The following is a character study set after the events of "Before I Sleep." It includes, of course, spoilers for that episode as well as for "Outside the Box," "Looking for Michael," and "Half Life." I'm rating it MA-14 for discussions of violence and a little bad language. There will, also, be a bit of reference back to my story "The Victorious and the Dead," although knowledge of it really isn't necessary to understand what happens here. I should probably warn, as well, that I know very little about medicine or (fortunately!) about what it's like to have the illness which Sarah suffers from here; if I mess any of this up, then, please forgive me. :) The title of this story, furthermore, is a reference to the Dylan Thomas poem, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" (I've included a copy of it at the very beginning here--thank you, Ranma!).

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

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Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

She came out of Madeline's office looking as though she had just been told that her best friend was going to die. She was in shock, was numb--but with a bit of anger and despair lying just below the surface of her presently-still emotions. . . . Of course, this reaction only made sense, since--in essence--she had just been told precisely this very news.

Nikita forced herself to take one step, then another--beginning to make her way very slowly down the cold Section hallway. She wasn't sure, really--consciously, just how she had managed to bond so strongly with Sarah in such a short period of time--she had only known her a week, after all--but that didn't alter the fact that she did feel incredibly close to her, did feel distinctly protective of the fragile woman. . . . And it also didn't alter the fact that she had just saved her new friend's life for nothing--had just stolen her from the path of a quick death only to force her to face another, far more excruciating and prolonged, one.

She stopped for a second and closed her eyes, trying to pull herself together. She had to go back to see Sarah now--had, in fact, promised her some good news when she returned. But that "good news" was only a memory now. . . . She now knew, indeed, that it had always been a delusion.

She opened her eyes once more and tried to will back the tears, forcing herself to continue slowly on her way once more. She had been informed by Madeline, just a few minutes ago, that she was off all future teams for a few weeks--or for however long it took Sarah to die.

Her heart ached, as she thought about it now, however. She wished, indeed, that she knew whether she should think that this was a good thing or not. She swallowed heavily, pondering what lay ahead. In the next few minutes, she would have to tell her newly-found friend that there was no hope--that she had saved her simply in order to force her into unspeakable torment. Yes, she would have to tell her this plain truth. . . . And she hated herself unspeakably for it.

She sighed, still walking very slowly. She understood, of course, why she had believed that there was hope--why she had believed that Section had induced, and could therefore cure, Sarah's illness; it was, truly, the sort of thing which her cruel masters did so often--and, had Sarah not already been dying, it was, indeed, something they might well have tried in order to help persuade her to aid them.

Nikita's mind was a jumble now; there were too many thoughts-- too many regrets--all falling through it at once. She supposed, really, that she had identified with Sarah early on--had understood only too well what it was like to have been brought into Section as an innocent. And, in truth, she wasn't sure which of them had had it worst.

She swallowed heavily, her mind sorting through this issue once more. She herself had had no choice in her recruitment, of course--had, indeed, been treated as though she were already a killer, although--as she now knew--her masters had known very differently, even in the beginning. Sarah, though, had had a choice, but it hadn't been an informed one; the young woman had even referred to Madeline, when she had first arrived, as "nice." Nikita shook her head slightly. The woman had had *no* idea, then, of what she had been getting into.

They had, then, had very different introductions to this place--Sarah's being far more naive than her own, but this wasn't the only difference between them. Her friend hadn't really been expected to be a killer, in fact, in any sort of hand-to-hand or weaponry-training sense. Yes, she had been supposed to plant a bomb, but that was the sort of act it was easier to distance yourself from, emotionally; you didn't have to see your victims' faces. She herself, though, had been trained to take a life by every method imaginable. She swallowed heavily, once again. . . . And she had the mental image of the dying eyes of each of her victims scarred into her mind to prove it.

She closed her eyes briefly, shaking her head, her heart aching with the memories--before she continued to trace a despondent path back to Medical. She had had a few advantages over her dying friend, however. For one, she had had two years' worth of training to prepare her for her first mission, while poor Sarah had been dumped into an incredibly volatile situation within a day of her arrival. Along with this, too--because of her own background, her years of survival on the streets, she had been a bit more prepared for the rough and tumble of Section life. Her mind paused for a second, as she shook her head a little, thinking this through. Well, no--she amended, not more prepared for, but at least she hadn't been quite as sheltered as Sarah; she had been more used to the fact that Hell was probably coming around every corner.

She was beginning to feel a little empty from sheer pain. None of this, indeed, could really make any of it any better--for either of them. They had been treating Sarah well--by Section's, admittedly, extremely warped standards--but, in the end, she had come out of it no better; she was still dying. Nikita's self- anger rose again. And now, because of her own unwanted intervention, her friend would die painfully, as well.

She stopped once more, unable to go on--the thought robbing her of all movement, and closed her eyes. Part of her mind was aware that people were staring--that they were stopping to give her odd looks, but she just didn't care at the moment. Let them think what they wanted to; she didn't have the energy to try to stop them.

Her mind was focused, instead, on her own inner feeling of rage--on the sense of boiling anger which seemed to have taken over all of the area around her chest and stomach. She had been tricked by Madeline--had *allowed* herself to be tricked because of her own, hard-learned, sense of distrust for everything Section said. She opened her eyes but still didn't move. She had, she supposed--as well, wanted to believe what she had been told by Section's executive profiler--that there was a cure, that Sarah could, when all this was over, go back to her normal life--could go back to reality.

Her eyes were watering, but she was paying no attention to the operatives who seemed to be staring. She had wanted, she knew, to save her friend--had wanted to take her out of Section and back to the normal world; she hadn't wanted her to die for their masters, hadn't wanted to see another life sacrificed for them.

She sighed shakily, thinking back through this once more. Instead of this desired end, though, she had managed to achieve just the opposite; her friend would die anyway, but she had now stolen from her the only true reprieve which the young woman might have hoped for. She shook her head slightly. . . . There would be no forgiveness for this.

She swallowed heavily and forced herself to move once more, her soul still aching. Everything surrounding her was only a vague blur; she was too focused on her own inner turmoil to notice any of it in depth.

Her mind was focusing on just one thought now, as well; she wished she could go to Michael. Hell, she would have liked to just weep in his arms for awhile, . . . but she knew--in so many senses--that that wasn't possible; Michael had distanced himself. Yes, he was still there if she needed help, in a Section sense, but he had purposely cut their personal ties-- at least "temporarily."

She sighed wearily, thinking over this nasty twist of fate for the hundredth time. She had a feeling, of course--had had the feeling since he had first announced his decision, that the separation might be more than just temporary; she feared, in fact, that it had just been a way to get rid of her, while still keeping her attached to him enough to not be able to move on to anyone else.

