This one is post - "Mandatory Refusal" LYRIQUE: Mercy Come

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languished for her sake.
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she altered with an end
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away:
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying --- 'not you.'

Sonnet No. 145 William Shakespeare

Walter was in the middle of sorting through all the equipment that had been returned from the last mission, when he spotted a vision in white approaching his work area. Since returning from pulling Michael's butt out of the fire and saving Madeline, Nikita had traded her black gear for a snug white number. She glided through the briefing area like a ray of sunshine, though considerably dimmed by fatigue. He offered her a friendly smile.

Then, he saw the bag she was carrying, and shook his head, bemused. Nikita had managed to somehow get away with tracking equipment, a weapon, comm gear, night vision goggles, and explosives, right from under his nose.

"Here, Walter." She dropped the bag onto his table, in the one bare corner.

"Thanks. So nice of you to return *my* stuff." He snatched up the bag and began taking inventory. For a moment, he considered asking her how she had managed to walk off with so much, but decided against it. Instead he smiled up at her, again.

"Sugar, you gotta quit being so obvious."

"Walter, you didn't even know these things were missing, until now," she reminded him. He shot her a sideways glance. *How stupid does she think I am?*

"I wasn't talking about the equipment."

She returned a wide-eyed innocent look, and smiled at him coyly, blinking twice, for effect. "I don't know what else you could mean."

"That should be *who* else." He turned his back on her, putting away the headset. Giving her time for his words to sink in. When he returned, her smile had faded.

"I couldn't let them kill him." Her eyes were fixed on Walter's workbench, fingers nervously toying with a small pair of pliers.

"Michael can take care of himself," he told her, not really believing his words. Though Michael always managed to come back in one piece, this one had been too close.

"This time, he *would* have died. And so would Madeline." She shot him a cold look. "But nobody seems to care about that."

"Operations sure as hell cared. The man had us hunting down his prize pet to save that woman." Nikita looked stunned. Even he was surprised at the malice in his voice. "He was prepared to kill Michael because he knew that was the only way to stop him from killing Enquist. Nothing keeps Michael from his target."

"Him and the Terminator," Nikita drawled, dropping her hip against his table.

"Michael's not a machine, sugar." Walter captured her gaze and held it. "He's what Section's made him."

"And what's that?" Her eyes narrowed. "A murdering, lying, manipulative bastard incapable of any true feelings."

"Close enough," Walter quipped. He was too tired and still had too much work to do to argue with Nikita about whether Michael still had a soul or not. It was a waste of time. She'd believe it when she was ready and no sooner.

"Whatever." With a flip of her blond hair, she retrieved her now empty bag and, swinging it over her shoulder, she sauntered away.

Walter allowed himself a moment to watch the sway of the young woman's hips as she retreated. "You're a dirty old man, Walter," he whispered to himself, then tore his eyes away. "But it's the only way to go."

***

"I can't allow you. . . allow you. . . to become my weakness. . . to become . . . to be . . . my weakness. . . I can't allow . . . my weakness . . ."

Nikita leaned back in the chair at Birkoff's station, absentmindedly pushing the joystick with the palm of her hand.

"If it were anyone else . . . anyone else . . . I would have killed them. . ."

Her first reaction to his words had been to throw up some biting, sarcastic remark, hoping to put him in his place, and then he'd said it.

"I can't allow you to become my weakness."

It wasn't the words, because those would have instantly raised her hackles - You bastard, I'm supposed to be your weakness - except for the look on his face, combined with the situation. She had finally listened. Listened to what he was really saying.

Michael always hid behind half truths and blank stares, never allowing her in, only giving her a hint of what was lurking behind that facade. Her anger at the world she had been forced into, most of it directed solely at Michael, had kept her from looking too deeply. She'd convinced herself there would only be more lies and darkness to be found. Her anger had been so intense that it colored every word Michael said and twisted it, never allowing herself to really hear what he was saying, until now.

