The following is a rather long character study. It's based around (and during) the time of "Hard Landing" and "Spec Ops"; it starts the night after the events of "Spec Ops" end. I had a few problems with the episodes, and this was my way of working them out.

I'd say the rating for Parts 1, 3, and 5 is MA-14 (bits of strong language, sexual situations, and violence, though nothing too explicit), while Parts 2 and 4 are NC-17--don't read them if you shouldn't. :) The following contains spoilers for "Hard Landing," "Spec Ops," "Nikita," "Choice," "Escape," "Brainwash," and "War" (and maybe some sideways ones for a few others).

Much of the action, and a few of the words, here are taken from "Hard Landing" and "Spec Ops." However, no infringement of any sort is intended, and I am making no claims to ownership of these episodes or characters.

Please send comments to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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

Even years later, she would still think of it as her "who the hell was that person?" period. Michael had found her when she was weak, and he had very nearly succeeded in molding her into his own image: that of a beautiful, empty shell.

Nikita sat in her quarters in Section like a person who had just been released from hypnosis, trying to piece together what had happened--what she had done. It seemed ludicrous; she couldn't understand it. She had spent several weeks omplying to Michael's every wish, refusing to think for herself. She had been following him around like a love-sick teenager in the throes of her first serious case of lust. She would have done anything during those weeks to make him touch her. She had practically begged him to turn her into his sexual plaything--to do anything to her he felt like. . . . It as repulsive.

Nikita was angry now. Jurgen had been right; she had been Michael's slave. He had almost succeeded in destroying her from the inside. It was only Jurgen forcing her to face her situation--making her examine what was left of her own soul that had snapped her out of it. And now she wanted to know why. She wanted to understand how she had come to be degraded--and to have degraded herself--so. Why in the hell had she let him do it? How did he manage it?

Nikita thought back now to her time outside of Section One. After she had gotten over the initial shock of that last mission, she had been happy--for a while. Her freedom beckoned. She had no one to answer to--no atrocities she was expected to perform. She had felt alive.

The sensation had lasted, more or less, for a month. Then, however, she had forced herself to examine the creeping sensations of doubt and fear which were plaguing her more often. That's when she realized it--she had never been free--never in her life. Nothing had changed.

She was still endlessly grateful to be let out of Section, however. She never again wanted to hurt and kill the innocent while protecting the guilty--which was Section One's unspoken charter. But running constantly, living in fear of every person, every sight and noise wasn't freedom either. This--like Section--was merely existence.

In some ways, she was even more afraid after her release from Section than she had been in her streetlife before it; she understood more fully now just what she should fear. Now, too, every face was a potential enemy--someone who might have been sent to kill or kidnap her. On the street, the average person wasn't interested in killing you; they just didn't care whether you lived or died. Now, instead of indifference, she saw--or imagined-- malevolence in everyone. It was a much more terrifying existence.

There were other problems, too. Now, she had to keep moving. It was just too dangerous to stay in one place for long. And she always had to worry about giving herself away. She couldn't even fight off an attacker without fear. While she could easily best almost any man who tried to hurt her, she had to try to avoid the confrontations altogether. Otherwise, a stray blow or kick could prove accidentally fatal. Just her fighting style alone was a dead giveaway to anyone with even the vaguest training or knowledge. Then, the questions came: how did this inoffensive-looking girl learn to fight like a commando? And she would have to run again.

The life had worn on her, broken her down. After a while, she couldn't stand to think about her past anymore--any of it--from birth through her escape. But thoughts of Section wore on her especially.

At first, she had liked thinking about it; the few happy memories had buoyed her, and the bad ones made her appreciate Section's absence. Now, though, it was all pain.

In Section, there were people she could turn to, at least at times--Walter always listened; Birkoff would either joke with her or was fun to tease. Even Madeline would give advice at times, if you were up to being profiled. And Michael--well, Michael was a story unto himself.

Nikita missed them all--even Madeline. She needed to talk--to be listened to . . ., but nobody was listening. She needed companionship, even the *illusion* of friends, but, here, none were to be found.

Nikita had almost answered the p.d.a. then, had almost responded to the question Michael sent her every day: "Nikita, are you there?" It would have been so easy. One night, when the loneliness was worse than most, she had spent an hour staring at the p.d.a., waiting for him to call. When the message came, as it always did, she sat with her finger poised over the keys for half an hour. She wanted to believe; she wanted to call for him, but she knew, in the end, that there was no going back. She had turned the machine off.

Nikita had begun to close in on herself then--to shut down. It was the only way she could think of to survive. She shut them all out of her mind, made herself forget them. They all went fairly easily--all except Michael. He stayed with her like a possessive ghost.

Nikita had had to fight to rid herself of him--to exorcise him. She had had to form a battle plan. She focused in on the pain, the manipulations, the parts of herself she had killed at his command. Every time she might remember how he would stand close to her to protect or support her, she thought instead about the times he had stood close to intimidate her--about being backed around her apartment when he had come by in a simmering jealous rage over Gray-- forcing her to reconnect herself to the Section; about how he stood close, his furious, ragged breaths shuddering in her face as he threatened to kill her when she refused to become a murderer. When her mind would play his soft words to her, she would replay instead the lies and manipulations, the thousand wounding, scarring things he had said. Or she would think about the soft words which had only been guises--like his gentle words when they were encaged by Red Cell, spoken solely with the intent of making her break. When she would think about the gentleness of his touch, of his kiss, she would force herself to remember the sting of his hand on her face or his use of his charms to make her decide to stay in Section, only to withdraw them once she had.

Nikita sat up sharply at this last memory and gripped the edge of her bed. Was that what he had done this time? Was that all this was? Had he simply carried his seduction farther in order to get her back? She began breathing more quickly, flushed with anger. Damn him. The soulless bastard had played her like some kind of target. She was clawing at her bed in fury. He had spotted her weakness and moved in. He deserved to rot in Hell.

