The following is a character study based around the events of "Sympathy for the Devil." In many ways, it picks up after my story, "Love's Exiles" (which is about the events of "Man in the Middle" and "Love, Honor and Cherish") just as the episode itself follows on these events; having read that story isn't really necessary for understanding this, though. It will include heavy spoilers for all these episodes, however, as well as for "No One Lives Forever," "Missing," "On Borrowed Time," "Beyond the Pale," "Into the Looking Glass," and "Getting Out of Reverse." I've subscribed, as well, to one of the theories about Nikita's origins in NOLF; now, watch me get proved wrong. :) I'm rating it MA-14 for adult language and discussions, too, except for one NC-17 chapter; please be warned. Oh, once again there's a small reference to my story, "Anam Cara," as well--although it isn't really at all necessary that you read it to understand any of this. :)

Alright, almost enough warnings. One more, though--although I do use a few of the scenes and dialogue from the episode here, I am in no way suggesting any sort of ownership of them. Everyone knows that they (the characters, etc., etc.) belong to all of the various creators and not to me . :) No infringement of any sort is intended here, then, of course. Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

It had been forever now, had been over a quarter century since the day it had started--but that made no difference to him at all. Sometimes, indeed, the past seemed to slide away from him, the years slipping through his fingers like sand, until he was back in that place: the smell--a mixture of fetid earth, sweat, blood, and decay--filling his nostrils, the screams and groans of his own voice in his ears. In some ways, however, this didn't worry him; anyone who forgot the past, after all, was condemned to repeat it. . . . Well, he never forgot. His old life had ended in that hell hole, and a new one had begun. And, in this new one, as well, he was determined about one thing: he would never be a prisoner again.

Paul Wolfe was standing now at a place he had come to know well, at the black obsidian monument that bore his name among the dead. How often he had traced his fingers over it he had no idea, but it bore such a cosmic truth that he was drawn back here again and again, whenever he could manage the time--or whenever life gave him another little reminder, as it had so recently, of what he had lost. This, truly, more than anywhere else besides Section One, was his home.

He turned away from the wall and began to walk to a nearby bench. He needed to think, needed this time alone. The wall was right, of course; the man who had gone to Vietnam was dead, had died in Chin Duc. The man who had walked into Section One as a recruit had been someone entirely different, indeed.

It would have been hard to explain those days with Lin to anyone who hadn't been there, though. Sometimes, in fact, he lost track of just how long it had gone on; instead of fifteen days, it seemed like months--and he had to shake his head again to get it right.

He sighed slightly, as he sat down, his eyes scanning his surroundings. No one here recognized him, of course; no one here knew his story. Most of the people around him were just tourists, those who had come to see the memorial because it was in the tour guides, because it was there. Most of them were too young to even remember the war, much less to have had any personal connection to it. . . . Most of them, truly, just didn't have a goddamned clue.

An exception to his last thought turned away from the wall, as he watched, making eye contact with him unintentionally. Their gazes locked deeply, and a moment of experience recognition took place between them. No, they had never known each other, had never met before, but they had both gone through a hell with the same name on it. They alone, then, could understand the truth.

The moment passed, however, and the man turned away. Operations took in his dirty and disheveled clothes, his unwashed hair, and realized without surprise that he was homeless; his heart hardened against him slightly. He had a sort of respect, it was true, for the men who had gone through this one experience with him, but it ended with those who hadn't been able to go on after it. He had never had any respect for weakness, after all, for those who fell apart under stress; in his line of work, those people were collateral, either died or were cancelled early. And that, too, was the way it should be.

Of course, to him, this method of control made perfect sense. That was the way of life. The strong got stronger; the weak died. Anyone foolish enough to question that wasn't worth the resources it would take to keep them alive, anyway.

His mind turned at this last thought, as his subconscious tried temporarily to drown out the thoughts of his past, and was drawn, therefore, to someone else who--to his mind--fit into this category. Nikita's very presence on earth was a nuisance of sorts to him, most of the time; she was just the sort of person who was too weak to make it without outside help. If he himself hadn't seen to her recruitment, in fact, she would have lived and died on the streets, would have amounted to nothing. He had attempted to give her the strength she needed to live by bringing her in, then. . . . The fact that she had never been particularly grateful to him for this rescue, therefore, still irked him more than a little.

His thoughts shifted slightly once again. Still, it was not himself who was responsible for her continuing failures; it was the weakness she had inherited from her idiot father which had caused her to be so abominably humane in her outlook on life. If it hadn't been for the continuing interference of Michael, indeed, he would have rid himself of her long ago.

He sighed, holding in his disappointment over this failure once again, his mind moving along. She had proved useful to him more than once, however, bizarrely. She had been the one to keep Stephen from getting himself killed even earlier than he eventually had; his heart tugged at the thought, his mind shifting briefly. If only he could have raised his son to adulthood, he was certain no one could have taken him out. Had he been there, indeed, Stephen would have been more like--well, like himself. . . . If only that had been possible.

He swallowed slightly, not wanting to think into this too much further, his thoughts returning to a previous path. He had wanted, of course, when he had recruited her originally--as well as keeping her from wasting whatever talents she might have on the streets--to have Nikita under his control, had wanted to be able to prove to George that he could hold sway over anyone, even his old rival's child.

This last part, too, had been a sweet bit of irony, actually, one he had enjoyed a great deal in that first year or so. In time, though, her presence had become more irksome to him, her continued attempts to put personal morality before her orders more galling. If he could have found a way to stop these proclivities in her long before the Gelman process, indeed, he would have.

None of this, however, meant that he hadn't tried. More than once, he had thought her as good as dead, had put her into abeyance. Each time, though, Michael had stepped in, had prevented the inevitable. With that man's betrayals of them earlier this year, as well, he had proven that--instead of working to influence Nikita--Nikita, instead, had influenced him. And that, truly, was a goddamn shame.

He circled his mind back around, trying to stave off his anger. Still, there were times when their relationship could prove helpful, when he was less worried about their possible betrayals and became more focused on their extraordinary powers as a team. This, too, he suspected, would be one of those times. In many ways, of course, their predilection for each other made them easy to manipulate--which was one of his general objections to them, most of the time; all he would have to do to ensure their aid, however, was to promise them something they could have in no other way--time together without questions or reprisals. For that one reward, indeed, they would give him the Pavlovian reaction he expected and needed of them. For that, they would save his past.

The sharp blue eyes became distant, as he focused somewhere beyond his surroundings, his mind returning to the real impetus for this latest visit to his obsidian home: Willie. He sighed, his heart aching a little. It hurt him to see a man who had been so strong for him for fifteen days, a man who had taken all of Lin's torture and abuse and come through it with a joke, brought so low by time and despair. He understood, of course, how the memories could haunt you, how they worked their way into your dreams, made them turn even uglier than normal. He himself, though, had never succumbed to the bottle or whatever new drug seemed capable of erasing the memories temporarily; he had just dealt with them, instead. It hurt him, then, that Willie hadn't been able to do the same.

He swallowed slightly, his sadness heightened by memories of that young boy his NCO had been. In those fifteen days, he had learned to love Willie, truly, had learned to respect him more than he had ever come to respect anyone else; even the man's eventual fate hadn't changed that. Madeline herself ranked second to him, indeed, and her advice would certainly always have been more insightful. . . . Still, Madeline could not have gotten him through that one experience. Encouragement and warmth were not her forte'; it was what he loved her for. Willie, however, had still believed in friendship enough to reach out to him during that dreadful time--and for that alone he would look after the man from a distance until his death.

