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Okay, I'm skipping ahead here; this story has just been plaguing me too much not to. :) I hope to get to the rest of my Season 4 stories (including the end of the season character studies) a little later on, but this just had to be written first. :)

The following, then, is my own take on where things should go after "Four Light Years Farther." Since it is unapologetically HR, it will probably not at all reflect where the show goes in Season 5, but I don't really care; it just demanded to be written. Besides, I needed to see it on paper, as a new direction after FLYF (which I liked, but . . .). :) Hope it'll make a few other HRs happy, as well. :)

The following will include *major* spoilers for FLYF, as well as for "Face in the Mirror" and "Up the Rabbit Hole"; there will be spoilers, too, for much of Season 4, as well as for "Mercy," "Spec Ops," "Choice," "Soul Sacrifice," "Hard Landing," "Under the Influence," and "Love." Since I'm still in the process of writing this, though, the total number of chapters is up for grabs, at the moment; I'll tell you this, and any further spoiler warnings, as I get there. :) There will be a few references back to my story, "Anam Cara," as well--although you'll certainly be able to understand this if you haven't read that one. :) I'm rating it MA-14 for adult language, discussions, and situations, too--except for several parts, which will be NC-17. I did tell you I was an HR. ;D

While these characters and many of the situations and backgrounds here are borrowed, of course, I mean no infringement by using any of them and claim no rights to anything under copyright. Please send any comments to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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Part 1

She hadn't wanted to do it--not entirely, anyway, not the way she had. The memory of his face, of its mute, stunned shock--of the pain which had simply gone too deep to be capable of expressing in words--haunted her still, made sleep, on those rare occasions when it came, an endless procession of self-torturing nightmares. There was little she could have done which would have hurt herself more.

Nikita swallowed heavily, trying to force back the tears which were threatening again; she just couldn't allow them to come. She was on her way home now--if you could call this new place that--was on her way there, because she had been, essentially, tossed out of work for a couple of days by Mr. Jones, ordered to deal with her problems and come back ready to do the job. She let out a saddened little laugh. If only that were possible.

She knew, of course--as she was thinking, while heading to her car--that no amount of time was going to clear her soul of Michael, or of the immense love she did and always would have for him; she wasn't even sure that Mr. Jones thought it was possible himself. That, even with death, would probably never come to pass.

Her heart ached, then, as she thought into this further. It hadn't been her boss's idea to set the quiet man free, after all--had gone against all of his suggestions and advice. If he hadn't owed her a *big* favor, in fact, she never could have done this--but this had been her one marker, her one real request for all the years of torment she had undergone for him. He had had no choice, then, but to allow it.

She reached her car, thankful that Center was easier to leave than Section had been, and began to get in, her mind still focusing--rather dimly from extended pain--on her new, full-time superior. Of course, it really said something in his favor that, despite his extreme dislike of her plan, he had allowed it, nonetheless--said something very positive for him that he had let it continue simply because he had actually meant his original promises to her. Unlike the leaders she had suffered under for so long--whose vows had meant about as much as those most men gave when half-naked and seriously aroused--he had, so far, held up his end of the bargain they had made without fail, had given her everything he had promised, had even listened to much of her advice about Section's future. He was the best of the leaders she had seen so far, then, by a longshot. It wasn't even a contest.

She smiled slightly, as she sat in her car, not yet quite starting it--her mind still working here. Everything about his style of command, in fact, was to her liking--at least as much as could be expected in this life. She was sure, of course, that he could be completely ruthless, when it was deemed necessary; that was just a requirement of the job. Still, he did seem to want to put some humanity back into the Sections and Oversight, was so much like Adrian in so many ways. It was possibly what made her like him the most.

Her mind ran back, therefore, focusing in here. She knew that having lost that woman those few years ago had been quite a blow for him, knew that he had quite enjoyed having helped Michael, in his persona of Mick, to free her from her frozen hell in Section's vaults. He would have liked, indeed, to have the woman still functioning, to have her back to run One, if not something higher up; it had--she suspected--been his original plan, his way to replace Operations. She was sure that he hadn't liked the way things had turned out at all.

Her smile faded, however, as these last words sunk into her, as they took on an entirely new meaning; she started the car and began to move away. Her thoughts of her superior, she knew, were simply her subconscious's attempt to derail her mind from its true torment, from the pain of losing Michael. . . . Like anything she had ever known could do that for long.

She let out a shuddering little breath, then, as she drove, her heart in complete torment. She hated to really focus on her pain, though; it made her far too, nearly, suicidal. While she was certain that her plans had been for the best, they still hadn't been to her liking at all. . . . God, she wished it could have been different.

She laughed unhappily at her last thought, though, a second later--at how much it echoed the words Michael himself had given her so often. Still, she understood those words now, knew how he had felt. She had been wrong to judge him so harshly for all those years; he had just been trying to protect her, had been doing what was best. . . . That he had made something essential within her want to curl into a tiny little ball and slowly die had been entirely irrelevant.

She could feel something deep within her screaming, but she was trying desperately to ignore it. Like Michael in those years when his betrayals had come so often to her, she had to believe in the inherent rightness of her actions or die. There was no other way to go on.

Her heart shuddered, however, the excruciating pain within her running deep, as her mind tried to remember again the reasons for her latest, self-brutalizing, decision. She was, at times, lately, finding it harder to bring them back at all.

She tried to focus, though; she hadn't been the one to plan out all of her moves in her last several weeks in Section, of course--hadn't been the one to set the real Grenet mission in motion; most of that had been Mr. Jones' doing. Still, she had, with his permission, made a few changes to the profile, had included her time with Michael into it--had needed it, indeed, for a few reasons. Fortunately, too, her leader had understood.

She looked back further again. The first of these reasons, then, had been that she had simply needed the time with her beloved, had needed to spend a little while in his arms, enjoying his comfort, before he had inevitably realized her full betrayal and abandoned her. It had been absolutely necessary for her continued sanity.

Her mind turned, alighting on a terrible, too-prevalent memory. Of course, her plan had only worked because he had agreed to side with her over Section; it was a manipulation she tried not to think about too often. She was thankful that he had done this, though--even if forcing him into it had hurt tremendously, as well. After the string of manipulations she had already put him through by that point, she truly hadn't been certain that he would.

These memories, however, proved too much for her finally; she forced her mind away once more, refocusing on more pleasant ones. That week or so alone with him had given her one of the deepest senses of peace she had ever known--even if it had tormented her horribly, as well; she had spent the days trying desperately to forget what was coming, trying to blot out the truth that, once he knew who she really was, he would hate her--would have to. She might have always loved him, after all, but she had used him for three years, had pulled him into Mr. Jones' plans without either his knowledge or consent. . . . She could never imagine any sort of forgiveness for that.

She sighed heavily, her heart aching at these memories. These last few days they had shared together, indeed, had allowed her some final peace with him, before he had come to realize the monster she really was, had given her a little comfort--however false and fleeting it might have been. She had needed that terribly. She still did.

She could barely stand to continue along these mental paths, but there were no other thoughts for her now--had been none for at least the previous two weeks; she swallowed back her torment heavily, then, as she tried to move her mind along. This hadn't been the only reason for her week-long tryst with Michael, however. For simple mission reasons, too, she had needed to be damn sure that her supposed leaders in Section were determined to have her dead, needed to be sure that she had crossed every last boundary with them--something they were far more likely to do if she tampered with their favorite son again; it was only then, truly, that Mr. Jones was going to make his final move.

