He let out another deep breath. He had supposed for awhile, however--had feared--that it might have been more significant than he had at first believed that Michael had allowed the bond to go on--that he had even seemed to encourage it. He had witnessed through his surveillance, after all, one especially torrid little incident in their leader's perch, during the short period when the younger man had taken on that role. He had written it off originally, though--and did again now--as a simple channeling of excess energy. Anyone with the work ethic of Michael, indeed, had to have some sort of outlet, and sex was as good a one as any other. He hadn't particularly noticed, then.

This, though, hadn't been all of his reasons for ignoring this bond. That the younger man had chosen one specific partner, too, hadn't seemed that unusual; it eliminated any possibility for jealousies--and other distractions from the normal flow of things. Besides, as her trainer, he would have been able to lead this part of the relationship in the direction he would have wanted--a must, he assumed, for a man as in control as Michael--so the choice had seemed a reasonable one, nothing to worry about at all.

All of this, however, had been before he had begun his plan, before Nikita had been set free. Once she had been out in the real world, though, she had shown a marked reluctance to join in for awhile--and he had feared, briefly, that the Class Five operative might have had something to do with this, regardless of her Section-sent, bi-weekly evaluator's inabilities to judge the bond. . . . Still, this period had passed, and Nikita had found her way toward another man, had seemed to really settle in finally. Despite her recent hypothesis that Michael was his inside man, too, he really saw no need to fear that the bond went too deep. There seemed little evidence to make that believable at all.

All of these fears, then, had finally gone away, especially as the hour of Paul's death approached. He was just too pleased at this coming event to feel too much doubt anymore.

He looked at the clock, judging again, and allowed his thoughts to continue for another few moments. It was a shame, really, that he hadn't been able to use Michael as his inside man; he was certain that he would have been a good one. Still, despite his earlier siding with Oversight instead of his leader, during his brief trial period as Operations, George had always known that Michael was not his man. He may, it was true, be acceptable to run Section, once Paul was gone, but he was just too dangerous to side with, otherwise. He got the same feeling from him, really, that he had once gotten from his superior, if for very different reasons; he was dangerous because of his ambition, like Paul, but he was far more intelligent--a trait Madeline had been forced to fill in for her partner. While he missed out, too, as far as Oversight's leader could tell, on the malevolence which Paul had always seemed to possess, this was still a combination you didn't want in a co-conspirator. It could lead, too easily, to mutiny.

All of this, then, was his reasoning for not allowing Michael to take part in this game. Besides, if he had, his chances of permanently ridding himself of Nikita might have diminished greatly. As it was, she thought that her hit would be a safe one, that there would be a rescue, if need be, once her mission was carried out--and that was as it should be. If she knew that Michael was truly unaware of her actions--that she would, of course, inevitably be taken out of play for her treason--she would never have sided with him. It had to be this way, therefore. It was, truly, his final revenge for Adrian.

He took a deep breath, focusing again; the time to call was close. His mind turned, beginning to worry a little. While he was content with his choice of assassin, for both emotional and symbolic reasons, he hoped now that Nikita had been the right choice, in other ways. She had become quite a valuable operative, in many senses, of course--more so than might be expected of a previously-untrained innocent. Still, her ability to kill in cold blood was still up for debate. He would just have to pray that her anger over her father's death--and her own recruitment--would fill in the necessary emotions she needed to carry out this act. If not, . . .

He looked over at the clock once more; it was time. He would put away these anxieties, then; they would get him nowhere. Now it was up to Nikita to carry out her revenge--and his own. If she were successful, his long-time enemy would be no more, and his problems would be dealt with. Madeline, in his mind, simply didn't have the backing to make her half so dangerous alone; she had put herself into the role of second-in-command too firmly. Once Operations was gone, then, all that was left was the mopping up. And life would finally be able to go on as it should.

It didn't make sense, any of it--at least, not in the way that it should. A woman with as much desire for freedom as Nikita had always shown just did *not* return because of some simple hormonal desire. There had to be something more.

Madeline was sitting quietly in her office now, cogitating--analyzing, as she did so often. Something was not right. Things were brewing around her, the situation about to come to a head, and Nikita was right in the center of it. Now, she just had to figure it all out.

She tried to start at the beginning, therefore, or part of it, anyway. The younger woman's behavior, of late, was . . . odd, to say the least. She had suspected, in fact, that she would thrive in the outside world, emotionally--if not financially. Just the solitude of her thoughts was something the young woman had been obviously struggling to spend more time with; the few weeks before her temporary reprieve--and the distance she had shown from Michael in them--had been the proof of that. She had thought, then, that a few weeks alone would have been more conducive to her contentment. . . . That, however, had not happened at all.

Her mind went on here, focusing in. She didn't claim to fully understand the rift that had been brewing between the pair in the weeks before the woman had been sent away, of course, but she couldn't claim that she was displeased by it, either. Still, she would have been happier had she believed that it had been Michael's decision which had led them to it; he had shown more than once, after all, that Nikita's decision to end the relationship meant little to him. He alone was in control of it; if they had been distanced slightly, therefore, it was simply a break he was allowing, before he pulled her back to him once more. Sadly, there was little way out of that.

She gave up on this path, then, and looked down at her desk, her mind running back to the reports on the young woman's behavior during these weeks away. Instead of any of the expected reactions--pleasure in her solitude, enjoyment of her unregulated life and habits, a broadening of her acquaintances--she had closed herself inward. Indeed, she had seemed to show an almost dissociative state of mind, becoming detached from her own emotions and feelings, wandering around her new residence for hours without much purpose. While Madeline might have been pleased with this outcome had the other woman still been in Section, when she had continued them outside, they were confusing, to say the least. All of the expected relief at her freedom had never truly come; she had only become more tired.

She shook her head slightly, as she looked up once more. All of this was perplexing, then, was a puzzle she was not happy to be faced with. Yes, she had expected some negative results of Nikita's release, of course--had expected that the woman might show increased anxiety levels from her absolute inability to function without the structured confines she had grown so used to. Still, what the young woman had shown was far beyond--far different from--this. . . . She didn't like it at all.

Her mind turned slightly again. The woman had presented her excuse for her return--and for her behavior--to her, of course, had claimed to be too in love and in need to continue on with life on the outside alone. While she suspected that this may have a little to do with Nikita's depression--suspected that her personality may indeed have been challenged by the absence of the one man who had molded it--it simply wasn't enough of a reason for her to return. She was quite certain, after all, that the younger woman could easily find another man to mold her personality toward, someone else to make up for the deficiencies in herself; she had even started to see someone slightly before her return. Why, then, had she come back?