His mind ran back over his old friend once more, then, over what he had been taught by him. It was because of Willie, really, that he still had some faith left in humanity; experience, otherwise, would have ruled that out entirely. It was because of this one man that he still believed that there were innocents.

His mind shifted a little, these warmer thoughts slipping away slightly. Of course, sometimes some of those innocents had to be sacrificed so that others could live, but that too was the way of nature. Nurturance was solely a trait which was taught by some parents for the sake of future self-preservation; the real human animal knew nothing of it. . . . On occasion, though, he did still thank God for it. If Willie, after all, hadn't been foolish enough to believe in such stuff, he himself would have been dead long ago. Occasionally, then, illusions could be helpful.

He shook his head, removing these thoughts from it, as his mind switched paths once more. He remembered other things about his experience in Chin Duc, as well, though, ones which said far less about humanity. Lin's treatment of him, of course, had made him stronger, had taught him a lot about life. While Willie's kindness had been a pleasant illusion, Lin's torture had been real. After those fifteen days, too--after he had gone from them immediately into his new life in Section One, he had learned one thing about himself: he would never again be anyone's prisoner; he would never again know torture.

This determination, as well, had driven him ever since, had forged his new path in Section. Yes, he had been captured and tortured during his time as a cold op.; that had been unavoidable, but it had also fueled in him a need to create his own path, to forge a destiny in his new life which would see to it that he was safe, that he had the power required to make his own decisions. After awhile, too--after he had learned to amass enough influence, he was able to carry out some of his plans. . . . And that, truly, was why he would never let anyone take any of this away again.

He gave a slightly feral little smile. This wasn't the only thing which he had been taught by Lin, though, was not the only life lesson he had emerged with from his days in Chin Duc. Lin, too, had taught him more than a little about the fine points of torture, about the efficiency of a more straightforward approach. It was true, Madeline was the master of psychological interrogation, but he himself was far more fond of a cleaner, simpler way. Many times, indeed, it was easier, and quicker, to just apply a sharp knife in the correct way than to spend hours trying to dance through someone's subconscious. Lin, in fact, had taught him that.

His mind, however, wouldn't stay away from his next path forever. He sighed once more, then, as his thoughts turned once more from these more pleasant paths back to Michael and Nikita.

In many ways, the lessons he had learned from Lin were the reasons why he had to protect himself from them, as well. George, of course, was a threat too, but--with Madeline on his side--they were almost always able to stay one step ahead of him. Michael, however, reminded him too much of someone--of Madeline, he supposed, at that age; there was a quiet power to him which the woman he loved had always possessed, too. He had the ability to deny himself anything in his quest for closure--either personal or mission-related--as well. While this was something which Paul himself had always strived for, and had certainly gained to an extent, both Michael and Madeline had raised it to an art form--one he himself could only stand back and admire. He was a formidable adversary, therefore, at the best of times.

His eyes became more steely, however, as his thoughts ran more deeply here. Just as was his second in command, then, Michael was a force to be reckoned with. As he had too recently proven in his personal reprogramming of Nikita--not to mention his kidnapping of Adrian from within Section itself--he was capable of nearly anything when he put his mind to it. To allow him to get too close to his one personal goal, then--to the one ally he needed--would be foolish in the extreme.

His next thoughts seemed so obvious. In so many ways, this young pair reminded him of himself and Madeline--although he would have rebelled at the thought of seeing himself too deeply in Nikita. Still, they had all the qualities which would allow them to run Section One on their own, if they wanted to. That, then, was precisely the reason why they needed special watching.

His eyes were a little glazed in thought. Although he hadn't thought about it consciously, too, all of these previous musings were precisely the reason why Operations tended to have such contradictory attitudes toward Section's best pairing. He tended not to analyze too deeply about the fact that one day he would be planning for their deaths, while the next he would think of them as Section One's future. It all depended, really, though, on whether the pair had recently gotten under his skin, about whether he had thought too deeply into the possibility of their mutiny. . . . It all depended on how settled he saw his position continuing to be.

This wasn't to say, however, that the pair in question really had to do anything in particular to raise their leader's wrath. No, for Operations, his attitudes toward his operatives were a day-by-day matter of whether or not he had thought too deeply about past betrayals and future dangers. If he had, then the couple were usually placed in unspoken abeyance in his mind; if not, then he relied on them absolutely to handle Section's hardest tasks. And, to him, as well, none of this was in the least contradictory.

He began staring at the memorial once more, his mind circling back again. His time with Phan Van Lin, therefore, had not only made him determined to be his own man. No, he had taught him much more than that. He had taught him the truth of his life ever since--that it was better to be cold and unfeeling, as well as that less subtle tortures were often the most effective. Madeline's forte', as he had just thought again, was the delicate discrimination of levels of pain and endurance, was looking deeply, analytically, into a problem and coming up with the most strictly logical answer. His own approach, however, had ended up to be very much like Lin's; you used your anger or hate in your favor, let it work for you. If you needed to interrogate someone, a knife in the leg or the removal of a finger was every bit as effective as an hours-long psychological rape. That, really, was just obvious.

He had, then, in many ways, become his old enemy, but it was the price he was willing to pay for victory and control. "Humanity," after all, was a weakness.

His mind turned around. Except in one case, that is--Willie. He sighed and stood up, walking back to his car. He was heading back to France as soon as he could, would put his proposal to his two most recalcitrant operatives and would see whether their need for each other would win out over their irrational dislike of himself. He was sure enough of the outcome. All he needed to do, therefore, was present his proposal to them and wait for their usual weaknesses to lead them to accept, and then, once more, Willie would be safe--and good would reign in the world again.

It had been a long night out, if a very pleasant one. They had gone to dinner together, just enjoying a shared night off; those, after all, had become rarer, of late. . . . Any time which could be grabbed, then, was appreciated.

In truth, Michael and Nikita hadn't really had any time together since they had finally reunited after her mission with Volker. While that earlier time had been wonderful, too, had been incredibly healing, it had been all too brief, both of them being called back in after just an hour or so of sleep. Tonight, therefore, had been special.

They were walking back into her apartment building, were returning, by instinct, to her home. They both knew, of course, that their masters didn't really want them together, but the older couple had said nothing specific of late, had given no orders, to keep them separate. It was just natural, then, that they would drift back to each other, as soon as the time presented itself. Neither of them had even questioned it at all.

For Michael, too, the part of the evening he had needed the most was finally coming closer. Yes, he had adored every second of his dinner with Nikita, of his conversation with her--of just being in her presence. Still, he truly needed, more and more, to be able to reconnect with her sensually in order to remember that he was real, that life had meaning. Without that one lifeline, after all, sanity was only a distant memory.

There was more to it than just this for him, as well, however. He could feel, too, that Nikita was troubled, that she was not recovering from her mission with Volker in any healthy way. Instead, she seemed to be diving deeper and deeper within herself, trying to avoid life and touch in order to feign sanity once more. It was a path he knew too well; he himself, he was sure, was the one who had taught it to her. He needed to be the one to end it, then--to bring her back, once more.

