"I wonder if Lisa's in the clear."

There was a silence between them for quite some time following these words, as Nikita's question hung heavily between them. Michael didn't want to think about it; he would have preferred not to consider it at all. . . . He didn't want to have just destroyed Lisa Fanning.

He knew, however--in some ways, that he had--not for the first time. Even though he told himself that his decision had been the correct one for her, some small part of him rebelled against it.

"Get over it," he told himself silently. It was the right path. Lisa had lived in fear for years; Fanning being gone hadn't changed that--hadn't freed her, as he had hoped it would. She had cocooned herself in bodyguards—had lived on the run, changing her name, as though she were the criminal—instead of Fanning's victim . . . and his.

Nikita's words broke him from his thoughts. "You could have shot him."

He reiterated his earlier statement. "She needed to kill him herself."

She swallowed back a lump in her throat. "She's an innocent. What you're . . ." She stopped herself. "What she's going to do will destroy that."

He didn't answer.

"She should have been protected from this," Nikita argued, trying to get a response.

"Yes," Michael agreed.

She sighed angrily, tired of his half-answers. "Damn it, Michael. Don't you even remember what it's like to have a soul?"

He winced slightly and turned his eyes to look at her before refocusing on the road. "Only sometimes."

Nikita sighed again, closing her eyes, and threw her head back against the headrest, leaning back. She took a minute, before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't mean it." She opened her eyes.

"You should have." He looked at her briefly.

She shook her head and leaned it forward, eyes closed, to run a hand through her hair.

Michael looked at her again and stopped the jeep, shutting it off. He turned slightly to look at her.

She opened her eyes and focused on him. "Why are we stopping?"

"Because we can't talk about this at Section; we need to have our stories straight. If you're angry for an unknown reason, it might draw suspicion."

She smiled ruefully. "Should've known there'd be a good Section reason for it."

He looked down.

She sighed again and closed her eyes briefly before looking just behind him. "I'm angry, Michael," she said, to explain her words.

He looked back at her. "At me?"

She refocused on him and nodded. "At you--at Fanning--at Section . . . at myself." The last words were almost whispered, and she looked away again--quiet rage in her eyes.

Michael seemed a little confused. "Why at yourself?"

She refocused on him. "Because I was as responsible as anyone for what happened to Lisa originally. She needed therapy and protection. I gave her betrayal."

"We all did."

"I promised her friendship . . . probably for the first time," Nikita argued.

"I promised to love her forever," Michael nearly whispered.

Nikita took in a breath, broken momentarily from her self-rage, and closed her eyes. He looked down at her hand and reached out to touch it; she pulled it partly away from him, stopping when just his fingertips touched her wrist, unable to completely withdraw from his touch. She looked at him.

"If anyone's responsible for her betrayal, it's me," he stated. He stroked her wrist very slightly, almost unconsciously.

Nikita looked to the side; her mind had switched gears. "Did you enjoy it, Michael?"

His eyes flashed for a second with incredible pain. "Betraying her?"

She refocused on him, shaking her head, not wholly aware of the effect of her question--too involved in her own fears. "Making love to her."

He watched her sadly. "I never made love to her. I seduced her."

"There's a difference?"

"You know there is." His eyes searched hers. She looked away again, and he took her hand; he knew her reasons for asking, understood them. "Nikita . . ."He was having trouble forming the words he wanted to tell her, working briefly past years of emotional barriers. "I never loved Lisa. I never even cared for her."

She looked back at him. "What did you feel?"

"Pity." He opened his mouth to continue and then paused again. "It's not the same as making love." He stroked the palm of her hand with his thumb, while he stared deeply into her eyes, praying for her to understand.

Nikita took his hand. "How many have there been?" He looked questioning. "How many women have you had to seduce?"

Michael watched her. He had lost track of numbers within the first year, had lost track of names and faces soon thereafter. "I don't remember," he answered honestly.

Her thumb started stroking his hand. "Did you care about any of them?"

His eyes looked haunted and unendingly sad. "No," he breathed.

She believed him. Her heart broke at the look in his eyes, her sympathy aroused. "My God, what they've done to you," she thought. She wanted to take him in her arms and protect him, to keep him safe from the degradations of Section.

A small part of her mind then remembered Viscano, however--along with all of Michael's emotional manipulations of herself; she got scared. She pulled her hand back from his slightly, not quite letting go. "Michael, . . ." she began.

