Love's Exiles - NC-17

The following is the start of a character study surrounding the events of "Man in the Middle" and "Love, Honor, and Cherish"; it will, then, include heavy spoilers for both of those episodes, as well as for the whole of the season four opening arc, "All Good Things," "Nikita," "Approaching Zero," "On Borrowed Time," "Walk on By" "Playing With Fire," "Under the Influence," "Charity," "Adrian's Garden," and "Hard Landing." Most of the story, too, will be rated MA-14 for language and adult discussions; this part (and two later parts), however, are NC-17, and should, therefore, not be read by the underage. Sorry. :) Oh, I'm following up on the events not only of "Into the Looking Glass" here, but also of my interpretation of all of the opening arc in my story, "Silence of the Soul"; there will be a few, small references to my story "Anam Cara," too. If you haven't read them, though, don't worry; it's not necessary that you do. :)

As always, of course--even though there will be some dialogue and action from the episodes here, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following; I don't own these characters or the events which TPTB outlined happening with them, and I make no such claim. :) Please send any comments to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

It had been almost three days since they had both returned to the Hell which claimed the right to their souls, had returned from the place where he had brought her back to life. Unlike the peace and light which he had so beautifully reintroduced her to there, however, their days back in Section had been long and grueling. Even worse, as well, every one of them seemed to bring their leaders a little closer to discovering the truth. . . . All that seemed to remain, then, was fear.

Nikita let out a long, saddened breath, as she made her way out of the building she so hated now, heading back to her car. While she adored Michael for having brought her back to herself, of course--for having saved her soul, she had been reminded constantly since their return of just how difficult it was to actually be alive in Section. In many ways, sadly, soullessness was the easiest way of approaching an existence within its walls.

Fortunately, though--she supposed, that sort of emotional death was no longer the case with her. She repressed a smile now at the thought. Michael, indeed, had reintroduced her to life, had shown her her own soul once more. Her heart beat faster. God, she loved him.

Her adoration of him, of the bond they shared, warmed her, made her life in this confining hell almost seem bearable. She pulled her mind back around to her former, less comforting, thoughts with some difficulty, however. She knew she couldn't allow herself to drop her guard; that, truly, could be fatal.

Her mind went on, then. The last few days had been especially trying. As much as she was *very* grateful that she could really feel things once more, was relieved to discover her soul still, relatively, intact, it did make it more difficult just to get through her days with any sense of sanity. She punched in a code and waited for the elevator, indeed, as she wondered whether that was why Michael had so long advised her to give up such luxuries as emotions, whether it was why he had--early on--coached her in becoming a simple, emotionless machine. . . . She wondered, in fact, whether this was the path he himself had done his best to take.

The elevator came, and she was broken from her thoughts; she got in, more than ready to finally leave this place, to get as far away as possible from its evil influence. She was thinking, indeed, about just taking a long shower later to try to get the moral grime of this place off of her skin--not that she truly thought that she ever could. That, in fact, would never be possible. Once you had lived in Hell, after all, it was with you for life.

She gave herself a mental shake of the head, as she rode, returning her mind to her former thoughts, not wanting to think much further here. Yes, she knew--of course, he had taken that path, had been trained to, and had, therefore, attempted to train her in a similar manner. For many years, indeed, he had tried to keep all emotion and feelings at bay, had hurt them both in an attempt to keep out their mutual love. She sighed slightly, feeling the comfort of her next thought in her heart. Fortunately, though, it just hadn't worked--for either of them; despite all of their efforts, neither had ever been able to give the other up.

Her mind continued to rummage through these familiar musings once again, unable to give up the path. She wondered now, however, if he regretted his earlier folly; she suspected, of course, that he did. If he hadn't, indeed, he would have just allowed her to stay robotic and cold, would have encouraged her switch into a super-operative, would have wanted her to be one with him.

Her heart warmed again. But no, fortunately, Michael, really, hadn't been like that for some time--not with her, anyway. Yes, there had been those very cold moments during his brief reign as Operations, but--other than that--he hadn't quite been the same ever since he had initiated the events which had led to their new, closer bond. Even his actions that one time, too, had been aimed--in a rather perverse way--toward protecting them as a pair. . . . She didn't like that memory, then, but she knew it *had* been a very new path, nonetheless.

She arrived at the relevant garage level and finally was able to get closer to temporary freedom, her mind still working. She had never regretted, of course, the new Michael, the one who had finally opened himself to her so many months ago. Still, she knew the change had been a hard one for him--had been more than a little disconcerting for their leaders, as well. She repressed a smile. Good.

Her mind continued to work on this thought, as she walked. When she had been so terribly programmed, indeed, she had gotten a glimpse into their minds which she would have preferred to have forever lived without; what it had told her about them all, truly, hadn't been pretty, even if it wasn't really very surprising. She had always known, after all, that Madeline and Operations were incapable of true or deep emotion; that had been made clear a million times over. Neither of them, then, could even begin to understand her own relationship with Michael; it would always be beyond their, rather limited, grasp. They simply had no point of reference from which to even attempt to approach it. . . . She was very glad, then, once again, that she was no longer one of them.

She sighed, as she reached her car finally. Still, she wasn't entirely certain that she blamed them, in some ways; it wasn't like she had always understood it herself. . . . She wasn't even entirely sure that she did now.

She unlocked the door. What she did know, however, was this: Michael's love for her was real. She smiled very slightly, trying to keep it private--to keep up the mask. He had repented, too, of his earlier actions with her, of his early demands that she be cold and calculating at all times, at any cost. She suspected, really, when he had finally been faced with that reality, that he had seen the error of his reasoning even more strongly, but she knew he had known it before, too; he had allowed himself to face it ever since their aborted attempt at an openly-admitted relationship. Her smile deepened a little. God, she loved him.

She got into her car, and her smile disappeared, however, as she schooled her features once more and settled herself sadly on the prospect of returning home. She had, admittedly, avoided the place as much as possible, of late--staying mostly at Section, in order to stay clear of the maintenance drugs which still existed in the floorboards and counters, waiting to ensnare her again. It had only been, in fact, Michael's brief "Go home" earlier that day which had made her decide to leave, when there was finally just no other work to be done. . . . Hopefully, now, she was strong enough to deal with their remnants.

She ignored the faster beating of her heart at this fear, as she turned on the car. Just as she was about to steer away, though, she felt something under her fingers, attached to the steering wheel--a piece of paper; she palmed it, knowing better than to read secret notes so close to her masters' lair, and then finally drove away from them, her heart pounding stronger--now for a totally different reason.

She took in a deep breath, as she drove further into the streets of the city. Once she thought she was finally far enough away--and no one suspicious was nearby, she opened the note cautiously; Michael's handwriting met her, giving her brief instructions on where to go and which main streets to take or avoid. She did as he had told her, then, waiting to see what would happen.

Her mind was spinning slightly, as she did so, though. Where was he taking her now--and just what did he have in mind? She smiled to herself slightly now that she was away from Section's eyes, her heart warming. Lord, she wanted to find out.

Her thoughts continued, as she drove, as she waited to see what he had planned. She had told him, of course--back at the safe house he had taken her to when he had deprogrammed her, that she would need to still see him, that she would need to be able to have him in her life. Maybe, indeed, he had found a small way to accomplish this. . . . Dear God, she hoped so.

Her heart beat more loudly at the thought of reunion with him. She had felt so cold these last few days, truly--as though just having to pretend to be the soulless thing she had once been in fact had lowered her core temperature, had drained her of some sense of life. She repressed a shudder. She needed her beloved now, then, in order to survive.

It wasn't, though, really, that her last several days in Section had been any harder than she would have expected--fortunately. Indeed, the missions hadn't yet truly tested the strength of her supposed programming as she suspected they soon might again. She knew that Operations and Madeline were suspicious, however, were just waiting for their chance to jump her; these last few, therefore, had probably just been lulling her into a false sense of security.