For Nikita, however, nothing was quite that clear. She wasn't even fully allowing herself to realize just how deeply affected she had been by her brief mission marriage to Volker--and all that had happened therein; it was too much for her to handle, consciously. All she could allow herself to know, indeed, was that she wasn't really herself.

Her feelings, therefore, as they began to approach the apartment, were less certain, were far less settled, than her companion's. Where Michael was convinced of what they both needed, she could half-consciously feel something in herself holding back, something she had yet to allow herself to face. . . . She wasn't really sure what she would do once they got inside.

They were half continuing a conversation between them, as they walked, though, one which had more than a little playfulness to it. Nikita engaged in it willingly, even though she could only half-feel anything she said, at the moment; it was, however, the way she wanted to feel again.

She smiled at him, feeling more nervous than she could account for. "I liked tonight."

His own smile was subtle and knowing. "It's not over yet."

She looked at the ground, her still-unnamed anxiety growing louder within her; she kept the smile, though, still half-feeling it. "What did you have in mind?"

His eyes searched her face, evaluating. "Well, we were in the middle of a night together not so long ago." Nikita was looking for her key. "I'd like to continue it--with one change, that is."

She smiled more deeply, remembering, her heart warming a little; she still looked down, though, as she began to unlock the door. "Which is?"

She came into the apartment first, as he followed her, watching her closely. She looked so beautiful tonight--as she always did. Still, there was a sadness about her recently, one he wanted so much to take away; he watched her close the door. Tonight, maybe he could.

She ended up facing him, her purse hanging from her hand, but she still didn't make eye contact. Her nervousness was increasing exponentially, as her now-well-ingrained fears took hold, as though even being near him might cause something terrible to happen. She couldn't have quite put it into words, but the emotion was definitely there, nonetheless. . . . She was afraid.

Still, he was also definitely gaining her attention, her focus. His hand was trailing under her jacket at her shoulder, was starting to push the material off, his intent as obvious as it was gentle. She held her breath, waiting.

He was watching her carefully now, his face tender. He had been waiting to really touch her all evening--had been waiting for at least a week since their last day together. The fact that his gloves were still on was meaningless to him. This was his chance; undressing could wait.

Her attention was drawn to his hand, as it continued on in its intent, before she looked up at him finally--pulled into his gaze. Her doubts disappeared there, as well, evaporated at his loving look. Sometimes, in fact, she thought he hypnotized her, but--lately--being with him was the only time she wasn't in pain. She would gladly follow his will again, then, if it led to such rare peace.

She stepped back but leaned in to meet his kiss willingly. His heart began to pound with the small touch, his kiss in return gentle. He wanted so badly to give her back her knowledge of self once more, to remind her of the sense of joy and life she had once possessed. He needed so much for her to reclaim it all.

He was backing her slowly toward the wall, therefore, where his fantasies were lingering at the moment; they both needed the sense of comfort their touch brought. For him, it centered on a desire to please her, to remind himself of his purpose in life by bringing her joy; for Nikita, he wanted to let it center, once more, on simply being pleased, on knowing the joy opening herself to his touch and love could give her. This alone, right now, was enough to keep them both alive.

He answered her question finally, too, focusing on the shared day of downtime they were scheduled for tomorrow. He had plans for every minute of it, after all; his voice was husky with passion. "We have more time."

He continued to back her toward the wall, then, lost to her alone--his usual operative skills entirely forgotten. Had there been a herd of elephants running through her apartment at the moment, he wouldn't have seen them at all.

His hand was caressing her shoulder, as she continued to walk back at his soft command. She moved just out of the range of his second kiss, too--unintentionally, and he let out a soft breath at missing her, letting himself enjoy it, letting it raise their anticipation. . . . God, he wanted her.

He kissed her again, as she came to the wall; his hand was removing her jacket. She, too, was so lost in his kiss, in his eyes--in the fantasies he was ready to share with her, that she had no real awareness of her surroundings. All of her problems were forgotten entirely.

That, however, was until she hit the wall softly. As soon as Michael leaned back from his kiss, she saw a figure in the shadows; she was quiet, but her eyes showed her fear--her discovery. "Shit," she thought to herself, her horror alive once more. Why now? . . . Why was there always another fucking disaster?

He picked up on the danger in the room the second he saw the small change in her gaze. His gun, however, was too far away from his hand just yet; if he admitted that they had a voyeur right now, they were lost. He had to continue to pretend, therefore, until he could protect her in full.

The scene between them, then, turned rather ugly on the surface, turned almost violent. He leaned in to kiss her again, and she resisted strongly, not yet realizing that he understood the situation.

For a few seconds, therefore, her fears seem to spiral in a hundred different directions, echoing back and forth between the figure in the shadows, the possibility--once again--of Michael being killed because of his need for her, and the disorientation that his suddenly too-aggressive kiss gave her; her long-time lover, after all, never made *any* move with her, unless he was absolutely certain of her consent. This, then, was confusing, to say the least.

This last fear, at least, was answered a second later, however, as she saw Michael draw his gun and turn quickly to their intruder, his body blocking her from danger. Her mind never even went back to question this part of the evening, either; his intent to protect her all along was too obvious. For all the doubts she had ever entertained about him, truly, that he would hurt her sexually had never been among them.

For both of them, therefore, their attention was wholly riveted to their unwelcome guest. The voice they heard from the shadows a few seconds later, then, surprised them; it seemed impressed. "Still in good form." Their leader stepped out of the shadows to confirm what they already knew, his tone still light. "You won't need that."

There was a second of hesitation in Michael, as he battled with his extreme uncertainty about this last statement. To his mind, having a gun nearby was always the best way to deal with Operations, of late. Still, he understood his position enough to lower it, nonetheless.

The older man was still looking at Michael; he had been interested to watch the interaction between the two operatives, both when they had thought themselves alone and when they had noticed his presence, but he knew that he would have to leave any analysis of them till later. "I need to talk to you." He took in the younger man's companion now, as well. "Both of you." The humor had disappeared from his face.

Nikita looked over at her lover's back, as he moved slightly closer to their, so often cruel, master; she preferred the wall. Only part of her mind took in that he was still protecting her, was still using himself as a shield, as a first line of defense, should their intruder prove hostile. Her eyes took her leader in again. "So, what're you doing here?"

The words he gave in return were anathema to him, especially when it came to these two. Still, it had to be done. "I have a favor to ask."

The younger operative looked back at his partner quietly, briefly; he remembered too well the whole incident with Operations' son. While he hadn't been overtly involved, of course, he had watched the tape Nikita had made of the older man's request before turning it back over to their leader. This, then, he knew, wasn't a first--but it was still highly unusual, especially given all the other man had done to them both of late.

Nikita's eyes in return were focused hard on her leader. She remembered the earlier incident, too, remembered how he had *not* kept his promise to her. Why the hell she should help him, then--especially given all he and Madeline had put her through lately--was beyond her.

Still, she supposed knowing what the favor was could be helpful in the future. She finally opened the question, therefore, even if her eyes clearly said that she would not be easy to move. "What is it?"

He smiled at them slightly, seeing his victory already. Michael, after all, could have shot him and claimed that it had been mistaken identity; this could have been his moment to move up. That they were still listening to him, then--and that he was still breathing, was a good sign.

