This one's post "Not Was" (Rated R)

How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginnings of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

"Letter to a Young Poet"
Rainier Maria Rilke

Secure in his assigned quarters within Section One's stronghold, Michael began to mend mentally as well as physically.

After a night spent in MedLab the doctor had agreed to release him to his own quarters. He'd convinced her that he would be a more willing patient in the comfort and privacy that these quarters provided. It hadn't been a difficult task, because the med techs had long ago learned to not argue with Michael, as long as they were assured that he had no intention of doing any further harm to himself. He'd needed the solitude this small sanctuary offered to regain his equilibrium and attempt to figure out what had happened over the past three days. It was as if he were lost in a fog, as half memories and sensations teased his over eager mind.

Michael had been left, by Orlando Perez, strapped to a torture chair, hooked into his machines while the limbic suppressors deeply saturated his system. Like a spider trapping its victim in her web, the drug had seemed to spin around his memories, gathering them up and hiding them away.

He could, even now, easily recalled the fear as those memories were stolen from him. It had been a different story when he'd awakened in MedLab ward, to find Nikita sitting vigil, wondering why he was there, and why intense pain lanced through him. Mysterious flashes of memory had been disturbing him every since, and there had been no way for him to access the mission files from there. Also, something in Nikita's eyes as she'd spoken to him, a softness and affection, had been unnervingly familiar at the same time completely foreign. He couldn't remember ever having seen it before but he somehow knew he had.

Occasionally, out of the blue, he had sworn he'd felt the skin of his forehead and his sides prickling from the contact of needles, or an ache in his shoulders that had no reason he could find for being there. Colors invaded his mind, a white hot orange and red, and burnt yellow; mostly red. Hard, unforgiving metals, and grey, apathetic eyes. Then, they'd dissolve into softness; beiges browns, and blue. Warmth and a pair of glistening violet eyes.

Michael needed to reconcile these contradictory images in his mind, needed to know what had happened over those three days, so once he was tucked away in his quarters he had downloaded the logs from the Perez mission and began to puzzle it out.

Now, Michael sat staring at his monitor upon which was displayed the image of Perez in that room at the gentleman's club, from the operative's point of view. He had paused it, to study that face, trying to remember that moment in time. Anything would do, but he mostly wanted to remember how he'd felt. All he got was a vague sense of panic, at seeing the face.

Panic had been the ruling emotion, he could tell that. He'd made a huge fool of himself, but tried to remember that he had not been the one at the helm. As he'd watched the tapes, there had been times when he'd actually had to laugh. For instance, at hearing Birkoff's dead panned "unlock it" when he'd been confronted with something as simple as a locked door. And the thought of Nikita giving him instruction, for a change. Mostly panic and fear came to the forefront when he recalled Perez and even Operations.

Who had that boy-man been, strip of every defense it had taken him a lifetime to build? He had felt fear at being confronted by Operations, been full of uncertainty during a briefing, and experienced trepidation while on a mission. All were emotion that he remembered feeling some twelve years ago when he'd first been tested in the field, but had long since gained full mastery over. The idea of himself standing in front of Operations and having no idea what he was to say or do, or being frozen by fear when confronted with an enemy he would have thought ludicrous if he hadn't seen the evidence for himself.

Violently, he stabbed the key that would restart the image. Guns fired, one ripping through his flesh and he fell to the ground. He couldn't even remember the pain of the impact. Without conscious thought, Michael rubbed his gauze wrapped middle and looked away.

"Michael. Michael, it's me." It was Nikita's voice. "Stay with me. Stay with me." Breathless and full of desperation. He closed his eyes, the voice repeating in his mind. "Stay with me."

It's what he'd wished she'd said when he'd turned to leave her on that boat, and what he was glad she had failed to find the voice to say. It's what he'd wanted to say to her on so many occasions but held trapped in his throat. It was what she _had_ said this time because she had been terrified of losing him.

