The following is a post-"Brainwash" story. It includes a fair amount of my speculation (again). I'd rate the first part about a MA-14; there are some sexual analyses, thoughts, etc. here but nothing explicit. I certainly don't think it's any more suggestive than many a LFN. The 2nd part, however, is NC-17 (although, again, it is a *very* early effort of mine--please be patient); please, also, don't read it if you shouldn't. :)

There are *plenty* of spoilers here, as well. Look out for them from "Brainwash," "Verdict," "Simone," "Obsessed," "Recruit," "Love," "Escape," "Charity," "Nikita," "Choice," and "Gray" (sheesh--is that enough?).

This story is, once again for me, a character study. Don't expect a plot.

No infringement of *any* sort is intended with the following. Please send comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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

He never should have let her do it, never should have let them use her. She had still been fragile--off balance from the whole Mijovich affair. Being a guinea pig for a brainwashing machine was the last thing she had needed.

Michael was at home now, finally away from the Section. He hadn't been back here in almost two weeks, had been spending his time trying to help Nikita recover--regain her balance. Only when she had been released had he felt he could leave.

Michael stood near his closed door, still holding his keys in his hand, turning them slowly, mechanically. He blinked and walked over to dump the keys on his coffee table, staring at it. He hadn't slept more than a few minutes at a time--an hour at most--in several weeks. Nikita had been his main concern. Not that this lack of sleep was new; he almost preferred insomnia to his nightmares--even to his dreams, at times, since they all-too-frequently starred the people he had betrayed.

Michael began rubbing slowly at an imaginary spot on the table. Betrayals--there had been too many. Not that he thought very often about the ones done to him--he was too busy trying to run from the guilt of his own. The last two weeks with Nikita had only reinforced this pattern.

Michael stopped rubbing the table and stared up at the wall. He had found out so much about Nikita's past in these weeks, had shared so much of her pain. Much of it mirrored his own past more closely than he wanted to think about--the abuse and neglect, the gnawing psychological and emotional pains which never quite diminished. He turned away from the wall as though it were the source of his pain, as though by looking away he could escape it.

He removed his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and sat down. He loved Nikita even more now, although he was still unable to think of his feelings as love, convinced it was an emotion he was unworthy of. He folded his arms and leaned back, staring at the window--at the vague reflection of illumination a nearby streetlight cast onto it, giving some clarity to an otherwise dark night. Nikita had the strength to face her demons, to work beyond them; Michael had never had that strength. For him, fear, doubt--love were emotions to be pushed aside, to shelve in order to continue on with his duties.

Michael closed his eyes and lowered his head, rubbing his forehead slightly with his hand, again trying to repress his feelings. Images of Nikita, however, flooded back nonetheless. He saw her as she had been when he had gone by her apartment to force her on this last mission--tormented, disintegrating. He heard the crack of his hand hitting her face, felt the force of his fingers pressing into her arms--shaking her. He felt a single tear escape to roll down his cheek, and he wiped it away angrily, looking up--disgusted at his body's betrayal, at this show of weakness.

He had no other choice but to treat Nikita this way, or so he told himself; he had had to get her attention. It had never occurred to him to try to do so gently; it was certainly a kindness he had never been shown. This reasoning, though, didn't rid him of his self-disgust. He cared about her so deeply--loved her so completely, yet he only ever seemed to cause her pain.

He had forced her on the mission, when she was completely incapable of performing. She had held out the longest of any of the would-be assassins, but she wasn't equipped to withstand forever such brainwashing. After all, if she had been, she would have withstood Section's training, and they would have canceled her long ago.

Michael began rubbing his lips. According to Section One policy, he should have shot her when she pulled the gun on the Premier, but he couldn't; it wasn't even an option for him. He had simply prayed that she would follow her previous pattern and be unable to shoot him. He stopped rubbing his lips and closed his eyes again. He was thankful he had been correct; given the things he had done to her, it had been a gamble. He opened his eyes and refolded his arms, remembering. Once he had disarmed her and she was lying in his arms, disintegrating emotionally, all he had been able to think about was how he could convince Section to let her live. Fortunately, Madeline had taken care of that instead.

He had spent the last two weeks or so by Nikita, talking when she wanted, patiently listening when she needed to scream, keeping her from harming herself, there with a gentle word to reassure her when her night terrors got the best of her. He had wanted, so many times, to simply take her in his arms, to transfer whatever strength he had to her. As it was, though, her recovery had reflected much of their time together; he had watched her lovingly but never gotten too close.

Michael stood up, stopping himself before he followed where his train of thought was heading. He had had enough romantic and erotic fantasies of her; he wasn't up to any more just now. He walked over to his window to look out.

