Author's Note: Okay, I wrote this story to give myself a bit more closure to "Darkness Visible." Hope some of you will like it, too. :) It starts immediately at the end of the episode, although it assumes that the final scene happens a few days after the mission ends; it's mostly a character study. There are spoilers here for "Darkness Visible," "Hard Landing," "Approaching Zero," "War," and "Love." I guess I'd rate it MA-14 for bad language and vague sexual discussions. No infringement of any sort is intended with the following.

Nikita woke up gasping for breath; it took her several long seconds to get it.

She closed her eyes. . . . Damn it. This was the third night in a row she had had the nightmares; she just couldn't get Peter and Sasha out of her mind.

Nikita opened her eyes, sighed disgustedly, and got out of bed to wander around her apartment. This nightmare hadn't been as bad as some, but she still had no desire to try sleeping again right now.

She leaned her side against the doorway of her bedroom, looking at her newly- redecorated home. It suddenly seemed cold and sterile--a slightly more stylish version of Section. She smiled ruefully. "Great. I've built my own prison," she thought.

She turned away from her living room, rubbing her back against the doorframe and looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head. She had learned to cope with most of Section's demands, but children and innocents were still her weakness. She just couldn't follow Michael's orders to leave them behind.

The young needed to be protected. She was still amazed at their resilience, their ability to survive. How any child could stay innocent in a war zone was beyond her; the look of trust she had seen in Sasha's eyes still astonished her.

Peter was wiser--older, but there was still a benevolence to him which hadn't been stolen. She shook her head again. How did they manage it?

Nikita pushed herself off the doorframe and headed slowly down the stairs to sit on her couch, her elbows on her knees, as she stared at the floor. The fact that she had had little of a real childhood herself, of course, might also explain her astonishment. All she could really remember of it was fragments of neglect and abuse. She wasn't sure she had ever yet felt really loved. . . . Well, once, but her night with Michael was a lifetime ago . . . if it had even happened. She had begun to question her memory. . . . Michael had certainly forgotten.

She blinked and looked up. Or had he? She still couldn't grasp the workings of his mind--his hot and cold demeanor, but there had been times recently when she actually thought she saw something there--some sliver of love or regret.

She didn't know what had become of their relationship, really, she pondered, leaning back on the couch. They weren't back to the patterns they had formed before her six-month escape, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. They were both closer and further away now. On some subconscious level, she felt an intimacy with him; she understood him better . . ., but that part of her mind was guarding its secrets from her well. . . . They were more distanced, too, though, in that they barely spoke outside of missions--and they never discussed anything personal while working.

He hadn't betrayed her since Jurgen, however, she realized, quirking her head to one side and staring off to her left.

"Oh, there's an improvement," she thought wryly, smiling slightly. Still, it wasn't the constant manipulations she had suffered at his hands a year or so ago. In an odd sense, there was more honesty between them now . . ., but perhaps that was just because there was so little communication.

This last mission, though, had shown her something new of Michael--a vulnerability she hadn't completely expected. Nikita leaned forward again, her chin on her hand.

"I wonder what he saw when he looked at those kids?" she questioned silently. "Did he save them--in the end, because they reminded him of his son?"

Nikita remembered thinking bitterly now, when Michael had removed the children from the jeep to abandon them, that it was a good thing--in some ways --that his son hadn't lived; Michael probably would have eaten him alive like some savage, conscienceless animal. She had actually been a bit surprised, when his better instincts had kicked in; although it was what she had been hoping for, she hadn't necessarily expected it.

She had seen the look of repressed grief in his eyes, when they returned to Section, as well. He couldn't even keep eye contact with her. . . . Of course, that sort of distance was becoming his pattern more and more lately.

Nikita wondered suddenly if Michael had ever seen those children the way that part of her mind had: as their own. Hell, with all of them riding together in the Range Rover, it had been almost . . . suburban. . . . Had he ever thought about it, though? Had it ever occurred to him? She shook her head disgustedly, her cynicism overtaking her. Or was she just some demented combination of trainee and whore to him--there to order around and help assuage his pain, when he wanted her?

Nikita closed her eyes tightly and leaned back again, her anger subsiding a bit. As pathetic as she felt doing it, she still thought about the two of them as parents, from time to time. It was ridiculous, of course; even without Section, what kind of parents would they make--his silence matched with her pain? It was a recipe for disaster.

She sighed and looked at the ceiling, thinking about their night in Paris again. If any child had been created then, Michael's blows to her stomach and abdomen soon thereafter had put an end to it; what woman could avoid miscarrying after that?

It seemed symbolic of their relationship, really. Every time some hope was conceived for them, it was destroyed, usually by Michael's hand--with or without Section's orders. She lowered her head and shook it. Anything created by them would have to be monstrous--not beautiful. Peter and Sasha certainly didn't qualify.