This, though, was just the more practical reason for the inclusion of her beloved. For her own purposes, she had also needed the time to come to her final decision, to come to understand what it was that Michael really needed in his life, since this had always been the one favor she had intended to ask of her real superior. She had hoped, after all, that she would discover that it was herself that he wanted more than anything, had wanted that more than she could say; she had been trying to ask him about it in small ways for several months, in fact, had almost allowed herself to believe that she was right. . . . In the end, though, this hadn't been her discovery at all. No. That, instead, had destroyed her.

She knew her heart was torn enough by this terrible knowledge she had gained to leave it permanently scarred and bleeding; her breathing shuddered again, as she struggled to contain her tears. Just the memories still tormented her badly. She would probably never get over it in any way. . . . She would probably not survive.

She swallowed heavily again, fighting her tears. What she had found in her observation of him, indeed, was exactly what she hadn't wanted to: Michael liked freedom; more than that, he needed it. It hadn't just been an excuse to be close to her which he had been enjoying, but the opportunity to breathe something outside of the usual, fetid air of Section. The ability to make real choices, truly--to wake without the constant fears of cancellation, to just do what he felt like during a normal day--had opened something within him, like a chrysalis finally releasing its butterfly. It had been beautiful.

She smiled at this thought now, her heart fluttering with it. It might be a well-used image, but it was true nonetheless. Something within Michael had been changing for sometime, had been coming into being for years; more and more, he had taken on her old pattern of empathy and hope, while she had abandoned those qualities as unsupportable. Just like he once had with her, then, she had let him go, had allowed him to return to the life which had opened him up so beautifully. No matter how inoperable the pain to herself, it had been what he had needed.

She swallowed heavily once more, fighting back her despair. It hadn't been just one thing which had led her to make this decision, either. No. She had been moving toward it for awhile, in fact, for longer than she had liked to admit. Once she had come back to her senses, after he had rescued her from Gelmanization, she had seen it in him; it had simply been growing every day since then. Try as she might to disbelieve the mounting clues before her, she just couldn't ignore them all.

Her heart wept, then, as her memories went on; it was just so hard to think about, still. More than once, he had seemed ready to leave Section behind him, to turn against it, if need be; so many incidents attested to it, but two in particular stood out: his pleasure at their role at The Farm, at being released for awhile from his leaders' constant gaze while they were there, and his siding against George, during their search for the Cardinal--when she had even attempted to get him to admit to his desire to continue on on the inside, unsuccessfully. He had told her, as well, that he dreamed of freedom during their mission in Tennessee, had made clear that his future fantasy was not of a life in One. Over and over during the year, then, truly, he had tried to explain to her how much he wanted to be out. It had simply grown too great for her to ignore, in the end.

It had been their time away from Section together over that last week, though, which had forced her to face his truer emotions finally; he had begun to really feel, then, had started to show emotions she had thought he had long ago abandoned. He had obviously been enjoying his freedom, had loved the simple pleasures of it--of a day without missions. It was what she had needed to give him, therefore, was what he needed to have--no matter how much it had hurt.

She swallowed her torment back heavily once more, her whole body aching, as her mind focused in even further on these terrible thoughts. Still, she remembered, she had been fighting the knowledge, to an extent, even in the end. It had only been, truly, during the time they had been left alone to decide their fate--left, observed, in separate rooms, unable to touch, only able to see and hear--that the decision had become final. She had wanted so desperately to think, even then, that she could take him away with her soon, that he would want a life together, wherever that life might be, but it was his words then which had shown her the lie of this belief. They had left her with no way out.

She remembered back heavily, wiping the tears from her eyes, a little impatiently. He had been trying to convince her to live in those moments, had been trying to get her to go on--but his attempts had only shown her again how much he needed to be free. The reminder of Adam, of his continuing devotion to his young son--even his attempt to force her to live in his stead--had shown her what she could never be to him, what she could never give. It was knowledge which ached in her, but it was true. He had grown so far in their years together, had opened himself so much; he had so much to live for now, then, had so much to give. . . . She, however, had nothing--*was* nothing, outside of Section; she could give him none of the things he so desperately required. Only on the outside could he hope to find those necessities again.

She blinked back tears at this last thought, of course, but tried to force a smile onto her face. This path was what she had wanted for him, therefore--this freedom; it was what he needed. Even if he couldn't find Adam and Elena again, he could start anew; maybe he could even find someone worthy of him, someone innocent and whole, who could give him the love and understanding he needed. She couldn't anymore. After the last, terrible year, especially, she had none of those youthful qualities left in her. All she had left was pain.

She swallowed heavily once more and tried to force her mind onward, but it didn't manage to go very far. She was drawn back, instead, to the most tormenting part of her memories, to her parting with him--to her final manipulation. The fact that it had played in her head at least a thousand times a day since then just didn't seem to be enough.

She had wanted to avoid this scene so desperately, of course--had even been hoping that he might show some sign of desire to continue his life in Section, during her interview with him. Instead, though, he had simply made it clear once again that life within this entire organization was unbearable for him now--had left her no way out. She had been forced, then--if she loved him at all--to let him go.

God, it hurt her still, was almost too much; she had to close her eyes tightly for a second to blink back the tears, before refocusing once more on the road. She had known, of course, that there was no way to just, openly, set him free, had understood that some subterfuge was inevitable. She had hoped, however, that--once he had been assigned to an abeyance mission--he would take Walter's offer of help, would allow himself a way out, would find his freedom; apparently, though, he had been too deeply in shock. . . . She hated that still.

Her heart's ache sent a shudder through her whole body, but she couldn't avoid these terrible memories. She had been forced to step in, to find his way out for him; she hadn't wanted to do it, of course, hadn't wanted him to associate his freedom with her. She wanted him to be truly free.

She despised her next thought, too, but she understood its truth, knew that he had still been clinging to his misguided belief that he needed her--a belief which she had unconscionably encouraged over the years, for the sake of her own, selfish needs. She had had to, then, force him to let that delusion go.

She had known, of course, that her approach would hurt him somewhat, had understood that there would be no other way, but she had seen no choice beyond it. It would be temporary, she was sure; soon, he would--she hoped--start to see how much better his life was, always had been, without her presence. It was what he had needed for far too long.

His reaction to his freedom, then, had shocked her a little, had scared her; she had known it would bring him some pain, but she had expected nothing like what she had seen. She hadn't gotten over it yet.

She still remembered it far too clearly. His refusal of the field router had frightened her in itself but not half so much as when he had opened the knife. If he had only aimed it at herself, of course, she could have dealt with it, would have deserved it--but to see him knowingly, purposely mutilate his beautiful face--his look full of unutterable torment--had made her wish that she could take back the lie she had just given, that she could tell him the truth. If only that could have done him any good at all.

She let out a noise she realized suddenly was a sob and tried to force herself to be calm, to stop crying; it wasn't very easy, though. She had braced herself for his reactions that day, had tried so desperately to drain her face of anything like love--much less of anything like the absolute devotion she would always feel to him. She knew that it had been the only way to get him to leave, the only way to try to force him into the life he needed, the one which would lead him, finally, to the opportunity to really live. . . . Her own, immense trauma was entirely beside the point.

She wondered now, too, whether she should be proud of herself for her performance that day. Indeed, she had let very little slip. Yes, there had been a moment or two, she knew--moments of horror, of fear--a few signs of her torment, in her eyes or in the momentary tightening of her jaw. Still, she had obviously done a good enough job to force him to go, to make him believe. Now, if he could only learn just how little he actually needed her, all would finally be well.

She saw her garage in front of her and gave a silent prayer of thanks for having reached it, for being, finally, out of the public eye. She pulled into it, then, and signaled closed the door before she lowered her head onto her steering wheel and began sobbing in earnest. It was all that was left for her anymore.

She had been doing this for days now, in fact--for all of the two weeks since she had let him go. She had cried herself into physical illness the night he had gone, indeed, had barely even been human or conscious at work. Nothing yet had been even mildly bearable without him.

