This will probably seem a bit of a throwback, considering it's the night after the finale, but . . .

The following is a character study centered around the events of "No One Lives Forever." It includes heavy spoilers for that episode and all of the Season 4 episodes up to it, as well as for "Mercy," "Line in the Sand," "End Game," "Third Party Ripoff," "Escape," "Adrian's Garden," "Outside the Box," "All Good Things," "Three Eyed Turtle," "Noise," and "Down A Crooked Path." It follows, as well, along in the series of character studies I've been doing about Season 4 (coming just after "Shadows of the Past"--my "Sympathy for the Devil" story) and will refer back to them somewhat, although knowledge of them is not really necessary to understand the events here. :) Since it was written before seeing FLYF, too, it does not completely reflect the revelation we got in the middle of that episode; still, I'm sticking to the rest of its contents. :) I'm rating this MA-14 for adult discussions and language; there will be two NC-17 chapters, as well. I should probably warn, furthermore, that this story is pretty full of speculation. We'll see if I get proved wrong next season. :)

As usual, of course--although there will be some dialogue and action from the episode here--no infringement of any sort is intended with the following. Lord knows, I don't own any rights to this show, the characters, etc., etc., and, as always, I am making no such claim. :)

Chapter 1

"It's time for you to leave."

The words were still sinking into her, the fear which accompanied them running deep. . . . "Leave." No one "left" Section--no one alive; they had told her that from the beginning. Why, then, would they want her to believe otherwise now?

Nikita shook her head again, as she forced herself to wander toward the exit of the building. She knew that she was purposely lingering, but she couldn't quite help it. This was just too new a shock to digest quickly.

She walked slowly through the halls, then, her arms wrapped around herself, taking in the place for what might be the last time--maybe. It wasn't that she would really miss it, of course, wasn't the missions and the death and the pain which she was so slow in disconnecting herself from. No, it was more that this organization had become her life, was the place she always returned to, even if it couldn't really be called "home"--not by anyone with any sanity left at all. Leaving forever, therefore, was just hard to take in.

She passed by a corridor which she had walked down many times and stopped for a second; the hallway led to the area where she and Michael had met so often, where they had conspired and consoled--was one of the only places where they had enjoyed a temporary freedom from their masters' perusal. Her heart clenched slightly, as her lips tugged into something half between a smile and tears. . . . God, she would miss him.

She swallowed heavily and lingered for a few seconds more, therefore, before forcing herself on; it wouldn't do to be seen here. Even if she was, supposedly, never returning, giving their leaders another little insight into her mind was *always* a bad idea. She couldn't afford such weaknesses now.

She pulled out her sunglasses and put them on, as she continued to head for the exit. It was very possibly broaching on evening outside, but she just couldn't keep the sorrow out of her eyes anymore without help, her torment over her latest thought too great. How, indeed, was she going to make it without Michael? Why, in fact, would she even want to?

The questions rang loudly through her brain, echoing--giving no reprieve or answer; they were puzzles she couldn't solve, ones she had no clues to. Whatever their slight distance of late, after all, just the thought of life without him was more than she could bear.

She swallowed heavily again, trying to keep herself together. The worst part of all of this, of course, was the fact that she hadn't even been granted the right to say goodbye; for a condemned woman, it seemed the least she could expect. . . . But no, her leaders knew no such mercies, believed in none of them. All they understood, ever, was their games.

She let out a small, saddened laugh, as her thoughts turned here, looking back over these musings. It seemed ironic, truly, that she perceived herself to be so damned now, to be facing such a terrible new fate, when what she was supposedly being granted was her freedom. Still--as she had learned during those awful months outside of Section three years ago--life outside was nothing without the man who had captured her heart; she had known that even then, even when her hatred so often outweighed her love. Now, though, now that Michael was becoming the man she had always needed--loving, open, strong, beautiful, . . . willing to sacrifice whatever unhappy old habits had to be let go of in order to forge a path with her as his partner--leaving him seemed impossible, seemed to be a death sentence, not a reprieve. Nothing outside of him, indeed, could ever mean as much.

Her confused smile went on, as her emotions tumbled through her. She didn't know, really, when she had begun to feel like this, when her emotional dependence on her ex-trainer had started, but it was an undeniable fact now. Just as, she understood, he had felt with her for so long, life didn't seem whole unless they were together; fighting against the need, as they both had for so long, was useless. They were either together and alive or separated and merely--barely--existing. There were no other choices for them anymore.

She sighed, as she got closer to van access--and the elevator which would take her out; her steps unconsciously slowed. She knew what she was doing now, understood why she couldn't quite leave here. This place, after all, *was* Michael to her, in so many ways--was the one place she had always found him. Even when she thought of him now, with all their recent changes, it was always as being here; it was in his blood, in his bones--in the very marrow of him. Much as she might like to pretend, Michael would never survive outside of the world where he had lived for so long. For him, freedom was an alien concept, was only glimpsed briefly when they were alone together. That was all he understood of it--and all he wanted to.

She felt an internal shudder of pain at her musings, as she finally reached van access, her delays unsuccessful. She turned back to look once more at the world from which she was being exiled. The door closed with its expected creak, but the finality of the sound now shook through her terribly. . . . Dear God. Where was she going to go?

She turned back again, forcing herself on toward the elevator. Her soul was in turmoil, as her mind turned back once more to focus on the lingering philosophy of her heart's mate. She had hated this part of the man she loved for so long--had despised the way he seemed to represent the organization which had controlled her for so many years--but now she had come to understand him. If the last several months here had taught her anything, it was that life outside of Section was entirely illusory for them, was a comforting lie she had once told herself in order to go on. All that really existed for any of them anymore were missions, betrayal, and lies--were the chimerical masks of personalities they had created in order to get through the next day. Everything else was just a list of things they had given up irretrievably the moment they had been brought through Section's doors. Nothing else was real.

Her heart ached. Some deeply buried part of her hated these thoughts, fought and rebelled against them still, clung to hope like some recalcitrant, wayward child. She smiled sadly in response, like an indulgent but world-weary parent. She wished she could indulge the delusion, but it was hopeless; Section, lately, had taught her the truth. Life was gray and meaningless, was devoid of purpose or higher beauty. It was best, then, to simply adjust.

She came back to herself slightly to realize that she had been standing in front of the elevator for several minutes without even trying to leave. She laughed feebly at the lingering willfulness of what might loosely be termed her soul and pushed the button. There was no more time for delays.

She could feel her heart beating faster, as she waited for the car to come. Even now, she was half-hoping that Michael would come to her, that he would catch her, would say goodbye. She shook her head. How incredibly foolish she had become.

The elevator came relatively quickly, however, and she found herself pausing again before she entered. She sighed, stepping in. If her cruel masters had taught her anything lately, it was that life had no purpose beyond constant and unremitting pain. She wondered when--if--she would ever allow herself to fully learn that and move on.

None of these thoughts, though, truly made her leaving any easier. She could feel every quickly-rising foot of the elevator's ascent as another mile, another century, of distance between herself and Michael. She closed her eyes and bid him a silent goodbye, some sweet memory of her soul slipping finally from her grasp. He was gone.

Her eyes were teary by the time she finally stepped out again into the world she could never truly be part of, no matter what this new assignment might finally prove to be. She felt an internal break, as well, with the move into it, a much-loved part of her soul having fallen utterly away. She swallowed heavily, ignoring the tears in her eyes, and forced herself to move on. Maybe it was for the best.

She let her mind run back over the last few weeks, as she walked quickly to her car; now that she was out, away from the building which represented the man who had once been her mate, she just wanted to be away. She knew that Michael had felt it to be for the best when he had let her spend some time alone after the mission they had gone on for Operations; she had shared his belief then, too. Still, she now wondered whether they had both been wrong.

Her tormented thoughts went on. While her days alone had led her to finally accepting the sad truth of life, she also knew now that the only thing which had ever pretended to be beauty in her existence had been her relationship with her beloved. She had even planned, in fact, on recommencing their bond when he returned from Senegal. While life was meaningless, her love for Michael was a necessary illusion, was a comforting one, for them both--the moments they spent alone being the one thing she could ever cherish at all. That she had turned her back on that, for any length of time, then, had been foolish.

