"Get to the point," she demanded in an annoyed tone, too frustrated to care if she offended him. She practically twitched with impatience. Nikita clenched her fists to keep from slapping him. "Just answer my questions," she demanded through clenched teeth.

She told herself she was just anxious to know about Michael because he was a fellow operative, a valuable member of the team. But the truth was, she was fascinated and yet repulsed by the idea of his being in danger. Part of her rejoiced- if the one who brought pain and blackness to her world were to die, wouldn't that death restore the light? She reasoned. She felt dizzy, confused. But part of her, a part buried deep, screamed in protest at the thought of Michael's death. It was just a small spark, deep inside her heart, but it grew, causing her to catch her breath in pain. The darkness threatened….

Mick stopped sobbing and took in a deep shaky breath. Nikita's business-like attitude calmed him, almost like a slap in the face could focus a hysterical person. He thought perhaps now he could tell her the truth.

"Michael told me you were in danger," he began slowly, his voice level and calm. "From something planned against you by Section," Mick continued. "He said there was only one person who could help you, and did I know where he was…"

The Englishman grimaced, tears threatening again. "I led him to the man's house," he went on, bravely stifling a sob. "It was supposed to be just a friendly meeting, a chat, really, but everything went wrong…"

Mick hung his head and twisted his hands in front of him between his spread knees. "Michael and this man knew each other. There was some really bad feelings between them…." Schtoppel continued brokenly. He lifted his head to meet Nikita's eyes.

"Go on," she encouraged him softly, leaning forward intently in her seat. "What happened?"

Mick caught his trembling lower lip between his teeth and then went on. "The bloke went off on us, he was going to kill us both…." The Englishman sobbed again. "That's when Michael took the blame for everything on himself, and defended me," he whispered hoarsely. "He said I was just an innocent party in it all, and that if the chap wanted to take any revenge, it should all be against Michael…"

Nikita held her breath. Her confused feelings continued. The bright, phony happiness beckoned, at the same time the small spark in her heart quivered with admiration and terror for Michael's bravery.

"The man ordered us handcuffed, and then he told the guards to take me upstairs," Mick went on in an anguished voice. He sniffed loudly. "They locked me in the bedroom and left me alone," Mick explained roughly. "I didn't know what had happened to Michael until they dragged him upstairs, and then I… saw…." He choked out, overcome. "I saw what that bastard did to him…."

Mick couldn't hold back the tears then. Crying openly now, he blurted out the rest. "They handcuffed him to the bed, to the headboard," Mick went on in a distraught tone. "We had nothing to get the bloody cuffs off with. That's why he didn't escape with me…"

He met Nikita's eyes, his own brimmed with tears. "He's still there," Mick sobbed, rising to his feet. "He's still there, in the bedroom, at that faggot's mercy…." The Englishman cried in distress, pacing the room restlessly once more. "It's probably happening AGAIN…" Mick yelled, his voice going higher. "We have to help him! We have to get him out of there!"

Nikita jumped up from her seat and rushed forward. She grabbed Mick by the arms, arresting him in his tracks, and then shook him angrily by the shoulders. "WHAT HAPPENED TO MICHAEL?" she shouted in alarm. Part of her remained calm, but the growing spark inside her was now beyond panic. "WHAT DID THEY DO?" she screamed, her patience and control at an end.

Mick stared at her, hard, and then lowered his eyes. He couldn't look her in the face and say those words. Desolately, he choked out his reply.

"They raped him," Mick told her softly, and began sobbing again.

Nikita gasped, and staggered back from him, crumpling to her knees on the living room floor. The blackness that threatened her grew from a small dot inside her chest to an all- engulfing boulder, crushing her with its weight. She fell to ground, collapsing on her side, unable to breathe, as the endless terror in her heart imploded inside her, blasting away all the light…

She uttered a harsh, keening cry, and then fainted.

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

"How are you feeling, My Boy?" Farrell inquired gleefully.

Michael stifled a curse, and then turned his head away, breaking the locked gaze with those bright, eager brown eyes. Of course Farrell was cheerful, Michael thought glumly. He had the upper hand.

Michael gave his usual, stoic reply. "Fine," he choked out hoarsely through thirst-parched lips. He was completely miserable, but he had no intention of telling Farrell that. There was also a new concern to be added to the others.

Worried, Michael wondered how long it would for Farrell to notice that Mick was missing. He wondered how long Damon's happy mood would last THEN.

He heard his captor laugh heartily, and then felt the springs of the bed depress as Farrell seated himself at his side. Michael stiffened, but kept his head turned away. His heart sank as he tried to prepare himself for what would come next.

Farrell began to talk to him in a soft, low voice. "I see your friend has left you all alone here," Damon commented mildly, seeming not the least bit angry. "He should be half-way home by now. I deliberately omitted setting the alarm on that door, and I left a jeep with some keys in it parked in the driveway just where he could find it…."

Michael gasped in surprise, and turned his head back to look his host in the eyes, his own wide with shock. "You.. you planned for Mick to escape?" Michael choked out, stunned. "Why?"

Farrell smiled, and nodded. "Yes, I did, but there's no need to worry, Michael," the small, bright-eyed man went on. "Things are falling into place, just like I planned. The fact that Mick is gone does not disturb me in the least…" His voice went lower, becoming even more seductive. "But you, my dear One," Farrell cooed softly, "You are quite a different matter…"

"I definitely need you to stay here…." Farrell whispered, reaching out his hand to touch the captive man.

The prisoner flinched violently when Farrell stroked a hand gently through his hair, once more turning his head away, straining to get out of reach.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you, Michael?" Damon whispered softly, as he caressed the soft auburn curls back from Michael's face. His touch was careful, gentle, sensual… Michael tensed further, his jaw clenched, every muscle in his body tightening in defense.

"Can I get you anything?" Farrell went on, still toying with the sweat-dampened curls. "Are you hungry?"

"No," Michael answered sharply through gritted teeth. At least, this was the truth. Hunger was not one of his pressing physical needs.

"Mmm," Farrell murmured softly. "Not hungry, are you? I see…" He took Michael's firm chin in his hand and turned his prisoner to look at him. Michael glared angrily into his tormentor's gleaming eyes, his own glittering defiantly.

"Are you thirsty then, dear Michael?" Farrell asked softly.

Michael grimaced, and could not help sluicing his eyes longingly to the cup of water on the bed-side table "No," he forced out gruffly, then added unconvincingly, "Not thirsty." His throat ached to taste the liquid in the paper cup, but he would not give Farrell the satisfaction of admitting to this need. His captor seemed to enjoy taunting him.

Farrell laughed heartily, and then reached out and carefully lifted the drink from the table, holding it just beneath his prisoner's chin. Michael bit his lip hard to keep from whimpering. He could see down into the cup, filled to the brim with precious drops of quenching liquid. He bit his lip harder. No matter how much he wanted it, he wouldn't give Farrell the satisfaction of making him beg for water….

To his surprise, Farrell did not torture him any longer. The smaller man slipped one hand behind Michael's neck and supported his head while with the other hand he placed the edge of the cup against Michael's lips so that he could drink.

Michael didn't fight it. He parted his lips and gulped greedily, grateful for this gift. The water flowed with healing smoothness down his parched throat, more delicious than anything he had ever tasted. Farrell tilted the cup upwards, allowing Michael to inhale the last drops. When he was finished, Farrell put the cup, empty now, back on the nightstand, and then sat back to regard his prisoner thoughtfully.

"Better?" he inquired softly.

Michael looked back at him warily. "Yes," he admitted, relieved of his thirst, but not sure what would come next. "Thank you," he forced out, tensing apprehensively again.

Farrell smiled at him. "I'm glad," he said serenely. "Glad you're better, and glad you're grateful…." Michael tensed, wondering where this polite sparring was leading. What did Farrell want from him?

Michael watched his captor carefully. The chemist's eyes roved over Michael's face, then flickered downward, across the bare, broad chest, the flat, ridged abdomen, and then lower still. They stopped in riveted fascination on the tender, naked skin left exposed by Michael's partially open zipper. Soft hair curled there, starting as a faint trail just under his navel, and growing thicker as it went lower. Farrell stared at him, and then licked his lips.

Michael squirmed under this intense gaze. Although he wore nothing under his slacks, he knew that his manhood was completely and modestly covered by his trousers, but Farrell's gaze made him feel completely exposed, naked, vulnerable…

He was scared. His captor was eccentric, unpredictable. Farrell had rejected Michael's offer of himself before, when he begged to complete their bargain. Was Farrell accepting it now? Michael felt his stomach clench violently inside him….

"Yes, you are quite, quite beautiful…." Damon whispered huskily, his eyes never leaving Michael's body. Deliberately, he reached out and slowly grazed the back of his hand along Michael's hard stomach, gently caressing the hairs just below the flat navel….

"No!" Michael protested sharply, flinching away from this unwanted touch. He cringed back against the pillows as far as he could, panting in fear.

Damon sighed, and immediately lifted his hand and replaced it demurely in his lap. He shook his head, and sighed again. "That's right, I forget. You're straight…" he said sorrowfully. "Such a pity…."

Damon rose from the bed and then signaled the guards to come forward. He snapped his fingers and then gave an imperious order.

"Take the cuffs off of him," Farrell commanded gruffly. "Then get him on his feet."

Michael didn't know whether to be relieved or frightened by this order. He didn't mind getting the cuffs off- his swollen, aching hands would be free, but where were the guards taking him? Michael wondered if he was going to be hauled outside to be shot. What else could Farrell do with him, he concluded grimly, if the other man had no use for him, either sexually or professionally? Unless he intended to enjoy tormenting him more….

All thoughts stopped when the bigger guard leaned over him, turned the key in the lock and released Michael's hands. He moaned in pain as the numb, heavy arms fell to the bed, completely out of his control. He couldn't move them, only could watch them twitch helplessly as the blood returned to his fingers with agonizing slowness.

He moaned again when the guards flanked him on either side and hauled him to his feet. His head ached throbbingly, his stomach clenching with nausea. Dizzy, he couldn't stand on his own, but leaned heavily on the guards for support. Their grip on him was more to keep him from falling than to prevent his escape. Any attempt to run was totally beyond his powers now.

Through a dizzy haze, Michael heard Farrell give the guards another order, as if his voice were coming from a long distance away. "Take him in there," the small man commanded, pointing to the door.

The guards began to move. Michael staggered along with them, trying to keep up. The movement jarred his head at every step, and he was sure he was going to throw up. And to top off his list of woes, he still, very badly, had to pee.

He closed his eyes, and gave up, letting the guards drag him the last few steps. He heard the door open, and then he was shoved through it, the guards letting him go. Michael swayed on his feet and opened his eyes.

He was not in the hallway outside the bedroom where he expected to be. The guards were not standing over him, ready to shoot him. Instead, he found himself, to his astonishment, in the bathroom, completely alone, with the door shut behind him, in total privacy.

Michael did not waste time on pondering this new kindness of Farrell's. His needs were too urgent for that. Leaning his hips against the sink for support, Michael desperately fumbled open his pants with his awkward, numb hands. He was glad the pants were unfastened and the zipper mostly lowered, otherwise he would never have managed this task alone.

A few seconds later, the job done, he flushed the toilet and then staggered over to lean over the sink again. Standing up made his head throb sickeningly, and he collapsed forward, turned the taps on, and let the water flow over his aching head. The coldness of it shocked him, but he enjoyed the refreshing feeling of the water pulsing against his temples, soothing him….

It did not soothe his stomach, however. The nausea had returned, with sudden and full force. Michael barely had time to position himself over the toilet again before he bent double, and heaved the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

After a moment, he recovered slightly, and stood up. Though still shaky, he felt better, noting that the dizziness and the buzzing in his ears were beginning to fade. He flushed the toilet again, and then cautiously leaned forward over the sink once more. After gulping down some more water to clear the bitter taste of bile from his throat, he thrust his swollen hands under the water, letting the cold liquid stimulate the circulation. After a minute or two, he could flex his fingers normally. He turned off the taps and then looked around. Now that his physical needs were eased and he felt stronger, he could afford to think about escape.

The first thing he noted was that there were no windows in the bathroom. No other doors, either. He pulled open the medicine cabinet, and rifled through the drawers, and the linen cupboard, looking for anything that could help him. Except for soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and a collection of towels and sheets, there was not one thing that could be used as a weapon. It was like Mick had said. No razors, no cuticle scissors, no nothing.

He was contemplating wrapping his arm in a towel and smashing the mirror to use the resulting shards as a knife, but he decided against it. In his woozy state, he doubted he could do the procedure correctly- he would only end up cutting himself. Michael sighed. He was running out of options, running out of time….

Absorbed as he was in his thoughts, he was startled when the door to the bathroom opened suddenly. The guards entered without ceremony and flanked him again, each taking an arm and hauling him back into the bedroom. This time Michael was able to walk on his own, without having to be dragged.

Farrell stood as before by the bed, his eyes raking Michael's body. With his hair wet and curling, water beading on the taut, firm skin, Michael was more beautiful than ever, his captor thought. He licked his lips and tried to control his sudden, unwanted surge of desire. There was no time for that now. The plan was already underway…..

"Feeling better, dear One?" Farrell said softly, smiling sweetly.

Michael lifted his eyes and met his captor's gaze. He didn't know why Damon had been suddenly so generous, so kind as to allow him the dignity of his privacy, but he was grateful.

"Much better," Michael answered truthfully. He threw the other man a puzzled look. "Thank you."

The man in the gray suit nodded. "Good, good…" he murmured, somewhat distractedly, as if his mind were on something else. He waved his hand at the guards once more.

"Put him back where he was," Farrell ordered. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if arranging a tableau. "Exactly as he was- that was perfect…."

Michael responded with another puzzled look, but was too tired to protest this strange request. The guards, who were used to their eccentric employer's capricious orders, obeyed without batting an eye. They shoved Michael down on the bed, more gently this time, and a few seconds later, he found himself once more reclining on the pillows, his arms cuffed to the headboard above the bed.

Farrell nodded, satisfied, and dismissed the guards. The men filed silently out of the room, leaving captor and prisoner alone together once more.