"You were never an assignment, `Kita," he tried to assure her. He didn't have the words to tell her what he really needed to.

He wished he could convince her of his feelings, but he knew he couldn't. "That's what happens when you're in love with a whore," he thought, in self-hatred. "You never know when he's faking."

Nikita read the messages in his eyes and reached out to touch his face in sympathy, brushing back his hair. Her touch, however, was too intimate for him. He hadn't been on any valentine missions, since he had first made love to Nikita on the boat in Paris. He had always had to murder something within himself to fulfill those missions, but making love with Nikita made them even more difficult; the contrast was too stark.

He was sick of being used by Section--of having no say in his own sexuality, but he knew he couldn't allow himself to feel disgust. As much as he wanted to be able to keep the revulsion of those missions alive in Nikita, he couldn't afford it himself.

Lisa had touched his face, as well, today, and he had barely survived the fact that she wasn't Nikita. He rubbed his cheek against his loved one's hand briefly, therefore, and then pulled away. She half-smiled at him, trying to understand, and lowered her hand, brushing his ribs slightly, as she did so.

Michael took in a sudden breath and closed his eyes. Nikita looked slightly alarmed; she pulled her hand away from his, and reached for the bottom of his shirt. He tried to pull away to turn back to the wheel. "We need to get moving."

Nikita put her hand firmly on his shoulder, and he paused, knowing she wouldn't let him out of this. She turned him back toward her and lifted his shirt gently. She was met with the sight of the beginning of some very nasty bruising; she should have noticed that he was injured before, she thought, but she had been preoccupied. "What happened?" She was horrified.

"Doesn't matter." He tried to turn away again.

She caught him by the shoulder once more and turned him back to her. "*What happened*?" she demanded quietly, rubbing his shoulder. He sighed and looked away. "Lisa had guards."

"And you just let them beat you up?" she challenged, knowing this wasn't the whole story, but he didn't respond. "Michael, what happened? What did she do to you?"

"She was angry." He still wasn't looking at her.

"Michael." She turned his head gently back to hers. "She had her guards beat you up?"

"Yes," he replied simply. When she kept staring at him, he continued. "She needed revenge."

"*Needed*?" She shook her head and let go of his chin. "You sound like you agree with her motives."

He shook his head and looked away from her. "I wanted something better for her."

"Better than what?"

"Than bitterness and fear." He had never told her about the money he had sent Lisa, and he didn't intend to now; he hadn't done it for attention, and, anyway, she was safer not knowing his secrets. . . . He hadn't even intended to tell her about the isotope, but he couldn't let her think him a complete monster. He looked back at her.

"When did she do this?"

Michael stared to her side again and didn't answer for a minute. "After I seduced her," he said finally.

"She let you?"

He nodded.

Nikita collapsed against the back of her seat, shaking her head.

He drew together his strength and looked at her again. "I destroyed her, Nikita--I did, and Fanning did. . . . I wanted something better for her once he was gone; I'd hoped she'd find it." He looked away. "She never did."

As horrified at Lisa's brutal actions toward Michael as she was, Nikita knew Michael was partly right. Lisa's role models had been men who had abused and betrayed her; she had learned their lessons well. "And now she's really lost, "Nikita murmured, more to herself than to him.

"Yes."

She focused on him once more. As much trouble as she was having understanding Lisa's recent actions, she couldn't see how subjecting her to David again would help. "Why make her kill him, though? I mean, the isotope will take a little while to work; God knows what he'll do to her in that time. . . . Why put her at that risk? Why not just finish him in front of her?"

"She wasn't living, `Kita." He looked at her and continued before she could interrupt. "She had isolated herself. . . . She was refusing to enjoy life."

"Sounds familiar," Nikita thought.

"The only way she could really believe that Fanning wouldn't come back to hurt her was to kill him herself. Otherwise, he's still a threat--in her mind."

She shook her head. "I'm not arguing with your psychology."

She knew that victims of abuse saw their abusers as an omnipresent threat--regardless of distance. "God, do I," she threw in mentally.

"I'm just not sure murder is the answer," she finished aloud.

Michael didn't look like he agreed.

She sighed, realizing this was an argument neither could win, then looked away. "What does she do, once he's dead?"

He focused to her side. "I'll look after it." He meant his words, but his mind was focusing on other things. He finally worked up the courage to ask the question he had needed to since he had found her again. "Did he hurt you?"

She looked back at him. "Fanning?"

