Sweet, velvet darkness. Nothingness. Peace. Michael sank lower into the depths of that darkness, seeking to burrow further down into into its comforting embrace. The darkness offered him its loving protection. The velvet depths offered escape....

*Hide. Hide down here, where they can't find me.....*

"Michael? Can you hear me?"

The soft, female voice beckoned him out of the haven of darkness, tugged at him, pulling him up from the sweet oblivion where he so wanted to remain.

He struggled. He clutched at the receding darkness, trying to hold on to the safety it offered. A small moan escaped him. *No! let me stay. Please, no more....*

"Michael?" the voice called again. He felt the pressure of hands on his arm, holding him. Then the sharp stab of pain as the needle went in.....

"Huhhh..." He gasped, sitting up suddenly, his eyes coming open as he jerked awake, brought cruelly and abruptly out of that sweet, dark world.

The bright light, so harsh and hard after the tender velvet, darkness, hurt his eyes. He blinked, trying to adjust to being back in his body. A body that hurt, that felt achingly heavy and tired. And afraid.

*No. Let me go back.. No..* He felt bereft, homesick. He yearned to return to the weightless, pain-free state he had been in, floating, drifting, serene and at peace in the deep, endless Void...

The woman who belonged to the voice stepped closer. "Easy, it's all right.." she soothed, stroking a lock of his hair back off his forehead.

Michael flinched automatically at her touch. He didn't know why, but he knew touch meant pain, touch meant agony, he must escape anyway he could. Into the darkness...

"No! No more!" he begged. He tried to pull away further, and realized something was restricting his movements, holding him down. He blinked again and saw that his wrists were encircled with straps. He was tied down to the bed.

Panicking, he turned his eyes back up to the woman's face-- his captor. The brown eyes that met his were warm and concerned.

"It's O.K., Michael. You're safe," the soft, throaty voice soothed again. "You're back in Section One."

Her words did nothing to calm him. He didn't know why, but those two words, Section One, made him shrink back in alarm as much as her touch did.

He struggled against the restraints, pulling hard, and attempted futilely to move away from the woman, from her touch and her words that terrified him.

"W-What's Section One?" he said, his voice trembling.

Madeleine's eyes widened. It was much worse than she thought. The torture that Michael had undergone from Red Cell had damaged his mind and memory as well as his body.

When Nikita had rescued him and brought him in, he had been unconscious. He had stayed unconsious too long. Madeleine had expected him to have some disorientation, some confusion, but nothing like this.

"Michael?" she said again, searching his face, trying to assess the extent of the damage.

His green eyes searched her face as well, as if for the first time. His eyes still held fear and a vast wariness. He trusted nothing in this new strange environment. Not her voice, her touch, and especially not her words.

He responded to her unspoken question with a suspicious query of his own.

"Who is Michael?" he asked.

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

"How is he?"

Nikita stood stiffly in front of the desk in Madeleine's office. She hadn't seen Michael since she had brought him in early that morning in the van. The last sight of him had been of his pale, unconscious form being wheeled down the hallway on a stretcher to Medlab.

Nikita had been told only that tests were being run on him. No one had updated her on his condition. She had waited, quietly, if not patiently, to hear something, anything.

She now deemed that six hours was long enough to wait, and had come to Madeleine's office, univited, determined to get some answers.

Madeleine did not pretend not to understand her question. It was clear that the only "he" Nikita could be referring to was Michael.

The older woman smiled ever so slightly and clicked on the viewing screen on the side of the wall of her office.

"See for yourself," she said quietly.

Nikita turned and looked at the display on the wall. It was a view of the white room- stark lights and metal chair unmistakably recognizable despite the fuzzy picture. When she saw the occupant of the chair, though, she almost staggered, feeling suddenly cold and dizzy.

"Michael!" she gasped out.

He was strapped in the chair, moving restlessly, pulling against the restraints, jerking his head around, as if he were afraid of what could be lurking behind him..

Nikita moved closer to the screen and got a better look at his face. The features were the same-- it was the same handsome, proud face she knew so well, but somehow different...

It hit her suddenly what it was. This Michael was afraid. Afraid and bewildered, lost... There was a haunted, empty look in his eyes, a deep sadness....

She realized she had never seen Michael like this before-- so vunerable, so open. His emotions were not hidden behind his mask, buried behind the blank stare. They were right there, showing plainly in his eyes. Everything he was feeling was right on the surface....

Nikita turned from the screen back to Madeleine. "Why are you doing this?" she asked tensely.

Madeleine sighed. "We're not going to hurt him. We just need to run some more tests..."

Nikita leaned her arms on desk and moved her face within inches of Madeleine's. She didn't intend her stance to be overtly threatening to the other woman, but Nikita secretly hoped it was.

