Wearing the Nightmare, Version 3-1/2 (Spontaneous Round Robin, with contributions from Kate, KT, Ranma, and a cast of thousands...)

(Kate)

But, before she pulled the trigger, Nikita decided to put on her nightgown ...

She had serious problems with killing herself while wearing her mission outfit. It was too Pavlovian for words.

She put the gun down on the counter, stripped and hunted through her dresser drawer for something comfortable.

Great. Just perfect.

As if her life weren't bad enough, she had no clean nightclothes.

Nikita glanced toward the closet that hid her stackable washer and dryer. The closet was so full with dirty clothes the door wouldn't shut.

On one hand, she hated to go out wearing something she didn't like.

On the other hand, she didn't want to wait for the laundry to finish before she took that final step.

Undecided, Nikita hesitated. There was something at the back of the drawer. Reluctantly, she pulled it out and shook the wrinkles out.

She supposed, if push came to shove, she could ...

Wear the nightmare.

********************

(Cynaera)

I can't do it. I can't die like this. I can't die in this. It's horrible. Too much material. The color is straight out of the sixties, and I hate the feel of polyester. The armholes are too tight, even after I've been starved for a week. Whoever made this thing must've worked for Red Cell, because it's the ultimate torture device.

This - this thing was a present from a friend. She's probably dead now. She probably bought one exactly like it for herself, wore it, and died of revulsion.

Nope - I can't do it. The nightgown's going back in the drawer. Maybe I'll just fix myself some eggs and think about killing myself tomorrow. After laundry.

************************

(Ranma)

Nikita struggled. Nikita cursed. Nikita bit. But the nightgown would not come off. Nikita huffed and sighed as the tag in the back scratched against her neck again. She believed she probably had a wound back there by now.

She wandered into the kitchen, looking for scissors. *Ahh,* she sighed and pulled out a pair of her best scissors.

The blades broke while the nightgown remained unaffected.

If only someone would come and save her.

**********************

(KT)

"Drat these section nightgowns anyway!" Nikita expleted. "I thought chain mail went out with the Dark Ages, you know, the ones that Operations threatened might come back some day?"

Nikita poured herself a glass of wine. There was a knock at the door. It was one she always pretended not to recognize, but she knew who it was just the same.

Nikita stared at her broken scissors. Maybe, just maybe, they would be the perfect thing to get the blank stare out of Michael's eyes once and for all.

No way was she going to answer the door in this damned nightgown.

"Would you mind waiting," she called through the door. "I was just trying to slip into something more comfortable!!!"

************************

And then ........?

(Scorch)

Frantically she pulled at the fabric, tugging it up over her head .... no good!

So in desperation she gathered the bottom hem, crossing her arms in front of her like her mother had shown her when she last wore nighties like this monstrosity .... pulling the lower part of the night gown up over her hips it got slightly tighter - but there was a chance - a slim one ........

The cool air caused goose-bumps on her now exposed thighs - was she wearing panties? Damn, she couldn't recall if she had taken them off with the mission pants or not ....and her arms were now trapped in the nightie as if she was wearing a strait jacket .. one more tug , surely that was all it would take.....

She exerted all the force her muscular biceps could muster and managed to wrench the awful fabric over her head ... now she couldn't see a thing - but it was nearly off. She breathed a sigh of relief - but not for long .....

The next thing she heard was the slamming of the door as Michael came crashing into the apartment ....

*********************

She was thrown to the floor...

(Cynaera)

...with a flying tackle that would have felled a horse. They hit solidly, both tangled in the material of the polyester nightmare. Nikita squirmed, struggling to get free of Michael and material.

His arms tightened around her. She struggled more fiercely. He pinned her with his body. She stopped struggling and lay perfectly still, panting a little. She could hear his breath in soft puffs against her ear.

"I thought you were in danger," he whispered, a touch of remorse in his tone.

