Prologue

Confusion new to you
And nothing's right
Nobody but you has to
Hold onto the fight
Just before you cry
It won't change you
It won't change me
And I don't even wonder why

Michael was returning.

He had clawed his way back to himself. He was still with her in the land of the living. Nikita was glad. Glad and...conflicted.

So wait
Don't go
Seems as though
It's getting scary
So please
Don't you go
Wait
Don't you go

Funny, how a there was a song for everything, Nikita thought.

Her capture had pushed Michael back from the listless edge of grief. She knew she was glad she didn't have to stand guard at the entrance of his bare apartment, anymore. Nikita was glad his passive suicide attempts were gone, and that she hadn't left him completely alone. She was glad Michael had come back; his breakdown had been frightening.

You knocked me out
I could never be the same
I pushed you over
And here we will remain

Michael had knocked Nikita for a loop. Again and again, she thought. Then it had been Michael's turn. Nikita had watched him pace around the flat, sloppily dressed, warning her of the dangers of caring for him.

At least he knew that much, she thought. That she cared.

If Nikita could never be the same after witnessing Michael truly feel, Michael would never be the same after allowing himself to feel so much.

Nikita had brought him back. There they were: changed irrevocably?

But see
I'm waking
I feel I touch
I breathe I cry
I know this
So wait
Wait
I said please
Smile just before you cry
Don't you go

In a strange way, Nikita hadn't wanted that Michael to go. That Michael felt pain. That Michael spoke the truth to her, always. That Michael had shared personal details without prompting. That Michael had fearlessly pissed Operations off by simply existing. Yet, Nikita had fought to bring the old Michael back.

I can take the fight
But don't
Don't you turn away

Michael hadn't turned away from her. Not yet. But Nikita was reserving judgment until she witnessed what he was turning into...

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

Nikita shivered in the snow, crouching closer to the mottled bark of the tree she was using as a wind break. A murder of crows cawed anxiously in the branches overhead; their threatening sound muffled Lee's advance somewhere off to her right. Michael, Nikita knew, was to her left; he knelt in a snow bank that hid him from view. Murdoch and Thompson had already advanced to the second checkpoint. Nikita and Michael were to bring up the rear, while the rest of the team established a perimeter.

Nikita couldn't shake the feeling of unease that writhed in her gut. She had communicated her feelings to Michael as the team exited the van.

"Hinky," she said, coming to stand next to him.

Michael continued surveying the dense forest. "Yes."

"Profile?"

Michael stared at her and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Not mine."

Murdoch was in a playful mood, a bundle of pre-mission jitters. "Hey, could one of you translate that for those of us not gifted with ESP?" she yelled.

Nikita mused that her ability to communicate silently with Michael had become even more of an asset. It didn't seem possible, but after losing his son, Michael spoke even less. To operatives who weren't familiar with him, Michael seemed cold and distant. The people that had known Michael the longest thought he seemed sad and distracted, when not on a mission. To Nikita, who knew him best of all, he had been rent asunder by grief and somehow had stitched himself back together.

Yes, silent communication was useful, even on what was supposed to be a typical mission.

"Another down-load and ex-plode," Thompson said after Operations had left the briefing room.

Murdoch laughed raucously. "You mean a load and blow?"

"You heard what I said, woman!" Thompson shot back, folding his arms behind his head. Murdoch planted a solid kick his chair leg as she filed out, nearly tumbling Thompson onto his compact rear end.

We've got a good team, Nikita assured herself. And now that Michael was back to his usual efficiency as team leader, even better. She doubted Michael would ever answer a request to attack with a laconic, "Why not," again. His utterance of those two words had sparked a divergence of emotions. She had wanted to slap him upside the head and alternately hug him until he couldn't breathe, to laugh until her stomach hurt and back away in fear. She had felt the same reaction when, after informing Michael that he wasn't "well," he had replied, "Who is?"

It's a good team, she decided and shook her head slightly, as if to physically jog the distracting thoughts from her brain. Nikita ruthlessly clamped down on the amorphous threads of worry and moved on Michael's mark.

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

Nikita didn't know how Michael had seen it coming as fast as he did. Before she had even felt the gun at her neck, Michael had informed Birkoff, "Perimeter's been breached. We've been compromised."

Nikita followed Michael's passive lead and tossed her automatic to the ground. He seemed to know something Nikita couldn't sense. She raised her hands in supplication as one of the goons snatched her com-link from her ear. Nikita slanted her eyes at Michael, following his gaze out to the dim tree line.

Murdoch, Thompson and Lee: bound and held by a team that bristled with ammunition and gun muzzles.

Nikita saw the hopelessness of the situation immediately. Had she and Michael resisted, they most certainly would have been pumped full of holes by this gun happy crew that prodded her roughly forward. Nikita looked at Michael for direction as their team was herded into the back of a military style truck, but his face was set into a familiar, infuriatingly bland mask.