"TESTS? What kind of tests? Tests for what?" the younger woman demanded.

Madeleine's demeanor remained calm. But there was a slight tremor in her voice as she answered that betrayed her stress.

"From what we can determine so far, Michael was subjected to electro- shock treatments, as well a a panel of drugs that we are still trying to analyze. We also believe an R-2 unit was used...."

"God..." Nikita said sharply, and closed her eyes.

Madeleine continued softly. "As you know, any one of these techniques would be enough to cause serious mental disturbances...."

*They scrambled his mind* thought Nikita, her heart sinking. She remembered their Red Cell captor during the war threatening to inject Michael with a drug that would "fill his mind with madness". Was that what had happened now?

"How much damage has been done?" Nikita forced herself to ask. She could hardly get the words out, but she made herself speak. She had to know. "Is he... insane?"

Madeleine closed her eyes and shook her head. The problem wasn't quite that bad. Or was it worse, she wondered? She would try to break it to Nikita gently.

"No. His cognitive faculties are all normal. And physically, he will recover completely. About the rest, we're not so sure.."

"What's WRONG with him?" Nikita shouted, unable to bear the waiting any longer.

"He's lost his memory," Madeleine told her, voice quiet but intense. "He doesn't remember who he is, or.... what he is."

Nikita slumped in the chair in front of the desk, relief flooding her. "But.. but that's just temporary, then? Isn't it?"

Madleine frowned. "We don't know. If it is temporary, if he starts remembering soon, even bits and pieces, there will be hope for a full recovery; he could return to full status."

Nikita steeled herself and asked another tough question. "And.... if he doesn't start remembering?"

Madeleine looked at her for a long moment, eyes full of regret.

"He'll be cancelled," she said.

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

The test was almost ready. Nikita watched through the two-way mirror in the small cubicle adjacent to the white room as the final adjustments were made by a technician to Michael's body.

Operations and Madeleine stood off to her side, also regarding Michael intently through the glass. Birkoff was seated at a table in front of a computer, his attention on the equipment he would use to run the test from his console.

All four observers jumped when they heard Michael cry out as the technician attached the cold metal of the monitoring equipment to his body. "No! No, please..." Michael begged, breaths coming rapidly, chest heaving.

They watched as Michael squirmed helplessy in the chair, flinching as each electrode patch was placed on his bare skin, first one low on his ribs, then one over his heart, then one on his temple.

He was hooked up to monitors that would show the slightest nuance of change in his heart-rate, galvanic skin response, respiration, and pupil dilation as they administered the test.

Michael would be shown a series of images flashed on a screen in rapid succession. They hoped that the instruments would register a response in him to some of the pictures he would be shown. ANY response.

A change in his breathing, a dilation of his pupil, an increased heart-rate would mean that he had recognized the image on the screen. It would mean he REMEMBERED something.

Nikita prayed silently to herself. *Please, Michael. Please, remember. Please remember who you are...*

Finally the technician straightened and nodded to the opague glass wall. "Ready," he said.

Operations hit the intercom button. "Good," he told the man. "You can go." The techinician nodded again in their direction and left.

The silver-haired man frowned and then puffed nervously on his cigarette. "O.K., Birkoff. You can begin."

All of them turned to the window again to observe Michael. He had relaxed just slightly when the man had left, but his fear and tension was still obvious. Nikita thought his anxiety was more than normal in the circumstances.

Michael sat, unable to move, in the chair. Besides the straps already in place, a head-piece had been placed over him, metal bands securing his forehead and chin, holding his head still.

One eyelid had been taped open and the lens-piece lowered in front of it, so that he would be forced to look at the screen. There was no way to avoid it. Michael no longer cried out, but all of them could hear his ragged breathing.

Birkoff dimmed the lights in the white room and activated the screen. It showed whitely blank, no image on it as yet.

"Michael, just relax," Birkoff spoke quietly. He was disturbed that he was subjecting a colleague to an unpleasant test that he had heretofore only seen hostiles undergo. He tried to make his voice sound friendly and soothing.

"This won't hurt. We just want you to look at the pictures. Try to see if anything looks familiar, O.K.?"

Michael let out a long sigh. Perhaps responding to the genuine warmth in the voice, he seemed to relax further.

"O.K..." he said tentatively.

Madeleine made a gesture of impatience. Nikita realized the older woman was as nervous as she was. They all were.

"Get on with it," Madeleine ordered tersely.

Birkoff nodded, took a deep breath, and flipped a switch on the console.

The test had begun.

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

The pictures clicked quickly by, each only lasting a few seconds, as if they were watching a slide show in fast-forward. The rapidity of the passing images made it impossible for the mind to formulate an intellectual response- any change in Michael's reaction from image to image would be made from a deeper, more visceral level.