Her heart ached horribly just thinking about it. It wasn't really that he would have just told her to "get lost," if she went to him now, however; she smiled slightly at that mental picture. No, it was more that--for all he hadn't pulled away in many senses--he just wasn't there to help her anymore, as he had been for awhile. She blinked heavily--holding back tears; her soul felt heavy with sorrow. . . . God, she needed him now.

She took another, shaky breath, though--forcing herself to realize more of the truth. Michael, however, hadn't been convinced that Section had tampered with Sarah beforehand, so he was unlikely to feel any particular sympathy with the woman who had kept her alive in this same misguided belief now.

She stopped and closed her eyes once more; she was letting her mind get away from her. She was, she knew, just trying to avoid pondering what she would have to face in a minute--was focusing on Michael to avoid thinking about the pain she would soon have to give her new friend.

God, she hated this. She had done so much to her already; it didn't seem fair that there would be yet more. Section had already killed off the only man Sarah had ever been intimate with--had helped turn her into a killer, as well. The least that she herself could do should have been, she knew, to let her die in the way which she had chosen for herself. . . . That, really, was all her friend had asked of her.

She swallowed heavily, remembering Sarah's cheerful words, before she had left her to go see Madeline; the woman had truly seemed pleased to have had this "chance" before her death--to have had some outlet from her solitary life. Nikita shook her head. She herself had come from a life where even the basic necessities of food and shelter had never been certain--had been taken from an existence without family or hope, and even she had always seen Section as a far more frightening option. How that gentle woman could see this place as a chance, therefore--how she could think that she had "lived" here more than she ever had before, she would never be able to understand.

She opened her eyes again--deciding to leave this unanswerable question behind her--and began moving toward Medical with something like determination, however false it may have been. She had been assigned to look after Sarah until the young woman died, was being allowed to be with her; what she was about to find out, though, was whether the woman would want her to be--after she knew the truth, after she discovered that she had given her a false hope of recovery and had then emotionally blackmailed her in order to get her to leave the Alliance compound alive.

Her eyes were watering, as she continued to be overwhelmed by what was to come. If--as Nikita feared--Sarah decided to turn her away, she wouldn't be surprised; instead of her savior--after all, she had only led the woman, unintentionally, into damnation. And, however saintly her friend may be, she truly didn't imagine that she would have enough love in her soul to be able to forgive her for this despicable act. . . . Who, short of an absolute angel--indeed, could ever forgive someone for consigning them to spend their last few days in Hell? To Nikita, even angels seemed likely to be incapable of this sort of love. ************

He looked, with a heavy sigh, at the information he had just managed to access once more--looked at the screen which told him what he had feared: his beloved had rescued a woman who hadn't wanted rescuing, had saved her in the mistaken belief that she could be cured. It had been an action which had been motivated by love and a reverence for life--an action which made him love her all the more--but he suspected, now that the attempt had failed, instead of seeing the beauty of her effort, she was only going to be feeling like hell.

Michael looked up from the screen to blankly peruse his office wall. He had been worried enough when Madeline had pulled Nikita from his team to delve into the system for an answer--but what he had found there had only brought him more torment.

Yes, of course--he thought through this once again, he was pleased that she was in no way being censured for whatever imaginary failings his masters had devised--was relieved, as well, that she was not being placed on a mission where he would be unable to look after her. What didn't make him happy, however, was the fact that his suspicion about Sarah's recruitment had proved true; he would, truly, have been far happier had Nikita been right--had Section induced the woman's illness in order to force her to help them. Had that been true, after all, Sarah would have been able to continue her life--and Nikita would have had one less trauma which their masters had given her from which to recover.

He sighed, his sorrow for what had been done to his beloved sitting heavily in his chest. He hated that she had to face this--hated that she had been tricked into saving a woman who would have been happier dead. He loved, of course, that Nikita had wanted to help her--that his beloved had tried to protect the misplaced innocent; it did, truly--he thought once again, only place her far deeper in his heart, made him adore and need her all the more. . . . But he knew, as well, that--for her-- there would be nothing but torment here, and--for this--he hated his masters unspeakably.

His mind went back to the woman his beloved had attempted to protect. Sarah Gerrard was a fragile soul--her shyness the result of years of neglect from a world which refused to see her beauty. He smiled slightly, thinking about her. . . . The world, once again, had proven itself to be populated by fools.

His smile faded, as he continued to ponder what had been done to this fragile soul. He had never particularly liked this plan --had felt a little sorry for the woman from the moment he had heard about it, but he also hadn't allowed himself to feel too deeply for her then. He had learned not to invest himself, indeed, many, many years ago--and, with the exception of Nikita, he had been almost completely successful in following this painful lesson.

It had only, in fact, been with the conversation he had been told to have with the young woman--the one which had been designed to make her more comfortable with men--that he had begun to truly feel a bond with her. . . . He liked her, he had found, felt some sort of subtle connection to her--and, he knew, anyone who could affect *him* in this way had to have been touched by something divine.

It wasn't, of course, that he had any romantic feelings for her, however. His heart, his soul, his mind, his body-- everything which could ever truly be said to be part of him did now and would forever belong to Nikita. . . . Sarah hadn't even come within galaxies of changing this.

No. It was more that he felt a connection to her which was not unlike the one he had felt to Elena--or to his sister; she was a good person--a pure soul, one he wished he could have protected. He sighed once more. He hated that, in the end, this simply hadn't been possible.

He allowed his mind, a little reluctantly, to continue remembering now. Sarah had performed something like a miracle with him, in fact; she had not only seen immediately his feelings for Nikita--an ability everyone who met him seemed to have possessed, for several years--but she had also convinced him to share them. . . . That, indeed, was something which--all too often--even Nikita herself was unable to get him to do.

It hadn't been completely overt, however. They had never even spoken her name, as they had talked; he had never told her who the woman he loved so deeply was, but he knew absolutely that Sarah had understood. And, more than this--as well, she had seemed to approve of his choice. He smiled slightly again. She did, truly--then, have excellent taste.

He continued to think back through his conversation with the lovely young woman once more. He had, of course, been ordered to talk with her, but their talk had become something much greater than that. Sarah--had she allowed herself to believe it possible for her, indeed--would have made quite a good analyst; she was empathetic and insightful, was kind and understanding. She was, truly, a delightful person. . . . It was just a shame that no one had ever thought it important to tell her such truths before.