He had worn the same mask inside the compound when, in the middle of the download, the perimeter team had stopped responding. His fingers hadn't stilled on the keyboard as Nikita fruitlessly called for the silent team members. Nikita had turned her back on him then, hand to her ear; the memory of him as a feeling human being was too fresh to be contrasted with Michael the machine.

"Let's go," he had breathed behind her. Nikita's spine had jerked her upright and she followed Michael out of the compound, nearly bumping her nose into the back of his neck when he had suddenly halted his fluid gait.

Now, in the rear of the rocking truck with her hands bound, Nikita slanted Michael another glance. Was he simply reacting as the machine Michael, taking every detail into rapid-fire consideration against the established profile? Or was there a secondary profile he had neglected to inform her about--one that dictated their capture?

There's the question, Nikita thought. If, after everything, he could still do a thing like that, has he really changed at all?

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

They rode in silence in the back of the shuddering truck for what seemed like hours. Nikita had tried to catch Michael's eyes in the first moments; what she might have discovered in the depths of his changeable eyes, she would never know. Michael had continued to stare stonily at a point high on the truck's side. Defeated, Nikita shifted slightly every few minutes to keep her body from stiffening and to give her aching behind some relief. Her gut clenched in apprehension when the military vehicle thundered to a final stop.

The gate fell open with the heavy groan of protesting metal. Nikita, last in, was the first to hop to the ground. She stumbled, sore despite all her attempts to dissuade her body otherwise. Michael leapt gracefully from the truck bed and knocked against her. Nikita was tempted to glare at him, until she realized Michael was giving her something to lean on while she regained her balance. She allowed herself a too brief moment to rest her shoulders against his sturdy chest, feeling the warmth of his body seeping through his mission jacket.

The moment ended when a soldier poked the muzzle of his gun into her ribs. Nikita sulked forward, Michael's presence behind her buzzing in her nerve ends. There were three more unsteady thuds as the rest of their team exited the vehicle. One of their guards jerked his head toward a floodlight barely visible through a dark stand of trees.

Nikita started forward again on the rutted path, wishing it were wide enough for more than two to walk abreast. Whatever Michael might know about this mission, Nikita still wanted him next to her. Even during his worst betrayals, his Michael-ness had the ability to make her feel comforted and protected.

I must be really sick, Nikita concluded.

She reached the reinforced steel double doors, pausing as the guards conferred over a cheap-looking intercom set into the wall. Nikita allowed her eyes to wander over the limited section of the building. Concrete. Looked almost like a bunker. Nikita caught herself wondering what Michael would make of the place.

Talk about a one-track mind, she thought. I'm facing possible torture and death, and what does my brain come up with? Michael. Michael-Michael-Michael.

Nikita was saved from her thoughts by the doors swinging inward on noiseless hinges.

Well-oiled, her brain whispered rebelliously as she lifted her booted foot over the sill.

They were led down a gray, unmarked hallway and rudely ushered into a small room. A white room. Nikita marched to the far side and spun on her heel. She caught Michael scanning the room; his cheek was tugged into an amused half-smile.

Had she dared break their unspoken vow of silence, Nikita would have muttered, "Home, sweet home."

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

"Which one do you think it is, Roger?" a voice asked from the back.

Roger half-turned, giving the figure at the back of the room a small smile. He turned back to the bank of monitors and hunched his thick shoulders. Images of the five captured agents appeared individually on the screens, tracking their facial expressions and movements as they explored the tiny room. Roger scratched at his dark beard and examined each one.

"Him," he tapped on one of the monitors. The figure at the back detached from the wall and moved noiselessly forward in the control room. The face on the chosen screen was chiseled. Buzzed blonde hair, blue eyes. He was tall and well-built, with faint lines of concern etched around his mouth.

"The classic American soldier."

"Yes, ma'am," Roger agreed. He rocked back on his heels and looked down at the petite woman. Her face was lit by the soft glow of the monitors in the darkened room.

She peered up at him through graying bangs, her hair falling pixie-like over her ears. "I see you didn't choose either of the women. Why is that?"

Roger shrugged. "You know I'm not against female leadership, Iris. I follow you, don't I?"

"That's why you're my second in command, Roger," Iris murmured, biting at a hangnail on her thumb as she examined the monitors. She nodded her head at one. "But you still have a lot to learn. It's him."

"The pretty boy? He's nothing special."

Iris narrowed her bright eyes as she stared at the short-haired, exotically handsome man on the screen. "Yes, the pretty boy. Look at his face."

"Nothing to see. He's a blank," Roger replied. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his fatigues.

Iris angled her head and gave him a chiding, sideways glare. "Exactly. Look again, at his eyes. What's there?"

Roger heaved a sigh and crossed his arms over his massive chest. He leaned forward on the balls of his feet, nose inches from the screen. Eventually, he pulled back and blinked in awe. "Power."

"Yes," Iris hissed. "Separate him from the others. I'll see to him personally."