Her thoughts refocused a little, narrowing in again. It was true that Madeline was quite certain that this young man hadn't provided the necessary stability, the sense of command, she was certain that Nikita wanted. Her long-term commitment to Michael, indeed, showed her tendency and need to be controlled, sexually and romantically--a need, no doubt, conveniently for them, left over from the lessons of her childhood--and the young man in question had simply had none of the leadership qualities which had so imprinted her with her trainer. It had, then, obviously, been doomed to fail.

It was this little, brief liaison, though, which also told Section's doyenne that Nikita's return made little sense. Why, truly, would you begin to see someone else, only to suddenly decide a return to Section was needed? She had gone for six weeks without sexual contact, contact she could easily have obtained elsewhere; she could easily have found a more aggressive partner, too--had she wanted to. Why, then, return for it now?

She let out a slightly angry breath, her eyes determined. There was no reason for this, of course, was no excuse. The only thing that was left, then, was treason.

She allowed her mind to move further along again, all of her thoughts disgusting her. All of these truths, too, had been obvious to her from the first, were the reasons why she had not shared Paul's optimism over the young woman's return. Given all she knew about her, indeed, her sudden decision to come back made no sense; all of this had been obvious even before the events of the last hour. . . . She hadn't needed to see the gun to know otherwise.

She lifted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly, as her thoughts focused in once more. It had been obvious what Nikita's intention was. The only thing left to discover, then, was why.

For many different reasons, however, Madeline knew that the young woman was not acting alone; indeed, it was unlikely that she had even had a true part in creating the path she was now on. No, someone else had planned for her temporary release; someone else, more than likely, had helped convince her to come back, as well--had provided the gun. There was only one person who that could be, too--George. Now, it was just left to decide who was working with him.

She gave a small smile at her next thought, as she rose finally, beginning to make her way toward the office of a certain suspect. Michael, truly, was the logical choice--was the one she was certain that George would go to. He was strong, intelligent, and ruthless--all of the qualities you wanted in a partner, at least up to a certain point. He had, as well, certainly used Nikita a great deal in the past--enough to make the fact that she was being manipulated by him again here no anomaly. Further, he was the logical choice for Operations' successor--was the person everyone within Section, and most of those outside of it, expected. He, then, was the clear choice for George's Judas.

Her mind was a little torn, however, as she made her way through Section toward him. Part of her, of course, had no particular problem with the thought of having Michael as Operations; she had groomed him for that very role for years. Paul, too, had refused to listen to her sound advice more than once, could certainly stand to be replaced. In fact, his decision to enlist the younger pair's help in carrying out his continued protection of his old army acquaintance--out of a bizarre and misplaced sense of loyalty, and without her advice--only made this path more appealing to her. She couldn't, truly, allow her impact on his decisions to be too deeply diminished, if she hoped to survive.

She continued, therefore, to ponder the possible effects of this option. The only true drawback, indeed, in allowing this to occur was the young man's lingering attachment to Nikita. She couldn't risk the possibility that she might lose ground because of some adolescent need he harbored. She couldn't allow that to happen.

She needed to, then, find out all the details of this planned coup and prevent it. The time for it hadn't come yet, if it ever did; she needed to distance him from his predilection for Nikita first, had to let him burn out his testosterone frenzy for the younger woman and then allow his natural loyalties to return to herself. It was only a matter of time.

She drew closer. For now, though, she had to stop his plan. His time would come one day, and--when it did--she would be by his side, not Nikita. She wouldn't allow him to unsettle her plans.

She repressed a smile, despite the seriousness of the situation, as she was just a few steps away from him. Still, she admired his tenacity, his ambition; it was what made him such an appealing future partner. Her hand reached for his door. Someday soon, too, he would make quite a good leader for Section, with her by his side to encourage his more ruthless instincts, to kill off the lingering compassion with which Nikita had infected him. She entered the office. Everything, then, would be as it should. . . . All she had to do was wait.

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

It was all too much. Everything around him seemed to be spinning inwards, closing in; he couldn't take it, knew no way out. . . . His one hope of freedom was dead.

Birkoff stared blankly at the sim. which he was running, the one on which so many lives might hinge. He didn't really care, though; it just couldn't matter to him now. His whole life had been set on just one thought for a month and a half--if Nikita, their best hope, made it on the outside, then he too might have a chance to escape. It had been the only thing keeping him sane.

He sighed heavily, as he leaned on his hand, rubbing it over his forehead. None of these hopes, however, were alive anymore; none of them had survived. Nikita had failed them, had let them all down. None of them had anything left to live for.

Everyone in Section felt it, too; there was a huge amount of anger and despair welling in everyone around him--most of it focused on her alone. And, while he still cared about her--more than he really wanted to admit, in fact--he just couldn't break free of all of these emotions himself.

He let the sim. run on its own, therefore, as he closed his eyes. God, he couldn't take much more, couldn't take *any* more of this hellish place. For so long--for his whole fucking *life*, in fact--he had lived here. He had been born in this place, indeed--as he had only recently discovered, to his horror; he had never been free, had never known anything like that feeling. If Nikita hadn't taken him by the hand and led him out of these walls that first time, in fact, he probably would have been inside forever, never even daring to venture out--like some damn zoo animal, born and bred for display. He let out a heavy breath. He really didn't know how much more he could take.

He heard a quiet beep and opened his eyes, sighing again--going back to the sim. He sent it off to be evaluated and then pulled up another, not really paying any attention at all. There was just no energy for that anymore.

This activity, though, did work through to his mind a bit. Here he was, all of 22 years old, and he was in control of life and death decisions--decisions which could impact *his* life or death, as well, should he fail. He was the one to make the choices about which paths were clear or where the hostiles were--of what course toward their objective would be the safest. Should he screw it up, people died, people he knew. God, he hated it.

He shook his head just slightly, his thoughts focusing in further, turning a little--disgustedly. Hell, even if he *didn't* screw it up, people still died--he was still involved with making decisions which led to destruction. He had sent more people to Hell than any paid executioner in history, all from the comfort of his little black chair and his thin headset. One thought kept pounding at him about it all now, as well. *He shouldn't have to do it.*

He took a deep breath, trying to keep himself outwardly calm; it was a challenge. Still, emotion was taboo in this "home" of his. He couldn't afford to be caught feeling.

His mind, however, went on, nonetheless. None of this should be expected of him, he knew. He was barely more than a teenager; he should have been enjoying his college days and his freedom, should have been making the basis of his career, of his future and family. He should be out there having *fun*, dammit, not in here being forced to play God. No one should be. It all really was meaningless.

