This is another of my early stories. Once again, I wrote it before some of the later series revelations. :)

I can't seem to stop writing bridge stories, of one kind or another. This one is a post-"Verdict" story; it's mostly a character sketch. It includes a fair amount of my personal speculation on characters and events (but, then again, how many fanfic stories don't include this from their authors?). I'd rate it around a PG-14; it's really only the characters' reflections on events.

You'll find spoilers here for "Verdict" (surprise, surprise), "Simone," and "Brainwash" (a mild, background one). I should add that part 2 includes extra spoilers for "Love," "Charity," "Choice," and "Escape." None of the characters, etc. are mine, as well, and no infringement of any sort is intended; I may give a name and a background to someone we just got to see in "Verdict," but I certainly don't own her.

Please send any comments to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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

"Damn Mijovich," Michael thought, as he sat at the coffee table in his apartment, watching a mug of lukewarm coffee, as he turned it slowly. The politician had further damaged his already-tenuous relationship with Nikita.

Michael, like Nikita, had been given the day off after their last mission, but he had no idea of what to do with his time. He had briefly considered going in to Section, anyway, just to avoid being alone with his thoughts--which were always dangerous company. In the end, however, he had decided that such a move would only invite Madeline's probing questions. As a result, therefore, he was now sitting alone, brooding. The only light which reached him filtered dimly from a rain-splattered window and the darkened sky beyond.

Michael stopped playing with his cup temporarily and rested his arms on the table, looking up blankly at the wall opposite him. "She was back to herself," he continued thinking. "She was handling things well again, until this." He shook his head. "How much has this set her back?"

Michael stared down at the table. Nikita. While he understood much about her--could predict many of her reactions, he was still mystified by her. She simply refused to see the darkness which lay in everyone; she always tried to find reasons for their actions--reasons he didn't think existed. He had never understood that quality.

What Michael couldn't see--wouldn't look into--was her past. Over and over again, Nikita had watched patterns of abuse replaying themselves--in her home, on the street--in the Section. Again and again, she had watched people grow hardened--merciless--through the lack of mercy they had seen. She didn't like--she didn't forgive everyone who took this path, but she always knew there were reasons; she had seen the changes in herself, since she was recruited, too clearly to ever forget.

Nikita, too, had been judged once too often to ever make the mistake with anyone else. Too many times on the streets, she had been approached by men who saw her as a commodity or, worse, who saw no reason to ask for her permission at all. She had managed to avoid them, but she still felt their impact. They had looked at a homeless woman and seen a prostitute; she refused, therefore, to look at Section's supposed villains and see nothing but disposable monsters.

In truth, both Nikita and Michael had been abused--beginning in their homes and continuing on into Section. Their reactions, though, defined them. For Nikita, the abuse she had seen and survived had taught her to always fight for justice--to never harm--to never accept or allow someone else to suffer from brutality. She looked for reasons--for options. It destroyed parts of her soul to simply allow people to be hurt--even more, to be part of the cause.

Michael, on the other hand, had internalized his abuse; to a certain, subconscious extent, he felt he deserved it. Therefore, when Section twisted and manipulated him or stole his free will and told him to be grateful, he accepted it as his due--as pain he deserved for either omission or commission, even if they didn't care to explain.

Hand in hand with this, too, he was able to rationalize the pain he caused others as being either moral or justifiable. If he had to destroy someone--either physically or emotionally--because of unexplained orders, he did so without thinking. Everyone, to him, seemed deserving of pain of one sort or another; everyone was, in the end, potentially corrupt and expendable.

The abuse they had both suffered was one of the many links between Nikita and Michael, really. In the more vulnerable parts of themselves, they both needed to find the comfort--the love they had seen in brief flashes in each other. More than the erotic fantasies which both had cursed themselves for having, their most frequent, unspoken desire was simply to hold each other--to exchange in an embrace all of the tenderness and love which had been denied or stolen from them.

Michael, however, didn't consciously see all this. He wouldn't allow himself to analyze quite so deeply. He focused, instead, on Nikita's reaction to Section's--and his--latest manipulation. He had known that Operations was lying when he had told him where Mijovich had been during the attack on Vacul. He had passed on the information to Nikita, however, knowing too well what her reaction would have been, if she had known the truth; she would have killed Mijovich herself, as she had tried to do later.

Michael sighed. Mijovich was loathsome, of course--capable of depths of depravity Michael had no desire to try to comprehend. They had been assigned to protect him, though, and orders were dangerous to ignore. He could understand Nikita's rage, but he had had to stop her nonetheless.

Michael went back to staring at the wall. Mijovich, in one way or another, had been responsible for the pain or destruction of at least three women in the past several days. Michael closed his eyes, as the sound of Julia's car exploding came back to torment him; she had been a good, if not a close, friend, and her death had signalled the destruction of yet another tie to his late wife. He opened his eyes again, holding back a few tears. She had deserved better.