Her heart ached terribly now, but she tried to ignore it. She got in her car and began to drive away, her mind still working on these thoughts. Of course, it was true that these days alone had brought her this sense of--well, not peace--but of necessary resignation to the realities of her existence. Before them, indeed, she had simply lived in pain, tortured by the failure of all her earlier, simpler beliefs, of all of her faith in beauty. These weeks, though, had taught her a better-adjusted way of viewing the world, one which avoided such pain-inducing delusions. Now, she knew the truth and could accept it, could simply accept the fact that she would never be free of torment again. It was better this way.

She smiled sadly once more. This new acceptance, too, had allowed her a sense of . . . chained freedom, a fractured sort of peace with the reality of her life of unremitting pain. Now that she had reached this point, as well, she could have--had her masters allowed it--gone back to Michael, could have let herself enjoy--as much as that delusional emotion was possible--their time together. She had come, indeed, to the emotional place he had reached so long ago, to the resignation that life within Section was not about right and wrong--as she had believed, or struggled to, for so long--but about survival; it was a necessary stage of development in this life she was leading, one she should have reached so many years ago. That it had taken brainwashing and a sham marriage to finally get her here was sad, but at least she had finally arrived. She could have, then, just gone on.

Another small, ironic laugh sounded from her. But no, of course--her leaders couldn't allow that; she should have expected it. Her new revelation, after all, had taught her to accept that life was pain alone, nothing more. She should have seen, then, that even a temporary sense of peace was too much to reasonably expect.

Her mind shifted a little, therefore, as she looked up on her drive through the streets of the city. She had taken this path back and forth from her home so many times in the past few years, had gotten to the point where she barely even noticed it. It was odd, then, that this would be the last time she would see it like this, for awhile at least. . . . She wondered if she would miss it.

Her thoughts lingered here for a second before moving on. What would her life to come be like? What were these new orders all about, anyway? She couldn't believe, it was simply too obvious, that she was not truly free, that she would never be; that was an illusion for youth. No, this was a mission, or a ploy, or a prelude to cancellation--nothing more. She swallowed back her tears just slightly. She wondered which of them she would have preferred.

She could feel the sadness in her, as she pondered this further; she really didn't know the answer. In some ways, she thought, she would have liked the latter, but it seemed unworkable for a couple of reasons. First, she no longer truly believed that she was worthy of such a reprieve; after all of the blood and death and tragedy she had dealt to others, it seemed far too much to request. Why should demons be let out for good behavior?

More than this, though, was her concern for Michael. In some ways, indeed, they had switched places--her foolish optimism infecting him just as she had finally learned his acceptance. She knew, too, that he depended on her, that they both needed each other to go on, whatever their current attitudes toward their lives. If she were truly gone, then, he would refuse to continue, would demand to die. There would be no other choice.

She sighed softly. It wasn't egotism which told her this, either, but logic and a deeper understanding of his mind. He had set his existence on hers, especially lately, and he could see no life beyond her. If their masters killed her, therefore, he was lost to them, too. She shook her head slightly. She just wondered whether they knew that.

No, she decided after a few seconds, probably not. None of this would actually stop them from carrying out her death if that were what they were arranging now, but she truly wished they understood. After all, even with all of her hard-won new knowledge, she simply couldn't accept that Michael might die because of her; it was too much to ask. She wanted him to go on, to be happy, to find someone who could give him all of the hope and joy she had once possessed, all of those emotions he needed; he deserved them, had served his time in Hell. She didn't want to bring him with her into death. . . . The fact, however, that all of these thoughts contradicted her new view of her own life never even occurred to her. The pain had just risen too far in her to overcome.

She changed the direction of her thoughts, then, as she pulled into her garage; if her masters had decided to kill her, of course, she had no way out of it, so there really was little reason to debate it further. She wondered about the other possible reasons for these new orders, therefore. Was this some mission which they wanted her well off-site before they explained to her? She nodded slightly. Possibly. They had certainly used her enough as their pawn before. There was no reason they wouldn't again.

There was another choice here, though; it was just as likely to her that they were simply doing this as a further ploy to separate herself and Michael, to ensure that the temporary split between them in recent weeks became more ingrained. Perhaps they were hoping that a few months, or a few years, apart would teach them restraint. She sighed, part of her wishing it--for his sake. If only that were true.

She was heading back into her building now, her thoughts still preoccupying her, as her emotions changed tracks slightly again. Of course, she didn't actually want--at all--for there to be any sort of split between herself and her beloved, but she still thought it might be best for him. He had fallen in love with her, indeed, when she had been someone else, when she had seen the world through innocent eyes--but the Nikita who had done that had died many months ago, had been dying for sometime. If he could just learn to work past his dependence on her, then, she was sure it would be better for him, would be safer and saner. He could move on and find someone else to fulfill the role she had once believed she could. . . . It just wasn't in her anymore to do it.

None of this, however, was to say that she would ever give him up, that she would ever feel even close to whole without him. She had also learned to accept in these past weeks, after all, that what there was of her that was real was provided by him; he now held her soul, as she had once done for him in reverse. It was just sad, really, that they couldn't both hold them at once.

She sighed slightly. Still, the truth was evident to her. Whatever the future, she would never stop loving him, would never stop needing him. She might have accepted that real happiness was forever something she had lost, but what little she understood of the emotion was found in him. Over the past few months, the only times she had ever felt safe, the only times she had ever known any comfort at all, were when they had been together, were when they had been wrapped sensually around one another--lost in touch. Outside of that, there was emptiness. He was her only light.

She reached her apartment finally and went in, but she was paused just inside by an overwhelming flood of nostalgia, by all the memories--both beautiful and tormenting. Here she had known some of her greatest joys and her most wracking despair; here she had been both watched and programmed as well as cherished and loved. Almost every emotion of her Section life--which was all of it that really mattered--was attached to this one place. For better or worse, then, she would miss it.

She swallowed slightly and took off her sunglasses, forcing herself to shut the door, as another, terrible thought shot through her. Would he come here, once she was gone? Would he come to see what of her essence he could still find, what of her he still possessed? Would he keep this place ready for her return, like a shrine--or just pay one last visit to relive old memories lost? She smiled. She hoped so, in a way. She wanted him to pick up her last thoughts of him, whatever their distance, before their bond was broken. Maybe that, at least, would be something for them both to live on.

She set her purse down and began to move slowly around. She knew she needed to be going soon, needed to be out of here. Whatever her half-secret wishes, he wasn't coming for her now.

Her heart ached a little more, as she thought about what his reaction to the news might be. She didn't want it to hurt him, didn't want--once again--to be the cause of his pain. She may have accepted that her own torment was inevitable, but she still didn't want to have him suffer. He had already done enough of that.

She was about to go find her bag to start packing, but was drawn to her French doors; she opened them and smiled, looking out one final time, as her mind turned again. She wished that the few other people she loved in Section could understand her situation, wished they weren't so lost in their own fantasies of freedom as to be blinded to the truth. Walter, especially, should have known better; there was no way out of this life. They were here until their usefulness was done, and then they were killed. There was no other reality anymore.

Her mind shifted, her lips quirking slightly. In some ways, though, it was rather nice to know that Walter and Birkoff could still dream, was nice to know that they still wanted to. Her own desire for that release had been burnt out of her in these last few months, leaving nothing behind but ashes. It was nice, if not necessarily rational, then, that they were both still so innocent.

Her smile faded. It was a little frustrating, though, to have no one who would listen to her fears, to her insights on her orders' true purpose. If Michael were here, he would hear her, would let her speak without his daydreams clouding his judgment; he was her only real confidant anymore.

Her heart sank a little, as she stared at the ground. Michael wasn't here, however, never would be again. She swallowed heavily, her eyes tearing. If only she knew a way to let him go.

These last thoughts were too much for her, though; she closed her eyes, fighting back the tears. The fear which plagued her heart the most right now was this: what if Birkoff and Walter were right? What if this were real--what if she were really a test case for reintegration, her performance the measure by which her friends' futures would be judged? She swallowed heavily and forced open her eyes. Dear God, she hoped not.

It wasn't just the weight of her responsibility to her friends which sat so heavily in her heart at the moment, however; a tear ran down her cheek. It was that she might truly have to face the rest of a, no doubt, far-too-long life without Michael.