Forcing himself away from this line of thought, he instead remembered Simone. She had always understood; she had seen through every Section manipulation, and he had let her. He had never once emotionally or mentally betrayed her, and she knew it. Physically--sexually, the Section-ordered betrayals were frequent, but they both knew those were meaningless.

Since Michael's training in seduction by Madeline years ago--a job she had seemed only too happy to take on, he had seduced and manipulated any number of women on Section's orders. They fell into patterns: the ones who wanted to be abused; the ones who wanted to abuse; the ones who needed sympathy; the ones who simply needed a bit of excitement. Their names and faces were a blur by now; aside from their strategic importance, they had meant very little to him.

Madeline had been a skilled trainer. Michael had already understood how to ignore his emotions and desires, but learning to eliminate them completely when it came to sex had taken more effort. Madeline had taught him the right words to say, the right looks to use. More importantly, though, she had taught him to reduce sex to a process of physical reactions to be worked through efficiently--like any other mission. She had shown him how to look for signs--hints at things unspoken--and how to fulfill the needs behind them without emotional investment, while still faking the proper reactions. In the end, it had been simpler than he had thought.

Michael turned away from the window and started toward his bedroom. Nikita had changed things for him. She had awoken fragments of conscience in him. While his mission with Lisa Fanning had been successful, Nikita had forced him to reexamine the effects of his actions--to really watch the pain he had caused. It wasn't that he had felt much for Lisa besides pity, maybe sympathy; she was simply a child caught in an abusive, controlling relationship. For the first time, though, Michael hadn't been able to shut out his target from his mind once the mission was over. He hadn't wanted her forgiveness, really; it didn't matter much to him if she hated him. He had needed some sort of absolution, however--had wanted her to be able to live her life happily--free from anyone's manipulations. That had been the reason for his present to her. He wanted her to have a new, better beginning; he needed to know that he hadn't destroyed her.

Michael sat down on his bed and pulled off his boots and socks. He wanted to think that that mission had given him no pleasure whatsoever, but it wasn't true; in spite of himself, he knew he had enjoyed Nikita's jealousy. He had been blindingly jealous over her many times; for once, he had wanted to see if it were possible to turn the tables. He had managed it with her over Karen, of course, but he had been too worried about Nikita's fate to enjoy her emotions.

Michael shook his head, disgusted with himself, and took his boots over to his closet. He looked in at the clothes--the rows of black cloth. It was appropriate, he supposed. If the pettiness of his emotions didn't prove it, all of his other actions in Section did; he was in mourning for his own soul.

Michael shook his head disgustedly again and turned away from the closet, closing it. Nikita had never been jealous over him without his manipulation; he had never cared enough about anyone else to make her jealous. Had Simone lived, of course, she might have been. He sighed and slipped off his shirt, laying it on a chair, not caring enough yet to clean it or put it away. He had no idea, though, what his life might have been like if Simone had agreed to escape; he hadn't a clue. He didn't know how he would have balanced his emotions for his wife with those for Nikita. Although never at all happy at Simone's death--the vision of it still frequently haunted him, he was glad that he hadn't had to wrestle with this particular dilemma.

Michael took off his pants and put them with the shirt on the chair. Not wanting to think about Simone right now, he thought back, instead, to the first time he had really kissed Nikita--not the brief, enforced kiss in Madeline's office, but the soul-stirring one they had shared at Bauer's command. Michael had had very little trouble, during that mission, pretending to be a man in love. Even with her own, natural locks hidden under a wig and her personality submerged behind a mercenary-for-hire's, she was beautiful.

Michael went into his bathroom and made his final preparations for bed. Their dance at Bauer's had entranced but saddened him, as he had clearly seen in Nikita's eyes her distrust--her rage at being there, at the charade. He had paused when Bauer had wanted to sleep with her, thinking it might be their chance to get the information they needed. When he had looked at her, however, he had realized, again, that Nikita wasn't Simone, and she wasn't him; she couldn't prostitute herself for Section--or anyone else--without it killing her.

While the entire situation at Bauer's had been degrading, Michael knew just how deeply Nikita's touch had aroused him. He had waited for her to make the first move but had been caught offguard when she had. All of those emotions only Simone had ever truly aroused before had been reborn that day. He had had to play a role in order to stay in control, but he had been completely unable to stay detached. She had lit a fire within him he had only then fully realized hadn't died with his wife.

Michael made his way to his bed and got in, lying on his back, his hands across his stomach. He had hated asking Nikita to perform for him, had had to signal to her that it was only for Bauer's benefit--for a distraction. He didn't need a striptease to want her.