Weaknesses in Section meant death and chaos. She'd seen that demonstrated many times over, but never with an objective eye, before, and never with such blatant force. In a place where standing fast against extorsion was one of the cardinal rules, to watch Operations' willingness to risk the mission, risk innocent lives, and destroy one of his most valued operatives, for the sake of one woman had hit Nikita full force in the chest. Of course, her little lesson at the feet of Petrosian had also taught her a great deal about weaknesses, but when Michael had said those words to her things between them sudden came into focus.

They could never allow their feelings for each other to compromise the work they did for Section One. He was admitting that he cared for her, saw themselves reflected in Operations and Madeline. He knew she would do anything to protect him and vice versa, Section be damned. The problem was that for Michael, the priority had to always be the integrity of Section One and the swift and efficient completion of his missions. And he had allowed his feelings for her to interfere with that too many times. He had risked a great deal to bring her back in after she'd escaped, and had nearly lost his faith in his ability to maintain that priority, but as always Michael had pulled himself together and found his center, again.

Nikita also had her own priority, here in Section One, and that was to protect the lives of innocents and her fellow operatives, and everyone surely knew that Michael was on the top of her priority list. Where she considered that loyalty and admirable, they considered it a weakness. She might never fully understand them, but she was learning the way things worked and how to more efficiently get around their rules. As much as they asked of her, she would never betray her own purpose for the sake of their agenda. Yet, maintaining her own agenda within their rules was a constant struggle.

It was obvious to her, now, how she had survived all those botched - to the eyes of Operations - missions she had been on. Michael had been there running interference. His motives had been mysterious to her, for too long. Her eyes had finally been opened when he'd chosen to free her from Section, rather than stand by and watch her die. Michael had risked his own life because he valued hers more. He would rather have her alive and be without her, than to have her dead. And once he had been out of her life, she realized how empty that life was; she needed him. And it was beginning to seem that she could never have him.

The events surrounding her return and her relationship with Jurgen had hurt them both deeply. Though there was fault on both sides, her guilt weighed particularly heavy because she felt equally responsible for Jurgen's death. Section had used her ease at falling in love and her obvious lack of trust in Michael to entrap Jurgen. What had been worse was that she had used Jurgen, as well. Her feelings for the senior operative had been confused with the need to distance herself from Michael.

She had never felt so strongly for someone as she did about Michael and it scared her. So, when Michael's interest had seemed to wane and Jurgen's interest in her grew she had decided to give it a try; realizing that Jurgen had been right, Michael did have too much power over her and it was time to cut the apron strings, so to speak. Her motives had been in part because she wanted to hurt Michael, as juvenile as it was, for what she thought had been yet another manipulation to bring her back into Section, their night together, on the boat.

Her use of Jurgen had been a mistake, but even as she made it she knew there was no going back. Michael, she knew, had been hurt by her actions, and as much as his betrayal hurt her, that didn't make her blind to his pain. They had hurt each other so much that even now, being on civil terms seemed like an impossibility. Just two days ago, she'd taken his dinner invitation as yet another chance for him to tease and toss her aside when he'd had his fun, but his denial of her suspicions had told her different. That's why she'd reconsidered, and the bastard had turned her down. Her wariness of Michael was justified, but it didn't stop her from caring for him. She still protected him, as she always had and always would.

"Nikita?" an impatient voice called, and she slowly turned her head to see Birkoff sitting next to her, staring at her.

"What?" she blinked at him.

"Are you gonna play, or daydream. 'Cause I got work I should probably be doing." He indicated the video screen which displayed the holding pattern of a one-on-one basketball game. Still keyed up and needing some distraction, rather than going home to her empty apartment, she'd challenged Birkoff to a one-on-one tournament, of which she was losing, big-time.

"Sorry." Nikita set the joystick down. "I must be more tired than I thought. Can we finish this another time?"

"Sure, no problem. Tough mission all around," he sympathized.

Nikita gave a weary nodded as she stood and pushed the chair back out of her way. As she stepped down from the dais, Birkoff called to her; "Nikita." She turned. "I know nobody's said this yet, so thanks for saving Madeline," he paused, a quiet smile curving his lips, "And Michael."