Her breath shuddered out. The fear was too much, the pain too intense. How could anyone--even the demonic creatures who owned her--ask her to separate from the only person she had ever truly loved, the only one she had ever felt so deeply connected to? Even if she were convinced that he would be better off without her, she still knew that she just couldn't go on indefinitely without him. That much torment was too much for even her new philosophy to accept.

She was standing there crying quietly when she heard a knock on her door. Her still far-too-hopeful heart jumped for a second, before she forced herself to realize that the knock wasn't Michael's; more than likely, it was Mick's.

She closed her eyes for a second and leaned her head against the door, not quite willing to answer. She was torn between an overwhelming--if, she told herself, irrational--surge of pain that it wasn't her beloved who had come to say goodbye and a slight twinge of knowledge that she would even, in a very odd way, miss her neighbor. For all of his annoying tendencies, after all, he had proven a welcome distraction more than once.

More pounding on the door forced her to open her eyes, as Mick's ever-cheerful voice sounded out to her: "C'mon, darlin'--you're in, aren't you?" More knocking. She finally forced herself toward the door, wiping away her tears, as she went. "You don't want to leave a man waiting around forever, y'know." He was caught with his hand up mid-knock, his words continuing. "Very bad form."

She sighed, as she looked at him; she didn't really feel up to their usual banter. "What do you want, Mick?" She swallowed a little; her face and voice showed her not-very-muted distress. "I've got to be going."

He insinuated his way in past her, as he so frequently did, and she had a fleeting image of his resemblance to the proverbial greased pig; she decided it probably wasn't a fair comparison, though--to either him or the pig--and abandoned it. He was talking anyway. "Heard about that, heard you were leaving--going out into the world to be one with the masses again, and all." He turned back to her, a look of slight horror about him. "And I must say that I'm a bit miffed about it. I mean, you would abandon me--your neighbor, your bestest buddy and all that? You would leave me to deal with the cold, cruel world of Section all on my own?" He shook his head. "And here I thought we were pals."

It didn't even occur to her to wonder how he knew; he always just did. She was caught for a minute, therefore, between annoyance and emotional exhaustion, but her other feelings drained away, as she looked at him. Mick--the man of frustrating contrasts: lovably smarmy, flippantly caring. She laughed just slightly. God help her. She was going to miss him.

She went toward and hugged him, taking him, apparently, by surprise. "Goodbye, Mick. Believe it or not, I'll miss you."

It took him a second to respond, but he returned the embrace lightly, almost fraternally, patting her back. He pulled away a little a second later, though, to look at her. "So, does this mean that all my earlier offers of passionate co-mingling are being accepted?"

She rolled her eyes slightly and pushed him away, as she walked toward her bedroom. "Bye, Mick."

His next question, however, stopped her dead, his tone a little more serious. "Does Michael know?"

She stood frozen for several long seconds, her back still to him; her voice was softer, when it came. "No."

"Want me to pass on any messages?"

She swallowed heavily, as she forced herself to move again; her answer was still quiet. "No."

She thought she heard him sigh behind her; his voice raised, then, more than necessary, to reach into the bedroom. "Have a place to stay?"

She stopped again, his words really penetrating her brain; her torment over Michael had wiped out the thought earlier. She turned back to him, her look ironic, as she shook her head, repeating her answer once more. "No." She shrugged, tossing away her irony. "I guess I'll find one."

She had turned away again, as he went on. "Gave you some money to start on, did they?"

She focused on him once more, as she dumped her empty bag on the bed, analyzing him for a second. There was something about his eyes sometimes which said there was more to him than anyone might assume. Still, that was him--hiding whatever depths he might really possess--too embarrassing for him to admit them, she guessed. "Mick, I can't discuss this with you; you know that."

He shook his head a little. "With Uncle Mick? Me?" He exuded false innocence. She rolled her eyes and went back to trying to concentrate on packing.

There was a pause of a few more seconds, before he spoke again. "You see, I only ask, because I do have a friend who can set you up with a place. Nice bloke. Nasty habit of laundering money for the wrong people, of course, but the places he has at his disposal are functional enough." She looked back at him finally, as he went on. "He's got this one--perfect for you. Big, open, glass walls to the outside," he pointed, "just like that bedroom area there." His look somehow managed to be thoughtful, slimy, and beatific at the same time. "Of course, you'll have to sort of share the space with your car, but if you don't mind that . . ." His thoughts apparently switched. "You are getting to keep your car, aren't you?"

She stopped, blinking for a second. They really hadn't said. "I think so."

"Good, that's settled then." He walked to her bedroom stairs, his hand out. "That's his card. Just drop my name, and he'll fix you right up." He smiled. "Tell you what--just remind him of that little favor I did for him a month ago, and I'll bet he even gives you the first month for free," he shrugged, "probably something minimal after that." The smile turned into a near-leer. "Maybe I can even drop by sometime," he bobbled his head from side to side, talking with his hands as always, "chew the fat a little, talk over old times." He looked hopeful.

Her look in return was serious; she shook her head. No way was she going to get herself in trouble with Section just to see *Mick*.

He shrugged again. "Oh well, can't blame a guy for trying to have a little fun, can you?" He walked toward the door but turned back at the last second; his eyes were warm. "See ya 'round, popsicle."

She smiled, as he closed the door behind himself. "Bye, Mick."

Her mood changed once he was gone, though; her heart closed in a little, as she looked down at the floor. Even he was gone from her life now. God, this was going to be an empty existence.

She looked down at the card in her hand, however, and her emotions shifted once more. Maybe, though, he had at least left her with something she could use. She smiled. "Thanks, Mick," she whispered to herself.

The man who was sometimes known as Mick Schtoppel paused, as he left Nikita's apartment. This was an interesting new development; George was definitely up to something this time. Now, he just had to wait to see what it was.

He smiled slightly to himself, as his thoughts went on. He wondered whether the man had any real concept of just how formidable his newly-chosen ally was, especially when her strength was combined with Michael's, or whether he had simply looked for a capable scapegoat; sadly, he suspected the latter. It was what made him a weak link, at times, like all the rest of them. He would have to be watched.

Still, whatever the other man was up to, he would have to let him proceed; it was just too early yet to show his hand. Besides, he was quite certain that--whatever it was--Nikita was up to the job. If she took the apartment he had just suggested, as well, he would be able to watch her more closely--which was always instructive--and, since her car, too, was already tagged, there was no problem there. It was just down to the wait.

He entered what passed for his apartment, as he waited for his neighbor to leave. It wasn't, of course, like he was really thrilled about this plan; he didn't want to see her hurt. He hadn't even when his informant persona had been drafted into helping in her brainwashing. It was just too soon, however--was still too early in the game to let anyone know what was really going on. With all that she went through, then, he would have to let this woman whom he had become rather fond of fend mostly for herself. It was just what had to be.

He smiled, as he picked up his phone, though, his mind shifting slightly, as he called his second-in-command. Still, this didn't mean that he had to stay out of it entirely.

"Is it done?" he asked as soon as she had answered.

He could almost hear her nearly ever-present, self-pleased smile. "It's handled. The cameras are in place."

"And Michael?"

"Walter got his message through to him. He'll be there."

Mr. Jones smiled. "Good. Be back soon." His second-in-command disconnected.

He waited a little while, letting out a pleased sigh, when he heard the quiet man in question's footsteps whispering down the hall. Everything was in place; their plans were secure. With Michael looking after her, nothing would come along to ruin any of his projections for Section's future. All he had to do, then, was watch and see what happened. Wherever it led, indeed, it was sure to be intriguing.

Chapter 2

It was, quite truthfully, a little beyond belief for her; she just couldn't bring herself to understand it. Orders like these, after all, were not simply unusual; they were unheard of. . . . What, then, was their enemy's plan now?

Madeline sighed slightly, as she sat, once more, in her office--the place where she worked best, alone with her thoughts. Right now, however, her thoughts were not as ordered as she would like, as she was used to. She wondered slightly, in fact, when they might be again.

It had been a confusing day, truly. While it was obvious, of course, that George had some deeper motive in this latest move, she had no real idea what it was, other than it would--no doubt--not be good for them. What exactly, though, he was planning had yet to become even a little clear--and she hated that in the extreme.

