This is a one-part character study set during the episode "Obsessed"; it'll be pretty obvious what scene. I'm rating it MA-14 for adult situations and discussions. Of course, there are heavy spoilers for this episode, as well as for "Recruit," "Looking for Michael," "Escape," and "Love."

As always, no infringement of any sort is intended here. Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

There were times--although not very often anymore--when he actually thought he could remember an old feeling, an instinct: the desire for touch. He blinked, as the thought sank in. Yes, every once in a while it came back to him, the memories of his much younger days--memories from another lifetime ago. Then, he had loved the soft stroke of a hand over his skin, the gentle press of lips along his flesh--had loved, even more, bestowing those same gifts to another. . . . Now, however, those "gifts" were meaningless to him, were nothing. Now, touch was simply a part of the job--was a part to be avoided, whenever possible. . . . There was nothing of his old self left.

Avoiding, too, wasn't always an option; Michael sighed quietly. He was only barely broken from his thoughts, as well, when Lisa shifted against him, her long, wavy hair still in passionate disarray. He looked down on her and let out another quiet breath. . . . Nothing. He felt nothing for her, felt nothing for any of them. The flashing passion in their eyes, the cries of desire from their lips--it was all empty of any emotion or feeling from him. The most he ever seemed to feel for them was . . . pity.

He took a deep, angry breath and stared straight ahead once more, however, as he pulled his mind ruthlessly back under control. No. He felt nothing; he never did. Nikita's earlier words, her concern for the target, was simple weakness, was inexperience. If it were not himself who had seduced Lisa, someone else would have. She was an easy target, after all--a childlike girl who had been kept purposely insulated from her own emotions, one who would eagerly respond to anything like kindness; her husband had seen to that, unintentionally, with his treatment of her. She was just a victim waiting to happen, nothing more. His mind shifted once more. . . . At least his victimization of her had a purpose.

He closed his eyes tightly, angry at himself again for his last thought. No--not victimization. This was the natural process of life--the weak being preyed upon by the strong. At least Section had taught him to use such situations for a meaning, to protect other innocents from harm; at least her pain would be offset, in the end, would result in some good. He knew all this. He opened his eyes, a haunted look echoing somewhere deep within them. Why, then, did he still, suddenly feel so dirty?

He swallowed back his half-conscious shame, as he focused on the sheet which covered them both. He knew the answer to his last question, of course; it was the answer to far too much of his torment, these last few months . . . these last few years: Nikita. He shook his head just slightly. Somehow, the woman was changing him, was working on him in some way he couldn't quite understand--in some way which was, he knew, an absolute danger, was a threat to his continuing viability. He had to avoid her pull, had to try to block her out. A small breath of an unamused laugh moved out of him. If only he could.

He focused back up again--looking toward the kitchen of the house which belonged to this person he pretended to be, his thoughts turning slightly. In a little while, he would go in there and start his manipulation of his current target, would start to twist her in all the ways she had no defense for--would threaten the only sense of peace she had probably ever found. She would break, of course; there would be no other choice for her. She would follow the patterns she had lived in for so long, unquestioningly accepting the manipulations of the man who was with her. Soon, then, she would help them break into Fanning's files, and their real target would go down. He swallowed just slightly. Now, if only he could feel it were really that simple anymore.

He closed his eyes once again, as another small frisson of anger passed through him. No. It *was* that simple, was entirely black and white; it was only the innocent like Nikita who saw it in any other terms. He sighed, as he refocused on the room around him. He just, therefore, had to stop listening to her himself.

His mind turned further around the woman he had trained, once more, as his hand stroked a mechanical pattern of faux tenderness over his target's shoulder; his voice was pronouncing her name: Ni-ki-ta. Even the thought of her did something to him, worked on him in some strange way he couldn't explain. The flash of her eyes, the sparkle of her smile, even the angry toss of those long, blonde locks--all of them played, over and over again, in his mind, tormented him, as he tried to sleep. If he hadn't been an insomniac long before her, he would have been since she had come into his life; her image was the enemy of his reason. . . . If only, then, they had never met.

No. His eyes widened just slightly, as this last, terrible, thought shuddered through him, raising his heartbeat to a quick, terrified little tattoo in his chest. He took a deep breath, calming it once more, needing to keep from waking his assigned lover. No, he couldn't think of the possibility of life without his ex-material, not anymore; it hurt too much to think of a world which didn't include her. As much as he had, desperately, tried to deny her, it was becoming more consciously obvious to him by the day that he . . . needed her. Just seeing her alive was a habit he couldn't break himself of, was a concern which sometimes overrode his strict sense of duty. He had to have her in his life somewhere to get through his days. Without her, . . .