This last word rang in her head for a second. "Security." . . . Yeah, right. Anyone who was a fool enough to feel secure in Section was doomed from the start.

She took a deep breath. No, it wasn't really anything in particular she had been forced to do these last few days; it was more both the lingering sense of premonition--that much worse things were to come--and the simple strain of having to continue to keep up the pretense of being this robotic machine which were tormenting her now. The two of those, indeed, were a weight in themselves which was nearly crushing. She still wasn't sure how she would survive it for much longer.

Another deep breath issued from her, as she grew closer to the address which Michael had directed her toward. Still, whatever her beloved had in mind, she knew that she would welcome it now. For the last several days, after all, they had barely been able to speak to each other--and never outside of mission parameters. There had, fortunately for her sanity, been a brief caress or two--a small stroke of hands along one another's--just enough to remind her that she was truly still alive. Without those, however, she wasn't sure how she would have made it.

She drew closer to the address and slowed down, approaching the warehouses before her with caution. Lord, she hoped this wasn't a trap--wasn't the danger she had been fearing on the horizon. Although the handwriting appeared to be Michael's, indeed, that in itself was no real assurance; anything could be faked in Section. She set her jaw determinedly. Oh well--if they tried to brainwash her again, she did have her gun. This time, she wouldn't fail to use it, either--on them and possibly herself, as well. She would *not* go through that again.

As she approached the warehouse in question slowly, the main door raised, and she cautiously drove into it, wondering what lay ahead; the door shut behind her car. She took hold of her gun and came out of her car cautiously, waiting to see what was there. It was only when she saw her beloved that her tension dipped somewhat. She smiled.

To her joy, too, he returned the small smile, a second after his eyes had looked around to assess the area once more. His gaze ran down along the length of her body, as well, and she felt a deep shudder warm into her. She opened her mouth to speak, but was afraid to--was afraid that they might not be entirely alone.

His warm eyes captured hers completely, as he came toward her; they seemed to stroke over her soul, as he stopped just before her. "It's safe," he said quietly, as he took her hand.

She let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. "What's this about?" she wondered finally. She knew what she wanted it to be about, of course, but she couldn't let her fantasies run away with her.

Her fantasies, however, seemed to be reflected in his eyes, as they stroked through her warmly; his thumb gently caressed along her fingers, tracing each one individually. "I needed to see you again."

Her own thumb trailed over the palm of his hand, then, the nail running over it softly; her eyes were still a little worried, though. "Has something come up?"

He shook his head. "Not like that." He let out a deep sigh, as the slightly stormy green of his eyes looked into her even more intimately. His hand pulled hers back behind himself softly, pulling her closer, his gaze becoming stronger; his other hand cupped her face. "I've missed you," he whispered against her lips.

She was rather overwhelmed by the feelings he gave her, as she always had been. His wild, loving eyes searched through her soul, caressing it like the lover he was; his warm breath played over her lips, inviting her touch. Her hand, too, was now being held to his outer thigh. A strong tug of desire was pulling in her. Oh God--yes.

She gave in to the emotions he knew he was playing in her, closing the gap between them to taste his lips. Her touch was soft at first but then grew stronger, as each kiss became deeper, more intimate. When her tongue finally stroked lightly over his own, too, he broke--his palm on her cheek caressing her head toward him, holding her to the far more intense, loving, and thorough kiss he gave her.

His heart beat wildly against her now, at the feeling of her acceptance of him, of her love; her hand ran into his hair. Yes, this was what he had needed, was what he had dreamed of. The last few days, after all, had just been so long without her, had been unbearable. He never even understood how he could survive without her touch anymore.

She let out a sigh, as he broke from the kiss only momentarily, his hand angling her head toward him further. He took her then in an even deeper, more possessive, kiss, his whole soul running through her. She shuddered with it slightly. Oh God, yes. She needed him so much.

He felt her pull her hand from his grasp, running her nails up lightly over his still-clothed back; she rested it on his shoulder and pulled him toward her in a way which had always warmed his heart, had always made him want her so passionately. He could feel his arousal beating more desperately for her. . . . God, yes, he needed her.

He broke from the kiss to look at her; she was just so beautiful. "We should have a few hours before we're called back in." His thumb stroked tenderly over her cheek. "I'd like to spend them together."

She smiled. This was definitely her Michael--the master of understatement. She smiled more deeply and brought her hand around to stroke her fingers lightly over his cheek, enjoying the feel of the stubble there. Her eyes were fixed to his lips for several long seconds before she answered. "So would I."

His gaze was tender, but he ran his thumb gently near the corner of her eye, asking for her complete attention once more; she focused on him again. His look in return was absolutely honest. "I didn't ask you here to seduce you, 'Kita. You need some rest." She had, after all--in trying to pretend to still be her Gelmanized self, gotten very little, of late.

She responded to him, however, with a very small smile. One hand continued to caress his face, while the other traced down his side, coming to rest near his very pronounced, still covered, arousal; the backs of her fingers rubbed over his hip there, just close enough to torment. Her eyes were knowing. "Is that all you want?"

He took in a silent, deep breath, trying to keep his desperate desire for her under control; his face was almost emotionless with his effort to keep his body in line. "I didn't ask you here for me," he claimed.

Her smile grew broader. The backs of her fingers traced over the contours of his aching length, which was growing so obvious through his pants. "Not even a little?"

He closed his eyes, his emotions raging, his desire ready to devour her. As much as he adored this, it hadn't been his reason to ask her here. He tried to pull her hand away. "'Kita," he begged.

She smiled, seeing her success. Her fingers began to caress his rigid length in full; her voice was more than seductive. She loved him, after all, for what he had obviously planned--to give her a place to sleep where he could watch over her, where no traces of the Gelman process reigned. Still, she had other plans now--and she was willing to torment him a little to gain them; she did just want him so much.

"I'm not sure your whole body agrees with that plan," she purred. Her fingers found his aching tip and began to tease it through the cloth. He let out a desperate, moaning breath. "Mmm, keeping yourself confined must be painful by now." Her fingers manipulated him erotically, without mercy, as she leaned in to trail nipping kisses down the throat he had unconsciously exposed in his desire. "I suggest a little freedom."

He was shuddering against her, his body having given up to her seductions, but his mind still arguing on. "You need rest," his throaty voice moaned.

Her hand was in his hair, as she found one of his most tender spots, just under his jaw; she grazed it with her teeth. He trembled, and her tongue licked over it. "I'd rather have you."

He had managed--miraculously--to find his authoritative, "listen to your trainer," voice--even if it was a rather hoarse version. "'Ki-ta," it ordered. His body was rebelling, though, holding her to him.

She laughed slightly against his throat, and the feeling rumbled through him--making him moan, close to surrender. He was almost disappointed when she pulled back to look at him, her eyes warming into him. "What about if I have both?"

She saw the flash of his reaction in his eyes, as she tortured him. "There's not that much time."

Her smile was still seductive, as she leaned in to explore the needy spots on his neck again, speaking between kisses to the delicate flesh. "Then we'll . . . enjoy . . . each other . . . briefly." She ran her teeth over another spot, following it with a lick. "An hour, an hour and a half." Her teeth's connection with a delicate spot caused a special shudder. "A quickie," she clarified. . . . For the two of them, indeed, that would be.

He let out a low, desperate moan, as she proceeded to give him what would be a definite love bite by tomorrow, if he hadn't, by old habit, had the healing ointment along to take care of it. He wanted her to rest, after all, but he knew, at the same time--had always known, his own needs. He may not have actively planned on this, then, but, now that she was making it so obvious that she shared his desires too, they were just too much to ignore.