"I've got nothing to lose." The words lanced through his weary brain.

"I do." Her tight admission darted across his brain, from where it had been lost. His chest tightened reflexively.

With remarkable clarity, as if it had been happening right then, sensations rose up in him. The feel of her fingertips, gentle along his jaw line, as she pushed back a lock of his hair. Her in his arms, dancing, his head on her shoulder. A reassuring pat on the shoulder. The velvet pressure of her lips against the back of his hand. She'd touched him so many times and he'd allowed it freely.

"I must be a real jerk." His breath caught and he nearly choked as those words, in his voice, slammed into him.

"Actually, I'm very fond of you." A guarded response, but he could recognize now that it had said so much.

Snatches of conversation swam through his mind.

"Who do you think you are?" "You're their enemy." "No I'm not." "What's this for?" "Yeah, a Simm." "Did you remember anything, yet?" "We should contact my family. They must be worried." "I can't do this."

Agitated, he snapped to his feet and, adjusting his dark blue bathrobe, began to pace.

He recalled the emptiness which had plagued him whenever he'd searched his mind for the truth, for some inkling of who he was. He remembered how, in confusion, he had reached out to Nikita, attempting to explore what their connection might be, because some part of him knew that she was the answer. Something about her sparked something strong inside of him, protective and precious. Where as with Operations he recalled just the opposite, while just as strong what he had felt was aggressive at the same time fearful. Both were equally as powerful in his soul.

"Michael Samuelle, who do you work for?" "I won't live like a caged animal." "We'll figure something out." "What do I do?" "Shoot the damn guards, Michael!" "Trust your instincts."

"You're a good friend, Nikita."

That was true. Nikita had been a good friend to him the past few days. Without a second thought to the consequences to herself, she had taken it upon herself to protect him. He had succeeded in imprinted on her so well that any hatred she had for him was overrun by her profound need to keep him safe. This wasn't the first time she'd put herself on the line to save his life, but it was the most blatant. It was something she would do for anyone she felt deserving and he was the last person he thought should be on the receiving end of her charity. But he hadn't been himself, he was beginning to see that, and she had every right to respond to the gentle and kind man she had been sheltering.

A feather light touch of his lips against her cheekbone. She had pulled away. "Don't"

"Why?"

"Because this is not who you are."

Did she realize how revealing that phrase had been? At any time she could have succumbed to the desires that had obviously been tempting her, but she had held him off. Why? Knowing Nikita, she probably couldn't take advantage of the situation or him in a vulnerable state. And always protective, Nikita had been safeguarding her heart from further hurt by him. Both had known that the time they were sharing was fleeting and Nikita couldn't bare to surrender herself to the moment when it would be over far too soon.

If he had known how to listen to his withered heart, he might have also suggested that Nikita had been distant because she had been dealing with a stranger. She had as much familiarity with that Michael as he himself did. It was quite possible that she hadn't even liked him, very much. The true Michael was the man she cared for. She wanted him whole and complete, not fragmented.

"Have I ever told you that I love you."

Why had he said that? What had possessed him? He would probably never know. Maybe because his other self had wanted to give her something she obviously needed to hear, sensing that his true self would never utter the words.

Could he ever? Or more importantly, should he ever?

Were he any other man, it would be so easy for him to surrender to what Nikita had repeatedly tried to offer him, yet he'd always held back. His training had taught him to forego the needs of the flesh, but he'd gone beyond that, shuttering his heart and convincing himself that he had no need for companionship. That in his life, such as it was, friendship was irrelevant. Simone had managed to ferret her way past his barriers, and she'd done it with such subtle finesse that he'd been helpless to prevent it. She had filled his life and his soul, but more essential was her understanding of the two halves that made up his being. Lost, following her death, he'd reverted, to more of an extreme than before.