This whole place, in fact--his tormented thoughts went on--should just be shut down, was useless. He saw it day after day. One mission led to another which led to another--an endless succession of death and thin excuses. But what was the point of any of it? Peace? Justice? Protection of the innocent? Yeah, right. The only people who saw any protection around here were the ones in charge; the rest of the world was just "acceptable collateral," waiting to happen. Nothing was changing that here.

He let out a disgusted sigh, his emotions overwhelming him. He wasn't sure, really, how long all these feelings had been brewing in him, but he knew for certain that they were finally coming to a head. He had been sitting around this damn place, watching his life--and others' deaths--speed by him for about as long as he could remember; he didn't want to do it anymore. He wanted his chance. He wanted OUT.

He took another deep breath and tried to calm himself a little, at least outwardly. He had dealt with all of this hell for too long not to be affected by it, of course, but it had really been the news of his brother's existence which had brought out his pain, which had made it too intense. Knowing now that he had a twin--that somewhere out there in the world was a guy who looked exactly like him, one who was living a successful, happy life--was just too much. He had been ripped off. He deserved a little happiness, too.

The sim. he was working on beeped at him, as it completed, reminding him again that his hopes weren't real. He sighed. Nikita--and the opportunity she had been given--had been his one real chance; he had been hanging on, putting off his rage, waiting to be told that she was really free and that he was next. Now, however, that obviously was never going to happen. She had blown it. And now all of them had to pay.

He closed his eyes for a second again, attempting to calm himself, and then tried to focus on his work. Still, for all of his anger--for all the desperation which was making him crazy--he knew he had no way out. His brother was another person entirely--might as well be on another planet, for all the good it did him. His own life had been over since it had begun. All he could do, therefore, was learn to just exist.

He focused in more closely on some work he had been putting off, then, trying to ignore the growing buzzing in his brain. He didn't want to think about the truth of his feelings; it scared him too much. He didn't want to face that a break was coming in him. Denial, after all, was *so* much easier to face. . . . Rage was for tomorrow.

Extra warning: Again, this was written before FLYF was aired. Still, even if it doesn't entirely mirror the revelations there, I think it basically works. :)

Chapter 9

All in all, it had been a good day. Certainly, he had had better ones--and this one could have been a little more successful than it had eventually proven to be--but he wouldn't quibble over the details. Almost everything, indeed, had been perfect.

Operations smiled slightly, as he took a seat on the long work station in his office and looked over his domain, cigarette in hand. It was his still, this little world he had helped so lovingly to create. Yes, he might have had to take possession of it over from someone who hadn't truly understood its potential, in the beginning, but it was firmly his now. No one could deny that anymore.

He smiled a little more broadly, his thoughts lingering on these pleasant truths. Of course, this fact didn't stop certain people from trying, but he knew better than to let it get to him. George's latest attempt had been rather clumsy, actually--and very roundabout. While this had protected the older man in the end, too, it hadn't, fortunately, brought him his goal. Section was still his alone.

The smile turned into a rather feral grin, then, as he looked back over these events. It all made so much sense now--Nikita's freedom and her return--even if he wasn't entirely fond of the details. He had never, in fact, liked the laborious nature of George's planning; he was so incredibly intricate and lengthy with them. It had always gotten to him more than a little.

Of course, he allowed mentally, his style could be helpful at times--to an extent--but it just wasn't the way he himself worked. For him, the details of the plan needed to at least provide some amusement--such as his excuse for trysts with Madeline, as they had set up the Key File scheme. Sadly, of course, that plan hadn't been entirely successful in the long run, but at least he had gotten something out of it--had convinced the woman he most needed to come back to his bed where she belonged, for awhile. It hadn't, then, been a total loss.

He shook his head, his thoughts shifting a little--amused once more at his rival's failings. This, too, was what was so pathetic about this latest attempt of George's; he hadn't even gotten anything out of it. Letting Nikita go free had given him no particular pleasure, he was sure; he had had no vested interest there. And, while he himself had hated having his biggest prize out of his control for so long, it hadn't really been that big a burden for him. He had even enjoyed the distancing it had allowed of that woman from her lover and conspirator. In fact, he had been able to spend the time, for once, not looking quite so constantly over his shoulder. It had been rather nice.

He smiled a little further, his pleasure complete. In the end, therefore, he had won everything--his life, continued control of Section, the return of his biggest trophy, and another victory over his rival--while George had lost everything, except his position. It had been a foolish plan, then, however you wanted to see it.

He let out a pleased sigh and took a drag off his cigarette; he figured he had earned it, after his victories today. The fact that his enemy was such a fool, after all, only worked in his favor, even if it did take down the thrill of the chase somewhat; he wouldn't complain, overall, then. The only real downside to today, in fact, was that he hadn't been able to fully prove George's duplicity, hadn't been able to use this mistake in foresight on the other man's part to dethrone him. His rival had, at least, planned things out that well.

Ah, well. He let his mind turn again, therefore, his hand--and the cigarette--resting near his leg. The only rather troubling aspect of this day had been the fact that--as George had pointed out--there was a weak link somewhere within Section, was someone who was working with the enemy. . . . That, indeed, would need to be stopped.

All pleasure drained from his face, as he thought into this further. Of course, it was obvious from George's words today that--whoever this person might be--he could no longer hope to enjoy the older man's favor. Having failed him, he supposed, the other man had thrown him over--had done it as a necessity, too, rather than have this conspirator found and used against him. Despite his enemy's repudiation of his accomplice, though, this was still something to be concerned with.

His eyes focused more deeply--on nothing in particular--as he took in this thought further. He knew, of course, who George's link had to be; there was only one real choice: Michael. The younger man had already proved his loyalty to Oversight--and his disloyalty to Section--when he had temporarily taken over the role as its leader. For all he knew, indeed, this plan had been hatched all the way back then--or, at least, that was when the bond between them had been formed. He had never once till now, either, seen any sign of a break.

His look became a little sadder. He wasn't, truly, entirely certain how to proceed here, either, wasn't certain which path to take. He had no proof, of course, that Michael had been disloyal; the young man was just too good for that. Any direct approach, therefore, was out of the question. What, then, was left?

His feral smile returned. He knew, of course--even if he didn't have specifics yet. He would simply keep an eye out for any path which might lead to the younger man's demise, or at least to his temporary distraction. Indeed, the more missions he was put on, and the harder he was worked, the less time he would have to focus on any more schemes. This, then, was the perfect answer.

He let out another pleased sigh, even if he also felt a little, internal tug of regret. He had always seemed to have a split approach to Michael--for about as long as he could remember. Part of him wanted to see the younger man succeed him, when he went, knew he would make a very good, strong leader. Another part of him, however, remembered altogether too clearly how he himself had become Operations, remembered the--what had then been--treason that he and Madeline had carried out together. It was, truly, something to be watched.