Her head dipped, a genuine smile, the first in what seemed like forever, tugging on her lips. She lifted her eyes to meet the young man's.

"Thank you, Birkoff. I needed that."

With her head high, she spun on her heels and strode out of the briefing area. As she was doing so her roaming eyes caught on the windows to Michael's office. Through the blinds light flared and she could see him sitting at his desk, either lost in thought, or reading from his computer screen. She'd thought he was going home.

*Does the man ever sleep?* she wondered. A thought which brought to her mind an unbidden and unwanted memory, of his sleep relaxed face in the dim morning light. It threatened other memories which she fought back as she moved toward his office door.

Just as she was about to turn the corner to his office, she saw the lights go off, and suddenly uncertain she scrambled for a hiding place. She slipped into an alcove, just as the door swung open, and watched as Michael strolled down the hall. There was something not right about the way he was moving. While he walked with the same purposeful gait, his back muscles seemed tight and his movements were not as fluid, as normal.

Troubled, Nikita glided out of her hiding place, and slid like a shadow into his wake.

*****

The first thing Michael did when he got home was to key in the code which disabled their surveillance equipment strategically placed throughout the apartment. It was the only concession he had asked them to make, and because they trusted his loyalty, they'd given it to him; a little privacy, now and then.

Tonight, he needed that privacy.

He drapped his coat over the back of one of the chairs, not bothering with more than just the one table lamp he'd left on before leaving the day before. Then, he walked slowly over to the stereo, punched the power on and hit play on whatever CD was in the player. Soon, the strains of Miles Davis filled the room. He dropped down onto his sofa, stretching out tired muscles, the effects of the past twenty-four hours catching up to him.

Being forced into Mandatory Refusal was something he had only experienced twice before, and each time hoped he'd never have to endure again. This time half of Section had been sent out to stop him. He smiled ruefully. He still had it. Even Mowen and his team had failed to keep him from his target.

Along with the pride, his thoughts were all tangled up inside, his nerves jangled.

Section was not an easy place to carve out a niche but Michael had accomplished that quickly, earning the respect of both Operations and his second in command, Madeline, and swiftly moved up in the ranks. He prided himself on the fact that he was among the best operatives in Section One, and he'd thought he was invaluable to them.

He'd been secure in his place in Section for so long that it was disconcerting to be reminded of the precariousness of his position, and the mercurial swings of Operations contentment. The last time he'd been reminded was when he was wounded and trapped in Eastern Europe. They'd decided that his rescue was an unnessecary risk, until they needed to get Egran Petrosian to safety and found his predicament a useful cover to bring the double agent out. This time Operations had chosen Madeline over not only Michael but over the mission profile and the lives of innocent people.

He knew that to feel betrayal at the actions of Operations, against him, would be useless. Yet, the feeling of being a hunted animal - hunted by his own people - was fresh and painful. He knew they were just doing their job, or so he tried to reconcile it, but when Nikita had come after him, he had felt disgust. That they would use her, and that she would allow herself to be used, to bring him in, dead or alive.

He could hear Operations' words echoing in his mind, "Whatever it takes." Michael had heard those words often enough to know that they were what Operations had told the operatives sent out to stop him. He had been prepared to die to complete the mission, eliminating Enquist, and he knew that Madeline had been equally as prepared to die for that same end. He just thought it would be at the hands of the enemy rather than his own people.

Michael was still confused as to Nikita's place in the mission, but he was sure of one thing; had Nikita not been so determined to save them both, he and Madeline surely would have died. He was, now, leaning more toward the realization that she had been working alone, to save them both. Nikita lived by the tenant that rules were there to be broken, or at the very least bent, and while that would get most Section operatives a swift death sentence, because he had protected her from the wrath of Operations she had survived nearly four years here. His determination to give her a chance to prove herself had been motivated by many things, but mostly because he had seen a great deal of himself in her, those early days, and felt he could shape her into an effective Section operative. Yet where he had broken under the pressure of Section One's authority, Nikita continued to rebel.