He had, he supposed--too, because of all of this, told her far more than he ever thought he would. He could have--of course--just lied to her, could have made something up, could have told her about Simone, instead--about someone their masters would have had less interest in, . . . but he had done none of these things. He had told her the truth--indeed, because, for once, he had wanted to able to share it; he had wanted to tell someone about just how beautiful and holy the woman he loved so deeply was--and he hadn't, in fact, been able to do so without a smile.

He smiled a little again now, remembering. It wasn't that he didn't want to share this part of himself all the time, of course; had he been able to, in fact, he would have liked--on a regular basis--to just be able to go up to total strangers and tell them about how magical the woman he adored was.

His smile faded, though, as he thought into this further. He never did this, however--obviously; he never, in truth, even told it to the woman in question herself.

He wasn't, in fact--he thought as he looked back, completely certain why he had allowed himself to be this open with Sarah. He looked down at his desk, as his mind sorted through this anomaly. He supposed it was because he had trusted her-- because he had, in those few moments with her, been thinking of her as though she were his sister; he had imagined, truly-- once or twice, being able to tell the beloved girl he had left behind about the wonderful woman he loved, had imagined what her response would have been--how happy she would have been to see him truly in love. . . . Maybe, indeed, this was why he had allowed himself to open up to this woman--just this once.

Of course, he knew--he looked back up at the wall, his mind switching tracks slightly--that Madeline had been watching them, that Nikita probably had been, as well. He wished, in fact, that his beloved could have heard everything he had said about her--but, somehow, he doubted that Madeline had allowed it; as much as he wished it, he truly couldn't imagine Section's main profiler having this much basic human compassion.

He sighed, feeling the dull ache in his chest which this place had first taught him to sense so long ago. He knew that Section's doyenne would, of course, go back through the tape, as well--would sift through it as though it were the ruins of some large building, as though it were some scene of destruction which she was searching for forensic hints, for clues to his thoughts and plans. . . . He hated this, but he knew it was true--and, despite all this, and his knowledge of it, he had told Sarah his feelings, all the same.

He supposed, though--looking back, that he had decided that whatever Section's second-in-command made of his confessions was irrelevant. She knew that he loved Nikita--knew, if she had any sense, many of the reasons for his affections, as well.

He had decided, therefore, not to worry about it. Perhaps the things he had told Sarah would give her more clues to his psyche, but he doubted it. And, of course--as he had told himself as he had spoken to the gentle woman, he could always deny his words to his heartless superior's face, were they ever brought out to be used against him; she wouldn't believe him, certainly, but that really didn't matter. For now, he had told Sarah what he had wanted to--what he had wished he could have told his own sister; any consequences with Madeline would simply have to be faced in their own time.

He closed his eyes for a second, then, and tried to pull his mind back to the profile for the next mission. He had had to call in a last-minute substitute for Nikita in order to pull it off, but--fortunately--it wasn't a particularly difficult profile.

His mind began wandering again, following along this new path. In truth, however, he was a little relieved that she wouldn't have to be involved in it; he would have preferred, in fact, that she never have to take on a mission again. He looked back up. He had come too close to losing her again on this last one to be able to take her safety in the field for granted now.

He sighed, remembering once more. He thought, to an extent, that he should probably hate Sarah for having endangered his beloved--for having refused to go when ordered, for forcing Nikita to come after her, as she should have known she would. He shook his head slightly. He couldn't, though. How, after all, could he hate a woman who was dying--someone so innocent that she reminded him of his own sister? It just, truly, wasn't a possibility.

He sighed slightly again. He wished, however, that he could have done something more for her. It wasn't like he didn't understand why she had wanted a quick death; he had wished for one himself, during his times without Nikita--in fact, more often than he could ever remember.

Now, though, he knew she would never get it; she would die in Section, instead--would die in pain. He took a slightly shaky breath, his heart aching at both this and his next thoughts. And Nikita, he knew, would blame herself for it all.

His unfocused stare was interrupted finally by one of the members of his team knocking--*very* tentatively--on his open office door. He put his emotionless mask back in place completely and focused on him. "Yes."

Fredricks came into the office, a little nervously. "I'm sorry to disturb you when you're preparing for the mission, sir."

Michael liked Fredricks; he was reliable and usually fairly quiet, so this interruption was new for him. Most of the time, no one dared to bother him, especially his team members. "What is it?"

The level two operative before him took a deep breath. He had been debating for about five minutes over whether he should come here or not. "I was wondering whether Nikita was coming on this next mission, sir."

Fredricks was trying desperately to phrase what he was thinking as correctly as possible; finding the least emotional words was an art form in Section, one he didn't always excel in. "I saw her in the hall a few minutes ago, and . . ." He paused--the analytical look in his team leader's eyes terrifying him slightly. "Well, I think she might not be feeling too well." Actually, she had looked like she was about to fall apart emotionally, but there was simply no correct way to say that in Section speak. "I just thought you might want to know that," he finished, a little tentatively--waiting to dash as far away as possible the second Michael gave him leave to.

The Class Five operative he had imparted this information to nodded; Fredricks could see in his eyes that he understood his real message. "Thank you," he told his subordinate quietly, as he rose from his desk.

Fredricks nodded quickly, as well, and moved on. He had seen in his leader's eyes that he had truly meant his words; he breathed a sigh of relief. As deeply as he respected Michael, he still feared the hell out of him, when it came to Nikita. . . . Maybe, he thought, now--given the look in his leader's eyes, he would make it through this next mission after all.

He turned, however, to see the older man walking directly toward the spot where he himself had seen the woman in question just minutes before--although he hadn't told his superior where she was. He shook his head slightly, amazed once again. How the hell those two managed that, he would never know.

Michael found Nikita a few seconds later, as she was standing near a Medical hallway. He looked at her quietly; she bit her bottom lip, holding back tears, and focused on the floor. She hadn't expected him to come.

He took her by the arm and led her softly over to a less- watched corridor before focusing back on her eyes deeply. "Are you alright?"

She just gave a slight, unhappy laugh in response. Her eyes were tearing.

He nodded, understanding. "You did what you had to," he told her softly.

She shook her head, looking away. "I could've let her die. I should've . . .," she trailed off, choked by tears for a second. "The mission was over; they didn't need her anymore." She took another deep breath. "I didn't have to let her live like this."

His eyes were gentle, as he took her chin in his hand--turning her face back toward him. He shook his head. "I wasn't talking about Section." He brushed a tear off her cheek. "You did what *you* had to," he sighed quietly--his look loving, "the only thing you could."

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to hold back the tears which were flowing down her cheeks. She understood his message, of course--and it made her heart ache all the more with her love for him.