He began to tell them about it all, therefore, as though they were in a briefing; he supposed, in many ways, that they were. He tossed a photo of a young, Vietnam-era soldier on the table; the man in it looked much the worse for wear. "This man's name is Willie Kane." He looked up at them. "He was my platoon NCO when I served in Vietnam." His eyes were drawn back to the photo, as he told his story; he had looked at that man's film-captured face so often since then. "In late 1972, my platoon was on routine maneuvers near Chin Duc when we were ambushed. All except three of us were massacred on the spot."

The woman in front of him looked up at her lover, entirely unsure about anything which was happening. Michael, however, wouldn't break eye contact with his leader; he had long ago been trained not to look away from an interrogator, that to do so would show weakness. Right now, he was sure the same principle held true.

The older man continued on without pause, ignoring their silent signals, as he tossed another picture onto the table; this man, too, seemed battered. "We were subject to the hospitality of this man--Phan Van Lin." He opened his mouth to speak again, but it took him a second to form the right words. His experiences in torture were not something he frequently discussed--and he had never in his life before truly discussed them in any depth with a subordinate. "He's a man who taught me more than a few lessons in determination and courage."

He had to look away briefly before refocusing on them; he was determined not to let them know how much speaking of it still affected him. "For 15 days, we were tortured and beaten. Now, Willie is the reason I was able to survive; he didn't have the," he took a breath, as he gathered his words, "good sense to let me die and get it over with."

Nikita was trying to take all of this in, but it was more than difficult. Just awhile ago, after all, she had been well on her way to what was sure to have been a pleasant encounter with Michael. Now, the cruel man who had spent what seemed like a lifetime torturing her was trying to gain her sympathy. Her eyes went back to the photos once more, her look distant, untrusting. No, she just wasn't convinced at all yet. She looked back up at him, waiting.

The man before her saw her distrust; he looked to Michael instead, his gaze and tone significant, as he focused his attention on, in his mind, the more important member of this pairing. "He saved my life."

The younger man focused on the picture, as Operations watched. His words had been almost chastising--and he had meant them as such. This was the most significant person in his life, the one who had somehow formed it more than any other, in his mind. He needed that to be clear to this pair, needed them to understand that he *was* human, as he went on. "Over the past 25 years, I've kept tabs on Willie." Michael looked up at him again, still noncommittal. "He held on long enough to get us through our ordeal, but, once he got out, I'm afraid he unraveled pretty quickly."

"Drugs?" his Level Five subordinate asked. His face was still impassive.

"And drinking," Operations supplied. "Now, given my situation, I've done what I can to help him--some," he raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to emphasize the tiny nature of his aid, "money here and there, moved things around in a favorable position for him." He could almost hear his operatives' thoughts; he looked back and forth between them. "I've used no Section resources. What I've done, I've done on my own."

His words of reassurance, however, were lost on the pair. Nikita looked disbelieving; Michael was still absolutely noncommittal. The younger man looked down for a second, as he thought, before refocusing on his leader. "What is it you want from us?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but paused for a second. God, he hoped he hadn't miscalculated here. "I'm securing leave for both of you. I want you to get," he focused on Nikita, "close to him."

The woman's mind answered silently, clearing out her thoughts before her mouth voiced them: "I'll just bet you do."

Aloud, however, her untrusting eyes and voice answered more simply. "And do what?"

He looked around again, once more trying to hide his deeper emotions inside himself. "Someone's trying to kill Willie. I want you to find out who it is and prevent it from happening." Michael looked down, obviously unsure; Operations sweetened the deal. "If you do, I'm offering you 15 days, the same Willie gave me--time to be alone together, no questions asked." He left the offer there, was quiet then, but he was silently praying that they would accept.

His heart was beating wildly, as he waited, as well. He hated his position now; he was absolutely vulnerable, and he knew it. Still, he was hoping that he had succeeded in hiding his desperation. Maybe, if he had, then they would be too distracted by his offer to notice.

His hope, too, was proving to be true, if not entirely in the way he had intended. Nikita looked up at him disbelievingly; she wasn't even sure that she had heard right. . . . Damn him. He would brainwash her, would force her into a marriage which put her through Hell, all for the purpose of keeping her separate from Michael, but--now that he needed them--he was acting like their patron saint, was coming to offer them time alone. She bit back her instinctive answer to him, then; it wouldn't have been at all the politic thing to say.

Their leader looked over to the man before him next, assuming that it would be him who would make the real decision anyway. He got no more clues of the outcome here, either, though.

Michael, indeed, was looking to his side, was pondering it, was trying to keep his greed for this new concept out of his eyes--fifteen days, fifteen days alone with his beloved. The thought was staggering. . . . If only he could trust it at all.

The older man looked them both over once more and saw that this was all he could do for now; he started to leave. He would have to wait for their reply.

Nikita walked over to open the door, happy to get rid of him finally; she never turned her body from him or broke eye contact--knowing her enemy, still utterly distrustful. Michael stood by the door, as well, refusing eye contact.

He was leaving slowly, when he was stopped by the woman's word behind him. "Why?" Her voice was a little shaky; he had missed the look she had thrown to her partner.

"Call it payback," he answered--purposely cryptic. He turned back to her. "Agreed?"

She looked up at the man who loved her, the one who had dedicated all of the last few months to attempting to take care of her. God, yes, part of her wanted him, wanted this time with him, but . . .

He returned her look with longing and love, regardless of the fact that it was a foolish thing to show their cruel leader. He wanted this so desperately he was practically planning out each day of their vacation in his mind. Still . . .

"We'll think about it," he answered finally, not looking at his leader. Nikita nodded slightly, as well, backing up his non-decision.

Operations let out a little breath, not entirely happy with the answer. Still, they hadn't yet turned him down. "Don't take too long. I expect a response before 1200 hours tomorrow." Both of his subordinates nodded slightly, neither looking at him; he nodded in return and then left them. He would know soon. The door closed behind him.

The look between the conflicted lovers he had left behind went on for at least a minute in silence. Then, Michael let out a soft breath and looked up to focus around the walls. God only knew where the surveillance was in this place anymore; there was no way he was having this conversation here.

She had never taken her eyes off him, as he took her in once more. He moved close to her, drawn to her again; his hand stroked along her cheek softly, trying to give her some sense of comfort to make up for having had their cruel master in her home. She smiled slightly in return.

His heart seemed to skip a beat at her look, lost between love and protectiveness. "Let's go talk," he said softly; she nodded. This, after all, was far too important a decision to make quickly; neither of them would allow it to be messed up by making it here.

She gathered the purse she had left by the wall and turned back to the door, holding his look once again. Soon, they would make this decision together, would try to make it as far away as possible from their leaders' cruelly-evaluating eyes. Soon they would find their own way through it.

Maybe, too, Nikita thought, if they worked this right, they would be granted a miracle--some time alone to heal. God knew--it was what both of them had to have, was what they both needed to work toward. She gave him a small smile at this thought, then, as his eyes stroked over her face--and, a few seconds later, they were gone.

***********

They had been driving for awhile in silence, neither of them quite sure where to begin. Their master's interruption of their evening together had upset both of their equilibrium, if only for slightly different reasons. Before, they had almost been about to reconnect. Now, though . . . Damn him.

Nikita sighed; Michael was driving, as he always seemed to, when they were together like this. She looked out the window. "Where are we going?"

He pondered the question for a moment. Sadly, it seemed too relevant, on too many levels. Still, he answered the most obvious part. "Just . . . away."