Michael squirmed uncomfortably as Farrell's staring went on. It was as if the older man were trying to memorize his features, commit every curve of his body to memory…

Suddenly, the chemist broke out of his trance and stepped forward. He placed his hand on Michael's waist and then fumbled at the fastening to the prisoner's black trousers. Michael drew his knees up, preparing to kick out his legs at Farrell in defense, when he felt the hard pressure of a gun barrel in his neck.

He froze, then lay panting heavily in apprehension, staring up into Farrell's glittering brown eyes.

"Don't fight me," his captor said softly. "Remember, we had a deal…."

Michael stiffened, and then swallowed hard. "You.. you'll help Nikita?" he forced out in a choked voice. "You'll bring her back to me?" he begged, staring intently into his captor/savior's face.

Farrell nodded solemnly. "It's already being done as we speak," the terrorist answered softly. "Don't worry." He leaned forward and stroked Michael's cheek, his other hand pocketing the gun as he sensed Michael's capitulation. "Just relax now…"

Michael surrendered, closing his eyes. He straightened his legs, letting his knees fall open on the bed, allowing Farrell complete access to him. For Nikita, Michael thought tensely, his breath catching with dread in his throat. I'll do this for Nikita….

He felt Farrell's hands fumbling once more at his zipper. Michael tensed, and tried not to flinch away. His chest heaved with his gasping, frightened breaths. He turned his head away, squinting his eyes shut, and gritted his teeth, awaiting the ordeal to come.

After tugging the pants open, just far enough to reveal the hard belly covered with hair as before, Farrell stopped. The gentle hands were removed, and his captor stepped back from the bed.

"There. That's perfect…" Michael heard Damon say to himself.

He opened his eyes and stared with shock into Farrell's face. The other man was smiling, standing at the foot of the bed, looking smugly satisfied. "You look quite delectably vulnerable and sweet like that, My dear Michael," Damon commented inexplicably. "So defenseless and wounded," he mused, nodding his head. You'll do quite nicely…"

Michael's anger rose, overwhelming his caution, and his confusion. He wanted to sob in relief and shout in frustration at being jerked around so much. One minute Damon was cruelty itself, the next moment kind and sweet, then cruel again. Michael almost wished the man would just go ahead and rape him, instead of toying with him this way. What kind of game was Farrell playing with him?

"Do.. NICELY?" Michael echoed, shouting angrily. "Do nicely for WHAT, you Bastard?!" the prisoner demanded harshly, pushed beyond his endurance. "If you're not going to f*ck me, just what the HELL do you want me for?"

Farrell smiled, unperturbed, and tilted his head, still regarding his furious prisoner approvingly.

His captor's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, I thought you would have figured that out by now, my Dear Michael," Farrell commented slyly. "But since you haven't, I'll tell you…"

The small man grinned, and patted Michael patronizingly on the cheek. "You're here as BAIT, of course," Damon answered sweetly. "That's what for…."

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

Mick watched with horror as Nikita slid off her chair and fell to the floor, collapsing in a dead faint. He knew his news about what had happened to Michael would upset her, but he hadn't expected this….

"Hold on, Love!" he cried, falling to his knees beside her and gathering her in his arms. "Hold on, now!" He turned her on her back and cradled her head in his lap. Her wan, upturned face was deathly pale, her eyes closed, her body slack and limp.

Mick groaned. Michael was still in danger. There was no time to allow Nikita to process this blow. They had to rescue Michael, had to get him away from Farrell before the unthinkable happened again. And they had to do it NOW.

Mick raised his hand and gritted his teeth, knowing what he had to do.

He slapped her full across the face, firm but violently, then went on slapping her gently, at the same time he jostled her shoulder. "Wake up, now, Nikita!" the frantic Schtoppel urged. "Wake up now, Love!"

To his relief, the blonde in his lap responded. Nikita moaned and pushed his hands away. She shook her head and then sat up wearily, rubbing her stinging cheek where Mick had slapped her. She blinked several times, and then the blue eyes focused blearily on him.

"What … happened?" she asked groggily.

Mick stifled a moan. He didn't want to have to explain it all again. Didn't she remember? He sighed, stood up, and then helped Nikita to her feet. "You passed out when I told you-uh… that Michael needed our help…" he fudged carefully. He didn't want to say the word rape, worried that it might trigger another fainting spell.

Nikita rubbed her forehead and frowned. "Oh," she said in surprise, the words not registering. Her mind was still fuzzy. She remembered answering the door earlier to Mick, but after that, her conversation with him was a complete blank. Except for a slight headache, and a strange, painful throbbing in the center of her chest, she felt fine. Happy. Upbeat. Excited.

It was as if what Mick had told her about Michael had short-circuited the programming that Farrell had put in place, overloading her system and causing her to black out. While she was unconscious, the conditioning had had a chance to reassert itself, not unlike someone hitting the reset button on a computer.

The bright, artificial light was back. She was again on a phony high. She concentrated hard, and then some vague bits of their conversation came back to her. She remembered now! Mick was going to give her another project to work on- that was it…..

She lifted her head and smiled at Mick. "What are we waiting for?" she urged him, walking toward the door. She was unclear on the details of this mission, but whatever it was, she eager to complete it. That was the only way to stay sane, to keep the darkness away, to stay in the bright light….

Mick stared at her in astonishment. "Popsicle?" he asked uncertainly. "Are you sure you're all right?" She seemed just a little too bloody cheerful, he thought, considering the news she had just been given.

She flashed him a brilliant smile and eagerly jerked open the door, holding it ajar for him. She beckoned with an impatient hand for him to follow. "Of course I am!" she declared emphatically. "Come on, come on! Let's GO…."

Mick threw up his hands, not inclined to argue with her. "Okay, if you say so…" he said doubtfully, giving her a searching look as he passed her going through the door. What the bloody hell was she smiling about? He wondered.

Nikita shut the door behind him, and then followed Mick to the elevator.

"I'm fine," she muttered brightly to herself, at the same time feeling shaky and queasy inside. She shuddered, and then forced another rigid smile, even as the throbbing pain in her chest grew stronger. "I'm just fine….."

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

"Bait?" Michael repeated numbly, feeling his skin go cold. "What does that mean?" he asked, frowning, turning his head so that his eyes could warily follow Farrell's every move.

The smaller man smiled again, thrust his hand in his pockets, and then seated himself in the chair by the bed. Michael was relieved that his captor had not settled beside him again on the bed, and that he was no longer in range of Farrell's touch. He tried to relax and concentrate on what the older man was saying.

"It's all for your own good, Michael," Farrell commented serenely, relaxing back in his chair. "It's what you wanted, after all…" He tilted his head and smiled sweetly, his voice light and teasing. "I'm just trying to do my best to please you…." He said in a flirtatious tone, his eyes twinkling.

Michael shook his head, confused. He heard the words, but he didn't comprehend them. What Farrell was saying made no sense.

"I don't understand," the prisoner confessed, bewildered. How could Farrell think that being taken prisoner, beaten, and threatened with rape would PLEASE him? Michael thought angrily. "I don't understand at all…" he choked out roughly.

Farrell sighed deeply and then stared at the ceiling. "No, you don't, do you?" he mused, sadly. He lowered his head and stared into Michael's face, his own eyes narrowing sharply. He paused, as if making a decision.

"I suppose, then, Dear Boy," Farrell began slowly, "That I will just have to explain it to you, from the beginning…."

He settled more deeply into his chair, his eyes getting a faraway look. "You my not believe this, Michael, but I was quite a bit like you, in my youth…" He raised one eyebrow and smiled fondly at his "guest". "I didn't join a student activist group like you did, but I was just as dewy-eyed and idealistic…"

Michael flinched, his eyes going wide. "You know about me?" he gasped in shock. "You know about L'Heure Sanguine?"

Farrell nodded. "Oh, yes," he answered, still smiling. "Madeleine showed me an extensive psychological file on both you and Nikita," he explained softly, "In order to help me prepare the conditioning drugs…"

The chemist closed his eyes and went on in a dreamy tone. "I've always been good at what I do," he mused on. "I always had a talent for creating and designing, manipulating chemicals to do exactly what I wanted them to do…" He opened his eyes and sat up, leaning eagerly forward in his chair.

"I was going to heal the world, Michael," Farrell went on in an avid tone. "I was going to be the one to cure cancer, and heart disease, and diabetes…." He sighed heavily, and shook his head. "I was so naïve. I didn't realize then that drug companies aren't really interested in healing at all. They're not about saving lives, or relieving people of chronic illnesses…" He smiled ruefully. "They're all about MONEY," he drawled slowly, rubbing his fingers together in a gesture to show his point. "That and politics…."

Michael stayed silent, listening attentively. He didn't know where Farrell was going with this, but he knew deep down it was very important. To both him and Nikita.

"By the time the AIDS epidemic hit in the eighties, I was thoroughly disillusioned," Farrell went on softly, his voice low and intense. "The government was slow to fund research, and Genefex was indifferent to the holocaust that was depleting the world of its best and brightest…" Damon stifled a sob as he said the next words. "I lost lovers, and friends by the score, and still the Powers That Be did nothing…."

Michael met the tear-filled brown eyes solemnly. "That's when you started making biological weapons, wasn't it?" he guessed softly. "So you would have the money to do the research that was needed?"

Farrell smiled at his perceptiveness. "Very good, Michael," he conceded, bowing in Michael's direction. "That is exactly what I did." His mouth firmed grimly. "Trading in Death was the only way to get the justice and attention that I needed to work on the problem…"

Michael closed his eyes, stunned at how alike their reasoning had been. He had once been convinced in his youth that planting bombs was the only way to save the world…

"My relationship with Section was, at first, very profitable for us both," Farrell went on. "When they wanted to take down one of my buyers, they always let me keep the money. I was also paid well for any special assignments," he said with a nod of his head toward Michael, "Such as developing the conditioning program for Nikita…"

He gestured around the opulent room. "I used the money to live well, of course," Farrell explained with an unapologetic smile. "I find no shame in that. But I also set up some facilities to continue my research on a cure for AIDS, as well as establish several Hospices for the sufferers," he said quietly, his voice sobering. He licked his lips nervously. "As long as Section believes I'm dead, my research, and those patients, are safe…."

He titled his head regarding Michael solemnly. "Your coming here has threatened all that…." He whispered worriedly.

Michael was quick to reassure him. He lifted his head off the pillow, his arms straining against his bonds. "I won't tell Section where you are," he vowed fervently. "I swear it."

It was the truth. Michael no longer felt any anger toward Farrell for what had happened to Nikita. It was Madeleine whom he blamed for the destruction of her love; Farrell had just been the instrument. He was still wary and afraid of the other man, but for other reasons than that. Damon was proving to be a strange combination of villain and hero, kindness and cruelty, darkness and light. Michael was never sure which side of his captor's personality he would see next, and that made Farrell very unpredictable, and thus, very dangerous.

To Michael's relief, Farrell seemed to take his promise of silence seriously. His captor's eyes softened. "Thank you, My Boy," the older man choked out simply. He sighed and looked away. The light of the new dawn at the windows touched Farrell's face, playing over the lines and creases, making him look every bit his age. It was plain those years had brought suffering.

"I lost the man I loved more deeply than any other to AIDS," the chemist whispered roughly. "I wouldn't want to lose any more…."

Michael started, his eyes going wide. He felt a sudden, instant, and surprising, sympathy for the man's loss. He related totally to this common, but wrenchingly human experience. Michael identified completely- Wasn't he going through the same thing? He loved Nikita his life, his soul-mate, with all his heart, and now she was gone- cold, indifferent, as good as dead to him.

"And I don't want to lose Nikita," Michael blurted out hoarsely, the words torn from his throat before he could call them back.

Farrell turned his head and looked at Michael piercingly. "You know, my dear Michael," he said softly, "I believe you…"

He stood up from his chair and walked the few feet that separated them, then perched on the bed at Michael's side once more. Michael drew back at Farrell's approach, his apprehension growing. He tensed his arms and shoulders, flexing his hands in a useless attempt to break free from the handcuffs.

Farrell placed his hand slowly on Michael's knee, his hand pressing only lightly, fingers spread. The prisoner flinched violently at this touch, and uttered an involuntary grunt of disgust.

Inexplicably, Farrell smiled. "See?" he said gleefully. "See how you hate it so? See how you loathe another man's caress?" He trailed one finger with casual slowness up his captive's lean thigh. "You are repulsed by the feel of my hands on you," Farrell commented softly, "no matter how gently or.. sensually I touch you…." Farrell lifted his head to meet Michael's frightened green eyes.

"Aren't you?" he demanded sharply, expecting an answer. Michael, stunned, stayed silent.

"Aren't you?" Farrell thundered louder.

Michael swallowed hard and stared at him, more confused and apprehensive than ever. "Yes," he admitted in a choked voice. "Yes, it repulses me…."

The words were out before he could call them back. He held his breath, wondering what form Damon Farrell's retaliation for this tactlessly blunt remark would take. He closed his eyes and cursed himself for his stupidity in telling the truth. He should have tried to flirt with him, Michael thought to himself miserably. He should have said something soft and conciliatory. But instead, he had blurted out these brutally honest words. He had probably succeeded in goading Farrell into attacking and then killing him….

Farrell's reaction was not what he expected. The searching hand on his thigh was turned palm downward, and then Damon gave the prisoner a firm, and definitely unseductive slap on the knee.

"Exactly, my Boy," Farrell crowed in satisfaction. "I repulse you, but you offered to give yourself to me anyway…." He chuckled softly. "More than once, too. A tempting offer, but one that I never would have accepted," his captor went on quickly. "I never had any intention of molesting you, My Dear Michael, no matter what my..er.. performance may have led you to believe…"

Michael, lying breathless and rigid with shock, his eyes closed, head turned away, heard Farrell laugh. "You passed the test quite beautifully," his captor declared in an ebullient tone. "With flying colors…."

Michael's shoulders came up off the pillows; he jerked his head up and strained against the cuffs as far as he could go, unmindful of the wrenching pain in his temples that this movement caused him. "A TEST?" he shouted, enraged, his eyes blazing emerald fire. He was so angry he could hardly speak. "Your threatening to RAPE me was all a TEST?" He spat out the words through tight, livid lips. "What kind of SICK game are you playing with me?" he hissed in fury. He lunged uselessly at his tormentor, incensed as a caged lion, teased beyond endurance.