His hand was deep in her hair now, as he held her to an incredibly delicate spot, still trembling a little. God, if she only knew what she did to him. "Alright," he agreed finally. She ran her teeth off of him--to his half-stifled moan--to look back at him knowingly. His own smile was seductive and slightly playful; Nikita, after all, could create miracles like that. "But only because you asked."

Her smile widened, her heart warming further. She did love him so, especially when he trusted her enough to allow her his humor.

She reached up to run her fingers into his hair again and pulled him into a deep and commanding kiss. He moaned in his throat and held her in it, molding his body to hers, allowing her to feel all of the heat of his need. She whimpered slightly, then, as the balance of power shifted between them once more, and he took his kiss deeper, made it slightly wilder. He felt her tremble against him further, and he finally made his move, unwilling to wait.

She let out a deep, loving moan, as she felt the tension in his body give way to commanding action. His hands moved down her legs, moving her tight skirt up; he then lifted her up, one hand on her back, the other on her soft curves and held her to his ever-increasing arousal, her legs having wrapped around him instinctively. He broke from the kiss for just a second to see her eyes.

She was caught, breathless, in his heated gaze. The passion his eyes directed toward her was unmistakable, was undeniable. . . . Oh yes, this was just what she wanted.

She leaned into him, then, and closed her mouth over his, kissing him wildly, telling him in it just how much she wanted him. He moaned slightly and began to walk. It took a great deal of concentration, however, since her long legs were wrapped around him, her hips rubbing herself against his already too-aroused cock. Oh God, he couldn't take much more.

Somehow, then, he managed to get them where he had intended. She only knew it, though, when she felt her back landing softly on a large, comfortable mattress, her beloved lying heavily above her. "Mmm," she moaned.

A few seconds later, though, some part of her mind began to work again. She broke from the kiss to look around herself slightly. In the middle of the huge, empty warehouse, indeed, was a large bed, made up with clean, attractive sheets and a spread. She looked back to him. "How . . .?" she began.

He shook his head, his eyes determined. "No questions." He had done it for her, of course, but it really didn't matter now; they were here.

Her mind, though, had turned to another thought; she knew, after all, that it was likely their masters were having them shadowed. "Won't Section find us?"

His hands framed her face for a second, his eyes boring into hers. "*No questions*," his rough voice whispered. He had taken all the precautions he could; he would *not* waste their time here on explanations.

"But, . . ." she began.

His eyes flared at her, and he took up a new plan to keep her focused; he dropped his head, pulling down the fabric of her scoop-necked shirt. His mouth, then, closed on the tight nipple, suckling her firmly, redirecting her thoughts with intent.

Her words were cut off in a gasping moan, her previous thoughts forgotten. Who cared, indeed, how he had done any of this? He *had* done it, had created this for them. Nothing else, really, mattered right now.

Her hands ran into his hair. Besides, right now, his mouth was doing devilish--or, possibly, heavenly--things to her nipple, was sending a warm ache of need shuddering deep into her body. The questions, then, didn't matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was enjoying whatever he might do next.

He stayed there for several minutes, as she panted below him. His teeth were grazing lightly over the tender bud, bringing back so many memories now of the joy his touch always gave her. God, she ached for him. "More," she moaned.

He felt her desires running through her, felt her needs spiraling beyond the moment. He lifted his head to focus on her, and he smiled at her look of open-mouthed desire. His fingers rubbed arousingly over the now-neglected bud; his eyes were warm and loving. "I've missed you," he told her sincerely.

"Oh," she moaned, her heart beating so loudly for him. . . . She just needed him so much.

She led his hands along her, therefore--sorry to temporarily lose his touch on the nipple he always pleased so well but needing him so much elsewhere--and ran his hands up, tracing under her shirt. He moaned slightly in return and agreed, needing her skin exposed to his touch and taste so desperately, as well.

He was breathing more heavily, then, his eyes alight, as her shirt came off and was dropped by the bed. His eyes ran down to her breasts once more, as his hands caressed their sides; he was kneeling between her legs. "You're just so beautiful, 'Kita." He ran the back of his index finger down between her breasts lightly, his eyes enraptured by his path. "Every inch of you."

She was shuddering slightly beneath his gaze. He could always look at her both so lovingly and *so* heatedly. Oh, she wanted more. "Michael," she sighed.

His heart tugged slightly at hearing his name on her lips; it just sounded too perfect, too right, brought back too many erotically tormenting dreams. His eyes ran back to hers for a second, before they stroked back down along her. He had to have more, as well.

He unwrapped her legs from around him, then, and moved off of the bed, not going very far. He stood beside it, looking back at her, and began to undress her. His eyes took every part of her in like a revelation.

She watched his calm, loving face, as he carefully unzipped the side of her boot and then lowered it off her foot slowly, repeating the pattern again with the other. He was just so beautiful at the moment, was so obviously lost to his desire for her; her heart beat more strongly by the second. Oh God, she wanted him. "Please," she whispered.

He smiled to himself, his eyes not leaving the path of her he was following. He loved it when she begged for him; it gave him a sense of love and devotion he could never know from anyone else. His hands moved softly up her legs, and she moaned. His smile deepened. . . . Yes.

He was kneeling back down on the bed briefly, reaching around her to unzip her skirt. "I love this," he said softly, honestly. He moved to her side and pushed her legs together so that he could begin to pull off the tight skirt he had already been tampering with--along with the rest of her clothes; they, too, fell forgotten by the bed, as he stood again and looked down at her revealed form. One hand stroked lightly over her calf, as his eyes took all of her in. "I'll never let anyone else touch you like this."

His eyes, now blazing with a loving, possessive fire, focused back on hers, and she let out a deep moan. How could he even think that she could ever want someone else?

She sat up, then, unable to stay submissive for any longer. As much as she adored having his eyes devour her, she needed more just now, needed to touch him, as well.

Her eyes, too, were slightly fierce, as she returned the favor he had just given her. "Good." She remembered too well the trips she had made at Madeline's suggestion, during her former brainwashed state. Although she had never been--and still wasn't--fond of many aspects of his possessive side, there were ways in which she would more than welcome it. Keeping her from anything like a valentine mission, indeed, was one of them.

She showed him, then, that her desire belonged to him alone. She pushed his jacket back, until it fell off his arms, slipping to the floor, as he held them back for her; her hands then untucked his shirt and lifted it, exploring beneath it slowly. She could feel his breathing becoming a little more erratic, as she began to reveal him; she smiled seductively at him, and--with his help--lifted the garment over his head and discarded it on the floor.

Now, at least part of him, too, was open to her. She smiled up at him knowingly and leaned in to capture his small, aroused nipple in her mouth; she was always delighted by the scope of his pleasure, by the endless number of erogenous zones he had when they made love. So many places she could touch him made him quiver and shake, could make him wild--spurring him into a near frenzy of passion and love. . . . Ohhh, she adored it.

Her teeth were running over him lightly, her tongue teasing over the end of the small bud. Her heated eyes were on him absolutely.

His heart was beating so strongly it seemed to shudder through his whole body, sent the blood racing in him; his hands were lightly stroking over her hair. He loved her so much he ached in the most tender ways for her. . . . He never wanted to recover from her effects.

She leaned back from the shocks of warm desire she was sending through him, the ones which were mixing into his blood, and smiled a little ferally at him. "There's no one else I'll ever let touch you but me." She gave the nipple a licking kiss to his slight, involuntary, shudder. "No one else can ever have this body." Her teeth grazed over him. "It's mine."

His eyes were slightly liquid with love; his answer was absolutely straightforward. "Yes."

She smiled at him once more, and he held her to the nipple again. She suckled him roughly, as he closed his eyes, his blood heating further for her by the second. He wasn't sure how much more of this slow torture he could stand.

Besides the slight curling of his fingers in her hair, however, he made no requests. He would have happily submitted to anything she had asked of him right now, would have opened himself to it all. He would wait, then, and let his beautiful one decide their pleasure.