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

Michael didn't resist when several guards culled him from the rest and led him into another room. The room was white also, but smaller than the last. Two sets of restraints were built into opposites of the wall, with a two-way mirror opposite the door. He calmly noted that his guards had been well-trained as they strapped his ankles in first.

With one look at Michael's heavily muscled thighs, they had known how deadly a kick from him would be.

A guard unbound his hands and pulled Michael forward by the scruff of his jacket. Another fatigue-clad guard moved to Michael's right side and pressed the muzzle of his gun at his temple. Michael held absolutely still as his mission jacket and lycra shirt were unzipped and unceremoniously wrenched off.

He retained his stony gaze even when they stretched his arms taut over his head and locked his wrists into the manacles. The armed guards filed out of the room and Michael closed his eyes and feigned sleep, assessing the situation and devising contingency plans.

He didn't twitch a muscle when Iris entered the room and closed the door with heavy click. She stopped just inside the door, motionless in appreciation of the sight before her. His position delineated every perfect muscle on his upper torso. Iris dropped her eyes. The black, lycra pants clung to her captive; for the first time in a long while, Iris began to feel the stirrings of desire. She wrenched her gaze back up to his face, pacing forward angrily. Desire was a distraction.

Her fingernails bit into her palm from wanting to trace his nose, his mouth.

Iris noted, finally, that her men had neglected to remove her prisoner's belt. "Careless," she muttered under her breath. She had taught them to regard everything as a possible weapon; perhaps retraining was in order. Iris moved her hands forward and unclasped his belt, her fingers brushing against the warm, soft skin of his abdomen.

The tingling sensation in her fingertips caused her to pull the belt from its loops viciously. Her prisoner would have jerked forward, had he not been so severely cuffed. Iris backed away from him, turning to cast the belt into the far corner of the room. When she turned back, his eyes were open.

He stared steadily at her, the changeable orbs of his eyes a pale gray-green. Iris saw that he wasn't frightened, wasn't worried; he didn't even appear to be there. She swallowed dryly.

"Who are you?" she whispered to herself. As if he heard her whispered question, the prisoner winked one eye so rapidly, Iris couldn't be sure it had actually happened. The sheer possibility of it stirred up her ire, and Iris advanced upon him once more. She retrieved a syringe from the leg pocket of her fatigues and removed the plastic cap.

Iris made a show of tapping the large needle for air bubbles and squirting a bit of its contents in his line of vision. When he remained unresponsive, Iris jabbed the needle into a prominent vein at the crook of his bicep and elbow. She raised herself onto her toes until her lips were almost level with his ear and hovered, barely brushing him.

"I will break you," Iris whispered. She pulled back to gauge his reaction. Her captive laconically turned his head to meet her eyes, and he gave her a startling, bloodless smile.

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

Michael closed his eyes when he heard the heavy door click shut. Alone again. His arm stung where the needle had been forced in, and he could feel the fiery spread of the drug the woman had injected. It was familiar. Michael was fairly certain of its contents. It should have been injected to a heavy muscle group. His thigh would have been better.

Michael felt a flash of something. Professional irritation? Weariness?

His estimation of the woman dropped another notch. She was undoubtedly the leader of the group that had somehow captured his team, though not as well-versed in torture techniques as Michael. The drug she had used on him was one that he had learned to resist years ago. Michael knew he had even used it on others, until Section had retained the services of Madeline. She had introduced Section to new heights of torture.

This woman was no Madeline.

She would never reach her heights of cruelty and ruthlessness. She would never wriggle her way inside his head. She didn't have the capacity to break him.

A false comfort, Michael thought.

Still, there was nothing, nothing this woman could do that would even come close to the torment he had just suffered.

There was really nothing more anyone could do to him.

Physical pain only bothered him momentarily, gnat-like. In fact, Michael welcomed discomfort. It distracted him from the searing pain that throbbed in his throat, the names pulsing in red behind his eyes. Adam, Elena, Nikita. Lesser memories writhed in between them; Simone, Rene, his sister. Their faces damned him.

All his family and all his friends were either dead or thought him dead. They were all lost to him. The death of his parents had set the macabre domino into motion. It had been done.

There was only Nikita, now.

Beads of sweat leaked through Michael's skin and his muscles began the excruciating contractions. He drew the threads of his consciousness together and smoothed his breathing.

He would endure. Nikita would have to be enough.

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

What's your name? What agency do you work for?

A pause. Michael felt another trickle of blood ooze from one of the many razor cuts to his body.

What were you doing at the compound? Where's the information you took? What did you do with the disk?

Michael smiled inwardly as the razor sliced through layers of skin. A hot flush of liquid welled up and over the parted lips of the fresh wound. Sweet pain...

What is your name?

The urgent questions ceased. Michael cracked the lids of his swollen eyes at the sounds of scuffing boots. Michael blinked to clear his vision. Three dark blobs resolved into two guards, each clutching the arms of a struggling woman.