Her sobs wracked through her quietly again, therefore, breaking her completely from the silent mask she had been developing for years. She couldn't hold her pain in anymore; it was just too much. Everything in her life was so incredibly empty without him, was meaningless. Even if he hated her irrevocably, just being able to see him, to know he was well--beyond the tracking of the nano Operations had so helpfully, if so uncomprehendingly, implanted in her beloved in the white room--would have meant everything to her. Even if he only looked on her with hatred, even if he had spit on her or beaten her, at least she could have been comforted with his presence. . . . But no. She had given that up when she had seen what he needed. She sobbed more steadily. There was no way back anymore.

She covered her face with her hand and tried to calm herself, leaning back slightly, but it didn't work at all; her tears continued furiously--making up for all the times she now had to pretend to be alive without him. There was no way around it at all.

She had tried to prepare herself for this reaction, of course, had tried to brace herself for the horror of what her life would be like without his love, but none of it had been even slightly effective. How could it be, indeed, when there was this terrible emptiness inside her, this echoing loneliness? It shook through her every second, never giving her a moment's peace. Whether she were lying so alone in her bed--his strong arms nowhere near to hold her, close and soft--or pretending to be human and real in her daylight hours without him, all of it was meaningless, was simply another moment to attempt to exist through, to get beyond. There was no reason for life without him, was no reason to go on except to continue her periodic surveillance of his movements, to be certain that he was safe. Everything beyond that was a lie.

Her sobbing slacked off somewhat, but only because she had almost cried herself empty again. As much as she tried to hide her pain now, too, it was obvious to everyone around her; her new superior, even, was growing angry with her, was sick of her absentmindedness. Yes, he still seemed to want her to continue on, but he needed her to be mentally present, to be really aware of her surroundings--a feat of which she had proven herself completely incapable. Thus, the two days off. She gave a hiccuping, tear-filled laugh. If only that could help her at all.

She tried to stop her tears, however, told herself to; she did need to leave the car sometime. While there was no particular point in anything at all lately, she would be more comfortable suffering within the confines of her new home. As if she deserved any such comforts anymore.

She looked over to the door to her new, small house and gave an unhappy smile, her heart aching. If only it really were a "home"--if only anything could be without him in it. The smile faded, the tears still on her cheeks. But no--that wasn't a possibility, never would be. While she prayed that Michael would find happiness, might even find someone to give him the joy he had mistakenly thought could exist for him in her, she knew that a similar, lovely outcome was impossible for herself. She would never be worthy of that again.

Her tears began to flow more steadily once more, therefore, as her mind insisted on continuing these tormenting thoughts. The truth to her was obvious. She had done the right thing, had given her most precious, most beloved Michael the future he needed, the only one which could bring him joy, but nothing real existed for her without him; nothing ever could. While light would return to his life soon, she hoped, as he learned just how unnecessary she was to his happiness, there would never be anything like it again in her own. All there would ever be there, indeed, was pain.

These thoughts tormented her, of course, only grew worse by the second. In many ways, truly, she had been happier in Section--had at least been afforded the illusion of love there. Even if she knew, too, that Michael was better off without her, the truth did not work in reverse. Nothing in her life--nothing in *her*--was quite real anymore without him.

She lowered her face into her hand and cried more softly, trying to work up the energy to even go inside. The echoing of his absence grew stronger there, tormented her even worse. The only thing she could cling to anymore was her hope that he was finally beginning to discover how useless she had always been to his sanity and his happiness--and that he was finally beginning to move on with his life. This, however, was cold comfort, indeed.

She cried all the harder, then, her heart having been shattered by her own hand. She, in a minute, though, would go inside and begin to try to discover a way to exist, a way to forgive her body's treason in refusing to die without him beside her; that, after all, was all which was left for her anymore--and that was what she would have to find. She supposed she had no choice.

Nothing real continued on for her, therefore; everything like joy had been abdicated--had walked away with her beloved. All that was left to her was brute and unwilling existence. . . . This, indeed, was the path she had chosen.

[End of Part 1]

Part 2

He had been following her for a little over a week now, had been watching her closely. He wanted to believe that it was a lie, that she still cared, but--up until the last few days--he hadn't truly been certain. . . . Now he was. And now he waited.

Michael was standing in the shadows of Nikita's new home, was waiting for her to return. The showdown he was about to force had been coming for awhile, had been building, but--now that it was so near--his rage was becoming even more intense. He just couldn't work himself past it at all.

He let out a shuddering breath of anger, as his mind turned further here. How dare she do this--how dare she make this decision for him? Did she think him a fool--believe his emotions so shallow that he could be happy without her? Had everything they shared, then, really meant so little? He shook slightly with a new frisson of rage. No. He would not let her believe that, would teach her otherwise. There was no way out of that now.

He allowed himself to lean back against the wall, waiting for her to come; his rage had been building for almost two weeks now, had been from the day after she had abandoned him, . . . from the day she had left his soul to die. It had only become more intense with time.

This rage shuddered through him once more, as his mind obsessed here, again. The fact that she had saved his physical body, truly, had been meaningless, had served nothing. What was the point of living when she wasn't there? What purpose could there ever be to that? His body was nearly shaking with emotion, his eyes narrowing. . . . What sort of fool did she think him to be that he could want to live without his light?

He let out another breath of rage, as these thoughts ravaged him, his answer to his first questions obvious. None--nothing. Everything without her was emptiness; the only way he had ever truly lived was with her love. Without that, death was only an old friend--and a very long-missed one. There was no other way of seeing things.

His rage continued, then, boiled; it was a fire deep within him, glowing--licking at the edges of his soul, turning them to ashes. It was a feeling which had been born, indeed, the morning after she had forced him into the wilderness without her, after she had banished him from her light--and it hadn't ebbed for a moment since.

He felt it shudder through him again, too, as he remembered. He might have believed her words, at first--had, truly, to the point of complete emotional shutdown--but that hadn't lasted. No. The rage had taken over, instead.

He could barely stand to think about it, but there were no other destinations for his thoughts; he closed his eyes, therefore, trying unsuccessfully to hold it in, as he remembered the torment she had put him through for those few, long hours. They, after all, were his definition of Hell.

When she had forced him away, he had wanted to die, had been begging for it. Her cruel words had echoed repeatedly, unbearably, in his head, making him shake with terror, with an inexpressible horror at the fact that the only sign of life he had ever known, the only beauty he had ever perceived hadn't been real. Had he been able to think of any sure way of achieving death--any way which hadn't required his active involvement--he would have run toward and embraced it. There had been nothing like life left in him at all.

These memories proved unbearable again; he shifted them slightly. He had tried, when he had first seen her on the mission, of course, to believe that she had come to save him--that she had come to be with him, to love him; he had needed that belief desperately. He had searched her face, truly, for any sign of love--or even of partiality, . . . but he had found nothing. Everything like life for him had been gone.

His mind shifted once more. In retrospect, however, he realized that he hadn't seen deep enough. Still, he understood why. His torment then had been too strong, had been echoing too loudly through him. He couldn't think enough to focus at all.

He had tried to show her this, as well--had tried to make her see. His emotions, though--his unspeakable, soul-rending torment--just hadn't been anything he could encompass in words; he hadn't felt equal to expressing it at all. His face and body had been too numb with inexpressible grief to work, his vocal cords mute; he had needed a less transient sign of his soul's utter destruction, then.

This, too, was why he had taken out the knife, was why he had engraved the single tear into his own flesh; he swallowed back his remembered torment heavily, the horror of it running through him still. He didn't know why he hadn't been able to simply put his gun to his head, of course, why he couldn't just pull the trigger and allow himself the release he had so desperately needed, but he had never had that sort of courage--or cowardice, perhaps. No, he had always looked for a death which he could just receive and accept as his due--a bullet meant for someone else he could step in front of, a building-leveling amount of explosives thankfully strapped to his chest. It was what he had wanted from his very soul, indeed--but he hadn't actually found it. He just hadn't been that fortunate.