His response, or lack of it, would be genuine, from the gut, unable to fake.

The pictures flashed by- clouds, trees, birds, waterfalls, ice-cream, bicycles, beaches, mountains, coffee cups, flowers.....

Michael seemed to relax, the monitors staying quiet.

"The first series is just to get a base-line reading of his responses," explained Birkoff nervously, and, considering his audience, unecessarily. "We'll add more .... disturbing things in the next set."

"Of course," responded Madeleine curtly. She was impatient to get on with it.

The series ended and the lights came up, Michael forced now to stare at a blank screen. He would have a momentary break between sets as Birkoff loaded the next series of images.

Into the pause Birkoff spoke soothingly again. "How are you doing, Michael?"

Michael, breathing more evenly now, answered after a moment, still hesistant. "All right.."

"Good," said the younger man in a voice he hoped would be encouraging. "We'll start again."

With another flick of a switch, Birkoff entered the sequence and the images began again.

This time the images were less general. They were specific to Michael, and his past, the screen flashing pictures designed to get an emotional response.

His grandparents' house in a suburb of Paris. The school building he had spent his early years in. His mothers' garden. The cathedrals and towers of Paris, landmarks from his boyhood home...

"Anything?" asked Operations.

No. Nothing so far," answered Birkoff. Michael's breathing stayed quiet, the monitors silent.

"Speed it up," Operations said, glaring. His anxiety was palpable.

Birkoff nodded, and tweaked a button. The images flashed quickly by, their speed and the intensity of their emotional impact both increasing.

His mother's face. His sister. His father. His beloved Grandmere, who had doted on him. A picture of himself at ten years old, with a ratty-looking half-breed dog that had been his constant companion until the animal had been run over by a car....

"Well?" demanded Operations.

"Nothing," said Birkoff quietly.

"Load the rest," ordered the older man in a hiss.

This time Birkoff did not bother to bring up the lights between sets. Michael had only a few seconds of blank screen before he was inundated with images again.

Paris University. The March. Rene's face, as he looked then, at the height of their impassioned, fervent youth....

Michael sat impassive, breathing quietly. Madeleine and Nikita exchanged a look, almost of sympathy. Both sighed.

"Escalate," Madeleine demanded.

Birkoff nodded. Now the pictures showed less happy times. The prison Michael had been sent to after his arrest. The explosion at the government building where he had planted the bomb, flames rising high into the night .......

"Ahhhh!" The monitors beeped hysterically as Michael cried out in a high, keening wail, a half-scream torn from his lips, his tone anguished.

"Nooo! No! No..." he sobbed brokenly, over and over.

***********

Michael's wailing continued. "No! What have I done? No! No....."

The four people in the observation room had stood frozen for a moment, shocked at Michael's violent reaction. Nikita was the first to recover, finding the ability to move returning to her, as if Michael's cries were an urgent summons to help.

She slammed her hand down on top of Birkoff's, switching off the image of the explosion that had been held there in front of Michael's eyes. There was a flash of light in the white room as the screen went blank.

"Enough!" she yelled. "I'm getting him out of there!"

In two steps she was at the door. She glared at her superiors, daring them to stop her.

Madeleine gave her a nod. "Go," she said in almost a whisper.

Despite her vast experience in things horrific, Madeleine had been shaken by what she had seen, Michael broken and crying, just a few feet from where she stood. At the same time relief flooded her. Michael was definitely not cut off from his past.

The test that had been designed to open the door to his mind just a crack had completey blown his memories open. Once he could sort through the debris of the memory explosion, she hoped he would be whole again.

Or, she amended to herself, at least patched up enough to function, however emotionally crippled, as he had before.

She watched now as Nikita knelt before Michael in the other room, removing the monitoring equipment from him with gentle hands, as she spoke a soothing flow of soft, nonsensical words.

"There now, shhhh..." she chanted, over and over. "Shhhh, it's all right...."

Freeing him from the equipment was time-consuming, Nikita taking great care not to hurt or startle him further. Gradually, as the restraints came off and Nikita's soft voice went on, Michael quieted, the anguished sobs subsiding.

"There now, it's over, shhh.." Nikita said, head bent over the restraint on Michael's ankle. She pulled it free and then looked up at him.

Green, tear-filled eyes met hers. Their expression was no longer bewildered, or anguished. He stared at her as if he were a man lost and thirsting in the desert, and he had just glimpsed a sparkling oasis in her eyes.

"Nikita?" he whispered on a breath, afraid he would break the spell of the mirage before him and the fragile illusion of her presence would dissapear. "Is that you?"

Tears sprang to her eyes and she gave a sob of her own. "Yes, Michael, yes..."