She nodded, understanding somehow; they did just need to distance themselves from it all for awhile. She wondered if Operations realized just how much he had sullied her home with his presence; she wondered, indeed, if he would even have cared. Maybe that was his plan.

He heard her sigh again, as he turned down an old, unpaved road. God, he wished he could take away the pain which lingered so strongly in her, but--especially while their leaders went to such lengths to make it obvious that their favorite playthings would never be free--he knew it was almost impossible. He sighed, as well, then.

She looked out of the window into the very dark night. The old, bumpy road they were on was made only marginally less so by the sleek, expensive car they rode in. The lane turned, passing them through an even darker shading of trees. It seemed rather dreary, depressing. She shook her head once. Perfect.

The silent drive continued, the lane going off into the night. It occurred to Nikita, at least in some far corner of her mind, that, had she been with anyone besides Michael, she might have been a little frightened just about now; she practically expected some stock horror movie character to step out of the dark into their headlights. . . . Still, she couldn't quite be afraid, not of this anyway. Michael was beside her, his confidence calming her as always. Besides, she had *far* worse things to fear than this, lately.

After about another half mile, they finally emerged from the darkness somewhat. She looked over to her right and saw a large pond, its water shining slightly in the moonlight. She smiled. She didn't know entirely where they were, geographically, but she understood the place emotionally. They were home again.

She wasn't surprised, then, to see them pull up to a small cabin. No, it wasn't quite like the ones he had taken her to before, but the style was much the same; it was obviously a favorite for him. She looked over at him. "Where are we?"

His eyes stroked down her face, tracing over it with need and love. He wanted to discuss this, to discuss so many things, but not here. "Come inside." He opened his door and waited to see if she would follow suit.

She looked deep into his eyes for a moment and then nodded finally. She wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but she was obviously about to find out.

They left the car and went inside. It was cold, dark, and a little dusty, but the atmosphere was one she had felt before. It had a mustiness, indeed, which she had come to love by now; so many big steps, it seemed, had taken place between them in such places. Despite all its ruggedness, therefore, it had a beauty which drew her to it. She looked at him in the dim moonlight which came in the still-open door. He had brought her home.

He smiled at her gently and went over to a small table, searching on it, coming back with a couple of kerosene lamps which he had lit; he handed her one and motioned to a sofa. "Have a seat."

She gave a half-smile, nodding, and then wandered over toward it. She placed the lamp on the table nearby and watched as he closed the door and began to gather the already-chopped firewood from the corner.

He didn't look at her, as he started to build a fire in an old fireplace. He supposed that he should probably be more circumspect about this act, given the fact that he hadn't had the chimney cleaned in years, but he wasn't particularly sure that he cared about that right now.

A smile lingered on her lips slightly, as she took him in. He was so beautiful. "So, how do you find these places, Michael?"

She saw the smile which curved his lips, as he turned his head to gather more wood. It seemed to fade quickly, though. "It was Simone's and mine." He sighed softly, answering the questions she hadn't yet asked. "We used to come here whenever we could get away."

She looked down at the couch before running her fingertips over it; it wasn't that dusty. "It hasn't been that long since someone's been here, though," she pointed out.

He nodded, finishing his preparations. He wanted her to know everything, wanted to remind her that his soul was now open to her. "I've come here once or twice since then--to think, to remind myself." He lit the fire and turned back toward her, still focusing on the floor. "I haven't been here for several months."

He looked up to see the curiosity shining slightly in her eyes. "Remind yourself of what?"

He sighed. "Lessons." He wanted to explain them to her, but he wasn't sure she was ready to hear them yet; they had too much else to discuss still.

He was seated beside her now, his eyes quiet, and she nodded slightly, understanding his point. She began their discussion, then. "What do we do about Operations' offer?"

He looked down, shaking his head a little. He knew what he wanted to do, but he couldn't make the decision for them; doing that would end up negating its whole purpose. "What do you want?" His eyes focused on her deeply again.

She let out a tired breath; her gaze held a weary sort of knowledge. "Do you think we can trust him?"

They both knew the answer to this, of course; Michael let out a tiny breath of a laugh, his eyes tracing the fabric of the sofa once more. "I think we can trust that he'll take his revenge, if we don't."

She closed her eyes tightly, before lowering her head on the arm she had propped on the sofa's back. God, she was tired of all this; her voice was a little angry. "I don't want to do his dirty work again. I'm sick of it."

He nodded, his eyes tracing over the strands of her hair. He wanted to touch her so much, but he knew it wouldn't be right yet; he hoped it would be at some point soon. "I know."

She sat there silently for another minute or so, her pain building. She opened her eyes finally, too--her gaze dull. She hated this--all of it. Her head rested near her shoulder, while her hand reached back over her head to play with loose strands of her hair. Operations was trying to use her for his personal projects again, was promising things he seemed likely never to deliver. This, too, after all he had done--after all he had helped put her through. It just wasn't fair.

Her next question, then, was not the non sequitur it seemed, her mind running back over the last such favor he had asked of her--and Michael's part in the failure of her request in return. "Why did you give him the tape before?" She looked up at him finally. "Why didn't you let him free me?"

He knew what she was talking about--remembered only too well having been sent to follow her, having discovered the tape she had made of Operations' request for her to protect his son. At the time, of course--Section creature that he had been--he hadn't thought twice about turning it in, after making a copy of his own, just in case. Still, . . . "He wouldn't have. He would have cancelled you first."

She smiled and looked down at the fabric of the sofa which lay between them. To a certain extent, she knew he was right, had known it even at the time. Still, more and more lately, she was beginning to wonder whether she wouldn't have been better off dead all those years ago, rather than having to endure all that had come to her since.

He broke into her thoughts, finishing his own. His voice was very soft, as he confessed himself to her. "I couldn't stand to lose you."

Her saddened but loving eyes met his again; her hand stopped playing with her hair. She could see it there in his look, deep in his soul. It was as he had told her so often; he couldn't go on without her. She supposed it had always been true, ever since they had met.

She was drawn to him then, saw his love, needed his warmth. There was no real reason to fight over the past, anyway; it was gone, was done. She just didn't have the energy for anger anymore, either. . . . She barely had the energy for life.

He put his arms around her, as she moved toward him, drawing her very close; she rested her head against his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His heart ached further, as she shrugged, not answering. Her open contempt and anger was better to him than this resigned torment she had settled into. . . . He just wished he knew a way to get her out of it.

She sighed, rubbing her face against the soft material of his sweater. She didn't have the energy to think about it all anymore; she tried to explain. "I'm just so tired of pain, Michael. I want to breathe again."

He nodded and kissed the top of her head. He knew. He felt it in her--and it tormented him unspeakably. God, if there were only something he could do.

Still, he knew there was no way out of it, just now; he brought the subject back around, then. "What do you want to do?"

She laughed very lightly, ironically. "Do we have a choice?"

He sighed quietly, kissing the top of her head. "No," he breathed.

She nodded a little. Of course not; what else was new? She took a deep breath and pulled away slightly, looking up at him, her voice resigned. "Let's go tell him."

No. Not now--he couldn't bear it. He shook his head slightly, his fingertips running lightly over her cheek. "We have till tomorrow." He shook his head. "Let's not go tonight."

She was paused then, was caught in his eyes. She knew what he was suggesting, of course, but she was completely divided on how to answer him. Part of her wanted this, wanted him, but a part of her--part she had yet to consciously identify--was running away, wanted out. . . . Her fears were building again.