This last fact, as well, had tormented him, had made him angry. He had left the field router behind with her in the desperate hopes that they would find him, that he could just close his eyes and allow oblivion to come upon him from several directions at once; it was what he had deserved. If his angel didn't care for him, truly--if she never even had--then he was absolutely damned. The only possible wish left, then, was to finally take up his place in Hell.

The rage and despair of these memories was still too strong; he forced back open his eyes, the fire flickering through them. None of these releases had come to him, sadly--to his utter desolation. He had continued on automatic, therefore, had gone on in his shuffling way as though there was some vague purpose in life, his willful body refusing to die. . . . It had not been what he wished.

His wishes, though, had meant nothing; life had, tragically, continued. Once he had come to some sort of rest that night, however--hoping that, maybe, they would find and kill him in his sleep--something had changed; the dreams had come. In them, too, he had remembered the truth--the beauty of their times together. He hadn't remembered the words or the looks--those could be too-easily faked. No, his subconscious had focused instead on her passion, on the heat of her need for him, on the emotions there she just couldn't hide. He had been a whore for too long, after all, to be fooled in that way.

What he had been reminded of in his dreams, too--what he had begun to truly think about upon waking--was that there had been nothing fake in her lovemaking; everything there had been real. Her touch, her sounds, her need, her shuddering, passionate joy--all of it was true, had not a second of artifice in it. . . . It was what he had needed to remember, as well, to have any desire to survive.

Another shuddering breath echoed from him, another attempt to calm his scalding torment, as he remembered. He hadn't, though, immediately and completely, accepted this truth, no matter how much he had wanted to. No. He had spent hours--had spent days, in the end, thinking it through--remembering every unspoken bit of communication from her, all of the undeniable signals of her touch. He had tried to convince himself of their reality, too--even if his tormented emotions had tried to contradict.

He couldn't pretend, in the end, however, that it wasn't real, that her valentine skills were simply advanced, since he had heard her on her mission with Volker, knew what she sounded like when she was faking it. No--those mission noises *weren't* what he had heard with her at all.

This revelation, too, had been the new beginning, had given him a reason to go on--but it had also seen the birth of his rage. If she had done this for some stupid reason like "protecting" or "saving" him, truly--as he too deeply suspected--then he could barely forgive her, was simply too infuriated for words. He still couldn't get past his fury at her, indeed, for having made this giant decision without him--even if he could see so many of the reasons which might have led her to it. It was still unforgivable. . . . And he was here today to let her know that in full.

His heart raged, but his mind went on here, focusing in on the excuses she might give for such a decision--none of them acceptable at all. He was sure, of course, that many of her surface reasons for this brutal move had been pure ones, had been ones she had conned herself into believing. She may, in fact, have decided that he would be better off outside of Section and his life there; she had seemed to be hinting at that for awhile. It was foolish, then, but it was possible. . . . If only it weren't.

His mind went on once more. He couldn't quite force himself to believe, however, that she could ever actually think that he would be *happier* outside, without her; she couldn't be so big a fool. Yes, she may have hinted at that--in hindsight--during their recent days together, but he couldn't force himself to think that she could ever actually believe it was real. . . . It was just too laughably far from the truth.

He hated these thoughts; he sighed heavily, angrily, once more, as he analyzed her. No, no he wouldn't believe these things. What made true sense in her motivations, though, was that she had wanted to believe this--that it had made her happier, less frightened. Over the past year, after all, they had been, slowly and terribly, switching places, becoming one another. Now, she seemed to be paralyzed by the same sort of fears which had forced him to keep her at arm's length for those first few years together, while he had opened himself to her and her needs--was ready to accept whatever she had to have to make their relationship work. It was ironic, truly--in the most terrible of ways. He had never quite been able to get past it.

This latest emotional atrocity, however, was the worst of the outcomes from this change between them, was by far the most tormenting. He had done the same once, of course, had turned her away--had tried to let her go again--after her six months of freedom, after he had gone to such lengths to return her to Section; it had been an irony she had despised him for, too, one which had burned her alive, had even made her turn to another man temporarily as a means of revenge. He still, in fact, remembered her words then all too well: "You can do anything, can't you? Except be with me." He closed his eyes for a second, pushing back the pain, before refocusing on the darkness. She had been right, as well--and now, she had done the same in return. He shuddered once more in anger. Damn them both.

He couldn't help the fire which surged through him at these thoughts, at these terrible memories; he had been a fool in those days, had been unforgivable himself. He, too, had taught her to take this path, to react to fear with abandonment. Damn himself for that. Whatever damage his angel had been caused, indeed, he was more than a little to blame--and there was no salvation there for him at all.

His anger, therefore, was not focused solely on any one source, although it was temporarily mostly angled toward his beloved. He was furious, truly, at himself for having taught her these bad habits, at her for having learned them, and at Section and everything that surrounded it for having made her feel it was necessary to act on them. All of them were to blame.

He looked toward the door once more and let out another angry breath. He knew she was coming here relatively soon, that she would be returning, but his patience was wearing thin. The longer he stood brooding again over all these thoughts of the last two weeks, the more enraged he became. He needed her to return quickly, then, or he would have no sanity left at all.

After a few seconds, however, he dragged his eyes to the floor once more, knowing that a constant watch on the door would not make her appear, would not make the day move any faster; his thoughts focused again, therefore, on one of the objects of his fury. He wondered, indeed, about the unanswerable--about whether, if this mission she had been on had ended a year or so ago, just before the Gelman process, whether she would have taken up this same, foolish path. He doubted it. Then, she might have been swayed.

His body still shook a little, but his mind focused in. He was convinced, really, that it was the mind games of the past year which had truly done in her better senses, which had killed off her sense of self. Before that time, she had seemed content to be with him, to spend any opportunity she received with him at her side. Since then, though--or, at least, since their one reunion after he had brought her back from Gelmanization--almost every second they had spent together had seemingly made her worry and fret. It, really, was too much to bear.

He hated these thoughts, of course, but he forced himself on nonetheless, still needing to understand--needing to remind himself of her reasons. He was convinced, after all, that the decision to "free" him had been hers; she had pretty much told him that by relating that "they owed her this one." If she had decided on this path alone, therefore, her reasons were rooted in two things: Section and himself. And he hated them both for having finally driven her to it.

He let out another angry breath, as his thoughts went on. It was mostly their leaders who had done this, he knew--who had forced her to fear, to nearly scream in pain, every time he came near her. They had treated her like a Pavlovian experiment, had conditioned her to fear the results to them both of his touch, even if her physical and much of her immediate emotional response to him remained unchanged and undiminished. They had taught her fully that love would only lead to pain--and they, therefore, were the partial authors of this latest tragedy.

His breath shook from him once more. He couldn't forgive them for any of this; it made him, really, regret even less Madeline's suicide. . . . If only Operations had made the same decision.

His heart shuddered again in his rage, as his mind turned. Still, they weren't the only objects of his fury, weren't the only reason for her recent, hurtful actions. No. He, too, was partly--perhaps even mostly--to blame. There had been too many years of terror towards her, had been too many times he had caused her doubt and pain; just a year and a half of constant devotion, apparently, had not been enough to erase the scars of those first four and a half. Nothing, really--he supposed--could do that.

He let out another heavy sigh, then, disgusted with himself, as his thoughts went on. It was this realization, indeed, that her recent, terrible decision was too much like the ones he himself had--without her knowledge or consent--so often made for her which had finally convinced him that her last words to him had been a lie. He could see himself too clearly doing the same thing in reverse--even saying the exact same words--had he thought he could free her of Section and himself for good. It was just all far too familiar.