Her cold heart rankled. It upset her deeply that she couldn't penetrate this, that she was incapable, so far, of seeing through this newest attack. True, she wouldn't miss Nikita, knew her absence would be more help than harm to all those she so tended to distract, but the very fact that this woman was George's choice for a "test case" was simply far too suspicious. Anyone else--even Michael or Birkoff--would have seemed more reasonable; at least they had been in longer, but Nikita was still too unpredictable a factor for comfort. Just what, exactly, was he really planning to use her for?

She took a deep, calming breath, as her mind tried to focus in on this, tried to analyze her enemy's plan. There were many reasons why the man might want this young op., of course, she knew, although some of them she suspected he wouldn't be fully aware of--but this last fact was about as close to comfort as any of this brought her.

She forced her analysis onward. What he would know, however, was that Nikita was--or had been, at least--more of an emotional being for much of her time inside; she had tended, for sometime, to react not by logic but instinct and feeling to situations, so it was possible he would think her easily swayed. If this were true, as well, then he must have something which he felt would gain her loyalty--or, at least, distance it further from Paul and herself, and that could mean only one thing . . . her father.

Madeline shuddered only slightly--and even that slip she didn't consciously admit. Wirth had been a thorn in the side of herself and Paul from the days of his recruitment; it had been necessary, indeed, to get rid of him before they had planned their strike on Adrian. Otherwise, their rival could have mustered far too much support for the woman they were overthrowing. And that, of course, simply couldn't be allowed.

Her mind lingered here for a few seconds, remembering the man who had never had the sense to respond to her advances. This, however, wasn't his only deficiency. Wirth, too, had always been Adrian's favorite--outside of George; it had been part of the reason why using his daughter against the older woman, when she had tried to dethrone them with the Gemstone file, had been so especially satisfying. Without knowing it, Nikita had been maneuvered into betraying both a woman she admired and her own father. And that sort of revenge had been sweet, indeed.

She sighed sadly, her remembered pleasure fading. Still, these facts would be the very sort which could be used to antagonize the woman almost beyond repair. And, while Section's doyenne of course wished that they could rid themselves of their biggest bane permanently, if she became *too* troublesome, the lingering threat of Adrian's existence was too large to make such an obvious move. Neither George nor Michael would accept it--if for very different reasons.

All of these thoughts, therefore, were why this recent order was so especially troublesome. It was obvious, truly, that their enemy was planning his move, and, while she understood his general intent, his specific campaign of attack was too vague yet to counteract. It was frustrating, indeed.

Her mind turned, then, trying to approach this problem from another angle. While Nikita's part in George's schemes--whatever they might prove to be, specifically--was obvious, she wondered whether the woman would truly work out as that man planned. He, after all, was working off of old intel. and outside observations; he had no day-to-day experience of interacting with her, of understanding her moods or thoughts, especially of late. More had changed in her over these past few months, after all, than he could ever be fully aware.

She smiled slightly, a little consoled by this thought. Yes, therefore, the younger woman might be quite upset if told of her father's true place within Section--and her own part in unintentionally dishonoring him, but she still wondered whether her subordinate would rise entirely to whatever his new plans might be. She was far more willful--still--than any of them could have expected. Her smile faded. Even after being Gelmanized and returned--even after all of the, as that woman would have regarded it, torment and emotional implosion which she had so recently experienced--her decisions were still not always entirely predictable; she could still come at a mission from an angle none of them had ever expected. It was really quite disturbing to see.

She took a deep breath, trying to control her discomfiture about this, bringing her mind back to the point. Still, all of this might actually work in their favor; whatever George's plans, she might not be as open to them as he obviously wanted to believe. And that would be a help to them all.

She attempted to let this line of thought go, then, realizing that there was nothing else she could do about it now. She focused, instead, on one of Nikita's recent turns, looking for a pattern she could predict again. Unfortunately, she found none.

Of all the missions which she had recently gone on, however, it was really the unauthorized one she and Michael had done for Paul which was the most significant. Madeline had known about it all the time, of course--although Paul had never told her, but she had let it slide. It was easier to humor him on certain points, made him more tractable in the long run. Had she gone to him and demanded that he give up this course--had she even suggested it--she would have lost valuable trust; he would have been less likely to come to her with his secrets in the future, and that would have been a waste of time. There was no point whatsoever in winning the battles, while knowingly losing the war.

She had kept this philosophy in mind, therefore, by simply standing back and watching, while Section's leader played the part of the sentimental fool--putting his valuable resources on the line for a highly-faded memory; all of their actions during that time had been instructive, after all, and there had been no missions of pressing enough importance to require their best pairing. Distance, then, had been the way to quiet success.

She had been right in all of this, too. While she had been slightly appalled by Operations' original offer to his subordinates, should they succeed, of two weeks together, she had managed to stay her ground and say nothing. What had come out of it all had been instructive enough to make up for the trying of her patience, indeed.

She smiled, as she thought back again. It had intrigued her no end that the pair who had gone to such great and inexplicable lengths to be together for so long had willingly turned down a free chance at time alone; it had taken her awhile to even understand it--as she had felt her deep disappointment for not fitting their temporary apartment with surveillance.

What she had come out of her musings with, though, had been extremely instructive. Apparently, their various warnings to the pair over the last few months had finally begun to sink in. Nikita's increasing self-torment had taken hold, forcing her to turn away from her partner--possibly even still blaming him for it all--or so she hoped. Still, whatever the woman's exact motives, her distance from the man who had trained her had been obvious. They had no longer been together.

That this had all been the woman's decision, as well, had been clear. Michael, during the past weeks, had initiated a few dinner invitations--only two of which she had accepted, and neither of those had ended in consummation. What she had been able to witness of the couple's time alone, too, had shown her a sense of lingering silence and sadness, one which even the, sadly remaining, bits of their bond had yet to overcome. And for this, at least, she was glad.

She sighed, her thoughts becoming more somber. What did not make her happy, however, was the young woman's continuing lack of readability, otherwise. When she had been more emotional, indeed, her thoughts had been so much easier to predict. Now, though, . . . now, she almost seemed a little like Michael had once been--self-contained and expressionless. And, while it probably made her a better operative generally, Madeline was still not grateful for this change. It made her, after all, entirely too difficult to read.

This same fact, though--conversely, was also the reason why she actually felt a bit of contentment with this latest, inexplicable mission. While she was sure that, in the long run, the woman would require watching, for a while, at least, it would be successful in distancing their far-too-love-struck pair. Michael couldn't see her, in this plan, without endangering her--which she was all too aware he would no longer consciously do. While, too, she was certain that he would keep track of her, would be sure that she was safe, he would be forced to live apart from her--as she would from him; if they failed, Nikita returned with full punishment and no one else would ever be freed again. That part, at least, was perfect.

She smiled slightly for a second, before her mind shifted again. It was true, however, that her original hope about this mission had not been fulfilled. She had been hoping that Michael's mission would keep him away, until his constant distraction was gone, until they could simply provide him with a fait accompli on his return--but, sadly, that hadn't been the case. With surprising, and rather annoying, rapidity, he had wrapped up his business in Africa and returned to them, no doubt in time to catch his obsessive object before she left. Their separation, then, had been delayed.

She allowed herself the return of her small smile, as her thoughts turned again. Still, fortunately, their coming separation could not been denied. However long they might linger in bed--their usual destination with one another--they would still have to part eventually. None of their hopes could change that.

She took a deep breath. This latest turn of events, then, did have its advantages, even if it was still far too confounding, as well. For the time being, she knew she would just have to satisfy herself with the thought that the pair she had tried so valiantly to separate would no longer be together for now. . . . Anything else she would simply have to analyze as it came.

It was, by far, the best bit of news he had gotten in quite sometime; he had never, in fact, even expected that Section could be so wonderful again. His Sugar was out in the world once more, away from all the dirty politics and pain of the life they were all stuck in for now, and--if she just played her cards the way he knew she was able to--then maybe they would all live to be free again.

Walter sighed happily, his attention utterly distracted from the panel and mission in front of him; he had yet to even start to get the equipment ready. This new turn of events had just taken over every last neuron, truly. . . . It was about as close to heaven as he even believed in anymore.

