******************************************************************* The following is a character study set after the events of "Off Profile." It contains spoilers for that episode as well as for "First Mission," "Not Was," "Double Date," "Hard Landing," and "Psychic Pilgrim."

This story is *definitely* MA-14. It contains harsh language, sexual discussions, and mild violence. In many ways, also, like Michael and Nikita's relationship, this can be rather a twisted story.

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

As weeks went, the last one had stunk. All the old questions--the fears were haunting her. . . . Michael had destroyed her again.

He always seemed to find ways to do it, too, Nikita thought, as she gave the Section punching bag she was working a solid roundhouse kick. It was almost like he was constantly planning new ways to hurt her, when the old ones proved ineffective. Her gloved fist connected with the bag. He seemed, sometimes, like a wanton--lustful in his desire to give her pain.

He never got enough of this cruelty, either. He liked--as far as she could tell--testing new methods of commission and omission to brutalize her soul. . . . And he was very good at it.

His timing was perfect, as well. Nikita was beginning to wear herself out in beating the bag. Every time she thought she knew him--felt she could trust him, every time they had come to some deeper understanding, he struck again. . . . It wasn't fair.

This time it had been Andrea. Nikita almost connected with the bag again and then disgustedly tugged off the gloves, dumping them at her feet. She went over to her bottle of water and started gulping it before sitting heavily on the floor, her back to the wall. She wasn't sure which part of the whole situation had bothered her the most--the sex or the fact that it had all been a set up from the beginning. . . . Oh hell, there was a lot to choose from there.

She took another gulp of water. She supposed she should be thankful, really. After all, if it had been a mission from the beginning--and Operations was highly unlikely to lie to her to defend his subordinate, then there had never been any real question of desire on Michael's part; he had just been following orders.

This should make her feel better. . . . Why didn't it? She leaned her head heavily back against the wall. "Because I never know if he's just playing me, too," she thought.

He was so good at it, after all. She had seen him toss a few smoldering looks and a caress or two at the least interested of women and had watched their disinterest dissolve into desperate lust. He played them all like they were puppets he was manipulating . . . like Pavlovian experiments. He knew *all* the right buttons.

She gritted her teeth and shook her head. Damn him. How many times had he melted her icy resolve to avoid him--to stop caring? . . . Too many . . . several hundred. When the *hell* was she ever going to learn that she and all the others were only a game to him? . . . Jesus, Viscano had gotten over him faster than she had.

Nikita abandoned her bottle on the floor and took up her gloves again; she really needed to hit something. She had spent all of the night he had been with Andrea torturing herself by imagining what was happening. She remembered, *far* too clearly, after all, what it was like to be with him--the looks, the caresses, the way he kissed her. "Shit," she grumbled silently. *Everything.*

She was taking her frustrations out on the bag again. Damn it! She hated that some other woman was receiving his love--his passion. He was *hers*; didn't anyone know that? Didn't he?

The worst part of this, of course, was that he really wasn't hers. They had made no vows, reached no open agreements; he had never promised to be faithful to her. . . . Why did she always hope he would be?

She stopped hitting the bag and closed her eyes for a second. Because of the way he touched her--the way he looked at her--the way he . . . Jesus--because of everything. Whenever they were close, she believed him completely--was convinced that he cared. . . . Every time those moments passed, however, the machine man returned. She half-expected that, someday, she would remove that mask of his to find only circuitry beneath it.

She shook her head and went back to attacking the bag. She had been used. Michael had made sure that she had known about his seduction of Andrea from the beginning--hadn't tried to hide it at all. Madeline, too, had used it as a lesson, trying to warn her to disengage--making it clear that Section had no intention of allowing her and Michael to be together. Operations, furthermore, had taken the opportunity to drive his intention of killing her soul home to her once more, twisting the knife again.

She had managed to stay ostensibly calm through it, though--had played into their games as little as possible. That didn't really make it any better, however; rather, it left her with a desperate need to somehow release her pain --as the bag was certainly showing.