She reached out for him and in a second she found herself crushed to his chest in a breath-stealing embrace. He held her as if she was the only safe point in his rocky world, a life-raft on a storm-tossed sea.

"Nikita..." he sobbed against her neck.

"Shhh, it's all right, it's all right now..." she soothed, stroking his hair. He felt her tears mingle with his own on his cheek.

"I'm here, Michael," she said, crying softly. "I'm here..."

***********

Watching the couple from the other room, Operations let out a sigh of relief. He let himself feel a momentary sense of joy that he would not have to cancel his best operative, a man whose life seemed destined to be inextricably bound with his.

It seemed he and Michael would still have time to work out their convoluted relationship that was sometimes one of father-son love, sometimes one of rivalrous hate.

Operations did not wallow in this moment of self-reflection. It was not his habit to look deeply into his own feelings, or even shallowly touch upon them in passing. He was a man of action.

He turned to Birkoff and began issuing orders.

"O.k.," he barked. "Work it up. I want Michael in Psych Rehab, NOW..."

He puffed happily on his cigarette. "I'll expect a full evaluation of him and a de-brief of the mission within 48 hours. And...."

Madeleine cut him off. "If you don't mind, this is my area of expertise."

She held him silent with a look. "I'd like to handle this my way," she stated quietly.

Operations hesitated for a moment, staring back. Then he broke into a smile. He was too happy with things to argue with her.

"Fine," he agreed, still puffing happily. What did he care how it was done, as long as she got results?

"Fine, my Dear," he said again. "I'll leave Michael entirely in your capable hands."

Madeleine smiled. "Thank you," she said softly, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. She was quite happy with the situation, too.

Birkoff coughed discreetly, feeling somewhat de trop in their presence in what he considered might be a very intimate moment.

"What do you want me to do?" asked the young computer genius. He nodded toward the couple on the other side of the glass, still clinging to each other.

"We're through for now," responded Madeleine. "Our job is over."

She looked through the glass at the two operatives, who knelt together on the floor, arms entwined, red-brown head resting against bright blonde.

"The rest is up to Nikita," she said softly.

Leaning over Birkoff's console, she switched on the intercom from room to room.

"Nikita," Madeleine ordered. "I think it's time you took Michael home."

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

Michael held on tightly to Nikita's hand as she led him down the hallway to her apartment. He smiled slightly as he read the number on her door-apt 412.

"I... I remember this!" he said in a happy tone. "I've been here before..."

"Yes, Michael, you have." Nikita smiled reassuringly back at him. He looked more like himself, dressed now in his usual black ensemble of sweater and coat, but she knew the outer facade was just an illusion.

The old Michael had been shattered, broken. THIS Michael was fragile, like a newly born chick, tender and easily hurt, requiring careful treatment.

He was still frightened, trying to process the pieces of memory that alternately assaulted his consciousness or tauntingly eluded it.

In the car on the drive over, Nikita has asked him if he remembered everything. If he knew who he was, what Section was, what she and he had been to each other.

She had almost laughed ruefully to herself as soon as the questions were out of her mouth. She realized that these were mysteries that she herself didn't even know the answers to.

"YES!" he had answered immediately. Then his face had fallen, his voice faltering. "No...I...."

He sighed, looking upset again. "I don't know..."

It was hard to explain, and he didn't know how to find the words. The past WAS back; he remembered everything. But it wasn't back in a coherent, seamless whole, like it had been before.

It wasn't even split in two halves, professional and personal, like he considered his life to be divided in before.

Now his memories lay disordered and shattered around him, as if his life were a book that had been caught in a windstorm, pages lying scattered everywhere, some chapters complete and only slightly tattered, some shredded and unreadable, beyond his power to mend.

It was all there; he just needed time to sort it out.

Nikita had taken pity on him in his bewilderment. She was sorry she had pressed him to analyze the situation so soon.

"It's O.K., Michael," she had soothed him. "It will all come together again for you. Just relax. Give yourself time, O.K.?"

"O.K." He had answered her readily, but his hand still clutched hers all the rest of the way on the drive to her apartment.

*Time* Nikita thought, opening the apartment door with her key and leading Michael inside. Madeleine had told her she only had a few days before Section expected them back in. Before Operation s expected Michael to be back in his old routine, ready to perform.

*I wish I could give you all the time you need, Michael. I wish we had more than a few days to heal your wounds. To heal everything between us....*

She sighed. She wished she had more time, but she didn't. What time she did have with him, she was determined to use to restore Michael not to the cold efficient machine that Section wanted him to be, but to the other Michael, the man with the caring, passionate soul that she had glimpsed only too rarely behind the mask.

Nikita smiled at him now. "Come in, come in..." she encouraged him, as he held shyly back in the hallway. He was almost child-like in his trust of her, despite his continued confusion and fear.