She shook her head a little, trying to break away from his spell. "Maybe it'd be better if we left. We're going to have to fly to America tomorrow, will . . ."

He cut off her words softly, his finger on her lips. "Don't." His eyes were gentle. He didn't fully understand what she was feeling, but her increasing, inner distance from him was obvious. If he had truly believed that it was what she wanted, of course, he would have let it be. As it was, though . . .

He kissed her temple softly, then, addressing what symptoms he could of the unnamed troubles which haunted her. "Don't be afraid." Another soft kiss was placed on her nose. "If you don't want anything more, we can just hold each other," he kissed her cheek, "can just sleep close." His lips grazed softly over the other, as well, before he met her eyes gently once more. "I need that." His thumb lovingly caressed along her face, his words even softer. "We both do."

She was lost in a sigh of love, as his lips brushed gently over hers; her head was swimming slightly. He always convinced her, it seemed--no matter how great her objections, no matter how great her fears. He always seemed to break through them.

There was no real objection to this in her at the moment, though. She understood that he was right, that they did both need this, both needed the healing such closeness could bring. . . . The only problem right now, then, was the fact that, as she was beginning to realize ever more, she was no longer convinced she could be healed at all. Maybe she was simply damaged beyond repair.

The series of soft, tender kisses that he breathed over her lips were overcoming her objections, however, were overcoming her reason, as they always did. Still, . . . "I'm not sure that either of us will sleep much, if we stay," her husky voice whispered between kisses.

He wasn't entirely certain whether it had been an objection or not. He knew, of course, that part of her wanted to run, wanted to hide deep within herself, was hoping to turn herself into an automaton again, just so she no longer had to feel pain. He couldn't allow it, though, had been there himself for too long to see her try it, as well. No, he was determined, he would never willingly allow her to take that path again.

His hand, therefore, slipped into her locks and pulled her into a deeper kiss; he wanted to show her his passion there, to let it wash over her and her objections and fears. He wanted to remind her that she could be healed, if she only gave him the chance. She, after all, had brought him back from emotional and spiritual death. He, certainly, could perform a far lesser miracle with her, then.

His plan, too, was working. Nikita's mind, and its lingering doubts, were being washed away from her. Every kiss was magical and healing, made her forget a little more, if only for its duration, just how much pain she was in. God, it was nice.

Maybe, then, he was right; maybe this was what they both had to have to go on. Still, she wasn't entirely certain yet.

He felt that one lingering bit of doubt in her and pulled back from the kiss. Just the fact that she was resisting his touch so far was a sign of how truly tormented she was. Normally, unless she were very angry with him, his kiss, his hands could overcome all her objections, could remind her that their love was more important than anything else. Now, though, it looked like he needed to convince her in other ways, as well.

His thumb stroked along her temple, as he sighed. "I told you that I come here to think about the things I've been taught." His eyes stroked into her--tenderly, lovingly. "Well, the most important of those things is that I love you--and that any separation from you is too long."

Her gaze was lost to him, her eyes a little teary. "Michael," she mouthed softly, too overcome to speak.

He went on, as his traced her cheek very gently. "I don't want to be separate from you anymore, 'Kita." His eyes were saddened, as he sighed heavily. "It's been too long, there've been too many months without you." He shook his head. "If we do this task for Operations, we might have a chance to spend more time alone together than we've ever had before--15 days." His gaze held hers deeply, probing softly but with intent. "Do you want that?" He sighed, his eyes so loving. "Because I can think of nothing on this earth that would mean more to me."

She closed her eyes tightly, overwhelmed. Yes--yes, she did want this, wanted to be able to feel the bond between them once again. Only it, ever, of late, brought her sanity.

She leaned into him, holding him close, and let out a shuddering sigh, when she felt his arms close tight around her; she rubbed her face against his. "Yes," she whispered finally.

He held her tightly, his eyes closing. He felt like a death sentence had just been lifted. . . . Yes.

He kissed her cheek softly, holding her closer, his heart beating more loudly, his love for her too deep to be captured in words. "I'll try to be good for you, 'Kita," he promised. "I'll try to be there for you when you need me." His arms closed even more tightly about her, as his voice became much softer. "Please--just don't push me away."

She moaned slightly, her heart aching with his words, and pulled back--pulling out of his arms a little to look in his eyes; he only barely let her go.

Her hand spanned his cheek, caressing him now; her eyes were tortured, her head shaking. "I don't want to hurt you, Michael, don't mean to make you feel like you have to beg." She sighed, moving on before he could interrupt. "It's just . . ."

Three of his fingers covered her lips, preventing her from continuing. "No more--please." His tortured eyes shone at her. "No apologies."

She opened her mouth slightly to go on, but saw the pleading look in his eyes. She swallowed slightly then and kissed his fingers, giving in. Maybe he did understand enough as it was.

God, he needed her now, needed her so much he could no longer keep his promise to just hold her. He needed her to want him, to accept him--needed to be reminded once again of her love.

He moved his hand to her cheek and leaned in to her, kissing her lips softly. "I'm sorry for everything, 'Kita, sorry I can't take away the pain." He kissed her slightly more deeply, more soundly, when she tried to open her mouth to stop his apologies, and she moaned. Yes.

He pulled back a minute later, his eyes still tender. "I don't have the magic answers you need now, don't know the remedies." His thumb stroked over her temple lovingly, his eyes so truthful. "All I have is this."

She was lost again a few seconds later in the wet, tender kiss--one which both gave and commanded at the same time. She moaned, returning his rising fever. Yes, she needed this, wanted the coming time with him--had to have it to feel whole.

He was right, too, she knew; there was no reason to go back tonight. They had till tomorrow afternoon to deliver their answer. . . . Tonight, then, was theirs.

Her hand ran into his hair, pulling him closer--making the kiss hotter, deeper. She needed this, she knew now, even more than she had earlier, even more than before they had been so terribly interrupted. Now, at least, they had slightly discussed, had at least addressed the changes she felt in herself; even if they had found no answers, she knew he understood. Now, then, they could just enjoy their night.

This wasn't all of her willingness now, though. They would have a chance soon at, as he had pointed out, longer together than they had ever gotten before. They would have an entire half month to spend in each other's arms, an opportunity to let her lose herself in him, to try to forget about all the fears that now plagued her. Yes, then, she needed this, had to have it, both now and then. She just needed to cease existing for a few hours, to lose herself to love. . . . It was all that was there now, for both of them.

He took up her newer direction, his hand buried deep in the silken strands he loved. His kiss was hot and commanding, his tongue exploring and then passionately overtaking every corner of her mouth, while she moaned against him, trying to keep up; she had no complaints, though, about losing this game. It just felt too good to protest.

He continued the ever-changing, blood-pounding kiss, as he pushed her back onto the sofa, lying himself above her. He knew, of course--could feel--why she needed this now, that she was simply desperate not to think--knew, therefore, that, in the long run, this approach couldn't cure her, as he had hoped.

This knowledge didn't cool him off, however. No. No, it made him burn, instead, made him want to brand his love deep into her soul--brought out his aching need to remind her of her own desires, of how good giving into them felt. He loved her, after all, wanted her with a passion which, at times, could half-border on madness. He needed this opportunity, then, to let her remember just how much pleasure she was capable of. Without that, after all, neither of them were really alive--and that was something he *wouldn't* allow again.