None of this, however, was an excuse for it; neither of them should be forgiven for it. Even if he were the most culpable, they had both done their part in trying to destroy something very precious and special between them--and that was a fact he couldn't let go.

He took a deep breath, though, trying to calm himself, as he thought back again; it had been a combination of all of these realizations which had led him to his present actions. He had been following her for about a week and a half, indeed--trying to assess with absolute certainty whether his new revelations were true, or whether her words had indeed been real. It was something he had needed to understand completely.

What he had discovered, however, had made him even less stable. He had seen her torment, could even feel it, as he watched her; it had made it plain to him, then, that she had done this evil thing from all the same, unspeakably foolish, motives which had once caused him to try to do the same. . . . It was a lesson, too, he wished to God she hadn't learned.

This, then, was why he was here now, was why he had come back; he knew she had let him go at least half-believing that it was the right decision, that it was for the best--but she had been wrong. Nothing without her had meaning. Nothing ever could.

His breath shuddered from him once more, as he heard her car pull into the garage; she would be in soon. He didn't even stop to think that she was back earlier than usual; his rage had flared too strongly to life. There was nothing logical left in him.

God help him--he really wasn't certain what he would do when she returned. No, he didn't want to hurt her, could imagine no desire to ever harm her at all; that was too terrible a concept to face. Still, he had never felt so completely insane with anger before. If she tried to deny him again, then--despite all the knowledge he had to the contrary now--he truly had no idea what he might do.

A deeper echo of rage ran through him, too, making him shake slightly with it, as he tried to focus in on his thoughts--waiting for her to come to him. It wasn't his knowledge of her long-term mission with Mr. Jones which had started his latest emotions, either--wasn't anything so temporary; he understood that decision, even if he had been hurt by her silence. Had she just explained, though, had he seen *any* sign of her feelings for him in those last few hours in Section--had she asked him even half-heartedly for his forgiveness--he would have gone to her in a heartbeat, would have taken her in his arms and never let her go. It was her apparent belief, however, that she didn't deserve this--and her entirely unwelcome decision to abandon him--which had sparked the current fury within him. Very little he could imagine could dim it again.

None of this, though, was to say that his love for her had lessened at all, had become any less unshakably intense; it hadn't, in any way. In fact, the separation from her had sparked an equal rage of desire to be with her again, to have her just admit her love for him in return. He needed to be with her, the consequences be damned; it was all that mattered to him now.

He was quiet, then, was simmering as he waited to see what would happen, what both of them would do. While he imagined there were some limits to his coming actions, as well--or, at least, he certainly hoped there were--just how he might react to seeing her again was beyond him. God help them both.

There was a moment, therefore, when he even wondered about leaving. Perhaps it would be for the best; perhaps it would be kinder. Maybe simple distance was what they both needed for awhile.

Just as these thoughts were playing through him, however, he walked over to a screen on her security system--the system he had so easily overcome--and found the code to view inside the garage. What he saw there tore at his soul. She was crying--no, was sobbing, was heartbroken. In all their years together he had never seen her so terribly affected, in such deep torment; his heart softened slightly toward them both. Dear God . . . how had they ever gotten here?

He swallowed back his pain heavily, then, his arms suddenly desperate to hold her again. He would have to stay, had no other real choice. He didn't know what he might do once she actually came inside, but it was obvious that he couldn't leave; neither of them was alive when they were apart. He just hoped God was merciful to them both in the next few minutes.

His mind shifted slightly on this, too, focusing in once more. It was possible, of course, that they might break something between them while they were together today, but he had to take the chance. Life wasn't acceptable in separation for them. Nothing without each other was real at all.

He closed his eyes for a second, therefore, holding back his pain, the fire of rage dimming in him temporarily, as another truth of their life shook through him. They were of two hearts--were two separate people, ones who so frequently hurt and misunderstood the other, who had been forced into lives which had led them to the worst emotional choices imaginable. Still, even with these differences, they shared one soul--one which couldn't be parted. . . . It was just a tragic irony, then, that that soul encompassed so much pain.

He looked back once more at his desolate beloved on the screen, sighing. Whatever else might occur in the future, therefore, wherever this might lead, they needed this time to talk their emotions through; until they did, they were both suicides waiting to happen. Their only survival was in union alone. . . . They would just have to find that again to go on.

[End of Part 2]

Part 3

Extra warning: This part is NC-17. Please don't read it, if you shouldn't.

Nikita entered her house finally, almost too tired from crying to walk--but, sadly, not too tired to think; everything in her was pain. She could see no way out.

She had no idea of her surroundings, therefore, wasn't taking anything in; it was a bad state for anyone in her line of work to allow themselves to get into, of course, but she really didn't care. . . . Death, right now, would have been a blessing.

This, however, was not what she got. Instead, a few seconds after she had shut the door and entered her kitchen, she felt something--someone--behind her; the sensation was all too familiar. Her eyes widened, her heart pounding faster. No.

The voice she heard was soft but hoarse from emotion. "Why?"

Her breath stuttered out of her lungs; everything in her seemed to have ceased. She just couldn't believe this was real.

She turned very slowly, half-expecting to see either a ghost or some imagination-conjured vision of her beloved; she even wondered for a second whether she had lost track of him, whether he had died, and this was only some afterimage--coming to her as revenge for her carelessness. When she saw him, then, her heart nearly stopped; her voice was the softest, most inaudible breath. "Michael."

He had been trying to hold down his rage, as she entered, had been trying to keep himself in check, but the look in her eyes--the absolute confirmation of everything he had so recently realized--made the emotion blaze dangerously into life once more. Damn her for her foolishness.

He stalked toward her, eyes on fire; his voice was a savage whisper. "Why?"

She backed up, afraid--not so much of him but of herself, of all of the emotions which had made her push him away to begin with. She knew she couldn't let this happen, had gone to too much trouble to get him away, to get him to safety. . . . She couldn't let all of that pain go to waste.

She tried desperately to recapture her emotionless mask, then, tried to con him once more, but her voice undermined her, was a little shaky. "I told you. I never loved you."

The fire within him was becoming an inferno; he was moving ever-closer, could have grabbed her, had he wanted to. Everything he saw and felt in her made his wrath burn, contradicted her words--as though her tear-reddened eyes weren't enough on their own. His voice was far calmer than his emotions. "That's a lie."

He had her backed up against the dishwasher now; her eyes were still wide, her breathing still highly unstable, but she was desperately scrambling for some sense of strength to answer him with. She didn't entirely find one. "No, it's not."

He had her now, had his prey. He reached up to stroke over her cheek lightly and was rewarded with the very slight, almost imperceptible, inclination of her head toward his touch, before she remembered to stop herself. He smiled, having caught the reaction, and ran his hand down to her neck, tracing over the artery. He raised an eyebrow, the question unspoken.

She took a deep breath, understanding, scrambling--unsuccessfully--for control. She tried to keep her voice brutally calm, but it was still a little shaky. "I'm just surprised to see you again. I thought I'd finally gotten rid of you."

His eyes flashed a second of perilous warning, which only made her heart rate triple. Still, she couldn't honestly have said whether it were from fear or need. A moment later, though, she was forced to face this question, as he pulled her into a deep, commanding, and slightly arrogant kiss--challenging her to deny him.

The tiniest moan sounded in the back of her throat--and she damned herself a thousand times for it. She had to regain control, had to stop this, or all her sacrifice would be in vain. If Mr. Jones found out he was back, he would pull him back inside; there would be no way out for him again.

She managed one final effort, then--with her last bit of emotional strength. A second later, he had a gun to his heart.