She let go of him finally, however, knowing his needs--knowing her own. She nipped her teeth lightly over his other nipple, as well, and felt his groan against her lips. Oh God, she needed him.

She moved him back slightly, therefore, and crouched down on the floor before him. His eyes opened to look down at her wonderingly, and she leaned in to kiss his still-covered, rigid length. He moaned. Her hands, though, were in the process of removing his shoes and socks; he raised each foot obediently, as she lifted it, not needing to balance himself on anything--his own, inherent grace doing the work for him.

Once this task was done too, she smiled and sat back on the bed, her even more interesting work before her. She kissed at his navel, as her hand caressed his covered length. "I do love this," she repeated back to him, meaning every word. Her eyes held his, as she undid his belt; she was smiling. "I love how perfect you are."

He closed his eyes once more, utterly silent and still. He was just overtaken by his adoration of her, by the way his need for her beat through his blood. He needed her so much it ached through him now, made him desperate to be one with her. Nothing else could ever compare to her beauty.

He looked back at her, then, as she refocused on her work, a smile still on her lips. Her eyes widened a little in anticipation, too, as she lowered his zipper slowly. His heart beat so loudly at the sight. . . . Oh God, he loved her.

Oh, she had missed this; it had been so many months--there had been *so* much hell and pain--since she had last been able to undress her beloved. Even the last time they had made love--the first time for them, it seemed, in lifetimes--she hadn't been able to have this joy. Now, however, she wouldn't be denied it.

She reached in her hand, once she had loosened his clothes, not yet lowering them. Mmm, what a man he was. Her hand grasped him, caressed his fullness, as his breathing sped up again. What joy he gave her alone.

The thought, too, of just how much he loved her--of all he had done to bring her back to life, of the passion which she felt running so strongly in him for her--made her moan. She leaned in and kissed the head of the large cock which had already broken free of its restraints.

He shuddered, his hands in her hair, bracing himself against her, his knees weak. "I love you, 'Kita," he moaned. It wasn't encouragement; it was simply a call from his soul to hers.

The words, though, drove her wild. She pushed down the rest of his clothes and began to give hard, licking kisses along the back of his rigid length. His moan was desperate now, as she moved up to take the head of his large cock in her mouth, suckling over the unspeakably-sensitized flesh.

He let out a pleading groan, and her desire for him shattered, leaving a million tiny fragments of wild need. She guided his legs out of his discarded clothes, then--letting go of his length--and moved him onto the bed in the quick move of a woman who was used to combat. A few seconds later, too, she was straddled over his thighs, her eyes heated and hungry, as they looked down at her beautiful prey.

He moaned wildly, his heart pounding, causing the blood to boil in him, his shaft jerking at the strength of his love. He could see her plans--could see how desperate she was for consummation--but he couldn't wholly allow them, not yet. There was still one more thing he needed.

He demanded, then, enough control of her to grasp her hips, lifting her to her knees above him. She had seen the flash of his eyes just before it, but the moan which was caught in her throat simply kept growing deeper, as he sat up a little to lose himself in her treasures, her scent filling his senses unbearably.

Her hands held on to his hair, then, as his tongue rode her deep, stroking through her delicate walls with precision; his hands were helping her keep her balance above him. God, it felt *so* good. Her moans had quickly turned into screams.

He heard her cries of love above him, felt her hands in his hair, holding him close, as he moaned against her in willing, happy submission. Nothing was ever more perfect than this--than losing himself deep in the exquisite taste, the incredible, musky scent of his beloved--nothing except giving himself to her in the long strokes of his unbearably rigid length. Ohhh, she was perfect.

She whimpered above him and held on to his shoulders, bracing herself, holding him closer. She could barely breathe when he did this, couldn't think at all. There were just so many levels to their love for one another here, after all--was so much pleasure.

On top of all of the other levels of it, indeed--on top of the incredible sensation of his hot, wildly, deeply exploring tongue filling her, of his broad nose purposely caressing her needy bud--was the very fact of his almost palpable desire. His skills, after all--she knew, were the result not just of natural talent and desire but also of the most rigid and ruthless training and practice. Here, though, all of that training's immoral purposes were overturned; no longer was he being whored. No, now he was losing himself in her in order to fulfill a true, holy desire which made him quake with need. . . . Only one other thing could ever be more perfect.

Oh God, he loved her, needed her. His cock ached further, jerked wildly with every tiny stroke of his tongue within her, begging to be able to please her, as well--begging for the sort of savage reformation, the beautiful sort of salvation she alone offered him. . . . Hungry. Oh dear Lord, he was just so hungry for her.

She was giving whimpering cries, as she rode against him. His fingers were sunk into her soft curves, were tilting her to allow him to taste her completely. Oh, it felt so good, felt so right. Every stroke of his tongue was felt not just in her pleading, whimpering depths but also in her heart--in her soul. Every time they were together, he proved his true purpose; he was just such an angel of desire. Yes, it was a dark sort of desire, at times, but there was always a light which underlay it, which made it heavenly, nonetheless. . . . She just loved him so much.

There were tears on her cheeks, as she let out more crying moans. His tongue was stroking deep within her, over the most amazingly sensitive spot; every pore of skin in her body was alive with her need, making her feel incredibly whole, absolutely desired.

He knew this and needed it, needed her pleasure to go on. He let out a small moan and pulled her more deeply onto his searching, perfectly stroking tongue. She let out a scream of need, and he flicked hard against the pleasure spot deep inside her, just as he bounced her delicately hungry bud over the tip of his nose.

Her screams grew louder, as her depths caught around him tightly, shuddering desperately in aching fulfillment--a fulfillment which ran far inside her, lighting everything within and making it roar with life, contentment--and then an even greater desire. She began to collapse forward over him, as well, leaning in an arch, as he held her hips up--her hands running down his strong back, her knees still on the bed.

He could feel her fulfillment, her desire running through him--and it made his whole body sing with need. He lapped the ambrosia from her briefly, therefore, before kissing her tender bud. He then leaned back, running his hands along her sides, until he lifted her arms off of him a little, so that--as he leaned back onto the bed--she lay over him, allowing him to meet her lips.

She let out a desperate, needy breath, as she met his hungry mouth once more. There were still tears falling from her eyes, rolling down on him like a beloved rainstorm. His whole body shuddered with his love. . . . Oh, she was wonderful.

She moaned, as she came back to herself somewhat, kissing him deeply, holding him in it, as she explored him. She loved the fact that she could taste herself here, loved the proof of his needy desire for her the kiss gave; it heated something deep within her, until her own desire for him finally exploded.

She was giving little, desperate moans, therefore, as she positioned herself over him, wanting him inside her more than there were tender concepts for. Her depths, truly, were already so sensitized, were delicate with desire; the hunger in her, as well, was just immense. She couldn't go on for any longer without him.

Her hands stroked down his incredible chest, then, as she knelt over his intense arousal; one hand ran down over his length, and the dark patch of hair below it, to grasp him at the base, as she leaned back from the kiss. He closed his eyes, gasping, and her hand massaged him further, her thumb on the vein at the back. "God, I love you," she moaned.

A few seconds later, he was nearly screaming with need and love, as he opened his eyes to watch her beginning to take him into herself. His chest heaved slightly with his desperate breaths.

His loving eyes, too, ran down from her own to the site of their union, and he let out a long, deep moan. His hands grasped her hips firmly. "'Ki-ta," he choked out, in an overwhelmed whisper.

She smiled down at him, as she watched his eyes; they were locked to every descending inch of their union, were fascinated by it. She took in another inch of him, letting him stretch her wide, loving the amazing joy of being filled by him; she closed her eyes. "Yes."

