Takes place after the episode "Love and Country."

Nikita's first thought on awakening was how much her throat hurt. It felt like sandpaper. It felt like someone had force-fed her a cup of gravel.

It felt like she'd been begging for her life at the top of her lungs. And judging from the frantic banging on her door, apparently she had. As she climbed out of bed and slipped into her robe, she spared a moment's thanks that the other apartments on her floor were currently unoccupied. With one notable exception, of course.

By the time she reached the door, the banging had stopped. Hurrying her steps, she reached it and opened it in time for Mick's heroic charge to carry him past the doorframe and into her moonlit apartment, landing him in an ungainly sprawl on the floor near her couch.

"You know," he began, not even bothering to get off the floor, "that was a very cruel thing to do."

Nikita wasn't sure if he meant opening the door or robbing him of the opportunity for a spectacular rescue, but she decided not to ask.

"So you're telling me that you were actually going to break in here?"

"No, luv, I was just rushing madly at the door to see if it would hold," he retorted. "You know, in case Red Cell decided to come calling."

Nikita shook her head with equal parts irritation and vaguely amused disbelief. "You know, Mick, I could have been under attack from three heavily armed insane terrorists. Since when do you rush into such dangerous situations?"

"I'm not going to take that personally," he sniffed, as he spotted a quarter under the sofa and quickly pocketed it. "I'll have you know that I'm quite brave."

Nikita didn't offer to help as he grabbed the arm of the couch and pulled himself upright.

"Besides," he continued, not at all fazed by her silence, "if three insane terrorists really had broken into your apartment, you'd have killed them, using nothing more than a coat hanger and some dry sherry, before I even got out of bed."

"My hero," she muttered darkly.

Mick refused to look ashamed and simply sauntered over to the light switch by her door. Nikita noted absently that he was actually clothed in a rather sedate pair of cotton pajamas. Small favors, she thought to herself...

After flipping on the lights, Mick continued on to the kitchen, where he filled the teakettle with water and placed it on the stove to heat. Then he turned around to face her.

"So you wanna talk about it?" he asked, leaning his elbows on her kitchen counter.

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

Damn, Nikita thought. "About what?" she said, a little too brightly.

He sighed affectionately, but with a touch of disappointment. "C'mon, doll. I may look stupid, but I hope you've figured out by now that I'm not." He looked at her intently, his good-natured face serious for once. "You were screaming your bloody head off. This makes the third time this week. So you're either preparing for the lead role in some slasher movie, or you're having nightmares."

Damn, thought Nikita again. Just my luck, Mick picks today to turn perceptive. Unable to bear the thought of discussing the dark, oozing horrors that inhabited her dreams, she walked slowly over to the balcony doors and gazed outside.

She'd been battling the dream for the past week, ever since the end of the Markali mission. Given a choice, she'd have preferred not to think about Corinne Markali. But her subconscious seemed to have taken that choice away from her. Against her will, the sensations rose up again, visceral and eerie.

A dank stench filling her nostrils...

The feel of stone under her feet...

A ravaged face, the mouth opening to scream...

She jumped, badly startled, as the screams in her head morphed suddenly into the whistle of the teakettle. She whipped around, hoping Mick hadn't seen how badly the noise had startled her. He had, of course, but momentarily refrained from commenting. Opening a cabinet door, he retrieved two mugs, placed tea bags into them, and poured the steaming water into them.

"Sit down," he said, gently but firmly. "You keeping jumping around like that, you're going to knock something over. Or you'll go for your gun, and I have no intention of playing target practice with you."

Nikita sighed and gave in to the inevitable force that was Mick, padding over to the couch and dropping her long-limbed frame on to it. Besides, she was really too tired to argue with him properly.

Mick sat down next to her, quickly increased the distance between them when she glared at him, and handed her a mug.

"Now, tell Uncle Mick all about it."

"Mick if you were my uncle, I think I'd slit my wrists," she said with a feeble attempt at humor.

But Mick, for once, didn't take the bait. He simply regarded her with intent eyes until she flushed under the scrutiny and turned away.

"Melodrama is really more my style than yours, Nikita."

"I know," she replied. "But I really don't want to talk about it." She shifted uncomfortably on the couch, tucking her feet under her body.

"You have to," he said. His expression was sympathetic, but she could tell he wasn't going to give up. And he was right.