His eyes narrowed, as his thoughts focused in. If the young man survived all of the tests which would be thrown at him, therefore, and made it to the day--*far* in the future, he was sure--when he himself would one day leave this position open, Paul would have been pleased to see Section left in such capable hands. . . . If he didn't make it this far, however, that would be for the best, as well; you should never, after all, leave any enemy standing, if you could help it. He had learned that long ago.

Settled on this point, then--at least as much as he could be for now--his mind moved on to its next obvious destination: Michael's partner--and his own would-be executioner. Thankfully, he had seen an end to that. It would have been too much irony to take.

His mind focused in further on this point. He had recruited Nikita originally, of course, because he could, to prove to everyone around him that he could control the child of his previous rival in a way he had never controlled her father. She had proven, though, to be a far bigger pain than he had ever bargained on--*way* too much like her dad. She was willful, independent, and empathetic--all the things he had hated in her father. He had never really grown used to her at all.

It had been ironic, then, that, in some ways, Nikita had flourished in Section, had become--he hated to admit--a very skilled operative and leader. She would have, could he have stomached the thought, made a good second-in-command, one day, was actually an admirable complement to Michael; she thought outside the box, could find options which Michael occasionally, in his more traditional--if also more, to his mind, intelligent--way could not. They would have made a good pair.

It was all of this, too, though, which ate at him, which made him feel practically ill. He had wanted, in fact, to have this undisciplined child cancelled early on in her career here, would have preferred it infinitely to all the headaches she had later caused him. It would have been, truly, *so* much simpler.

He sighed slightly. Still, he had, unfortunately, waited too long to implement this plan; by the time he had called for it, indeed, Michael had become invested in her--in a way which made more sense to him than to Madeline. To her, it was an inexplicable variable in the record of a perfect, ruthless op.--a possible juvenile sexual need coming out. To him, however, it was obvious that Nikita represented to her former trainer a break with tradition, a new way of thinking, of seeing the world. Much like Madeline and himself--even if the pairings were also very different--Michael had seen in Nikita an intelligent, strong-willed, and ultimately extremely efficient partner. It would have been a difficult opportunity to pass by.

This, though, wasn't all. More than this, indeed, simply as men, they had both seen women who were challenges to them, who didn't just immediately say "yes" and bow their heads. True, that sort of woman had her place in the world--and had had so in his life; she was the perfect marriage material, which neither Madeline nor Nikita could ever be. These women, though, were the perfect mistresses and partners--never likely to fall back into boring routine. It was something that Madeline, however, as a woman, simply couldn't understand.

For these reasons, therefore, he both rather enjoyed the presence of Nikita and had wanted her dead at the same time. Madeline had her own reasons for sharing his feelings, too--which he was happier not analyzing. Whatever they were, they were bound to be at least slightly twisted, after all; it was what he loved about her. Still, it was safer not to venture there too far. He had learned that long ago.

His mind circled a little further here, then, coming back to rest on the woman whose companionship he so valued. He had been impressed by his partner's quick-witted lie today; it had saved him in a way he was certain no other story could have. Of course, it galled him to think that the young woman now might think of him as her father; that was a revolting thought. Still, it had kept her from pulling the trigger, and that was enough to make it convenient for now. It would take her a long time to figure out the truth, thankfully--if that ever happened at all--and that was all he would ask, for the present.

He felt the ash from his cigarette fall against his leg. He shook his head slightly and put the butt of it out, wiping the ash from his knee. He had allowed himself to just sit and think for too long; it was time to get back to work.

He stood up, then, and began to look over a waiting panel; his mind focused on one more thought about this day, however. If Nikita ever really did come to realize his role in her life, his own safety would never quite be assured again. Should she ever fully decide to carry out a plan such as eliminating him, indeed, he had no chance of survival. He hated to admit it, of course, but he knew it was true; Michael would be there to back her up. He would have to, therefore, be very, very careful, indeed.

He let out a deep breath and gave another long look over his world. Still, his fears could be put off for awhile; he was safe once more, for now--another battle in his war against Oversight won. He would just watch out for his most annoying, if most talented, pairing in the future, and then all would be well. . . . He still had too much power to ever believe otherwise.

It had not been a particularly productive day. In fact, the last several weeks had simply been a prelude to failure. It was really very sad. He had even had to sacrifice one of his doubles in order to survive. . . . It had all been quite disappointing, indeed.

George was in a helicopter, in transit to yet another meeting, as his mind looked back over this latest failure. He had, he supposed, both over and underestimated Nikita; she had been perfectly capable of pulling the trigger, he was convinced, but her lingering humanity had gotten in her way, yet again. God help him--he hated the thought--but Adrian would have been proud of her.

He took a deep breath. It galled him greatly to admit this, of course, but--the more he knew of the young woman in action--the more she reminded him of her father. It was no wonder, really, that Adrian had been taken in, when they had used Nikita against her; despite all her training to the contrary, she still possessed some spark of life, the sort his beloved had wanted her operatives to keep, in order to prevent them from turning into the enemy they were fighting. He himself had never been entirely certain that such a thing was possible, true, but he had respected her devotion to the idea, nonetheless. As much as he hated to admit it, then, Nikita probably would have fit her perfect profile.

He let out a saddened sigh, his mind shifting a little. None of these thoughts, however, changed his plans to come; it was still absolutely imperative that Paul be removed. Nothing today, obviously, had changed that. Alive, he was a danger, was a threat to everything which both Adrian and himself had worked to create; he had been allowed to go unchecked for too long. He simply had to be taken out of play.

He stared further out of the craft, down at the small people below him, as he considered his next move again. He would have to try the same technique which had worked so well with Section Six, when they had become a problem. The neural scrapes he had taken from the leaders there, in fact, had yielded him a great deal of helpful information, while also eliminating some very problematic elements. It would be a pleasure to use the same technique on his rival.

He sighed. Of course, it was almost a shame to lose Michael and Nikita; they could have worked well together as the new heads of One--if they could just be kept in their place. Still, he suspected now that he may have misjudged the younger man's devotion to his recent accomplice--and, since he had just, basically, made an attempt on the life of the woman this man might well love, it would be highly imprudent to leave him alive long enough to take his revenge. That, indeed, was the *last* thing he needed.

He leaned back, therefore, and allowed himself to focus. He couldn't allow himself to get sentimental in his mature years; he knew this--and Adrian had warned him against it once or twice herself. One's leadership needed to be changed completely, no vestiges of the power structure of the old left to cause him trouble. His new plan would work--he would see to it--and then everyone there would truly answer to him.