Michael realized dispassionately that the woman must have given up on breaking him, and had fixed her sights on someone more vulnerable.

Intelligent, he concluded. More intelligent that the tactics she had used thus far.

The struggling woman was finally forced into the martyr-like position facing Michael, but not until successfully biting the hand of a guard. He cursed and smacked her across the mouth with the open palm of his undamaged hand. She spat in his face, saliva red from intermingling with blood trickling from her split lip.

The other guard pulled him away and out the door.

Michael met her eyes.

"Cut yourself shaving?" she asked through her swelling lip. From the mixed emotions of pity, fear, and bravado that took over her face in turn, Michael knew he must look pretty bad.

He allowed his eyes to soften, trying to communicate to her how it had been and would be. How to survive it. From the jut of her chin, she indicated to him that she didn't need his help.

Michael buried his combined relief and despair before it could reach his eyes. She would soon see that she did need his help, his presence. Murdoch could never keep her mouth shut. Michael was now the only thing that might keep her from breaking.

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

Murdoch had blanched when the woman had uncapped the drain in the center of the blood-spattered floor. Murdoch had been recruited soon after Nikita, Michael recalled. He was fairly certain that she had never been through a torture scenario like this. And him--

Michael held back a snort. What torture situation hadn't he been through? If not from the hands of terrorists, Madeline had always been pleased to oblige. Her exhaustive debriefings after those sessions had him pinching the bridge of his nose in cold fury. Why Madeline insisted on using him when, as she put it, he was much less susceptible to torture than any current operative was simple; Madeline perversely enjoyed his dry, factual accounts of how the torture made him feel. It was the only way Madeline could get Michael to speak about his emotions. She knew it, and so did he.

"What devices do you employ to get through the torture, Michael?" Madeline's dense brown eyes captured his gaze across the curiously uncluttered desk.

Michael folded his hands across his lap. "Sometimes I recite poetry."

"Poetry?" Madeline blinked and tilted her head. "What kind?"

"Free verse, particularly Allen Ginsberg. The cadence helps me focus," Michael said softly. Madeline blinked again.

"Really."

Michael nearly smiled at that memory. His statement had taken Madeline by surprise, and that was something not easily done. Michael hadn't told her the complete truth. It wasn't wise to be wholly honest with Madeline; she fit the pieces of your mind together far too rapidly, even without your help.

Michael recited poetry. Song lyrics, prose...sometimes he played cello pieces, imagining the fingerings and positions. He allowed his mind to wander and touch upon whatever subject or idea it was wont. It was something he never allowed himself to do at any other time, trusting in his mind to know what would best keep it occupied.

Michael felt a flash of pity when Murdoch's doe eyes widened, fluorescent light reflecting faintly off her corneas. Several guards were wheeling in a cart laden with a bundled fire hose. The unknown was wreaking havoc on her psyche.

Michael knew all too well what was coming.

Being prepared doesn't help much, he thought acidly, as the guards began to unravel the hose.

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

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angleheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night

The frigid water pounded at his already battered ribcage. The manacles had no give, and his body couldn't bend away from the pressurized spray. Salt water sizzled in the razor cuts over his body. Michael began reciting his favorite stanzas again, in his head.

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication

A muffled sob drew him back. The spray battered his face and filled his nostrils with the acrid liquid. Michael couldn't see, but he knew it was Murdoch who cried out. Michael didn't turn his head. They would only follow with the hose. An indefinable longing rose and lodged in his throat. He wished Murdoch wouldn't cry for him.

With a squeak of metal, someone turned off the pounding spray. That woman, their leader, came forward and lifted his head with a finger under his chin. Salt water dripped from his sodden hair, running down his face in rivulets.

When Michael opened his eyes, he saw that her mouth hovered open as if she had intended to say something. She seemed jolted that his eyes met hers so readily, blinking slightly with salt-encrusted lashes.

Ah. Michael suddenly knew. She had been ready to repeat that she would break him. To ask if he'd had enough.

Michael gave her the same, bloodless smile, smiling through his parched lips and bruise-darkened skin.

It was then she realized that it wouldn't be so easy with him. Her mouth thinned and she stepped back, wiping her wet hand on the thigh of her fatigues.

"Start on the woman."

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

Michael swallowed back the bitter self-revulsion in the back of his throat. He had ended his own physical torment at the expense of Murdoch. What right did he have?

The relief she broadcast from her liquid brown eyes not more than six feet away did little to alleviate his self-loathing. For some people, enduring physical torment was far easier than being witness to another's. Murdoch was one of those people.

It didn't make Michael feel any better when the woman roughly injected Murdoch with the same drug. He was one of those people, too.

The convulsions overtook her quickly. Rusty blood trickled down her bared arms from the friction of her skin against metal. Michael ignored his own groaning body and willed Murdoch to look at him. He finally caught her eyes, the irises enlarged so that only a thin ring of brown was visible.