"I know," she repeated quietly. She dragged her thoughts into a semblance of order, and in an attempt to put off talking about the details of her dreams, decided to begin with the details of the mission.

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

"Are you familiar with the Markali mission we ran last week?"

"Yeah, I heard bits and pieces. Driving Operations' former wife insane -- it's the kind of thing that gets around."

She nodded in agreement. The Section grapevine was legendary, despite Madeline's repeated attempts to stamp it out. "I know Markali had to be stopped. I mean, I never really believed that Operations was trying to get revenge on his wife. If he had wanted to do that, he could've easily done it without anyone noticing. I don't think he would have drawn attention to it with a high-profile mission."

"But I can't stop thinking about Corinne Markali. She..." Nikita swallowed heavily and took a deep breath. "None of this was her fault. We drugged her and manipulated her, and now she has to spend the rest of her life knowing that she killed her husband."

"Wasn't her husband about to put terrorists into power?" Mick asked. "Not exactly the kind of disruptive blokes you want running a country."

"I know that," she snapped. "But it doesn't make what we did to Corinne right."

"Right?" Mick snorted. "You're worried that it wasn't right? Remind me -- how long have you been in Section? You don't look like you just fell off the local turnip truck..."

It was Nikita's turn to stare him down. "Mick, I don't care how much of a low-life you are. Can you really tell me that what we did to that woman was right?"

"No," he replied after a moment. "Of course not. But that's not really the point."

Articulating her words with deadly precision, she ground out "Not...the...point? What the hell *was* the point?"

He looked at her calmly, unintimidated. "Are you going to let it -- let *them* -- destroy you, too?"

That brought her up short. It was a damn good question, and she didn't have an answer.

"Tell me about it," he prompted. "Tell me about the nightmare."

She closed her eyes briefly and then reopened them, beginning to describe the horrors that lurked in her dreams.

"I'm walking down a dark hallway, and I can't see anything at first..."

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

The corridor was dark, water dripping from some undetermined place. The shrieks of disembodied voices echoed around her, but their words were blessedly unintelligible. A door waited forebodingly at the end of the corridor, a sliver of light spilling from under it. She walked slowly, tremblingly, across the damp stone floor until she reached the door and pulled it open.

The room was dim, but she could make out a shape huddled in the corner. She watched as it rocked back and forth, back and forth, rhythmically...hypnotically...Afraid to move, but more afraid to remain still, she walked toward it. As she walked, the nameless room became the opulent Markali house, and the shape resolved itself into Corinne. She looked up at Nikita, her once-elegant dark eyes now filled with horror and loathing, her face scarred with self-inflicted scratches that had scabbed over.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why did you make me do it?"

"I'm sorry," Nikita said desperately. She wanted to explain herself, to try to defend herself, but there was nothing to say. "I'm sorry."

"Why? Why? Why?" Corinne's voice kept getting louder and louder until she was screaming ceaselessly. Nikita reached down, whether to comfort her or silence her, she wasn't sure. But Corinne slapped her hands away and began clawing at her scarred face, reopening the old wounds, but Nikita felt the scratches appearing on her face, felt the blood running down her forehead and cheeks, smelled its sickly-sweet stench as it filled her nostrils and mouth, and she tried to scream, but she was choking on her own blood, and the pain was getting worse, spreading through her entire body, and all the while Corinne was screaming, screaming...

"And that's usually when I wake up," Nikita concluded unsteadily.

Mick looked pale and drawn. "Yeah," he said. "I can see how that might be a little unsettling."

"To say the least," Nikita retorted. "I have to work this out, stop having these nightmares. This can't happen in the middle of a mission."

Mick nodded his assent. "Probably wouldn't go over well with the blond beast," he agreed.

Unable to help herself, Nikita burst unto startled laughter at this irreverent description of Operations. "What was he thinking with that hair?" she asked rhetorically.

"Don't look at me, luv. I would have told him not to do it, but no one ever thinks to ask me."

Nikita's laughter trailed off as her situation reasserted itself. "I've tried everything from tranqs to chamomile tea before bed. Nothing works."

"You already know what you have to do," Mick said. "You said it yourself. Work. It. Out."

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

"How?" Nikita snapped. "It's not that easy."

"Well, is the dream really about Corinne Markali?" he asked, his tone of voice indicating that he thought she was being a little slow. "What I mean is, are you dreaming about her because you feel guilty about what Section did to her? Or is it because you imagine yourself in her place?"

"What?" Nikita asked, startled out of her irritation.