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

He sighed, as he sat at his desk, looking over, once again, the compiled surveillance of the last few weeks--and the last day, in particular. It was amazing what these children got up to when they thought nobody was looking. It was amazing what they thought he would let them get away with.

Mr. Jones sighed, as he watched the unfolding of George's failed plan once more. Astonishing, truly, that he had believed this would work. He took in the scene from another angle, focusing in on the view from around the corner of Operations' office, at the man who stood poised, listening, gun in hand, ready to defend the woman he loved, should she need it. Oversight's head had completely underestimated Michael's devotion to his ex-material, had been foolish enough to think it either temporary or shallow. It showed, really, an appalling lack of judgment. He really didn't know how much longer he could allow it to go on.

He shook his head, staring at the images in front of him for a few more seconds before turning them off, still a little astounded. He was learning a great deal from his position as observer, but there was one thing which struck him the most about all these behind-the-scene machinations; all of these great men and women, whose power surpassed any president or king's, acted like two-year-olds the second your back was turned. He really would have to do something about it, someday soon.

He picked up his brandy, holding it thoughtfully, as his mind went on. Still, there was something decent to come out of all of this, he supposed--aside from the fact that all of them had failed to actually upset the hierarchy at all--and that was that Nikita had come through according to his expectations of her once more. He smiled. Amazing how she always managed that. One day he really would have to tell her, too.

He smiled and took a sip, half of his mind slowly savoring his refreshment, as the other part savored her. She had proven herself to be special from the beginning, of course, but it wasn't any one trait which had set her apart. It wasn't just her parentage which had argued for her--although that had certainly been impressive; it hadn't even been the way she had so thoroughly captivated Section's most promising, but most insular, rising star. No, it had been everything in her: her ability to overcome the immense emotional, physical, and psychological rigors of her recruitment from a completely innocent life; her incisive intelligence and ability to learn difficult subjects quickly; her innovative approach to assignments; and, maybe more than anything else, her proven ability to charm practically anyone. All of them, indeed, were the qualities which made leaders, were what this organization needed more of. She, truly, was one of a kind.

The fact, too, that she and Michael had made themselves into such a permanent pairing just made this fact all the more helpful. Section, after all, had always been run in pairs. Even if this hadn't been a planned trait of its leaders, in the beginning, it had proven to be an extremely helpful one. After all, if you had two people who meshed very well, possessing complementary abilities, who could work as each other's checks and balances, you had the start of a very successful team. The two of them, therefore, were Section's future. . . . And it was this very trait, too, which, ironically, made them such a target for all of their jealous superiors.

He wasn't fond of this fact, of course. He sighed, placing the glass back on his desk, his thoughts shifting slightly. It was a shame, really, that he couldn't interfere more. Had he been able to derail his current plans, he would have liked to simply take care of his little leadership problem right now--rid himself of these squabbling factions in One and Oversight and replace them with these two more qualified candidates. He shook his head. Still, he couldn't allow that to happen yet; too much was at stake. He would just have to wait.

He moved his mind along once more, therefore, as he stared across his study. He did hope that, in the end, his favorite pair would manage to survive all of the deadly plans he was certain would be tossed their way; they were, after all, now on the top of both George's and the "Siamese Twins'" hit lists--not a good place to be at all, if you wanted to keep breathing. He had hopes, however, that they were as good as he wished--and, if they were, they would reap the benefits of their prowess someday soon. It was just a matter of time.

He smiled, as he thought into the future. He, indeed, would allow them to be together as a couple--understanding both that this was where they drew their strength and that they were no danger if they were allowed this small freedom. It was a small salary to ask for in exchange for safeguarding the world, after all, which was what he wanted of them. It was what they should have been given all along.

He smiled to himself further, his musings pleasant. One day, should they survive, he would see to this, would see them well-placed--and then the entire organization's future would be in safe hands again. It was the only way toward their future.

Chapter 10

He had had an odd sort of life, he knew--and it had been one, as well, which had asked a tremendous amount of him. Sometimes, admittedly, he had failed in his tasks, had let down those who had depended on him; mostly, though, he had devoted almost his entire life to doing the impossible--to making himself perfect. He realized now, however, that, somehow, even with all of this practice at infallibility, he had failed her utterly again. May God please forgive him somehow.

Michael's heart ached terribly with this last thought, with the knowledge of his inability, yet again, to protect the woman he loved. He had stood just outside of Operations' office, indeed, and had listened to Madeline's lie, had heard her twisting Nikita's heart with her cruel words; another shudder of rage passed through him. As long as he lived, he would never forgive her again.

He let out a shaky breath, his emotions buffeting him. He was on his way now to meet with his beloved, was on his way to the meeting he had asked for; his eyes were pleading silently with no one, as he thought about it. There was so much they needed to work out, was so much they had to discuss. And, for the sake of his sanity, it had to be very soon.

He let his mind run back, then, as he drove. The last month and a half had been brutal for him, of course, but the last day or so had been infinitely worse. He had thought the sheer separation from her tormenting enough--every day spent in regrets for what had been left undone or unsaid, spent wondering whether she were happy, while worrying, conversely, whether he had been replaced in her heart--but it had been nothing to the torture of her half-spoken accusations on her return. His heart shuddered. She had, indeed, he knew now, even used him as a way to get back inside, had set him up--knowing he would come--only to then later accuse him of having had knowledge of her treason all along. . . . It was just too much to bear.

He tried, then, to move his mind along a little, unable to cope with this completely. What hurt even more than this, though--more than the torment of those cold eyes as they had focused on his tortured heart--was the simple fact of what had been done to her yet again. Once more, she had been used by them--had become, this time, George's pawn in the infantile little games he enjoyed playing with Operations. It was simply a grown-up's version of "king of the hill," except that--if you ever lost your footing entirely--you died. . . . It was all just too pointless for words.

He tried to push back his rage, however, as his thoughts went on. He had watched these two men play these games for quite sometime, of course--had grown used to it; he had even been pulled into them, reluctantly, once or twice. He could handle this, though. What he could not--did not want to--handle was the fact that they were now using Nikita as the pawn in their human chess game, seemingly enjoying her torment. He didn't know how much more of that he could take, indeed, before he broke.

He tried desperately to repress the overwhelming wave of sadness and rage which threatened to engulf him, almost blocking out all reason. He couldn't stand what they were doing to her, especially on top of all the pain they had already, so casually, forced her through; it was too much. She was an angel, and they delighted in nothing but her torture. He could imagine no lower form of evil than that.