He felt it, understood what was happening, but he still only released her from the kiss slowly, his eyes knowing, even as he pulled slightly away--his hand still stroking the side of her neck. He looked down at it, unconvinced, and then back to her--challenging again.

Her eyes had grown harsh; she was rallying. "I'll do it."

He was infuriatingly calm. "Why?"

She was trying. Her face was becoming blank, even if her eyes were still red, as she enunciated the words. "I *don't* *love* *you*."

He smiled slightly at her, knowingly recalling a bit of their past. "You don't love me?"

Her eyes flashed, but she tried to tamp it down. "No."

That small smile continued. "Then why did you save me?"

"I might need you again sometime," she shrugged.

He nodded a little, trying another tack. There was no question in his mind of the truth anymore; it was just a matter of breaking through her foolish resistance. "In your bed?"

There was a flash of something in her eyes again; she could feel it. Damn it. She tried to harden herself again, attempting to look calm. "I admit, you're good there. I won't say I didn't enjoy our trysts." She shrugged once more. "But they were still meaningless."

His anger flared dangerously again, his smile becoming feral; he was tiring of this game, was tiring of her denials. His eyes looked down to her lips, tracing over them, as he felt her pulse jump; his smile grew. He looked back up to her eyes and leaned in to kiss her once again.

The gun cocked, stopping him. She was deadly serious--couldn't take another passionate assault of his lips. "Don't."

He let her go finally, the humor draining from his eyes; he had reached his limits--was going to bring this to an end. "Go ahead." Her eyes widened slightly. "Prove you don't love me. Pull the trigger."

Her lips trembled only barely, as she tried to repeat herself. "I still might nee--. . ."

"No," he broke her off, his gaze boring into hers. "This ends here, 'Kita." He saw her swallow slightly at his pet name for her. "One way or another, it ends." He shook his head, his eyes filling with pain, his voice hoarse. "I won't live without you, not again."

She was beginning to shake a little, as he took her hand, pulling the gun closer to his chest; his whole look begged her to finally just listen. "There's no life without you, *nothing* I want on the outside, if you aren't with me; don't fool yourself into anything else." He held her finger to the trigger. "Either end my life now, or give up this game." His hot breath shuddered from him. "I can't go on any other way." He started to help her pull the trigger.

Something broke inside her at that moment, some delusion she had forced herself into; she couldn't pull it back together. "No!" She was screaming it, as she wrenched the gun from their hands, somehow managing to switch the safety on, as she tossed it to the floor. She just couldn't hurt him like this.

It was too much, was all too terrible. Her whole face fell at his sympathetic look; everything inside her was caving in. She couldn't take that it had come to this.

Her purse fell off her arm to the floor, as her eyes closed; she was sobbing again, her own anger rising. "Why?" She looked back up at him, her torment in every line of her face. "Why couldn't you just go--just live?" She let out a little sob. "Why couldn't just one of us be free?!"

She had beat her fist against his chest in frustration, in pain, but the sobs overcame her. He pulled her close to him, letting out a deep sigh, burying his face in her hair, as she cried. Even in her torment, he couldn't help drawing his love from her, couldn't feel anything but relief, but need; he whispered his answer into her soft locks. "I haven't been free since I met you, 'Kita." He sighed once more, kissing the strands. "I never will be again."

She cried against him for a little while after that--angry, tired, in pain. She had gone to such lengths to save him, to get him free, and now all of that was meaningless. It just wasn't fair.

He let out a shaky breath, nearly swaying, as he held her. He could feel, could understand, her emotions now, but these particular ones meant little to him, at the moment. Letting him go had been a mistake on her part--a nearly fatal one for him; he knew that without doubt--even if he still might need to convince her. The one thing he required in life was in his arms again, was pressing herself to him by instinct, even if a few minutes ago she had been throwing scarring lies at his head. All he needed, then, was to show her just how much she had missed him--how much she had to have him near her heart; if she understood the truth of this, and accepted its reverse, as well, then she hopefully wouldn't be this foolish again. He wouldn't let her be.

His rage had slacked off for a few minutes, then, but it was building again now. His fury took a turn, however, which he hoped would be convincing for her, which would teach her the lesson he could never allow her to forget again. After tonight, she would never question his need for her; after tonight, she would never again let him go.

He began to pull her back from him just slightly, as his hand stroked back the hair from her beautiful face. His lips, too, began a soft pattern of caresses, reacquainting themselves with the lovely, smooth surfaces they found, the ones they so adored--over her temple, one to her forehead, then down the side slowly, making their eventual destination obvious.

She let out a little moan, as he reached her jaw; he detoured over to her ear, though, his teeth and tongue teasing over the lobe, until she was shuddering, the heat in her building a little wildly. He bit the tempting flesh a little more firmly, too, and her moan grew louder. He smiled. The start of his victory was near.

Despite herself, her fingers had been playing softly over the sweater he wore, reminding themselves of the beautiful sight which awaited her beneath it. His teeth on her lobe woke her up somewhat, however; she let out another shuddering moan, as he moved toward her tender neck, and tried to push him away. "Michael, no."

He stopped his mouth's assault for a few seconds to meet her eyes. Seeing nothing there which convinced him she wasn't feeling every bit as needy for him as her body had betrayed, though, he dipped his head back down. "Yes."

Oh God. The moan she let out was much stronger this time; he was using his teeth in his gentle assault--was reminding her that he alone truly knew every spot of pleasure there was here, that he alone knew *exactly* how to bring every one into desperate, needy life. A strong shudder of nearly-primal desire ran through her, then, but her mind refused to let it win; there was too much to say, too much to talk about. She couldn't let his seductions go on.

She still couldn't entirely accept, truly, that he was just ready to return to her as though nothing had happened; she couldn't imagine it. She was a little afraid, then, that he might simply be grabbing her back for himself once more to teach her a lesson, before he left for good. . . . She just couldn't accept that he might love her so much.

She tried to push him away again; it was an action made harder, though, by the fact that her body really didn't want to do it. His teeth began a half-tender campaign, as well, on one of the spots which made her melt the most, which tended to make her boneless. "Uhh," she moaned softly, her resolve threatening to melt in her passion's heat. She tried to force herself on, pushing him back. "Michael, please."

Something terrible was happening inside him; he could feel it. The near-inferno of his need was building even further, was threatening to become nearly cruel, as it mixed with all of the pain and rage of these last two weeks. How dare she deny him, when everything he felt in her, when her body's every reaction showed just how strongly she still wanted him? How dare she try to claim that this wasn't right? . . . How dare she turn him away again?

He raised his head to look at her, then, but there was nothing tender in the look. Yes, he still loved her--so much so that it seemed to be exploding within his every cell--but it had been lit from beneath by his rage, by his furious need to force her to just admit to them both what she really felt, how insanely she still wanted and loved him. . . . He wasn't at all sure where it might lead.

The feeling frightened him, in fact, but--for once, even though this was more wild than any need he had ever had for her before--he wasn't trying to turn it away, wasn't backing off; this was something they both had to learn, if there was any future for either of them. Without this simple acceptance of their undeniable interdependence, he might as well have forced her to pull the trigger on him. There would be no life at all without it.

His hand ran over the strands of her hair softly, but she could feel the heat in the move, as well; there was nothing truly gentle in him now. Anything that might appear to be was an act.

His insanity, his determination, frightened her, too--but not out of any real fears of his actions. No. She was terrified, instead, that--if she let him wreak whatever sort of passionate, ecstatic havoc he seemed bent on--she would never quite be able to separate herself from him again; they would be so completely dependent upon one another that she feared there would be nothing individual in them left, would be some sort of joint entity, incapable of separate actions. Or, at least, this was the objection she was telling herself.