"Think about it, Nikita. When Corinne went cuckoo, she became convinced she couldn't trust anyone, right?"

Nikita nodded thoughtfully. "I can certainly sympathize with that."

"But it probably isn't that simple," continued Mick. "Section used Corinne against the man she loved. And I think you're afraid they'll do the same thing to you."

She stared at him speechlessly.

"Everyone knows Michael's a sucker for you. It's all over Section. Discreetly, of course."

"Of course," she replied ironically.

"Maybe you're afraid of what Operations and Madeline will do with that information. Maybe you think they'll use your emotions and insecurities to manipulate you and Michael the same way they manipulated the Markalis."

Nikita sat silently and digested this surprisingly insightful analysis. It *was* one of her greatest fears -- being used against Michael. No matter how much the revelation of his marriage to Elena had hurt her, no matter how uneasy or confused or just damn frustrated he made her, she still loved him. As he loved her.

And she knew Operations and Madeline wouldn't blink twice at taking that love and twisting it to their own purposes.

"Oh, God. What am I going to do?" she whispered hopelessly.

But Mick was ready with an answer. "Do?" He let out a bark of laughter. "There's nothing you can do, of course."

"Thanks a lot, Mick," she snapped, stung by his words. "I should have known better than to tell you all of this. You can't take anything seriously. You probably think this is some big joke."

"Of course I can take things seriously, doll. I just don't." He grinned at her. "Honestly, I am taking you seriously."

She searched his face suspiciously, but couldn't find any indication that he was lying. Oh, God, she thought, with a hint of real desperation. If Mick's being serious, I must really be in trouble.

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

"Fine," she said, trying very hard to regain her patience. "What do you mean, there's nothing I can do? Is that supposed to help me?"

"Look," he said. "You're afraid that Section is going to use you against Michael. Well, guess what, ducky? You're probably right. In fact, in my professional opinion, I'd say it's damn likely. But so what? It's another situation that you can't do a damn thing about."

"Gee, thanks," she whispered, not wanting to believe him, but unable to delude herself. "I really hate it when you're right."

He chuckled. "So enjoy it now. It doesn't happen very often."

But although she heard Mick's good-humored remark, it only registered as a whisper against the backdrop of her own troubled thoughts. Images tumbled around in her head, as if she was unable to focus on one aspect of her situation for too long. Poor, insane Corinne Markali... Michael, still recovering from the loss of Elena and Adam... Operations, giving the order to exploit his ex-wife... and Madeline, watching it all with a secretive smile on her exquisite face.

She wasn't sure what to do, how to extricate herself from the mess that her life had become ... but there was one burning conviction lodged in her heart.

"There's got to be some way to protect Michael."

Mick sighed. "Nikita, you're not any dumber than I am. You know there isn't any way out of this, not unless you're prepared to give him up and move to Antarctica. And even if you did, he'd just put on a parka and drag you back here by your pretty little head."

"So what do you recommend?" she said acidly. "Just wait for the axe to fall on both our necks?"

"Yeah," he said gently. "You wait for it all to end. You wait, and you make a few futile plans to try and protect yourselves. And you die inside every time one of you gets sent out on a mission or called into Madeline's office, because you know that this time, it's really over. They've won."

She stood up, frantic to get away from the horrible truths coming from his mouth, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her back down to the couch. "But while you wait, you hold on to him as fiercely as you can, and you damn well better make the best of the time you have. I bet Corinne Markali wishes she had."

If she's sane enough to even remember what happened, Nikita thought absently. But Mick's words gave her an odd kind of comfort... even a distant shred of hope. She knew Michael far better than Mick did, and had seen him emerge unscathed from many impossible predicaments. He had a genius for planning and plotting that she believed exceeded even Madeline's. He would find a way.

But if he didn't...if Operations and Madeline did manage to split them apart or use them against each other...it wouldn't mean that Section had won. They could only win if she let the despair and fear overtake her.

And she was damned if she'd do their job for them.

"I won't believe that we're doomed," she insisted. "But...I'll think about what you said."

"Close enough," said Mick with a shrug. He drained the rest of his tea, placed the mug on the coffee table, and stood to leave. Nikita reached out a hand and grasped his arm, stilling his motion.

"Mick, why did you do this for me?"

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

"Oh, just call it homework," he replied airily. "Didn't I tell you I'm taking night school classes in psychology? You should see the teacher. Legs up to here, dress cut down to there..."