His thumb continued to brush softly along her cheek. As much as he knew he should be keeping his distance from her now--for his own sake--he just couldn't let her suffer completely alone. "I'll come by to see you both when I get back from the mission."

She nodded quickly, her eyes still closed. She loved that he had come by to be with her--if only briefly--when she needed him so much. She still wished, though, that he would just take her in his arms and hold her; she needed his tenderness more desperately now than she had in a very long time.

He sighed. He knew she needed to be held, but he couldn't-- for so many reasons: he had to get the mission ready; they couldn't afford to be seen so close; and, more than anything, it might tear him into tiny pieces to be near her again now--now when they had no foreseeable future together, by his own, terrible but necessary, decision.

He continued stroking her cheek, then, and leaned in to kiss her temple briefly. He did pray, of course, that there might one day be a change for the better for them. "I'll come back," he promised softly, and was then half a corridor away--his heart aching at the, hopefully only temporary, distance--by the time she opened her eyes.

She looked after him and swallowed heavily, trying desperately to pull herself together before she went in to see Sarah. She wanted to believe, of course, that Michael had just taken a step back toward her, but she knew she couldn't let herself think it--not if she wanted to stay sane, while waiting for what may never come.

Her heart beat a bit more strongly, however, as she thought through his most recent actions. He had given her just a moment of comfort, indeed. . . . For now, that was all she could hope for.

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

She focused on a wall beside her and sighed. White. Why did hospitals always favor white? It had to be hard to clean. Did they really think it was cheery? She shook her head. If they did, they were mistaken. The only thing she had ever found it was depressing.

Sarah sighed and looked back at the door to her room, waiting for her friend to return. Nikita had been gone for a half hour or more now; she wished she would come back. If she had to die, after all, it was nice to have a friend nearby. . . . That, indeed, was something she had never expected.

She began coughing slightly and tried to focus on calming herself--on avoiding the on-coming attack. Her coughing fits were painful and frightening--cutting off the supply of air to her lungs. She hoped that, when she died, it wouldn't be during one of them; she didn't want to die in that much pain and fear.

She managed to get it under control finally and took a deep, thankful breath. Of course, she knew she was going to be in pain, no matter what; that was pretty much what her life held out for her now: a few more days--weeks--God, please not months--of pain and then, finally, death. . . . There just wasn't a lot of way to avoid it anymore.

She hadn't ever really tried to avoid death, however--although she had attempted to gain it in some other way. She was still focusing on the door. She had tried to end it quickly, indeed; it had, in fact, been the real reason she had come here in the first place--to be killed.

She sighed, thinking back, a little regretfully. Nikita, though, had stopped that--had forced her to go on. And, as much as she loved her, she really wished she hadn't.

She understood why she had done it, of course; Nikita, she could tell, truly wanted to believe, however far beyond credibility it may be, that recovery was possible--that her new friend would get better. But Sarah knew the truth--had known it for about a month and hadn't really ever feared it. She wasn't going to get better. . . . She was going to die.

She sighed a little again. It was hard for her friend to understand what she was going through, though--she knew; you couldn't understand it unless you were dying yourself--or, maybe, if you had watched someone else you loved die. It was hard for the healthy to comprehend it, indeed--that sometimes it was a whole lot more pleasant to be dead and out of pain than alive and in agony.

She shook her head slightly. How, indeed, could Nikita understand this, however? She seemed to have, Sarah smiled-- pondering it, the constitution of an Olympic athlete; all the "operatives," as they called them here, did. How could someone whose body had never given up--someone who had never had to live day in and day out, for the rest of her *life*, in incredible pain --ever comprehend what it was like to be her? Sarah's eyes were sad, as she thought about it. She couldn't. It was that simple.

She didn't blame her friend for this, really; she could see the reasons Nikita hadn't been able to comprehend the truths that this illness brought with it. Maybe, indeed, she shouldn't even be expected to. But it had been, sadly, for these reasons that her friend had unwillingly saved her--that she herself was, unfortunately, still alive.

Her mind remembered now--as she pondered this dilemma--an appointment she had had at the hospital, remembered a talk she had had with another woman in the waiting room, or--rather, a talk that woman had had with her. They had both had the same disease --were both, basically, waiting to die.

This woman, however, had been--in some ways--far less fortunate than herself; she had had a family who were struggling to keep her going--who didn't want her to leave them. She had, therefore, been going through dozens of treatments the doctors had told them wouldn't work and which had put her in incredible pain. And she had looked at Sarah--had looked her straight in the eye--and told her something which the younger woman was only now discovering to be true: "Dying isn't hard. It's getting the people who love you to let go that is."

She closed her eyes and swallowed heavily, as her mind took this in once more. At the time, of course, Sarah hadn't been able to really understand the woman's words; there simply hadn't been anyone alive who loved her to worry about.

For years, truly, she had been Ms. Anonymous. The people who had worked at the offices around hers for three years would still direct students to her by saying, "Go to that woman in room 213." . . . They hadn't even known her name.

She opened her eyes once more. She didn't know, really, how she had ended up this way--how she had ended up so friendless and alone. She supposed it had mostly been shyness, though; no one ever took the time to make friends with a totally average-looking woman who barely spoke. And, sadly, many of those who did just wanted something. . . . Or, at least, that was how it had been for many years.

She thought back on her life once again, while she waited for Nikita to return. Her parents had always been loving, but they had been quiet themselves; if they hadn't been introduced by a friend of both of their families, in fact, she probably wouldn't even have been born. Neither of them, then, had known how to tell her to make a place for herself in the world; neither of them, really, had ever done that themselves. . . . This, then, was how, after they had died, there had just been no one around who even knew her name.

This general neglect, too--of course, had certainly included men. If she was shy around women, she was practically catatonic when it came to the opposite sex. She had always feared them--had feared the pain they could put her through. She supposed, in some senses, as well, that she had never really even considered the possible pleasures, before her brief encounter with Marco; it had just frightened her too much being close to a man to even think about it.

She sighed. It wasn't, either, like any man had exactly been coming to beat down her door; she rarely even got a second look-- from any man. The only time she could ever really remember it happening, in fact, had been when she had been in college--and that had been a disaster; it had been lucky, really, that she had been so distant then, or God only knows what might have happened.

She closed her eyes, thinking back painfully. She had lived in a dorm her first semester at school--had been stuck in a room with a woman who had men after her *constantly*, with a woman who had had absolutely no time for her wallflower roommate. . . . And that--indeed--was why Sarah had been more than a little suspicious when that same woman and her fraternity friends had suddenly started paying attention to her; it had all seemed a little too unreal.