"I was!" she growled. "This nightgown is a living thing and it wants me dead!"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, which really wasn't all that serious, his mouth quirked in a smile Nikita couldn't see, her head being covered by the nightgown. "Michael, would you help me get this thing off?" she demanded peevishly.

Michael lifted himself off her body, grabbed the hem of the nightgown, and pulled it over her head, freeing her arms. Her hair looked like a haystack, and her eyes blazed blue and dangerous.

She had never been more beautiful to him. His blood pounded in his ears, and for a moment, he forgot why he'd come there. Then, when he remembered, he willfully forgot again. The moment was too precious, too rare, and he wasn't about to waste it with business.

Not yet, anyway......

****************************

Nikita realized, belatedly, that she was naked, and that Michael's eyes were a dark, smoldering Bayou green. She knew that look. It inevitably led to wild, passionate, athletic activity of a sensual nature.

Quite unexpectedly, she wished for the nightgown to blanket her nudity from that predatory gaze. "M-Michael..." she began, and tried to slowly crab-crawl away from him. He followed her on his hands and knees, a stalking panther. There was the hint of a smile teasing his lips.

Nikita began to fear for her long-lost virtue. Her eyes casting about, she spied the nightgown and snatched it up, struggling in vain to get the thing back on in a futile effort to cover herself. Michael slowly shook his head, and a split second later, he was pinning her to the floor once more, her wrists pinioned above her head, his face very close to hers. "Don't fight me, Nikita," he whispered, his lips barely grazing hers. "I've waited long enough..."

And then he kissed her, and any thoughts of wearing the nightmare flew out of her head, as did her resistance, her common sense, and her rationality. Damn him! she thought savagely, even as her arms wound around his neck and she felt him settle more heavily atop her.

When he finally pulled away from her, she gave a soft whimper and tried to pull him back. He laughed softly, huskily, and said, "One of us is wearing too much clothing."

Nikita began to tear at his shirt, stripping it up and over his head. The black jeans were another matter - Michael couldn't remove them without getting off Nikita, and he wasn't positive she wouldn't try to either escape from him or shoot him.

So........

*veg* from Cyn

*********************

So....

(Catsma)

He smiled devilishly down at Nikita and slowly ground his hips against her aching body....

"That should do the trick...." he thought to himself, "I'll get her so aroused she won't even be able to think of shooting me.."

Nikita moaned at the sensation, every cell in her body slowly melting. Any thoughts of resisting - or heaven forbid shooting him - left her mind.

"My-kol..." she groaned. "I need you..."

She reached greedily for him and undid the button at the top of his skin tight black jeans. His arousal strained the fabric and her breath caught.

Her eager fingers grabbed the zipper tag and yanked downwards..

"Ack!!....no!!!..."

The zipper stayed stubbornly stuck...

"Ah merde!!..."

Michael's eager flesh protested her yank on the zipper....and he moaned in protest.

"My-kol...do something..." Nikita's frustration was unbearable..."what's wrong with your pants..."

"Ah mon coeur...these are polyester imitation jeans...I couldn't afford my favorite Eddie Bauer brand...now that I no longer work for Section..."

She writhed in torment..there had to be something they could do...if she didn't have him soon..she'd go crazy. As she lay there on the floor, Nikita glanced around and saw her scissors lying next to their prone bodies.

She reached for them......

************************

And ...

(Kate)

And the damned things came apart in her hands. Stupidly, she stared at them and then jerked toward Michael.

"What are you trying to do? Kill me? Or just ... amputate parts of me?" He flipped the scissors away from her and frowned down at her.

"Uh ... no ..."

His eyes narrowed and Nikita shifted underneath him. "Michael, would you mind moving just a bit?"

"Yes, I would."

"You're squishing me."

He settled down on her, staring down into her eyes, his weight effectively keeping her still. "I want some answers, Nikita."

"Are you sure that's what you want?"

Michael allowed his body to rest even heavier on hers and she let out a little squeak of protest. "Michael, I can't move --"

"It's unnecessary to move. Start talking. What's with the scissors? Why is your gun out? And why were you wearing this .... this ... garment?"