She tried to build herself up, therefore, tried to get up the strength to speak; it wasn't easy with those heated eyes fixed upon her. She had never seen him half so desperate before, either; had never seen him so very close to the furthest limits of what might still be called human. Her breath shuddered a little, his hand still nearly scalding over her hair; it frightened her how good it felt. "We can't do this."

The flash which shone in his eyes was nearly a supernova--its heat far too intense to clearly measure by conventional methods. He gave her a smile, too, which plainly said he was only temporarily humoring her. "Why not?"

She swallowed heavily, trying to speak just one of her fears. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Michael." Her breath shuddered a little. "I didn't mean to, wasn't my intention." His hand, as it cupped her cheek was still gentle but was barely hiding its strength; her body shook a little, her determination so near the point of total dissolution. "But please don't do this--don't seduce me just to show you can."

The way he was looking at her made her shudder strongly, but she swallowed heavily again, as she went on. "We both know its true--know your power. Don't prove it. Just leave me now, instead of tomorrow." She shook her head a little, her eyes begging. "Please don't hurt me in return."

The fire in his gaze went up by several notches, her words burning away yet more of the tiny shreds which held back his coming fury. "You think I want to hurt you?"

She swallowed again. "It makes sense that you would; I couldn't blame you. I just . . ."

She was stopped when his finger landed softly on her lips, closing off her words. "Don't." His eyes were wild with warning.

He could feel the rage burning through him, but he forced himself to look deep into her--and saw there what he had suspected; this was only one of her fears, was just a little part of what she felt. It was just the easiest for her to voice.

More than this, though, he saw her real reasons. She had become who he had once been, emotionally--in too many ways; the thought that her need for him ran so deep, that she was so entirely dependent on another person for her happiness, terrified her, made her want to run, want to push that disturbing force very far away, rather than just accept the comfort, love, and passion it presented so openly. God, he hated it, remembered it all too well. It was an absolutely brutal parody of existence.

He understood it all, then, understood her fears, but he wouldn't let her continue like this. Not anymore.

He needed to get through to her--tried to explain, but he also attempted to show her his more gentle side for a moment, not wanting to frighten her any more with his obvious need than she already was feeling. "I know you're scared, 'Kita--know exactly what you're feeling, have been through it all before." He shook his head. "But I learned a valuable lesson from you years ago--running doesn't lead to sanity, or happiness." He just hoped he could make her accept this again now.

His soft words went on, encouraging her to see the truth, to accept him. "The only reason you should turn me away now is if you truly don't care for or want me," his eyes looked even deeper, mixing into every part of her soul, "and I think we both know that's not true."

Her breathing was very shaky, as she tried to hold herself together. Part of her wanted to go back to her denials, but they were obviously useless; he saw through them instantly, and they just hurt them both. She cut down to the heart of her fears, then, after taking a deep, tortured breath, her eyes and voice a little teary--and very afraid. "I don't know how to love you anymore."

His look seemed to explode in a thousand different directions, as his heart screamed out; the soft words were more wounding than he could express. He had been precisely where she was now, and it tormented him, therefore--more than he ever could have said--that he had somehow allowed her to follow this same hurtful path. He swallowed heavily. Why hadn't he been able to save her from this?

He couldn't put all of this into words, however; there was no way to. He began to pull her toward him, then--his erotic fury growing once more--as he answered her in the only way he could. "Then let me show you, instead."

Her heart was pounding. Before she could really respond, though, he had spun her around and backed her up against one of the walls of her kitchen, his mouth having descended upon hers once more. His kiss was deep, needy, and commanding; it was impossible not to want to respond to it, at least a little, even through her terrible fears. There was no way to turn away.

Her hand ran up to cling to his soft hair, then, against all of her conscious will. It--he--just affected her too much to let go.

He could feel the beginning of his victory and continued the possessive kiss for several very long seconds, until he could feel her resolve giving way more fully. He began to pull back--and was gratified when her mouth tried to follow unconsciously. Yes.

He held her eyes, as he prepared to tell her his terms for tonight. His desires almost scared him, of course, almost made him wonder if he shouldn't let her be, at least for the night, to try to give himself time to get under control, but he knew that it wouldn't really do any good. There was just no way to run from these emotions anymore.

His gaze showed her all of his feelings, then--both tender and fierce--as he spoke; he could stand no more delays. "I'm tired of denials, 'Kita; neither of us can keep living that way. I'm taking possession of you tonight, and, unless you truly don't want me--unless you don't want more of my touch, unless I hurt or frighten you--don't think of trying to stop me. I've barely been existing for two weeks, wishing I were dead without your love." He shook his head. "Unless you can honestly say you don't want or care for me, then, don't tell me no again."

Her heart was hammering, her look afraid. They held the gaze they were caught in silently for several long heartbeats, as well, as she came to realize that her denials wouldn't save her from this--or, rather, from these fears she felt inside. She swallowed heavily, therefore, finally admitting the truth; her look was tortured, her voice small. "I'm afraid, Michael."

He understood what she meant--what she was really afraid of--but his long-held fears, his often-destroyed self-image, made him ask. "Not of me?" She shook her head, answering silently, and he let out a little breath of relief. "Good." His hands framed her face. "Let me know if that changes." He started to pull her toward him. "Otherwise, be quiet and let me love you."

The kiss he caught her in took her breath away. It was a possession, swamped her senses--overcoming them with a sense of him alone, making him her entire center. She let out a moan and returned it, too, needing him; her hands ran over his strong back, holding him toward her.

God. He could feel all of the strength which had abandoned him these last weeks returning in the kiss, all of his control alive once more. When his beautiful Nikita responded to him, after all, it tore away his normal restraint, brought out something absolutely primal within him. He could no longer deny it now.

He finally pulled back a little to catch her eyes, then, sad to leave that soft, sweet mouth; his gaze traced over her lips heatedly. The first time he had ever really been kissed by her, indeed, the fire which had been building for so long had ignited dangerously. . . . It had never gone away since.

She could see how fierce his eyes were becoming, even as they stroked over her lips, lost in memories. It made her heart ache tenderly, made her need him so much. How had she ever survived even a day without him?

Her heart was pounding, as her fingertips traced lightly over his cheek. She swallowed a little at the feel of his stubble--which she had always so focused on, had so beautifully remembered there; it was perhaps a little heavier for the schedule of the last few weeks, was even more enticing. Her heart spoke her thoughts, circumventing her mind--her voice a little shaky: "I missed you, Michael."

He cut off the view of those incredible lips, cut off the memories of all the amazing things they were capable of, as he closed his eyes. Her words were too much for him, were too heartfelt; the temporary dams he had built on his needs were cracking. God help them both when they burst.

When his gaze looked back to hers finally, something dark, primal, and absolutely enrapturing had been born there; she let out a little moan of desire. She felt transfixed, unable and unwilling to discourage him from anything he might do in the hours to come. A little part of her mind, indeed, wondered if this was how some animals felt when trapped in the gaze of a predator, unable to run. Still, this was a predator she now wanted to run toward; they were too closely entwined to get away.

He saw her growing acceptance of him, and it made him even wilder. Lord, he hoped he wouldn't hurt her with the strength of his needs, but it was too late now to stop to worry about that. His hand traced a tender heat into the side of her face. "I'm sorry, 'Kita." He shook his head. "I can't stay separate from you anymore."

She moaned, then, as he pulled her into another brief, deep, and commanding kiss, before capturing her eyes once more. A second later, too, he had taken her in his arms, was carrying her; his eyes made it obvious that he wasn't turning back.

There was an attempt at gentleness in the way he carried her, but it was only external; she could see the fury which was growing in his eyes, knew there was no direction but forward anymore. She didn't want one, though. Her fingers traced along his jaw. "Mi-chael."

