

When he heard two shots, his first thought was that he was soon to die. Then, when he realized he was still standing, his next thought was that Section had miraculously provided backup. He discounted the possibility immediately, briefly wondering if he were losing his mind altogether. He'd slowly turned around, his eyes scanning the area for other hostiles who might have mistaken two of their own for the enemy. It had only been when his eyes had locked on a vision across the flames - a vision who looked like Nikita - that Michael had come to his senses, even if only temporarily. He stared over the brightness of the fire, meeting the eyes of that one who still held the gun in her hand, her expression sad and longing at the same time. Michael knew she'd saved his life, but his pain was so profound that he hadn't dared to cave in. He'd doubted his vision - he'd seen Nikita so often in the past six months that he truly believed this was just another mirage.

But he was alive, and there was a remote chance... He'd scrambled over the chain-link fence, escaping the gunfire and intercepting the transport at the designated location. He'd told no one what he'd seen, and his debriefing had been strictly by-the-book. Operations had been skeptical, but Michael could offer no insight - he couldn't tell Operations that he'd seen a woman who'd resembled Nikita in every respect. He'd carefully pulled his unemotional mask into place and lied to Operations.

After he'd quit the room, Michael had headed for his office, to confirm what he'd suspected. He'd dreaded the response, or the lack of response, to the message he'd been sending diligently since the night Nikita was to have been cancelled. He'd been afraid that what he'd seen had just been a more realistic hallucination, and that his mind had finally splintered.

To his astonishment, a one-word response appeared on the screen after his almost-desperate message: "Nikita, are you there?" The word flickered in red: "Yes."

Michael had almost collapsed over his desk, his legs suddenly weak, his heart pounding, his breath difficult to draw. She was alive...

From that second onward, Michael had begun to live again. He had convinced Operations that he could get information on the Freedom League from a little-known contact, and Operations, perhaps distracted with concerns of his own, hadn't seen through the deception. He'd allowed Michael free reign, and Michael had taken great pains to keep his destination a secret. He'd had to use Birkoff, which hadn't proven to be easy - Birkoff still blamed Michael for Nikita's death and resented him openly, making many aspects of his life difficult in a sort of personal glee, as if exacting vengeance on behalf of Nikita.

As Michael had approached the barge at the dock in Lyons he'd thought, Birkoff, if everything goes well, you'll have Nikita back.... Another voice - a calmer, softer, more secret voice hidden deep inside Michael's heart - had added, and so will I...

As full of dread as he'd been, Michael had also been jubilant and nervous, his heart daring to beat again. He'd known it could have been a trick, a set-up by Section to trap him, perhaps have him cancelled for duplicity. But as he'd opened the metal door and stepped into darkness, he sensed rather than saw Nikita's presence, and he'd known then that it hadn't been a ruse. She'd truly been there - he could almost smell her fear and her anticipation...

Michael remembered his reaction when he'd seen her face, so luminous in the light from the full moon shining through the portholes in the barge. She hadn't changed - she was still breathtakingly beautiful, and she still possessed the capacity to make his pulse quicken and his hands shake. All thought had left him then - he'd acted on pure animal instinct, first checking to be sure she was alone, then disarming her, not knowing what mental shape she was in at the time. He'd thrown her down on the bed, searching her face, looking for something to assure himself that she was the woman he'd set free. When he saw a flicker of relief and trust in her eyes, he gave himself over to his dominant feelings. Mouth open, eyes closed, he kissed her with everything inside him, surrendering to months of empty longing and haunted nights, letting emotions escalate as they would...

Michael closed his eyes now, thinking back to that night and how Nikita had finally opened to him unreservedly, matching him passion for passion, breath for breath, cry for cry, her body moving in perfect harmony with his as he'd held her closer than he'd ever dared before. If for only that night, he'd wanted her to know everything he'd never been able to say to her, and he'd taken her with violence and uncontrollable hunger, tempered with caution and tenderness. At first he'd held back, not wanting to frighten or hurt her - but she'd unleashed some kind of feral passion and was tearing at him, her teeth biting him, her lips kissing whatever she could reach, her hands hastily freeing him from his field gear, and he'd suddenly become the one afraid of being devastated in a firestorm...