Farrell, still perched calmly on the edge of the bed, was unintimidated by this display of raging ire. He crossed his arms across his chest and gave a gaulic shrug of his shoulders. "You're SECTION, Michael," Damon explained in a mild voice. "I've been burned by you before…."

He tilted his head and regarded his prisoner thoughtfully. "I had to make sure…."

Michael collapsed back on the bed, knowing his struggles were futile. He almost sobbed with frustration when he asked another anguished question.

"Sure?" His prisoner echoed, bewildered and angry. "Sure of WHAT?"

Farrell met Michael's blazing eyes calmly. "Why, sure that your story about wanting to find me so that I could help you get Nikita back was true…." He answered in a soft tone. "I had to be sure that you sought me out on your own, and not because you were under orders from Section to, shall we say, finish the job you started?"

He gave Michael a winsome, half-smile. "You must admit, Dear Michael, that being shot at is not the greatest inducement to make me trust you, now is it?"

Michael let out a shaky sigh. He didn't blame Farrell for not trusting him. It was the only wise thing to do. But he still did not understand what Farrell's game of cat and mouse with him had proved.

"Why?" Michael choked out hoarsely, turning his eyes to meet Farrell's guileless brown. "Why did you pretend to want me?" He clenched his jaw and scowled. "Why did you make my… capitulation to you the terms of the deal?"

Farrell tapped his chin with one finger thoughtfully. "It's quite simple, Michael," he said softly. "You are a proud man-a heterosexual man- in a position of considerable power. Anyone, of course, would find the idea of being raped abhorrent, but it would be particularly difficult for you. To submit, to be dominated, to give up control, especially to another man, would be considerably humiliating, if not traumatic for you…"

Damon raised his chin and stared straight into Michael's eyes. "You admitted yourself that you find my touch repulsive. Yet you were willing to abase yourself completely to me, in order to save Nikita…."

The older man sighed deeply. "I find the idea that you would sacrifice yourself for your beloved Nikita quite, quite romantic," he said softly, giving Michael a gentle smile. "You must really love her very much, don't you?"

If the words had been any less soft and sincere, Michael would have been sure that Farrell was mocking him. A strange combination of feelings flooded through him all at once. Michael was still infuriated at being toyed with, but his anger was quickly being overcome by his growing sense of dread. If all this had been a game, then the likelihood of Farrell wanting to- or even being able to- restore Nikita to her original emotional make-up was slim to none. An overwhelming sense of despair washed over him. He had humiliated and abased himself for nothing. His pain and his terror had been nothing but an afternoon's amusement for a bored, eccentric terrorist, and Michael would now have to face the truth-

His life was over. He had played the game and lost.

Nikita was gone. What was there left to live for?

He turned his face into the pillow, and gave himself up to despair. "You've had your fun with me," Michael declared in bitter resignation. "Why don't you just kill me now and get it over with?"

To his chagrin and fury, he heard Farrell laugh again. "Oh, no, no, Dear Boy!" his captor chuckled. "That wouldn't be fair at all, now would it?" He laughed deeply, and patted Michael patronizingly on the shoulder. "After all, you played your part, now I must play mine…."

Michael turned his head and glared angrily into the laughing brown eyes. "Play your PART?" he spat out in disgust. "Just what the hell does that mean?"

Farrell gave him another guileless smile. His features took on an impishly, innocent look.

"It means, Dear Michael," Farrell said sweetly, "That Nikita will soon be on her way back to you, enjoying your charms again…." He smiled wider. "You see, Dear Boy, I fully intend to keep my part of our bargain…"

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

Mick and Nikita took the jeep that Mick had "borrowed" from Farrell's estate. Nikita drove. She was too hyper and anxious to be able to sit quietly in the passenger seat during the trip, and automatically went to the left side of the vehicle, slid her long, lean body behind the wheel, and held her hand out for the keys. Mick, grasping that she was in a take-charge mood, didn't argue with her. He fished in his pocket for the keys, passed them to her, and then fastened his seat belt, buckling up for the ride.

"Go right at the first light," he directed her grimly, remembering his recent and ill-fated trip to the same destination just a few hours ago with Michael. He was having a bad case of déjà vu, and his stomach knotted in dread.

He prayed silently that this trip wouldn't turn out as badly as the last one. He didn't think his nerves could stand it. He glanced surreptitiously at his companion as she backed the jeep out of its parking place into the early morning traffic. She was still smiling, eerily. And Mick had no idea why.

"Gotcha," Nikita acknowledged his direction with a nod, and then floored the accelerator. She turned the wheel and took the jeep through the intersection, going so fast that the car almost tipped on its side. The jeep sailed majestically around the corner, to the accompaniment of screeching tires and honking horns, taking the curve on only two wheels.

"Blimey!" Mick swore, turning white. He clutched the dashboard to steady himself as the vehicle righted itself and then gaped at her in amazement. "Do you know what you just did?!" The shocked Englishman gasped. "You ran the bloody red light, that's what you did!" He put his hand on his heart and swallowed hard, trying to get his breath. He had almost peed the pants to his garish red suit. "And during rush hour, too!" he added, in a resentful tone. "Are you trying to get us killed!" he demanded, appalled.

Nikita turned her head to look at him, her face calm, her smile still in place. "I thought you said you were in a hurry," she drawled placidly, then turned back to look at the road. She stared straight ahead, her hands firm on the wheel, and started to hum a little tune.

Mick stared at her, amazed at her unperturbed, laid back attitude. He marveled that she could be so calm at a time like this. He wanted to scold her some more for her recklessness, but then he remembered Michael. If Nikita was anxious to get to him, he could hardly blame her.

"Oh, bloody Hell," Schtoppel grumbled under his breath. He decided not to allow himself the relief of venting his feelings on her, and settled nervously back into his seat. The poor girl had enough to contend with, fretting about Michael, without him nagging her.

"Hmm?" Nikita questioned, turning slightly to glance at him. "Did you say something?" she asked brightly.

Mick looked at her with pity. Poor Popsicle, he thought. She must be completely torn up inside about Michael being raped, but here she was, smiling, and being so very brave.

The girl certainly had guts, he had to hand her that.

Impulsively, he leaned forward and patted his companion reassuringly on the knee. "It's going to be okay, Love," he told her softly. "Everything's going to all right, you'll see…." His voice broke on the next words. "We'll get Michael away from that monster, and everything will be all right again…."

Nikita blinked at him, her smile fading, her eyes going blank for a second. Then, a moment later, she seemed to recover, and smiled wider. "Of course it will," she said cheerfully, in a tone of forced hardiness. "Why wouldn't it be?"

She turned back to the road, and began humming her tuneless melody again, this time louder.

Mick sighed, and settled back in his seat, watching Nikita sharply from under his lashes. She's in denial, that where she is, he thought sagely to himself. The Section informant did not have any formal education, but he had read widely in all topics, including psychology, and he figured he knew the signs.

She's just pretending it's not really happening, Mick told himself. That's why she's handling this so well. It'll all hit her later, and when it does, she'll crumble into a million pieces….

Mick lapsed into silence and stared out the window. He decided to stay quiet, and leave Nikita to handle things in her own way. He wasn't going to press her to talk about Michael if she didn't want to. There would be much time later, he hoped, if all went well, for his blonde friend to cry on his shoulder if she needed to.

They had reached the outskirts of the city, and the traffic had thinned considerably, to Mick's great relief. Nikita drove expertly, if still a little too fast for Mick's taste. In fact, now that they were free of town traffic, Nikita trounced the accelerator. The scenery went whizzing by at an alarming rate, and the frightened Englishman did not dare to look at the speedometer, scared to see what numbers he would find there. While he held on to the door handle so hard his knuckles went white, he comforted himself with the thought that at least all four tires of the jeep were still firmly on the road.

"Left at the next crossroads," Mick squeaked out, dreading having to go around another corner again.

Nikita flashed him a smile, and nodded. "Right," she said cheerfully. She had been happy on this trip, able to zone out as she focused her mind on just simply getting down the road. No worries bothered her as she concentrated on the now, ignoring both past and future. The darkness had seemed to recede, and the world shone bright again. The high was back, and she couldn't stop smiling. She was busy, productive, and not with Michael. Life was as good as it could be….

She took the corner, more sedately than last time, and the jeep turned onto a narrower, less traveled road.

"Slow down," Mick ordered in a low, worried voice. "Just beyond those trees is where Michael is. We're almost there…"

Nikita swallowed hard as the pulse point of light in her chest throbbed painfully. MICHAEL. Her heart seemed to beat out the word in a frantic, ominous rhythm. The word thundered in her brain, pounded against her soul…

MICHAEL. MI-CHAEL MI-CHAEL MI-CHAEL…

For a moment, the darkness welled inside her, threatening to block out the sun. She stifled a sharp moan of pain. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and the jeep swerved erratically on the road, coming to a wrenching stop on the narrow shoulder, its hood half hidden under the overhanging trees.

Mick cursed again as the sudden halt of jeep sent him lurching forward in his seat. He braced his arms on the dashboard and kept them there even after the car had stopped, while he struggled to get his breath. Recovered somewhat after a moment, he reached over between the seats and put the parking brake on, then unstrapped his seat belt and climbed gratefully down from the car.

Once he was standing on the solid ground of the road, he brushed off the sleeves of his crumpled red suit and took in a deep breath. "Okay, come on, Love," he called to Nikita through the open passenger door. "We can walk from here…"

Inexplicably, Nikita did not get out of the car. She sat behind the wheel, slumped forward, her head down, blonde hair spilling over the steering column. Soft muffled moans came from under the curtain of hair, and Mick could see her shoulders shaking with sobs.

He closed his eyes, feeling wretched. Blimey, she's crying, he thought anxiously to himself. As much as he pitied her, there was no time now for Nikita to indulge herself in her grief. They had to get Michael out of there. He wished fervently for Nikita to become "zombie girl" again. Her eerie cheerfulness had been creepy and unsettling, but at least she got the job done.

"Come ON, Love," Mick called again, this time louder, his voice firmer, squelching his urge to take her in his arms and cry with her. "Bring the bloody gun and let's go…." He ordered impatiently.

Nikita jolted upright at his words, as if a switch had been thrown.

Orders, She thought, struggling up from the darkness that had engulfed her. Something to do. She strained upward, fighting to get free, and, like a swimmer breaking the surface, she emerged suddenly from the hellish oblivion that clung to her and gasped in sweet air…

She was once more in the Light.

"Coming," she called gaily, her smile returning. She raised her head up from the wheel, and climbed down from the jeep, not bothering to wipe the tears from her wet face. She was, in fact, unaware of them. She strode quickly around to the back of the jeep where Mick stood waiting for her. She patted the left-side of her coat where her gun was holstered, and then removed it, holding the weapon out flat on her palm so that Mick could see it.

"Got it, see?" she sang out cheerfully, the tears still glistening on her cheeks. The stunned Englishman blinked dazedly at her brilliant phony smile. He could hardly believe this was the same girl who had been sitting collapsed in the car just seconds ago, weeping her heart out…

"Ready?" Nikita demanded impatiently, fidgeting from foot to foot as she waited for Mick's reaction. "Can we go now?" she asked in a peevish tone, even as she smiled wider.

Schtoppel blinked again and started from his trance. "Uh, right," he stammered uncertainly, hoping his partner in Michael's rescue wasn't flipping out on him. He pointed to the woods behind him. "Uh, it's this way…" he told her.

Nikita nodded, and then strode forward, heading in the direction he had indicated. That's all she wanted, she reasoned. Just someone to direct her, just something to do….

Mick struggled to keep up as the Section operative worked her way silently and expertly through the thick woods. He, unlike her, was not trained how to walk without a sound through snapping underbrush and along uneven terrain. He was gasping for breath and sweating heavily in his red coat by the time they reached the edge of the driveway of Farrell's estate.

He held Nikita back with a hand on her arm. "The bedroom where Michael is being kept is up there," he panted breathlessly, pointing to a window on the corner of the second floor. "See the balcony? That's how I got out…"

He nodded his head, and then swallowed hard. Now that they were here, he wasn't that keen on breaking in to Farrell's house once more. He was also afraid of what they might find in that beautiful, blue room. He wondered how many times Farrell had raped Michael by now. He wondered whether Michael was even still alive….

"Good," Nikita responded, before he could express his trepidations. She removed a pair of binoculars and scanned the front of the house efficiently. "There aren't any guards, " she reported in a low voice. "Let's go…"

She started to rise from her crouch, but Mick pulled her back. "Nikita…" he whispered urgently.

She turned to look at him, her smile still impossibly in place. "Yes?" she said brightly. "Is there something else?"

Mick sighed deeply, his resolve firming. He knew it was his duty to prepare her for what she might see in that room. He had to orient her to reality, to jolt her out of her strange, cheerful mindset, so that she would be ready for the worst. This was no picnic they were on. Nikita needed to face that.

"There's a bed on the west wall," he told her bluntly. "Michael's handcuffed to it. They hit his face hard, with a gun, I think. He was bleeding and unconscious when the guards dragged him into the room," Mick went on, holding nothing back in his description.

Nikita tensed, but made no sound, the smile freezing on her face.

Mick sighed again and went on. He didn't want to hurt her, but he had to let her know. "He was naked except for his pants," Schtoppel whispered roughly. "And they were only half zipped…" Mick swallowed hard and told her the worst. "He was sweating, so his face was wet, but I could tell he had been crying, too…"

Nikita whimpered low in her throat, and then closed her eyes. She swayed where she stood.

"He woke up long enough to tell me to go get help, to tell me to bring you…." The anguished Englishman went on.

Mick grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to look up at him. "Farrell raped him, Nikita," Mick hissed angrily, his outrage boiling to the surface. "Probably more than once. We'll be lucky if we find him alive…"

Mick sobbed, in rage as well as fear. "Farrell's a sick, vicious pervert," Michael's outraged friend spat out. "I hope you kill the bastard…"

Nikita staggered forward, as if she had been just dealt a blow to the gut. She uttered a sharp cry and then fell to her knees, swaying back and forth, keening out in pain. Mick watched in horror as her eyes rolled back in her head and she shuddered violently, her whole body jerking and spasming as if jolted by a current of high-voltage electricity.

The light had fled, the darkness descended. The computer was shutting down.