Michael had tried to ease her through the transition period - remembering how difficult it could be - which was something Jurgen had never done for him. Jurgen had been a hard taskmaster, never giving an inch and always demanding the best from his trainee. While Michael had strived to do the same, he also had known that Nikita would be difficult from the beginning. Her spirit was too independent; she would fight the assimilation. That he had not wanted to see that spirit crushed had, he figured, been the biggest mistake he had made with her.

"I can't allow you to become my weakness." His own words echoed through his mind. "Of course not." and her words bounced back.

Had she understood? Would she ever understand why he hesitated?

Over the years, Michael had reconciled himself to the job, finding the one thing that made it easier to hold up to his conscience, that all the unconscionable things they did were to save innocent lives. Simone had been the one normal, real thing in his hellish existence and after her apparent death he had shut himself down, blaming Section, at least in part. Her devastation at the loss of their son and near breakdown had lead to her supposed death. They could have gone back for her, but they had refused, knowing that she was of no use to them any longer. They had left her for dead, choosing to save him instead. He had truly died that day, and ever since Section One had merely been keeping his body alive.

Until Nikita entered the picture he had been nothing more than an automaton, the only thing that mattered had been the completion of his job, putting himself between the terrorist and the innocent. Whether he lived or died seemed unimportant. Despite this, Nikita had somehow managed to tap into that buried part of him which raged against the world, that burned brightly with passion for life, and ever since he had been fighting to suppress it. Despite his efforts, she still called out to him even in her absence.

When she had turned from him into the arms of Jurgen, Michael had felt largely responsible. Unable to give her what she needed - to hear that he loved her - he had caused her to question his motives involved in their one night together. Sending her into the arms of another man. A man who was honest with her and treated her with respect, something Michael had done in his heart, but rarely in her sight. There had been a painful chasm stretched between them following Jurgen's death, and in an effort to repair that rift - if nothing else, so that they would be able to work amicably together - Michael had asked her out to dinner, and she had refused him. Well, actually they had been interrupted before she could refuse his invitation. Once the mission was over, she had approached him and reminded him of that invitation. This time it was he who had refused her. It was unforgivable, but his feelings were so tangled up that they threatened to overwhelm him. If that were to happen, then he could no longer protect her.

He was painfully aware that she already was his weakness, and no amount of denial could change that, but maybe by making her understand, he could successfully keep her at a distance. Thus, protecting both of them from being destroyed by Section One.

A knock at his door startled him out of his half sleep. He rose slowly, and approached the door with trepidation, knowing who his visitor was. One look through the peephole, just to be sure, and a faint smile passed over his lips. Then, he opened the door to let Nikita in.

"Hi," she said, a nervous edge to her voice.

"Hi," he returned. "What're you doing here?" He didn't bother to ask her how she'd gotten here, that was obvious. She'd followed him.

"Thought I'd check on you. Can I come in?"

He stepped aside and she entered, her eyes bouncing off of everything, taking in the scene. All of it was new to her, her curiosity blatantly obvious.

"It's not what I expected," she stated softly.

"What *did* you expect?" He came up beside her, never taking his eyes off of her.

"Don't know, something more like the way my apartment was when you first brought me there. Before *I* redecorated it." She tipped her head and smiled at him. "It's nice."

He looked around the room, trying to see it through her eyes. It was sparsely decorated, in muted and warm colors, with only the necessities. He had neither the time nor the inclination to collect things so there were few knick-knack hanging about the place. Besides, he preferred to keep life simple and uncluttered. Every piece was special and had meaning.

"So." He watched her lazily move through the room. "You still haven't told me why you're here." A nervous smile floated up on her face, as her hand glided over the back of his couch. She met his gaze for a brief moment. Until the hypnotic jazz music finally reached her ears and she began to sway, her eyes drifting closed, head tilting back. Momentarily mesmerized, all he could do was stare.