"Mick," Nikita interjected. "How about telling me the truth?"

He looked down at her ruefully. "Do I have to?"

"Just this once." He didn't look too forthcoming. "Please, Mick. You...you really helped me. And I need to know why."

He sighed and pulled away from her grasp, walking toward the door. For a moment, Nikita thought he would simply leave without another word, but he turned around and leaned his back against the door.

"My parents are Italian. We moved to England when I was six, because Dad was in a bit of trouble with the local criminal element." He laughed, but the sound contained little amusement. "More than a little, actually. He and his brother Antonio had borrowed money from this rather shady character, and they couldn't pay it back. So one night, we were sitting around the table eating dinner, and four men broke down our door. Two of them held down my dad, and the other two slit 'Tonio's throat. As the blood spilled out over the table, they told Dad that he better have the money in two days, or they'd come back. And they'd kill me."

Nikita stifled a gasp of horror, somehow certain that Mick wouldn't appreciate it. If she stopped him, she wasn't sure he'd continue, and she wanted to hear the rest of this story. And he probably needed to tell it.

"So we ran, instead. Dad packed up me and Mum, and we moved to London. But for months after we got there, I kept having these nightmares. Scared me out of my bloody skull. But I didn't want to bother my parents with it. One night, I woke up screaming, and Mum came running in, yelling and trying to figure out what the hell was the matter. So I told her."

He paused, his throat working convulsively. He had gone pale again, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his face.

"And she told me not to be a baby. That my dad would be ashamed of me for being so...weak."

He went silent again. Nikita, unable to stop herself, began to rise off of the couch, but Mick made a sharp motion with his hand. Uncertain, she sank back down and waited for him to continue.

"She was right, you know. My dad was a very macho type. Lots of bluster and manly bullshit. And I damn well didn't want my dad thinking I was weak. So I learned not to cry or yell when I had a nightmare, because I knew that no one would come running to hold me or dry my tears."

He looked at her with sad eyes. "I think you deserve better."

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

After Mick completed his recital, Nikita sat silently on the couch, stunned. It horrified her that a child had been forced to endure that, to cry silently in his bed, alone. She had spent too many nights like that herself, stifling her tears for fear that her mother's latest boyfriend would silence her with a backhanded blow.

It explained a lot about Mick -- the way he rambled on without saying anything of substance, his tendency to attach himself to powerful men or organizations that would protect him. Everyone was shaped by their childhood, but his had scarred him. It had taught him not to complain, not to expect support from anyone. And yet he had comforted her, offering her his support and understanding. It was quite a departure from his usual cavalier attitude -- an attitude that she now understood concealed a great deal.

She stood up and crossed over to where Mick stood. Still leaning against the door, his eyes downcast, he didn't move as she came and stood next to him. Thinking for a moment, she decided against saying anything. Nothing she could say would change the past, and platitudes would only cheapen the gift he had given her. Instead, she simply kissed him gently on the cheek. Pulling back, she saw some of the old hurts in his eyes replaced by warmth.

"Sleep tight, Nikita," he murmured.

She smiled at him. "I think I will."

He opened the door, and began to walk out. But he hesitated for a moment, turned back around, and kissed her on the forehead. Without meeting her eyes, he slipped out the door.

Nikita began crossing the floor to go back to bed, but stopped as a thought hit her. She hurried back to the door and opened it.

"Mick?"

Mick halted in the act of closing his own door and pulled it back open, his expression wary. "Yeah?"

"If your family's Italian, why is your last name Schtoppel?"

The guarded expression disappeared, replaced by a look of profound amusement as he laughed deeply and rolled his eyes. "You didn't think that was my real name, did you? Shame on you, doll. You're usually smarter than that." Still chuckling, he closed the door, the sound of his laughter clearly reaching her through the wood.

"Irritating bastard," Nikita grumbled to herself as she slammed her own door. Slowly heading back to her bed, she thought about Michael. Would he be willing to risk Operations and Madeline's wrath in order to pursue a relationship with her? She thought he would, but he was still recovering from the aftermath of the Vacek mission. He would need time, as would she. Time to heal ... and time to plan.

She lay down and pulled the sheet up, suddenly feeling very tired. As she drifted into sleep, the dream-image of Corinne Markali appeared in her head.

I'm sorry, she told the ragged and weeping figure. I'm so sorry it had to be you.

I won't let them win.