"Nikita!" Mick cried, falling to his knees beside her. "Jesus, Nikita!" He put his arm around her, and cradled her jerking head to his chest, trying to stop her tremors. He had expected a reaction, but nothing like this….

After a moment, the girl in his arms stopped shaking, and grew quiet, her harsh cries softening to whimpers, and then ceasing altogether. She lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked him in the eye.

Her smile was gone. In its place was an expression of determination, her soft mouth pressed in a firm, stubborn line. Her eyes, though tear-filled, were bright with purpose, and, unlike they had been all day, were now soft with tenderness.

She gazed at Mick as if she didn't see him, her eyes looking past him to rivet on the house where her Beloved was held captive. She uttered one word.

"Michael…" she cried, her lover's name choked out as an anguished prayer. Her memories were returning. To think of him, that regal face, those green eyes, the noble forehead, and full lips- no longer disturbed her. She was no longer frightened OF him, but FOR him.

She shook her head dazedly, as if coming out of a dream. She was still processing, still confused, but one thing was clear-

She had to get to him. She had to get to him NOW-

Nikita stood up and pushed Mick roughly away. The informant only got in her way, and nothing would stop her. Heedlessly, she dropped her gun in the grass and ran.

"MICHAEL!" she screamed all the way to the house. The word echoed in her head, and in her heart, and poured out of her throat from the well of deep pain in her soul. "MICHAEL!" she sobbed as she ran. She screamed his name over and over as she raced across the driveway, and then pounded up the stairs to the balcony.

"MICHAEL!" she screamed once more in agony as she burst into the bedroom from the French doors.

She froze in shock as she took in the tableau on the bed before her.

"God, no…" she whimpered, crumpling to her knees. "MICHAEL..….."

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

While Mick and Nikita were on their way to rescue him, Michael and Farrell continued their conversation.

"I'm going to keep my part of the bargain," Farrell said softly.

Michael froze in shock, his breath catching in his lungs. A strange, wild hope stirred to life in his broken heart at Farrell's words…

Nikita was on her way. Nikita was coming back to him…..

"You're going to help her?" Michael choked out, breathing hard and staring into Farrell's eyes. "You'll undo what you did?" Michael gasped, unsure whether to believe the good news he was hearing. He let out a soft, pleading groan. "You'll make her love me again?"

Farrell patted Michael's knee again and then smiled. "She still loves you, Michael," the chemist told him gently. "Whatever feelings she has for you are all still there, just buried deep under the programming…" He paused, and then heaved a deep sigh.

"It's impossible to erase someone's deep emotions, you see," he explained slowly, a frown creasing his black eyebrows together. "Madeleine wanted Nikita's love for you -her memories, her emotions, her desires- to be cut out of her psyche, like amputating a diseased limb, or surgically removing a tumor." Farrell sighed again. "But it doesn't work that way…."

He looked up to meet Michael's eyes, and then shrugged his shoulders. "The best I could do is impose another set of feelings and behaviors on top of the ones already there. Nikita's new programming- her need to be active and efficient, to be productive for Section- is what Madeleine wanted. Along with her avoidance of you…."

Farrell nodded and finished his explanation. "So I programmed her to feel good- happy and high- when she was busy working, and to feel bad- afraid, terrified and shaky- when she thought of you….."

Michael groaned again. It made sense now. He remembered how Nikita had smiled so much in Section, and then how she had been so distressed when he appeared at her apartment, and had held her still, stopping her from continuing her manic, desperate attempts at painting. The combination of forced inactivity and the inability to escape his presence must have been agony for her, given her programming. No wonder she had seemed so distressed….

"But it's not permanent, is it?" Michael pleaded, having a glimmer of hope. He had shaken Nikita's composure in her apartment, just by being near. If he went to her now, forced her to look at him, to be held by him, would that be enough to shatter the artificially imposed conditioning?

"The programming can be jarred free?" Michael begged eagerly. "I can make her remember me?"

Farrell eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. "In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose," he answered slowly. "It's not so much that you MAKE her remember, but that she remembers on her own…."

The answer was good enough for Michael. He wasn't worried about details or interested in splitting hairs at this point. He only cared about the fact that his dream of getting Nikita back was possible. And now that he knew that, he was frantic to begin.

"Then let me go!" He cried eagerly, lunging upward in the bed. He strained violently against the handcuffs. "Let me go to her!" her ardent lover begged. "Please!"

Farrell's eyes took on a stern expression, and he made no move to release Michael's bonds. Instead, he put his hand on his prisoner's shoulder and pushed him firmly back down on the bed, stilling his struggles.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," Damon said with a sad smile. The hand on Michael's shoulder trailed lower, to toy with one the prisoner's nipples. Michael tensed under this caress, his whole body stiffening.

"Like I said, you can't make her remember…" Damon whispered, still fondling his captive's broad chest. He could feel Michael's heart beating faster under his searching fingers. "If you attempt to touch her, make love to her, the programming will only become more intransigent and intractable, almost impossible to remove…" He leaned forward, and nuzzled his lips against Michael's long throat. "I designed it that way…" Farrell murmured huskily.

Michael flinched at this unwanted kiss, and attempted to writhe away from him his captor on the bed. With his hands cuffed, there was no place for him to go, other than to sink further into the pillows. He yelled out his protest at this violation, thrashing futilely under this invasive touch.

"Don't!" he cried hoarsely. " Why are you doing this!" Michael gasped, chest heaving, eyes flashing fire. "You said you didn't want me!" He panted, distressed, choking out his new fear. "You said you would help me win back Nikita!"

Farrell smiled down into Michael's eyes. "I AM helping you, Michael, my love…" the smaller man told him softly. The hand on Michael's nipple trailed lower, fingers gliding over heaving, taut ribs and then lower still, to trace teasing circular patterns around the prisoner's flat navel. Michael shuddered, tense muscles jumping under Farrell's hand. He cried out an incoherent sob of protest when Farrell bent his head and nipped at Michael's firm jaw.

"SHE has to come to YOU," the chemist said again, murmuring against the tender, beard-roughened skin. "That's why I told you that you were BAIT…" He leaned closer, grazing his lips slowly toward Michael's full-lipped mouth. At the same time, the hand on Michael's navel went lower, slipping inside the prisoner's open trousers.

"Don't worry, Lover…" Farrell whispered huskily. "She's on her way. And when she sees you here, like this, a helpless beautiful young gentleman in distress - the display will jar her programming free…." Farrell laughed, and then firmly kissed his prisoner's parted lips.

Michael was too crazed with his agony to register these words. He thrashed violently, wrenched his head away, and screamed to be free. "Let me go!" he yelled, panicked. "Damn you, leave me ALONE!"

Farrell laughed again. "That's perfect, Michael!" he praised him breathlessly. "That's it, fight me like that.." he panted. "Just like that….." He kissed the frantic prisoner's mouth once more, letting both hands slide down to settle firmly on Michael's lean hips, pressing him into the bed. With anxious speed, he began to tug the tight black trousers lower.

"No…" Michael sobbed, his spirit breaking. He couldn't bear this- he couldn't bear being touched, caressed and kissed against his will. He couldn't endure being helpless like this, without control. He only wanted to be touched by Nikita, only wanted to lose control to her, only wanted to be helpless in her arms, held captive by her sweet love alone….

Agonized, he screamed her name. " 'Kita!" he sobbed brokenly, hot bitter tears streaming down his face. "Kita, help me!" he moaned, panicked and desperate. "Kita, please!"

As if his anguished cries had summoned her, she appeared. He heard her voice calling his name through the soft morning light. The sound grew nearer, harsher, and then the French doors opened behind Farrell and a blonde Valkyrie spilled into the room.

The two lovers stared at each other, he with longing, she with horror.

"My God….. Michael…." Nikita moaned, her face contorting in anguish.

Farrell laughed, and Michael moaned her name again as he watched her crumple where she stood, falling into a dead faint at the foot of the bed.

"Kita!" Michael screamed. "Kita, no!"

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

Mick stared after Nikita in total shock as she threw her gun down and sprinted for the house, crashing through the woods and screaming her lover's name at the top of her lungs as she went.

He stood in the shrubbery near the driveway, his mouth working, opening and closing futilely, as he struggled to get a sound out. But he was so knocked over in surprise by Nikita's inexplicable actions that he couldn't catch his breath enough to call her back. He was more than stunned. What he had just seen was unbelievable. Though not trained as an operative, he had been around the secret underground world Michael and others like him inhabited, and he knew the rules. He knew them very well.

He had lived this long because of them.

You didn't rush into something without checking it out first. You never went to meet the enemy unarmed. Silence, surprise, and stealth were your best weapons.

And you particularly did NOT run screaming like a banshee into enemy territory, defenseless, announcing your presence, practically begging to be picked off.

Nikita, one of Section's best, had just broken all the rules in the book. He couldn't get over it. With a sense of growing dread, as well as unreality, Mick instinctively bent to the ground and scooped up Nikita's discarded Glock. It gleamed deadly silver in the bright sunlight, and he hefted it up, raising it to shoulder level. It seemed heavy in his hand, heavy and cold, like his sinking heart. He had never particularly cared for guns, not like some men do, Walter, for instance, who develop an almost affectionate relationship with their deadly hardware. Mick had no such sentimentality. He regarded guns as essentially distasteful, but necessary.

He had never been so glad to have a gun in his hand as he did right now.

"Christ," Schtoppel swore softly, finally getting his breath. He pushed a stray branch of lombardy poplar out of his way, and peered through the trees, his eyes scanning the house.

"Nikita, damn it, where are you?" he muttered under his breath.

Only a few seconds had passed since the distraught blonde's abrupt departure. He could still hear her quite clearly crying Michael's name at the top of her lungs.

The problem was, Farrell and his guards were sure to hear her, too. Standing on tip-toe and straining forward to peer around the tree, Mick finally located her. Nikita had crossed the driveway and had already reached the bottom of the stairs that led to the balcony, her hand on the stair-rail ready to ascend to the room where Farrell held Michael prisoner. Mick could see her blonde hair streaming wildly down her back, shimmering in the morning light with each step she took. It seemed to quiver like liquid gold with each harsh, anguished cry the broke from her lips.

"MI-CHAEL!" she yelled, her voice carrying quite clearly through the crisp, morning air. "Mi-CHAEL!!"

"Bloody HELL," Mick cursed to himself. He looked down at the gun again. There was no time for subtle strategies, no time to plan a brilliant rescue, to pull a rabbit out of a hat like perhaps Michael could have done in such an impossible situation.

Michael couldn't do anything now. He was helpless, handcuffed to Farrell's bed, probably being molested at that very moment. And it was too late for stealth or secrecy- Nikita's headlong, screaming approach to the house had seen to that.

He felt a harsh twinge of guilt. He was the one who had brought Michael here, and that action had resulted in his friend being violated physically. And now he had brought Nikita here, and, after discovering what had happened to Michael, she had been devastated mentally- the girl had obviously lost her mind.

Mick knew he had no choice. There was nothing to do now but join the insanity.

Mick rolled his eyes and heaved a huge sigh. "In for a penny, in for a pound," he muttered to himself, and then took off running. He crashed through the trees, rushing toward the house and the grief-crazed girl.

He waved his gun and shouted like a madman. With his rumpled red coat flapping wildly behind him, he looked like a clown, but a deadly serious one. His normally placid nature had been pushed to the edge; he was angry now- angry and scared and spoiling for a fight.

"POPSICLE!" he yelled after her, determined to get a piece of the low-life Farrell's worthless hide for himself. "Popsicle, WAIT FOR ME!"

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

As Nikita pounded breathlessly up the balcony stairs, she tried to prepare herself for what she might find when she reached her destination. The bedroom where Michael was being held was just ahead- she could see the French doors through which Mick had escaped standing open on one side; she could see shadows inside the room. Was one of them Michael? Was he still alive?

She took the stairs two at a time. Two more steps. Then two more after that. She was almost there.

"MICHAEL!" she screamed again, the sound escaping from her lips as a cry of pure agony.

Nikita ran faster. The stairs seemed endless. She ran and ran, but it was if she were moving in slow motion. The French doors were an eternity away, her agony endless….

The sound of her own heart pounded so hard in her ears that she could barely hear herself scream his name as she ran. Images of Michael filled her mind, like insidious clouds of mist that she could not brush away.

Michael hand-cuffed and helpless. Michael beaten and bleeding. Michael naked and vulnerable. Michael broken and crying, crying her name. Michael violated and abused. Michael RAPED…..

MICHAEL MICHAEL MICHAEL MICHAEL MICHAEL MICHAEL

Her lover's name reverberated in her soul, was evicted out of her burning throat in her screams, even as the horrid images of his abuse infiltrated her mind. She could not shake herself loose from them. The truth was, it was the other way around. The images had shaken something loose inside her; the hard pressure inside her chest was cracking open, breaking her, breaking her heart….

The darkness was released.

Nikita tried not feel what this meant, but it was too strong. The blackness engulfed her. The light was gone, fading away as if it had never been. Lately she had felt euphoric during missions- if this had been just a few days ago, the act of rushing in to rescue a fellow operative like this would have left her cheerful and completely high.

Now she felt only terror.

There was no joy now, no busy, orderly world, no bright, safe Light. There was only this darkness, this rending pain in her chest, and this all-consuming need to get to the top of the stairs, for there lay her salvation…

"MICHAEL!" Nikita sobbed wretchedly. Blindly, the darkness pressing in on her, she forced herself forward. She took two more steps, and at last, she was there. The endless stairs were behind her. She crossed the expanse of the balcony in seconds; seconds later still she had her hand on the handle of the French doors.

Breathing in a great gulp of air to fill her lungs for the next compulsory scream, she crashed inside, flinging the door open and hurtling herself into the center of the room, staggering to a halt to stand just at the foot of Michael's bed.

What she saw sledge-hammered the breath from her lungs. She had been picturing this horror all the way here, but even the worst her imagination could conjure up had been nothing compared to the reality that lay before her now.

Strangely, the first thing her mind registered was the shock of seeing Michael's bare feet. They were twisted to one side, insteps pressed into the mattress, the bare soles pink, smooth, almost-baby-like, and facing upward. Somehow, to see them like this, the most child-like part of him, pressed home to her Michael's vulnerability, his helplessness. A surge of protective, almost maternal feelings toward him swamped her heart. She longed to hold him, as a mother longs to hold her crying child…

He was crying .That fact registered next. She heard his harsh, sobbing breaths, and time stilled. Her heart hammered even more loudly in her chest, threatening to break in two. Slowly, her eyes swept up higher, taking in more of the horror.