She smiled faintly, thinking of their names; they were so close to the ones she and Michael had assumed for their mission against Bauer. Nikita paused, stroking her face, wondering why she remembered that mission so much more clearly than a hundred others. She supposed, though, that it was because it was the first time they had had to play husband and wife together; it had struck a bit close to home. Also, it was the first time she had really been faced with the reality of Section's double dealing, both in their acceptance of the deaths of innocents at the office building and their befriending of Bauer. She laughed slightly at herself. She hadn't been as naive of their duplicity since.

She shook her head slightly. Thinking about them again now, the children seemed a bit like Michael and herself, in a strange way. They were in the middle of constant death and pain, but there was still an unspoken closeness between them.

Peter looked after Sasha without being asked to, doing his best to see that she wouldn't come to physical harm, but he was not naive about the possible dangers of their lives. She half-smiled. If only Michael could be that openly affectionate.

Nikita crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her head back. She wasn't sure what to do with herself right now. It was 3 a.m., and she didn't want to go back to bed. She lowered her head again and pondered. She needed to talk, but there was really only one person she could talk to, and she wasn't sure if he would be up, although he seemed to sleep very rarely, from what she knew of him; she was unsure, as well, whether he would be angry with her for calling.

She sighed, deciding she would have to find out, and then got up and went to her phone, wondering if he would even agree to meet with her.

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

Michael, like Nikita, had abandoned the idea of sleep for the night. His nightmares for the past few days had been unbearable. They weren't very clear in his mind now, though; he was only left with scattered fragments of terror.

His dreams had been substituting and shifting. Sometimes, it was himself and Nikita who were left at the border, while their children walked away. Other times, he and Simone stood screaming, crying for their son to be returned to them. Once or twice, he had been led away by soldiers, while his tiny sister was led off into the distance unprotected. The nightmares had taken other paths, as well: Nikita shot in the back of the head by guards, while he stood by, helpless; Madeline shooting his son and then looking up at him; . . . himself shooting Simone; this last one was the dream he was running from now.

Michael sighed. He was standing in his living room, his back to the bedroom --trying to distance himself. In many ways, he thought, his last dream was accurate. He *had* killed Simone, first through his refusal of a back-up team and then by his inability to read her plan, before her suicide.

Maybe it went even further than that, though. He looked at the window. Maybe it went all the way back to the beginning of their relationship. He and Simone had struck a bargain early on, with Section and each other, that--so long as they were allowed to remain together--they would submit to anything. Section's vision of "anything" had tested even that broad word's limits, however.

Michael finally sat down in one of his armchairs, still pondering. Section would have used Simone, regardless, but she had suffered extra indignities because of his closeness to her. Section One liked to test their limits, see how much abuse they could watch the other take, before they cracked. They had been forced to watch each other be beaten, seduced, . . . even raped while having to remain impartial. They had only survived, somehow, because of their absolute faith in each other's affections. . . . They were atrocities no one should have had to undergo, however.

Michael was determined that Nikita would never have to be put through anything similar, if he could help it. That meant, however, that he had to stay distanced from her; they couldn't have a relationship. . . . The thoughts of children with her which Peter and Sasha had brought to him were, therefore, not even conceivable.

Michael missed the amount of time he used to spend with Nikita, the physical --if not sexual--closeness they had shared. He needed to keep distancing himself, however, to stay sane, not to mention operationally viable.

Nikita's conscience was more and more awakening echoes in himself. It was as though her sense of justice were a disease which was now part of his bloodstream--killing his effectiveness as a dispassionate, cold op.

He should have left Peter and Sasha behind, should never have listened to Nikita's arguments. As it was, though, he had seen too much when looking at them: his son with Simone, himself protecting his defenseless sister, an innocent version of Nikita and himself, . . . his imagined children with Nikita.

He could leave none of them behind.

Michael sighed. He had never thought too much about his future in Section, before; he had always assumed that his life would be a succession of painful missions until the day one killed him or he lost his viability as an operative and was cancelled. He hadn't cared enough for quite some time to ponder it deeply. Now, however, he was confused. He had no idea of what the future held, no idea what he might do next. Nikita was the random factor; he couldn't predict her effect on him. He would simply have to keep his distance.

Michael sighed again. He was just thinking about going back to Section, to avoid his nightmares, when his phone rang.

An hour later, Michael arrived at a nearly-deserted cafe' to find Nikita already seated in a corner booth. The only other customers were well away from her at the counter; a radio in the kitchen was tuned to a country music station. . . . It was the perfect place for a private conversation.

He approached her cautiously, not quite sure of why he had come, especially given his new attempts at resolve. He glanced at her briefly to try to evaluate her. She looked tired.

"What is it, Nikita?" he asked, still standing, as he looked out the plate-glass window.

She watched him, trying to gauge his thoughts. "Can't you sit down?"

He remained standing. "What do you want?"

"I need to talk, Michael." She was beginning to get a bit nervous. His distance from her was growing.