In the end, too, it had been--as she had found out by overhearing a conversation outside her own dorm. room door. She had--it seemed--been a fraternity prize; they had had a bet about whether they could bed her, about whether they could seduce her-- "the quiet girl"--"the virgin." . . . And her roommate had been in on it--gigglingly--all along.

She opened her eyes to focus on the door of her room once more. It was for reasons like that one that she tended not to trust-- that she tended to worry whenever someone seemed to want to get too close; it had only been here, in fact, that those worries had finally disappeared. . . . It was only in Nikita that she had ever truly learned what it was to have a friend.

She sighed slightly, once again--thinking back. Of course, she hadn't trusted her completely to begin with; her new "trainer" had seemed a little cold--a little distant, not half so friendly as Madeline. She had even tried to suggest that she shouldn't be doing this, that she shouldn't be here at all. . . . It hadn't been the sort of welcome she had expected.

She smiled a little. She understood this more now, though-- knew that her friend had only been trying to protect her, had been trying to get her out of a life which she suspected was truly brutal on the ones who had to live it everyday.

Nikita, then, hadn't been unfriendly; she had been protecting her. Her smile grew a little deeper, remembering. She hadn't had anyone do this for her in a long time, too; it had been since before her parents' deaths, in fact, that someone had looked out for her. . . . She loved that her new friend would try.

Her smile faded slightly, as she continued to think back, however. Having a friend, though, had its problems--namely that Nikita didn't want to let her go; she actually seemed to think that, if she just wished it hard enough, she would live--the disease would disappear. . . . She just didn't want to see what was really happening.

She knew, too, that it was going to be hard to convince her; she wasn't going to want to understand--but she would have to try to. Sarah was dying, and all the wonderful friends in the world couldn't save her. . . . Now she just had to try to make Nikita understand this not-so-simple fact of life.

A second later, as though she had willed her there by thinking about her, the doors to Sarah's room opened to show her new friend once again. Whereas Nikita had been smiling when she had left, however, now she was obviously holding back tears.

Sarah tried to joke with her. "Come to see the dying woman again?" This, though, only made Nikita close her eyes tightly, a tear escaping down her cheek. Sarah changed her tone; it became both more serious and more gentle. "You didn't really think you could save me, did you?"

Nikita's eyes popped open in surprise to focus on her. "How did you . . . ?" she trailed off.

Her dying friend smiled. "Is that what you thought when you left--that Section could find some miracle for me?" She shook her head. "I knew it wasn't true."

The long-term operative's mouth hung open, not quite able to form the words she wanted. She understood now that Sarah didn't really know what had happened, but she had still guessed a little of the essentials. She shook her head; her voice was hoarse with tears. "I thought there would be some way."

Her new friend looked sympathetic. "Did they tell you that?"

Nikita shifted her head around a little, not quite able to answer. Finally, she nodded slightly, not focusing on the frail woman in front of her.

"It's okay," her friend croaked a little--her voice not quite what it had once been, due to her illness. "I understand."

Nikita took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the gentle woman once more. "Sarah, I'm sorry." She swallowed heavily. "I should've let you die."

The dark-haired woman looked deep into her eyes, a smile on her face. "Could you have let me, Nikita?" She shook her head. "I don't think you could have." Nikita focused on the floor. "That's okay," her friend went on. "You did what you thought was best."

Her ex-trainer looked back at her, amazed--shaking her head. "How can you say that? I . . . You . . ." she pointed at the bed and shook her head again, not even able to get out all of her thought.

There wasn't anything to be done about it now. Sarah knew that. Her chance to end it quickly was past; it would be cruel to focus on recriminations, then. "So you gonna sit down in that chair behind you, or you just gonna stand there and stare?" She smiled at her.

Nikita swallowed heavily; her voice was rather small. "You want me to stay?"

Sarah suddenly looked very vulnerable, this new thought shaking her. "Do you need to go?"

The blonde-haired woman shook her head, her eyes still amazed. "No."

Sarah smiled again, her relief evident. "Good. Sit. Keep me company. Hospitals tend to get pretty dull alone."

Nikita took a deep breath and sat finally, her mind still whirling slightly; how could anyone call Medical a "hospital"? "How can you be so calm?"

A grin broke out on the dying woman's face. "D'you know a lot I should be getting excited about, right now?" She rolled on her side to focus better on her friend.

Nikita was shaking her head. "I just . . . I don't understand how . . ."

Her friend shrugged. "It's pretty much a matter of waiting now." She looked deeply at her ex-trainer, though, who still didn't seem to be following her logic. "Nikita, you face death every day, right? You could get shot, blown up, whatever. Why do you think it's so much harder this way?"

The blonde-haired woman shook her head, her eyes slightly red and uncomprehending. "Because it's definite."

"What--you think you're gonna live forever?"

Nikita focused on the floor quickly. No. She did not think that. "No," she said finally, sadly.

Sarah looked unhappy--saddened that she had brought her friend pain; she tried to phrase her thoughts as plainly as possible. "Nikita, I'm going to die. I've known that for a month now." Nikita looked back up at her. "But what's left--what's left can still be good." Her friend looked confused. "I've still got you," she finished--holding her hand out to her.

Her friend bit her lower lip slightly, holding back tears. She reached out to and took her friend's hand warmly. "I'm here." She swallowed heavily, trying to smile.

"Good," Sarah smiled back at her. "Then talk to me, `cause I'm gonna get awful bored, if we just sit here."

Nikita leaned forward and brushed the hair out of her friend's drawn, but still lovely, face. "I'll be here," she said quietly. After all, it was the least she could do for her now.

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

Nikita began a pattern with Sarah that day which would continue for the rest of the dying woman's life. She stayed by her--talking when she wanted to talk, just trying to keep her amused usually-- unless her ill friend would make her stop trying too hard.

Frequently, too, Sarah would sleep; an exhaustion seemed to have overtaken her, as she grew closer to the end, but she also wanted to spend as much of her time as she could with her one friend. Nikita knew, as well, that their talks had another purpose, though; Sarah was trying to keep her mind off of her increasing physical pain.

They were visited, from time to time, by a few others, too. Madeline had dropped by once or twice; Nikita suspected that she had only been trying to assess how much longer it would take their ill--and now, supposedly, useless--recruit to die, although she was always very friendly, in her rather cold way. Michael, as well, had stopped by, as he had promised to, and had come by once or twice after that to check up on Sarah--although Nikita could tell that he also seemed to be keeping an eye on her; Walter, too, had done much the same thing. All the attention, in fact, had made Sarah observe at one point, "I must be the most popular dying woman in Section"--but she didn't really seem to mind.