Now far angrier at Michael than she had been when she had begun her reflections--and convinced of his depravity, she sat back slowly against her pillows, trying to calm herself. She had to know how he had done it, how she had ever let him control her that much. She had to work back through it and find the cause, or she would go mad. She could never let herself be that vulnerable again.

She thought back. Her plan had worked; she had managed to block Michael out on a conscious level. Along with him had gone all conscious thoughts of Section, her life before it--and herself. She wandered for four and a half months with no sense of identity, no full understanding of who she was. She had been isolated--and had isolated herself--into a near total destruction of personality.

She should have let the p.d.a. go, of course, should have destroyed it, but some hidden part of herself--the part which caused her to wake up with tears of memory or regret on her face after her dreams revealed again what she had repressed--made her hang on to it. She got as far as leaving it in a dumpster once, but Michael had chosen just that moment to send his daily plea, and some part of her heart had forced her to jump in and fish it back out. She had kept it under pillows or clothes frequently to muffle its daily cry, but she could never really let it go.

She was in Paris when her past caught up with her. Of course, from what she had seen of it, it looked more like Paris, Texas than Paris, France, but she supposed vicious rednecks were a worldwide phenomenon.

She had felt no particular emotion when the Freedom League had caught her; she had simply closed down too much. She hadn't even been particularly concerned with what Section One would think when they saw she was alive. She was beyond caring. The only thing which moved her at all was knowing that the League was setting a trap--and that Michael might be the one who was caught in it. It was the first time in over four months she had allowed herself to think about him.

Most of her short time in captivity had been spent trying to figure out how to save him. She had actually been relieved when one of her captors had come in to try to rape her; it was her chance. Most women, of course--trained or self-starved into weakness or passivity--wouldn't have been able to fight him, but Nikita wasn't most women.

All of the memories she had put away about Michael had come back to her as she followed the League to the ambush. She tried to board them up again, but they wouldn't stay hidden.

When he saw her after she saved him, it was like two phantoms spotting each other; neither was wholly sure which was the apparition. That night, Nikita finally answered his daily question: "Yes."

He came the next night, found her in her new hideout. She hadn't been sure whether she had wanted him to or not. When he found her, he discovered a personality in disarray. Nikita was ripe for brainwashing; the isolation had done its work.

When he entered, she couldn't figure out how to feel. Disbelief and fear won, though, and she trembled, as she held the gun on him. He approached her, seemingly without concern for his safety; Nikita supposed she had held guns on him enough for him to have little fear of her anymore. She had been angry and even more frightened, however, when he disarmed her and pushed her down on the bed, but he understood and let her go quickly, letting her know that he hadn't come to hurt her.

Nikita sighed and leaned her head back further onto the pillows, as she replayed events. She wanted to keep her anger as a vaccine against his charms, but her memories were undermining her. Michael's actions that night hadn't been the controlled seduction he used on his targets. He wasn't watching her reactions to see if he was winning; he wasn't planning. His eyes before he kissed her had held desperation and the rebirth of hope.

It hadn't all been a manipulation, then, but she still needed to figure out where his control of her had started. She played back through her memories.

She had put him in his place when he had tried to claim her: "You never had me," she had reminded him firmly. When, then, did it begin? She shook her head. It was going to be a long night.

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

As little as Nikita felt sure she wanted to remember the events of that night now, as much as she feared that remembering might give Michael renewed control, she knew she had to.

There had been few words between them on the boat. Neither one was thinking much; their emotions were in complete control. They kissed each other with passion and some desperation. They were ruled by their need, but it wasn't a simple sexual desire; they needed each other's souls. It was an act of possession.

By the time they kissed again after they exchanged their first few words, they were already beyond turning back. All of the emotions they had repressed were coming out--overwhelming them. Michael's hand ran into Nikita's hair, as he pulled her toward him. Their hands roamed as they kissed, and she pulled him back down on top of her; he braced himself on the bed so as not to crush her with his weight. They continued kissing desperately for several minutes, until he pulled back to look at her for a second. He kissed her again before sliding his lips over her cheek to kiss his way down her neck from behind her ear. He traced a line over her collarbone with his tongue and then nipped his way up her neck again to kiss the underside of her throat.

Michael's hands, meanwhile, had run down her sides and were now beginning to gently roam up her stomach and ribs, under her shirt. One hand then traced her back while the other gently outlined the curves of her breast, as he ran his tongue down her throat to her breastbone. Nikita leaned her head back into the bed and let out her breath, lost in his touch.

He continued this treatment for several minutes before he ran his lips back up to hers and kissed her again. They sat up, kissing, while Michael removed her shirt. Broken apart momentarily by the garment, they stared in each other's eyes for several seconds before Michael's gaze lowered, and his desire seemed to build further. He looked back at her face and kissed her, his arms encircling her and holding her upper back, as he lowered her onto the bed. Nikita lay back willingly, holding onto his lapels and pulling him down onto her, kissing him, half-feverishly.

Michael brought a hand up to her face, as he kissed her. Then, he ran his lips and tongue down her throat to her breastbone. He kissed around her breast, as his hands held her back. He then kissed the nipple very lightly, as she tensed, sighing. He pulled her toward him as his lips encompassed her breast, running back up to hold just the nipple. He traced it with his tongue before beginning to suckle. Nikita moaned and ran her hands into his hair, cradling him, holding him to her. Her knees were raised, as she traced his legs with her feet.

Michael continued there, lost in her, for several minutes before tracing a line with his tongue down one breast and up the other to the nipple. He ran his tongue around it before beginning to suckle again. Nikita held him to her more firmly, as their overwhelming need grew.