He sat back on his work stool, his expression distant and dreamy, his mind running to the inevitable question here. What would he do, if--or when--he were free? He smiled to himself. Well, he didn't exactly have a future in making bombs on the outside, it was true, but his skills could be handy for other things, too. Give him nearly anything electronic or mechanical, after all, and he could fix, and usually improve, it. Maybe he would just open a little storefront and do repairs, then--VCRs, TVs, computers; it wouldn't be that hard. Even if it wouldn't necessarily net him a fortune, either, it would get him by. He smiled further. What a beautiful life that would be.

His whole body felt warm from these thoughts. Just to imagine a simple, quiet, *boring* life seemed too good to be true, but he would cherish it, would cherish it in the way that those on the outside never really could. Just the thought of not waking up in the morning half-consciously working out his latest rationalization of why he shouldn't kill himself seemed a pretty amazing thought. Anything over that would be gravy.

He leaned back a little, his dreamy gaze continuing; there was a small smile on his lips. Maybe he could just spend some of his time doing nothing, too. That, in fact, was an art form too few appreciated. The idea of being able to sit around with no plans, with nothing which had to be accomplished--with no one whose life depended on his actions--well, that was heaven, indeed.

He was broken out of his reverie a little by this last notion, though, remembering the next mission finally; he grabbed the panel and started to collect the hardware for it, as his mind went on, his smile fading. Of course, none of these things applied in the life he lived now; none of them could. His memories started to haunt him again. Every decision here was life and death--always. There was just no way out of that.

He let out a small, tired sigh, as he started to gather all the little killing toys Section planned its day-to-day life around. It wasn't just these things, though, which made every choice in this place so important. No, there were choices in here--ones you got backed into whether you liked it or not--which had nothing to do with missions.

He placed a few guns on the table and looked out at his friend in Comm.--his young friend, the one who was still smiling over this possible reprieve. His heart clenched a little, as he turned away again. Birkoff--little Seymour. What this place had done to him should have been illegal. He wasn't sure he would ever let himself get past it again.

He swallowed slightly, his mind turning a little. Okay, so the kid was a big boy now, was a man, really; that didn't mean that he had forgotten how tiny he had been when he was born. . . . It didn't mean, either, that he had forgotten just how the poor kid had ended up in Hell along with the rest of them. He swallowed again and dumped a another two guns on the table. It hadn't even been his fault.

He sighed, stopping his preparations to stare out at his young friend once more. Of all of them, Birkoff was probably the one who could benefit the most from this new opportunity, was the one who could most use, who most deserved, this chance. Most of them, after all, had gotten in here because of their own, dumb acts--had *at least* lived life on the outside for awhile, knew what freedom was like. Their computer wizard, though, had never had any of that--had never experienced even a day of real freedom, of the ability to make your own choices, however dumb they might be. Everyone deserved that, he figured--especially someone like him. After a lifetime's indenture in Hell, the least he could ask for was a little time off for good behavior. It was the *least* he was owed.

He saw the team gathering together in the distance and went back to collecting their supplies; his mind, too, went back to Nikita. He wished their "test case" could see the advantages of her situation; if she succeeded, she got to be free of the place which had so long tormented and brutalized her, got the chance to have the life she had never been able to lead before. That was what she had wanted for so many years, after all--wasn't it? Why, then, would she ever think about turning it down?

He sighed, as he delivered another few things to the table, the team beginning to appear. He knew the answer to his last question, of course; it was all too obvious. It seemed that, after all their years of dancing around each other, she and Michael had finally gotten completely under one another's skin. Now, even freedom didn't sound as good, if he wasn't there. He sighed. If only she could see its benefits.

He checked the p.d.a. again and went to collect a couple more things, his mind still working here. She and Michael were pretty good together, of course, but he couldn't imagine that they would ever have really hooked up on the outside; they were just too different. No, in his mind--right now, at least--they seemed like they had worked on each other so well by simple proximity, rather than by any particular karmic need. Out there, then, she could find someone who was more her type--more open, gentler, more willing to listen and compromise; they were all the things, truly, which she needed but would never find in Michael. Maybe out there, though, it would be different for her.

He smiled at this thought, as he placed the last of the hardware in front of the team, who were going through the usual, grim motions in this place. Any of them, he knew, would have given just about anything to be in Nikita's shoes. Hell, the whole of Section was buzzing about it; it was the biggest talk on the ever-constant grapevine. And, while a little of the talk he had heard centered around losing Nikita--or around the possibility of snagging Michael now that his partner was gone--most of it was about dreams and how one woman's success could make them a reality for them all. Finally.

He smiled slightly and nodded off the team in front of him; Davenport surveyed his operatives and gave a nod in return, as they left. Walter's mind turned slightly on his last thought, too, his heart beating a little more sadly, as it occurred to him the weight that actually rested on his Sugar. She, right now, was where everyone's best hopes were; the mood around him was a little lighter for the fact that everyone was half-making plans for "when they got out." If she failed, then . . .

He took a deep breath and returned to his stool. No--no, she wouldn't fail, not his Sugar. He had gotten in touch with Michael, after all--more easily than he had expected--and had gotten him back to her in time to allow her to close up this segment of her life. With that done, she should have nothing to return for--and all of their best hopes would be realized.

All of these, then, were the pleasant thoughts spinning around Walter's head, at the moment. He had no idea, of course, just how much he was ignoring in his one-sided evaluation, but his optimism was far outweighing his judgment right now.

It came as a slight surprise to him, then, when his mind moved on to remember Nikita's fears, as she had left. He wanted to discount them, of course, wanted to believe they were just the result of too many months of pain, were just the lingering paranoia which had come out of them. Still, a little part of him wondered for a second if she weren't right--and, if she were, what, then, might happen to her out there? Could her fears of cancellation be real?

His heart beat more loudly for a few seconds, before his need to believe won again. He wouldn't think about this, wouldn't let himself. No, this had to be true; they all needed it too much. All his Sugar had to do, therefore, was get past these initial fears and focus in again on how good life was when you weren't under fire. That, after all, was what everyone here wanted, and that was what his Sugar would bring them--peace. Nothing else could ever be as precious as that.

Extra warning: This chapter contains NC-17 content. Please don't read it, if you shouldn't. :)

Chapter 3

He didn't want to accept this; it was just too much. There was only so much agony, after all, that any man could be expected to withstand in one lifetime. This, then, was the end.

Michael was making his way toward Nikita's apartment now, was struggling to get there as quickly as he reasonably could. Although he was trying not to draw any unwanted attention, too, he was still speeding far more than he could have easily explained, had he been stopped. While Section gave you some invulnerability to the world's laws, it led to less suspicion on the outside to follow what of them you could--and he just couldn't afford for his leaders to know how much their latest devious effort had affected him, had a speeding ticket shown up on their desks. They, after all, had obviously been planning the timing of this precisely; he couldn't let them think that they had won.

None of these concerns for appearance, however, meant that he was really in control right now. There had been so much pain and torment over the last few months, so many times he hadn't been entirely certain that he would be able to continue on at all--but he had done it, had gone on, for her alone. If she was lost to him now, though . . .

He slowed enough to assess his chances and then ran another light, his mind still lost in thought. He wouldn't let himself ponder the possibility of really losing her, however; he simply shut off the topic in his head. He just knew he had to get to her, had to see her once more, before whatever was to come. His fears overrode his intellect's commands, then. . . . He just couldn't let her slip away for good.

He could feel the growing wounds in his soul, the tears which opened ever more the further this new path sank into him; he was half-afraid his heart would bleed to death from them. The last few months had been so terrible, but he had believed--had forced himself to believe--that things would improve. He had to think this, after all. . . . Without that hope, he would go insane.

His soul throbbed further, as he pushed up his car's speed once more, racing through the dark night against his fears--as though they could ever be outrun. He had been giving Nikita more space these past couple of weeks, had been hoping that some time alone would let her find herself again, would allow her to find her center, her lost emotional balance. He had prayed that the time to herself would make life more livable for her, would show her the truth of his words to her--that she had not changed as much as she feared. He, after all, at least, knew that that was true.

He swallowed heavily, switching gears, going much faster than was safe--as though he cared about his own safety anymore. This distance he had given her hadn't been entirely altruistic, though--hadn't even mostly been. He had done it not just to see her healthy but to have her back--to *truly* have her with him again. For too long, indeed, he had lost her, had been reaching down into the abyss she had been living in and had been just missing her hand, hadn't been able to pull her out of it. He needed her, then, to find her own way back up to the light, since he had failed so miserably in providing one. He needed his heart back again.