What made it all worse, too, was that she had come to believe in his feelings recently. After all, spending a few days with the tender side of him had allowed her to see the truest emotion he had ever shown her. He had, also, just one or two missions ago, ignored all better Section judgment to save her life. To go through all that and then get this idiotic side of him back . . .

She let out a slightly annoyed groan. She had actually heard herself making *excuses* for him to Andrea, when the other woman had brazenly stalked into her apartment. . . . What had she been thinking? Why did she ever give a fuck, anyway?

Her arms and legs were beginning to ache with the strain she was putting them through. What could possibly make a basically sane person love a cruel, manipulative, completely insular bastard--one who had hurt her more times than could be remembered? . . . He was attractive, but she had met many attractive men. He was an excellent lover, but she had dumped others before--more regular ones--for far lesser crimes. Why the hell did she bother with him?

Michael had made sure this time, too, that she was watching the entire seduction. Hell, at this rate, he would have her on surveillance next time-- monitoring him while he tried all his sexual moves on some willing female. "Maybe that's what gets him off," she thought cruelly, as she landed an especially solid blow to the bag. She wasn't figuring out any other motive.

Nikita was wearing herself out thoroughly, but she couldn't stop her assault. They--Michael, Operations, and Madeline--never stopped testing her; it was obvious that--regardless of the late hour--she was going to be monitored wherever she was, so she might as well stay right here and give the cameras a show.

"Who knows? Maybe I'll be able to sleep after this, for once," she told herself, . . . but she didn't really believe it. There wasn't enough violence she could expend to get her hatred--or her love--of Michael out of her system. Although, right now, she certainly intended to give it a try.

***********

Michael had been standing at the door behind Nikita, watching her for at least a half hour now. He was certain she knew he was there, but she was doing her best to ignore him.

She was obviously in a fury, although she appeared relatively calm--for someone who was calculatedly destroying an inanimate object. He knew very well, too, just who it was she was imagining giving such a savage beating.

It wasn't like it really mattered, though; Nikita didn't hate him half as much as he did himself. His self-disgust, which had always been formidable, had lately become so strong that it practically deserved to be incarnate.

He could tell, from the energy she was expending on the bag, that she actually at least half-believed that he had enjoyed seducing Andrea--that he enjoyed seducing anyone. She just didn't understand that he shared a problem common among whores like himself; he was profoundly frigid. He derived nothing which even resembled pleasure from any of them; his body simply obeyed his demands, and--when his target was satisfied--he stopped, making as much noise or motion as was necessary to fool them. Usually, he faked orgasm very near the woman's release, so that she was too distracted to analyze him closely.

He gritted his teeth. It hurt him--it angered him slightly that Nikita didn't know this--that she didn't understand that she was the only person since Simone to give him pleasure. He shook his head slightly. "Pleasure," he pondered; the word was entirely inadequate. Nikita fulfilled him--*completed* him in a way no other person ever had--not even Simone. In fact, Simone--for all she meant to him--was becoming a distant memory. His life was Nikita; he needed her, far more than anything else.

He had trained his body to go without food, water, or rest--to withstand incredible amounts of pain, but his need for her was uncontrollable. He could feel his energy draining from him when she wasn't near. The sight of her, the sound of her voice, her mere presence in a room inflamed him, filled him with a raging, torturous need--an emptiness only she could fill. It was practically cannibalistic. No one--*no one* else moved him, but she made him weak with a hunger only she could sate. He had only ever been truly alive on two nights-- his nights with her. The rest of it--all 33 years--had been endless, gray, and meaningless. . . . She was the only light.

He hated what Section was doing to them, he thought again, as he watched her pause for a minute, barely able to stand. They had put him together with Andrea to test him--to make certain he could still carry out his valentine assignments. Andrea had been--randomly, for all he knew--chosen as romantic cannon fodder; she hadn't been the real target.

It had played out like a hundred missions before, in many ways. Like an old streetwalker who had seen an endless procession of tricks, Michael never needed to focus very deeply on any new target; they were all much the same.

He, however, was beginning to change. He was finding it harder and harder, emotionally, to carry out the assignments. His heart shrank back from touching the targets; he was--more often--feeling disgust, for these women and himself. . . . He was beginning to wonder how long it would take before he snapped.