Maria, too, had been destroyed anew by Mijovich at his inauguration; he had stolen what little family the woman had left and forced her to lie in order to keep the fighting from starting again. Worst of all, as Nikita had pointed out, Mijovich was being hailed as a hero for taking care of Maria's material needs; after raping, blinding, and orphaning her, he was now viewed as her saviour. Michael had no idea how the woman had had the strength to survive this--to allow Mijovich to live; had it been him, he would have asked for help in aiming the gun to deliver the final shot.

Nikita, though, was the person Michael thought of the most. He went back to staring at and turning his coffee cup. Nikita had not liked Mijovich, but she had believed in him, trusted that he was incapable of such an atrocity. She had argued eloquently in his defense--had, unknowingly, been used to continue his torture of Maria, and, Michael knew, it had done terrible things to her.

Michael picked up the cup and sipped the, by now, cold coffee; its temperature only added to its bitterness. He grimaced very slightly and put it back down. He was drinking it black, although he had never liked black coffee; it was simply another way to, unconsciously, torment himself--a punishment for things which weren't his fault. He didn't think about the fact that he had forgiven himself--had justified, time and again--all his real sins.

Michael looked up and began rubbing his lips. Nikita's state, since recent events, was unsettled; she was chafing, more and more, under Section's restraints. If she didn't find a way to settle down again, she would get into trouble. He stopped rubbing his lips, sighed, and folded his arms across his chest. She needed to talk, to have someone to yell at, if necessary. He looked at the window. The day was gloomy; if he didn't do something soon, he would simply be sitting there for the rest of it. His decision made, he stood up, retrieved his coat from the back of a chair, and left to talk to her.

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

Nikita, much like Michael, was spending her day brooding lethargically. She needed to talk, but there was no one to hear her; Carla was out, and she couldn't have discussed the real problem with her, anyway. Walter would have listened but could have said little to console her, and she would have had to go into Section to see him, which she wasn't willing to do today. She didn't feel like being profiled by Madeline, either. And Michael . . . well, Michael had already told her all he was going to, which wasn't much; she wasn't willing to hear the same old lies again.

Nikita wandered aimlessly around her apartment, playing with random objects. Her emotions, as usual, were jumbled. She was angry, she knew, but she was uncertain with whom. She was upset at Michael's lie, certainly, but her anger at him was more of a dull throb by now; she had gotten used to his betrayals. Mijovich, of course, she loathed; her hands ached to wrap around his throat--to watch the life seep from him. Even that, though, wouldn't be enough for all he had done. She was angry with herself, too, for believing the lies again--for helping out their games. Most of all, though, her rage combined all of these elements into her hatred of Section One. They were responsible for so much pain--including her own; worst of all, they had made her complicit in their crimes.

Nikita's life was a tangle of betrayal and anguish with few--usually no--pleasures to function as temporary escapes. Section was strangling her--killing what little was left of her and reshaping the dead matter into their own image. She wasn't particularly shocked by the lies anymore, but her jaded--if reluctant--acceptance did nothing to diminish her outrage.

Nikita refused, as well, to believe Michael's words: "There are always bad guys." It just wasn't true. Sometimes, she thought, Section had created enemies so that it had someone to fight--to give it a reason to exist. Half the time, too, the truly evil people were the ones they were supporting, while the tired, desperate people who fought against Section's "friends" for their own survival were the "bad guys." She shook her head and paused near her couch. None of it made sense anymore; none of it ever had.

Nikita finally sat down and put her head in her hands. Her patience was running out; she didn't know how much longer it would be before she could no longer help Section befriend the Mijovichs, Chandlers, and Bauers of the world. Expediency was a poor excuse.

Nikita's musings were interrupted by a knock on her door. She looked up. "What now?" she thought. The person knocked again. Nikita got up, went to the door, and checked through the peephole. She was slightly annoyed, but not very surprised, to see Michael. She opened the door slightly. "What is it?"

Michael evaluated her briefly. She looked tired--as though sleep hadn't come easily, if it had come at all; he knew how she felt. "May I come in?" he asked softly.

"Another mission?" she inquired.

Michael shook his head, eyes locked with hers. "I just want to talk."

"We did that, Michael. Remember?" she noted. "You told me--basically --to get over it."

Michael looked down at the floor briefly before looking up at the wall near her. "May I come in?" he repeated.

Nikita sighed, getting exasperated. "Why? What could you possibly tell me that you haven't already?"

Michael got an idea and looked up at her. "You asked about my informant--our relationship. If you'd like to know, I'll answer your questions."

Nikita watched him suspiciously. "How do I know this isn't all another manipulation?"

He looked at her sadly.

"Let's face it, Michael," she went on, "the last few times you've come by you've either been manipulating me or giving not-too-subtle reminders of my ties to Section." Her voice was low enough to keep the conversation between the two of them, but the bitterness came through, nevertheless.

"I know," Michael agreed unhappily, "but I just want to talk." He looked behind her at the apartment. "It doesn't have to be here. We can go get some coffee, if you want."

Nikita eyed him reluctantly but finally relented and stepped aside to let him in.