During all of this, too, Nikita rarely left her side--catching fitful moments of sleep in the chair by Sarah's bedside, when her friend was resting, as well. She had, indeed, taken on the mental slogan, "I'll sleep when she dies"; Madeline, after all, had told her--at her initial briefing--that she would be allowed two days off after this was over. That would have to be enough.

All of this, then, was the norm. It was about three days after Sarah's initial admittance into Medical, however, when Birkoff came by to see her for the first time, giving Nikita a chance to take a short break. Sarah was glad for this, as well, in some ways; she had been worrying about her.

Once her devoted friend had left and she was alone with her new visitor, too, Sarah observed with a smile, "I haven't seen much of you lately."

"Sorry, I've been busy." Birkoff looked away a little sheepishly.

She shook her head. "You didn't have to come by at all, though --none of you do." He looked back at her. "Why do you all keep coming?" It wasn't an accusation, just a rather confused question.

He smiled at her. "We all like you."

She repressed the cough which threatened to overtake her and then breathed quietly for a few seconds to steady herself. "That's only half an answer," she observed softly, once she could speak again. He looked away once more. "You came by to check on her, didn't you?"

He looked back at her apologetically. "Partly."

She surprised him by smiling. "I'm glad."

He blinked. "You are?"

She nodded. "She needs someone to look after her."

"Don't we all?" he replied, laughing slightly.

She pointed over at the chair. "Have a seat. She's been keeping it warm for you."

He sighed, with a little relief, knowing that she understood their concern for Nikita; he decided to ask her directly about his friend, therefore, as he took his seat. "Does she ever leave?"

She shook her head. "Almost never." She sighed, slightly sadly. "I don't suppose you could force her to?"

"Do you want her gone?"

"No." Sarah's eyes were regretful. "But she needs a break."

Birkoff didn't voice what they were both thinking--that she would get one when Sarah died. "I wouldn't even know how to get her to take one."

"You could try knocking her out."

He laughed slightly. "I think if I tried that, it'd end up working the other way around."

She joined in his humor. "You may be right. I don't think anyone could ever have called her a pushover."

As Sarah and Birkoff continued to discuss her, then, the woman in question was trying to stretch her legs. She was wandering absently--tiredly--around Section, as she attempted to get some circulation back into her limbs; her hand was rubbing her aching neck.

"Sugar!" Walter caught her, as she practically walked straight into him while rounding a corner. He paused for a second, assessing her. "You look like hell."

She smiled at him. "Thanks, Walter, you look wonderful yourself."

He shook his head slightly--a look of gentle avuncular disapproval on his face, as he walked around behind her; he moved her hand away and started to rub her neck. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Ahhh," she moaned, as her muscles relaxed in his hands. "I slept some last night."

"Mm, an hour maybe--in a chair," he assessed.

"Doesn't matter," she denied. Her head was drooped forward, as she groaned at his warm massage.

He continued his friendly caress for another minute or so, until he had finished loosening her muscles somewhat; her sounds continued. "Keep making noises like that, and I'll forget I'm an old man," he warned playfully.

She laughed and took his hand from her neck, pecking a kiss on his cheek, as she walked back toward Sarah's room. "See you later, Walter."

He looked back at her, as she walked away. "Yeah." He sighed and turned to begin walking back to his station.

He passed by Michael on the way, however, and just shook his head at him sadly. The younger man sighed and gave him a half nod in return; they hadn't started out with any conscious agreement to keep an eye on her, but it had developed anyway. Not for the first time, either, Michael was glad that Nikita had such devoted friends. . . . It was a category he would never have thought of including himself in.

The true subject of everyone's attention reentered Sarah's room just as Birkoff was leaving. "So, you have a nice talk?" she smiled.

Sarah smiled back. They had talked mostly about Nikita, in fact --although Birkoff had told her, as well, a little about the first time he had had to kill someone, about how their mutual friend had helped him get through it. Not for the first time, too, Sarah had been pleased by the love so many others seemed to have for her ex- trainer; she just wished the woman would take it in more--wished that she would take care of herself more often. . . . She could tell, however--sadly, that this probably wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

She let her mind switch tracks, therefore, and decided to start up another sort of conversation with Nikita--knowing that, if her friend was determined to stay awake, she might as well give her something to focus on. "Yeah. So, let's talk about sex."

Nikita's tired eyes widened slightly, while she was attempting to sit down, as the shock to her exhausted instincts practically caused her to miss the chair. "What?"

"Hey, I'm the girl of the hour, right? I get to choose the topic of conversation."

Nikita laughed, finally managing to successfully sit. "Okay. What did you want to say about it, then?"

"Do you have a boyfriend?" she inquired.

Her friend recognized the words; Sarah had asked only a slight variant of them from Michael, during the conversation she had been able to hear only so tantalizingly small a part of. She was suddenly afraid, then, of where this was going; she looked down at the floor, her humor disappearing. "No."

Section's invalid knew she was getting close to the truth now. There were some things she wanted to tell Nikita, but she knew she needed to angle her way into them. Her friend could be a little skittish, she had learned, when she was afraid--a trait she understood only too well; she didn't want her to bolt.

She didn't know, however, that her ex-trainer had been watching her conversation with Michael. "But you're in love with someone?"

Nikita looked up at her briefly. "No." She looked away again.

"Liar," Sarah accused.

Nikita was becoming increasingly, quietly upset. "Why don't we pick another topic?" She looked back at her pleadingly.

The dying woman could be utterly determined at times, however, and Nikita was about to discover that this was one of them. "No." She smiled, her voice becoming softer; she wasn't doing this to hurt her friend, after all. "C'mon, Nikita. What are they gonna do to me, if you tell? Kill me?"

The Section operative swallowed heavily and bit her lower lip slightly, looking away again. She didn't answer.

Sarah sighed, both sad and frustrated. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you."

Her friend lied, shaking her head. "You didn't."

"Is the relationship that hard?"

Nikita let out an unconscious, sorrow-filled, half-laugh, but she only thought her response: "You have no idea."

"Nikita," her friend forced her to focus on her. "Tell me about him, please." Nikita's eyes were watering. "Has he hurt you?"

She took a deep breath, as she looked at the wall. "He never intends to."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," Sarah observed. Nikita looked back at her, a slight smile on her face. "Then why do you still love him?"

Her friend took a deep breath, bracing herself to say the words her mind had formed; her voice was very small. "Because I can't let him go." She looked back at her a second later, her mind having switched tracks slightly--to something more positive. "And part of him is good."

"Are you not with him because he's hurt you?" A lot was falling into place for her, as she remembered her conversation with Michael.

Nikita shook her head. "No." She looked away again. "He doesn't want to be with me."