He followed her inside and she closed the door behind them. "Make yourself at home," she invited.

The tenuous smile on Michael's face dissolved into a frown. He looked around warily, then shrank back against one wall, frightened. Nothing was like he had expected or hoped it would be.

"No, it's wrong," he said uncertainly. "I don't remember this..."

He looked at her for help in his confusion, his eyes pleading.

"It's O.K., Michael," Nikita said gently. "I've redecorated since you've been here. You wouldn't have recognized it anyway..."

"Oh!" he said, and relaxed a little.

She smiled encouragingly at him. "Why don't you go ahead and look around, hmmm?"

She headed for the kitchen, wanting to give the skittish Michael time alone to adjust to his new surroundings. "Are you hungry?" she called out to him from behind the counter. "Do you want me to make you something to eat?"

Michael stood in the middle of the apartment, suddenly afraid. She was too far away. He couldn't bear it.

"No!" he yelled out, anguished. "No, Nikita, don't go! Nikita, don't leave me!"

In a moment she flew back into the living room and rushed into his arms, holding him, soothing him. He buried his face in her neck, trembling.

"I'm not going anywhere," she declared. "I won't leave you."

He still shuddered against her and held her tightly. "Shhh, relax, it's all right..." she whispered. "I'm right here..."

Michael, gripping her desperately, moaned and spoke against her neck.

"I...I thought I'd lost you...." he said brokenly.

Nikita gasped. "No. No, my Love. You never lost me....."

Time tilted and kaleidescoped for both of them, and the past moment when those words had been uttered before, with all its feelings and needs, returned full force, crashing into them and sweeping them away with its inexorable wave of passion.

Nikita lifted her face to Michael, blue eyes conveying her deep but unspoken emotions.

With a small cry, he pulled her back against him, crushing her to his chest. Then he bent his head and fervently, hungrily, kissed her.

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

The kiss quickly escalated, passion flaring from hot flame to the intensity of an inferno. Michael's hands moved on her, touching, exploring, arousing.

Nikita matched him in fervency, returning his urgent caresses. Her hands did some exploring and arousing of their own.

Soon, touching and kissing was not enough for either of them. Clothes were quickly pushed aside, her skirt coming up, his trousers opened in the front. They fell first to their knees, then to the floor.

Michael was hard and ready, Nikita wet and yielding. Neither wanted to wait, their needs matching perfectly. Neither spoke, but both knew the moment had come.

Michael grabbed her wrists and held her down, hands pressing hers to the carpet, as if he feared she might somehow escape him again. He wanted to possess her completely, taking her body as she had taken his heart and soul.

Groaning, he entered her, hot flesh sliding into hot flesh. In spite of his dominant position, it was Nikita who had the power. Michael, desperate, needing her, was the weaker, drawing healing strength from the refuge of her sweet giving, her passionate surrender.

He cried out her name in short gasps of breathless need, straining above her, begging for he knew not what... that it would go on forever; that they would always be this close, that they would stay joined, just like this....

"Nikita...." he groaned, almost sobbing. "Nikita...."

She called out for him as well, moaning his name, encouraging him. "Yes, Michael, yes...."

He claimed the lips that called out his name with his own. His tongue entered the soft cavern of her mouth and thrust powerfully and rhythmically inside, in perfect time with the thrusts below.

Michael's frenzied pace quickened, carrying them both up and over the edge. Their cries of fulfillment intermingled in the kiss, gasps of pleasure shared as one breath between them.

Michael collapsed against her, still holding her down. She welcomed the feel of his warm weight on her, reveling in his closeness.

"My beautiful Nikita..." he sighed raggedly against her neck. His grip on her tightened.

"Don't ever leave me...." he begged. "Please..."

She was touched by his words of raw need, his emotions so plainly offered to her view, all weaknesses unhidden, his feelings revealed....

"No, Michael," she whispered back, her voice trembling. "I'm yours. I won't leave you....."

"Oui," he groaned. "Never leave me again. Never again..."

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

Michael stayed where he was, lying on top of her, still inside her, still holding her wrists down to the floor, his full weight on her.

Nikita wriggled beneath him, and he felt himself hardening again. With a soft moan, he kissed her cheek, closing his eyes, reveling in the feel of her.

"Oh, Nikita...." he breathed, and thrust himself in her, rocking slowly...

"No, Michael," she said softly in his ear. "Let me up. Please..."

His eyes flew open and instantly he was off of her, rolling to one side.

"Nikita?" he said anxiously, watching her face. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Nikita looked back at him. His hair was tousled wildly around his face, his clothes disheveled. She thought he had never looked more beautiful.

She could also see the look of alarm and confusion in his green eyes. He was distraught at the thought of hurting her.