No. He stopped himself again from thinking into this possibility; he just couldn't allow it. While he knew that, in so many ways, Nikita was a bad habit for him, made him far less efficient, less focused, he just could not let her go. His heart beat a little faster. And that very thought in itself terrified him more than he could ever have words to express.

His eyes were slightly unfocused, as his thoughts ran back through the time since her arrival. Once, it was true, he had been able to at least pretend that she had meant nothing to him--but that was before the dreams had started in earnest. The first one about her, of course, had actually come the night of her arrival, but the erotic ones he had only been remembering since a few months into her stay. . . . God, he hated it. His mind turned a little, his blood warming slightly. Or did he?

He shook his head just a little, refusing to let himself focus too deeply here. Still, at first, at least it had just been the dreams, had been subconscious--but now something was changing, something which frightened him even more; now, the dreams had turned into fantasies, ones he couldn't quite deny the power of. . . . Now, indeed, she had him.

He sighed softly. Of course, what was ironic about this was that--very frequently--he wondered whether she even wanted him. So often, when her eyes were turned toward him, their expression was not one of love or desire but anger and hate. He hated, too, how much that hurt him.

He forced himself on. Even, though, when her look was disgusted or accusing, he still couldn't quite pull away. In fact, his recalcitrant heart yearned even more strongly for her in those moments than it had before; they made him want to ask for forgiveness for things he didn't entirely feel sorry for--and for others that he did. Her anger, too, gave her such life and vitality, practically made her crackle with it. He felt his eyes widening, his blood warming. . . . God help him--if she ever punched him out, he would probably propose.

His mouth quirked briefly into a smile, but the look disappeared--was tamped down--almost immediately, as his eyes grew colder. He hated this--hated what she did to him, hated the humor and . . . life she brought to his heart. No, he wouldn't allow it, *wouldn't* let her in; too much humanity had ruined many a cold op. He wouldn't allow himself to be among their number.

His mind, however, wasn't entirely listening, continued to run back through the paths his life had taken with her. Lately, unfortunately, he was being forced to admit more consciously that she had a true place in his life, that--like it or not--she had found her way into his heart. The thought frightened him, but he couldn't run from its truth, especially not after the whole situation with Karen. She had, not for the first time then, almost been cancelled, had come *so* close to it. He had barely survived the fear of waiting.

His heart ached just slightly, though he tried to ignore it. Ever since then, as well, he had found her harder to deny. His life outside of Section was difficult enough, after all; to face life inside without her . . .

His last thought trailed off finally, as his mind moved once more to his life outside of Section's walls; his mouth quirked slightly, ironically. Even that, however, could hardly be called a life; even that was under orders. Simone, certainly, had been his choice, but Elena . . . no. No, that situation was very different, indeed.

His heart pulled just slightly, as his mind wandered further here. His life outside of Section, of course, had been more difficult ever since the Vacek mission had begun; there had never been any escaping that. At first, though, it had simply been a matter of his time away from Simone, of the strain on their relationship that this new mission had been. After his true wife's death, however, things had become even harder; Elena, in fact, had seemed like an interloper on his grief, the son which had been created a year after his beloved's death, even more so. He had found it hard, in many ways, to have any tenderness for either of them at all. Every day, then, had been a torment.

Still--he let out a slight, saddened breath--things had changed since then, although not necessarily for the better. Since Nikita had come into his life, though, he had actually begun to feel more sympathy for his mission wife and, then newborn, son; it was like she had opened something in him, some sense of empathy which allowed him to more consciously feel pain over the immense betrayal he was putting both of the members of his faux family through. In the years he had known her, as well, this part of himself had grown, allowing him to almost feel a tenderness of sorts for both of these mission contingencies. . . . To put it mildly, however, it had been a frightening turn of events.

It wasn't, really, though, that he had never felt anything for Elena before; even in the beginning, indeed, he had been forced--simply by the length of the relationship--to take her more seriously than his other valentine targets. He had even wanted to avoid Adam's birth--had it been possible for him--in order to protect both of these unwitting innocents from the harm they would inevitably face because of this mission. . . . Still, before Nikita had come, the emotions he had felt had been far less intense. Now, though . . .