Michael swallowed, lost in the memory. It had been unspeakably perfect - everything he'd ever dreamed it would be and more. It had taken three years for them to find it together and then only after he'd thought he'd lost her forever. He silently relived the memory of her soft limbs twining between and around his, clinging to him, sobbing his name, surrendering completely to the will of his body, his arms, his muscles, his lips as he loved her more absolutely than he'd ever allowed himself to love any woman since Simone.

All gone now, he knew. That one night had been all he would ever have of her. He wished he'd made more of it - but he'd foolishly told himself it had only been the beginning of many endless nights with her. He'd envisioned it in his mind, after they'd finally been sated completely - bringing her back to Section, getting her through deprogramming and retraining, watching her restored to full status... He hadn't foreseen Jurgen in the picture, and that had been his Achilles heel. He'd known they would assign Nikita to another trainer, and he'd been acquiescent to that. But when Jurgen had plodded into the room, level, bland, solid and unemotional, Michael had felt suddenly nauseated - an inconspicuous shudder rippled through him. Jurgen would destroy Nikita, he knew. Jurgen destroyed everyone with whom he came in contact - he was the one who'd taught Michael everything he knew about manipulation and emotional blackmail.

Michael had gone through every emotion he'd thought he'd possessed, and then had discovered some he'd never known existed, during that ordeal with Jurgen. He'd watched Nikita surrender to Jurgen's deceptive charm and honesty and he'd known what had drawn her to him - it had been that quality of pseudo-honesty which Michael had known to be false but which had locked Nikita to the beacon like a child to a butterfly. Nikita had always been pulled to light, honesty and straight shooting. She'd been relentlessly up-front ever since Michael had met her, and it was that trait among others which made him fight so hard for her life time and time again. She was the life he'd given up for lost in himself. Through her, he could perhaps find a part of himself still living, buried under years of Section training and denial.

He and Nikita had survived the games Jurgen and Section had played with their emotions and beliefs. Nikita was stronger, surer of herself and more aware of the atmosphere in which she existed. Michael, too, was stronger - yet he felt distant from Nikita, and it put a strain on his convictions. He didn't know, now, if he could serve Section in his greatest capacity, with Nikita out of his life...

* * *

The briefing was abrupt, almost rude - Operations was clearly distracted, and Madeline was intense, her eyes alternately shifting from him to Michael. The tension was obvious between them, and she knew the source. After Operations had dismissed the team, telling them they were to leave in two days, Madeline surprised both men by saying in a strident voice, "Michael, I'd like to see you in my office in five minutes." Her eyes shot to Operations' - he was caught completely off-guard, but gave an unobtrusive nod to her, not knowing what she was about, but trusting her perceptions.

Michael left the briefing room, his thoughts focused of necessity on the mission at hand. He didn't allow himself to think of Nikita, her scream of pain, the sudden silence signaling death...

"Michael..." Madeline's voice cut through to him and he pulled himself back to the present, his unemotional mask in place. "I know you're concerned about Nikita."

The mention of her name sent fresh rivulets of agony through him and he fought for control, biting back any acid comment he might have made. Instead, he said in a lifeless voice, "She's dead."

"She's valuable to Section," Madeline went on, as if she hadn't heard him. "She's taught many of our operatives to rely on instinct rather than fear, and she's saved many lives."

Michael was staring at Madeline, his face giving nothing away. Behind his eyes, though, he was wondering if she'd lost her sense of reality. She acted and spoke as if Nikita were still alive - he couldn't tell if Madeline was serious or if she was playing a cruel trick on him...

Her next words galvanized him. "Nikita's alive," she said, reading his disbelieving expression. "We have Intel that she's being held in an isolated location in Nevada, not far from where she was taken on your previous mission. Whoever took her obviously wants to make a trade - her life for our Intel. We've decided to make the trade. Nikita is too valuable to us to sacrifice at this point. We didn't call a briefing because we wanted you to go in alone - less chance of being detected. We have the floor plans of the location where she's being held. Study them carefully. Be ready for anything, or nothing. Walter will outfit you. The mission is scheduled to leave in three hours."

