Author's Note: The following is a character study set right after Petrosian's arranged date for Michael and Nikita in "New Regime." It includes spoilers for "New Regime," "Approaching Zero," "Hard Landing," "Simone," and "Rescue." It has my own personal speculation on the Michael/Simone relationship. I'd rate it an MA-14, I guess, for bad language and sexual discussions. As always, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following.

It had been an hour and a half since Michael had dropped Nikita back at her apartment, since he had purposely left her on her own. He had been lying in his bed, staring at his ceiling, for 45 minutes straight now, unable to untangle his emotions or quell his rising fears.

Nikita was under Petrosian's spell, or so it seemed. Watching her lately was like watching two souls inhabiting the same body. Part of her was trying her best to be cold and emotionless--to mold herself into Madeline's image, while another part of her was aching to be free of his influence. She was trapped between conflicting desires.

Michael had seen little of Nikita outside of missions in the weeks since Jurgen's death, but he saw the conflict in her clearly enough, and it scared him. Granted, Nikita was--so far--handling Madeline's role admirably; she was allowing no sentiment to stand between her and her duties. It was this very fact, though, which frightened him.

It had always been Nikita's soul--her spirit which attracted him. He couldn't always understand her outrage at injustice--her ability to empathize with others, but he found it entrancingly appealing, even if he still frequently saw it as naive. He had tried, more times than he clearly remembered now, to destroy this part of her--to turn her into a cold, calculating operative. Now that it seemed to be happening, however, it horrified him. He wanted his old Nikita back.

Michael reached up and rubbed his eyes. He had been up for at least a day now, and his body was begging for sleep. His mind just couldn't let things go, though.

Seeing Nikita tonight hadn't helped lessen many of his fears, but it had put his mind at rest in one area; Nikita still cared. Michael lowered his hand but kept his eyes closed to rest them. He had had plenty of reasons to doubt her feelings for him the past month or so. She had distanced herself since Jurgen died--had separated herself almost entirely from her former trainer. She hadn't even told him where she was going, when Section allowed her a break. He had been planning on stopping by her apartment to talk to her, in fact, when he had heard that she had already left. She never said goodbye.

When she had returned to Section, a half week before she was supposed to, he had already seen the change in her--the splitting of her personality. It was like she was putting on a persona in order to get through her duties-- pretending to be someone else so that she could deny her own pain. Sometimes, on the rare occasions when he got to look into her eyes, he didn't recognize her; a stranger was looking back at him. Michael knew very well that this was much the same technique he had developed in order to survive Section. This was precisely why it terrified him so much that she was trying it, however.

He had been further worried, just a few days ago, by her actions when she was running technical oversight on his mission. Of course, her work there had been excellent; she had succeeded to Section's standards and beyond. The Nikita of a few months--of a year--ago wouldn't have ordered him to continue the search once he was in danger, however. It may have been the correct thing to do for the mission, and Michael would have continued the search anyway, but --after the mission was over, not having seen the look of fear in her eyes when she thought he might be killed--he had worried that her actions may have been prompted partly by an indifference to his welfare. Their usual roles had been reversed, and he hadn't liked the feeling; he didn't allow himself to realize this last part consciously, though.

Michael opened his eyes again. It was only earlier tonight that those fears had been put to rest. She had made it clear that she still wanted a relationship with him, to his masked relief.

The evening had been a difficult one. Petrosian's order that he meet a mystery woman at a bar hadn't been an encouraging start, and--when he had arrived to see her waiting--the night had gotten worse.

Michael's feelings for Nikita never waned; if anything, they seemed to be more overpowering by the minute. To think that she might use her new position of power to force him into a sexual relationship had frightened and hurt him. He knew he had manipulated--had used her emotions many times, when he had been the one in charge, but he had *never* demanded sexual favors. Their one night together, in fact, had happened completely outside of Section's control, when he had no power of command over her. He had absolutely no doubt that that experience had been based on mutual consent; there had--for possibly the only time between them--been no games or manipulations at work.

Michael didn't need any emotional attachment to form a sexual relationship, of course; Section had helped him understand and perfect the art of manipulative seduction long ago. But, Nikita was not a target; his emotions for her were real and powerful. It had hurt him to think that their relationship might have devolved into a purely physical one. . . . He wanted so much more with her.

It wasn't that he didn't want a more intimate relationship with her. The desire for it, in fact, seemed to burn holes in his soul. He closed his eyes tightly, trying not to think about it. He just needed them both to come to it of their own free will, . . . and such a thing didn't exist in Section.