"I like the music," she finally said, lowering her head a playful smile dancing on her provocative lips.

He leveled a reproachful look on her and she dipped her gaze clearing her throat anxiously. She stepped around the couch and closer to him before speaking.

"Yesterday, you said we hadn't talked in a while. I thought now was as good a time as any."

"Nikita, it's late," he tried.

"I know, Michael. But I don't think either of us is going to get much sleep tonight whether we're alone or together, so we might as well talk."

Michael lowered his head, taking a deep breath, before nodding and gesturing toward the couch.

"Have a seat."

As she sank into the corner of the sofa, he crossed the room to the stereo and switched it off. His throat was tight and he had to force ever breath he took. *Calm,* he told himself. *Breath.* Her presence here was having an odd effect, as if it were a claiming; it was uncomfortable and exhilarating all at the same time. He turned a slow circle to face her, again, once he felt a little calmer.

"You didn't trust me, today. Why not?" Her eyes bore into his, driving the question too deep to ignore.

"Mandatory Refusal means you don't trust anyone. I couldn't."

"That might be the logic of it, but it's not a good enough answer," she snapped. "I want you to be able to trust me, Michael. And I want to be able to trust you."

"Don't," he replied bluntly. "You can't ever trust me, Nikita."

"I can't accept that," she stated.

He looked away from her, unable to bare the open expression in her eyes. It was Nikita's vulnerability, and in a way his, as well.

"Michael, I trust you with my life, every day. I thought you trusted me with yours."

He turned slowly to her, capturing her gaze, hoping to throw her off balance; well aware that sometimes all it took was one intense stare down from him, to make a woman unsteady.

"I do," he replied, carefully.

"Then why can't you let me in?" She wasn't going to let him deflect her, this time. She asked her question point blank, but Michael only pinned her with one of his blank stares, before turning away. She sighed, feeling her stomach knot up, as he shut her out.

"Why do you let them do this to you?"

"Do what?" he asked, feigning ignorance. She smiled knowingly, bitterly.

"They've destroyed you, haven't they." She rose to her feet, closing the distance between them with measured footsteps. "Just like they're trying to destroy me."

She was surprised to see his eyes darken, a haunted look surfacing, one she saw only rarely. It always saddened her to see it in his eyes, but he blinked and it was gone.

"I am what they require me to be," he replied. "Nothing more, nothing less. It's how I survive."

"That's not living," she threw at him.

"It's staying alive," he volleyed.

"But don't you want more?" She was only a breath away from him, feeling the energy which surged through him. That energy which always enticed her to him.

"There is nothing more."

As if shocked, she stepped back from him.

"Well, that's where we're different. I have to believe there's something more."

"And that's your weakness," he stated simply.

"I know," she replied. That fact had been used against her more times than she cared to admit. "But it's not my only one." She moved closer to him, again, needing to make her point physically. He let his eyes slowly peruse her face, recognizing what she was trying. Her seduction tactics never worked on Michael-of-the-Iron-Will.

She broke eye contact first, while he continued to watch her. He always watched her, she had always been able to feel his eyes on her, like a fire burning through her. Feeling brave, Nikita lifted her eyes and let them lazily drift over his face, landing on his small, bowed mouth, remembering how good he tasted. That thought lead to others, just as distracting, and she pushed them back. Though, Michael's sensuality was undeniable and sex with him had been fantastic, there was more to her feelings for him than mere lust. His presence strengthened her, despite the frequent times he had used and betrayed her. And even though she had shuttered her heart against it, his shattered soul cried out to her for repair.

"Michael." Against her better judgement, she reached out to touch his face. "We've hurt each other so much. I don't want us to anymore."

His eyes softened, but he made no move to touch her. "No guarantees," he replied, a smile only visible through his eyes.

She smiled *for* him, understanding his words, then nodded, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze before turning to leave, her heart a little lighter, but her thoughts still tangled. That didn't seem to matter, though. She had given and gotten what she came for.

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The End

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