"Yes." He still wasn't making eye contact, too afraid of her answer.

"Other than chaining me up, no." She was looking at him tenderly; she knew the question frightened him.

He refocused on her and gently touched her shoulder, where a round burn mark on her clothes was evident.

She smiled. "I tried to choke him with my chains." She shook her head. "Didn't work."

He smiled at her slightly, his relief that she hadn't been raped--for her sake, not his own--evident in his eyes. He loved her strength, loved that she would try to break her chains or--failing that--would try to use them against her captors; she always had. He put a hand on the side of her face, studied her for a moment, and then, allowing himself to be relieved that she was relatively unharmed, he kissed her tenderly.

She returned the kiss but knew it wouldn't go any further. When he drew back, she sighed slightly and then looked at his ribs. "Are you going to be alright?"

"They're just bruised." He tucked his shirt back in very delicately. "I'll be fine."

Nikita's mind took another track, knowing that she would never be able to get Michael to admit he was in pain. She looked behind him. "Why did Section send us on this mission, Michael? Who were they testing--us or him?" She refocused on him.

"I don't know, Nikita . . . possibly both."

She considered for another minute. "Does everyone think we're lovers?"

He just looked at her for a few seconds; he knew the answer as well as she did.

She glanced away and then back again. "If everyone knows, then why can't we be?" He didn't respond, and she grew slightly afraid. "Or am I the only one who wants that?" she added softly.

He looked deeply into her eyes, seemingly a bit pained that she would even suggest that he didn't want her. "You know that's not the reason," he said quietly.

"Then why?"

He sighed and looked over her shoulder. "There's a difference between rumors and evidence." He refocused on her.

"So we won't give them any."

"They would know," he asserted.

"They know now."

"No, they suspect," he argued. "If we were, they would find out, and then life would become much more . . . difficult for us."

"How difficult?"

Michael's eyes looked haunted. "You don't want to find out."

Nikita sighed and then nodded, accepting this reluctantly. She looked down.

"I can't be the man I want to be for you, Nikita. I wish I could be." He spoke so softly she barely heard him. Then, he turned slowly back around and started the jeep.

She looked up at him, almost startled. She could almost believe she hadn't heard it.

She only asked two more personal questions on the way back. "You knew Fanning'd been recruited, didn't you?"

"Yes."

She sighed once more. "Any more secrets you're keeping from me, Michael?"

He paused, sighing as well. "There are always secrets, Nikita," he responded quietly.

She nodded; she didn't like it, but she knew it was true. She touched his arm to let him know she wasn't any angrier than usual and then proceeded to work with him on getting their stories straight.

***********

Once they arrived back at Section Six briefly, Michael went to keep a promise to Lisa. He found the person he was looking for in her office. "Hello, Lily."

Lily looked up at him briefly and then activated a scrambler she had recently installed. "It's been a long time, Michael." Her heart still jumped a little when she saw him, although he had broken it on orders many years ago. The fact that he had also saved her life a few times, however, had permanently conflicted her feelings for him. "What do you want?"

"I need to call in a favor."

Thus, Lily found herself in the middle of the bloody Moldavan forest a few hours later, doing a favor for a man part of her hated.

She found Lisa Fanning standing near a man's body, looking traumatized. The young woman raised her gun, when she spotted her. "What do you want?" Her eyes burned in fear.

Lily raised her hands. "Whoa! I'm the calvary. Michael sent me."

Lisa laughed scornfully and lowered her gun. "Right. My savior," she said sarcastically.

Lily came over to look at the man's body. "How long did it take him to die?"

"Not long enough." Lisa stared down at her husband in cold rage.

Lily assessed the bullet holes in the man's head and heart. "Looks like you helped speed up the process." Lisa didn't respond. "That's okay. It'll help hold the cover story we have."

"What are you going to do with me?" Lisa asked, almost lethargically. She seemed half-convinced that she was going to be killed, but her energy to resist had abandoned her.

"We're going to take your husband back to where the other bodies are, and then you're going home."

She blinked, a little surprised she wasn't going to be shot; then, her mind changed gears. "What other bodies?" she wondered, broken out of her traumatized lassitude slightly by confusion; she looked back at the woman.

Lily smiled at her. "Doesn't matter." She lifted David's body over her shoulder, carried it to her jeep, and dumped it in. Lisa followed slowly behind. "Oh, Michael had some final advice he wanted to give you." She focused on her. "Live."