She held his gaze like a life line, sweat beading and trickling from her forehead. She rode out the contractions, her eyes clutching at his features as if he was an angel and the last thing she would ever see.

Michael tried not to damn himself for offering Murdoch this comfort, for he was comforting her. She didn't need to know how unworthy he was.

Michael held onto her eyes with vise-like control as two large men began beating her. Murdoch grunted and swallowed her screams, her short, dark hair tangling sweatily above her eyebrows.

Give it to me, his eyes whispered. Give me the pain.

Murdoch bit her lip. A vicious kick had caught her under the ribs and the skin around her eyes crinkled in distress.

Give it to me, he thought insistently.

Murdoch whimpered piteously, begging him not to ask again. A blow to her cheek broke their bond momentarily, but she swung her head back. A welt was already darkening under the tender skin of her face.

Give me the pain, Michael persisted. Murdoch gasped and relented, letting her death grip on the agony slacken. Her pain floated like a miasma before his eyes and Michael ruthlessly took it into himself.

He didn't allow her to break their eye contact as the leader drew out her razor blade and pressed it to Murdoch's delicate skin. Her brown orbs rolled like that of a frightened horse.

I've got you, his eyes told her. I've got you.

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

What's your name? What agency do you work for?

Murdoch raised her chin and held on tremulously to Michael's gaze.

What were you doing at the compound? What did he do with the disk?

The questions pounded at her relentlessly, yet Murdoch held her silence. Her jaw dropped, white teeth glistening under red-tinted spittle; her muscles bunched in her biceps as another long line blossomed open across her ribs.

Still, she remained silent. Still, she released her unspoken pain into Michael's keeping. A syrupy pool of blood dripped from her boots onto the floor beneath her, flashing scarlet in contrast to the flaky blackness on Michael's pale skin.

Who do you work for?

Silence, broken only by faint splashes of water and blood. The leader gave a sharp gesture with her arm, clearly frustrated by her lack of progress. The valve squeaked again.

Murdoch's eyelashes fluttered when the harsh spray hit her square in the solar plexus. Michael could see her struggling to breathe, the power of the water stealing her body's capacity to draw enough air.

He could see her eyes darken as the salt water flared her injuries to new life. He could feel the water slamming into her bruised ribs, pushing her back against the bloodied wall and scraping her raw wrists and ankles.

Michael knew when she began to die.

When Murdoch refused to be broken, her short gasps signaling to the torturers of her imminent demise, they wheeled the hose out of the room. Their leader waved them all out, and Michael was left alone with his team member.

"It's...not...so bad," she rasped at his unspoken question, straining to keep her eyes open and fixed on his face. She could see his obvious disagreement flare to life, his eyes quickly changing to a swirling gray-blue. Murdoch tried to laugh it off, but the jarring of her rib cage set off a chain reaction of pain. Her neck muscles corded with the effort to not cry out.

Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy

Michael found that he couldn't blink. He kept his blood-shot eyes on her face, fearful that he would miss the moment when she was gone.

"Will you...will you be my witness?" she gasped, her complexion fading dangerously. Her breaths were coming much faster now. Her eyes were dimming, filming over.

To what, his eyes begged.

"To my life," she bit out harshly, struggling to stay alive until she had his answer. Michael's heart thumped erratically and dropped past his navel. His vision swirled round, black spots edging in around Murdoch's figure.

She wanted him to remember her. When she died, her body would be cremated. Her file would be relegated to ones and zeros in the bowels of a Section computer. She had no family, no real friends. Murdoch would cease to exist, passing out of existence like an insect that lived for only a day.

And she wanted Michael to keep her memory with him.

"Yes." Michael broke his silence. Told her with his voice, reinforcing it with his eyes.

Murdoch gifted him with a brilliant smile, stretching her swollen lips. In the next moment, her head lolled back. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. A final breath rattled from between her lax lips.

And you're out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure--Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the world-- There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you've gone...

"I've got you," Michael whispered.

Behind the two-way mirror, Nikita shut her eyelids. Her tear-soaked lashes clung to her cheeks and she clenched her bound hands behind her plastic chair.

Oh, Michael...

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

Michael wrenched his gaze from Murdoch's corpse at the sound of scuffling outside the door. The door burst inward and two guards entered, dragging someone behind them.

Michael felt his protesting muscles freeze, his expression dissipating into a steely mask.

Nikita.

She reared back, blonde hair flying, and crouched down low on her haunches. A guard wrenched on her arm and she responded by kicking him in the knee cap.

Michael's fingers twitched in reaction.

What I wouldn't give...

His thought trailed off to be replaced by a vivid mental picture of exactly what he would do were he capable of movement. It involved a lot of slowly broken bones, and even more blood.

Clumsy, he thought again, watching Nikita trip up the other guard with her boot. They should have removed Murdoch's body first. His head suffused with dizziness at the invocation of Murdoch's name. Michael's vision swam briefly until he clamped down on the emotion.