His heart stuttered again at her tender caress of his name, but it only lit his fury. Dear Lord, he hoped they both survived it.

She didn't question how he knew where her bedroom was; after all, he had been waiting around in her house for awhile--had probably found it then. Besides, there tended to be an omniscience about this incredible, passionate man at times--especially when it came to all things sensual. She may have asked for certain things in their past as lovers, but she had never really needed to; he had always known. He always did.

She could see in his ever-more heated gaze, however, that he had lost some boundaries of restraint tonight--that the last two weeks had stripped it from him completely; she suspected, in fact, that it may not return for sometime. She could feel the incredible hardness of him against her hip, as he carried her, as well--knew he was in more need than he had been in for quite sometime. She sighed shakily. Good.

He would have her tonight in the ways he decided, therefore, but that knowledge didn't frighten her at all. She had never, indeed, known him to make a single move he wasn't absolutely convinced--correctly--that she wanted desperately, too. There was no need to start fearing him now.

These weren't all of the reasons for her current submission, though. Whatever he did, as well, she would accept as her due for the pain she had unintentionally caused them both these past weeks. Besides, she at least knew subconsciously, it was what both of them really did need--a union born of the sort of passion and love neither of them could have faked. It was the sort of reassurance they both wanted now.

He reached her bedroom, then, seeing that she understood his motives. Good. That meant she might more easily accept his growing passionate insanity. This was a language they both understood, after all--was one they alone shared with each other; no denials were convincing here. Nothing but passion ever was.

He wouldn't be kept from this reunion much longer, either; he lay her down on her bed, his body shaking slightly from fierce, possessive need, and stood for a second by her, trying to pull his raging desire under some measure of control--trying to prepare himself for her beauty. If nothing else, indeed--even if he couldn't find any gentleness in himself to use with her now--he still had to be able to last long enough to bring her back past any nascent denials which might be lurking within any part of her soul. He wouldn't let her ever think of turning him away again.

His finger stroked down her cheek softly, trying to convey his love, before he stepped away and moved down her body. He proceeded, then, to remove her shoes, not wanting any distractions, as he began his coming erotic assault. His eyes held hers the whole time.

She could see how his breathing had sped up, as he moved back up to her again. His desire now was quiet but undeniably intense--and she could see that she would soon witness its results; she let out a sigh of need. Yes. She wanted that--wanted to remember that he needed her still, despite everything. . . . She wasn't sure there was anything left besides that.

He saw her willing agreement and sat her up slightly to remove her jacket, tossing it to the floor; his breathing shuddered again. Every second of being close to her now made his need for her increasingly fierce; it was very close to breaking free completely.

She took his hand, as it reached for her, and helped lead him to the buttons of her shirt. She wanted the break in him now, wanted to burn in his love for her as she never had before. Nothing else, right now, would remind her that he still really needed her--despite everything she had done; they might need to discuss it all, needed to work out all of this pain, but she knew that could wait. This moment was for emotion and fierce union. Anything intellectual would come later.

She felt his finger run just under the silky fabric of her blouse, tracing over the curve of one breast; her breath shuddered from her, her desire burning, wanting more. She couldn't wait any longer.

She started to unbutton her top, then, but his eyes exploded into fierce life, as she reached for it; it was obvious he didn't think this was her job--or her right--just now. She moved her hands down to the bed, therefore, giving herself up to him, and propped herself up, trying to hold her breast to his casually-stroking finger. Yes.

He understood how much she was yielding to him, and the move just made him need her more. He asked her a question, then, which he--in many ways--knew the answer to. Still, the torments of the words she had so recently given him, however false they obviously had been, still rang too loudly through his soul. "Have you been with anyone else, since you left me?"

Her eyes widened, surprised he would even ask; it was so obvious she hadn't been. His choice of words about her freeing of him was a shock, as well. Still, she supposed he had a right to ask--and that the choice was right in essence. "No."

He let out a sigh of unnecessary relief, his momentary fear of her emotional abandonment passed. His primal control of her, then, could begin. "Good."

The finger which was softly stroking over her was joined by several others; they snagged the material, pulling roughly at it. Buttons flew, as it ripped. A second later, too, his hand had unhooked the front clasp of her bra.

She let out a small moan of need--a little part of her mind wondering what his reaction might have been if she had answered, "yes." She decided it was best not to ponder it. A tiny part of her mind slightly regretted, too, the loss of this particular garment; it had been a favorite. Still, she knew it had died for a good cause. She wouldn't repine, then.

His eyes washed heatedly over her body, moving down to this new view, as he brushed the remains of these garments off of her and onto the floor. He had missed this, had missed being able to just take in how beautiful her form was; his fingertip traced lightly over a taut, rosy nipple, and he heard her low moan--saw her head falling back in need. Good.

Her desire, too, was too much for him; he couldn't take any more delays, would have her soon--would take no more false denials. The inferno within him raged even hotter--made his primal, completely emotional side come stalking further out of him. "You're mine, Nikita." He looked back up to her closed eyes. "You will always be mine alone."

He began his possession of her, then, by running his finger up her body from between her breasts; it traced up over her throat, as she leaned her head back further with a moan. She opened her eyes, too, when he finally reached her jaw; his voice was raw and heavily accented with need. "Understand?"

Her eyes were lost to him, were loving and swamped with submissive passion. She nodded, as her hands found his again, tried to move it--to ask him to touch her.

The fire of his gaze flickered more heatedly, his breath shuddering. God, he needed her now.

He pulled his hand back from her, though, with a small, feral smile. He really hadn't begun his possession yet, but--even if he needed and adored her desire--he was going to move it at his own pace. He would savor her completely tonight.

He stepped away from her a little and began to undress, watching her eyes--watching the need in them--as she took in his revelation, as she reacquainted herself with the sight of his body once more. Her breathing sped up with every piece of clothing discarded, and his feral smile grew deeper. Yes.

She was nearly panting, by the time he had removed everything but his pants; he was already so aroused that the hard lines of him were obvious through the cloth. Had she thought he would let her, she would have reached out to touch him, would have adored reacquainting herself with this beautiful part of him--but it was obvious that he would accept no insubordination from her tonight. Her heart beat faster at the thought, incredibly aroused by his need for her. She simply moaned, then, as he began to reveal himself.

His gaze grew hotter, as he saw the growing, torturous look of need in her eyes, once he finally gave her the view she had wanted; a little moan rose from her, and his nearly cruel smile grew. Good. He wanted her like this, wanted her to finally just accept her need for him, to stop questioning what was really so obvious to them both. They needed each other, in every sense. . . . There would be no denials tonight.

Her mouth was open in unconscious little gasps, as her eyes widened at her view. Lord, she had never quite gotten used to him--but had she ever adored every second of trying.

This, of course, was only the tiniest part of why she had missed him over these past weeks, but it wasn't exactly a small part of his erotic charms. The fact, however, that he understood how to really use this particular attribute made it *so* much more erotic than it would otherwise be. She always wanted more.

God, she was beautiful. He smiled at her, as he stepped out of the last of his clothing--but there was nothing gentle in the look. His hard shaft beat even faster, wanting to reacquaint itself with her *now*. Still, he knew it would have to wait, would have to accept that its turn was to come. There was just too much else he wanted to rediscover about her first.

It took her a second to pull her eyes away from the new, lovely, throbbing view she had been given to take him in completely again. When she did, though, she noticed that he still had his belt in his hand, was holding it now with intent. She looked up to his eyes--despite all her knowledge of him, a little afraid.

His gaze, however, chastised her, reminded her of the truth. Still, he supposed there had just been too much pain he had given her in other ways, and for too many years, to fault her for this second of doubt. He would just have to show her his heated devotion instead.