He opened his eyes again and sighed. She had asked him tonight if he was afraid of the shift in their relationship--of the thought of her having more power. He wanted to believe that it didn't scare him; he really *didn't* want her to be weak and dependent. She had been more right than he wanted to admit, in other ways, however. Being in charge of her meant being in control of their relationship--being able to keep her nearby without having her too close-- dangerously close. He had known the perils of personal attachment in Section; the manipulations he and Simone had been put through--ending with him losing her--were lessons he would never forget.

Nikita hadn't experienced these, however. All of the manipulations she had seen seemed to stem from him and not Section. She still had no real idea of the depths they could reach.

There was another reason why Nikita's newfound power frightened him, though. Having control over their relationship gave Michael an illusion of control over himself. Without it, God only knew what he might do.

Michael's cold demeanor covered emotions which burned far hotter than any star. They terrified him. He had to keep himself in tight control at all times to avoid a dangerous eruption of feeling. And his emotions for Nikita burned the hottest of any of them.

He couldn't allow himself to take up Petrosian's offer of a relationship with Nikita for many reasons. The one which scared him the most, however, was the freeing of his desires. He had barely survived bottling them back up after his one night with Nikita. Another time might kill him. His passion-- his need for her--physically, emotionally, psychologically, intellectually, and spiritually--could consume them both. He sometimes felt that the heat of those desires could melt their flesh into one if he so much as touched her. He couldn't be her lover some of the time. He needed her there every second of his life or not at all.

Michael closed his eyes again and rubbed his temples, forcing his mind onto a slight tangent. Nikita had looked altered tonight--moreso than the past few weeks. She was wearing far too much makeup and a hairstyle which was distinctly unflattering on her, not that any of it had made her less beautiful to him. He lowered his hand and opened his eyes. She hadn't known who she would be meeting, and she had seemed a bit surprised to see him; he wondered, therefore, if she had thought it was Petrosian she was waiting for. It would explain her chosen style; the makeup was almost a mask, a subconscious attempt --probably--to distance herself from the tasks she had expected to be demanded of her by Section's new master.

Michael shook his head, his arms across his stomach, his fists clenched. Damn Petrosian. To lead her to think that--for even a second--was unforgiveable. The man was one of the lowest forms of life Michael had ever encountered, and he included in this every terrorist, weapons dealer, fixer, murderer, and corrupt politician he had known. He had hated him ever since the older operative had helped kill Angie; the systematic destruction of Nikita Petrosian seemed to be planning only made the feeling more intense. Michael was imagining a million nasty and brutal deaths for him.

Petrosian was a corrupter of innocence; Michael doubted the man had any sexual desires which were consensual. His joy came in spotting and exploiting weaknesses, and Michael and Nikita were each other's; they had broken rules and disobeyed orders to save one another in the past, and he had little doubt that they might do so again.

He thought back to the events of the evening. Once Nikita had suggested that they just have a drink together, she and Michael had moved to a table. She had already been a bit tipsy, when Michael had arrived--probably trying to numb herself from the possibility of having to be with Petrosian. She had obviously, too, still wanted to take advantage of the opportunity they had been given, if Michael had agreed. He had had to set his will strongly to the task of resisting her.

It was easier than it might have been in some ways, however. First, Michael knew that, if he accepted, his chances of saving Nikita from Petrosian could be ruined; the possibility of a relationship would be too tempting to her--a feeling he understood very well. He couldn't give her any sign of possible agreement, or they were both lost--along with the rest of Section. Petrosian was capricious; once Nikita had lost her soul, he would move on to someone else--another near-innocent to corrupt. It was why Madeline held no appeal to him; there was no innocence there. At least with Operations in charge, Michael could appeal to Madeline for help in protecting Nikita; that and a sense of almost-feudal loyalty kept Michael from helping Petrosian's cause.

Another reason Michael refused to respond to Nikita's request, though, was her intoxicated state. Her emotions might cloud her judgment with him sometimes--as his had with her, but he needed her faculties to be otherwise clear before he would consider staying with her. He could think of few things worse than seeing a look of horrified realization on her face when she woke up to find him with her the next morning. He wasn't interested in any transient affections.

Michael had driven Nikita home after only 25 minutes or so at the bar. There was little they were free to say to each other, and Nikita was not herself--on many levels.