Michael walked past her, as she closed the door. He looked over at the coffee machine; she had changed most of the decor of the apartment, since he had first presented it to her, but the appliances were the same. "How about some coffee?"

Nikita looked slightly indignant. "You want me to make you coffee now?"

He looked back at her. "No, I'll do it." He took off his coat and placed it over a stool. Then, he walked into the kitchen.

Nikita wasn't sure whether to be pleased by his assumption of domestic duties or annoyed by his obvious belief that he belonged there--his insinuation into her home. "I'd prefer tea."

He looked back at her. "Alright." It took him a few seconds to find the items he needed, but he then continued to quietly make their drinks. It kept him from having to think too much.

Nikita slid onto a stool at her bar and watched him. "So, who was she?"

Michael seemed to suddenly refocus on his surroundings, a bit surprised Nikita even knew his informant's sex; then, he remembered that she had overheard his conversation with Ops. "Her name was Julia."

"Was she just a friend?" Nikita wondered.

Michael looked at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you seemed very friendly together," Nikita replied.

Michael looked slightly surprised. "How do you know?"

"I saw you together in the park," Nikita clarified.

"You were following me?" Michael questioned.

Nikita laughed slightly. "Don't flatter yourself, Michael. I just happened to be spending the day there, when I saw you."

"What did you see?" he continued.

"You met with her," she recalled. "She seemed upset. You walked a few blocks to her car with her, kissed her on both cheeks and then . . ." She trailed off.

Michael looked down at the counter, leaning on both his hands.

"You never tried to help her," Nikita argued.

"There was nothing I could do," he said quietly.

"Who was she, Michael?" Nikita pressed.

Michael turned his head and walked over to the coffee machine, still not making eye contact. "She was a friend."

"Just a friend?" Nikita asked again.

Michael looked up at her. "Yes."

"How did she become a contact?" Nikita wondered.

Michael sighed and looked down to pour himself some coffee. "Simone and I met her during a mission several years ago. She worked in an embassy, with their secret service. She was a secretary, but a lot of secrets passed her way."

"And she knew who you and Simone were--what you did?" Nikita questioned.

"She knew the basics," Michael answered. He was now steeping a tea bag in a mug of hot water. "We kept her away from details."

Nikita thought for a minute. "She didn't seem very happy with you that day," she remembered, as Michael placed the mug of, by now, sweetened tea in front of her.

He took his own mug of unsweetened coffee and came around the bar to sit one stool away from her. "I hadn't seen her since Simone . . . since I thought she died." He put the mug down on the bar and looked at the floor. "She said that she was taking a big risk in seeing me now," he continued softly, "that I could have gotten the information some other way, but I wasn't even bothering to."

"Is that true?" Nikita pressed.

"No," he answered quietly.

Nikita looked saddened. "Did she mean a lot to you?"

Michael looked up at her. "She was a good person." He cocked his head slightly, looking off. "She wanted to do what was right."

"Will you miss her?" Nikita asked softly.

Michael's eyes looked a little red. "She was young. She shouldn't have had to die."

Nikita watched Michael, pondering. When he had first come over, she had assumed it was either a mission, a manipulation, or a Section check- up--to make sure she was staying in line. Now, however, she realized his real reason for coming: he needed the company; he needed to talk.

Nikita remembered back to another coffee date with Michael--when Simone had died. Then, too, he had needed her company--her companionship --more than anything else. It was the same cause, now, she realized. His grief over Julia's death was more a dull pain--a sadness at the unfairness of the universe; it was the fact that Julia had been a link to Simone which was really hurting him. He was trying not to remember. She wondered if he even understood why he had come.

Michael was looking down at the floor again now. His mind was a tangle of thoughts of Julia, Simone, and--especially--Nikita. The car bomb had served as a reminder of how quickly Nikita could be taken from him. Her reaction to the truth of the charges against Mijovich had scared him. He wanted--he needed--to protect her desperately. If she became too openly rebellious, though, Operations would love the chance to get rid of her; he had to keep her in line. Without her, the one flicker of meaning his existence had would die. He couldn't let that happen.

Michael looked back up at her. "You were angry with Section, when you left last night. Will you be alright?"

Nikita gave him a half smile. "I'm fine, Michael," she lied. Her problems could only be answered by him with convenient excuses, and she wasn't up to hearing them. "I'll be fine."

Michael looked at her with concern. He wanted to help her, but he didn't know how. He judged, though, that events hadn't come to a crisis yet. He nodded. "Alright." He got off the stool, walked to the one behind her, picked up his coat, and put it on. He stood to her side, put his hand gently on her arm, and looked at her. "I'll see you at Section." Then, in a final, unplanned, unconscious gesture, he leaned over and lovingly kissed her cheek.

Nikita closed her eyes for a moment to hold back her emotions. Then, she opened them again, looked at him, and smiled softly. "Goodbye, Michael."

Michael took a last look at her. Then, he stepped backward and went, closing the door behind him, leaving Nikita with a combination of love, anger, and cold coffee.

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Katherine Gilbert, click HERE!