The long, powerfully -muscled legs inside their casing of black wool trousers quivered His knees are shaking, Nikita thought numbly. Trembling like a child.

She blinked and tried to focus wider, to see the whole configuration of the bodies on the bed, but the image would not come. She could only see one sliver of this horrible reality at a time, and not the total, wrenching tableau all at once. It was if her mind would only allow her to see sections of Michael's torment, in bits and pieces. Perhaps, she thought, it was because the darkness was clouding her vision so much, or perhaps because her brain had shut down, and her senses were not working at ordinary levels.

Perhaps some wise part of her knew that if she saw it all simultaneously, the shock of it would kill her.

The next slice of reality that clicked into place in her vision was Michael's hips. They, like his feet, were vulnerably bare, slender bones thrusting upward on each side, covered in sculpted muscle. The wool pants were pushed open, revealing the hard belly and soft hair of his lower abdomen. Nikita swayed on her feet. This sight had always aroused her- she used to love to kiss him there, during their love-play, to taste the skin between navel and manhood, to savor the contrast of smooth, hard, marble flesh on her tongue where it transformed into softer, silky-textured hair….

Now she was not aroused, but horrified. There were hands caressing this precious flesh, just in the spot where she liked to stroke and kiss him, before she claimed him as her own… Farrell's well-manicured hands lay splayed across the hard belly, fingers thrust inside the open trousers, tangling in the dark curls just above the enticing bulge of Michael's manhood.

It was Farrell. Farrell was touching Michael….

The older man lay alongside her imprisoned lover on the bed, his body draped possessively across the helpless, struggling captive, holding him down as he explored and fondled his most secret places…

Nikita almost gagged. The thought revolted her, the sight of those hands caressing and defiling the tender places where only she should have the right to touch… Michael was HERS. How dare he be touched by another! Alongside the sick feeling in her stomach, a surge of jealous outrage flared to life, burning green fire inside of her….

Jealousy, disgust, tenderness, desire, fury-She felt them all, all these emotions. They tore her in several directions, each demanding that she follow. They shredded her, leaving her centerless and empty, open to the darkness….

Her vision blurred as she looked higher, her head swimming. The pressure inside her chest was building to an unbearable level. As the world swirled and tilted sickeningly, she desperately sought for some solid ground, some light to guide her as she fought against the hideous darkness that threatened to claim her.

"No…" she moaned harshly. She screamed her lover's name again, just to vent her pain. "MICHAEL!"

She reached out, with her mind and heart, and found sanctuary. Her eyes riveted on a clear green oasis in the blackness that was descending all around her.

His eyes. Michael's soft, tear-filled eyes. They shimmered with tenderness, and longing, and a desire that matched her own. She let herself sink into the emerald depths, knowing they reflected the horror they were both feeling, the disgust at the wrongness of the situation. But she ignored that, and let herself dive in further.

She couldn't help herself. Here was Hell, and Heaven. Sin and Salvation. Emerald sea meeting blue-gray sky. Here was security and thrilling danger, safety and adventure, bitter and sweet, arousal and satisfaction, comfort and excitement, yin and yang, all the pairs of complementary opposites conjoined and meeting in those brilliant, beautiful eyes.

Bliss and wanting…

Light and Dark…..

Love and Hate…

She opened further, and the opposites crashed in, the Darkness smothering her like tidal waves, drowning her, while the Light fought back, burning away the dark waters like an inferno.

The Hate that Madeleine had programmed her to feel tugged her downward to Heaven; the Love that Michael poured out to her from those eyes drew her up to Hell. She was wrenched from all sides, pulled in opposite directions as these two powers fought for her soul…

The strain on the delicate fabric of that soul was too much, the pressure to remain whole too great. Her heart tore in two, the Darkness imploding into a million pieces of Light….

"KITA!" Michael screamed as he watched his Beloved crumple to the floor. "Kita, NO!"

Beside him, he heard Farrell chuckling. "Excellent," the small man said in a gloating tone. "This is very promising…."

Michael wrenched his head off the pillows so hard that he saw stars. He was too furious to care what pain this movement caused him. He raised up his shoulders as far as they would go, hands and forearms straining against the handcuffs that held him. His wrists were scraped and abraded by his desperate but futile attempts to get free; the tender, raw flesh began to bleed. Blinded with rage, and desperate to get to her, Michael was oblivious to his own pain.

"Bastard!" he screamed at Farrell. "Let me GO!"

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

Farrell ignored Michael's pleas to be set free, disengaged himself from the wildly struggling prisoner, sat up, and slipped matter-of-factly off the bed. He stood up, straightened the jacket of his gray suit by tugging on the hem, and then smoothed his hand over the fringe of thinning salt and pepper hair.

The terrorist took a deep breath and calmly stepped to the end of the bed and knelt beside the unconscious blonde operative. He reached out his hand and brushed back the pale hair from her face. Then he took her pulse, pressing two fingers against the pulsing artery in her neck.

"DON'T!" Michael screamed, becoming even more enraged. "Don't touch her!" He struggled futilely against the cuffs, jerking forward so violently that he nearly dislocated his shoulder. He had hated the feel of Farrell's hands on him, but he hated the idea of this madman touching Nikita even more. She looked so helpless like that, Michael thought, sprawled across the floor, her hair spilling around Damon's knees…

Farrell stared down at his new captive, a frown of concentration on his face. He was oblivious to Michael's cries and struggles, his attention, for now, focused elsewhere. The chemist studied the lovely blonde thoughtfully, appraising her in a detached, professional way, as if she were one of his experiments under a microscope.

Expertly, his movements more clinical than sensual, he shifted his hand upward to touch Nikita's face. He lifted each of her eyelids briefly, one by one, and peered into the unseeing blue depths. What he saw made him smile.

"Excellent!" Farrell said again, looking pleased. With infinite care, he lifted Nikita's shoulders up to cradle her head in his lap, at the same time he pulled the cushion off of the chair behind him and then nestled it under the unconscious girl's neck, pillowing her head gently. When he had settled her limp body comfortably on the cushion, he stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his knees. He beamed at Michael, meeting the frantic green eyes with a wide smile.

"I think that might have done the trick," Farrell announced proudly. "I believe our little display was just the jolt she needed to get back to her old self…." He sighed with satisfaction. "When she wakes up she should be as good as new--- free from Madeleine's programming…."

Michael stilled his struggles, frozen in shock at this pronouncement. All the air whooshed out of his lungs in a sharp gasp of stunned surprise. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"WHAT!?" the prisoner choked out, the green eyes going wide with astonishment. "What did you say?"

Farrell smiled smugly at him, his expression still proud. "I TOLD you, Michael," the dapper terrorist went on in a pleased tone, "I told you that I would keep my part of the bargain, didn't I?" He chuckled happily and then fished his hand deeply in his pocket before he again approached the stunned captive on the bed.

Michael flinched and stiffened in apprehension as Farrell bent over him, leaning his face close to his, his hands fumbling on Michael's bleeding wrists. The prisoner gasped in astonishment again as he realized what Farrell was doing-

He was freeing him! The cuffs were coming off. Damon turned the tiny key in the lock and then released the hated bonds from Michael's hands. The silver manacles fell open and then clattered against the headboard, swinging free.

Michael wasted no time as soon as he found himself blessedly unbound. Heaving his upper body off the bed, he swung his legs to the side of the mattress and sat up, then shoved Farrell roughly out of his way. The older man staggered back and uttered a sharp grunt of protest at this treatment, but Michael ignored his captor completely, his focus entirely on getting to his Beloved.

"Kita!" he cried, as he ran to her crumpled body at the foot of the bed. The frantic lover fell to his knees beside her and gathered her limp form into his arms, cradling her silver-blonde head against his bare shoulder. Sobbing her name again, he began rocking her, holding her against his heart, wrapping her protectively in his embrace.

She did not respond, or open her eyes, just lay still as death in his arms. Her face was pale, her parted lips almost white. The only indications of life in her were her barely perceptible breathing and the rapid movement of her eyes back and forth under her closed eyelids.

"Kita…." Michael whispered, the word at once a wrenching plea and a heart-felt prayer. "Kita, please…" he sobbed, begging her to wake up. "Kita, talk to me…" he beseeched in a tear-strained voice. "Kita, look at me…"

Still there was no response. His soul-mate lay quiet and still in his frantic embrace. Distraught, Michael held her tighter, pulling her more fully into his lap and pressing her body against his own. Sobbing, he gave in to despair. He buried his face in her hair, crying brokenly, lost in grief.

Farrell watched the lovers for a moment, and then sighed. He approached them slowly, and then perched cheerily on the end of the bed, settling there with his hands clasped between the knees of his gray suit.

"No need for tears, My Dear Michael," Damon told his prisoner softly, his voice soothing and kind. "I assure you, she'll be fine. She's only unconscious because her brain needs to re-set itself back to normal now that the imposed programming is gone…." The scientist explained gently. "Just give her a few more minutes to process the rest of the conditioning from her system, and I promise you, you will have your old Nikita back again, good as new…"

Michael's head shot up at these remarks, Farrell's voice finally registering. He glared suspiciously at the older man's merry expression and hitched his Beloved's body more closely to him, protectively enclosing his arms more tightly around her. He said nothing, only let the silent daggers of his angry green eyes speak for him.

"Ahh," Farrell chuckled, shaking his head. "So you don't believe me?" He smiled and rose to his feet, stepping closer. "You really should trust me, Michael," he said softly. "We're on the same side, after all…"

Still smiling, Farrell crouched down suddenly on his haunches and reached out his hand toward Nikita's face, his finger pointing.

Michael flinched back, drawing Nikita with him. He gave Farrell a sharp, warning growl. "Don't touch her," Michael said again, glaring menacingly. His lips firmed with deadly determination. "Or I'll kill you."

Farrell only eyed him mildly, unperturbed by this threat. He dropped his hand, however, after gesturing again toward the comatose girl's face.

"I'm sure you noticed her eyes," Farrell went on in the same mild tone. "The rapid eye movement you see is the same as she would have in REM sleep. That means she is un-processing the conditioning. The adjustment is reversing itself," the chemist explained softly. He smiled at Michael sweetly.

"The treatment suppressed her memories of you, but now she is remembering," Farrell said with a wider smile. "She's reliving all of your experiences together; all of her hidden feelings are coming back to her…"

"In other words," he finished with an indulgent sigh, "She's dreaming of you as we speak…" He sighed once more, deeply. "Isn't that… just…. so very…. Well, ROMANTIC?" the terrorist teased him with another smile.

Michael blinked at his captor, confused. He desperately wanted to believe what his tormentor was saying. He wanted it to be true. It would be wonderful if it really was all over, if Nikita would just open her eyes in a few minutes, and be the same as she was before- in love with him again. But how he could be sure? Farrell, outside of Madeleine, was the last person he trusted….

Michael looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms. Her eyes still flickered back and forth beneath her closed lids, as if watching a movie screen in her mind. She twitched slightly, now and again, and moaned softly. Her face was still deadly pale.

Gently, with infinite care, he caressed a lock of blonde hair off her forehead and then bent his head to kiss her wan cheek. Still, she did not awake.

Michael lifted his head to stare accusingly into Farrell's eyes, his own green pools of anguished fire.

"If she dies, you die," he vowed solemnly.

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

"If she dies, you die," Michael promised solemnly, his arms tightening protectively around Nikita.

To Michael's disgust, Farrell seemed not to take this threat seriously. The smaller man just shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and continued to smile. "No one's going to die here, Michael," Damon said softly. "There's no need to melodramatic." He spread his hands and gazed back at Michael with innocent brown eyes. "I swear to you, she'll be fine…" the small, dapper man nodded sagely. "All you have to do is wait a few minutes for the process to finish, and then you'll see…."

Damon smiled again. "Just give her a little more time to come round, and you'll have your Nikita back again…." The smile widened. "Just be patient…"

But Michael didn't want to be patient. In fact, his patience with Farrell was completely at an end. As if in sympathy with his anxiety to leave, Nikita stirred restlessly in his arms and whimpered, tossing her head on his shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly and she moaned his name, then subsided once more into unconsciousness.

Michael looked down at his sleeping lover's pale, bloodless face and made a decision. He was tired of waiting. He had had enough. Whatever damage Farrell had inflicted on Nikita's psyche was already done. Staying here wouldn't help. He was through with being tormented, through with Farrell's games. He was through trying to get Damon to help him restore Nikita.

He wanted out.

With a soft grunt of effort because of his weakness, Michael stood, lifting Nikita in his arms. He was going to take Nikita home now; he would tend the wounds to Nikita's mind as best he could without Farrell's help. If it took him years and all the resources he had, he would get Nikita back. He would wait forever to hear her say she loved him again. He had endless patience, but not for this. He never wanted to see Farrell's smiling, simpering face again.

He was done.

He straightened, planting his bare feet firmly apart as he shifted Nikita's limp, fragile body to lie with her head across his naked shoulder. The movement caused a thrum of pain in his sore arms and wrists, and his head began to pound again, the wounded cheek throbbing sharply. He was dizzy, light-headed, but determined. Eyes straight ahead, focused on his purpose, he ignored Farrell's presence and walked toward the door.

His captor moved quickly to block his way. The older man stepped in front of him, hands out-stretched, a furious scowl on his face.

"Just what the HELL do you think you're DOING?" Damon demanded angrily.

At last, Michael thought grimly, almost pleased. At last he had done something that did not make Farrell smile in amusement.

Michael was the one to smile this time. "I'm leaving," he answered bluntly. "That's what I'm doing."

Farrell's face grew red, his scowl deepening. He pointed to the unconscious girl in Michael's arms. "Not with her, you're not!" he protested, his tone almost scolding. "Are you completely crazy?" He threw up his hands in disgust. "This is most unwise! You have no idea what you're doing!"

Michael was losing patience. He had endured all he was going to endure. His grip tightened on the precious cargo in his embrace and he took a bold step forward. Farrell stood his ground, blocking his path.

"Get out of my way," Michael hissed angrily.