"Why...?"

(Cynaera)

Nikita stammered, then realized Michael was talking about the nightmare nightgown - the polyester terror. Several replies came to mind immediately, but the one that she blurted out was, "Because this is Cynaera's story, and she's doing Kate a favor by writing about wearing the nightmare."

Michael looked completely puzzled, and then his look changed to relief when Nikita dropped the broken scissors and rubbed a weary hand across her eyes. "Oh, Michael, it's a long story, and we really don't have time for explanations right now."

Michael's gaze swept up and down Nikita's body, and his eyes began to smolder again. "That's what I'm talking about!" Nikita exclaimed in frustration. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Everytime I'm naked, you give me that look."

"What look?" he asked absently, still feasting his eyes on Nikita's pierced navel.

"That... that Michael look. The one that makes women all over the world just melt into their chairs in little puddles of lust. That one."

"Oh." No other comment for almost half a minute, then, "When did you have that done?"

"What?" Nikita followed his eyes. "Oh, that. It was a couple of months ago, I guess. I got tired of wearing sunglasses - wanted a more subtle statement."

Nikita was astonished when Michael burst out laughing. "Subtle statement? And you wanted to wear that nightmare?" He pointed to the nightgown, wadded up in a pool of loud color next to them. "I think I've just lost the mood."

He carefully climbed off Nikita, adjusted his jeans, and held out his hand to help Nikita to her feet. She took the proffered hand carefully, suspiciously, and when she was standing, Michael stared straight into her eyes and asked bluntly, "Why did you have your gun out?"

Nikita was silent. How did she tell him that she was...

*******************

That she was...

(Unknown)

As lazy about cleaning her gun as she was about doing her laundry? The damned thing wouldn't have worked anyway, so encrusted it was with leftover residue...and even dried bits of mozzarella and pepperoni from the pizza she'd ordered in last week...oy...

***************************************

Letting herself go

(Kate)

"I've been a little ... depressed." Nikita studied her big toe, realizing that it had been several weeks since she'd polished her toes. The varnish was chipping and ugly. It's true, she decided sadly. I've really let myself go. Not only have I stopped painting my nails, I was actually going to wear that awful nightgown.

"Depressed," Michael repeated.

Nikita's eyes flickered up to Michael's, then down again.

"I ... uh ... I've not been myself lately," she tried again.

"Well, I can see that," Michael said mildly. "Wretched nightgowns. Pierced navels. Guns laying around with God knows what gunking up their insides. What's wrong with you?"

"Maybe I need ... a vacation," Nikita suggested.

"That's out of the question right now," Michael said, and he even sounded as if he were a little sorry about it. "But you could take a day off, perhaps."

"One day isn't going to be enough. Never mind. I suppose you came over to take me to Section?"

"I can be ... flexible."

How flexible? Nikita wondered, then immediately suppressed the thought.

Michael shrugged out of his shirt -- most of the buttons were scattered across the floor anyway -- and handed it to Nikita. It was soft and unstarched, and he'd already cut the tag out so when she put it on nothing scratched her. She fastened the one remaining button and a smile tugged at her mouth.

"Now," Michael said, sitting on a barstool. He took one of the tapered candles out of its holder and began waxing the zipper of his pants in an effort to eventually free himself. "Besides the fact that you have no clean clothes, probably no food in your ice box and a gun that is useless, why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

*************************

(Cynaera)

Nikita pulled the shirt tighter around her, breathing Michael's scent, feeling her heart instantly lift.

"I'm... I... don't know what's wrong," she stammered, her face flushing. It was a lie - she knew exactly what was wrong. She was a murderess, a liar, a thief, a blackmailer, a betrayer. She was every vile thing she's sworn she'd never be. If there was a core of goodness within her, it was buried so deeply she couldn't see it anymore.

The words finally came out, haltingly. "Michael, I'm not who I thought I was. I'm not anybody I want to know anymore."