He couldn't even keep a happy post-sex illusion going, anymore. Someday soon, he was going to break down completely in the aftermath. As it was now, he was finding it impossible to hide his black despair and self-loathing, at these times. Hell, he had even admitted to Andrea that he was in love with Nikita; he had barely managed the past tense. The best he could manage for her was, "Now there's you." . . . Fortunately, she had completely misunderstood those words.

It had taken a great deal of strength, in fact, to wait until the next morning to shower. If he could truly have followed his instincts, he would have wounded himself in how hard he scrubbed his skin to remove her scent-- her presence.

It wasn't Andrea herself, though; she was attractive and an interesting lover. . . . . She wasn't Nikita, however, so it really didn't matter. Anyone else was simply a target to be serviced.

Nikita had been attacking the bag again but was slowing down considerably. She looked a bit like she wouldn't be able to continue standing up. She had come through this last test better than she might have, really, he thought. She had made no scenes, had carried out her assignments without comment, . . . hadn't even tried to talk to him about it, until she became worried about his safety. . . . He hated it. Although he knew this approach was closer to what Section wanted, he would have preferred her to confront him, to show some jealousy, . . . *anything* to show that she still cared.

Still, she did have some feelings for him left, as was clearly evidenced by her attacks on the bag; she was obviously almost too exhausted to stand now. Watching this wasn't encouragement enough, though. He needed to talk to her. He was actually more content when she aimed her anger at him; it helped externalize his own self-disgust. Besides, he preferred her fury to anyone else's love.

He approached her slowly, stopping close behind her. "`Kita."

She paused for a second, not turning around. "What is it, Michael?" Her work-out had not improved her mood.

He took a deep breath. She had changed their usual positions; she was making him work for this. "We need to talk."

She looked over her shoulder briefly. "Is it work-related?" Her eyes were very cold, although they were also bloodshot.

Michael looked sad. "No," he breathed.

She gave a kind of brutal laugh. "Then, we don't have anything to discuss, do we? Operatives don't have private lives." She turned back to the bag to resume her session.

He knew her words had been meant as a dismissal, but he had no intention of accepting them. He was going to get through to her, whatever it took--wherever it led. He walked toward her and put a hand on her arm, making her pause. "`Kita."

The eyes she turned toward him were very dark. "Take your hand off me, Michael." He didn't. "*Now*," she demanded.

His thumb stroked her skin. "`Kita, . . . please."

Nikita, however, had no intention of being seduced by his touch. She gave him a final, warning look--something akin to a lioness preparing to attack; he ignored it. A second later, one gloved fist was heading for his face.

Michael deflected the blow on instinct, then grabbed and unbalanced her, landing her heavily on her back on the matted floor, himself on top of her.

Nikita, though, wouldn't be held. One knee almost connected with his groin, but his attempt to dodge the hit gave her the leverage she needed to flip him off of her. He landed painfully on his back, a second before she discarded her gloves and was on him. Her hand closed on his throat, exerting enough pressure to drive her point home. "Next time I tell you let me go, do it."

There were at least 20 ways he could have dislodged her. Part of him, though, was overtaken by a sudden, frightening realization. It came to him that, whenever he had to die, he wanted her to be his executioner; no one else had the right. He lay motionless, air closing off a bit, his eyes liquid and loving.

Their hidden messages finally got through to Nikita. All pressure on his throat ceased, but her hand lingered there, gently caressing the area she had hurt. Her eyes were suddenly horrified and frightened. She pulled back from him and kicked him away slightly with her foot.

He rolled with this, as she had meant him to. He sat up and looked at her. They were both breathing heavily, as they became unwillingly, overpoweringly ensnared in the other's gaze; they said nothing for quite some time. They were frightened. The incident had been too symbolic of their relationship, the intertwining of love and hate, of violence and desire becoming too evident.

It had reminded them both, too, of the sparring sessions they had had during her training, when they had taken out their anger on each other for the passion which crashed over them when they were so close. . . . It was an unnerving reminder.