Nikita sat back up after a few minutes, forcing Michael away from her breasts. His lips ran back up her neck, kissing and nipping his way up to her cheek. When they were both upright, he looked at her to see what she wanted. Nikita's eyes never left his as she took off his jacket and tossed it to the floor. She pulled him to her and kissed him again. He could feel her nipples pressing against him through his shirt and held her closer, to increase the sensation. Nikita's hands ran along his back, tracing the muscles there.

She pulled his shirt up and ran her hands under it, up his back. He held her closer still, kissing her passionately. She ran her hands up his sides, pulling his shirt up until they broke the kiss to lift it off. Michael began to move in to her again, but she kept him back with a hand. His eyes caressed her face, as her hands roamed down his chest, tracing the muscles and curves. Her index finger brushed across his nipple, and he closed his eyes. Nikita smiled up at him.

The bed was huge--fortunately. Nikita ran her hands up Michael's neck and stroked his cheek before leaning in to kiss him and lie him back. He had to maneuver a bit to allow it to happen, but he acquiesced. She lay on top of him, kissing him, her hand half on his cheek and half in his hair. He held her to him, enjoying the feel of their flesh touching, as her hair fell around him.

After a few minutes, Nikita ran her lips down to nip along his jaw to his neck. She ran her tongue down it to kiss the skin above his collarbone, her hands tracing his chest before running up to lightly stroke his nipples. Her tongue slid up his throat to nip at the underside and then traced back down the other side of his neck to kiss above the collarbone. Running her hands along his back now, she ran her tongue up to kiss behind his ear before very slowly kissing her way back down.

Michael's eyes were closed, as his hands ran lightly over her shoulders. Her tongue traced down to one of his nipples before running a circle around it. She suckled, as he ran his hands into her hair to hold her gently there.

Nikita continued to delicately torture him before moving to give the other nipple the same attention. Lying on top of Michael, she could feel his need pressing into her, and she ran her hand down to stroke him, through his pants. Michael let out a deep groan and leaned his head back.

After a few minutes, Nikita ran her tongue down his stomach. She kissed the area she had been stroking; Michael groaned deeply. She moved down to remove his boots and socks as well as her own before coming back up to unbuckle his belt and delicately unzip his pants. She pulled them off--along with his briefs--and ran her hands back up his thighs. She looked up at him to see his eyes closed, incredible tension in his jaw. She smiled and kissed the tip of his penis before opening her mouth to take him in, running her tongue down the back of it. Michael leaned back his head and let out a throaty groan. Nikita suckled and licked him while stroking him with her hand; Michael's groans continued.

This continued, as Michael groaned more loudly. Finally, though, he sat up and pulled Nikita up to him swiftly. He was breathing raggedly. He looked insane, as though he would devour her at any moment. He kissed her fiercely and rolled her over onto the bed, his hands roaming. Finally, he nipped his way down her neck to her breast and suckled there while he undid and removed her pants and underwear. He was still gentle, but there was more desperation to his actions now.

He kissed his way down her stomach, as his hand stroked her inner thigh. He ran his tongue down to tease the tender flesh between her legs, licking and suckling at it gently. Nikita moaned. His hands ran from her hips back behind her, as his tongue tasted her lightly before plunging deep inside her. Nikita whimpered, a ball of the sheets in her hands. Michael teased her, explored her, bringing her close to climax several times before backing off, making her need for him almost unbearable.

Michael worked his way back up her body. When he saw her eyes, they held the same desperate need as his own. He put a hand on the side of her face, as they kissed ferociously. Nikita's hands held his hips, pulling him toward her. He resisted, brushing against her, almost entering, twice, before looking at her again. Nikita's eyes said clearly that if he didn't complete this soon she was going to go find her gun. He pulled her into another deep kiss and entered her, slowly filling her completely.

Nikita leaned back from the kiss to groan, her hand grasping his shoulder. He pulled halfway out before stroking deep inside her again. This time, they both groaned, holding onto each other.

Of course, the fact that--especially given their histories and situation--they were having unprotected sex was enormously stupid, but neither of them was exactly thinking clearly. They opened their eyes to look at one another and then pulled each other into a deep, desperate kiss.

They fell into an incredible rhythm now, as Nikita wrapped her legs around him, inviting him further in. Michael kissed his way back down her neck, biting her slightly, as she groaned. He continued to explore her neck and throat, as Nikita's heels dug into him, pushing him further into her. Her hands ran in his hair, as she moaned.

Michael moved further down, suckling her breast, grazing the nipple slightly with his teeth. His strokes were getting longer and deeper. Nikita's moans half sounded like screams.

Michael lifted Nikita up till she sat on his lap, her legs around his back. His lips trailed back up her throat to hers. They kissed deeply, insanely, as Nikita clung to him. Their strokes were still incredibly deep.

Nikita broke the kiss, panting. She arched her back, forcing Michael yet further inside her. Her eyes were closed, head back, her body braced for the sensation rising within her. Michael watched her, enraptured, stroking slowly but incredibly deeply now. His hands ran down to pull her further down onto him and Nikita screamed, nails at his back, body shuddering. She wanted to lean her head forward onto his shoulder, but he wouldn't let her, holding it up, as he watched her every emotion intently, holding her to him.

What seemed an absolute eternity of bliss later to her, she opened her eyes to look at him. Her eyes had tears in them, and she was still shaking slightly. Michael kissed them and then kissed her, as she smiled and leaned him over onto the bed. Now on top of him, she would stroke all the way down on him and back up to the tip of his penis, almost releasing him, before repeating the pattern. She continued this slow torture for quite some time, as he groaned.