He looked down on the face of his latest target once again. Lisa was sleeping soundly, looking peaceful, happily enjoying her post-coital bliss. He looked back up once more. He didn't like the feelings he was beginning to experience here, feelings he knew Nikita was responsible for. Usually, any short-term valentine mission was like a cold op., with a different set of weapons; to survive and succeed, you had to stay intensely focused on the moment at hand, while still being completely detached from the results. It was a set of skills which many recruits--those who had no training in prostitution--found difficult.

Michael, however, was different here; he had understood what was required of him early on, in these situations, and had molded himself to fit the expected parameters of these missions. Like he had when becoming a cold op., he simply detached himself from any dislike for the work, detached himself from mind, body, and emotion--when any of them proved unhelpful; he had already divested himself of his soul. Then, he had simply trained his body to obey him in this area as it did in all others, and his preparation for cold seduction had been complete.

This wasn't all, though. The fact that he also felt and experienced absolutely nothing like pleasure, because of this course, was an added bonus, in this situation; it helped him to achieve closure without distractions. In very little time, then, he had become adept.

He let out a quiet breath, his mind more saddened by his thoughts than he would have liked. His quick adaptation to this life, however, wasn't to say that he enjoyed any of this; he enjoyed nothing in his life, in truth. Still, it was better that way. Simone, certainly, had been a, too brief, exception to that rule, but even she had--of necessity--always come second to Section. That was how they had survived.

His mind circled around once more, not wanting to linger here, coming back to an earlier thought. Still, he couldn't quite, unfortunately, forget that he had once enjoyed touch, that he had once actually craved it. Back in his earlier days, in fact, in the life he had lived before Section, he had found quite a pleasurable release in being a lover, in giving his partners joy; it had calmed his youthful anger for awhile, had steadied him, when all of his conflicts had threatened to overwhelm him. It had been a lifeline, of sorts, to sanity.

That no one woman in particular had had any special meaning for him, as well, had been irrelevant; he had treated them all with enough respect and openness about his feelings that none of them truly complained. Faced with their openness in return, therefore, he had always been able to lose himself in touch and passion for awhile, before real life had called him once more. It had been . . . comforting.

He sighed. Of course, none of this applied anymore; none of it had for years now. In Section, all that mattered was the seduction of the mind for which the giving of flesh was symbolic. He looked down at his newest target once more. That was all this mission, and almost all of the others, were about--winning over the target, convincing them that the relationship had been their idea to begin with, that they had entered into it partly out of fate and partly out of their own free will. Then, when they were too lost in a lust-induced haze--and whatever deeper emotions they might mistake that feeling for--you turned the tables on them, forced them to act to Section's will. And, in the end, then, you always won.

He sighed once again, looking up. For so long, therefore, he had trained himself to feel nothing for his targets, to simply look on them as acceptable emotional collateral. He had even been forced to cancel one or two, in the end, so emotional attachment was obviously psychologically counterproductive--not to mention very dangerous to the profile. You had to approach the target with reason alone, or you were lost. His heart beat faster. If only Nikita understood that.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly once more--trying to rid it of the thought that plagued it. No, he shouldn't care what that woman thought of him, what she thought of this mission. It was necessary, had a specific purpose. Besides, he told himself once more, if it were not himself with Lisa, it would be someone else; she was too weak-willed to resist a soft pitch like the one he had used. He, then, was only doing his job.

He opened slightly-haunted eyes once more. Why was it, then, that he couldn't get Nikita's disapproving stare today out of his mind? Why was it that he kept thinking about the seduction he had attempted with her when she had wanted to run away with Eric? Why was it that he was being influenced by her far less experienced view of life?

He sighed more heavily. He didn't have an answer to this--or, at least, not one he wanted to face. But he couldn't, at the same time, quite get certain images of Nikita out of his head just now: of the mission against Bauer--of their dance, her blood-stirring kiss, her slow striptease, and those few, too brief, moments together on the bed. He kept thinking, too, of his attempt to seduce her away from Eric--of their slow dancing, their light kisses, . . . of the feelings she had stirred in him with it all. He had just been using, of course, his old seduction techniques there; he had used the little dance of hands on . . . it must be hundreds of women by now. It had never failed him. The entire dance, too, was valentine choreographed--was an invitation to her to touch him, to let herself fall, the slow tracing of his finger up her leg just adding fuel to the fire.