Farrell shook his head. "My Dear, dear Michael," Damon hissed back. "You just don't seem to understand….." He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his gun, holding it on his prisoner.

"You're not going anywhere…." The chemist intoned sharply. He waved the gun in Michael's face. "If you want to see your girlfriend awake and coherent again, I suggest you put her down on the bed…."

Michael's green eyes flickered briefly down to the weapon aimed at him, and then he looked up contemptuously to meet Farrell's eyes. "I believe you didn't hear me," he said in a tone of icy politeness. "I SAID," Michael hissed clearly, "I am leaving…." His green eyes glittered dangerously.

Farrell shook his head and raised the gun, aiming it at Michael's chest. The men were only inches away from each other. "And I SAID," the smaller man hissed back, "If you want her to live, you'll put her down on the bed, NOW!" He lowered the gun and then waved it toward the bed. At that moment, while Farrell's head was turned away, Michael saw his chance and made his move.

The desperate captive charged forward, turning his body sideways to catch Farrell's gun arm with his shoulder, protecting the precious burden in his arms. At the same time he kicked out one foot to catch Farrell's legs behind his knees; the older man, taken by surprise and knocked off balance, went down, sprawling face down on the floor, arms flailing. The gun clattered uselessly out of his hand, to lie a few inches beyond his reach. Damon lay there, dazed and panting for breath, the wind knocked out of him by his fall.

Michael did not stay to fight any further. He was weak and dizzy, and knew he only had enough strength to concentrate on escape, not revenge. He would take care of Farrell another day, but not then. All he wanted to do was get out of that house, taking Nikita with him….

Holding Nikita tighter, Michael jogged forward, eyes determinedly set for the door, desperate to attain his freedom. He did not look behind him.

If he had, he would have seen disaster coming, but he didn't. Instead, it caught him completely unaware.

He did not see the panicked Englishman in the red coat out on the balcony behind him. Nor did he see Nikita's Glock in his trembling hand. He didn't see Mick raise the gun, or see him fire. He did not even feel the bullet pierce his bare flesh…..

Michael was only aware of the hot burst of blinding pain as the world exploded behind his eyes and then went black……

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

"Wait for me, Popsicle!" Mick called brashly, racing headlong down the driveway toward the palatial house. His red coat flapping out behind him, he rushed past a great sweep of manicured lawn bordered by wide, well-kept flower-beds with brick paths between them that led to the house. The gardens, the paths, the driveway, the grass- all were conspicuously empty of Farrell's security. There was no sign of the terrorist's men, no sound other than Schtoppel's own triumphant yelling. Not even a guard dog barked.

Old Damon was getting over-confident, thought Mick with a sneer.

Feeling empowered by this absence of resistance, he ran faster, yelled louder. "I'm coming to get you, you Bastard!" he panted, brandishing Nikita's Glock in the air, forgetting his fear for a moment in the emotional rush of the chase. He ran on, sprinting across the driveway to the house.

By the time he got to the foot of the stairs that led to the balcony, Nikita was nowhere in sight. He could no longer hear her screaming Michael's name. His euphoric mood faltered, and he stilled his own cries, opting for caution. Swallowing hard, he crept up the stairs slowly, crouching low. He kept to one side as he crossed the balcony to the French doors that led into the bedroom, trying to stay out of sight.

He could hear voices then, coming through the partially open door. But it was not Nikita's screams he heard this time, but Michael's.

"Let me GO!" the brave Frenchman bellowed. "Damn you, let me GO!"

Schtoppel winced, his stomach turning over in fear. Michael sounded frantic, and furious. And …SCARED. What horrible things was Farrell doing to him? And why wasn't Nikita screaming, too?

He leaned forward, and peered cautiously through the window panes of the open door into the room.

"Christ!" Mick swore in shock. No wonder Michael was yelling. Nikita lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of the bed, unconscious. And Farrell was leaning over her…

That BASTARD, Mick thought, his stomach wrenching. What had he done to her? What had he done to his poor, precious Popsicle?

Instinctively, Mick raised the gun, intending to take out Farrell, who, in Mick's estimation, had had quite enough time already to torture his friends. Mick planned to stop him, NOW.

The Englishman swallowed hard and steadied Nikita's Glock with both hands. He aimed the gun at Farrell's head, and then swore again.

"Bloody HELL," he cursed under his breath, lowering the gun. The shot was impossible; Farrell had drawn Nikita into his lap and was touching her face. Mick knew he was not expert enough a shot to guarantee that he could take out one without taking out the other. He couldn't risk shooting Farrell right then, or he might harm Nikita. He would have to wait until the slimy Bastard moved clear of his Popsicle….

Mick watched for an opening, an opportunity to vent his rage. He WANTED to shoot Damon, very badly. He thought he would almost enjoy it.

Mick waited tensely, crouching low, and a moment later, he thought the opportunity had come- Farrell lowered Nikita back to the floor and laid her head on a chair-cushion, then rose to his feet. As he stood up, Mick again raised the gun. The nervous sweat from his forehead rolled into his eyes, blurring his vision. Mick only took a second to hastily wipe his face, but by the time he could see again and had raised his gun once more, the chance had been lost.

"Goddamn Bloody HELL!" Mick cursed again. Farrell had moved from Nikita to Michael. He was leaning over the handcuffed man on the bed, bending low, his face almost touching Michael's. Mick's grip tightened on the gun, and he wanted to scream in frustration. He couldn't shoot Farrell now or he would hit Michael, too. And what the hell was Farrell doing to Michael, anyway?

The next moment he found out. The operative's bound hands dropped free, and Mick realized that Farrell had released Michael from the handcuffs.

What was going on? Mick wondered. Was it over?

The Englishman drew back out of sight, and peered cautiously through the French door windows, his gun still raised tentatively. He watched as Michael dashed to Nikita's side as soon as he was free, sitting on the floor and gathering the unconscious girl in his arms.

"Good, good..…" Mick muttered to himself. "That's it, Michael, that's it…" Mick smiled. "Get out of the line of fire, my friend…"

He raised the gun once more, aiming over Michael's bowed head to target the dapper chemist Farrell. His mouth went dry. Now that the moment had come, he wasn't sure he could do it. He didn't think he could kill someone in cold blood….

No, he scolded himself sternly. Go ahead. The Bastard deserves it…

He raised the gun again, determined to shoot his target this time, but now Farrell had moved to crouch low in front of the couple on the floor, and began talking to Michael. The two operatives were between Schtoppel and the hated Farrell- Mick had no clear shot- AGAIN.

"Next time, you bloody rapist bastard, I swear, you're MINE," Mick promised Farrell under his breath. He steadied the gun in both hands and raised it, then squinted one eye, concentrating on his aim. He tensed, holding his breath. He wasn't going to miss his chance this time. He was determined to be ready.

Farrell stood up, stepping back from Nikita and Michael, presenting himself as a perfect target. This is it, thought Mick, tightening his finger on the trigger. Now I'll get him…

But no! It happened again- once more, Michael moved directly into his line of fire. The wounded operative stood up, lifting Nikita in his arms, and walked toward the door. Farrell blocked his way, arguing with him. Their voices were clear, but not loud enough for Mick to make out the words. But he wasn't listening, anyway. It took all his concentration to keep his grip on the gun. Adrenaline pumping, sweat beading on his high forehead, Mick anxiously waited for the next chance….

At last! The argument escalated, and Michael stepped closer to the door, just far enough to the right to give Schtoppel a clear shot. Michael, with Nikita in his arms, was close to Farrell, but definitely far enough out of the way. With his blood pounding deafeningly in his ears, Mick gasped in a breath, hastily squeezed the trigger, and fired.

Even as the kick of the blast made Mick shudder, time slowed. He blinked his eyes and looked up, expecting to see the immensely satisfying sight of that weasel Farrell slumped and bleeding at Michael's feet. But to his horror, he watched disaster happening in slow motion. He was frozen where he stood, caught in time, unable to stop the tableau of doom that was unfolding before his eyes.

Michael had moved- he had decided to fight, to attack Farrell, at just this precise moment. With agonizing slow motion, Mick watched, frozen and breathless, as Michael lunged toward Farrell, kicking the older man's legs out from under him. Farrell went down, sprawling on the floor, to lie safely out of the way of the Glock's bullet.

And Michael had moved directly into its path, into the line of fire….

BLAM! The sound of the gunshot reverberated in Mick's ears, jolting time back to its normal speed again. Mick felt all the breath leave his lungs as he watched Michael jerk violently with the bullet's impact, then crash forward to the floor, taking Nikita with him.

"NOOO!!!" Mick screamed, racing through the French doors. Oh God, Oh God, what had he DONE?! He dashed forward into the bedroom, uncaring that he would now be in Farrell's loathsome presence. All his hatred, all thoughts and emotions toward the other man went completely out of his head. Mick's only concern was to see if Michael was still alive.

He skidded to his knees beside the tangled couple. Michael and Nikita's limbs were so intertwined in a heap on the floor, that he couldn't discern who had been shot where. He saw their faces, both wan and pale as the grave, both lovers lying still as death.

Mick dropped the Glock to the floor, buried his face in his hands, and burst into tears. "Oh God," he sobbed brokenly, his shoulders shaking with grief. "Oh God, Oh God, are they dead?"

>From behind him, a quiet voice answered. "I don't know, my good man," the voice said calmly. Mick gasped and looked up.

It was Farrell, who had recovered from his fall and was now standing up, looming over him. The chemist had managed to retrieve his gun that Michael had knocked out of his hand, and was aiming it directly at Mick.

Farrell dusted off his jacket with one hand, while the other kept at steady aim at Mick's heart. "To answer your question, Mick," Farrell said in a cool tone, "I have no idea if they are dead or not…"

He gestured with the gun to the unconscious couple on the floor, and then, to Mick's shock, he put the gun away, tucking it back into his jacket pocket, and crouched beside the Michael and Nikita's prone bodies.

Mick stared at him, dumbfounded, as Farrell smiled at him and then made a soft suggestion.

"Well, then, why don't you help me get them on the bed and we'll find out?" the terrorist said gently.

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

"Help me get them on the bed and we'll find out," Farrell suggested gently.

Mick blinked at him, too stunned to argue. In a state of shock, he numbly followed Farrell's lead. It was the logical thing to do, after all, and in the back of Mick's mind, he realized he was grateful that Farrell was, one, not shooting back at him, and two, taking charge when Mick was at a total loss what to do.

Carefully, the strange teammates began their task. Nikita was wedged on top of Michael's body, so they moved her first. She moaned Michael's name again and tossed her head when Mick lifted her shoulders from the crook of her lover's arm. Farrell took her feet, and wordlessly they carried her the short distance to the bed, placing her gently on her back.

Once there, the blonde writhed and turned over on her side, muttering in her sleep, but did not awaken.

"She seems to be all right," Mick commented doubtfully, in a worried tone. It didn't appear that Nikita had been shot, but her condition still warranted concern. He glanced back at Michael, biting his lip anxiously. The half-naked operative lay pale and still, curled on his side on the floor, one hand out-stretched. The green eyes were tightly closed, the full lips half-parted. Mick felt a chill of terror go up his spine. Michael was either dead, or deeply unconscious. He was afraid to find out which.

Mick looked up to see that Farrell was staring hard at Michael as well. "Let's check him next…." The terrorist encouraged.

Mick nodded, reluctantly, and the two of them performed the same ritual as before, Mick taking Michael's shoulders, Farrell taking his feet. Though slender, Michael was a total dead weight between them, his whole body limp and nonresistant. His head lolled back against Schtoppel's chest as he carried him, his neck so slack that Mick feared the worst.

They placed him on the bed, next to Nikita, on his back, his arms at his sides, his legs stretched out straight. A cursory glance showed no marks or bullet holes on the expanse of broad, naked chest and muscled torso. Mick let out a gasp of relief when he saw the lean ribcage rise and fall with Michael's soft, but unmistakably regular, breathing. Tentatively, Mick reached out to run his hands lightly over the comatose man's wool-covered hips and legs, which were the only part of his body not exposed to view. Again, he found nothing. No blood, no wounds. In fact, there absolutely nothing wrong with him at all, anywhere they could see.

Mick threw Farrell a perplexed look.

"Turn him over," Farrell said calmly, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

Mick bent over the bed and complied, although he dreaded what he might see when he did so. Carefully, holding his breath, he drew Michael back to lie on his side, facing Nikita, pulling him by one heavily-muscled arm. This movement exposed the broad expanse of the operative's back to their view. Frantically, Mick's eyes searched the planes of taut muscle and smooth skin for the expected wounds, and found…

Nothing.

Mick was both relieved and at the same time shocked to see no blood, no bullet holes, no torn flesh, no marks of any kind. There was nothing to see but the smooth perfection of the operative's naked back.

He was completely, totally fine. There was not a scratch on him.

But why then, Mick thought, bewildered, was Michael unconscious?

He looked up to meet Farrell's brown eyes, his own wide with shock. "I could have sworn I shot him.." The stunned Englishman whispered hoarsely. His face clouded over in confusion. "Didn't I?" he asked, wondering seriously whether he was perhaps hallucinating this whole scene, wondering if he had gone crazy.

Farrell nodded solemnly. "Yes, you did shoot him," the chemist confirmed, cocking his head to the side. "But, I believe, most likely NOT with a bullet…."

Standing side by side with Mick, Damon bent quickly over Michael's still form and brushed his hand across the back of the prisoner's neck, his fingers searching under the thick auburn curls that grew there at his nape. After a few short seconds, he let out a triumphant cry.

"Yes!" Damon crowed, pleased. "It's just what I thought…." He parted the sweat-dampened curls with his spread fingers, exposing a small section of Michael's scalp to Mick's view.

"Here it is, see?" Farrell gloated, pointing to a spot just at the base of Michael's skull. "Here's our culprit…."

Mick blinked, then bent forward, leaning closer to get a better look. There was what looked like a tiny white, plastic tube, no more than a few millimeters in circumference, sticking out a mere quarter inch from Michael's scalp. A very small amount of blood oozed just around the edge of this protrusion, no more than a few drops. Except for the cut under Michael's eye, and the scraped wrists from his handcuffs, this tiny puncture was the only wound. Amazingly, at the end of the white tube was a small, miniscule tuft of something that looked like… feathers.

"What the bloody HELL is THAT?" Mick exclaimed, perplexed.