These thoughts, of course, were tormenting; he tried to shift them, therefore--only succeeding a little. This latest nonsensical game had taught him something else; George could no longer be considered anything like an ally. Once, for a little while, in fact, he had dared to hope that the older man might side with him, should he ever be forced into eliminating Operations; now, however, that was no longer the case. He had shown his absolute lack of insight by choosing Nikita as his Judas--had forever won the enmity of the Class Five op. who might otherwise have helped him. Come what may, there was no way back anymore.

He was staring out blankly again in pain; he had to blink and force himself to focus on the road, his mind switching paths once more. Possibly as much as any other torment he had been subject to today was the immense pain of the lie his beloved now partly labored under. Michael had never truly known for sure what had motivated Nikita's recruitment, although he had his theories; it had taken him until the first time he had seen her kill someone, in fact, before he had finally believed in her original innocence--before he had allowed himself to. What he knew as a certainty in his heart, however, was that the woman he adored was *not* Operations' daughter, although he could understand her ability to believe such tormenting lies. He just wished, indeed, that he could change it.

His mind focused in further here, drawn into this painful memory once more. It had not been Madeline's sophistry, either, which had truly allowed his beloved's mind to start along this path; all of that had been too obviously false. No, what had done it had been her understanding that this was just the sort of thing Operations would do--that, to his mind, torture, manipulation, and the utter destruction of self would have fallen under the labels of "good parenting"; he was just sick enough to allow it. And it was this fear, truly, he suspected, which would be haunting her more than anything else.

He swallowed heavily, as he approached their meeting place, trying to brace himself for what was to come. It hurt him that all of this had happened without him being able to stop or foresee any of it; he should have protected her, should have been able to keep her safe, but he had failed her utterly again. It was the inescapable, tormenting pattern of at least the last half year. She had had every right, then, to disbelieve him. There was no reason anymore that she should.

He pulled up to their current meeting spot, then, to see her leaning against a large boulder, her eyes focused on the sparkling body of water before her. He parked and got out to approach her, hoping--needing, more than a little desperately--to connect with his beautiful one again. There just was no life without her.

His heart shuddered. He could feel her torment, though, even as he grew close. God, he hoped he could reach her--knew he had to. "Nikita?"

She let out a quiet sigh. She had heard him approach, after all, but she didn't entirely know how to handle this--how to talk to him about any of it; her guilt now was too immense, had been for hours. She didn't know what had started it, really, but she did know it was there--was too intense to be ignored. She swallowed heavily, therefore, and continued to stare out at the water, her heart aching terribly.

She could feel him coming closer, however, and it made the torment in her ring all the more heavily; she allowed her thoughts to focus back quietly, then, still not facing him--needing to understand at least a little of herself before she tried to explain her actions to him, knowing how unlikely it was that she could make him forgive her. He really shouldn't, indeed.

She allowed her thoughts to focus in. She supposed her guilt had started with the possible, terrible new revelation about her parentage; it had been too much to quietly bear. The idea that Operations might be her father was taunting enough, too--in so many ways--but it was, even more than this, the thought that she had almost killed him, might almost have committed patricide today that made her despair so intense. She shuddered a little. That, at least, had been one horror she had been spared, up to now--as far as she knew. To think, then, that she had almost been lowered this far . . .

She took in a shaky breath, still staring into the water, her mind whirling through her torment. This, indeed, wasn't even the whole of her guilt. No. So much of it, in fact, centered around the man who was quietly approaching her now, who had been nothing but loving and attentive for so many months. He had gone through hell for her, had battled Section nearly to the death, just to see her well and conscious--and she, in return, had once again accused him of setting her up. . . . It was too much to ask anyone to take.

He swallowed heavily once more, as he came to stand next to her slowly; she was shivering slightly, but he wasn't certain whether it was the wind or her inner torments which had caused it. Oh God, he needed to reach her.

She felt him, of course, felt him in her soul, as she always had, even long before she could sanely admit it. Right now, though, the beauty of his freely-given love was too much to take. She just didn't know how to survive it.

Her quiet thoughts went on, then, her mind analyzing. She didn't know, of course, how she had come to so firmly conclude that he hadn't been involved in the terrible events of the day, but the truth of that conclusion was evident to her now, nonetheless. She could no longer escape it.

She focused in on her evidence, therefore, trying to understand. Maybe it had started with her firm new belief that she was of no more value to George than she was to her current masters--her understanding that that man had nothing to lose by sacrificing her completely. Maybe, too, it had something to do with her realization that she hadn't been totally objective when she had gone to see her beloved earlier; indeed, she realized now, she had simply been *looking* for a reason to go on with her mission, too horrified by the possibilities, should she fail her new master. She had interpreted his every look and action, then, as having dire motives. . . . Now, however, she was certain that she had been wrong.

It wasn't just her logic which told her this, either; no--it had had something to do, as well, with the way he had looked at her, when he had whispered this destination to her, when he had asked her to come. His eyes, indeed, had spoken of need and love, but not of guilt or apologies. And it, truly, had just been too much.

He had just been standing there, watching her, for several minutes, tormented by the pain which ran through him from her. God, his heart ached. He allowed her, though, to continue sitting quietly for a little while longer, as he just watched in silence. Even if she was suffering--even if she may not feel particularly like sharing her pain, he still couldn't let her be tormented alone.

His eyes, too, were captivated by her again. She was so beautiful, was just so incredibly perfect, and he loved her with every fragment of self he had ever possessed. It had been so many weeks since he had been able to have the simple luxury of looking her over, of quietly adoring her. He just wished he could break through to her again.

She felt his quiet scrutiny, of course, but every second of it just made her heart ache all the more. Part of her wondered, in fact, why she had come here, whether it would even do any good. She sighed. She really didn't know anymore.

He broke into her pain quietly, no longer able to just watch. "What are you thinking?"

Ohh, it hurt, hurt just to try to think about it all; she swallowed heavily. "How much I love you, how much pain I've caused."

His heart ached more deeply--more horribly--with her words. "Ni-ki-ta," he whispered again.

She shook her head, still staring out at the water; his soft caress of her name only made her torment rise further. "I don't know why you're here, Michael." She sighed once more. "I'm not worth it."

Something within him shattered with her words, with the sweetness of her love--and the torment of her pain. He tried to reach out to touch her arm; his voice, once more, was a caress, as he found himself unable to say all the things he truly wanted to. "'Ki-ta."

"No." She closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds and then pulled away before she could even really feel his touch. She took a few steps away from him, too, before stopping, her back still to him. "Don't, Michael. It's better if we're apart."

He realized that something within him had been screaming when it became even louder in his head. He took another step toward her but didn't fully approach again, afraid she would run. He could see her torment--it was so obvious, and he couldn't let it continue, couldn't let her take out her pain on herself; he would have preferred to be her target--anything but this. He had to break through to her or go insane.