He let out another shaky moan, as his eyes continued to watch every second of their joining. The sight held an eroticism for him he couldn't even have explained. Her body to him, after all, was absolutely holy, was inviolable. To see himself--who had always, in his own mind, been damned--in a union with her, to see her not just accept him but demand him was the most beautiful sight he could imagine at the moment. "More," he moaned throatily.

She let out a moan of her own, as she went down on him further, as she took in another few inches. She heard his gasp of love, and her own moan grew louder. . . . Mmm, perfect.

Her hands began to run over him blindly, as she descended, her eyes still closed, and she was utterly lost to the eroticism of the moment. Especially like this--the only senses she was using being her tactile ones--every sensation increased. It was magic.

Her fingers, then, read his body--brushed over strong, love-tense shoulders, then down over smooth, slick, muscled skin; one traced over the light line of hair which grew in the middle of his chest, while the other stroked over to run her thumb around the, still desperately aroused, small bud. He let out a groan. "Mmm," she moaned in return. Yes.

She arched her back again, a smile on her face, and took more of him deep within her; he had almost filled her now, and she could feel him throbbing wildly against the slick walls which loved him. The head of his cock beat far inside her. She let out a moan, and moved further down on him, stroking the large tip further in. Oh yes.

She heard him moan wildly, and her smile grew further. He felt so big in her, filled her amazingly. No other man had ever come close; no other ever would. . . . Bliss.

She wanted more of him, though; she wanted all of him, wanted him in her completely. Those moments, indeed, were the holiest of her life; they alone defined it.

She raised herself off of him slightly, therefore, and--putting her hands blindly over his on her hips, encouraging his aid--stroked further onto him, his hands helping. They both moaned, then, as another inch found its home in her; the feeling was amazing. "Oh, yeah," she moaned.

He let out a loud moan of his own in return. There were just no words for how intense this sensation was. Watching as she happily took his cock deep inside her slick, clinging walls was almost too much for him, was almost too intense. In some ways, despite the fantasies he sometimes had, he was glad that he hadn't known her when he had been much younger; while he had always been intent on control over himself sexually, it had still taken him years to be able to work up the iron will which allowed him to withstand the sort of pleasure she brought him. Most ordinary men never could.

He helped her, then, to stroke yet another inch of himself into her tight, hot walls, and he had to close his eyes for a moment at the unspeakably erotic caress of it. Her moan of delight opened them once more, though, and he fixated on the last inch of himself she hadn't yet encompassed; his blood boiled slightly. He wanted to give that to her so desperately now it made him insane.

Nikita's head was thrown back, her hands playing around his hips and then back under him, over his curves, to caress over the beautiful, tense muscles there. Oh God, everything about him made her want to experience him further. She licked her lips with a moan, as she felt him twitch inside her strongly. "More," she moaned.

His whole body had taken on a fine tremor; he just needed her so much, so desperately. He wasn't sure he would survive any more.

She convinced him, however, just a second later. Her nails, those incredible, short spurs of delight, sunk into his curves just slightly, and his cock twitched wildly in her once again. He closed his eyes for half a second, his breath snagging. "Yes," he whispered.

A heartbeat later, though, he focused once more on this most erotic of all sights, as he helped stroke her up him a little. A second later, however, he was sunk into her to the base, filling her core in delight.

She was arched over him, panting. Oh--oh it just felt too good. It made her so hungry, made her so insanely needy. She opened her eyes finally to look at him. "Michael," she moaned.

It was his turn to close his eyes, his whole body still shaking. Those incredible depths of hers held him in a way which symbolized too strongly another aspect of their love--of his heart being caressed lovingly within her soul. . . . Oh, she was perfect.

He opened his eyes again to look at her, and they both took in their breaths. There were just no words to say, was no way to get it across. Language, indeed, was far too inadequate to ever encapsulate their love.

Their hearts, however, both beat wildly in their joy, as their eyes opened their souls wide to their beloved's gaze. The beauty of the moment filled them both, stoked their need. Their love for one another was absolutely devouring.

She could feel it, truly, deep within her, beating through her body and soul. Oh, she needed him. She leaned over finally, therefore--breaking the moment, and brought his head up to her slightly, catching him in a hot, needy and loving kiss; he moaned and responded in full, lost to her completely.

She began, then, to stroke along him, holding him tight inside her, as she started a slow, deep rhythm. Every inch of that lovely cock of his sank far into her core with each one; every stroke made her nearly pant with desire. . . . Mmmm, he was perfect.

His blood was heating further by the second, as well; he couldn't take much more before his need broke, before he had to have more of her. Her need, her mouth, her tight, wet walls were all so inviting, after all. . . . Soon, he would be able to do nothing but happily ravish them.

Oh God, she wanted more of him. Her whole body felt alight in its need for it--for him.

She began to stroke along him more steadily, then, adoring the deep-beating caress of the head of his large cock with every one. Her hands, too, found his, took his away from her hips and instead ran them over her body, craving his touch; her kiss grew wilder.

She led his hands down to her taut, gorgeous breasts, however, and his control broke. That was it; he couldn't be submissive anymore. He needed her, needed to ride her, to love her, until she whimpered in her pleasure, in her love.

His hands broke from hers, then, in order to run into her hair, and he flipped her over in a skilled move. His kiss became hotter, more intense, as the part of his soul which simply craved her like an animal does its life mate came to the fore.

She whimpered beneath him, giving up the dominant position without complaint, far too happy in being the object of his desire. Her legs wrapped around him, her hands running into his hair, as well, as she met his every deep, beautifully rhythmic stroke within her with an abandon all her own.

He let out a desperate groan, as his heated desire grew even further, ever wilder. He was at that point; he wanted to ravish her now, to leave her with no part in their lovemaking except panting, weeping bliss. He ached for that, indeed, more than he could ever have said.

She felt the growing change in him, could sense it flowing in his blood--felt it, too, in the aroused twitch of his cock, before it began to ride her even deeper. She let out a deep moan, and he broke from the kiss to stare at her with wild, hungry eyes. "Yes!" she moaned.

That was it, the last of his patience; she was his now, was his to treasure and please. He would accept nothing from her anymore except the brightest kind of joy.

He leaned down to give her a few more hot, hungry kisses, before breaking from them again to show her his feral smile. She let out a crying moan, her nails running lightly over his shoulders, and his smile grew broader.

Mmm, he loved this. His hands ran down to her hips, as he used his thick cock to work her hot core, each thrust about halfway through her and then deeply back in. She was letting out little gasps, lost to him, and his smile grew deeper again, a growl in his throat, as he told her once more what he had so often--but it never stopped being true. "I love you like this." He grasped her hips tighter and pulled them up to meet his small, deep strokes. "I love how much you want me."

He leaned back down again, kissing lightly over her lips, and she whimpered at the incredible intensity of the position, his knees half under the small of her back, as he held her on him, riding her *so* deep. His mouth, his hot breath, was moving down her neck. "I'll never stop giving you ecstasy," he whispered. She let out a small whimper, and his tongue licked down her throat. "That's mine alone to give you."

"Yes," she whimpered in agreement. Her hands were holding onto his head, were deep in his hair, as his hot mouth traced alone all of the delicate spots of her neck. Her hips met his rhythm in full. He pulled her even further toward him, going deeper, and she whimpered. "Oh, yes."

He let out a moan of need near her throat, as his desire for her went further, grew hotter. He ran his teeth down until he was over a taut, incredibly needy, nipple.

Her whimper was pleading and almost teary. Her hands held him to that point, begging for more.

The feeling made him insane, made him desperate to please her. His tongue began to stroke over the nipple constantly, knowingly sending a heated jag of light far inside her, straight to the core of her. He began, too, to buck against her slightly, his rhythm getting rougher, wilder.

Oh, it was almost too much--but it still wasn't nearly enough. Her head was back, as she cried out for more. The heat and light he was creating within her were amazing.