"That's not true!" Sarah insisted, quietly but emphatically. Her friend looked back at her, surprised. "He loves you."

Her ex-trainer looked suspicious. "What d'you mean?"

Sarah shook her head. "What do you think Michael and I talked about? What do you think he ever thinks about? He's in love with you."

Nikita seemed more than a little unsure. "He said my name?"

Her friend focused on her as though she were suddenly lacking in sense. "He didn't have to. He described you." She shook her head. "And I knew it was you, even before he did."

Nikita was still unsure. "How?"

Sarah smiled at her. "Because it's just there in him--in you. I know you're all he thinks about." Her friend smiled and looked at the floor; Sarah's smile became conspiratorial. "You wanna know what he said about you?"

Nikita had no idea how bright her eyes were as they refocused on her friend; Sarah smiled at her again and began. "Well, he described you as beautiful, intelligent, and strong."

Her ex-trainer laughed a little. "Is that all?"

"Hardly. I asked him whether you were sexy, too." She smiled. "I knew he would be in love with some utterly gorgeous woman." Nikita looked away. "He told me you were." She stopped for a second to look at her friend, her mind trying to process her. "You were lovers once, weren't you?"

Nikita refocused on her, trying to shield her thoughts--not completely successfully. "Why?"

"Because he was remembering, when he answered." Sarah shook her head. "He hasn't forgotten." Her ex-trainer swallowed heavily and dropped her head once more; a dozen emotions were visible in her eyes. "Why aren't you still together?"

Nikita shook her head, her now-saddened focus on the floor. "I don't know," she whispered softly.

Sarah looked at her friend sadly. She had gathered, from watching them both, that there was a lot between them in their past--both pain and pleasure; she just wished there were some way she could get them both to see that the pain always seemed to be more evident when they were apart.

She sighed softly, then--planning. Maybe, she decided finally, if Michael came back to see her again, she would try to do just that. . . . It was the least, after all, that she could do for a friend.

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

It was about a day later when Michael came back to see her again. Between missions, profiling, and the need to keep himself safe from his emotions for his beloved, he had been allowing Walter most of the "checking in" duties.

He found Nikita asleep in a chair beside Sarah's bed, when he arrived--her dreams apparently not pleasant ones. Seeing her like this tore at his heart. . . . Dear God, he hated that she was in pain--of any kind.

He was, a few seconds later--then, caught slightly off guard by Sarah's voice; he hadn't realized that he had been staring at his beloved before then. "She seems to have nightmares a lot."

He nodded slightly, staring at the woman who had his heart. "We all do." He still felt able to open up more to this woman than most other people; it seemed almost natural, in fact.

She nodded a little in return, supposing that was probably true. "You could put her on that bed over there. They brought it in for her, but she never uses it."

He nodded again, his focus still on his beloved. He picked the adored woman up gently, being certain not to disturb her rest, and carried her over to place her on the cot. "Mi-chael," Nikita murmured in her sleep--her dreams seeming to take a turn for the better.

Sarah watched him quietly, for a minute. "You know she loves you," she said to his back, as he was still focused on his beloved one. He had settled a blanket lightly around his heart's wife and was now stroking his fingers unconsciously over it, almost as a substitute for her.

He took a deep breath before turning around, not entirely willing to talk about it right now--even to her. He looked at the ailing young woman assessingly. "How are you?"

She tried to repress a coughing fit but without success. He found her inhaler and helped her to stop it--giving her a minute after it to finally answer him, her voice croaking slightly. "I'm dying."

He knew she didn't want to be lied to. "You seem to be getting a little weaker."

She shook her head. "Not weak enough." She closed her eyes for a second, as a surge of pain throbbed through her. When she opened her eyes again, he was focused on her sympathetically. "I just won't die--I seem to keep hanging on, no matter how much I want it to be over."

His eyes were tender. "You want it to end?"

She looked at him pleadingly. "Yes." She swallowed for a second--or tried to; it was getting harder. "I asked Nikita to do it," she shook her head, "but she can't."

Michael shook his head as well, looking back at his beloved. "No, she couldn't."

Sarah took hold of his jacket, gaining his attention once more. "Please, Michael. I'm dying anyway. Section doesn't need me." She almost had another coughing fit; his hand rubbed her shoulder, trying to calm her. "I want it to be over," she gasped out, as the fit passed.

"Ssh," he calmed her. He knew her request wasn't a decision she had come to lightly; he knew she meant it. He understood, as well, that there was nothing he--or anyone--could do to save her. "I'll help you."

Her eyes bored into him. "You promise?"

He nodded. "Yes." He sighed, as she relaxed a little. He stroked over her hair lightly. "I'll need to get the right drug. It will take a little while."

She looked worried. "Not too long?"

He shook his head, his look incredibly gentle. "No. Not too long."

She nodded. Her pain would be over soon; he had promised her. Now, she just had one more thing she needed to do, while she had the chance; she looked past him to where Nikita was sleeping, a slight smile now on her face. "She loves you, Michael. Why aren't you with her?"

He took in a slight breath--ignoring her question to focus on her statement; he was looking back at his beloved once more. "She told you that?"

The ill woman smiled gently. "She didn't have to--just like you didn't have to tell me it was her you loved."

He refocused on her, stroking the hair from her face; she seemed to have fewer coughing fits when she was being touched softly. "You're a very perceptive woman, Sarah."

He was surprised, however, when her look turned a little desperate. She tried to sit up. "Michael, promise me. Life is too short; you're going to be together with her for too little time as it is. Don't waste it." She was breathing a little faster. "*Love her*. Be with her. Tell her you care about her, before it's too late."

She saw the dark visions of loss and despair in his eyes--the fears of what might come. "Don't ask me to promise, Sarah."

Her eyes were still desperate. "You have to. You need her. She needs you. Everybody I've seen come near the two of you knows it." He still wasn't answering. "Why keep her separate from you, when you both need to be together?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but there was really little he could say. "It's hard to explain," he whispered finally.

She didn't want to blackmail him--not really; she just needed to know that there was some hope for the few people she was leaving behind--that the good woman who had trained and tried to look after her might be able to be with the man who adored her so deeply. "Please, just promise me that you'll think about it." Her eyes were begging him, as he was silent for another few, long seconds. "Please."

He nodded finally--giving in, agreeing to that much, at least --and then helped her lie back again. "I promise," he assured her quietly.

About a half hour later, Nikita woke up to find Sarah awake. She had been having a wonderful dream about Michael--a definite departure from most of her nightmares of late.

Her happiness disappeared when she saw her friend, though; she was obviously in great pain. "Sarah?" She hopped off the cot she was on and came over to her quickly. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Sarah's eyes were half-closed. "You needed sleep."