Michael, having freed himself from the inferior-quality zipper, could focus his full attention on the face of his life-dance. She was near tears, and he knew that tears did not come easily to her lately. Section had broken her, and Center had rebuilt her in their image.

Aloud, he said, "You've been through a lot in a short time. It would change anybody. Even an operative of your caliber."

Nikita stared hard at him. It was the closest thing to a professional compliment he'd paid her recently - not that he'd been given many opportunities to compliment her in the past year. She'd been eluding Section surveillance, checking in at Center, and avoiding Michael whenever possible. He'd been a relentless pursuer - completely focused on her, finding her when even Section couldn't locate her. A man with a mission.

Now, she felt another smile quirk at the corners of her mouth. Michael. "Thank you," she said softly, and ran a hand through her hair to smooth it from her face.

"For what?" Michael asked, bemused, his eyes gentle and a blurred green.

"For knowing."

"Knowing?"

"What I'm feeling. How I'm doubting myself. Hating myself for doing what I've done to you."

"You've done nothing to me." Except tear my heart out and feed it to me without salt.

"Not true, Michael, and you know it. I'm everything I hated when I first came to Section." She paused, then added, feeling the tears come, finally, "And I have that stupid nightgown. I guess it's a reminder of what a nightmare my life is, and what a nightmare I've made of your life..."

Michael leaned over, brushed her tears away with his thumb, and whispered, "No, ma cheré ~ you're the only thing in my life that isn't a nightmare." He wouldn't tell her about his revelation in the barn while he was waiting to die. She didn't need to know how close he'd come to taking his own life, and how something inside him had stopped his finger on the trigger.

All she needed to know was that he was with her again, they were together, and nothing anyone could do would interfere with it. He would make certain of it...

*********************************

As Michael

(KT)

moved closer and looked deeply into her shining blue pools, a pained look came over his gorgeous face.

"Michael!" Nikita exclaimed, alarmed at his expression. "What is it??"

His eyes dropped as he saw that the zipper of his pants had come undone at last, and was caught in his...

Nikita's eyes followed his, and as she set her gaze on her second most favorite part of him, she began to giggle uncontrollably.

"Talk about a mood destroyer," Michael muttered.

Nikita reached down and started to extricate his short hairs from his zipper, but she was laughing so hard that all she did was cause him more pain.

"Hey!" he practically shouted.

"Oh, Michael. The Impervious. Michael the Numb. After all the torture you've endured for Section, are you going to succumb to a little zipper? Hmmm?"

That does it! he thought, as he reached down to tear her hands away from his pants.

******************************

He used more force than necessary....

(Cynaera)

... tearing her hands away from his crotch. He completely broke character, yanking off first one vibram-soled boot then the other, then socks, stripping off the cheap black slacks and standing in his black boxers.

What a duo they made - Michael in black boxers, Nikita in Michael's maimed shirt. She looked up and down his body, trying desperately not to laugh. Michael gazed at Nikita, thinking, She looks better in that shirt than I ever did.

Nikita lifted her arms helplessly, the sleeves of the oversized shirt sliding back to reveal her wrists and forearms. "So - what now?" she asked, but her eyes gave the answer. All she needed was for Michael to respond. She prayed earnestly that he would respond...

He did, in the only way he knew how. He took two steps toward her, gathered her into his arms, and held her tightly, letting her feel his desire, his vulnerability, his love. His body, pressed full against her own, his lips fervently seeking her cheek, her neck, her collarbone... He whispered, "Nikita..."

All her senses were ratcheted into hypersensitivity. His whispering of her name made her blood pulse through her veins at an unnatural pace. Nothing else mattered. Everything she was, everything she could ever be, was riveted to Michael as his hands caressed her through his shirt. Take me... she pleaded silently. Michael, please take me...

His softly whispered words made Nikita stiffen and struggle against him. "Nikita.... put the nightgown back on..."

The End.

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