Michael had recovered from the initial shock of hearing that Nikita was alive, but he still felt as if he were having a meltdown inside. "What about the mission briefing we just had?" he asked.

"It will be assigned to Ripley," Madeline answered comfortably, anticipating his question. He was, as always, the diligent operative. Then, she added softly, "Michael, Operations doesn't know about this mission. We've withheld Intel from him for the time being. If he finds out we've sent you in after Nikita, he'll most likely have everyone involved cancelled - even me."

Madeline dismissed him curtly. Michael was used to her abruptness - this time, though, it was that very rudeness which unnerved him. Nikita was alive and Madeline was risking her own life for her - he'd thought he'd never have to go through the separation process again, and yet here he was, having to regroup, fall back and take stock of his emotions once more. He'd just barely reconciled himself to the second loss of Nikita, and now he was forced to change everything because she was alive. And worse, he was to go in alone to retrieve her.

Michael drew upon every reserve he had to keep himself focused on his new mission. He didn't know why Nikita had suddenly become invaluable to Section - all he knew was that he had to extract her alive, if for no other reason than his own sanity.

He studied the floor plans and the mission profile in his office. Once he'd memorized everything, he went over it one more time - he didn't want to take any chances. He was fighting for Nikita's life directly - and Madeline's, indirectly - he didn't intend to lose.

Walter was ready to outfit him with weapons. "This is a detonator," he said softly, handing Michael a small red pellet. "It'll set off this." Walter pressed an equally small pellet, a green one, into his palm. At Michael's slightly amazed stare, Walter expounded proudly. "It's a new compound I've perfected. Don't tell Section - they didn't sanction it. It's based on the formula Stanley Shays created."

At the name, Michael closed his eyes, swallowing a gasp of pain. Shays was the reason Nikita had been marked for cancellation - she hadn't killed him because he had been an innocent.

Walter's voice interrupted his anguished thoughts. "You push the green pellet against a concrete surface, " he said. "It'll stick to anything except plastic. You know the rest."

Michael nodded. "Anything else?"

"Kid, you won't need anything else if you put this in the right place," Walter said in a low voice. Then, even softer he concluded, "Bring her back to us, Michael. We love her."

Michael silently said, I do too, Walter. Aloud, he whispered reverently, "I will."

* * *

The darkness was suffocating - Michael couldn't imagine Nikita enduring it, yet he'd seen her endure far worse things than darkness. He had to fix his thoughts on the belief that she was alive and waiting for rescue. He had to remind himself she hadn't caved in to torture - he'd seen how steadfast she'd been in her refusal to divulge what she'd known even when confronted with her deepest terror - until he'd come into her vision...

I'm her weakness, Michael thought in agony. Then, he realized he could also be her strength. All he had to do was give her what she needed from him - the truth, a confirmation of his feelings for her. He couldn't govern whether she believed him or not - all he could do was face her with his heart in his hands. Her decision would determine whether she lived or died and after that, it was out of his control.

He silently disarmed two guards in the bunker, then followed the path the profile had indicated. In the dark, several hundred feet below the sand of the southern Nevada desert, Michael slipped invisibly as a cat to the cells where the "political prisoners" were kept. He knew the reputation of the organization that had expropriated this abandoned bunker. They didn't keep prisoners for more than a few days - they terminated them after they'd either given up their information or refused to divulge anything. They were so much like the Freedom League that Michael wondered if they were in a federation together.

It had been almost three days since Nikita had disappeared - two since he'd been sent out. Michael wondered if she was still alive. Knowing the enemy's penchant for executing prisoners, no matter their level of cooperation, Nikita could very well be dead...

Michael stopped in the damp darkness of the maintenance tunnel in which he stood, and took a deep breath, unmindful of the stink and suffocating thickness of the air. He needed to gather his senses about him, get rid of the fear and panic he was starting to feel about Nikita. He told himself silently, If she were dead, you'd feel it... He began to breathe easier then. Even when she'd been in Lyons, he'd somehow known she'd been alive. He'd caved in to his emotions and allowed himself to believe she was dead, just because he could no longer stand the uncertainty. He'd severed the tie, to survive.