Michael's whole body was tensing, and his breathing was ragged, as he sat back up and pushed Nikita back over, rising to the top again. Their strokes were almost languorous, for a few seconds, as they were caught in each other's gaze. Then they kissed again. The kiss deepened, as their arms encircled each other. They seemed to be trying to merge into a single whole.

Although Nikita had no real way of knowing, this was much what Michael was thinking. He wanted--needed to protect her--to keep her safe. He wanted to surround her completely--to hide her somewhere deep within himself where no one could get to her. She was his soul--the only light left within himself. Deep inside him, she could be safe--only he could come to harm. He clung to her, as the irrational thoughts flooded through his mind.

Nikita was losing herself again, as Michael stroked straight to her core. She broke the kiss. She was crying again, and she clung to him, her head pressed into his neck, groaning, in half-sobs.

They were both lost, overwhelmed, connecting on some deeper level they couldn't have explained--becoming part of the other. Neither had ever experienced anything like it. Although Michael had loved--still loved Simone desperately, even though she was still a part of him, he had never had the soul-encompassing *need* for her that he did for Nikita. Simone was a part of him, but Nikita was his soul--the breath in his lungs; he didn't exist without her.

With one final stroke, Nikita's head lifted to Michael's cheek. "Oh . . . dear . . . God," she moaned, as she came again, shuddering, lost completely within his presence.

"`Kita," Michael breathed huskily, clinging to her furiously, as he lost himself in her, overwhelmed--overtaken by the light of her soul.

It was a minute or more later before either one moved. When they looked at each other again, there were no words they could say. They stared into each other's eyes for a long time between delicate kisses. ************

Nikita covered her eyes for a minute, remembering. It certainly wasn't that she found the memory of that union unpleasant; it was more that it was painful to remember something she wasn't entirely sure Michael did.

She had been convinced of the truth of his emotions that night, but his actions since had been a return to status quo. He was once again unreadable, unknowable, . . . untouchable. He had put himself beyond her.

Nikita looked up and shook her head. This was getting her nowhere; she was getting ahead of herself. She needed to keep going through that night--and the time since--or she would never understand her own behavior.

The images of that time were tender, though, and part of her mind wanted to linger there. . . . No. "C'mon, Nikita," she prodded herself mentally, "*after* that."

After--after that there was a warmth. She had slept without fear for the first time in months, Michael wrapped around her from behind, holding her softly, kissing her shoulder delicately from time to time. It was almost the definition of comfort to her; she had been certain of his love, had no doubt about his emotions. Nikita smiled wryly. "If only that could have lasted," she thought.

She had wanted, her whole life, to have someone who could look deeply into her soul and still love her completely--no lies, no betrayals--no tacit, brutal bargains struck which made the love die a slow death. This was the closest she had ever come to that dream.

What Nikita didn't know--what Michael didn't let her close enough to understand--were the doubts and fears which had begun assaulting him as he lay there holding her. Like many of his fears, they stemmed back to Simone--to losing her; all of the trauma of his wife's loss had been replayed one hundredfold over the last several months. He had survived Simone's deaths--somehow--by shutting down--by closing in. He wasn't entirely sure, though, that he had survived Nikita's loss. Her absence had ripped holes in him--had caused wounds he wasn't certain were going to heal, even seeing her again.

Nikita *was* Michael's survival. Without her, he was dead and rotting. But it had been six months of decay now, and he wasn't sure he was capable of resuscitation anymore. Maybe he was too far gone.

His only real chance for revival was to be with her--constantly, but that couldn't happen. To Section, she was dead; as much as he wanted to, he could see no way around that.

Michael realized he was gripping Nikita's shoulder painfully, as she stirred in her sleep; he let go instantly and kissed it. His need for her--to protect her, to be near her--to be one with her was overwhelming. He finally had to pull away and slip out of the bed to keep himself from grabbing her and pulling her painfully close.

He stood by the bed for a few minutes and watched her sleep. God, she was beautiful. He closed his eyes briefly and then turned away from her, walking toward a window to look out. It was just too painful to watch her.

This was one night; he couldn't see any way around that. Nikita had spent three years aching for her freedom; she would never allow him to take it away, and--as much as he wanted to--he couldn't bring himself to ask. He was relieved that she still cared for him; this night had convinced him of that, but she would never allow him to make the decisions, no matter how much he was convinced that it was the only way toward safety for them.

He still wanted to hide her--to tuck her somewhere deep inside himself where no one could touch her, but he knew that was a fantasy.

Of course, Nikita knew none of these thoughts of Michael's. She only knew that she had woken because he was gone; the warmth and comfort were missing. She had gotten out of bed to join him by the window. She wasn't sure what had been bothering him; she had been too preoccupied with emotions of her own to really press him.

Nikita leaned her head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling, remembering--trying to dissect events. Something had been worrying him; she guessed it was the fact that their future had been so tenuous. Who knows, though? Was it something else?

Nikita was confused; it wasn't a new emotion for her when it came to Michael. She had been certain, that night, that there was no game involved in what they had done; her instincts now told her to hold on to that assessment, but it didn't help her understand.

She decided to focus instead on her own actions. Although she had sensed that Michael was worried, her feeling of comfort had been restored when she walked over to him. She smiled, thinking back. There had been no awkwardness, no need to cover themselves. Their act had been the consummation of a long-standing intimacy between them; there had been no need for veils.

Michael had been the first person in months to touch her gently, and he had restored her to life. Nikita's head popped up from the pillow. Had she really just thought that? What was she, a Harlequin romance heroine? Come to think of it, that was precisely what she had acted like the last several weeks--some demented stereotype. She shook her head. Blecch.

Anyway, it wasn't that Michael was some patriarchal fantasy man who rescued a poor woman from her manless solitude. Nikita chuckled softly and leaned her head against the wall. Please. No, it was more that seeing Michael again had reminded her of everything she had purposefully repressed, had forced her back into an awareness of self; it was a rather giddy feeling.