She smiled at him, reassuring him in his distress. "Shhh, Michael," she whispered, reaching for him. She kissed him, and at the same time put her hands on his shoulders and shoved the coat jacket he was wearing down his arms and off of him.

"You didn't hurt me," she said softly against his mouth. "I just wanted my hands free to do this..."

She wound one hand through the long curls at the back of his neck and pulled his face closer, deepening the kiss. With the other hand, she lifted up his sweater, pushing it aside to place her palm on the smooth, contoured muscles of his abdomen. Her fingers caressed him, then moved lower, feeling his manhood leap in response to her touch...

He groaned loudly and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. He tried to pull her back down to the floor.

Laughing, she broke the kiss. "No, Michael," she teased. "Not here. Why don't we use the bedroom this time?"

Michael sighed and buried his face in her neck. "My beautiful Nikita..." he whispered.

In a moment, his hands came up around her and she found herself lifted in his arms. She kissed him in delight and he sighed once more against her lips as he carried her up the stairs.

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

A soft breeze blew through the open window, sending a shiver across Michael's naked, sweat-soaked body. He roused from his dream-state long enough to pull the sheet up and carefully arranged it over himself and the woman who lay sleeping against him.

Nikita stirred, but did not awaken. She burrowed her head more deeply into the pillow, while at the same time snuggled her back closer against Michael. With a contented sigh, she fell more deeply asleep.

Michael propped himself up on one elbow and watched her as she slept. The bedroom was dark, but what light there was seemed to be caught in her hair, the golden sheen of it glowing as if from within.

He bent to kiss the fine, soft molten light spilling over her bare shoulders, and then watched in delight as she smiled in her sleep. He nestled against her again, inhaling her scent, and closed his eyes.

He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to savor the feel of her next to him. He wanted to sort out his thoughts. He wanted to remember.

Nikita had pulled him back from the brink of oblivion. His world, his mind, was coming back together again.

The shattered pieces of his memory were rearranging themselves in a coherent whole, coalescing now, all converging and re-assembling around the center point of his life- Nikita.

He realized now that she had saved him, and not just physically by rescuing him from the Red Cell terrorists who had held him captive. She had saved his sanity as well.

At any point she could have rejected him. And in his vunerable state that rejection might have destroyed him. But she had not pushed him away. Her acceptance and caring had restored him to wholeness.

Whole. That's how he felt now. He knew the peace he felt now was not just because he had satisfied a purely physical need with Nikita, although that was part of it.

They had slaked that need again and again, first on the living room floor, and then here in her bed.

Nikita had taken the lead that second time, pushing him down on the bed, touching him, exploring him, tasting him. He thought he would go mad from such sweet torment until she brought him to a shattering release in her mouth.

They had gone on to explore and taste each other more after that, making love twice more. Their joining was no longer feverish and urgent, but tender and slow. But in spite of that, the intensity of their love-making remained just as strong as the first time, if not more.

It was more than just his body that needed to be with her. He knew their hearts were entwined as well as their bodies. Their lives had touched and intermingled, sparking a light in the darkness of Section One. And tonight that light had pulled him back from the edge. He knew they belonged together; that it was destined.

It was right to be here with her like this. So very right...

He rested his head against her shoulder and his lips softly kissed her hair once more.

"I didn't know who I was 'til I saw you," he whispered softly in the darkness.

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

Michael knew she was asleep, but he felt the need to speak to her, to explain his feelings, feelings he might not have the courage to express to her when she was awake.

The words came, flowing easily, bringing clarity. He spoke as much to himself as to her, his voice full of wonder.

"I was so frightened, strapped in that chair," he whispered. "Not because of the test, I mean. I wasn't afraid of what they might do to me. I was afraid that...."

His voice caught. "I was afraid I would never remember. That I would be in limbo forever, drifting, cut off from my past, from who I was...."

"They showed me the pictures. They went on and on, but none of them meant anything..." Michael sighed.

"I was sure that was my family I saw, but it didn't register. I didn't remember them. I didn't remember anything. I was in despair..."

"And then..." Michael touched a lock of her hair in the darkness. Nikita still lay quietly sleeping, and he went on, his voice low and intense.

"Then I saw the explosion and it all came back. The suicide mision. I remembered. It was the worst moment of my life. I didn't know if I had helped you escape or if I had..."

He sobbed. "... or if I had killed you. If I had killed the only thing in this world that made life worth living.."

"As the months went by after that, I thought you were dead. That I had carried out the mission that killed you. I couldn't bear it. I fell apart. I..."

Michael stopped, remembering the most painful time in his life. After a moment, he composed himself and went on.

"Then, the next thing I knew, I was still strapped in the chair in that room, but you were there, in front of me. I wasn't sure you were real..."