He was growing closer to her apartment but was slowed by traffic; he strove to hold in his rage at the continuing separation. Of course, he hadn't left her entirely alone for the weeks past; he had still seen her from time to time, had spent an occasional dinner together with her. He knew his presence comforted her in some ways, too, even if she hadn't been able to reach out to him completely--not like she once had, anyway. While they hadn't truly been discussing her progress, either--not overtly--she had seemed a little calmer, slightly more settled, for the past week or so; he had suspected, indeed, that--in another few weeks--she would have returned to him on her own once more. His heart ached. If only that were still true.

He could feel all the emotions, all the pain, boiling in him, threatening to overwhelm him completely; he was half-tempted to simply start screaming. He didn't know how he could take this, didn't know whether he could at all. He had been certain that she was returning to him, before, that she had been on the path back home--but now that was no longer true. Now, she was being stolen from him again--and he wondered, this time, if he would ever have her back.

His heart was screaming in pain, some inner sense of life--one she had given him--beating against the confines of his body--demanding to be let out, to hold her close again. That his masters had come up with this plan to separate them was too much--was too odd, as well; he couldn't even completely understand their reasoning this time. Yes, it made sense that they wanted to separate him from his beloved, but not like this--not by putting Nikita outside of their small realm, away from their constant control. No,. . . that wasn't like them at all.

His tortured mind continued to ponder this--without answers. Why, truly, would they rid themselves of an operative who was so consistently excellent, whose success rate was always so high, when they could--no doubt--simply continue to find ways to hurt her into numbed quasi-existence and servitude? Her pain of late, indeed, was the best thing that had ever happened to their plans, helped keep her separate from himself, unable to feel enough to take in anything like love. Why, then, would they let her go now?

He let out a heavy breath, as he found his way around a bit more traffic, speeding up once more. He knew he had to get to her quickly. He wasn't convinced in the least that this was truly a "pilot program," that they would *ever* willingly let their subjects leave; it just wasn't in their nature. What, then, was really going on? What did they plan? Did they really think he would leave her unwatched, unobserved--that they could cancel her without repercussions, just because he wasn't with her? Were they truly so foolish? He swallowed heavily. He wasn't sure. He would have to watch her--and them--closely, therefore, to be sure that he found out.

He was only several streets away from her now, was praying that he wasn't too late. His mind ran back, taking up the time till he got to her. If it hadn't been for Walter's message, for the short, unexpected note on his p.d.a., he might well never have even been this close, might have returned hours from now to find his beloved already lost to him--wouldn't have been aware enough to speed up the mission. He let out another heavy breath. He didn't know how the older man had managed to get that note through, but he thanked God that he had. . . . He just couldn't stand the thought of having lost her again.

His whole soul seemed to shake, as her apartment came into sight. No. He wouldn't think this, wouldn't believe it. Yes, he knew his leaders' supposed plans, knew the story of why they were supposedly letting her leave, but he knew better than to believe them. He would make sure, then, that she was protected, that nothing got to her, would keep her safe from them. That was a guarantee. He wouldn't let her down again.

He parked finally, left his car, and started inside; his heart was beating ever faster. He couldn't let himself believe that he might have missed her, that he was too late; it was just too terrible a thought to face. He had to see her again, had to let her know that he was here, that he would never stop loving her. He might have to give her up temporarily, but he was *not* letting her go; *no one* could make that happen. He would be with her again, would see that they were one. He refused to believe that anything else could happen.

His heartbeat sounded overly loud in his ears, made his blood beat strongly with fear, as he grew close. He wanted to believe that he wasn't too late to see her once more before they were temporarily parted; he wanted to think that he could feel her in there, waiting for him. He couldn't think of the alternative. Even with his convictions, after all, he still knew that they would be forced to live separately, without even the comfort of being able to share the same physical space for awhile--and the thought of not seeing her at all was just too much, was overwhelming, its pain fiery, almost too terrible to allow himself to believe--threatening to shock his body into shutdown. Without this one last chance, then, he could never go on. He had to, at the very least, be able to say goodbye.

He could see her door now; he paused for a few seconds, trying to get the strength to knock, to face the truth. He tried to tell himself, as well, that this course might be for the best, could actually help her. Both his love and his distance, after all, had yet to truly see her healed. Maybe freedom from this life was all that could manage that miracle. He knocked. Even if he knew this hope was a lie, then, he clung to it. It was the closest he was getting to sanity now.

Nikita had been wandering through her apartment just before Michael finally came, had been packing a few last things. Truth be told, of course, she was simply delaying, was purposely trying to stretch this out, to avoid the inevitable. Maybe--her subconscious was thinking--if she could just go slowly enough, he would come, maybe Michael would be there for her. The thought, still, of never seeing him again, of having their last, silent meal several days ago--and his soft kiss goodnight to her temple--be the last time they had had together, of having watched him as he began to load for the Senegal mission be her last sight of him, was too much. She just couldn't allow herself to believe that.

The whole situation, really, was a bit too much. She packed a book and then stopped, her eyes looking around, still lost in her thoughts. She had lived here for almost four years now, had spent so much time in this place--both good and bad. Here, she had mourned the loss of her innocence--more than once, in so many ways; here, she had fought against love and lost--to her ultimate contentment. In this place, as well, she had become strong and had then been robbed of her strength and character, had had her soul ripped away from her. It was only in the last couple of weeks, indeed, that she had begun to truly get it back.

She pulled herself from her thoughts a little, however, knowing she couldn't delay forever. Her desire to stay--her need to see Michael again--couldn't make it real. She had to make herself go.

She closed the satchel she had packed and picked it up, giving one last look around. Like it or not, she had to leave now. She just hoped that Michael knew of her love, of how much she would miss him--and all they shared. Like the apartment which so often represented him to her, she was leaving him behind--and, unless something happened she couldn't foresee, she might never see him again.

She was interrupted in her thoughts, however, by a knock on her door; her heart gave a little stutter, a silent prayer emitted into her blood. She wanted to believe it was him--needed it to be true, but she couldn't allow herself to think it too strongly. If she were wrong, if it were Mick--or someone else--again, it would kill her.

She was trying to stay detached, therefore, was fighting against the inner moan of need--the part of herself which knew without doubt who was at her door, as she went over to the viewscreen. Her heart stuttered once more at the sight there, though. Michael. Beautiful, soulful. Her fingers traced over his image lightly. *Her* Michael.

The door opened to show her to him--his beloved one, the one person who lived forever in his soul. His eyes looked deep into her, their depths showing her too many emotions to express in words: his soul's sigh of relief at seeing her again, his torment and hurt over her coming loss, his incredible love, his undying devotion, his endless passion for her. She alone could make him feel so much.

She met his powerful, undeniable gaze for a second but then had to look away, staring at the floor. It was too much, hurt her too much to know the torment he shared with her. It was just too terrible to ask that she acknowledge it without going mad.

These weren't all of her reasons for looking away, however; she needed to stay detached, if she had any hope of leaving at all. One look in his eyes, and she would be lost, would beg him to find a way for them to be together. She couldn't let that happen.

There was a light in her downcast eyes, nonetheless, though--was a brightness reflected from her soul. He had come; he hadn't let her leave without comment, hadn't let her go into the wilderness alone. She hadn't missed him completely. She smiled a little and stepped back to let him in, looking at him once more.

He took her invitation, his gaze still holding all of his myriad feelings for her. The look gave away his real emotions, denying his attempt to give her space, to allow her some room--or the ability to leave without any extra pain.

He tried to pull himself together, then, as he turned back to shut the door. He needed to draw together his strength if he had any hope of letting her go quietly, of not making demands. He knew, after all, that she hadn't been ready to reestablish their physical bond the last time he had seen her; it was too much to ask her to now. He was only here, indeed, to let her know how much he cared.

She closed her eyes, as he was turned away. It was so hard to keep herself together, to draw the strength to. She opened her eyes again, as he turned back to her, but took a deep breath as he drew closer. They had been so far apart for so long, it seemed to her now. That she would have to go now, just when she had been beginning to draw together the will and sense of self to allow them to be together again was just too much for her to face.