She had still been feeling that giddiness when she went over to him; she hadn't been thinking particularly clearly. She had told him about all of those repressed emotions, something she never would have done if she had been feeling more self-possessed. She had needed someone to lean on, though, and Michael's tenderness was enough, in her disintegrated emotional state, to make her trust him.

Nikita hadn't seen the look in Michael's eyes after her revelations. For him, her admittance that being out of Section wasn't what she had wanted was a gift from God. She seemed to finally be accepting her place in Section, if he could get her back in--and him, along with it.

Michael had never really understood Nikita's problem with Section One. Although he bewilderedly admired her sense of justice, morality had become relative to him too long ago to fully understand it.

It was for this very reason that he couldn't comprehend her objection to--and lingering resentment over--many of his actions toward her. He--like Section--worked from a sort of amoral and expedient skewed logic. He had long since recovered--or so he told himself--from his own training and Section's various manipulations. The world divided, for him, into targets, operatives, and collateral, and all of them were ultimately expendable. As much as Nikita's unshakable belief in human dignity attracted him, it was antithetical to Section's workings and, therefore, untenable.

Now, however--to Michael's eyes--Nikita seemed to be coming to see life from his viewpoint. This provided a deep sense of relief (and some triumph) to him, as it meant he might be able to protect her. He had no particular conscious plan, but it was the beginning of his several-week-long psychological dominance over her. It never occurred to him that the destruction of Nikita's sense of morality would destroy everything he loved about her.

Nikita, of course, had missed Michael's thought processes, but, sitting up again and rubbing her lower lip, she did realize something. Her need to be close to him--regardless of consequences--had started, unconsciously, then, although she hadn't thought that outcome possible at the time. She had put her head on his shoulder, after that brief conversation, half-ready to follow him into Hell. "I guess I did that," she almost murmured, stopping herself to keep the cameras--and their watchers--from listening.

Nikita stopped rubbing her lip and looked up in the corner where she was certain the camera was placed. She was having enough trouble sorting out her own actions; she didn't need whatever watchers she might have following along. *************

Nikita continued to retrace the night's events. Michael had held her close, as they stood near the boat's window, for quite some time. Their nakedness added to the warmth of the embrace. Nikita had felt herself engulfed by him--by the strength of his presence.

One of Michael's hands had begun to trace down her back, following its contours; the other was still on her shoulder, holding her close. Nikita had sighed; the tenderness of the embrace and Michael's caresses, combined with their bodies' total contact, was gently arousing her. She began to trace the outlines of his chest with her fingertips.

Michael stopped tracing her back and took her hand softly. "Don't."

Nikita looked up at him. "Why not?" she asked, confused.

His eyes were sad. "I'll have to leave soon," he said quietly.

"It's still night, Michael," Nikita countered. "You can stay till the morning." Her tone suggested it was a question.

Michael looked unsure--of anything. He started to speak but then stopped. "Maybe it's better if we just--sleep."

Nikita put her hands on Michael's shoulders. "Michael, we've got one night. I don't want to spend it sleeping."

Nikita had no way of knowing that Michael was already trying to pull back--to prepare for finding a way to bring her back in. He looked at the ceiling for a second and then refocused on her face, stroking his hand down her hair. "The more memories we have, the harder it will be to leave."

Nikita's hand came up to stroke his cheek. "Michael, if this is our one chance, we better enjoy it." Her eyes looked teary. "It may not come again." Her voice was breaking slightly.

Michael put his hand on her cheek and pulled her into a very deep kiss.

It occurred to Nikita, in retrospect, that he was trying to keep her from crying; she wasn't entirely sure, though, if the move had been altruistic.

Nikita's hand ran back into his hair, and she held him there, as the kiss became more delicate. It ended, and they looked at each other. Michael's eyes were slightly misty, as well, and--after a minute, seeming to agree with her logic--he pulled her into another kiss.

They kissed languorously, in a way they never had quite before. There had been a desperation or tension to the kisses in their relationship up to this point. Now, however, there was just tenderness--and sadness.

They began looking at each other between kisses, as though they were afraid the other might disappear--or to convince themselves that it really wasn't a dream. Nikita's hands traveled slowly down his sides to run up his back and tangle gently in his hair. One of Michael's hands was ensnarled in Nikita's hair, as well, while the other traced delicate lines on her back with his fingertips. Their kiss deepened.

His fingers traced further down, outlining her curves. She pulled him further into the kiss.

Michael's hand ran lightly up Nikita's side to trace the side of her breast, while she felt her way down the muscles in his back to draw light circles with her fingertips from behind. Michael's hand ran up to cup her cheek.

Nikita had felt his growing arousal and knew what she needed to do. She was going to take this chance to memorize him--every curve and muscle. She didn't think this would ever be possible again, and she was determined to make the most of her opportunity--to have a warm memory for cold, lonely nights.

Nikita smiled ruefully in her Section quarters. She almost wished she hadn't done this now. It made distancing herself from him a whole lot harder.

Nikita's hands had run up his back, and she had drawn away to look at him. She smiled and took his hand, leading him to the bed. When they were near it, she pushed him gently to get him to sit; she leaned over and kissed him, then pulled back, stroking his temple. "Lie down."

Michael looked at her questioningly. He really wasn't used to being submissive in sexual situations.

She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back. He did as requested.

Nikita smiled again, then crawled onto the bed and straddled him. She sat across his abdomen, most of her weight on her knees. She leaned over him, as his hands cupped her face, and she kissed him gently before beginning.