Nikita was holding back tears. She knew she hated him, but she had never made so conscious an effort at wounding him before. It terrified her that she had grown so . . . evil. Jesus, maybe she really *was* one of them now.

Michael could see her emotions, as she backed away, quickly picked up her things--tucking them under her arm, and turned to leave. He wouldn't let her go like this, however; she wasn't getting away from him without talking tonight.

He was before her by the time she reached the door. "Do you want to talk?" he whispered.

She knew they were being watched--or they would be, in time, whenever someone got around to seeing the surveillance tape. She knew the camera was to her back. Fortunately, though--especially given the scene they had just presented --no one was nearby. "No," she said, as she quickly, subtly took one of Michael's hands and spelled into its palm in sign language: "Yes. Park." It was a trick every recruit learned.

"Are you sure?" he asked, as he spelled back to her, "Near apt.?"

"I'm sure," she agreed, signing, "Yes. 1 Hr."

He looked sad. "Of course," he said and let her go. She was a very clever woman. He walked slowly back to his office, as she left, hoping that, by the time their watchers analyzed the tape, they would have already met and parted.

***********

Nikita had been waiting in the park for about a half hour. She had showered at Section and then come here, deciding that to go home and then immediately back out, after her earlier display, might arouse suspicion, if--as she suspected--anyone were watching.

It was around 1 a.m., and the park was deserted; she wasn't even sure if she and Michael would be able to find each other in its darkened breadth. Just as she was thinking this, though, she felt his presence behind her. "Are you ever late?" she asked, without turning around.

He didn't answer but came to sit on the bench beside her, not looking at her.

"This was your idea, Michael," she pointed out, looking at him. "What do you want to say?" What had happened back at Section had made it obvious they needed to talk, but she was still in little mood to be civil.

He sighed slightly. She didn't usually force him into the first move. "I didn't have any choice, `Kita."

She smiled. "In which part? Almost getting Baker killed on the first mission, so you had an excuse to meet her? Seducing her? Making sure I knew about it? Setting yourself up to be killed by her?"

"Any of it." He sighed almost imperceptibly and looked at her, when she didn't respond. "I let you know sooner than I was supposed to."

She looked confused. "Why? To give me longer to brood about it?"

"No," he said gently, "so you wouldn't have to hear about it second-hand."

She looked amazed. "Am I supposed to thank you for that?"

He shook his head and looked out at the night again. "No."

She sighed and turned her head away. "You know, Michael, you always say you have no choice." She refocused on him. "Sometimes, though, I think you just like it."

Michael closed his eyes from the pain of her words. "I don't."

"Oh, c'mon, Michael--having dozens of beautiful women to service your every need--it's every man's dream."

A tear rolled down the cheek which was away from her. He opened his eyes. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

She snorted lightly. "Don't I?"

He looked back at her slightly, enough to keep the cheek hidden. "No." He turned away again.

"So what's the difference?" If she had to goad him, she would. It was his idea to talk, after all.

He looked away from her completely. "They aren't whores," he said quietly. He turned back to face her completely. "I am."

The look of pain and betrayal in his eyes made her forget to breathe for a second. She reached up to rub the tear off his cheek, but he pulled his face from her grasp, turning away.

"It's simply a fact, Nikita. I didn't tell you to elicit sympathy." She shook her head in frustration. "God, Michael, that's the problem, isn't it? You open yourself up one second, and the next one you're ice." He looked back at her. "You tell me something you know will make me reach for you, and then you turn away."

She was caught for a second by the look in his eyes; she traced her gaze over his face, resting it on his lips. Then, she closed her eyes and sighed disgustedly; she was seducing herself. She met his eyes again. "Michael . . ." She paused, gathering her strength. "I love you, but I don't know if all of that's a lie." She was shaking her head. "I don't know who you are. One day, you're making love to me like no one else exists, like nothing else will ever matter. A few weeks later, you're making me watch you casually seduce someone else. . . . Which person do I believe? Which one is real?"