He had walked her to her apartment and gotten her safely inside. When she had tried to kiss him, he had turned away and gently pushed her back from him. He had then sighed quietly, examined her lovingly, and run his hand over her temple and down her hair briefly before saying goodnight and leaving. And it had taken every ounce of self-control he had had to do so.

A half hour after he finished going over these memories, Michael woke with a slight start, only then realizing that he had finally drifted off. He had been woken, however, by a nightmare, one which he prayed was only a product of his fears:

In it, he had woken to find himself in bed beside Nikita--both of them naked and content. She was rolled over on her side, her back to him, and he had leaned over to kiss her shoulder gently.

"We need to go, `Kita. It's getting late," he reminded her.

Nikita rolled over and looked at him, but the eyes weren't hers. Instead, Madeline's dark, calculating stare evaluated him, and the older woman's voice spoke to him from Nikita's body.

"You're right, Michael. . . . It is too late."

Michael covered his eyes and shook his head. If he was going to save `Kita from Madeline's fate, he had to stay far away from her. Only then could he hope for her safety.

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

"God, what a moron I am," Nikita thought, covering her face with her hand.

She was still collapsed on the one chair in her new living room--where she had flopped down after Michael left. That was an hour ago now. She shook her head. She had thrown herself at him again. . . . When was she ever going to learn? Nikita lowered her hand and hung it off the side of her chair; she stared at the ceiling. Okay, so she was happy her blind date hadn't been Petrosian. But Michael . . . She groaned and sat up, holding her head in her hands.

The high from the wine was wearing off now, letting her see even more clearly just how idiotic she must have seemed. Why did she think Michael still wanted her, anyway? He had certainly given her little sign of it. What made her believe that there was still some hope for them?

The night had been painful for her. She had consciously repressed her desire for Michael for several weeks now; she had really begun to believe in her own indifference. . . . Yeah, right. Six months without the sight of him hadn't rid her of her emotions; neither had his countless manipulations and lies--or several beatings. Why did she think that a few weeks could do it?

Nikita looked up again and exhaled loudly, leaning her arms on her knees. She had taken up Section's offer of a vacation, a couple of weeks after they had made it. They had offered two weeks; she had taken one and a half. During her break, she had hit three different continents, unable to find a place which was comfortable. Too many of them reminded her of Michael; there were too many memories.

Before she left, she had made her peace with Jurgen's memory--more quickly, possibly, than she felt she should have. After that, it was Michael and his betrayals which preyed upon her. The vacation had been a way of running from him, really. It just hadn't worked.

It was when she found herself in Paris again that she realized, consciously, that her escape was illusory. Somehow, she had ended up back at her last hiding place, staring at the dry-docked boat they had spent their one night together on. Nikita closed her eyes. God . . . the memory of that night was still painfully vivid. She could almost feel the soft touch of his hands. The tenderness and passion of that image threatened to overwhelm her.

It was when she had been there--staring at the one place they had been briefly content--that she had realized she had to change. She just couldn't survive letting Michael manipulate her emotions anymore.

Nikita opened her eyes. She had formed a new plan there. Just telling herself to forget him wasn't working. Maybe, though, if she could force herself into complete outward indifference, could turn herself--externally-- into the soulless, dispassionate operative Section and Michael wanted, she could get her emotions to follow. Maybe if she just became another person-- one who didn't care about Michael and could follow Section's stupid orders without involvement--she could survive. It was worth a shot. Nothing else had worked.

It was this line of reasoning which brought Nikita back from her vacation early. This new person she would become didn't need a break--didn't need to distance herself from Michael; she just wouldn't care enough for any of his manipulations to work. . . . She was playing a role.

Nikita didn't know it consciously yet, but this new technique would fail her miserably. The guilt, the love, the fears would still filter in to torment her. It was only when she would be faced with cancelling Sikes, however, that the truth would really crash in.

Petrosian was offering her something Section never had before--free will, even if it only came in measured doses. All that he asked in return was her soul. At the time she accepted the offer, it seemed like a good deal. He would allow her free time to be just that, and she would take on Madeline's role. Easy enough. . . . Some of Madeline's jobs she knew she could do; she had already proven herself at tech. support. The rest--the interrogations, the cancellations--her new persona could handle, while she hid behind it.

Sikes would show her the lie in this reasoning, though. Once there, staring into his eyes, she would rediscover the soul she had bottled up, along with an essential truth: she would never be Madeline. Once she would discard the character, she would remember that she never wanted to be, anyway.