She then started by running her hands through his hair back to slowly trace her fingertips down the nape of his neck. She ran kisses, as well, from one temple--along the hairline--to the other, as Michael let go of her. He sighed, and she massaged the back of his neck, while running kisses to his ear, pulling the lobe gently with her lips and kissing behind it. Michael let out a soft moan and wrapped his arms around her.

Nikita pulled back, looked at him, and smiled slightly,

dislodging his arms. She got off of him and whispered, "Roll over."

Michael wasn't used to this sort of treatment, but he didn't seem to be complaining. He did as he was asked.

Nikita lay on top of him, one arm encircling to gently caress a hardened nipple, the other reaching around to stroke his length lightly. She kissed behind his ear. Michael groaned.

She continued this for a minute before stopping and sitting up, straddling his thighs. "Don't," he moaned slightly, not wanting it to end.

She leaned down to kiss his temple and whispered in his ear, "Patience." She moved his hair and ran her tongue down the back of his neck. He shuddered slightly. She sat up and began to trace and massage the muscles of his shoulders and back, letting her long hair fall against him from time to time. He was moaning slightly, gently gasping when her locks tickled his back. She worked her way slowly down from his shoulders to the small of his back. Nikita noticed that his skin felt alive with arousal. She kneaded his curves.

"`Kita," he moaned. She leaned over and kissed the side of his neck, to his responding groan.

Nikita began kissing at the hairline at the back of his neck and continued downward, till she had caressed and kissed her way to the soles of his feet. Then, she lay down beside him. He took the opportunity to pull her into a deep kiss.

She responded but then pulled away. "Not yet, Michael," she smiled. "Roll over."

His eyes suggested that he had other plans for her, but he did as requested.

Nikita straddled his thighs again and leaned over to kiss him. He tried to hold her in it, but she leaned back and smiled. Then, she cupped his face and began kissing from his cheek down his jaw and neck, nipping slightly at the skin above his collarbone. She then kissed her way--hard--up the side of his neck to behind his ear and played with the lobe with her tongue.

"`Kita," Michael begged.

Nikita bit the side of his neck slightly to his resulting groan. "Wait."

She ran her tongue down his throat to the hollow and kissed it. Then, she kissed her way back up the other side of his neck to suck that lobe. Michael's hands were on her back, as he sighed. Her tongue ran down his neck to kiss her way from his collarbone and shoulder across his chest and then down to his nipple. She grazed it lightly with her lips and flicked her tongue out at it before taking it in her mouth to suckle it.

"`Kita," Michael groaned throatily, holding her there.

Nikita continued before running her tongue across to suckle the other--slightly harder. Michael groaned, his fingers lightly grabbing balls of her hair.

After a few minutes, Nikita's tongue ran down to his stomach, kissing her way down from there.

Nikita ran a circle around the base of his penis with her tongue, before tracing--hard--from the base to the tip--along the back. Michael groaned loudly. She kissed the tip and ran a light circle around it with her tongue. Michael gripped the sheets.

Nikita began stroking the length up to the tip with her hand, while sucking the tip. Michael's groans were becoming incoherent. Then, she took him in her mouth while holding him from behind. Michael screamed.

Nikita continued there until Michael screamed, "Enough!" He pulled her away from him and laid her on the bed, holding her shoulders roughly at first before some tenderness returned. He straddled her and kissed her frenziedly--slightly roughly.

For a minute, Nikita thought she might lose consciousness from lack of oxygen, but--in some demented way--it was rather a nice feeling. Finally, Michael pulled back and fixed her with a deep stare. "Two can play," he reminded her. She smiled.

He took her head in his hands, traced a line to her ear with his tongue and then nipped his way down the side of her neck. He continued to trace up and down her neck and throat with his lips and tongue, while his fingers reached behind her to run sensual lines over the muscles of her back. He massaged slowly from her shoulders to her lower back and back again. Meanwhile, his kisses started to run lower, working down to her breasts.

Nikita's arms were around him, her hand in his hair, her sighs turning into moans. Michael kissed around her nipples, letting his breath--but nothing else--touch them. His hands now ran patterns up her sides. "Michael," she moaned.

"Patience," he repeated back to her. His kisses ran lower, down to her abdomen. She groaned, and his tongue ran up her body to her nipple, his mouth capturing it, suckling firmly.

Nikita groaned. "Harder." Michael's teeth grazed lightly over the nipple before soothing it with his tongue, suckling again, repeating the process a minute later. He allowed their legs to switch positions so that Nikita's now straddled his. His hand ran up to tease her other nipple, stroking it with his thumb and then pinching it slightly, his hand kneading her breast. Nikita's groan was almost a scream.

Michael ran his tongue over to her other nipple, suckling it slightly harder, repeating his treatment of the first. His hand made up for his absence to the neglected bud. Nikita whimpered, her legs spreading further.

After another few minutes, Michael ran his tongue swiftly down her body, his hands grabbing her from behind, kneading her. He then suckled the tender flesh between her legs.

"Michael," Nikita moaned.

Michael removed one hand and entered her deeply with several fingers, establishing a rhythm that had Nikita groaning--gasping. Her legs were spread wide, allowing him complete access. His fingers went deeper, stroking her harder. Nikita's groans grew louder. Michael suckled harder; Nikita was screaming. He pulled at the flesh slightly with his lips and stroked down with his hand.

Nikita screamed, half sobbing, her body shuddering. As she was just about to come down, Michael removed his hand, grabbed her from behind and entered her deeply with his tongue, touching all of her shuddering walls.

Nikita stopped breathing momentarily. The world existed of nothing but light and pleasure for her, and she floated in it.

What seemed hours later to her, she began breathing again. Michael was kissing her inner thighs tenderly. She held out a hand to him. "Please, Michael."

He took her hand and returned to face her. His hand stroked gently down her cheek. "I need you," he whispered.