She held him more tightly to her breast, and he began to nibble it lightly; she cried out in love. She had never felt more heated or alive, but she still needed more. Oh God, she just needed so much more--wanted his devouring adoration of her so badly she trembled for it. She had to have it now.

He knew, of course, could feel it in her--and it made him wild with need. He growled, as his teeth scraped past her nipple, as they let it go. He looked up at her, his eyes a green fire, like a large, very dangerous, jungle cat's. "Yes," he growled.

She moaned out in desire, as she felt any last shred of sanity in him eliminated. She was speechless, her wide eyes locked to his, her breath fast. . . . Yes, this was how she wanted him--abandoned to joy alone, ready to do anything to please them both. This, indeed, was what she had needed for those last several, awful, days of her return to Section; she had needed this feeling--this reaffirmation, had needed to know without doubt just how much he loved and desired her. . . . This alone was enough pleasure to live on. This alone was life.

He lowered her back to the bed and lay over her once more, his eyes locked to hers. His hands, too, gently demanded that her legs let go of him, and he separated them, holding them down, his hands on her inner thighs.

Her eyes were wide, her breathing imperiled, as he began to stroke the most screamingly sensitive spot, deep within her, on one of her walls. She was trying to hold her hips up to him, too, wanting even more.

God, the feeling was amazing. She was letting out gasping cries, as he kissed her cheek for a second. . . . Dear God, he felt *so* right--tender but still large, rough, exquisitely placed and knowledgeable. He was everything she wanted in a man, was even more than she had ever dreamed of.

He looked back at her, his smile feral. She could never understand just how incredible she felt, how amazingly she heated his blood, made it boil. He moved in closer, rode her harder, as her eyes closed in pleasure. She was letting out little whimpers which seemed to call to him, seemed to beg him to complete them both, to love her to the point of madness. He was more than willing to oblige.

He leaned back down over her, his hands raising her thighs back up to frame his hips, and rode her deeper, far more intensely. She let out a screaming groan and took hold of his head once more, needing to feel his mouth on her skin.

Mmm, yes, that was it. He moved his strokes quickly, about halfway through her, each thrust rough and deep. He willingly followed her request, too, his mouth returning to a needy nipple; he took it in and suckled it roughly, his hands now on her back.

She let out a deep, insane, prolonged whimper of need and held him to her breast more firmly. Her head was back in the bed, her hips bucking against him. . . . She was so close--was so in need for more.

He knew. He growled, needing to give it to her, needing to present her with all of the ecstasy he knew she was capable of. . . . There was no way he would let her go without her experiencing the most deeply-quaking joy.

One hand was on her shoulder now, then, one on her lower back. Each thrust of his long cock, of its huge, commanding head, was working hard against her core, leaving her shaking, perilously near bliss. She held his mouth to her nipple roughly, as she rubbed her whole body along his, too, the closeness of her joy wracking her.

He drew his teeth over her nipple as he let it go, and she whimpered, barely holding on. His mouth moved, kissing its way up her body and neck until it finally was roughly suckling her earlobe. His cock's thrusts, too, were conquering her, were soaring in her, hitting her core in a near-brutal perfection, encouraging her bliss.

Her whimpers were breathy, her whole body shaking. His words were a hot breath in her ear, as he referred to her in the only way his heart would ever recognize her, "Come for me, my wife." One last thrust connected exquisitely in the most delicate part of her, as his lips brushed her cheek.

Nikita was screaming, as her ecstasy began to wrack her, her body convulsing in joy. Her incoherent cries of "uhhh, ohhh, Michael," meeting every tremor.

The bliss of it was too heated to explain, was an inferno of erotic delight; there was just one more thing she had to have to be absolutely complete--and that was him, his joy. She knew that he was close, after all--his shaft aching delicately in readiness, his whole body ready to embrace it. She, then, would give it to him.

She moved her mouth to close on the most perilously-delicate spot on his neck, one which always made his nerves jangle in delight. He gave a deep, throaty scream, unprepared for such soul-stroking, beautiful torment. His control was hanging on by one panting breath.

That, though, was unacceptable to her; she wouldn't let him hang on anymore. She moved her mouth up to his ear and growled her order. "*Come*." She then placed her mouth back on that exquisitely tormenting spot and bit him with a sense of need which shattered his every last boundary.

There were tears in his eyes, as he held her incredibly close, his cries against her loud and long. The heat of his release was too much for him, shattered him, made him surrender to unexplainable ecstasy. His head was tossed back, as the sounds of immense desire fulfilled rose from him, echoing around the empty warehouse--echoing into her soul.

She let go of his neck, her own screams of delight joining his, as soon as she felt his hot ecstasy rushing deep inside her. She just managed to keep her eyes open, though, through it all, even as her heels pushed him deep within her--his huge, thrashing cock tightly, exquisitely caressed of all of its joy by her trembling, love-slick depths.

Her eyes were wide with the beauty of the moment. Oh, God, he was beautiful like this. The freedom and light of it transformed him, turning his breath-taking face into an image, the definition, of utterly fulfilled love.

Oh God, it was so good. She arched into him further, too, as he ground against her instinctively, and her orgasm rose even higher, pounding through her until she felt as though it might destroy her, might break free of the bounds of her form. Her eyes closed, as well, then, and she buried her face in his neck, crying in little pants against him. . . . Oh, yes.

He was crying as well now, as he held her close, his face buried in her hair. He kept letting out little gasps of astonished pleasure, his body still convulsing to its rhythm slightly.

They stayed like that, then, neither wanting to move--neither of them able to. After awhile, indeed, they would finally begin to come down, would eventually sleep in each other's arms in the way they could at no other time--but, for now, there was too much bliss for this still. Nothing else truly mattered.

They didn't, either, think into the future, into the missions and hell which would no doubt come upon them; neither of them even cared. All they had right now, after all, was this moment of supreme joy, and neither of them wanted to question it. . . . Finally, indeed, for just a little while longer, they were one soul again.

***********

It was a suspicion she would have preferred not to have confirmed. Over the days which had passed since it had become clear that Michael had been successful in kidnapping Nikita, Madeline's doubts about the young woman's status--about the continuing existence of the Gelman process in her mind--had become ever more frequent. She knew, of course, that these insights were useful ones, that they were aiding them, helped them to understand where they needed to focus in order to keep themselves safe. All of this aside, however--in this situation, she might truly have been happier to stay ignorant. . . . It was just far too sad not to mourn.

Madeline's expression was even more solemn than usual today. Time, it seemed, despite all of the sims. and projections, had not been on their side. It had come down to just a matter of a few days before the young woman she had set her sights on incorporating so thoroughly into the ranks of the devout had been theirs absolutely; there would have been no way back into insubordination for her. Somehow, though--with Adrian's help, no doubt--Michael had thwarted their plans, nonetheless, had come in at the very last second to steal the object of his continuing obsession from them. It was, truly, inexpressibly regrettable--and entirely unacceptable.

What the beautiful auburn woman might have referred to as her heart still rankled strongly at all of these thoughts; they were absolutely insupportable, after all. Just a few more *days* and Nikita would have been hers. Her jaw was set. . . . Damn him. He had won again.

Madeline let out a deep breath of air, attempting to calm herself--not particularly successfully--and turned to her monitor once more. She played once again one of the tapes which had so frequently angered her this evening--the tape of the young woman's last mission.

It was true, of course, that--for several missions now--Nikita's success ratings had changed; yes, her numbers were still high, were almost exactly the same, but something had been decidedly different about them, nonetheless. She had almost seemed to be avoiding excess casualties, in fact, in a way which defied both logic and her programming. . . . Still, it had only been this last mission which had confirmed the suspicions of this woman's superior. Nikita, indeed, was no longer their own.