Now, though, he knew she was alive, even without Madeline's confirmation. He could feel her life force as positively as he felt his own pulse. It seemed to pull him to her location and he seemed to fly independently of his own will. His senses were sharpened as if he were on some hallucinogenic drug, yet he felt completely in control. He was tuned in to a beacon - emanating from Nikita - and he knew, inexorably, exactly where she was. He could hear Birkoff in his com-set, his voice urgent and frightened. "Michael, you're going the wrong way - bear left..."

Michael whispered back, "I know what I'm doing, Birkoff." Proceeding on instinct and his deeper communication with Nikita, he followed his heart. As he slipped through the corridors, he made a mental note to tell her how he'd found her - he knew she'd find it amusing and unbelievable. And after that, he planned to tell her even more unbelievable things about himself and his feelings...

He heard a sound to his right, coming from a blind corridor. He stopped dead, held his breath, his gun ready, hugged to his chest. He heard voices coming closer, smugly laughing, no indication that they perceived a threat to their existence. In an uncharacteristic move, Michael melted into the darkness and let them pass without incident. He felt, guiltily, that he should have killed them both, but they were oblivious to him and posed no immediate threat. If the moment came later, he'd take them down, but for now they were entitled to their time.

Michael slipped into a dark passageway, lit only by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The way was narrow and dank, reminding him, in yet another way, that he was deep underground. He passed empty cell after empty cell, following that quiet voice inside him that guided him unerringly to Nikita. Finally, at the last cell he stopped and peered between the bars. A form, wearing a white tank top and baggy, dirty pajama bottoms, was huddled in the corner, fighting sobs.

Michael's heart broke then - they'd damaged the woman for whom he lived... Snapping out of his grief he whispered, "Nikita?"

The figure scrambled to its feet and the platinum hair and ice blue eyes confirmed her identity, thought Michael needed no such confirmation. He steeled himself, becoming pure Section. "Step back," he ordered, as he aimed his gun at the lock on the cell door. Seeing she'd moved out of the way, he pointed his gun and blew the lock to bits, feeling a bone-chilling sense of déjà vu, remembering an almost identical scenario a year ago when he'd found, and ultimately forever lost, Simone.

The door swung open and he was inside, throwing caution to the winds for that moment. He gathered Nikita into his arms and held her gently, feeling her conflict as she alternately struggled against him and clung to him. Finally, her emotions took over, she collapsed against him, and he pulled her securely into his arms, closing his eyes and allowing himself this moment of stark honesty. "Nikita," he whispered against her temple. "How badly are you hurt?"

It took several seconds, but she finally managed to straighten in his arms and say, "I'm fine, Michael."

Michael then surprised her. "Don't tell me what you think I need to hear. I want to know how you feel." He'd thrown her own words back at her, not to hurt her but to sting her into honesty with him.

Nikita tried to pull out of Michael's arms, but he wouldn't let her go. His green eyes locked to her blue ones and he silently demanded an honest response. She finally whispered, "Just get me out of here, Michael. Please..." Her eyes filled with tears, and Michael was suddenly Superman.

"Don't worry," he murmured. "We won't give Operations anything to complain about."

Nikita smiled at his words - he was telling her, in his cryptic way, that they would be all right, and she sagged into his arms, letting him bear her weight. She didn't tell him what she'd been through - she didn't want to face it yet because the pain was still too fresh. It was only Michael's strength that kept her from buckling completely.

On the way out of the underground complex, they encountered several hostiles. Michael dispatched them without hesitation as he supported Nikita, his arm around her waist, her arm over his shoulder. She knew she was dead weight and was endangering them both. "Michael, leave me here," she whispered. "I'll find my own way out."

"It's not the mission profile," he whispered back, reminding her that they had a job to do, despite their physical and emotional conditions.

"Then give me your other gun," she said. He reached down to his thigh-holster, unstrapped the gun and handed it to her. He was slightly rocked when she stepped away from him to check the clip and chamber a bullet. Then, almost shyly, she fell back against him, feeling the dizziness and nausea that signaled a faint. His arm went back around her slim waist and together they made their way out of the compound. Michael pressed the green pellet against the side of a huge furnace, so slyly that Nikita hadn't even noticed his move.