He gave a short laugh and held her a little closer. "But you WERE real. You saved me, brought me back. You did that with your touch, your words, your love..."

His whisper became lower, softer, his breath barely stirring the hair on her neck. "I don't know if I deserve that love, Nikita. But I know I need you. I've always needed you...."

He sighed and snuggled closer against her. "I want it to be like this. Us together. Because it's right. Because we belong together...."

"We belong together... outside. Free. Free from Section One. You deserve a life, and I.. I can't survive without you...."

"I have a plan," he whispered. "It's not perfect, but someday, someday soon, I'll get you out. Get US out...."

He turned his head, his voice breaking. "I'll have to go back to playing a part. Back to the old Michael. I'll have to pretend to be ruthless. Pretend to .... not care about you...."

"It's the only way you can be safe until things are ready. I'm sorry, Nikita," he said softly. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you again..."

"If you can be patient, you'll see. You'll see that...."

He kissed her hair again. "...That I love you..."

"And that we'll have a life. If you wait, Nikita, please. I promise you, you won't be sorry that you brought me back..."

He brushed his hand gently across her shoulder again. "My beautiful Nikita..."

Michael relaxed, and closed his eyes. It had felt good to get it all out, to talk about his plan, his dreams, even if she hadn't heard him. He had wanted to tell her all these things, reveal all these feelings inside him, for a very long time.

When he had started to speak, his body was exhausted and aching for rest, but he could not sleep. It was his mind that was still awake, agitated.

Sleep would not come until he had satisfied the needs of his soul as well as his body. Now, content and sated physically and emotionally, having experienced a catharsis of his body's desire and the release of the outpouring of his heart, he felt at peace again.

His mind was clear, his heart was singing. He kissed her hair one more time and cuddled against her.

"I love you, Nikita," he whispered, and slept.

In the darkness, Nikita opened her eyes. They glistened with the tears that had been falling silently as she had listened to Michael's soft voice spill out his deepest feelings.

She felt him, body warm and relaxed against her, breathing deeply, peacefully, in his sleep.

"I love you, too, Michael," she whispered to the dark.

***********

Nikita awoke late the next morning when the sun slanted through her bedroom window and fell full across her face. She stretched, feeling the delicious soreness in her body from yesterday's passionate love-making with Michael. Smiling, she opened her eyes and reached for him.

His side of the bed was empty. His clothes, which had been hastily removed and tossed on the floor the night before, were also gone.

"Michael?" she called out, trying not to panic. Was he all right? Had he left the apartment? Where had he gone?

In a flash, she was up out of bed, had pulled on a robe, and was at the bedroom door.

She stopped as soon as she opened the door and looked into the apartment, feeling foolish. Michael was seated at the kitchen table, calmly drinking coffee.

He was showered and dressed, his hair combed and orderly. He looked up at her with a composed and serene expression on his face.

"Good Morning," he said placidly.

"Uh.. Good Morning," she replied, feeling uncertain.

If she didn't know better, she would have almost thought that she had dreamed the passionate, wild, aroused Michael of the night before, the one who had declared his love for her.

THIS Michael was almost like the cold, unreadable Michael she knew so well from before, complete with blank stare.

"Would you like some coffee?" he offered politely.

"Uh.. no, thanks," she said, taking a seat at the table and crossing her arms across her chest. She looked at him thoughtfully, eyes narrowing.

"What I'd really like is to know how you're feeling," she said, concerned.

He fixed her with the patented stare, combined with the patented Section answer. "I'm fine," he said tonelessly.

She stared at him, her mouth gaping open in disbelief. "You're FINE?" she said sarcastically. "Really?"

"Yes." He answered without inflection, but something like pain flickered briefly in his eyes.

"Michael," she said, leaning toward him. "A few days ago you were held prisoner by Red Cell. They almost destroyed you. Yesterday you didn't know who you are. Don't tell me you're FINE..."

With a tender expression in her eyes, she reached out her hand to caress his face.

Before she could touch him, Michael swiftly moved his chair back and got up, taking his coffee cup to the sink. He stood there silently, his back to her.

Nikita felt his rejection as if it were a physical blow. Tears stung her eyes, and she angrily blinked them back. Where was her Michael? The one who loved her? The one who needed her?

She saw him reach into the pocket of his jacket and pull out his cell-phone. He flipped it open, preparing to dial a number.

"What are you doing?" she asked, bewildered.

"Reporting in. I need to let Section know I'll be coming in today." His tone was still calm, but Nikita detected a faint note of stress in the timber of his voice.

"No!" She jumped up from the table and took the phone from him, snapping it closed. She shook it in her fist. "You don't have to go in yet!"

She took a breath, becoming calmer. She put the phone gently down on the counter. "Michael, you don't have to push yourself like this..."