She smiled at him. "Take anything from me you need."

He pulled her into a deep, tender kiss, as she put her hands on his hips and pulled him into her. He was beyond ready, and he felt fantastic. Her hands cradled him, then pulled him further in.

The kiss broke. "Yes," he whispered. His arms went around her; one caressed her lower back while the other played in her hair, pulling her into another deep kiss.

Their rhythm began, deep and steady, their kiss continuing. Nikita's legs wrapped around him. One hand gripped his shoulder; the other tangled in his hair, holding him in the kiss.

There was no desperation this time, but the possession continued. It was as though they were parts of one soul the universe had cruelly separated, trying to remerge.

Nikita's hands began roaming Michael's back. He pulled back from the kiss and kissed gently down her cheek and neck. Nikita arched her back and guided Michael further into her. His strokes got longer, as he traced his tongue down to the hollow in her throat. Nikita moaned.

Michael ran his lips back to hers and caught the moan in her throat. Nikita's hands ran back to his hair, as she kissed him frenziedly. She pulled away from the kiss. "Oh, Michael."

"`Kita," he whispered.

She noted what sounded like a request in his voice. She looked at him, trying to focus. "What is it?"

He put a hand on the side of her face and kissed her before pulling back. "I need more."

Nikita looked confused.

"The floor." It was a request.

Nikita smiled. She waited for him to pull out, but he didn't.

"No." Michael sat up, bringing Nikita with him. He tossed a pillow on the floor; a sheet had landed there earlier. He stood up, Nikita wrapped around him, and then lowered them both to the floor, Nikita's head coming to rest on the pillow. His eyes never left hers. He stroked down deeply.

"Oh . . . yes," Nikita moaned.

He took slow, deep strokes, holding Nikita's hips and kissing her throat.

Nikita groaned and arched against him. His strokes got deeper.

"More, Michael, please," she begged. Michael's strokes got harder, as she grasped his shoulders. "Ohhh," she groaned.

Her sounds seemed to make Michael crazy; he seemed overwhelmed by need. His strokes increased, as he watched her face intently.

Nikita was moaning constantly now, clinging to him, her head back, buried in the pillow.

"Nikita, please. . . . Look at me," he begged.

She opened her eyes and was locked with him in an overpowering gaze. It was as though he was taking possession of her. He stroked down again deeply, as he leaned forward, hands stroking her face, lost in her eyes. He kissed her, eyes still locked, and stroked down once more.

Nikita let out a loud groan and shuddered. Michael's hand stayed on her face to remind her not to close her eyes. He was very close to her, watching intently every emotion passing through her brilliant (if now slightly clouded) blue eyes.

Nikita's hands clawed at his back. She was shaking as though she were in an earthquake, completely overtaken by the connection to Michael. The gaze was unrelenting. Finally, she erupted in a scream and had to close her eyes. She was shaking violently, and she held Michael to her with all of her force, her head on his shoulder, gasping.

Michael let her stay there, whimpering, for a few minutes, coming down. Before she had recovered entirely, though, he pulled her head back up and kissed her deeply.

He began building with slow, steady strokes which then grew more rapid. Nikita started moaning again.

The strokes got deeper. "Oh, yes . . . harder," she moaned, and she groaned and clung to him as he complied.

Nikita's legs grew tighter around him, pulling him in more. He got faster. "Yes," she whispered in his ear.

Michael was close to losing it. He slowed down for several longer, deep strokes, to Nikita's moans. "Please," she whispered.

Michael stroked faster again, as he found her mouth and assaulted it. Nikita was moaning through the kiss, clinging to him.

Finally, Nikita pulled away from the kiss. "Michael," she whimpered before clinging to him again. Her convulsions surrounded him, moaning filling his ear.

"`Kita," he whispered, coming, as he held her to him fiercely, a tear working down his cheek. He was shaking, and he hadn't the strength left to hide the tears.

They clung to each other long after they had come down, not moving, afraid to admit how close the night was to being over. **************

Nikita's eyes were red and tear-filled. Her arms were crossed over herself, and she was rubbing them with her hands, as she looked up at the ceiling, trying not to cry. "How could he not remember?" she almost said aloud. She glared in the direction where she was sure the camera was placed, wondering if he was watching.

That night had been so intense, the connection between them so deep--so electric that it was brutally painful to think that he might not remember. Worse, maybe he just didn't care.

Nikita took a deep breath and leaned her head back, eyes still fixed where the camera was. Her look was filled with pain and resentment.

She wasn't naive; she knew how meaningless sex could be, but that night had had meaning--to her, at least. "*Was* it just another manipulation, Michael?" she wondered.

Nikita sighed and leaned her head back further on her pillows, as she gripped her arms tightly. She had been *certain*--then-- that Michael had felt the connection as well. It was only his actions since which made her doubt. Nikita shook her head. It was like every other time they had been close; hours later, Michael's actions made her wonder if it had ever happened. For a beautiful man, he could be very ugly.

Nikita lifted her head and sighed again. She needed to focus. Was that night--that time where he had gotten control? Partly, yes--but not entirely. She had still known, the next day, that she needed to run; she hadn't accepted his offer of help. She had held out--even if she had held onto that damn p.d.a.--even after he had admitted how much he needed her. Nikita gave a wry smile-- more soft words. What did any of them mean from him anymore? Why the hell did she ever believe him?

The next day had been hard, though. It had only been by repressing her memories that she had survived; when they had returned, she had found life almost impossible to bear.

That was it--or at least part of it, then. That was when his control started. Michael had come and offered her soft words. After six months without them--even Michael's false ones, after six months of the wrecking of her personality--Michael had looked like hope, like love. Nikita laughed at herself. If that's how bad her eyes had gotten, she needed them checked.