Farrell grinned and, with a business-like tug, plucked the offending article from Michael's neck, holding it up for Schtoppel to see.

"It's a tranquilizer dart," Farrell pronounced, then he raised one eyebrow, throwing Mick a quizzical look. "Didn't you know what kind of ammunition your own gun was loaded with?"

Mick, too stunned with relief to dissemble, blurted out the truth. "It wasn't my gun," he confessed shortly. "It was Nikita's…" He leaned forward again and peered anxiously into Michael's sleeping face. "He'll be all right, then?" He asked worriedly, seeking reassurance that his friend's unconscious state would not be permanent.

Farrell nodded. "If it's a standard issue, I should think that he wouldn't be out cold for any more than an hour," the chemist answered gently. "You can relax now, Schtoppel, my good man. You didn't kill your friend after all…"

Mick shuddered, reaction setting in. He felt wobbly, too shaky to stand, and sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed, near Nikita's feet.

"Thank God…." he muttered to himself, rubbing his hand over his eyes. He sat there, breathing hard for a moment, and then raised his head suddenly as a thought occurred to him, his gaze meeting Farrell's once more.

"Why would Nikita have tranq darts instead of bullets in her gun?" Mick demanded accusingly. "I don't understand…."

Farrell shrugged, and thrust his hands in his pockets. "You tell me…" he answered flippantly, then cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Did you tell her you were bringing her here to rescue Michael, by any chance?"

Mick's eyes narrowed suspiciously in return. "Yes, I did," he admitted warily. "Why?"

Farrell shook his head. "Nothing, it's just a theory I have…." Then the terrorist smiled. "I believe my secondary conditioning of Nikita was working faster than I thought…." He nodded sagely, pleased with himself. "When she took the tranq gun instead of the regular one, she was probably responding out of her protective instincts for Michael, which Madeleine had me program out of her…"

Mick blinked, then stared at Farrell in confusion. He glanced behind him at the sleeping couple on the bed, lying face to face. One of Michael's hands was outstretched across the bed, the other draped across Nikita's waist, and she, in turn, had wriggled closer in her sleep to nestle herself against his chest, lying in the curve of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. Eyes closed, still unconscious, she murmured his name contentedly and smiled in her sleep.

Mick turned back to stare at Farrell. "Programming?" he repeated, bewildered. "Conditioning?" He shook his head and glared at Damon angrily. "Just what the bloody Hell are you talking about?"

The dapper chemist sighed, and then gave Mick a coy smile. "It's a long story, but the gist of it is, my good fellow, is that Madeleine paid me to program Nikita not to be in love with Michael anymore…."

"Oh!" the Englishman exclaimed, processing this information. Once he thought about it, he wasn't surprised. He hadn't had many face-to face dealings with the Iron Maiden, but he knew her reputation for playing mind-games very well. It came as no shock to him that Madeleine might have wanted to ruin Michael and Nikita's happiness, just for the fun of it. Hell, she didn't need a reason to be cruel. The woman was just a total bitch.

Mick stood up from the bed and then turned to glance again at the couple behind him, cuddling contentedly. "You did a piss-poor job of it, looks like…" he commented dryly. "Your programming didn't seem to work very well, now did it, Damon?" Mick taunted, unable to resist this jibe.

Farrell went on smiling; he was not offended. "Oh, it would have worked fine if I had wanted it to," the chemist commented. "I could have wiped every memory, every ounce of emotion for her lover out of her soul if I had cared to, but Madeleine's eagerness to have that happen, and to have me involved, made me suspicious of her motives, so…."

He paused to shrug his shoulders, and then grinned widely. "SO, if she wanted to f*ck with me, I decided I would f*ck with her back…." His smile widened. So, as a fail-safe, I put in an overlying conditioning for the program to undo itself, if enough of the right stimulus was given…."

Mick shook his head, waving both hands. "Whoa, now, mate," he begged, looking bewildered again. "You've lost me…" He cocked his head to one side, and placed both hands on his hips. "What kind of counter-acting stimulus are you talking about?"

Damon smiled slyly, and answered in a proud tone. "Well, it had to be subtle, or Madeleine would be suspicious. And the programming couldn't be easily overcome, or that would give the game away. And I couldn't have the stimulus be Michael trying to make love to Nikita," Farrell went on, "Because the whole point was to make Madeleine believe that Nikita was repulsed by him, so that part had to be real…"

"So what did you do?" Mick asked curiously, settling comfortably in a nearby chair. He sat back, relaxed, no longer afraid of Farrell. This was just like the old times, having lively, stimulating conversation with his old associate. Although the other man was queer and, of course, a bit ruthless, Damon Farrell had always been a clever bloke, and rather a fun sort to hang with, thought Mick. He was beginning to think that Farrell couldn't have been quite as cruel to Michael as he had seemed…

Farrell smiled, warming to his subject. "I planted a sub-program in the original conditioning, so that if Michael were in danger, the primary programming would undo itself…" he explained eagerly. "But it had to be a serious threat to his life and well-being, something really horrendous to jolt the conditioning free…"

Farrell settled in the other chair next to Mick's, leaning forward eagerly. "At first, I thought this situation would just happen naturally, without my help, given the line of work those two are in," he commented, nodding his head toward the couple entwined in each others' arms on the bed. "Michael would go on a mission and be threatened with danger sooner or later…"

Mick's eyes widened, a flash of intuitive knowledge lighting his face. "But you didn't wait for that, did you?" he asked firmly with a knowing look. "You hastened it along, you MADE it happen…." His eyes narrowed then, his chin rising stubbornly. "You just pretended to have raped Michael, is that it?" he accused his associate grimly.

Farrell looked down, and almost blushed. "Guilty," he admitted coyly. "When you and Michael arrived suddenly on my doorstep, and he started begging for my help to restore his lover's favors to him again, I couldn't resist setting up a little scenario of my own…."

"You old Faggot drama queen," Mick muttered affectionately, not meaning to offend. He smiled at his old/new friend. "So you let me believe that you had molested Michael, and then let me escape, so that I would tell Nikita…." He shook his head, impressed. "That was bloody convoluted of you, old chap…"

Farrell leaned forward and patted Schtoppel's knee. "I'm sorry to have upset you, my dear man," Damon apologized. "But the angst had to be real, for you, for Nikita, and particularly for Michael…"

He sighed, and gazed softly at the wounded man on the bed. "I really didn't enjoy tormenting him like that," Farrell went on sadly, his gaze lingering on the bloody swollen welt under Michael's eye. " I am especially sorry I marred that exquisite face…" He sighed deeply once more. "He is quite beautiful, you know. Very desirable. If he had been the least little bit interested or turned on by it, I might have really slept with him," Farrell went on. "But since he was so revulsed by the concept, I just toyed with him, just enough to make him present a picture of an abused, desperate gentleman-in-distress to his Lady Love…." Farrell explained gently. "As I have said many times before, I have enough willing partners, that I don't need to recruit outside my own… er… orientation…"

Mick shook his head and gave Damon a rueful smile. "You sure had me convinced…." He admitted, feeling mixed emotions. He was relieved, happy, and yet still angry. He threw his old friend a sideways glance. "I was quite determined to kill you, you know, for what you had done…."

Farrell grinned. "Well, I'm glad it didn't come to that, old chap," Damon said gently. He turned back to gaze once more at the couple on the bed. "In fact, everything turned out very nicely indeed…."

Mick shot him a curious look. "What happens now?" he asked pointedly. He jerked his head toward Michael and Nikita. "What happens to THEM?" Mick asked worriedly.

Farrell shrugged, and quickly moved to reassure the anxious Englishman. "Why, nothing, my dear Mick," the chemist answered gently. "The sight of Michael looking pathetic, helpless, and supposedly raped, was enough to trigger the secondary programming, and jolt all of the imposed conditioning free…." He gestured at the sleeping girl, who was snuggling contentedly in Michael's arms, smiling in her sleep. "When Nikita wakes up, she will be herself, just as in love as before," the chemist said in an indulgent tone. "Her memories of what happened in the last week will be fuzzy, but her adoration for our young hero will be just as strong as ever…."

He sighed deeply. "Isn't that just too, too romantic?" Farrell said softly, his eyes glowing.

Mick rolled his eyes. "You're just one blooming , soft-hearted faggot bastard, aren't you?" he teased gruffly.

Farrell smiled back. "Quite," he agreed with another deep sigh. He stood abruptly then, and gestured toward the door.

"Come, my good fellow," Farrell invited with a wink. "Let's retire to my study for a drink." He raised one eyebrow and grinned, one side of his mouth twisting upward in a crooked grin. He nodded toward the sleeping couple on the bed. "I believe those two love-birds will want to have a little privacy when they wake up, eh?"

Mick grinned back, and rose with alacrity from his chair. "Definitely, mate," he agreed with a laugh, walking with a spring in his step toward the door. He winked back, feeling happy, knowing that his Popsicle and her SpyBoy were going to be fine. "Most definitely…" he said again, and laughed.

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

Locked in Michael's arms, Nikita dreamed.

A kaleidoscope of feelings and sensations, as well as colors and images, swirled and coalesced in her mind, little bits of reality and memories of past times jumbled in her vision along with daydreams and fantasies, some of them as quaintly romantic as childhood fairy-tales, some of them darkly erotic.

In vivid technicolor, she saw him, heard him, touched him…. smelled and tasted him… experienced him, feeling his thoughts in her mind…..

She remembered the first time he had held her, although it had not been in tenderness. She had just awakened in the white room, and learned that she was now "dead", her death faked to fool the outside world. He told her calmly that she had a choice- she could work for Section, or die for real.

Angry, terrified, and frustrated by this new and depressing situation, a trap even worse than prison, Nikita had found Michael's cool, controlled demeanor infuriating. She had attacked him, wildly, desperately, like a cornered animal attacking whoever was in the way of escape. She had lunged at him as soon as his back was turned, but then he had lunged for her….

She found herself flat on her back, breathless under that hard body, his hands on her wrists, holding her still, his knees straddling her legs in a position of dominance. The cold green eyes stared into hers, willing her obedience. For a moment, the cold green light flickered, and a warm sensuous fire flared for just an instant in the depth of those eyes.

It had begun. For both of them. In that moment, their destinies had become entwined, their souls had found each other….

But the passion in those green eyes receded; the consummation of that fire, that love, was not yet to be. The flames were banking, awaiting a later time. Confused, disturbed, Michael forced himself to look at her with his blank stare, and go on. He began lecturing her again with those handsome, desirable lips…

"Go for the kidneys," he had said. "It disables and they can't fight back…."

But in her dream, that is not what he said.

The dream shifted, and Nikita found herself in the same position, on her back, with Michael holding her down by her wrists. But this time, his eyes were not cold, icy jade, but liquid, emerald fire. This time, it was Michael, and not she, who shed tears of angry desperation. His grip tightened on her, his body pressing close…

"I thought I'd lost you," Michael choked out in a voice full of harsh longing and blinding need.

Then his mouth descended on hers, capturing her completely. His hot tongue penetrated her lips, in an act of sheer possession, marking her as his own. His desperation escalating, his need thick and firm against her thigh, as he cupped her head in his hands to bring her lips closer, devouring her sweetness.

Nikita surrendered, dissolving into him this first time they had made love. He had taken her, over and over again, his need for domination no greater than his need to please her, to make her whimper and cry incoherently for more, to beg him, quivering, to touch her everywhere, to possess her utterly….

She gave him what he wanted. And he, in turn, opened up to her a world she had never known before. She had had lovers before, yes, but it had never been anything like this. All those other encounters seemed colorless now, inadequate, and drab, feebly pathetic, as the glow of a flashlight compares to the raging power of the Sun. Nothing compared to this beauty, this thunder, this pounding wave of unleashed tenderness and male power known as Michael. She was overpowered, overcome, overwhelmed, her senses swamped with the wild heat of him inside her, the touch of his hands on her, the feel of his lips tasting her skin where he willed…

In the dream, as in that real life moment, she heard his thoughts, read his mind, as his body melted into hers…

You are part of me

"Yes, Michael…" Nikita murmured in her sleep. "Yes, My Love…."

My heart, my soul

"Michael…." Nikita moaned, clutching him tighter on Farrell's wide bed. She heard his mind communicating with hers, as they dreamed the same dreams, thought the same thoughts…

You belong to me

She only moaned in answer, drawing him closer to her, nestling her body between his spread thighs. Her hands found and caressed the muscles of his lower back, and she instinctively stroked him there, cupping the sweet curve of one buttock and then going lower to run her hand along his superbly muscled thigh.

"MINE," Nikita whimpered, desperately nuzzling at the soft lips. "You're mine…"

Nikita, I NEED you

She heard him say in her dream. The thought-words were harsh with longing, and fear. Michael stirred in his sleep, writhing against her, responding restlessly to her touch. He tossed his head on the pillow and moaned.

Nikita's eyes fluttered for a moment, anxiety for him intruding on her sweet fantasy. She raised his hand in hers and placed it on her breast, in a gesture meant to comfort and reassure them both.

I'm here she whispered back in her thoughts. THIS is yours, My Dear One… she assured him. This flesh, this heart, this soul….*

Michael's moans changed in tone, and he shifted his head back, seeking her lips. She felt the hard thrust of his manhood against her thigh as it burgeoned to life beneath the covering of thin, black trousers.

I WANT YOU, she heard his soul and body cry silently.

Nikita nestled closer; she could feel his heart beating faster inside the broad expanse of naked chest. She nuzzled his neck, tasting salty male skin for a moment, before lifting her face to his to give him the comfort he searched for.

She kissed him. She kissed his mouth, then his throat again, then nuzzled her pink lips against his mouth once more.

She kissed the Sleeping Prince awake, at the same time she came fully awake herself, released from the conditioning that had been imposed on her, released from her prison of non-feeling and indifference, rescued from the isolation and horror of the place she had been, the dark Hell of not loving him anymore.

Michael opened his eyes. He was groggy, confused, half-delirious because of the erotic dream he had been having.

Was he still dreaming?

Nikita lay in his arms, her soft thighs wedged between his, her femininity pressed against his hard maleness, her hands on his back, his rear, caressing him. She was kissing him.

He no longer cared if it were a dream. The woman he loved was here, wanting him. He only knew he had to have her.