He swallowed heavily. He wanted to hold her; he wanted to take her this very moment and make love to her so passionately that she would never doubt him again. In truth, that was what he had tried to do on both of their nights together--to bind them together, to burn into her soul the imprint of his love so that--when the betrayals came again--she would remember.

It wasn't enough, though. Nikita, above all else, needed belief, and he had stolen that from her too often early on to be able to regain it in one night. . . . No, he would need a lifetime to accomplish that, . . . and that was something he wasn't going to get with her.

He gave her, therefore, the only thing he could. He took her hand and put a white surveillance disrupter and a small slip of paper into it. She looked at them, confused, and then back at him.

He put her hand and the items into her pocket, in case someone was watching; he then retrieved his own hand. "Watch the tape."

"What tape?" Reality suddenly dawned on her. "Of you and Andrea?"

Her voice was almost high-pitched, and she was about to continue, when Michael put his fingers on her lips. "Watch the tape. See for yourself how much resemblance there is to us." His tone was almost accusatory. His fingertips stroked her lips for a second, his eyes transfixed there, before he broke away and rose to leave.

She exchanged a final look with him before he left and then stared after him, too stunned to move.

He had asked her to do the one thing she had imagined as the lowest form of depravity--to willingly watch him with another woman. . . . There had been a plea in his eyes, a challenge in his voice, though, which she had trouble reading as insincere. She sighed heavily. . . . So much for clearing the air. She sat there for quite some time, overwhelmed by emotion. She was so spellbound and confused by his request, in fact, that she was completely unaware of the man with the goatee who stood watching, with a slight smile, from the other side of the park.

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

Nikita had to wait what seemed altogether too long before she had the chance, the next day, to get the viewing room to herself. She wasn't sure if she wanted to do this, but--if she was--she wanted to get it over with. She placed the disrupter on the wall outside, before she went in, and then quickly typed in the codes Michael had given her.

Part of her wondered, of course, if this were simply another attempt of his to torture her. But, as he had no doubt known it would, his offer had played on her need to understand.

As the images began, however, she really wished she hadn't done this. . . . She felt ill. There was Michael, after all, touching and kissing another woman --undressing her. She closed her eyes for a second. The pain was almost unbearable. If this was a new method of torment, it was working.

She opened her tear-filled eyes, needing to refocus; the disrupter would only work for a few minutes. As little as she felt able to at the moment, she needed to see how much this tape resembled her own nights with Michael. . . . Maybe, at least, it would tell her definitely that she was nothing to him, and she would finally be able to let him go.

She fast-forwarded the image to where things had really begun and forced herself to watch, still feeling ill. She tried to focus, though. What she was seeing was gentle--*very* gentle. She thought back to her own nights with him. For all of Michael's tenderness with her, their time together had never been gentle; there had been far too much passion, too much need for that.

She swallowed and--pondering this information--tried to look underneath the surface here--to see what emotions lay there. Did Michael care more for Andrea, after all; was that why he was being so delicate with her? What she saw in him, though, was . . . nothing. Michael was gentle and was obviously having an effect on the woman, but he seemed genuinely unmoved by anything that was happening.

Nikita looked at her watch and swore; she was running out of time. She fast-forwarded again, not anywhere near as far as she expected to, to the finale. She saw Andrea cry out, eyes closed; Michael, though, while he made noises, was simply watching for her reactions. Nikita shook her head. . . . Jesus. From her experience, she couldn't imagine any man looking that detached during sex.

She was about to cut off the recording and go, when she noticed the continuing look on Michael's face. She ran forward a bit more. He seemed despairing, more like he had just lost his best friend than, well, than what had just happened. She listened to the conversation, too--listened and tried not to hyperventilate. She saw Michael stroking Andrea's face, as well, but . . . there was an odd look in his eyes, like it wasn't really her he was seeing. In fact, whoever it was he was projecting there, it seemed to be his first show of genuine emotion that night.

A few seconds later, she heard a noise coming down the hall. She refiled the tape and tried to clear her computer trail before dashing out.