She watched once more, then, as the images rolled before her. They had set up this mission specifically, of course, to test her--to make certain of what already seemed too terribly evident. Here, therefore, was what they had feared; here was their defeat. Nikita, after having been given new information about a schoolbus full of children who had come on site briefly, who were close enough to the target to be made acceptable collateral for the charges they had set, had paused, had waited for the sixty extra seconds it had taken for the bus and its occupants to move out of range. She paused the picture in front of her. Horrible.

She took another deep breath, attempting to calm herself once more. The image before her was undeniable, however, no matter how much she might wish it were untrue. The Nikita they had so lovingly crafted--the perfect, undistracted operative--would never have allowed for this pause, would never have allowed emotion to overshadow her judgment. Yes, it was true, there had been no particularly pressing reason why the charge had needed to go off a minute before it had, but the delay had still been entirely unnecessary, anyway, had been a waste of valuable time. It was revolting.

She sighed once more and flicked off this image; it was simply too nauseating to contemplate any further. They had known, of course, that the bus would be by then; the route and times of all of the transports from the local school were well established. This, therefore, had been the perfect opportunity to test out their now-lost favorite. Had she been able to follow logic, indeed, there would only have been a 2% increase in collateral--an acceptable margin, by any reasonable standard. Still, the fact remained that she had not been able to handle this simple task. And that, indeed, proved their loss in full.

Part of her mind switched topics slightly, as her fingers clicked quickly over her keyboard, drawing up a new image. She had already run the scan on the new retinal image she had of Nikita several times today, of course, but some sort of morbid curiosity drew her back to it once more. She didn't like it, but it was true. Nikita was no longer theirs.

She closed her eyes briefly at this thought, attempting to hold in her rage, reopening them finally to click off the image. Disgusting, the entire situation--absolutely disgusting. The externalizations of emotion around her of late were abominable; she couldn't entirely believe them. Of course, there were some she simply expected it of--Walter for one. She felt a frisson of regret once more over not having kept him in Retirement; his body parts, indeed, were more useful, in some ways, than the whole man. Still, the way in which Michael had behaved for the last half year or more was appalling, was very hard to believe. . . . How such a talented operative could have allowed himself to fall so far was almost beyond credibility.

There was a second of pain which shook somewhere deep inside her, but she didn't consciously notice it, as her mind continued on. She could not understand what made him act this way; it was beyond comprehension. He was so gifted, after all, in so many areas--had proved himself to be since his earliest training: systems, oversight, profiling, as well as both cold and valentine ops.--possibly the rarest of all combinations in Section to consistently handle with ease. He could follow any order, take on any assignment, even those his less logical cohorts had trouble with. Why, then, one, not entirely extraordinary, woman had brought him this low was just beyond belief.

She looked down at her desk, her gaze a mixture of sadness and anger. She had tried to understand it for so long, had taken on every possible angle in her search for an answer--but none of them had been entirely successful. Yes, she was sure that the solution probably lay in some combination of many of the approaches she had tried, but even a more complex angle of vision was still inadequate here. This, truly, was a not-so-simple mystery of life--far more so than any of the rather asinine ones which the less intelligent on earth might ask. Questions such as, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" "Why isn't hard work always rewarded?" or "Why do beautiful situations sometimes end up in ruins?" were inane queries, of course--were the sort of pap only the simple-minded might focus on. No, what was truly incomprehensible was why an absolutely letter-perfect operative, one who was cold in every useful sense of the word, would suddenly start acting like such an imbecile over a vaguely post-teenage girl, one who had little to recommend her to such a man. Nikita, after all, was not logical, ambitious, or ruthless. . . . What, therefore, could ever, possibly be the appeal?

Another angry breath shuddered out of her, as she pondered this further, once again. She just could not--no matter what way she approached it--ever come up with anything even mildly satisfactory as her answer here. Had Michael ever been even remotely open to such things, of course, she would have simply thought it was lust, that it was just a biological need. She shook her head slightly. But, no--he had proven long ago that his sexuality was merely a reflection of what was useful. Even the encounters he had had with Simone had backed that up, in her mind; while the two of them had been quite a . . . passionate pairing, it had also been obvious to her that they were just using each other as an outlet, as a conduit--stress relief, nothing more. Yes, he had imagined that he was in love with that woman, too, but he had been young still, functioning under illusions about life which he had yet to let go of. That, truly, could be explained.

Her eyes burned just slightly. Nikita, though . . . no, she was another matter entirely. Michael had been intrigued by her from the beginning, of course, but that acceptable, and anticipated, interest had grown into absolute obsession. With Simone, after all, he had never completely rearranged missions in order to attempt to keep her from simple valentine ops.; he had certainly never gone toe-to-toe with herself and Operations, gone to *war* with them, over her. The two of them had struck bargains with their leaders, yes, but they had never truly, openly rebelled. This, then, was very different, indeed.

Her mind circled here further, her disgust continuing. There was just no way around it; even Michael's sexual approach to his ex-material was obsessive. She had quite a few tapes, indeed, of the two of them together, had watched--time and again--as he had molded her to his every need, while she had willingly, happily, followed. It wasn't just tension relief, either, and it wasn't simply physical; there was definitely a very large psychological component to it all, one which fixated specifically on this one woman. . . . For the life of her, though, she could not begin to figure out why.

Another deep breath shuddered into her lungs, as her anger grew further. It infuriated her that she couldn't understand what motivated him here, that she was left with the--highly unsatisfactory--conclusion that he was obsessed with her, without any true ideas as to why. That fury, too, was only built upon by the knowledge that he had now bested her once again, that he had once more outmaneuvered her. She had tried to make Nikita their own, had tried to control Michael by controlling the object of his obsession, but she had failed, again. It was, without doubt--for Michael, a cancelable offense.

Her mind turned in cold anger once more, as she looked back to her computer again. Still, as deeply as she would have enjoyed permanently ridding themselves of Michael now, as much as she herself would have liked to pull the trigger on him, she knew that it, sadly, wasn't possible. Right now, indeed, the young man held a trump card over them: Adrian. And, until they could pull it from his hand, he would be almost impossible to manage.

She tried to focus on pulling up a file, but her thoughts were drawn once more, instead, to another, terrible, thought. If, as she suspected, Adrian had helped her new associate find the reversal process for the Gelman procedure, that had to mean that she was now fully aware. There was a shudder deep inside her. As long as she would live, indeed, she could imagine few things more dangerous than that.

Still, she pulled her mind back to her previous line of thought--unwilling to think into this any more, the main issue now was how to control their most recalcitrant operative--and their most dangerous. They couldn't, sadly, put the object of his wayward and inexplicable obsession back on maintenance again, couldn't re-subject her to the process; it wouldn't take the second time, would damage her instead. While Madeline, as well, had no real objections to harming Nikita anymore, she knew that would be counterproductive just now; Michael's threat was too overwhelming for them to try anything so open. No, what they needed was a more subtle method of control.

She looked over the file in front of her, of the upcoming Volker mission. Yes, this was it, was what they had been searching for. While there was around a 40% chance that the plan wouldn't work, that obviously meant that the probability of success was high. This, therefore, was their future.

She smiled slightly, as she looked over the file once again. In a thoroughly different way, of course, Volker would be just as perfect a punishment for Nikita as Elena Vacek had been for Michael. With the young man, of course, it was the lingering--as she was well aware he perceived it--torment of having to seduce an innocent young woman, not to mention the strain on his relationship with Simone, which had been so ideal to teach him the dangers of straying too far from them. With most of his valentine assignments, after all, he got to walk away after the damage was done, didn't have to truly get to understand his targets in any long-term way. Elena, then, had been just the opposite.