Michael pondered it and then sat down slowly, still staring at the parking lot.

"Can I get you some coffee?" a uniformed waitress asked, arriving at the table.

Michael glanced at her briefly, assessing her in a subconscious way which was habit by now.

"No. Thank you."

The waitress looked at Nikita. "Good luck, honey," she thought before leaving.

Michael looked at Nikita briefly before focusing on the table.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Nikita watched him. He looked exhausted. "The same thing we've both been thinking about for the last three days--Peter and Sasha."

He looked out the window again. "We did all we could for them."

"That's not making you sleep any better than me, is it?" Nikita pressed.

Michael sighed slightly. "You should never have brought them with us."

"I didn't exactly have a gun to your head," she reminded him. "No, you have your hand wrapped around my heart," he thought.

"They weren't part of the mission profile," he responded verbally, not really giving her an answer.

"Really? I thought Section's mission was to protect the public--to `bring down the terrorists no else can get,' remember?"

He finally looked at her. "Don't quote Section's charter to me. You know as well as I do that our job is to follow orders, not create new rules." He seemed quietly angry.

Nikita looked a little saddened and shook her head. "Is this really what we've become, Michael?" She shrugged. "Are we just enemies who happen to work together?"

Michael's eyes were growing slightly red. His anger was gone again, knocked out of him by her question. He searched her face sadly and lovingly, for several seconds--in a way he hadn't in quite a while, looking for answers to their dilemmas.

"No," he answered finally.

Nikita leaned forward, focusing intently on him. His stricken look alone was answering many of her questions, but she had one she had to know the answer to.

She had been confused by him for so long; she needed the truth.

"Michael," she said softly, "when we were taking care of Peter and Sasha . . ." She paused. "Have you ever thought about it? . . . Has the image of the two of us holding a child--*our* child--ever occurred to you?" She was desperate to know she wasn't just making a fool of herself.

Michael looked down angrily, fighting emotions. "`Kita," he began, before stopping himself. He sighed and looked out the window again. "It's none of your business," he concluded finally.

Nikita gave a half smile and shook her head. "The perfect operative is back," she muttered. She looked at him analytically. "You know you never touch me anymore, Michael? I don't mean sexually; I mean even in passing. . . . Hell, you've barely made eye contact with me in weeks."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she sighed and went on. "I'm not accusing you," she said, as her voice got softer. "I'm not angry, really." She shrugged. "I just wish I knew where we stood."

Michael *was* angry--at himself, at Section. He had come here tonight, he realized, because--in spite of their best interests--he needed to be close to her. It couldn't happen, though.

He directed his anger at her, although she had no part in creating it. He looked back at her.

"You think we're human, Nikita . . . that this is just some sort of hobby we have?" His voice revealed a cold fury. "Well, we're not, and it isn't." He focused more deeply on her. "Our lives aren't ours . . ., and--if neither you nor I exist," his voice and eyes got a little softer, "*we* don't exist."

He held her look for another few seconds before beginning to leave, still slightly angry. He paused, though, just as he was about to walk away, his fingertips still resting on the table, his back mostly to her.

His anger had suddenly dissipated completely, like a summer storm passing; it was replaced with an unending sadness.

"And yes, I've thought about . . .," his breath shuddered slightly, "about our children more times than I'll ever remember."

He was whispering, but she caught every word.

"Michael," she said quietly.

"Goodnight, Nikita," he stated before walking away.

Nikita watched him leave and then lowered her head into her hands.

Michael looked back at her briefly, once he reached his car; he closed his eyes.

He wanted to destroy himself for hurting her. He was like a very old, delicate glass bottle lately, though; he was brittle and marked with fissures, ready to break. The slightest touch of her fingers on his hand right now, and he would have shattered; there would be no hope of mending him.

He opened his eyes to look at her again. He had to leave. Otherwise, he would be responsible for the destruction of both the women he had loved in his life. Her only hope of salvation was his distance. He closed his eyes briefly, before he got in his car and drove away.

Nikita looked up finally, when the waitress came back to the table. "More tea, honey?"

Nikita glanced down at the weak, lukewarm water which passed for that beverage here. "No thanks."

The waitress was still nearby. "You can't change men like that."

Nikita looked up. "What do you mean?"

"The married ones," the woman went on. "They never leave their wives. They just taunt you with stories of why they have to stay, how many people it would hurt, if they left . . ., but they still need you, of course, to give them a rest from the strain of their marriage." She shook her head. "Same old story."

Nikita smiled briefly. "You sure you don't know him?"

The waitress shrugged. "You think you're the first 4 a.m. conversation this place has seen?"

Nikita smiled slightly then reached for her purse to pay for her drink.

"Forget it, dear," the waitress stopped her. "It's on the house."

Nikita smiled at her. "Thank you."

The waitress nodded and started to move off. "By the way, good luck with him."

"Thanks," Nikita replied to her back. "I think I'm going to need it," she sighed.

The End

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