She looked up at him, blue eyes liquid with tears of concern and raw vunerabilty. "Please. Give yourself time. Give US time..."

Michael drew in a sharp breath and turned his head away. A muscle in his jaw twitched. She could tell he was fighting for control.

"Nikita, please..." His hand came up to his chin and he rubbed it agitatedly. "I ... I have to do this. I have to go back..."

"You WANT to go back? Instead of being with me?" she asked in hurt disbelief.

He sighed and lowered his head. "No. It's not what I want for myself or for..... us. But it has to be done."

He looked up at her, his eyes pleading. "Please try to understand. It has nothing to do with how I ..... feel about you.."

His voice lowered to a whisper on the last words. Nikita stared at him in wonderment. Her Michael was still there, underneath the mask he was struggling to put on.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "O.K., Michael. I'm trying to understand. Just tell me why you can't stay..."

Their eyes met, hers a deep shimmering blue, all her tender feelings for him there for him to see.

"Please. Stay. Just one more day.." she begged.

"No," he whispered, his voice bereft. "I ... can't.."

"WHY?" she shouted, tears spilling down her face. "Why can't you stay?"

With a swiftness that took her by surprise, Michael uttered a deep groan and reached for her. Nikita found herself clutched fiercely to his chest, his face pressed to hers. She was surprised again when she felt his tears there as well as her own.

"Because if I don't go in today, you won't be protected anymore," he whispered against her cheek, his voice low, rapid, and intense.

"Don't you think I want to stay? Don't you know I want to be with you?"

He held her tighter. "But if I stay, they'll know."

"Know what?" she breathed, hugging him back.

He pulled back from her and stroked the back of his hand against her cheek in a tender caress. "They'll know that you are my weakness. And I can't allow that to happen...'

He pulled her close once more. The soft voice went on, agonized. "Because the last time that happened, when they suspected I cared for you, they.. they.."

"What, Michael?" she whispered softly. "What did they do?"

He expelled all his breath in a deep, shuddering sigh. "The Shays mission. They sent you to your death..."

He sobbed and buried his face in her hair. "Please, Nikita. Help me. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you..."

Nikita gave a small cry that was half joy, half anguish. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him deeply.

Michael groaned and returned the kiss, his mouth communicating his passion as well as his desperation and anxiety, and his regret at the lost moments they could have had together.

Nikita understood his wordless plea. She would go along with his charade. She would pretend that Michael was her cold, heartless mentor, restored back to his robot-like efficiency after his momentary lapse of weakness brought about by Red Cell's torture.

She wouldn't let them know the secret that she cherished in her heart. She would hide the fact that he loved her so, and she him.

She held him for a long time, losing herself in the kiss. Fianlly she broke free from him and stepped back, wiping the tears from her eyes and forcing a tremulous smile.

"It's O.K., Michael. I understand. Let me help you.."

She went to the counter and picked up the cell -phone she had taken from him before. "Here," she said, offering it to him. "Go ahead. Call."

He took the phone from her, gratitude shimmering in his green eyes. He composed himself, trying to prepare himself for their return to Section, trying to reconcile his heart to the fact that their time together was over.

He flipped open the phone, and then pulled her back into his arms and allowed himself the weakness of one more deep kiss from her lips before he dialed the number.

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

Madeleine looked across the breakfast table apparaisingly at the empty crystal goblet near her companion's plate.

"Should I have Christopher bring you more juice?" she asked.

Operations smiled at her. "No. I'm fine."

Madeleine smiled back and sipped her tea. "The situation in Budapest was handled more quickly than I expected," she commented.

"Yes, it went very smoothly," agreed Operations, lighting a cigarette. "Michael is certainly back in top form."

"Yes, he is," said Madeleine thoughtfully. "After what he went through with Red Cell, I'm surprised there hasn't been more-- externalising of emotion from him.."

Operation grinned. "With Nikita, you mean? They hardly speak to each other these days. I really think he's fianlly over his attachment to the material..."

"Hmmmm," she said, tilting her head. "You may be right."

Operations puffed contentedly on his tobacco. "Face it, my Dear, I think you were wrong about your suspiscions about them. You might as well stop wasting resources loking into it..."

She sipped her tea again. "You might be right."

It would be wonderful if it were true, she thought, that Michael was really as loyal to Section as he appeared to be, and that he was over his feelings for Nikita.

"I'm often right," he bantered, smiling impishly.

She hesitated, then sighed, coming to a decision. "Very well. I'll cancel the surveillance and the trackers on him, as well as the tail..."

"Good," said Operations. He loved it when he won an argument.

He turned to his computer screen and stubbed his cigarette out, getting back to business.

"Tell me, what have we heard from the Eastern sub-station on the Brussels incident?"

Madeleine smiled and went on with breakfast.

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