In the hallway, she met up with Birkoff, who was coming toward the room. He started talking to her about an upcoming mission, as another operative passed by them. Then, he slipped the disrupter into her hand, gave her the warning glance of a concerned friend, and moved away from her.

Nikita smiled back at him. It was nice to have someone to trust around here. It was an easy matter, a few seconds later, for Birkoff to check the records. He found what she had been watching, shook his head, and erased all traces of her visit. "Why would she want to see *that*?" he wondered.

Nikita's mind was in a whirl, as she walked away. Michael was right; it hadn't been *anything* like their times together.

There had been little passion on the tape. He had undressed Andrea seductively but with little real desire. . . . In fact, it seemed like he was trying to avoid touching or being touched by her--as much as was possible, given the situation. The whole thing, too, had been rather, well . . . short-- not in a really suspicious or, she was sure, unsatisfying way, but, . . . well, it was hardly like their nights together.

Her nights with Michael had been *very* different, indeed. He had seemed almost . . . greedy for her, as though he had been held off from his heart's desire for lifetimes and was finally being allowed to revel in it. He had never seemed able to get enough of her, in any sense; he had molded her completely to his will and then demanded more. Even if it had only been need, it had been genuine.

Those looks on the tape were confusing her, too; in their nights together, she had seen many things in his face--love, need, fear, wonder, desire, awe, raw desperation, feral possessiveness, scalding passion, overwhelming fulfillment--but she had *definitely* never seen detachment or despair. . . . Well, yes, she had seen despair, come to think of it, but not until the morning after, when their situation had come crashing back in on him. . . . He had always been completely involved in the event, though; he hadn't just been sizing up her reactions.

She had never needed to be reassured about his love then, either--the next morning, yes, but not just after. In fact, those were the only times she ever remembered being completely convinced of his feelings.

God, it was all so confusing. She had heard him admit on the tape--had actually heard him say--that he loved her; that didn't seem likely to be a part of the mission profile. She sighed. He never said it to her, though. She shook her head. Their relationship was so deeply twisted. The love and the hate, the betrayals, the lies--how could anyone keep faith through all of that?

She had a bit more confidence now in his feelings, true, but she had gained it by watching him have sex with another woman. How sick was that? What did that say about them?

"It says we're in Section," her mind answered. It wasn't like anything here got very warm and fuzzy.

It wasn't like you could trust anything here, anyway. Although she felt more sure of Michael right now, she knew that the next betrayal, the next lie, the next bit of reasonable doubt, and she would be back where she had started. . . . Absolute faith didn't happen here.

Maybe, though, she thought suddenly, the fact that she was still looking for that faith, that she still wanted that love meant that she hadn't been co-opted yet. She wouldn't have turned in Andrea out of loyalty, after all; she would only have done it to protect Michael. Her love for her friends was her only real link to Section, anyway. She wondered if Operations even believed that she was one of them or whether he had simply said it to get under her skin--like Madeline's little lecture. Maybe it was just another stupid little test.

Nikita arrived at Michael's office to find him working--as usual. She closed the door behind her and waited for him to secure the room. Once he had, she walked over and put the disrupter on his desk.

He looked up at her, barely breathing, waiting for her reaction. He wasn't able to keep his emotions from being reflected in his eyes.

She smiled. She couldn't give him promises--didn't know how long her belief would last. Instead, therefore, she stroked her fingertips over the outlines of the fingers he had rested on the desk.

He closed his eyes and took her hand a minute before looking back at her; he understood her message. He stroked her palm with his thumb, and she closed her eyes at his touch.

Section was no place for promises; he had known that for too long. He could live with this outcome, though; he had, for just awhile, convinced her again of his love. It was enough for now. He looked out his window, saw that no one was watching, and then indulged himself for a brief second, giving in to his love for her. He brought her palm up to his lips and placed a tender kiss in its center.

She looked at him again, as he lowered her hand. Their eyes held in understanding for a fragment of time. Then, knowing she had stayed too long, she pulled away and went to the door, giving him one last smile before leaving. It was only for a moment, but it was all they could have right now. . . .

Maybe, one day, there would be more.

[The End]

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