The moment, then, was perfect for them both. Both her hands were in his hair, as he lay upon her. She was beginning to lose all hold on conscious thought, on anything other than the moment: the passion for touch that the heat of his body was stoking in her, the sharp hunger of the weight of his body above hers, the fierce craving for pleasure his kiss gave. The kiss became wilder. Mmm, yes, it felt good; her fears be damned. . . . She didn't want to wait another minute for more.

She found one of his hands, therefore, and stroked it down her body, asking for his command. When it reached her breast, she held it there, letting him feel the desire-hardened nipple through the cloth; she moaned when his thumb stroked over it strongly. Yes.

There was a growl deep in his throat, as he pulled back from the kiss; his thumb continued his sensual torments. His eyes, too, were commanding, knowing, as he smiled a teasing smile. "Cold?"

Her needy eyes flared back at him, begged for more; her voice was husky with need. She had entirely forgotten the chill of the room. "No." At the moment, she wasn't certain she would ever be cold again.

The growl in him moved deeper, his eyes flaring dangerously at her. That clingy shirt she was wearing had been tempting him all night, after all; the way it dipped to reveal her flesh, to show off the tops of the breasts he so adored to feel and taste was just too much. He couldn't take the temptation of her any longer, couldn't allow himself to hold back his desires, when it was *so* obvious that she wanted to experience every one. No more.

Her breathing escalated dangerously, her eyes growing wide at his look of passionate command. God, he loved it, adored her when she tormented him with her need.

Both of his hands enclosed her breasts then, caressing their fullness through the cloth; his thumbs tormented the tips with desire. "It's been too long, 'Kita; I won't wait any longer."

She saw the look in his eyes a second before one of his fingers snagged under the diving fabric at her cleavage. A few seconds later, she was moaning, as the cold air of the room hit her, the fabric of her shirt ripping down the middle. "Yes," she whispered.

Her gaze was wide and aroused, her breathing shallow. Ohh, that turned him on. She obviously didn't even know what she would wear home, and she still didn't care right now. Good.

He already had plans to cover this last problem, of course, knew that some of Simone's old clothes would fit her, but that was completely irrelevant to him right now. What mattered was her need, was the fact that she wanted him. That, truly, was what he had to have.

He had unclasped her bra and pushed it smoothly to her sides without removing it. He knew, of course, that she had been wearing a push-up bra, and--while such things were *entirely* unnecessary to make him want her--it *had* given him an interesting view. Still, the one he had now was even better.

His heated eyes ran down her, focusing on the lovely flesh he had just revealed. A small, wild smile curved his lips, as his fingers brushed lightly over the small, beautiful breasts, lightly pinching the needy tips from time to time. "You look beautiful like this." Those feral eyes locked back on hers briefly before going back to his new view. "I love how much you like to be taken by me."

She shuddered underneath him. Lord, that was the understatement of the century. Right now, she wanted him to ravish her, to use her to fulfill all of his needs. Their lovemaking, at times, left her with a quiet ache deep inside--but it was one which left her smiling for days.

God, she wanted more of him now; he was going too slow. She wanted him furious in his desire, wanted to see him unhinged with it. He was always so beautiful that way.

She wove her hand into his hair and began to pull him down toward the flesh he so seemed to love--to her delight. "Yes," she pleaded. His smile grew wider, his heated eyes on her. "Take me."

Her passionate, trusting words, the hoarse near-desperation of her tone--all of it lit something deep within him, made his need for her grow strong. The feeling inside him was part a nearly transcendent tenderness and part an animalistic want. Ohh, he wanted to love her to the point of insensibility--knew, in fact, that she needed that right now. Her eyes begged him quietly. Yes.

He began to explore her, then, with a soft kiss beside her mouth; he needed to remind her of his ever-present love, but he didn't want to be drawn there again for too long quite yet. There were just too many other tempting places to reexplore.

"Michael," she whispered from her heart. Ohhh, his lips felt so good, his tongue so arousing and soothing, as they began to trace down her slowly. He was tasting her like he had so often, both in her dreams and in their lives--even if, for all their occasional frequency, for all of their ever-present passion, the reality still hadn't been quite often enough. Oh, she wanted more.

He was moving down under her jawline now, was tasting there in small nips that had her shuddering, moaning. Every one seemed to run deep inside her, seemed to light a need which made her ache. Oh God, it was so good--but it wasn't nearly enough. "More," she groaned.

A growl rumbled in him, as he used his teeth on her tender flesh, giving small bites followed by savoring licks, along the sweet skin of her neck. He could feel the heat rising in her, knew how desperate she was becoming. As much as part of him wanted to love her slowly, then, wanted to let her bask in his love and desire for hours, he knew that wasn't quite what either of them needed just now. They were both far too in need for that.

He began to move his hot kisses faster down her, therefore, moving toward the breasts he so adored. He knew, really, that this approach was right now. The last few months had just been *so* trying, for them both; it had chipped away so terribly at their souls. His tongue tasted up and down between her breasts, as she moaned, arching her back. They needed, then, to allow out the side of themselves which was always hungry, which always needed. Their souls had been mated for so long, indeed; now, their bodies just needed to follow.

He began to kiss up one sweet breast, a smile on his lips. Her back was arched further, moaning, as she tried to pull him toward the point which needed him so. He could feel her slight shudders, her ever-growing fiery need. God, he loved it.

He gave in to her finally, then, taking the needy, aroused bud in his mouth, suckling her hard, and she let out an enormous groan, her nails digging into his scalp slightly. God, this was right, felt *so* good. His teeth grazed over her, to her deep shudder. "More," she begged. God, yes--more.

He felt his own need spike dangerously upwards at her reaction. He was already hard and beating, as his mouth became ungentle with the aroused nipple he adored; she groaned again in pleasure, and a growl issued from him. Yes, he wanted this, needed to love her with every ounce of desire he had ever possessed; it was this side of him, after all, which she had given back to him so long ago, which she alone owned. He wanted her to thank him for showing her its implications in full, then.

His talented mouth was tormenting the point which needed him so, his teeth and tongue leaving her to quake in passion and ever-spiraling desire; she held him closer. God, it felt *so* right. His teeth grazed over her again, and she moaned loudly, a shuddering ache of desire rippling deep inside her. "More!" she begged again.

Her legs were around his hips, were pressing their still-clothed, most needy spots together. He knew she could feel him, large and aching, throbbing in quaking desire for her alone. He pressed his hips against her further, letting her know the size of his need, as his tongue became wild with her nipple, knowingly sending an ache deep within her; she moaned loudly, and he growled again. Yes.

Oh, God. She couldn't take much more, needed him so much. Her breathing was ragged, as she moved him over, leading him to her other breast; he followed her instructions willingly, leaving the first to ache in a way she, paradoxically, would have described as "sweet" in the cold room. She shuddered. "Yes," she moaned.

He felt something snap deep within him with her word. It was all too much, made him too wild, too needy. Even the way her nails dug into his scalp slightly, begging him for more, made him want to ravish her brutally while she screamed out her pleasure. God, he could just never get enough.

His mouth suckled her more firmly again, as she moaned more loudly; his own heart was pounding. Dear God, she was just *so* beautiful, had so much to adore in her; he needed to remind her of that, once again.