Madeline's interpretation of Nikita's actions would be wrong, however. She would fail to realize a vital fact about herself and Nikita: they would never have the same definition of "power." To Madeline, power was something you wanted so that you could control and manipulate others; she was the queen of head games and enjoyed them immensely. For Nikita, though, power allowed you to have control over your own life. Unless they were hurting her or others, she didn't really give a damn what anyone else might do; she had absolutely no desire to control them.

Madeline, however, like all essentially evil or corrupt people, couldn't really understand anyone who wasn't. To her, goodness was "naivete," stupidity, or a cover for desires like her own; she could, therefore, never comprehend Nikita's real motives. It was why Nikita's actions with Petrosian would cause Madeline to judge her as a threat to her own power for some time to come.

Nikita didn't know, of course, where any of this was leading. Her understandable desire for self-determination overpowered her better judgment and deeper feelings.

She sighed, stood up, and walked over to her stereo. The song the bar had been playing when Michael arrived was still haunting her. She hunted through her cds for the album. Once she found it, she stared at it for a few seconds before putting it in and finding the appropriate song. The haunting voice then filled her apartment: "What ravages of spirit conjured this temptress rage-- Created you a monster, broken by the rule of love? And fate has led you through it; You do what you have to do."

Nikita wrapped her arms around herself, as she listened. She had thought of herself and Michael so often while listening to the album. She just wasn't sure which one of them was the monster. "And I had the sense to recognize That I don't know how to let you go."

Nikita closed her eyes and then turned to walk toward her window. She wasn't sure she had the strength to do this with Michael, yet. She still wanted to believe that she could rid herself of her desire for him. "Every moment marked with admirations of your soul However swiftly moving, trying to escape this desire The yearning to be near you-- I do what I have to do."

She groaned and sat down, putting her head on her knees, rocking herself slightly. If only there were some way to *really* free herself of him. "A glowing ember--burning hot And burning slow Deep within, I'm shaken by the violence of existing for only you. I know I can't be with you-- I do what I have to do."

A tear fell from Nikita's face and ran down her leg; she closed her eyes tightly. . . . Damn it. Why couldn't she be stronger when it came to him?

She opened her eyes and sat up to see the smudges of her makeup on her leg. She laughed at herself and shook her head. . . . Perfect. She stood up and went over to take the cd back out, hiding it somewhere among the others.

The new Nikita didn't need this--didn't need him. So what if he had turned down her offer? She grinned slightly. At least she had made him nervous for a few minutes, reversing their usual positions. . . . Good. He deserved a little payback for all the times he had manipulated her.

Nikita stopped for a second to think about it all, however, lowered her head, and sighed. She didn't want him like that--didn't want to reverse their old pattern of abuse. She didn't want to order him to be with her, either. . . .

Alright, maybe she still wanted him but not like that, not as some whore she was forcing to perform for her.

Nikita went and sat down on the chair again. She was suddenly grateful that their one time together had happened the way it did--no missions, no orders--no Section in charge of her to give them.

She rested her head on her hand and realized a few things she really wasn't in the mood to. Yes, Michael had used her attraction to him to manipulate and lie to her--had even used it to make her nervous a few times--controlling her. They had had to play the happy couple on various missions before, too. . . . He had never once, however, pushed things any farther than they had to go.

They could have been lovers at least a dozen times before that night in Paris --and had a legacy of even deeper pain and resentment to prove it, but he had managed to keep them from taking this path. She rubbed her cheek on her hand.

Maybe he really did care. . . . Then again, maybe he just wasn't attracted to her at all.

"Screw it," she murmured, standing up.

Why bother with this? Michael was a bloody enigma, and he was going to stay that way. Why should she waste her time thinking about him?

The new Nikita had things to do. Petrosian expected her early tomorrow, and she was determined to keep her hold on the fuller life he was giving her. So what if her name--which was like a whispered prayer when Michael said it-- sounded like a vile curse on Petrosian's lips? So what if she had to force herself to look back into his rat-like eyes to take his orders? He was the closest thing to honesty and freedom Section had offered her, and she had no intention of letting him down.

Nikita walked toward her bathroom; she was going to go take a shower and wash this junk off her face--wash away the thoughts of this night. She and Michael weren't a couple and probably never would be. She would have to accept that and learn to build a life on her own. All she needed was the strength to begin.

The End

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