While she was anything but subtle, Nikita had been doing what Simone had, without either of them realizing it. Yet, no matter how much they might want to surrender to what they felt, too much stood in their way - at least to his eyes - than had ever stood between himself and Simone. Namely, that Operations disapproved of a union between these two top operatives. Anything the commander felt was a threat to Section's continued survival was immediately put down, and he definitely saw the bond between Michael and Nikita as a threat. It would never be allowed.

So, Michael had retreated, but Nikita had continually battered against his defenses. Thus, caught in the middle, pulled by both sides, Michael was at a loss. But what he had found over the last few days, was how easily Nikita had responded to his gentle honesty, and how very much he longed for her affection and trust.

Could he ever give her what she needed? He wasn't sure. Would he ever give her what he could? He already had. Would she ever accept it? He hoped to hell someday she would.

******

*So far, so good.* Nikita mused as she closed the door to the debriefing room behind her.

Now, they just had to wait and see how Michael held up under Madeline's scrutiny. It would be a mistake for them to underestimate Section's second-in-command, though Nikita had done just that a number of times, and paid for it. They couldn't just sit back on their hands. They had both risked too much over the last few days to become lackadaisical, now.

As she made her way down the hall she was haunted by the look in Michael's eyes when he'd awakened, yesterday. It had chased her all night. After three days of being privy to his soft, untroubled features and the gentle expression in his eyes, it had been like a blow to the gut to step up to his bedside and see the hardness and torment returned. It had taken all her willpower not to reach out and stroke his face, in an effort to smooth out those harsh lines. Every inch of him told her he would not allow it.

Her heart skipped an erratic beat, sharp with guilt. Selfish need had resigned them both to this life. His for her, when she'd come out of hiding in Lyon. Now, her need for him had reimprisoned his sensitive soul. There was no other choice for either of them.

"No, we were in Amsterdam. At a dance club." He didn't remember what had happened to him.

She couldn't decide if that was a blessing or not. On the one hand he would not remember the torture or have to deal with the shame of knowing that helplessness. On the other, those days spent with her were lost to him as were all the things he'd said. Then again, he'd probably find that vulnerability shameful, as well.

She snorted and tossed her head.

He'd probably think _that_ Michael had been weak, the Michael who had been stripped of all the traumas and training which had created the cold, seemingly emotionless operative. Yes, he had been vulnerable, but she would hardly call that weak. Though, she was beginning to realize that the one thing that scared him more than anything was to appear vulnerable, unless Section required it.

He'd do anything, as long as Section wanted him to. He'd killed and betrayed even those he claimed to care about. He constantly let them use not only his body but his soul, as well, for their own end. Nikita used to think he had no soul, but these past few days had changed her mind. What she'd discovered was that his soul had been so deeply buried to survive the continual battery it received that it was likely he even believed it had been destroyed.

With a violent shudder, the thought crossed her mind that she might be seeing her future. And with this thought came two realizations. She would have to fight all the harder to hang onto what shreds of her soul she still had left and, that Michael occasionally deserved what little charity she could muster up to give him.

She had found that other Michael anything but weak, though he'd behaved like a little lost puppy. His innocence had been endearing and maddening all at the same time. It was like seeing herself from the flipside and as she'd dragged him through the Section routine she'd slowly realized how taxing she must have been - and could be, at times - for Michael. To hear him rail against Section, needing to get out, and not believing he was a killer had made her shake inside. He hadn't understood and she couldn't have made him understand, because she herself still didn't.

Nikita had enjoyed his vulnerability, and always had. This time, with all his barriers down, he'd allowed her touch, and as someone who used touch as a way to communicate emotions and support, Nikita had relished it. And when he'd held her in his arms, she had come so close to surrendering to the desire coursing through her that it had scared her. His sweetness had seduced her, but the little boy softness in his eyes had been like a bucket of ice water on her libido. It had also reinforced that what she loved was the entire package, his strength and determination, god help her even his elusiveness, as well as his occasional softer side. She knew, deep down, where she feared to examine too closely, that he was not a cold hearted bastard. Though, she liked to goad him that he did, he took no pleasure in his job. These past three days had certainly opened her eyes.