Lisa pondered it for a second and then shook her head in amazement. "Great. The man who seduced me and destroyed my life has advice."

"You too, huh?" Lily smiled at her, as she watched Lisa get into the jeep, still watching her Section savior rather cautiously. "Tell you what--you tell me your betrayal story, and I'll tell you mine."

"Well, I'll tell you the edited-for-Section-content version," she added silently.

Lisa laughed with a little mirth, some small amount of hope struggling to be born in her. She felt, somehow, that she could trust this woman. . . .Maybe things would be okay after all.

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

A few days later, Michael decrypted a private email in his office. Lily had come through; Lisa was not only back to her ersatz life, she had taken her new friend's advice and gone to see a therapist (the result of another called-in favor by Michael)--one who was familiar enough with covert ops. to not think her insane and who also wouldn't turn her in either to Section or to the police for David's murder. . . . Maybe she could heal now.

Michael erased all traces of the letter. He was relieved that Lily had been able to get through to her; Lisa had lived in fear for too long.

He bore her no ill will. The fact that Lisa had ordered her guards to beat him made him sad rather than angry, . . . and they, fortunately, hadn't been very good at their job. There had been no permanent damage; bruised ribs could heal, as they always had before. Nothing she had ordered had been irreparable. While it hadn't been pleasant, he had made it look worse than it was. And, after all, he understood the demons that drove her. . . . He had spawned several of them himself.

It still wasn't so much that Michael wanted Lisa's forgiveness, however; he had made sure--this time--that she was unaware of his part in Lily's advice to her. He needed, though, to have absolution, to not have his actions destroy her.

Lisa Fanning had been the first target he had allowed himself to feel remorse for in some time. He knew, too, that it was Nikita's influence which had brought about this change in him; she had forced him to really observe his effects on the young woman, despite his best efforts not to.

He had hoped that the check he had sent Lisa after that first mission would allow her to lead the life she wanted--that she deserved. It hadn't, though. She had simply gone from David's prison to her own; she deserved better.

The Lisa he had found a few days ago hadn't changed as much as she wanted to believe. Although part of her had hardened, it was almost as though it was a shell she had created around herself, in order to hide her very vulnerable soul. Yes, she had grown bitter and even more fearful, but there was still a large part of her which was like a little girl looking for love, for tenderness; it was that part of herself she was afraid of--that part which had made her so vulnerable to being used and hurt. The cruel streak she was attempting to develop was her misguided and dangerous attempt to cover it.

Michael closed his eyes for a second. Seducing Lisa had been hard on him; not only had he disliked hurting her, he simply hadn't wanted to be with her, as well--didn't want to be with anyone who wasn't Nikita. He opened his eyes again; he had been glad he had been able to complete the mission with as little false intimacy as possible. It had been an odd mercy that he had been able to remain mostly clothed during their encounter; he didn't want to be touched or admired by any woman who wasn't the very special, beautiful one he loved.

It hadn't always been this way, of course. For many years, he had only felt indifference for his targets; now, however--dangerously, he was beginning to feel revulsion.

If he could have followed his impulse after this last seduction, he would have showered. It wasn't that Lisa was unattractive or an uninteresting lover; to anyone else, she would have been quite desirable. For him, though, her beautiful, silken hair; her lovely, expressive eyes, and her exquisite figure were simply the unremarkable features of a woman who wasn't `Kita. . . . It was a very dangerous path for the mind of a whore--as he more and more thought of himself--to take.

This was part of the reason why the Section part of his personality, of course, was screaming at him. He was being weak--had been weak ever since he had allowed Fanning to control his actions because of his weakness for Nikita. He had spent two days appeasing a madman and reinjuring an old target simply because he couldn't stand to see Nikita hurt, . . . and Fanning had known it.

It was a dangerous weakness--the type that compromised missions and threatened efficiency. It always had been. Still, Michael knew that--even though the general knowledge of his fondness for Nikita was an invitation to disaster--he couldn't let her go, . . . and he could never willingly see her hurt.

He wished things were different, of course--that he and Nikita could love each other without endangering themselves and Section. They were trapped, though--were caught in lives where tenderness was treason. . . . It was inescapable.

He leaned back and rubbed his temples with a hand. To give up his love for Nikita was death. They would just have to cling to an impossible hope . . .that there were no more Fannings waiting to hurt them. He looked back up. Because this was one weakness which he wasn't willing to conquer.

[The End]

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