Not now, he told himself firmly. First, Nikita.

Another guard stepped through the doorway to help drag the wild Amazon to the manacles. His body jerked spasmodically before he was a foot into the room. His topple provided Nikita with the distraction she needed. Her foot lashed out, catching one man under the chin. His jaw snapped with an audible click and he hit the floor seconds after the first man. Nikita's elbow flew and connected with the last guard's nose. She took him out as he clutched at the fountaining blood.

She paused then, breathing hard, and looked at him. Michael's lips parted and Nikita let loose a low, sobbing sigh. Their silent communication crackled through the air.

Are you all right? Did they hurt you? How bad was it? I'm so sorry. I wish I could have been there for you. Can you walk?

Their thoughts intermingled, and in that moment, they were Michael-and-Nikita. Nikita-and-Michael. One. Their thoughts were inseparable.

Pounding boots in the hallway interrupted their reverie. A black-clad operative stuck his head into the room.

"You," Nikita said. "Get me the key."

The operative flicked his gaze at Michael and hesitated, clearly shaken.

"Now," Nikita insisted. He nodded sharply and ducked back out. Nikita shoved her fingers through her disheveled hair and stepped over the bodies. She lifted her palm and brushed it gingerly over his bruised cheek. Michael leaned into her caress, eyelids fluttering.

"Michael," she soothed. His lids dropped; his breath warmed her wrist. "I've got you."

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

Nikita's eyes flashed as the operative came back into the room, advancing slowly. She held out her hand, waggling it imperiously. He dropped the key ring into her hand and backed away.

"Do you need any help?" he asked gruffly.

Nikita ignored him, bending low to unlock the cuffs at Michael's ankles. Nikita heard a low hiss and leaned back her head. Michael's eyes were open again, all his weight putting an intense pressure on his battered wrists. Nikita wrapped her arm around his waist, heedless of the blood, and tried to give Michael some support as his legs swung inches above the floor. She met his gaze before unlocking the manacles, eyes deep blue with pain. He nodded slightly.

Nikita arched up on her toes and the lock clicked open. She stumbled as Michael's full weight came down on her; Nikita's thighs trembled with the effort to keep him upright, her arms going around his body to hug him against the wall.

Black flashed at the corner of her eye. Nikita turned her head and warned off the man with a murderous glare. No one but Nikita could help Michael. No one. He wouldn't allow anyone else, and neither would she.

Nikita could feel his muscles quivering through her clothes with the effort to stand, shivering with the onset of shock.

"You," Nikita snarled at the operative. He took another step back, face grimacing. "Give me your jacket." She couldn't recall the operative's name, but Nikita looked on approvingly as he immediately unzipped the coat and slid his arms out.

Nikita took the jacket and looked inquiringly at Michael. "Can you--"

He nodded, facial muscles flattening and eyes bleaching to a pale gray. He took a deep breath and pushed away from the blood-stained wall with his shoulder blades, the transformation into Michael the machine complete. Nikita wrapped her arms around him again, easing the material up his arms. Her hips were pressed hard on his, one thigh riding between his legs; it was a sexual pose, and yet, not.

Memories insinuated themselves in her mind's eye: pressing Michael against the wall as a bullet pierced the glass at his loft; giving Michael her coat as she rescued him from that hideous metal device, his eyes as blank as his memory.

Nikita drew the edges of the coat forward and around his waist. Gentle pressure on her hands caused her to look up. His eyes told her to stop. Zipping up the coat would only cause the fabric to rub in his gaping wounds.

Nikita gave him a tired grin and impulsively leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You're making a habit of this."

For an instant, the hard planes in his face melted. His parched lips quirked in a smile, and Nikita could see another Michael haunt his features. New, different, but somehow familiar.

A breath later, the mask was firmly in place. The pressure of his hands eased as he drew himself upright. Harsh lines of pain stood out prominently on his face.

"Let's go," he whispered.

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

Michael's progress down the hall was slow and measured, his injuries failing to rob him of his leonine grace. Nikita walked at his side, remaining close in the event that his body betrayed him. Nikita was determined to catch him if he started to fall.

Michael paused at the thick double-doors. "Where's mobile command?" he questioned a burly op stationed at the entrance. Nikita moved forward and inconspicuously wrestled open the doors for him. Turning back, Nikita heard Michael murmur his thanks to the operative. She fell in step beside him and they advanced on the same rutted path that had brought them to the bunker.

Nikita wrapped her arms around her middle, partly from the chill and her earlier desire. She had wanted Michael next to her on this path.

Not exactly what I had in mind. Be careful what you wish for, she cautioned herself. Things are usually not what they seem.

She had wanted Michael with her so he could protect her, and the tables had been turned. Nikita exhaled sharply as they reached the black, unmarked Section van. Michael stilled, hand on the door, eyes drawn by her sigh. Her breath formed a nimbus around her tousled hair, her face turned toward the bunker's flood light.