It had surprised him somewhat, then, that he hadn't simply responded as though it were a standard op., as he had expected himself to. No, instead, by the time the phone had rung, he had half-wished for the opportunity to carry out this seduction in full, for the chance to satisfy whatever the heat was which always seemed to live between them, to be able to exorcise it and move on.

He sighed softly again. Of course, in the end, as always, that was not to be. He knew, too, that it was for the best. In many ways, of course, he hadn't wanted to hurt her, hadn't wanted to experience her just rage after it, had the moment continued on. No, she had been hurt and angry enough at his betrayal, as it was. . . . She hadn't needed the extra encouragement at all.

His hand continued to run lightly over the skin of the target beside him, as his mind wandered further. As much as he knew his feelings were dangerous, though, he couldn't help the curiosity these incidents, especially, had stirred in him; part of him wanted, so deeply, to know the unanswerable--to understand her desire.

His thoughts went on here, drawn further, entirely without his permission. He had thought about it so often, truly--about how soft her skin must be beyond those so-tender patches he had been fortunate enough to feel, about the way her eyes would pull him in as he made love to her, about the soft cries she would emit.

He closed his eyes briefly, pulling his body under control. God help him, he wanted to know what it felt like to make love to her, to feel her passion and love for him flowing through his veins. It had been so long, after all, since he had truly made love, regardless of his earlier answer to Madeline's valentine-based question; none of his targets, obviously, really fit into that category. These women, like the one beside him, were simply mechanical assignments, but part of him, something deep within him, wanted to experience desire again, wanted to know it was real. . . . If only that were possible.

He took a deep breath and tried to pull his mind back under control; his thoughts were getting away from him again. This, though, had been his problem for the last several months, at least, was far too symptomatic. . . . His fantasies were becoming conscious ones.

He repressed a slight frisson of need, as the memories went on. Now, truly, there were times when he sat alone and dreamed about it, about tasting the skin along her neck, about the soft shudder she would give in response. It was disturbing. No one since Simone had moved him at all, erotically; no one else had been able to touch his heart.

Now, however, everything was different; now, Nikita seemed to live there, despite all his efforts to keep her at bay. His heart sighed, a reluctant admission setting into it. He knew, though, that he might have had more of a chance against her if he had actually *wanted* her to stay away. He smiled very slightly. Ah well.

His smile faded, however, his sadness returning, as his mind half-took in one more thought on this subject--a very frightening one. Simone, it was true, had broken into his heart long ago--and lived in it still, but no one at all had ever truly touched his soul; he had buried it too deep. His sister might have been the closest to that, but even she he had only allowed in so much.

His heart beat a little stronger in fear. He could feel, though, deep within him, one of the most tender and terrifying emotions of his life; he rarely let himself focus on it at all. Still, it was there--this feeling, this desire to open himself to Nikita's eyes alone. He half-expected, too, that--if he did--he would find her waiting for him, already in his soul. . . . If he let it continue, then, God only knew where he would end up.

He closed his eyes for just a second and let out another quiet breath. He couldn't let himself think about all this any longer; it wasn't healthy. Nikita, for all her beauty and life, was a dangerous influence on him, trying to open his soul to herself and others. He just couldn't allow it, not anymore. He had to keep her out.

He opened his eyes once more, however, his mind shifting slightly. Still, he knew he couldn't let her go entirely, either; it just wasn't possible--as much safer as it would make them both. There was no way out.

Another quiet, now resigned, breath moved from him. They were stuck in this sort of half-life of unfulfilled desire, therefore, but maybe that was for the best. At least, unlike Simone, they were both still alive.

He gave up on these thoughts, then, as he looked down at his target and braced himself, moving to get out of bed. . . . He had to start this new path with her sometime, after all.

He stood and tied his robe around his waist; it would be more effective in seducing her help if he weren't entirely covered. Maybe, he thought, as well, if he simply told himself firmly enough that he felt no sympathy for this woman, he wouldn't; maybe he could try to believe the emotion away.

He moved to the kitchen, finding a bottle of water and taking a long drink of it, forcing his feelings into the background--forcing his manipulative side to the fore. He heard her stirring, though, and felt the slightest tug on his heart, one which didn't show on his face; it grew worse, too, as she called his name, asking him what was wrong--the worry he had intended to breed in her coming out.

He sighed and told her what he had told himself at least a hundred times about his feelings for Nikita, about the way she was beginning to so terribly open his heart and soul: "This has to end."

Only his mind, however, answered his real statement: "If only it could."

[The End]

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