That other Michael had told her he loved her, but for what purpose. In an effort to keep him at arms length, Nikita had dodged questions about their relationship, and denied any strong emotional attachment. But he must have sensed something, because he'd felt the need to ask her. Then, he drop the bombshell, realizing that one of two things had been about to happen, he would regain his memory and return to his old habits, or the counter agent would fail and he would be canceled. Either way he would be losing Nikita and she would be losing something that was important to her. So, he'd given her something as a parting gift, knowing that he might never be able to assure her that she was very important to him.

With wicked conviction, an idea firmly intrenched itself in Nikita's mind. Michael was not going to be allowed to squirm out of this. No matter that he had not been himself, or that he might try to deny ever saying it. He had uttered those fateful words, in truth, not as part of a mission or charade. So, the son of a bitch said he didn't remember. Well, she sure as hell intended to remind him.

With determined strides Nikita now set her coarse, for Michael quarters, knowing he would be there, trying to discover as much as he could about what had happened over the last three days.

******

"Why don't you know me better."

Again, he was assaulted with flashes of memory. This time it was the tight lipped reply from Nikita, to his query, "It's kind of hard to explain." He remembered that pained look in her eyes, all the hurt he had caused her surfacing. He hadn't understood it then, but now he did, and all too well. Resolutely, he pushed the guilt back. He had beaten himself up plenty over the pain he'd caused Nikita, and now wasn't the time to waste with self indulgent guilt-trips.

Realizing he was still pacing, Michael slowly became aware of a dull throbbing in his side and dropped back on his bed, with a soft thud. He was pushing himself too hard, yet despite the fatigue of his body, his mind was still racing at light speed. It was far from likely that he would be getting much sleep.

The soul could be either strong, unbreakable in its tenacity, or it could be weak, bendable in its compliance. His was both. He'd let them make of him what they required, in order to survive, but he never let it touch his soul. It had been submerged so far beneath layers of duty, honor, and indifference that it had become invisible to those who wished to destroy it. Over the last three days his soul had emerged, vulnerable, like prey on the Serenghetti Plains, to the brutal whims of the predators. And he had been unable to protect it, as he had for so many years.

Instead, Nikita had been his defender. The role reversal was odd, to say the least. She had been distant yet inviting, all at the same time, and had beared the brunt of his fear and anger with grace. Her soul had always shone with an incandescent brilliance through the brash exterior she used to guarded herself, while his light had faded into obscurity long ago. Someday, he feared, he would suffocate her light with his darkness. Just as he had his own.

A soft rap at his door gave him an involuntary jolt, and he carefully levered himself up; first to check the surveillance camera so there were no surprises.

The image on the screen was anything but a surprise. The beautiful blonde standing at his door, was glancing around, nervousness making her jumpy. One finger absent-mindedly twirled a strand of golden hair. He felt a smile begin to lift his face. In a moment it was gone.

He punched a key and spoke, "Come in, Nikita." And watched her smile, knowingly, before she reached forward and pulled the door open.

He quickly entered the code that would scramble the surveillance equipment. Then, pulling his bathrobe together to brace himself, he set his back despite the pain, and watched her every supple move as she invaded his sanctuary. A smile fluttered on her face, as her eyes flitted around, never truly landing on him. She stepped toward him. He scolded his breathing to obey.

"Did you debrief?" his unsteady voice betrayed him.

"Yeah," she breathed, growing ever closer.

He could smell her unique perfume - an intoxicating blend of shampoo, soap, deodorant and body lotion - with every swish of fabric against skin.

"How'd it go." His breath caught on the last word, as she stopped mere inches from him.

"Fine. Madeline doesn't suspect anything." Her eyelids drooped, gaze hovering over his waistline. He swallowed hard.