The cold smile continued. This man on the screen before her was just what Nikita needed, as well, then. Where Elena had been gentleness and submission, Helmut Volker was bluster and bravado. In some ways, of course, he was rather a modern-day fop, concerned with appearance, parties, and gossip. His interest in becoming part of Red Cell, therefore, was just an amusement, was a way to waste time while waiting for his father to die. He was everything, indeed, which the young woman would despise. Her smile deepened. Good.

This, therefore, was the perfect plan; it would come upon both of the operatives in question subtly enough to go unnoticed--until it was too late. Once they were in the middle of it, however, there would be no way back; the plan would have to go ahead. She let out a slight, more relieved, sigh, one which showed the satisfaction of the rage within her at Michael. Neither of them could escape it anymore.

All that she had to do now, then, was implement it. She had met with Nikita earlier, of course, and had been faced with the young woman's continuing attempt to claim that she was unchanged, that she still felt nothing outside of her orders, but both of them were well aware of how badly this gambit had failed. She was sure, therefore, that Michael would be by soon to arrange a new set of threats against them, to see to the "safety" of his obsessive object; she knew he thought himself to be invincible, which would lead to his defeat. After talking to Paul, then, they would be ready; they would agree to whatever short-term arrangements Michael had, but their long-range plans would still take hold, given just a little time. . . . Perfect.

Her smile at her plans was a pleased one. Soon, she hoped, Nikita would be safely away from them, would be locked away indefinitely with the aspiring terrorist millionaire who would watch her too closely to allow for any covert meetings with her lover. She ached to be able to tell the truth of this plan to the young woman, to watch her face, as her new fate was revealed; it was an event to look forward to, to savor. Soon, Section's recalcitrant lovers would be separated, therefore, hopefully forever, and Michael would be theirs once more--and then all of their recent, nagging problems would be resolved.

It had been nearly three hours now since Nikita had been called in for her rather tense debriefing with Madeline, since she had attempted to bald-faced lie to her about her continuing, Gelmanized state. As attempts went, though, she had a feeling this one had not been entirely successful. . . . Their time, she suspected, was up.

Nikita was waiting down in the bowels of Section now, was waiting for Michael to arrive. She had given him the signal half an hour ago that she needed to talk, after all, had been waiting down here pretty much ever since. She was beginning to wonder, in fact, whether he would ever show up.

God, she felt like hell. She let out a deep breath and leaned over, bending her head down, as she rested against the wall, her hands on her knees. She was trying, of course, to keep herself in line, to remind herself that Michael had to be careful, that he needed to be certain he wasn't followed. She knew this, certainly, but it was easy to forget right now; this, after all, had *not* been a good day. Her mind, then, was anything but focused.

She stood back up and leaned against the wall again, waiting for him to come, as her mind turned once more. They had always known, of course, that something would come along to make it obvious that she was no longer Gelmanized, that she was no longer their masters' creature. Still, there had really been no way to prepare for it; all she had been able to do, instead, had been to hold for 60 seconds--and hear every one of them in her head as another year ticking off of her life. . . . The fact that she was still alive at all now was amazing.

She swallowed heavily, her eyes half-focusing on the floor. There had been no other way, though; she just hadn't been able to hold up the front anymore, just *couldn't* set off the explosion, dooming all of those children to be entirely unnecessary casualties of a war she no longer wholly believed in--she was beginning to wonder, indeed, if she ever really had. They had been innocents, after all; they had *not* deserved to die just because her vicious masters were testing her. She could not, indeed, be a party to that.

She closed her eyes very briefly before resuming her distant focus on the floor. God, it had gotten harder to hold up the mask of indifference she had been forced to wear these last several days; she knew she just couldn't do it any longer--knew, truly, that, whatever may happen, she really wouldn't have to. They knew, after all; her masters knew the truth. . . . All that was left now, then, was how to face what was left of her future.

Her thoughts were interrupted finally by the arrival of the man who had saved her from the ice-locked place of the heart where she had existed for three months. Her eyes clearly showed him how desperately she needed to see him, how much just the sight of him helped to heal her. She sighed, breathing again.

His own eyes reflected her pain back to her, however; he just felt her own too strongly, indeed, to ever be able to ignore it. He had known this day was coming, of course, had foreseen it, but that one minute on the mission today had brought everything into too-clear focus. She had made her unintentional announcement; she, indeed, was herself once more--and their masters would be cruel in their defeat. . . . All that was left them now, therefore, were the negotiations.

He needed to connect with her here, nonetheless, however, even if he knew precisely what she would say, understood too well what was happening in her. He could feel her torment running through him, could feel it aching in his soul, and--as always--it hurt him to see her in so much pain. He wanted, then, to do anything he could to relieve it.

He came close to her, brushing his hand along her jaw lightly, giving her a small part of himself to help her through. "They know," he agreed, before she even spoke the thought. She nodded unhappily, and his fingers delicately stroked her cheek. "I'll handle it."

She swallowed heavily. His touch was helping, yes, but there was too much pain to be disposed of so easily. "How?"

His eyes were soft. "Adrian."

She looked unsure. He had never told her all the details of what had happened with the older woman, had--as always--decided that she was safer not knowing. Still, she did know where to find a contact number for someone who could take her to Section's founder, knew the code word which would make him talk, as well. That, indeed, was his safeguard for her, his way of ensuring that she would be protected, even if their masters killed him. The rest of the details, though, were his alone.

She understood, then, what he was doing with the older woman--and she had little real objection to it. She suspected, after all, that, wherever she was, she was fine, that she wasn't being harmed, and that was all that really mattered to her about their bargaining chip. If it could keep them safe from their masters, indeed, then she would welcome it happily.

What worried her, though, was different, was whether this threat--whether any threat--would really be enough to keep them safe this time. She remembered all too well, after all, what had happened to Jurgen, when he had attempted the same sort of approach; they had destroyed him, truly, just for wanting to be treated like a human being. That, in Section, was far too much to ask.

She swallowed heavily, then, the worry evident in her eyes. "Is it enough?"

His gaze was strong, confident. He would never have used the older woman to truly extort anything extraordinary of his masters, but he would use *any* advantage he could find to keep this one, precious woman before him alive and well. He too remembered Jurgen, of course, and his own part in bringing that man down--along with his own, it now seemed to him, appallingly sanctimonious declaration that no one could be allowed to hold Section hostage. He had realized, finally, though, what nonsense his words had been; he suspected, really, that he hadn't even fully meant it, at the time. No, he had, he knew, gone after Jurgen because he was too decent, because he had too good a chance of being able to win Nikita from him permanently--and that, truly, was something he would never allow.

His actions now, therefore, to his mind, weren't ironic or contradictory ones; in both cases, he had been working to keep Nikita as his own. This time, at least, he was destroying no one decent to do it. "It's enough," he answered quietly. His thumb traced softly over her chin, as he began to move away, giving her some final instructions before he left to do intellectual battle. "Stay low for another two hours, just to be safe. Then, Operations and Madeline will probably want to see you." He started to walk off, not allowing himself to get drawn to her too deeply, knowing he needed to go now or risk staying altogether.

She watched him start to leave. She knew, of course, that he was probably right about all this, but her fears remained, nonetheless; she needed, then, to see his face just once more. "Michael," her slightly teary voice caught him.

His heart ached so deeply at the sound of it. He turned back to her, his heart in his eyes.

Her own gaze was incredibly devoted. "Thank you."

The look he gave her was lost, was completely given up to her alone. His eyes ran down to her lips, then caressed every beautiful feature of her face, before coming back to meet her own. He only gave a slight nod, but she heard his silent message as though he had shouted it: "I love you."

She smiled at him, as he moved away finally, then, her heart beginning to beat again--beginning to beat for him. She still wasn't entirely certain that they were safe, that they ever would be, in truth, but he had given her something like hope once more. Soon, she would no longer have to pretend to be Section's creature; soon, she could show a little of herself once more. Lord, she needed it. She sighed. In this place, after all, even that much freedom was a gift.