Michael rubbed his stomach lightly while thinking. Being as close to Nikita as he had been on that bed had been torturous; it had taken every bit of self-control he had had to keep his arousal from becoming too evident. The fact that he had heard her moan, had felt her responding to him, had made detachment almost impossible.

Worried about the effect the feeling of his hands combined with his memories was about to have on him, he raised them both over his head, holding his wrist. He stared at the ceiling. The next time he had been that close to her had been a manipulation. He had managed, for the most part, then, to stay aloof, cold, but he had still only been partially successful at it, mostly because of his guilt at willingly hurting her. He had tried to approach his manipulation through his training, but--no matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise--Nikita wasn't just a target. He had just been thankful that the phone call had come before he had been forced to carry things too far.

When Nikita had taken up with Gray Wellman soon thereafter, he had cursed himself--and Wellman--for pushing her away. And, even though he had hurt her--had forced her to begin the relationship with Wellman, he had punished her for her wandering affections.

Michael shook his head and closed his eyes. Nikita's love for Wellman had hurt him deeply; he had been happy when she had been forced to end the relationship. He wasn't proud of these feelings, but he acknowledged them.

He looked over at and stroked the pillow which had once been Simone's. Unable to cope with the grief or his memories--after he had thought she had died, he had demanded a new apartment from Section, but he had kept their bed. It was a sort of shrine to the only love he had ever been allowed to share. He still slept on his side of the bed, as though Simone would return at any moment. At first, the action had been denial; now, it was simply habit.

He had found, more and more in the last three years, however, that his dreams--his fantasies of Simone were gradually being replaced by those of Nikita. He had fought this at first. Later, however, he had come to realize that it was a trend he couldn't change, so he had stopped fighting.

His fantasies of Nikita ranged wildly. Some were dreams born out of need, of raw desire, where, in his mind, their only goal was to devour each other completely, to create a pyre of emotion--leaving behind nothing but ashes. Other times, his fantasies were delicate--gentle, filled with all the tenderness and intensity of two souls intertwining. They all tormented him. There was no escape.

Michael closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, praying for sleep. He was tormented enough. He needed no more fantasies tonight.

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

Michael quickly found that his mind wasn't taking orders tonight. Soon after he fell asleep, he thought he felt her close. Then, the bed seemed to shift, as the weight of another person climbed into Simone's side. Michael thought he opened his eyes to see Nikita lying in bed beside him--naked . . . beautiful. She watched him.

"Why did you come?" Michael asked.

Nikita brushed her fingers lightly through his hair, looking at it, exposing the breast her arm had previously blocked from his view. "To be near you."

"Why?" he wondered.

She focused on him. "Don't you think you deserve love, Michael?"

"No," he answered softly.

Her hand stopped stroking his hair but stayed near his face. "Do I?"

"Yes," he replied.

She withdrew her hand, still looking at him. "Do you love me, Michael?"

Michael reached up to stroke her face, his eyes tearing slightly. "Yes," he said, very softly.

Nikita closed her eyes and pressed her face against his hand.

"You deserve better than me, Nikita," Michael stated quietly.

Nikita opened her eyes again. "I don't know what I deserve, Michael."

Michael leaned up and kissed her very softly, stroking her face. "You deserve a man who'll never hurt you," he whispered, close to her.

"Will you hurt me here, Michael?" she questioned, putting her hand over his.

"Not here," Michael assured her.

"Then maybe this is the one place we *should* be," Nikita suggested.

They gazed at each other for quite some time. Then, Nikita took her hand from his, placed it on the side of his face and leaned down to kiss him.

Michael returned the kiss briefly but then pulled back to look at her. "I wish things were different, `Kita."

Nikita smiled softly at him. "They can be, for now."

They kissed again gently, their silent agreement sealed. As Nikita rolled on top of Michael, the kiss deepened, still achingly soft.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other's warmth. Michael's hands roamed down Nikita's back, finally pausing to caress her delicate curves.

Nikita's hands ran down Michael's arms, tracing the muscles there, before she broke the kiss. She kissed down his cheek, pausing to run butterfly kisses over his throat, and then tracing less delicate kisses down his neck.

Michael's hands ran up her back, before beginning to slide lightly down her sides.

Nikita smiled into his neck before nipping lightly at the skin above his collar bone.

Michael sighed.

Nikita continued downwards with her tongue, running it *very* lightly over one of his nipples. A moan caught in Michael's throat, and his hands massaged Nikita's back, as she teased the delicate area. Michael moaned again.