His hands ran between them, as he pulled his hips back from her slightly, forcing her to loosen her legs' grip. He found the zipper on her pants and undid it quickly before pushing these last bits of clothing down past her hips. She moaned out wildly, and he growled. Yes.

She couldn't hold her legs very wide, for obvious reasons, but she did her best, as his hand insinuated itself between her thighs. She moaned, wanting him, and held him tighter to the breast he was suckling roughly. When she finally felt two, and then three, of his fingers stroking deep inside her, as well, she closed her eyes, her moan growing wilder.

She was arching her back, trying to take him deeper, and the sensation made his sanity slip further. He moaned at her breast, suckling her more tightly.

His fingers, too, moved more roughly in her, his thumb stroking a tormenting pattern over her needy little nether bud, as his whole soul shook with need. . . . Yes. God yes, this was how he always wanted her. He never wanted anything but this.

She was beginning to whimper loudly under him, tossing her hips into each of his strokes as much as she could; the moan he let out in return to her need was desperate. There were no words for how much he loved her.

He growled and suckled her more tightly again, then, his furious need for her growing even more. She was just so slick and ready for him, her walls so wet and in need. He loved that she needed him like this, that this wild, unsophisticated sort of loveplay made her as insanely hot as it did him. They could have been two high school kids making out on a parent's couch for all the subtlety of his approach to her now, but he really didn't care anymore; they had never had a chance to meet on that level in their youth, anyway. Besides, his need for her was desperate and aching. All that mattered to him was that she came now--for him. He could save his quiet seductions for another day.

As for Nikita, however, she shared none of his thoughts. She had always adored every way they approached each other sensually; all of them were perfect to her. . . . Besides, roses and champagne were for his targets; this sort of unbearable need was *real*. Anything else could be faked.

None of this mattered to her at the moment, either. Michael's so-talented fingers were stroking her in a way which left her hot and needy, in a way which raised her fever for him so high that her desire for him would practically have embarrassed her, had her mind been working at all.

It wasn't, though. No, all she knew at the moment was that those long fingers of his were running through her clinging depths in a way that made her scream, were making her shake with desire. Every fast stroke moved rougher, made a shock of bright need jangle up through her body, shattering into her veins. His roughly-padded thumb, too, was keeping up an intense little rhythm over her bud, as her oncoming pleasure spiraled ever higher. "Moooore!" she begged, turning it into at least four syllables.

He growled at her breast, suckling her nipple less roughly now, enclosing it in his hot, wet mouth--letting the softness increase the jangling need of all of his previous work. His thumb became rougher with her tender flesh, too, his fingers stroking a *very* delicate inner spot.

She was nearly screaming now, was letting out a variety of needy, desperate little sounds. She couldn't speak at all. She was so close, the light in her coiling unbearably; her eyes closed even tighter. Oh--please.

He heard her silent plea, even if--verbally--all she were giving was about four different varieties of "ohhh"s; there were deep, throaty ones, lightly whimpered ones, gasping ones, and ones which tapered off into "Mmm, ooooo." He pulled back from her breast slightly, smiling. Every one he felt in his soul, though--and he loved her for all of them. . . . Now, he had to give her her reward.

She let out a little scream, as she felt the tip of his tongue run down her body. A deep shudder of near-release ran through her. His free hand, too, came up to softly torment an abandoned breast at just the same moment that his fingers began to tickle perfectly over a quakingly-good inner spot.

"Mi-chael," she breathed, wavering on the edge of bliss. When his tongue ran down over her light curls and stroked over that perfect little bud though, her body jerked against him. As his hot mouth enclosed it a second later--his hands delivering a final, hard stroke and a pinch to their separate points, as well--she was lost.

Her hands were on his head, holding him to her, as she arched her back; the groan of pleasure which rose from her was ferocious. Everything within her seemed to be trembling with it, with the pleasure he had so expertly--yet so casually--given. She held his head to her more tightly, rocking against him as he continued to suckle her bud, and the sweet tension within her blossomed further. Oh God--yes.

The panting cries he heard from her made him close his eyes. God, he just wanted her so much, wanted to be deep inside her, wanted to feel her sweet pleasure, as she rippled around him. Nothing else, ever, meant as much.

Her whimpers, her slight shaking continued for several minutes. Ohh, it was so good; *he* was so good. The bliss of his continuing attentions to her bud, too, worked their magic. . . . God, she wanted more.

She opened her eyes to look at him finally, only to see the lost, devoted look on his face. Another tug moved deep inside her, as she moaned. Yes.

She tried to pull him away from her, then, needing more than just the simple bliss he had given her already. She wanted him in her, wanted to feel him stroking her deep, wanted to know that he shared her desire and her joy with every one. "Michael," she called softly.

He let go of her bud reluctantly, withdrawing his hand from her slowly, as well; his eyes were so loving and devoted. Every time he was able to give her this release from their world and its problems, after all, he felt some beautiful light being born deep within him; he felt his soul resurrecting itself.

He smiled at her softly, his heart filled with her perfection. She was an angel, was a creature of absolute beauty. He hated that she had been beaten and dragged through Hell for so long that she had been allowed to forget it. . . . He needed, therefore, to remind her again.

He leaned his head back down to place one last kiss on the sweet bud which made her tremble so and sat up, smiling down on her. His hand stroked softly over her side. "I do love you," he whispered.

Her eyes shone her adoration up to him, were lost to him alone; her heart ached with the depth of her love. No one could ever mean half as much to her as he did. . . . No one else would ever even matter again.

She watched him, then, as he stood, moving with his panther-like grace toward where her feet were propped on the edge of the sofa. God, he was beautiful. Her mind worked on her previous image. Yes, he was rather catlike, really, always had been. He was many things, after all--was a hunter, a killer, and a feral lover, could be absolutely possessive, as well. Still, there was a beauty and perfection to him, was a mesmerism to his charms. He began to take off her boots. He could be so gentle and loving, too, could be playful with his chosen mate. . . . Dear God, she loved him.

He smiled down at her, a little of his previous ferociousness fought down. He had learned control long ago, after all, and--with her--he finally was able to put it to real use. . . . Besides, every release he gave her calmed him slightly--most of the time.

His small smile continued, as he took in her ravished beauty. No, it was true, he wasn't entirely content yet, wouldn't be until he was certain that she simply couldn't be pleased any more thoroughly tonight, until her overwhelming charms were finally too much for him, as well, and he lost himself to her completely. Still, that she was temporarily fulfilled was enough to make him calmer now, would allow him to wait. Then, he would work on her desire even more thoroughly, until all that was left in her was ecstasy.

One foot was already uncovered; he began on the other. He gave her a slightly feral little smile, too, with his last thoughts, one which grew even more, as he looked down her body. God, she was beautiful. He loved to see her looking so ravished by him; he loved her naked passion, the fact that she allowed him so much control, allowed him to give her the pleasure he so deeply wanted to. Pleasing her, after all, gave him the kind of joy few men could ever entirely experience, a joy so sharp and bright that its oncoming rush seemed nearly cataclysmic, its pleasure nearly destructive. No other woman could ever be anywhere near as good, truly; no other could ever be her.

The second boot and sock fell to the floor, and he ran his hands up, over her feet and along her partly-clothed legs. Part of him, of course, wished that he had the patience tonight to give her a slow sort of pleasure, to work every part of her until it ached with desire and need. He did love that so much.