He whispered, "We have to hurry. Detonation has to be within two minutes." He ignored her puzzled stare and hurried her out of the place. The sunlight was blinding as they emerged from the bunker. Nikita's eyes hurt - her whole body hurt, but she was glad to be alive and free. Secretly, she was glad to be next to Michael - for the first time in a long time, she felt truly safe and protected.

Michael fairly carried her away from the place, the desert sand slowing his pace a little. When he was a safe distance from the concealed entrance into the underground catacomb, he stopped and pinched the red pellet between two fingers. It crumbled to powder in his hand, and he was daunted - Walter had never sent them out with defective equipment before. Michael swallowed silently, not knowing what his next move would be. Then, suddenly, he remembered the delay on Shay's compound - the almost devilish five-second lull before the detonation, guaranteed to catch everyone off-guard. Michael counted the seconds in his mind, his eyes closed tightly. Five, four, three, two, one... A thunderous explosion shook the ground and caused a huge hole to open up, swallowing everything within several hundred feet in any direction. The smell of sulphur, propane, methane and oil drifted through the air like a cloud of odious danger.

"Come on," Michael said urgently, almost carrying Nikita across the remaining area and into the waiting transport. Once inside, she allowed herself to succumb to pain and relief. She slumped forward in her seat, and Michael realized the seriousness of her wounds. "Get us out of here fast," he gritted out, and the driver knew the tone of voice - he'd experienced it one other time, when Michael had brought Nikita back from the Freedom League after everyone else had written her off as dead. That voice was not to be contradicted.

* * *

Michael stood by Nikita's bedside in Medlab, as he had after the war. She was still, bruises on her face and arms. Michael could only guess what had been done to her - he knew Madeline would fill him in on the details. For the time being, he kept his hands clasped in front of him, hoping she could feel his presence, as opposed to the war, when he hadn't dared to touch her because of their situation.

Now, they'd already been extremely intimate, and he felt more comfortable with the idea of touching her hand, though he knew Section still watched his every move. They'd sent him after her because they'd felt she was valuable to them - she didn't know it, but her very existence was leverage against Section.

Michael kept the knowledge to himself, being content to finally reach out and gently press his fingers to her hand. She flinched in her unconsciousness, feeling a touch but not knowing it was Michael, thinking it was that of her torturer. Michael drew back his hand, wondering if he repulsed her, wondering if she even knew he was with her. He swallowed dread and fear and put his hand back over hers, squeezing it tenderly. He was rewarded when her hand squeezed back and her eyes opened slowly, taking a moment to focus. When she fixed her gaze on his face, a smile spread lazily across her face and she whispered, "Michael..."

His name coming from her lips was like pure music - he struggled to keep his emotions in check, then suddenly didn't care what the surveillance cameras saw. He leaned down and pressed his lips tenderly to hers in a soft, loving kiss. When he felt her mouth open to his, he reluctantly drew back, a little breathless. "Nikita," he whispered, his eyes emerald slits, warning her. "We can't do this... Not here." He breathed the words against her mouth so the surveillance microphones wouldn't register what he'd uttered. He went on, "Get well. Survive this, get through the debriefing. I'll be waiting for you."

Nikita's eyes went wide for a moment - then the sedative took effect and she fell suddenly asleep. Michael smiled at her peaceful face and left Medlab, keeping all his thoughts and emotions to himself. He suspected what she'd been through - he knew there were things she wouldn't or couldn't tell him yet.

He resolved to gently ply her until she talked to him, no matter how long it took. The distance between them would be bridged, with time and patience. He would help to heal her emotional wounds, just as she'd unknowingly helped him to heal from his - and the unspoken bond between them would only grow stronger.

Michael left Nikita's side, a crooked smile playing on the corners of his mouth. He headed for his office to take care of some necessary paperwork. After that, he intended to take care of some even more necessary personal details which involved champagne, scented candles, the music of Suzanne Ciani and two days of privacy for himself and Nikita, once she'd healed - he knew Madeline would see to it. Afterall, she owed him her life for retrieving Nikita without drawing suspicion from Operations. They would all live another day, and as Michael headed home, he allowed himself a smile. Life could be good, if one survived the meltdown...

The End

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