After giving the same attention to his other nipple, Nikita slid her tongue lightly down Michael's body. She removed his shorts, tossed them off the bed, and returned her attention to him.

Michael caught one of her hands. "`Kita, no."

She looked up at him, confused.

Michael drew her back up his body, away from the obvious sign of his arousal. He looked her very deeply in the eyes. "Let me perform for you."

Nikita smiled at him, still a bit confused.

"I owe you something for that performance I made you give at Bauer's," he continued.

Nikita smiled more deeply at him and then rolled him on top of her. "Very well," she said, with a playful challenge in her eyes.

Michael smiled back at her and then leaned down to kiss her, teasing her lips lightly with his, before deepening the kiss, his hand on the side of her face. After a minute, he moved to nip lightly down her jaw to her neck, running his tongue down it. He very slightly bit the skin near her collar bone before continuing on to tease her throat and the other side of her neck with his tongue.

His hands, meanwhile, slid lovingly up her sides before beginning to trace the outline of her breasts. His thumb brushed lightly across her nipple, finding it hardened, waiting. She moaned slightly.

Michael moved down her body, tracing his tongue down her breastbone. Then, he grazed his lips lightly across one nipple. He felt her shudder. He barely touched it with the tip of his tongue and then breathed his warm, moist air over it.

"Please," Nikita begged, trying to arch toward his lips.

Michael smiled and put her out of her misery by lightly tracing it with his tongue.

Nikita sighed and grabbed his shoulders.

Michael continued his slow torture before finally taking her into his mouth, suckling her softly. Nikita groaned and ran her hands into his hair, holding him lightly to her, cradling him.

Michael encircled her with his arms, caressing her back, while continuing his attention to both of her breasts. Nikita sighed again.

After several minutes, Michael left her breasts, to Nikita's disappointed whimper. He moved further down her body, running his tongue down her stomach and abdomen. Nikita let go of him and parted her legs more, eyes closed. Michael's hands ran down her back until they caressed her hips.

Michael leaned down and ever-so-delicately caressed the tender skin between her legs with his tongue. Hearing her moan, he continued to tease the area for a minute before he ran his hands behind her, stroking her skin. Then, pulling her softly toward him, he slid his tongue into her, tasting her deeply.

"Ohhh," Nikita moaned.

Michael continued to savour her there, as though Nikita were the world's most exquisite fruit. He was lost in sensation and her scent.

Nikita's moans became louder and more frequent. Michael pulled her up further to him and heard her cry out in ectasy, shuddering slightly. She followed this with a long, delighted moan.

Michael caressed his way back up her body, treasuring her with his tongue and lips. By the time he reached her face, Nikita's eyes were glazed with desire.

Nikita and Michael kissed again deeply before her hands ran down his back, finally grasping his hips. She broke the kiss and looked at him. "Michael," she whispered lovingly. He kissed her again, as she helped guide him into her.

When Michael entered her, they both broke the kiss to catch their breath, closing their eyes. Once he was completely inside her, he held still for a moment, savouring the feel of her.

"Oh, Michael," Nikita moaned.

When they began to move, their rhythm was perfect. They felt like they had been made for each other--created for just this purpose.

One of Nikita's hands held onto Michael's shoulder. She ran the other through his hair.

Michael's lips ran down to nip Nikita's neck. She moaned deeply, and they increased their pace.

Their union continued--blissful and intoxicating. They kissed again, touching each other tenderly, hungrily.

Nikita wrapped her legs around Michael and arched herself harder against him, forcing him further inside her. Michael responded by taking deeper, longer strokes, holding Nikita close. Nikita moaned throatily, and their pace quickened again.

After more of this sweet rhythm, Michael buried his face in her hair, his cheek close to hers. "`Kita," he whispered huskily, his breath teasing her neck.

Nikita moaned, and he put his hand on the small of her back, pulling her even closer, going deeper, his strokes firm but silken--intoxicating.

Nikita cried out her approval. "Michael!" She clung to his back, moaning.

Michael felt her contract around him. He groaned. "Oh God--`Ki-ta." He held her to him fiercely, shaking slightly.

Nikita whimpered in bliss.

They clung to each other, souls mingling.

After a minute, when they had both come down completely, Michael looked at Nikita rather desperately. "`Kita, you won't leave?" he begged, still slightly breathless.

Nikita pulled him to her and kissed him softly. "I'm here, Michael. I'm here."

Michael woke up a few minutes later, his usually obedient body betraying him. He slapped his head back against the pillow and shook it slightly, staring at the ceiling. Then, he got up delicately and slowly dragged his disobedient body into a *very* cold shower.

[The End]

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