"Or is pretending she doesn't suspect," he amended. Then he drew in a sharp breath as her arm bent at the elbow.

"Mmm." She nodded. "Probably. We'll have to be more careful."

"You? Careful?" An eyebrow rose as he stared incredulously through her fall of hair.

Her hand hovered maddeningly over his abdomen. The hesitant smile that curved her lips made his heart twist and then skip. In a tentative, loitering gesture, she reached out, fingertips lightly brushing over the spot where he'd been shot. His stomach muscles contracted at the intimate contact, and he blinked.

"How's it feel?" She never lifted her eyes.

"Hurts, a little," he admitted, grimacing.

"Oh, sorry." Her eyes snapped up to his as she snatched her hand away. He gently clasped her wrist, letting it slid through his hand until hers came to rest in his.

"No, it's fine."

Again, that smile danced across her face. In an instant, he was bombarded by more memory. Floods of sensations, of the confused feelings he'd had for his guardian angel. How effortlessly he had responded to her beauty and compassion, and how easily he'd let his desires rule him.

"Because, this is not who you are," she'd told him.

*To hell with that,* he shouted back. Here she stood smiling up at him, soft lips inviting, body language deliberately provocative. Michael lifted his hands to cup her face, and leaned in to capture her mouth in a passionate kiss.

Nikita moaned, unsure whether it was from pleasure or confusion, as she found herself pressed up against the wall, with Michael's lips hard and demanding over hers. She blinked, her brow furrowing; his thumbs massaged away the tightness in her temples, fingers tangling in her hair.

Her hands slid up his chest to clutch his firm shoulders before she melted into him. The kiss slowed, long and deep; tongues tasted, savoring. She eased open his robe stealing her hands inside, exploring the hard muscles there, but careful of his wound. One hand slid up, to curl around the top of his black tanktop tickling the velvety skin and slight thatch of hair there, as she pulled him deeper into the kiss.

The reality of the world seemed to dissolve around her, leaving her only the feel of him strong and warm against her, surrounded by the heady blend that made up the scent of him. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest. One of his hands disengaged itself from her fall of hair to drift down to her lower back, where it stole under the tail of her shirt and up the bared hollow of her spine. She shuddered with pleasure. Craving the feel of him pressed against her, she slipped her other hand around his back, to clasp him to her. Then, she felt him tense, and so did she, concerned that she had hurt him. They draw back simultaneously, but his tongue flicked against her parted lips twice before they truly separated.

"Why?" she managed to eke out around the mist of desire in which her mind floated.

*Did he actually smile at me?* her befuddled brain mused.

Before she could react, he was leaning forward and nuzzling her neck, where he whispered in her ear, "Because this is who I am."

Along with a slight shiver at the feel of his warm breath on her neck, her heart gave a painful lurch and she pushed him back to stare at him with bewildered eyes. He remembered, whether he had all along or was just now piecing it all together she was unsure. And at the moment she didn't give a damn. His eyes sparkled with gentle humor and emerald flames of desire. She held them with her own letting her acceptance and desire speak plainly.

Then, with a devilish lift to the corners of her mouth, she grabbed fist fulls of his robe and pulled him toward another kiss.

******

Madeline shut off the surveillance tape from the Perez mission, after having watched it for the third time. Michael's confusion and timidity at the gentleman's club was an obvious sign that his mind had been tampered with. It was even more obvious that it would have been impossible for him to have hid his memory loss without help. And there was only one person who would have risked that much for him. The question now was what to do about it.

She had been surprised when Operations had made the decision to let Michael and Nikita believe that their superiors remained in the dark about their deception. He seemed to want the pair separated, considered their bond a threat. Perhaps he had changed his mind, or, more likely, he had decided that this little indiscretion could be overlooked, in the grand scheme. Whatever his reasons Madeline was glad. While a relationship between the two operatives was unacceptable, the bond they shared was a useful one. So, let them continue protecting each other, as long as the risk to Section remained minimal to non-existent.