He decided, then, to try to approach this logically, hoping he could make her see. "Why?"

She was staring at the ground, when she shrugged, her torment strong; she had to keep her back to him to keep her resolve up. "Because I just keep hurting you."

He didn't say anything for a second--waiting for her to go on--and she looked up into the horizon, asking him what had somehow become emotionally obvious to her today, after all of the terror of its events had finally passed--after she had just learned that everything around her but him was a lie yet again. "You aren't aligned with George, are you?"

He shook his head, still watching her back sadly. "No."

She let out a tired, saddened breath and forced herself to turn back to him; she kept her eyes on the ground, though. "That's what I mean." Her gaze finally met his. "I spent a month and a half away from you--after demanding several weeks apart before that--and then, after using you to get back in, I accuse you of using *me*." She shook her head again. "There's only so much of that I can expect you to take."

He made half a move toward her but saw the tensing in her muscles, as she prepared to bolt; he forced himself, with much torment, to stay his ground. His whole body shuddered slightly, however, with the pain of her words--and his efforts not to hold her. "You're wrong."

She blinked, confused. "How?"

He saw she still wasn't ready to be approached; he made himself lean against the boulder she had abandoned, instead, not certain that he should trust his legs to support him through this pain--and hoping that it would keep her where she was. "This wasn't your doing; you were used to get to Operations."

She wasn't buying it. "And my accusations?"

His eyes were incredibly gentle; that was simple enough logic, to him, after all. "You knew there was an accomplice. From all of your experience with me," she looked away, "and all the history you know of myself, Operations, and George, you made the most reasonable conclusion you could."

She was staring at the ground, swallowing heavily; her eyes were unspeakably sad. "It wasn't the right one, though."

She seemed a little less like she might run now; he allowed himself to stand and move a little closer, experimentally. "No. But that doesn't mean it wasn't logical."

She let him come closer, but she was shuddering slightly; she couldn't quite look at him. There was still just too much pain, too much she wouldn't allow herself to comprehend. "Why don't you hate me?"

He sighed, his heart torn for her; he was shaking his head, his words a simple expression of his soul. "Why would I ever do that?"

She looked up at him finally, unhappily, swallowing heavily again; the tears were threatening. "You've been so good to me for the last several months, Michael. I've tried to kill you, turned you away, slept with other men, and abandoned you, and you've been there for me at every step." She shook her head, confused. "Now--not for the first time, lately--I've accused you of betrayal without any reason." She swallowed back the tears once more. "Isn't that enough?"

He sighed, his heart breaking terribly at her constant habit of self-reproach; his hand came up to caress a stray tear off her cheek, his eyes caressing her face. "No." For him, it was all he needed to say.

He knew, however, that it wouldn't be enough for her; he looked back to her eyes, then, before she could continue, his hand still tracing her cheek. His gaze was strong and open, not letting her go, as he sighed slightly. God, he loved her.

He tried to tell her this, then. "You're blaming yourself for things which aren't your fault; you know that." His hand ran down to trace over her jaw line softly, as he explained her motives to her further, his heart aching at the fact that he had to. "You're just frightened--that I'll hurt you again, as I have so often." His look was incredibly chastened and regretful. "It's reasonable."

Her eyes were so tormented, her face decaying into grief. "Michael, I . . ."

He stopped her by running his gloved thumb over her lips softly, not wanting to let her voice any more painful self-delusions. "No. Please." His eyes were begging her. It wasn't her lack of faith in him which hurt so much, after all; it was her lack of faith in herself. It destroyed him--brought him so close to the furthest limits of possible repair. "Stop doubting yourself." He moved closer, his eyes gentle and loving. "Please."

"Mich--"

He cut her off by placing his mouth over hers and drawing her into a soft, gentle, and adoring kiss--giving her his soul there, trying to make her see his truths. He pulled back a few seconds later to capture her eyes again, as well, begging her to understand.

She sighed, closing her eyes tightly, overwhelmed by the unconditional love he gave her--gifted her with so freely. She didn't know how he did it, couldn't understand fully--wouldn't let herself understand--his words; too much pain had come along in the past half year, blotting out too much of who she had once been. She just couldn't believe he didn't see her as soiled, too.

As strong as were all of these emotions which were burning through her, however, there was another set which was stronger. Her love and need for him were simply too intense to deny for long.

She let out a small, strangled whimper, then, as she tried to hold back her tears, before giving in to his adoring kindness. His heart was shattering with the look, was so in pain from witnessing her own. "'Ki-ta," he whispered softly.

Her eyes still closed, she leaned forward finally, resting her head on his chest, allowing herself to finally accept the beauty of him; he wrapped his arms around her, as well, holding her close. "I missed you," she whimpered, barely audibly.

He drew her more tightly to him, feeling the love and devotion in her; that and her beautiful words healed him in a moment. He sighed out his new contentment. "That's all I ask for," he whispered into her hair.

She was crying against him slightly now, all the torment of the last several months--of this last separation from him, as well--building up too intensely, flowing over all her efforts at control. He moved them both so that they were leaning against the boulder, his arms still around her, holding her close; he sighed against her hair. "'Ki-ta," he whispered once more--the word containing all of his love and adoration. He would never let her go again.

They stayed like that for several minutes, as he let her rid herself of all of the pain which had built up at their parting. His hand stroked over her hair gently, his love for her--his strength--flowing through her once again, giving her back the will to go on.

Once she had finally cried out a little of her torment, too, she let out a deep sigh and rubbed her face against the lapel of his coat. After another minute or so, she finally spoke. "So, what now?"

He looked down at her, his voice still soft; she could hear the rumble of it in his chest, however, and it made her love him all the more. "What do you mean?"

She pulled back to look at him a little reluctantly, not wanting to be too far away. He loosened his grip unhappily, as well, refusing to entirely let her go. She sighed. "Will they let us be together?"

His eyes burned at her with a sudden strength which surprised her. "I don't care what they want. We're together." It was a challenge--to anyone who might deny it, including her.

She just smiled, her hand brushing across his lapel lightly, loving his single-mindedness. This was her Michael, after all. She stared down at his chest. "No denials, huh?"

He gave a slight smile at her, warmed by the light which once more, more freely, flowed from her soul. "None."

She smiled a little further, loving him, comforted--but the look on her face grew saddened again, as her thoughts went on; there was something else she needed to know, after all, something else which had been tormenting her. "Do you know about what happened today--all of it?"

He nodded, watching her face, wondering where her thoughts were headed. "I think so."

She nodded in return and took a deep breath, before focusing up on him again; she didn't need to ask how he knew, understood him too well to bother. Her eyes, then, were tortured. She was terribly afraid of the answer she might get, but she needed to ask anyway. "Is Operations my father?"