Her arms still crossed, Nikita lay her hands over her sides and nestled back further into the pillows. She had been exhausted--mentally and emotionally; she had wanted someone else to make the decisions. "I guess I got that," she thought remorsefully, leaning her head against the wall.

When Michael had sent her his plan to bring her back in, she had jumped at it; her desire to connect with other people was too strong to resist. She could stop running; she would be able to remember with less pain; she would have someone to listen. . . . Yeah, right.

Nikita closed her eyes. She and Michael really had turned into some abusive couple--the Fannings all over again. She had allowed him to beat her brutally to bring her back into a life she had never wanted to begin with, all because she had some psychotic delusion that he loved her--that things would be different this time. What crap. She opened her eyes and stared at the bed. She wondered if Michael had enjoyed beating her, as she unconsciously rubbed a rib which was still a bit tender. For all she knew, he had gotten more out of it than their night together.

Nikita didn't know, of course, what Michael had been thinking; Michael never let her in enough to know. Every time she found a way through or around his walls, she would return minutes later to find that he had refortified them--that they were more impenetrable than ever.

Michael had been torn apart, emotionally, by beating her, but--like so many atrocities he had committed--he had told himself it was necessary. He could barely watch her, as he carried it out, could barely stand to look at her; he really believed that it had caused him more pain than it had her, but he wasn't the one whose ribs were bruised.

He had done it all, though, because he told himself it was best for them--that she was better off inside. If he couldn't hide her inside himself, he could hide her in Section--watch her there.

He didn't understand what he was doing, however. He wouldn't let himself examine his own motives that far; he never had. What he saw as protectiveness was really possessiveness--the desire to own and control Nikita; he really didn't--wouldn't let himself--see the difference. His need for her meant that she should have a reciprocal need for him. He wanted her to live for him, and him only, while he lived for Section first and then her--a dim second, someone to come to only when it was convenient--safe, as though he were married to Section and Nikita was his mistress. This was the way he thought love should work, now.

It hadn't always been that way, though. His relationship with Simone had been more egalitarian. But that was precisely the reason why he didn't want the same kind of relationship with Nikita; to him, while they were in Section--and he could comprehend no real life outside of it, an equal relationship seemed dangerous. Only with him in control could they--to his mind--have a chance at safety.

Michael had been relieved when Nikita had given her control over to him. He had been confused, however, when she had wanted his attention, as well; he hadn't programmed her for that. He didn't really understand that it was his tenderness--and not his false logic--which had won her allegiance.

Like all possessive men, Michael couldn't understand that--if she had continued to play the part he wanted her to--she would no longer be the bright, vibrant, and beautiful woman he loved. Even in the few weeks his control had reigned, Nikita's beauty had dimmed; she had become needy, was losing her sense of self-worth. If it had continued, it would have made her pathetic and disintegrated state after the phasing shell brainwashing look like a good day.

Michael didn't see his effects, though--didn't see, like so many times before--the immense pain he caused. He couldn't understand that he had chosen the most deadly path for them, far deadlier than the machinations of Section. And in it, as well, he had yet further damaged his relationship with the one person who meant anything to him.

Nikita knew none of these motivations, wouldn't have liked them if she had known. She was just confused by him, yet again. She was sad, angry at him for controlling her and at herself for being controlled. She wanted him very close to her and very far away. She wanted peace.

Her chances for it, however, seemed slim. Michael was back to his unknowable Section self, and she was left--like a shock victim-- wondering what had happened.

There was another problem, too. Michael still wanted to control her; he was still trying to call the shots. It was going to take all of her defenses to fight him off.

Nikita suddenly felt grateful. If it hadn't been for Jurgen, God knows what might have happened to her--where she might have ended up. He had broken through her conditioning--had forced her to see how brainwashed she had become. She sat back up. How had she ever let herself slide that far?

She had been ready to kill Jurgen unquestioningly on Michael's orders. She understood slightly more now the weaknesses and unfulfilled needs which had led her into Michael's control, but she was no less disgusted by it.

Michael had almost succeeded--had succeeded, for a while--in convincing her to ignore her instincts. If that had continued much longer, she was sure, it would have killed her--emotionally and spiritually, if not physically, as well.

She wasn't sure, really, why Jurgen had saved her, other than to save himself. It had to be more than that, though, because he had continued to watch over her after she had ceased to be a threat to him.

Thinking about it now, Nikita realized that she *had* been through a form of forced hypnotic regression. She had been a child blindly following Michael's orders, seeking affection like some neglected 12-year-old. Nikita smirked. Well, okay, not quite like a 12-year-old, admittedly, but she had become childish and clinging, nonetheless.

Nikita shook her head, flattened out her pillows, and lay down. It had been a bad few weeks. From now on, she needed to take control of her life.

Nikita dreamed. Her unconscious mind was replaying the events of the day.

She was again in retraining, holding a knife to her trainer's throat. Only, this time, her trainer wasn't Jurgen; it was Michael. There was one more difference, too. This time, she didn't back off. She looked straight into Michael's impassive eyes, as she plunged the knife into his throat. Then, she stood, watching him die. When he lay at her feet, a pool of blood near his head, she smiled.

Nikita's eyes opened suddenly. She pushed herself partly upright. "I guess I won't have to lie about having nightmares," she thought.

Nikita sat up, disturbed. It wasn't the dream that upset her, though; it was the fact that the dream *didn't* disturb her that made her worry. Rather, she felt oddly calmed by it, as though it had worked something out for her.

She shook her head. If anything, her relationship with Michael had worsened. Didn't *anything* get any easier?

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

In separate parts of Section, Jurgen and Michael were both watching Nikita, wondering if they would ever have a real chance with her, wondering if they were the ones in her dreams. It was a night, though, that didn't provide any answers.

[The End]

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