"Not that badly."

Sarah didn't feel up to arguing with her. She was shaking slightly.

"What can I do?" Nikita asked.

Her friend shook her head. "Nothing." She found her hand, however, and held it.

A few seconds later, the door to Sarah's room opened again, and Michael entered. His eyes met deeply with Nikita's for a second before he refocused on Sarah--and his ex-material quickly understood how she had come to be on the cot.

"Did you bring it?" the dying woman asked hopefully.

"Yes," he assured her. He walked over to her I.V. bag and took out the syringe.

"No," Nikita whispered desperately.

Sarah looked back at her--her eyes begging. "Nikita, please-- let me go." She shook her head. "I can't take the pain anymore."

Her friend swallowed heavily. She knew this was what Sarah wanted--knew she had no right to ask her to stay, that every second she continued here from now on would only bring her agony, . . . but this still hurt like hell.

Michael looked at the angel he adored, and their eyes met. He said nothing, but his message was clear: "It's all she has left."

Nikita closed her eyes, knowing she had to accept the inevitable. She brought her friend's hand up to her cheek, then, rubbing herself against it; she looked back at her. "I'm going to miss you."

Sarah smiled at her with incredible love. "I'll be with you, Nikita. I'll be here." She put her other, slightly shaky, hand over her friend's and held it tightly.

Michael swallowed heavily, watching them both, his heart breaking at his beloved's torment. "This won't be fast," he told her, getting Sarah's attention again, "but it will be painless."

The dying woman's eyes were slightly desperate at this new information. "How long?"

"Six hours. Anything faster would have caused more pain." He swallowed at the despair in her eyes. "You'll feel a warmth coming over you, as it works. You won't feel anymore pain, once it's been released."

Sarah's fear disappeared with this promise; she took a relatively deep breath. "Do it," she said determinedly.

Michael held her eyes for a second and then looked up to Nikita. His beloved nodded reluctantly, as well.

He emptied the syringe into the I.V. and then turned back to Sarah completely. His hand stroked over her forehead, his look tender. "Goodbye, Sarah."

Her eyes were warm, grateful. "Thank you, Michael."

He leaned over and gave her a brief, tender kiss on the forehead. Then, he looked up at Nikita with loving eyes before he left the two of them alone.

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

Twelve hours later, Nikita was back home in her apartment. Sarah had died seven hours before, an hour before Michael had predicted; she hadn't felt any pain since his intervention.

She was sitting on her couch now, absently staring at-- touching--a small, ceramic house which Sarah had given her--one her father had made for her, one of the few things the woman had brought with her to her brief life in Section. She couldn't help, either--as she looked at it, thinking about a play she had read many years ago in school--The Glass Menagerie. Like the abandoned woman in it, Sarah too had been like her collection: fragile and beautiful, too often overlooked.

She sighed and positioned the house on her coffee table. She felt a little numb. She had known, of course, that Sarah was going to die, but she wasn't really sure that that had helped her any, in the end. . . . She still felt like hell.

In a way, too, this was the way she felt after every mission gone bad, after every time she had lost a friend or comrade-- however temporary they may have been. She just kept wishing that she could have done something different--that she could have helped this woman in some other way.

She sighed regretfully. None of it mattered anymore, however; Sarah was dead--had died, finally, the way she had wanted to, and Nikita was, once again, the one who had to try to find a way to keep going.

A knock on her door interrupted her saddened thoughts; she recognized it instantly. And she immediately thought that, of all the days he might have chosen to come by, today might just be the day that she decided to wring Mick Schtoppel's annoying little neck.

She answered the door wearily. "Whadda ya want, Mick?"

He smiled at her. "Can't a neighbor come by to check on a neighbor every once in a while? Y'know--see a friendly face? Trade a few family recipes?" Nikita's stare in return was glacial; she was *not* ready for this. "By the way," he went on, oblivious to her impatience, "you're looking marvelous today--quite an interesting new look, sort of rumpled and second-night out, no sleep. Lovely." He maneuvered his way past her to come inside.

"Mick," her rather hard and hoarse voice stopped him; she was still staring out her door. "I've been up for almost a week. I'm tired; I'm grumpy as hell, and if you don't tell me what you want *right* now, I might very well throw you off my balcony just to see how far you bounce." She turned back to him finally.

He looked like he had just changed his mind about imposing on her. "I have an idea," he said, turning around. "How 'bout I go 'way and leave you alone and come back when you've had a little rest?" He walked back out the door.

"Excellent idea," she murmured, shutting it heavily after him.

Mick's arrival had really been the final straw. Enough sitting around. She sighed. "Screw this," she thought. "I'm going to bed." There really was, she knew, nothing else she could do to try to deal with this anymore while she was awake, anyway. . . . Tomorrow she would have to try to go on with her life, then, happier--at least--that it had had Sarah Gerrard in it.

Mick rounded the end of the corridor to come face-to-face with the stone-faced man who had sent him on his recent foray to his neighbor's. "How is she?" Michael asked.

"Well, she looks like hell, but her attitude is still pure diva," his unwilling accomplice assessed.

"How long did it take before she threatened your life?"

"Under a minute," Mick reported, "about the usual, when she's feeling a little less than perky." He looked at Michael questioningly. "Now, is there anything else, or can I go back to my life?"

"Just one more thing." The Class Five op. moved in on him slightly. "If you tell anyone I was here, I'll break every bone in your body--slowly."

"Understood, nice doing business with you, see you later," Mick said, retreating toward his apartment. He understood nothing if not how to survive--and double crossing Michael was pretty much the definition of how to get yourself killed.

The man who loved Nikita watched her neighbor retreat quickly. Once he was out of sight, however, he smiled. The lower-class Englishman could be quite annoying, but he suspected that the man did truly like Nikita--and, right now, he would welcome anyone who was a friend to her.

His smile faded slightly, as he began pondering recent events more deeply, though. All in all, the last few weeks had been terrible--the distance between himself and his beloved nearly unbearable, even though he himself had been the one to ask for it.

Something, though--he hoped, was changing now; he had made a promise to Sarah which he wanted to keep. He didn't know whether he would ever be able to open himself up to his beloved or not-- of course, but he would, indeed, allow himself to think it through.

His smile returned. Their short-lived, highly-perceptive friend had been right, after all; life in Section--life anywhere --was simply too short to turn down true love, when it was offered. Now he just needed to see if he could find the courage in himself to act on this knowledge. . . . If he could, indeed, both he and Nikita might actually be able to perform a miracle: they might be able to find happiness in the very heart of Hell.

[The End]

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