He took a deep breath, bracing himself, trying to be as open about it as possible. "I don't think so."

She looked into him, trying to assess. "But you don't know for sure."

He let out another, saddened little sigh. In his heart, he knew the answer, but as far as anything tangible went . . . "No," he breathed.

She looked down to his chest again, her fingers playing absently with his sweater; he waited for her to go on, and she swallowed heavily, before she did. When she spoke again, her voice was much smaller, her fears evident. "Would you still love me, if he was?" She looked back up to him again, waiting, afraid.

His heart moaned out, horrified yet again that she thought so little of his love. He put away his pain, though--forced himself to, knowing that her fears were rooted more in her own, long-ingrained, sense of inadequacy than in anything she thought of him; he tried not to think, either, about the fact that he had been one of the people who had helped her develop such a cruel self-image.

He changed his line of thoughts, therefore, answering her completely. His hand came up to stroke along her cheek, as his eyes opened his soul to her, allowing her in to every stray corner. "I will love you no matter what happens, Ni-ki-ta." He brushed back a strand of her hair lovingly. There were really no words to encompass his adoration of her.

Her eyes were still a little frightened, however; she was still waiting, afraid that he was simply side-stepping. "And my father?"

His eyes were so tender, as he looked into her, as he tried to let her see his love, tried to ease her doubts. He would have adored her, after all, if she had been the daughter of the devil himself. "Nothing like that matters, 'Kita." He sighed slightly, not able to express to her anything like how much he cared for her; still, he tried. "I love *you*."

She looked into his gaze, trying to assure herself of his truth, before she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, nodding, accepting his love. She leaned her forehead against his, then, and sighed.

He looked at her for another second before meeting her sound finally, content at the fact that she had accepted him once more; he closed his eyes. They would be together again, come what may.

They stayed like that for at least a minute, just feeling each other close, their breath warm on their beloved's face. They could both feel the other's soul opening to them, refusing to let them go. It was a lovely moment of peace.

It was interrupted, however, by the ringing of his cell phone. He sighed and let her go with one hand in order to retrieve it. She pulled back her head slightly, too, watching him sadly, as he went through the too-familiar routine. "Yes?" He listened and then, a few seconds later, hung up and replaced the phone in his pocket. His expression was saddened.

She sighed and looked down at his chest; they both knew what had to happen now, both knew it couldn't be avoided. Her fingers traced over his sweater again, though; she was silent for a few more seconds, before she spoke. "I had hoped for something more tonight."

He wouldn't let her mourn, not for long. He put his hand under her chin, lifting her head up to capture her eyes; his own were both determined and loving. "There will be, . . . if not tonight," he added reluctantly.

She nodded and looked down at his chest again before recapturing his gaze. She had to tell him one more thing, before he went, after all; her look had saddened. "I'm sorry for doubting you, Mich--"

Again his fingers on her lips cut her off; he lifted her chin up to look at her. His eyes burned into her soul, the seriousness of his words undeniable. "Never apologize to me again, 'Kita." He lifted her chin further up. "Understood?"

She let out a deep breath, feeling her soul lighten a little; she looked back down, her mind calmer. She still wasn't feeling entirely whole or settled lately, obviously, but she was better for being him near again. She gave him a small smile, therefore--her look a little teasing--and gazed back up. "Still love me?"

She could feel the growl rumbling through him beneath her hand, as he moved his own up into her hair, sliding her forward into a deep, hot, and completely undeniable kiss. She moaned.

His own moan joined hers, as he held her to him--refusing, for just a few seconds, to let her go. His hand came up to cover hers on his chest, as well, holding it over his heart. . . . It was the sweetest--and most arousing--answer to her question she could imagine.

He pulled back from her finally, his eyes alight. "Don't ask me questions like that when I have to go back in." His gaze danced slightly, sensually. "It's cruel." He smiled.

She let out a happy sigh and pulled him into another kiss, before he pulled away again on a moan. His eyes told her how much he would rather stay with her.

She nodded--understanding, and loving him; she gave another teasing smile. "I'll have to ask you again later."

His eyes burned happily at her. "Or just take the answer then." He gave her one more, brief kiss before finally, reluctantly pulling away.

She watched him, as he went toward his car, loving him at every step; he turned back, as he reached it, too, his eyes asking her whether she truly understood all he had been telling her. She nodded, smiling.

His heart seemed to be beating for her alone--as it always did. It had been *so* long, but he would wait till they had their chance again; there would be time. He wouldn't allow there not to be.

He began to get into his car, then, but held her eyes just before he did. "I missed you." Once again, his look was loving and open--and his tone brooked no repudiation.

Oh God, she loved him. Her heart was in her gaze, gifting it to him alone. She swallowed slightly. "I love you."

He didn't hear the words very clearly, but he saw them; he closed his eyes for just a second, trying to capture the sweet sounds deep within himself--loving her ever more by the heartbeat. There would never be anyone but her.

He looked back at her and sighed happily, though, smiling slightly, as he forced himself to leave. He held her eyes for another few, long heartbeats, until he finally backed up and drove away.

Nikita stayed there for another few minutes, simply reveling in the feeling of his love, her mind processing all the events of these last few weeks. They had been brutal on her, of course; she had been convinced, part way through them, that she would never really survive, but her beautiful beloved had saved her once more--had rescued her with his tenderness, his understanding, and his soft, truthful words of love. She sighed. She would never love anyone but him.

She leaned against the boulder and looked out at the water, letting herself linger--finally taking in the beauty before her. She didn't know where any of the events of late left her, really--didn't know where they left any of them; in a lot of ways, in fact, they scared her. Whatever the truth, however, she knew she might well discover it in time; if not, then there was no point in worrying it over. There was little to be done.

She smiled, then, her thoughts turning. She knew, of course, that their future would not be an easy one; that was the only real certainty now. Still, their separation was over again, her false release past them. She would survive. Now that she was back with her beloved, after all, her real freedom had begun. They were finally close to whole once more.

Her heart warmed, the perfection of the scene before her--of the breeze rippling the surface of the water, as it glowed in streaks in the sun--making her feel real again, making her remember some essential truths. She loved Michael--and he, for some reason she would no longer question, loved her. All either of them had to do, therefore, was enjoy it--and live to see another day.

Her smile was deep, as she watched the reflection of a pair of birds skimming over the lake, swooping along, as they allowed themselves to enjoy each other's presence. She sighed happily. Yes. She made a promise to herself; she would not let herself forget again. The Hell she and her beloved lived in at least contained each other--and that was the only thing either of them ever needed to survive.

[The End]

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