"I love you, Kita…" Michael moaned, kissing her back. His arms tightened around her, and he turned her under him, so that he now lay on top of her, his hands holding her down by her wrists. The green eyes, glazed with passion, devoured hers, drinking deeply, the burning emerald fire seeking to be quenched by the coolness of sapphire blue.

Nikita looked warmly back at him, not sure if she were dreaming either, but convinced absolutely of the rightness of this moment- she knew she was back once again right where she belonged. Nikita sighed deeply, knowing she was exactly where she wanted to be, in the place where her body, her heart, and her soul longed for, in the shelter of Michael's love.

She surrendered once more.

"I love you, too, Michael…" she moaned in return, staring adoringly up into the hungry green eyes. "I always have…."

Michael let out a high cry, his broken heart mending instantly at these words. Dream or no, his anguish was at an end, his pain gone. There was only this fire left inside him, this eternal, unquenchable flame….

"Take me…" Nikita pleaded, lifting her head up to seek his kiss once more.

The Sun God complied, descending with his Light to warm the Goddess Cool Blue Earth, each elemental bringing the other Life….

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

Mick sighed, took a long sip of his wine, placed the glass on the table beside him, and then looked at his watch. It had been almost two hours since he and Damon had left the comatose couple alone in the upstairs bedroom.

"They've been asleep a long time," he commented worriedly to his host, who sat in the chair across from him opposite the fireplace in the large den. "Do you think they're all right?"

Damon Farrell smiled, and swirled the ice cubes in his own drink. His brown eyes twinkled merrily as he gazed back at Mick over the top of his glass.

"I'm sure they're fine," he answered serenely. He winked at his guest. "Once they wake up, I'm sure they'll had a lot to….er…. TALK about…" the chemist drawled in a teasing tone. "If you get my meaning…."

Mick blushed, and then laughed, leaning back in his chair. "I believe you're right, mate," Schtoppel answered, relaxing his worried stance. He reminded himself of how passionate a couple Michael and Nikita were, and was now no longer concerned. If Michael woke up a little dazed and disoriented, and Nikita awoke groggy and confused, the two could no doubt comfort each other…

"So, this could take a while," Mick commented with a broad grin, finishing his thought. He chugged the last of the wine in his glass and then held the empty goblet out to his host, still a bit nervous. "In that case, maybe I should have another drink…."

Farrell smiled back, and rose from his chair. "Of course, my Friend," he answered quickly. They had been having a quiet, congenial conversation, talking only of old times, as they waited. He retrieved Mick's empty glass and then walked with it to the bar, where he busied himself with pouring his guest another drink. He looked up from his task to gaze reassuringly at the fretting Englishman.

"It's over now," he said gently. "Everything's going to be all right."

Mick frowned, and rubbed his chin worriedly, as a new and disturbing thought occurred to him. "Yeah, fine for THEM, but what about ME?" he asked anxiously. He shuddered, and then swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry and closed up with fear.

"What's Michael going to do to me when he finds out I SHOT him, for God's sake?" Mick groaned loudly, and then closed his eyes. He shuddered again. "In the BACK, no less…."

Damon smiled indulgently at him, then crossed the room to place the wine glass firmly in Mick's hand. He stood by the chair at Schtoppel's side until he watched the other man take a deep drink.

"Just leave that to me, hmm?" Farrell commented, settling back into his own chair. "Let me handle it…"

Mick stared at him miserably. "HOW?" he demanded, fear making his voice rise. "How can you fix this? Michael's going to KILL me!" he moaned, shaking his head. "But he'll probably beat the bloody crap out of me first, and THEN kill me….." the Englishman lamented sorrowfully.

To his amazement, Farrell continued to smile. "He won't, if he doesn't know anything about it," the smaller man commented drolly. The brown eyes twinkled again.

Mick gaped at him, his mouth falling open. "WHAT?" he gasped. "What do you mean?"

"*I* certainly won't tell him if *you* won't," Farrell added with a chuckle, and then took a delicate sip of his wine. "Think of it, Mick. How would he know? Nikita was not in any condition to be aware of your actions, and Michael, as you observed, had his back turned, and didn't see you….." He smiled once more. "He won't know you shot him, my dear man, unless, that is," Damon teased, lifting his eyebrow in a question, "You care to tell him yourself?"

Mick blinked, and then broke into a relieved smile. "That's right, isn't it?" he beamed. Mick looked at Farrell gratefully. "Uh, I guess this could just stay our little secret, eh?" he pleaded hopefully.

Farrell nodded solemnly. "Absolutely, my Friend," he agreed quickly. "Absolutely…."

Mick let out a deep sigh, and then frowned again, another question occurring to him.

"But if we don't tell Michael the truth," the Englishman said slowly, scowling down at the floor, "What DO we tell him, then?"

Farrell smiled sweetly, and made a bland comment, his eyes wide and innocent. "The truth often complicates things," he remarked gently. His smile widened. "Sometimes a good, simple, straightforward fantasy works much better.…."

Mick raised one eyebrow. "Fantasy?" he inquired roughly, feeling his stomach shift uneasily. "Such as…?"

Before his dapper host could answer, there was a scuffling noise outside in the hall, and then the door to Farrell's cozy den was thrown open.

Michael and Nikita entered the room, both padding in on silent bare feet, the two operatives leaning heavily on each other. Nikita supported Michael with her arm around his lean, naked waist, and he in turn held her close with his arm around her shoulders. Their hair and clothes were disarrayed, her blonde locks tousled and her blouse buttoned wrong and hanging out of her pants, while his trousers were rumpled, and still open at the top, riding low on his lean hips, the auburn curls lying tangled across his wide forehead.

Michael's mouth was pink and bruised from kissing, as was Nikita's. Their eyes were confused, both looking befuddled and dazed, not just from bewilderment, but from their recent love-making. Neither lover said anything, only stood in the center of the carpet, looking anxiously from one seated man to the other.

Mick leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over his drink from the side table in his haste. "Popsicle!" he cried, not realizing til then just how worried he had been that she and her lover would never wake up. "Michael!" He came forward to clasp the newly awakened prisoner on the shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Mick asked anxiously, peering with concern into their faces. "How are you feeling, mates?"

Nikita blinked at him sleepily, swayed slightly on her feet and merely smiled a goofy smile, saying nothing. Michael's brow furrowed in confusion as he answered softly. "We're okay, I guess," he said doubtfully. Though his head still ached, and he felt groggy, emotionally, he had never felt better. He was healed, heart-whole again. Nikita loved him- that's all he needed to know. Everything was wonderful, except…

Except, he wasn't sure it hadn't all been a dream. He remembered making love to her, remembered her kissing him, telling him she loved him. That part was quite clear. What came before that was more of a blur. What he did remember seemed to make no sense….

"What… happened..?" Michael stammered anxiously, throwing Mick a pleading look, his green eyes wide with his bewilderment.

Mick opened his mouth to reassure his friend, and then froze. What could he say? How could he admit that he had bungled the rescue attempt, and shot Michael instead of Farrell? Mick stood gaping at the two lovers, his mouth working, no sound coming out.

Farrell's quiet voice rescued him.

"Perhaps I could explain," the chemist said gently from the far side of the room. He waved a hand at the plush leather couch in front of the fire, indicating the lovers should sit. "Rest a while, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Michael blinked warily, then sighed, too weary to fight. He responded to the gentle voice, and collapsed gratefully on the couch, pulling Nikita down beside him. She yawned, and rested her head on his shoulder, snuggling against him, then closed her eyes. Michael, less blithely unconcerned about their situation than she, still allowed himself to relax somewhat; he settled back against the cushions and regarded Farrell with open curiosity.

"Tell me," the operative begged eagerly.

Farrell sat back in his chair, primly folded his hands in his lap, and began. Mick stayed where he was, standing in the center of the carpet, clenching his fists open and closed at his sides, waiting anxiously.

"Do you recall that you came to me for help, Michael, asking that I undo the conditioning that Madeleine had imposed on Nikita?" Damon began softly.

Michael frowned. Images jumbled in his mind- he remembered pleading on his knees in front of Farrell- he remembered the other man's hands on him, touching him….

Michael flinched, and stared angrily at his captor, his mouth firming grimly. "Yes," he said tightly, his arm pulling Nikita closer against him in an instinctive gesture of protection. He glared at Farrell accusingly. "We made a… a deal…." Michael hissed, tensing in his seat.

"Yes, we did," Farrell went on soothingly, knowing he would have to tread carefully from now on. "The bargain was that I would restore Nikita's emotional nature to her, and you would keep silent about the fact that I was still alive to Madeleine…"

Michael blinked hard, and shook his head. His jumbled memories told him something different. Farrell had wanted something much more intimate from him than just his silence…

"No…" the tormented operative burst out. "You wanted me," he accused gruffly, his green eyes glittering angrily. "You tried to rape me…"

Mick stifled a groan. Christ, this was worse than he thought. Michael remembered too much. He was going to go ballistic now, Mick was sure of it, and try to kill Farrell. Mick tensed. Then he'll probably try to kill me, too, he thought miserably, when I try to stop him…

Farrell's composure held. "Oh, my," he tittered in amusement, blushing and shyly covering his mouth with his hands. "What an interesting fantasy…."

Michael glared at him angrily, half -rising from his seat on the couch, but he was prevented from doing so by Nikita slumping forward to lie with her head in his lap. "Fantasy?" Michael bellowed, enraged. His eyes glared jade fire. "What are you talking about?"

Farrell nodded solemnly. "I see, Dear Boy, that you don't remember what I told you before the procedure," the dapper chemist continued smoothly. "About the side effects of the drugs.."

"Drugs?" Michael echoed, bewildered. He rested his hand on Nikita's shoulder and protectively stroked her blonde hair. "What drugs?"

Mick blinked as well. "Yeah, what drugs?" he demanded harshly, setting his hands on his hips and glaring at Farrell, before he remembered he was supposed to be in on the deception. He subsided into silence once more.

Damon lowered his eyes demurely. "Well, my dear Michael," he addressed his prisoner, wisely ignoring Mick's outburst, "I see I shall have to explain everything from the beginning…."

Michael's mouth hardened. "Please do," he ordered tightly, his tone not nearly as polite as his words.

Farrell inclined his head in assent, and began. "Nikita's programming involved de-synchronizing her brain waves with yours," the devious chemist went on with his fabrication. "In order to have her love you again, this disharmony between you had to be removed, and the patterns matched once again…"

He went on quickly, before Michael had time to process this nonsense, and Mick had a chance to interrupt him again. "So your friend, Mr. Schtoppel here, helped me," Farrell continued, nodding at Mick. "He brought Nikita here, and we had you lie down side by side with her as we administered the drugs needed to re-synchronize the patterns to what they were before," he told his rapt audience smoothly. "Then we left you two alone to process the treatment…." Farrell shrugged his shoulders. "Sometimes… er… nightmares are a side-effect from this type of procedure…."

Farrell watched Michael slyly from under his lashes. "Do you feel any other effects?" the scientist asked innocently. "I take it the re-synchronization worked?" he probed gently, raising one eyebrow curiously.

Michael blinked at him, then blushed, embarrassed. "Yes," he said softly, looking down with a tender expression at Nikita's sleeping face as she rested her head in his lap. "It worked very well…." He admitted huskily.

He lifted his green eyes to look at Farrell apologetically. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick with gratitude. "I shouldn't have accused you of something so horrible like that when all you did was help me…"

Farrell quickly stifled a sigh of relief, and then went on with his act. "Think nothing of it, my Boy," he said magnanimously, waving away Michael's apology with a flick of his hand. "You were under a great strain, of course, but everything will be fine now, hmm?" Damon finished, smiling sweetly again.

Michael sighed, and tentatively smiled back. "Thank you," he choked out gratefully. "Thank you for all you've done…" He turned his head to look at Mick, who still stood riveted with dread in his place in the center of the carpet.

"And thank YOU, Mick," Michael went on, almost shyly. "You've been a good friend to me," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. He looked down lovingly at Nikita once more, and caressed her cheek gently, moving his fingers over her face with infinite care. "You've been a good friend to both of us…." Michael confessed brokenly, his eyes glowing warmly as he raised his eyes to look at Mick.

Mick let out the breath he was holding in a deep sob. He shuddered, then blushed. "Uh, uh, that's okay, Mate," he stammered, his whole body shaking with relief, "I didn't do anything," he lied quickly, his voice thick with guilt. "Think nothing of it…"

Michael just smiled back at him, as a deep silence ensued. The three men paused, no one having any more to say.

After a moment, Farrell broke the silence by clearing his throat, and standing up. "It might be best if you leave now," he encouraged gently, nodding at his three "guests". "Madeleine will be missing you soon, and wondering where you've been…"

Michael nodded in agreement, and then slowly shifted his hips to the edge of the couch, and then rose carefully, lifting his sleeping Beloved in his arms as he did so. "You're right," he agreed softly, his eyes on Farrell. "Thank you," he said again. Michael sighed deeply and turned to Mick.

"Would you drive us home, please?" he asked his English friend gently.

Mick tried not to faint with relief. He shot Farrell another grateful glance, and then smiled at Michael. "I'd be glad to, Mate," Mick agreed eagerly, ushering the couple toward the door.

"Excuse me," Farrell interjected, interrupting the threesome's departure. He searched in his pocket and then tossed a set of car-keys at Mick. "You might need those," he said dryly, watching Mick catch the keys in mid-air. "Your Mercedes is parked in the driveway, waiting for you…."

Mick paled, wondering again at Farrell's devious efficiency. How he had managed to replace the Mercedes' four slashed tires while dealing with his prisoners baffled him. He stared at Farrell admiringly.

"Thanks, Mate," the Englishman said softly.

Farrell acted like he didn't hear him. He was sipping his wine again, frowning down into his drink, lost in thought.

Probably planning his next mind-game, Mick thought. Against … whom? Schtoppel shook his head, feeling sorry for whoever that might be…..

He smiled suddenly. He felt sorry for Farrell's next victim, that is, unless it was Mad Maddy....

Impulsively, he shrugged out of his red coat and draped it across Michael's naked shoulders.

"Let's go, Mate," he encouraged, ushering his bewildered friend to the door with a hand at the small of his back. He smiled at the young love-birds, feeling his heart grow light. "Let's go home…."

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