Perhaps his reasoning for letting it slide this time had been motivated by shame. Both he and Madeline had been far too preoccupied with their own petty concerns to pay any attention to what was going on right under their noses. They had been stupid, and it would not happen again. She would see to that. In recent months, Operation had lost focus; ever since the attempt on his life and her kidnaping he'd been wasting his energy wooing her when he should have been concentrating on his job. That kind of attitude had lead to faulty intel, poorly planned and executed mission, and frustration on both sides.

She'd used Russell Burke in an attempt to prove to Operations that she was no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with him, and to test how far he would go when presented with a rival. The results had made her very unhappy, and their mutual distraction had allowed a potentially disastrous situation nearly escape their notice. The last thing both of them wanted was to be called on their lack of attention, especially by an operative as powerful as Michael. They would let it go, but would continue to keep and eye on both Michael and Nikita.

Even though the problem had been contained, there was still the matter of the tampering, which if not seen to could have repercussions in the future. As soon as possible, Madeline needed to have a session with Michael to find out just exactly how far the tampering went and what if any information he had giving up to Perez. Deciding to see how he was recovering, she punched in the code that would give her the feed from Michael's quarters. All she got was static. Not unusual for Michael. He often jammed the equipment. It was still frustrating.

She hit a button on her keyboard. "Birkoff."

"Yes," came the young man's calm reply.

"I've lost the feed to Michael's quarters. Can you fix it?"

"I'll see what I can do."

******

Her limber thighs straddled his slender hips and powerfully built legs, holding her weight off of his injured middle, while her lips and tongue ravaged his mouth. Michael lay sprawled on his bed, robe spread out beneath him, relishing Nikita's attentions. Her black blouse hung open, draped over both of his arms, while his eager hands glided over the heated flesh of her back, one sliding up the sides to tease the sensitive tip of one breast. A moan escaped her throat, turning to a giggle as it left her lips and he increased the pressure as she dropped her weight forward, her lips moving from his mouth to trail over his now bare chest. He lifted his head to press his lips to the spot where her neck met her shoulder, while his hands pushed her shirt off her shoulders. In a few herky-jerky movements she yanked the shirt the rest of the way off and gleefully threw it to the floor.

Her hands kneaded and stroked, slipping down to clasp his hips, as she shifted her weight, rising up to met his lips, again. The subtle, yet deliberate, grinding motion that move yielded propelled a fresh surge of blood downward. His eyelids shut tighter and he tensed at the frantic onslaught of need for her. Caught in this whirlwind of desire left him incapable of coherent thought. All there was for him was her supple body, poised above his, her hot, shaky breath against his skin, and the knowledge that he would soon be held inside her, bringing them both sweet release.

She smiled against his lips, and his last hold on lucidity deserted him. He tugged at her trousers, begging her with incoherent, flustered groans. Nikita levered herself into a sitting position and her radiant smile nearly cracked his brittle heart.

He loved her. God help them both, he could not live without her. But how could he tell her, and still keep her safe?

"Michael," Birkoff's voice was like a siren piercing their lover's haven. His scrambler could not keep out incoming signals. "Madeline wants to see you immediately."

Lowering her eyes, her smile fading, Nikita moved to climb off of him, but he clasped his hands firmly over her hips, keeping her in place. Her head snapped up and grin returned, though laced with surprise. There were a few more moments of silence as the pair stared into each other's eyes, making a mute agreement, before the voice came again.

"Michael? Michael, you there? Can you hear me? Michael?"

They remained absolutely still, playing a sort of game of hide and seek. When the silence was not broken again, Michael smiled up at Nikita and she answered with peals of laughter, as she climbed off of him to wriggle out of her trousers and help him off with his.

-- The End --

Let your imagination do the rest. >%-}

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