He was much closer to her now; his voice was husky from his torment, once he drew the strength to speak. "I came to say goodbye." His eyes stroked over her face, drawn once more to the lips he had kissed so often, to the beautiful mouth of the woman he wanted to do nothing but love; his heart throbbed with pain. The words he had given seemed *so* inadequate.

She closed her eyes again, the controlled front too painful to keep up any longer. She didn't know how to go on. She looked at the floor.

He shared her struggle for composure, her difficulty in finding a way to go on. Still, he knew he had to be able to--for both her sake and his own. There was just no other way.

He looked down at her hand, however, as his resolve began to fail him already; he touched it lightly, offering a small symbol of connection. . . . Dear God, he would miss her.

He was lost in his memories of her, in his overwhelming emotions. He was taken off-guard, then, by what happened next.

He looked back up, as he felt her soft lips burning across his cheek; his eyes closed, overwhelmed. He loved her too much. It was overflowing him, couldn't be contained any longer. It shouldn't have to be.

He paused for only a second and then leaned in to touch his lips to her cheek in return, beginning to kiss over toward her mouth. He needed her, he realized again--needed to make love to her, to show her in a language far less treacherous than words just how very precious she was to him, if only she would give him the chance to express it.

She understood his message, knew his need and shared it with a strength she couldn't have explained. Her hand came to his shoulder, as he kissed her cheek, and she closed her eyes from the beauty of him.

They exchanged two soft kisses, both of them understanding where this was going--both of them needing it--before he continued on to kiss softly over her cheek and neck. The feelings, too, were too much for her; all of her distance of the last few weeks evaporated. This, after all, was a natural progression, was the only place her love and desire could ever really lead her. This was the way life should be.

It was impossible for her to be detached anymore, was impossible to want to be. They were meant to be together. There was just no reason to allow anything to happen but this.

She looked up, her decision in her eyes, as she removed his jacket. Without this, there was nothing for her, was no reason to go on. She kissed over his neck, along his jawline, then, giving in to her love for him alone.

He felt her move and welcomed it, allowing his jacket to slide down, tossing it onto the floor, discarding it without thought. He was already lost to her completely, had to have this. He couldn't allow himself to accept that they might have to part forever; it just wasn't possible. He had to have her in his arms right now, or all sense of sanity and comfort would die.

Their light embrace, their gentle kisses went on, both of them needing this, needing each other. Everything about it helped to soothe them, too, to calm the fears and doubts that raged within them. Yes, they both knew, they needed to talk about what was to come, but that talk could wait for now. What they needed, more than anything, first, was each other.

Their lips found one another's again, and they closed their eyes to lose themselves in a loving, intense kiss. Tongues searched, finding warmth and comfort and passion--remembering once again all the sweetness that existed only in their one mate.

Michael held her closer, his desire for her growing further, his love for her immense. God, he had missed this; it had been so many weeks since they had last met in this way, since he had last held her so close--and it had been months since she had last wanted him so, since she had last been able to just enjoy his touch without the fears which had been tormenting her. Yes, he knew the old terrors--and several newer ones--must be strong in her still, but he could feel none of them actively within her now. All that she was approaching him with, instead, was her love.

He let out a slight moan at this thought, at the truth of her desire for him. He removed the satchel softly from her shoulder, abandoning it nearby, before his hand ran into her hair, reveling in the softness of the locks slipping through his fingers, holding her to his tenderly-devouring kiss. Nothing made him need her more than her acceptance, than knowing that--despite all the reasons she shouldn't--she still wanted him close. Her need for him made him real, made him human; its sweetness lit the darknesses in his soul. Even if this might be goodbye, then, he wouldn't ponder it. All he knew--all he would let himself remember--was her love.

The kiss he was giving her was sensual and overwhelming. It brought an ache to her, one she remembered from what seemed so long ago. It brought out a heat, made a shuddering desire move through her blood. He--and the truth of her love for him--made her real again, made her human. . . . Why hadn't she been able to just accept this so long ago?

He could feel her need for him growing, and his blood started to boil with it. Yes. Yes, he had to have her, had to show her how precious and perfect and beautiful she was. If this was their last union for awhile, so be it; he would give her a sweet erotic memory to associate with him, one which would ensure that she would return to him one day. He could never, after all, truly let her go.

She let out a small moan, as his kiss grew even more erotic, more commanding. He wanted her--she knew, wanted her desire alone, as he worshiped her, as he let her know the immortality of his need. She felt herself yielding for now, too, as his hand stroked both so softly and so demandingly through her hair, his kiss wild, and her heart granted his request completely. She would open herself to him absolutely, would let him into any corner of her soul he needed to search, knowing that--in the process--he would be entirely, willingly vulnerable to her, as well. She could feel a tear forming, as she held him closer, her body begging him for more. Yes--this was *exactly* what she needed.

He felt her answer, and his heart thudded more loudly, its sound deafening to him now. He couldn't take it. His kiss was the oddest but most heated combination of adoration and utter possession, his fury at their masters rising. He wouldn't let them do this, wouldn't let them take her from him. She was his and his alone; no one would separate them. Tonight, then, he would show her--would dispel any fears, any illusions she might have to the contrary. He wouldn't allow her a second without need and joy.

She felt the change in him, felt the deepening of his desires, and she moaned more loudly. His hands stroked strongly down her back, molding her to him, reminding her that he knew her body, and her pleasures, more intimately than any other soul, reminding her that he had never been shy about capitalizing on his knowledge, as well. She shuddered slightly, feeling a stronger tug deep within, as she held him further into the kiss--pleading with him there. More.

She whimpered, too, as he took up her offer; his strong, caressing touch moved down the small of her back and then splayed out to cover and possess her soft curves. A tear ran down her face, her nails clawing into his shoulders, as the heat of his body overwhelmed her. She could feel the strong, throbbing length of him beating out a commanding rhythm against her, and her whimper of need for him grew louder. Please.

She couldn't stand any more waiting; it was too much. She was desperate and shaky with need, with her desire to be whole again. It had just been so long.

She broke from the kiss then for a second to focus on his flashing eyes, their gaze now asking silently, commandingly how she dared to pull away from him. She shuddered further in desire, her hands caressing his back, her eyes teary and desperate; her voice was a whisper. "Please."

He was caught in her soft, begging look for a few seconds, his love for her quaking within him. When she moved her hand to lightly stroke down his face, though, her fingertips so tender, so sweet, as she traced over his stubble, something inside of him broke loudly, screams of need for his beloved echoing within. He couldn't take another second apart.

She could feel the escalation of his erotic fury, and she met it with a quiet, unquestioned, loving passion. He ran the back of his fingers over her temple softly, requesting her attention once more, and she looked back to his eyes. When she did, their power nearly overwhelmed her; they told her clearly that he wasn't letting her go tonight, that she had no way away from his love. She swallowed slightly, her adoration of him absolute. "Michael," she breathed.

His eyes flashed a warning at her, their heat passionate and singeing. "No words," he warned quietly. He wouldn't let her distract either of them from the pleasure they only knew in each other's arms. There was no excuse for that.

She nodded slightly, her gaze tender and adoring; she seemed to be melting into his touch. Anything he had wanted of her, anything he had asked, she would have given. She had never felt so much want or love.

The heat within him caught fire at the tenderness of her look. Every time her desire grew quieter and more unquestioned, it seemed, his became more powerful and demanding, filling in. They were truly a whole.

He ran his hand deep into her hair and pulled her to him, then, his command of the sweet depths of her mouth undeniable again. He lifted her, as well, and she met his silent request, wrapping her legs around his waist without question. His cock beat even more strongly against her at the move, his heart screaming out its need. Now.

He began to carry her to her bedroom with a grace which came only from knowledge. He knew her apartment, after all, almost as intimately as he did her; he needed little help to find his way to her bed.

She moaned against him, as she was carried, as well, and pulled him further into the kiss, reminding him again of how deep her adoration ran. She knew him well enough to understand that he would probably go relatively slow tonight, but--as so often, although she loved him for all his abilities of lingering, uncompromising pleasure--she didn't need this path. Had he just taken her roughly and quickly in the next few minutes, she would have responded in need and wonder, never for a second disappointed. Still, she did so adore him for his desire to see her happy. He was the only person she had ever known who had ever wanted that so much.