"Ni-ki-ta?"

She jerked her eyes back to his quiescent form and gave him a little smile. His face was in the shadow. Nikita grasped the handle and pulled the sliding door open while he remained motionless and leapt into the gray interior of the van.

"Birkoff," she greeted, hiding her faint surprise.

"Hey, Nikita," he said, distracted by Michael's outline looming in the door. She moved to the back of the van and rooted around for the emergency medical kit while Birkoff handed Michael a matte black com-unit. The younger man began briefing Michael, angling his computer screen towards the Level 5 operative.

Nikita pulled out a roll of gauze, thankful that the medical kits inside mobile command tended to be better stocked than the standard field issue. She unwound a few lengths along her hand.

"Michael?"

His head came up, and he stared at her a moment before removing his com-unit from his ear in one lithe movement. Two strides later, his waist came level with her eyes; a strand of her hair tangled on the zipper of his jacket.

Nikita stood and helped Michael ease the jacket off. When the sleeves were halfway down his muscled arms, Nikita ambushed him.

"Michael? Was there a secondary profile?"

He tensed and Nikita pulled the jacket the remainder of the way down his arms. She flung the coat behind her and met his inscrutable gaze with a ruthless glare of her own.

"Yes."

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

Michael was staring at her with a curious mix of resigned apprehension, much like his expression when Nikita had first asked him about Adam. He had been the epitome of conflicted, obviously wanting to tell her but fearful of her reaction.

I've reacted pretty badly in the past, Nikita mused, unwinding more gauze. More than bad. Try nuclear. If I were Michael, I doubt I'd want to tell me anything. The thought stunned her for a moment, until Nikita realized she had grown up a little. Michael was acknowledging that.

Nikita straightened her shoulders and put a gentle pressure on the undersides of Michael's arms. "Up," she prompted. He complied, angling his chin down to give her a wary stare. Nikita grimaced when she saw that the inflamed slices on his skin were leaking blood again. Quickly and neatly, she began winding the length of gauze around his midsection.

"When did you find out about the secondary profile?" she asked him, her eyes flicking up to check on Birkoff. His face was averted, lit by the unhealthy glow of his laptop screen.

Nikita felt more than heard Michael draw in a deep breath. "When the perimeter team was taken out."

She continued bandaging, snugging the gauze against his chest, and digested the scrap of information Michael gave her. She didn't doubt that he was telling her the truth. Michael hadn't actually lied to her for a very long time, not even a lie of omission. He wasn't going to volunteer any information about this mission; it wasn't Michael's way. On the other hand, he wouldn't withhold the truth from her if she asked the right questions.

It's like playing 'twenty questions' with the man who invented the rules of the game, Nikita thought idly. She covered his abdomen with another swath of material before noticing that his arms were trembling.

Michael had been holding his arms out in a T-position, waiting for her to finish her amateur doctoring. Nikita bit her lip in a tiny fit of frustration.

I wonder what it would take for him to actually ask for my help, she thought acidly. At least he's willing to accept it, a more rational voice countered.

Nikita rolled her eyes and gathered the gauze with one hand, pulling Michael's arms to rest on her shoulders with the other. The closeness of his body distracted her, even in his battered state. Nikita held back a disdainful snort; the mere thought of Michael could arouse her more completely than any flesh and blood man.

Nerve ends buzzing, Nikita lifted her eyes in answer to an unspoken command. Their eyes connected and an echo of their earlier one-ness coiled around the solid beat of her heart. All the recent events coalesced from a flash of insight the being known as Michael-and-Nikita gave her.

She didn't know the answer, but Nikita finally knew which question to ask.

"What did Birkoff tell you about the profile?" Nikita asked finally, tying a neat knot with the ends of the bandage. She smoothed her hands across his chest, testing her handiwork. Michael didn't remove his arms from her shoulders.

"That I wasn't to initiate standard procedure," he said. His voice was soft, almost halting. Nikita's hands stilled, palms pressed gently on his chest.

"Mandatory refusal," she nodded, bringing her eyes up to meet with his. "Was that all, Michael?"

His brows lifted. "Yes."

Nikita gnawed on her lower lip, struggling to form her next question. "Michael, about--"

Birkoff's tenor cut across the van. "Michael, we're retrieving the disk now. I need to patch you in so you can guide them to the location."

Seconds passed before Michael dropped his forearms from her shoulders and took a small step backwards. He turned slowly on his heel and returned to Birkoff's station. He tucked the com-unit back in his ear and fixed his pain-darkened eyes to Birkoff's console.

Madeline must have trained him to do that, Nikita thought darkly. Birkoff strikes again.

Nikita had wanted to tell Michael something of what she had been feeling. For him, because of him. How much she knew Murdoch's death must have hurt. She wanted him to know that she didn't blame him.

Well, Nikita thought recklessly, with Michael, actions speak louder than words.