Their lingering embrace continued, as he carried her up the small flight of stairs, the kiss both commanding and giving all. Although it was a deeply passionate moment, as well, it would have been hard to describe just how tender it was, too; they could both feel their hearts reaching out, entwining them together--their souls mingling into one. It was a reawakening after so many months of her pain--of the muting of her soul. All they needed now, then, was for their bodies to join them as well.

He reached the bedroom and lay her down on the bed, stretching himself above her. His kiss became softer, more reverent, as his hands stroked down her sides, reminding himself of her beauty. The future--for these few minutes--was forgotten, was left behind. This was a true reunion, too long delayed. Whatever lay ahead of them was meaningless.

The feeling of his strong, lovely body above hers, pressing hers to the bed, was intoxicating, made her weak with joy and need; the strong, muscled length of him could be felt against her every softness. Oh . . . yes.

She opened her eyes slightly in the kiss to see the look of abandonment on his face, his expression of his absolute desire for her alone. She moaned, a shuddering desire for him tugging even more tightly within her, as she closed her eyes once more--losing herself further in the kiss.

There were no words for how much she adored him. He was just so beautiful, and he was hers completely. No other woman would have him--no other would ever know him like this. This incredible man, this gorgeous lover, was hers alone, had been truly created in her arms. He was never like this with anyone else.

He heard her slight moan beneath him, and another shudder of need moved through his blood, warming him, beating down into his hard, thick arousal. He closed his eyes more tightly, overwhelmed with her; his kiss grew lighter, even more softly devoted. This beautiful angel was his and his alone; no one else could understand the perfection of her joy. No one else could ever be so close to her soul.

The moment was too much; he couldn't wait any longer. He untucked her shirt and began to slowly caress his way up her ribs, and she broke the kiss on a shuddering breath. Their eyes met, to his slow smile, and they watched each other, as his slightly roughened fingers rasped so temptingly up her body.

She shuddered beneath him, her eyes wide, and he smiled at her beauty. Her lips were open to let out little pants, the petals of them already slightly swollen from his kisses. The incredible light and knowledge of her blue gaze had grown darker with her need for him, as well--her hands, too, clinging to his shoulders in the way that made his blood ache for her, as she waited for his touch to move higher.

His blood thudded more loudly in his ears and veins, as his thumbs reached up to tease the bottom of her soft breasts; her breathing grew more ragged, her eyes lost to him. He smiled, something partway between feral and tender. He did love to possess her, to have her tell him in every sensual, undeniable way that she was his alone. His life had purpose at these moments--his soul felt real, as her soft, lovely form yielded to him, asked him to please her. His smile deepened. Nothing made him happier than that.

She was letting out near gasps, as he continued his subtle torments. The hands which knew her soul were reclaiming her, once again, the rough pads of his thumbs stroking ever closer to her hardened nipples. Every sweet patch of flesh they softly moved over gave itself up to them, felt reborn. Oh God, his touch was just so perfect.

Her eyes were teary. None of this, however, was anything to the amazing beauty of him. The perfect, incredible planes of his face were nearly the stuff of legend; looking at him took her breath away, made her blood turn to fire. Everything about him made her need beat within her, opened her to him: the amazing lines of his body with all its strength begging to be explored, the still only partly-contained curls which she had spent at least her first year inwardly debating the exact color of. All of it made her wild.

More than any of this, though, were his eyes--not just the ever-changing, burning depths of them, but the way they reflected out his soul--in all its need, in all its mystery. She smiled tenderly. She alone came close to understanding it--she knew; she alone could know him to the bone and cherish him like this. Everyone else she had ever known around him tried to imagine him into another form, but she had known the truth of him, even when it had been easier to imagine that she was wrong; she saw the true inner light of him where he showed everyone else darkness. She was his other half--and she would never let him go.

Her mouth opened further, letting out her gasp, as his thumbs began to lightly caress over her hardened buds. She closed her eyes, pressing her head back into the bed, as she pushed herself at him, wanting him.

The sweet moan she let out made the fire within him burn brighter. Yes, this was *his* Nikita--the creature of passion, the woman who reveled in both his touch and his soul. His heart ached tenderly with the thought. When she invited him into herself, truly, she gave him something he had never known before--purity, worship. Everything holy he had ever understood existed within her body and her soul. She was his church--his lovemaking his most spiritual, ardent prayer. And, for the only time, when he was with her, he knew that God understood.

She moaned warmly, as his thumbs caressed her, circling slowly, the pressure over her tender flesh perfection. She could feel the light of her need becoming brighter, more powerful. Oh, she already wanted him so much. She looked back at him, her eyes begging. How could she ever survive till he joined her?

His smile in return was a little tender, his eyes adoring; his heavy shaft beat against her strongly. He pinched her nipples lightly, sending an ache deep within her, knowingly trebling her need. He was tormenting them both slowly, really, was making the desire unbearable, as his heated, perfect pressure continued--and he was adoring every second of their need.

Her gaze was tender and pleading. She couldn't take any more of this slow treatment; it was just too much. She had to ask for more.

She had opened her mouth to speak, but he refused her request. His hands continued their erotic torment of her aroused flesh, as he captured her in a deep kiss, one that was soft in its utter command.

She let out a small whimper, lost to him. His sensuality was swamping her senses, was drowning her in need. She never wanted to escape.

The soft sounds she made beneath him, however, were finally too much for him. God, he loved her desire, but there was only so much he could take. It had been so long, had been at least a few months since he had last truly felt such life within her. Most of their lovemaking of late, after all, had consisted of him trying desperately to give her back some sense of self, of his attempts to fill in what was missing in her soul. Now, though, for a little while at least, she was here with him, was truly his again, their souls already mingling strongly. . . . He couldn't wait much longer, then, to make this union complete.

His tongue lapped within her soft mouth once more before he began to pull away. He gave her one more strong kiss before he did, however, his hand on her lovely face.

She moaned, as he caught her eyes once more, the sound growing deeper, as she saw that his need had begun to flare more wildly in his gaze. His hands began to push up her shirt, as well, and she helped him to pull it over her head, disposing of it to the side of the bed a second later.

He didn't hold her eyes for long, though. Her heart beat more wildly, as his heated look singed along her flesh, his gaze taking in the soft breasts he so loved to touch. She saw him swallow heavily, obviously holding in his need, and she let out a moan; when he caught her eyes a second later, too, she was lost.

He saw her breathing practically cease at his look, and he knew he must seem every bit as fierce with desire and possession as he felt. He wanted to ravish his beautiful beloved in the softest, most undeniably devastating way, wanted to feel her contracting around him in her joy, wanted to make love to her in every position they had time for. Yes, she might be leaving him for awhile, but she wouldn't go without this. He would give her the memory of him, would make it so intense and fiery that not a day could go by without the truth of his love for her burning in her soul. No matter what came in the future, she would never truly have another lover but him.

He began to move off the bed, to her moan at his loss, but he silenced her with his look. How could she think he would leave her?

He moved down to finish his lovely work in undressing her, then, beginning with her shoes; his eyes never left her own. He knew, of course, that his desire to make her remember him was selfish, in some ways. If she was going to be allowed even a little while on the outside, after all, he knew she should be allowed to enjoy it without the constant ache of parting. Still, however cruel it might be, he couldn't let her go any other way. He just could no longer live with her thinking that she was part of anyone but him. No matter what, he wouldn't let her forget their bond.

He moved more quickly now, not taking as long to unwrap the beautiful present of her body. He knew what he needed, what they both did. Yes, he would savor her, but he was tired of going slowly. The rage of parting was back in his blood; he wanted to brand her deep within--in the way she unknowingly had him so long ago. He wanted her to be able to think of nothing but her one, perfect lover. He never truly wanted her to be free of him again.

His hands had moved back up to her waist, were now unzipping her pants. Her breath was still caught, too, by the commanding look in his eyes, by the way his gaze intimated all his plans. They weren't necessarily gentle ones, but she had no objection to that. If she had to go, she wanted the memory of him more than anything else she could take; it had been the one thing she hadn't been able to pack earlier, the one real reason she hadn't quite been able to go. No matter how much torment it gave her, she wanted his love and his fiery passion as her goodbye gift. Nothing else she could take could ever mean as much.