Nikita followed him, guiding a wheeled chair in front of her. She came to a stop next to Michael. He flicked his gaze to her. Nikita's expression blared one word: sit. Michael acquiesced, lowering himself gingerly onto the chair. Nikita heard a slight catch in his breath when he leaned forward and pulled himself to the table with his hands.

She stalked around the van, not wanting to interrupt while the mission was in progress. On one of her passes by Michael, Nikita saw a sheen of sweat glistening on his face. "Birkoff, do you have any food stashed in here?"

Birkoff looked up from his computer, light flashing off his tinted glasses. "What?"

Nikita skirted around Michael and squatted next to Birkoff's chair. "Do...you...have...any--"

"I heard you," Birkoff said testily. He swiveled his chair around to look at her. "Why?"

"Michael needs vitamins. He's going into shock," Nikita told him softly, her teasing tone disappearing from every line of her body.

Birkoff's neck snapped around and looked at Michael. The young man blinked rapidly. From her vantage near the floor, Nikita could see his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort to control his reaction.

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

Michael was hunched in his chair, hair in disarray. Bruises were beginning to mottle his skin with an angry purple. Red stained his bandages where blood had already seeped.

He tended to radiate such a calm aura of competence and confidence that people rarely looked closer to see how Michael was actually doing.

I've been guilty of that before, Nikita mused as Birkoff hastily averted his eyes before Michael could catch him staring. Never again.

Birkoff angled his body back towards Nikita and rapped his heel on the cover of a floor compartment. "I've got some junk food stashed in there since..."

Nikita nodded in understanding as Birkoff's sentence trailed off. Ever since the time Birkoff had nearly been killed when a hostile had forced his way into mobile command, she'd seen him occasionally on the range getting lessons from Walter. From Walter, Nikita had learned that Birkoff and Michael had redesigned the interior of mobile command so that whoever ran the board would be less vulnerable to attack.

The fact that Birkoff now kept junk food where his gun used to be indicated to Nikita that he was settling into the idea of being able to defend himself.

Nikita pried open the hidden floor compartment. She shoved through the candy with a loud crinkle of cellophane. Twizzlers, Hostess Cup Cakes, Ding Dongs: Nikita triumphantly pulled a can of tepid soda from Birkoff's stash. Michael had never demonstrated a penchant for sweets; in fact, Nikita was hard pressed to remember times where she had seen Michael actually ingest food.

Nikita stood and stretched the protesting muscles in her lower back. She found it oddly amusing that she didn't even know what the man she considered her soul mate liked to eat. In their relationship, there had never been time for those introductory niceties.

What's your favorite color? What music do you like? When did you have your first kiss?

Nikita grinned a little to herself as she popped the top on the can. She rested one hand on Michael's shoulder and brought the can in front of him. When he craned his neck around to protest, Nikita arranged her features into an expression that would brook no refusal.

"Blood loss, Michael," she warned. The corner of his mouth twitched in grim acceptance and he took the soda can from her.

Birkoff stood up from his computer and gave Nikita a meaningful look. She squeezed Michael's shoulder and followed him to the back of the van.

"Is he gonna be all right?"

Nikita flashed him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. Michael, in a twisted way, was like an older brother to Section's resident computer genius. Yet, Michael somehow managed to also treat Birkoff like a co-worker. Layer upon layer.

Nikita's heart gave an erratic pulse as an instant of serene clarity drifted down her body. Nikita realized that she would never ask for anything more if she could just devote the rest of her life to uncovering all of those layers.

If wishes were fishes, I could fill that empty fishbowl in my apartment in a nanosecond, Nikita thought.

"I think so, Birkoff," Nikita sighed.

Birkoff took a step closer to her and peered over the top of his tinted lenses. "Nikita, Operations kept Michael in the dark about this one."

Nikita ducked her head and debated with herself. "I know," she said finally.

"How much has Michael told you?" Birkoff whispered urgently.

Deciding upon Michael's tried and true oblique approach, she said, "Enough."

"There's something going on...I don't know what to do. Operations has taken Michael out of the loop," he told her hesitantly.

"For how long?" Nikita asked, surreptitiously checking over her shoulder at Michael's hunched-over form.

Birkoff shrugged faintly. "I think Operations is still steamed over the way Michael handled the blood cover on the Vacek mission."

"For refusing to poison Elena," Nikita said bluntly.

"Yes."

Nikita felt an overpowering urge to roll her eyes and ask, "So what do you want me to do about it?" Being constantly frustrated was beginning to take its toll on her patience and common sense. She brought her head down and rubbed at the back of neck. The welts on her wrist reminded her anew of the way the mission had played out; a worried frown creased her face.

Nikita's brain made a brief segue. If I'm this tired, Jesus, how does Michael feel?

"I just thought you'd like to know," Birkoff said lamely at her long silence.

Nikita slid her hand from her neck to her cheek and gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Seymour. I appreciate it." She could sense there was more the young man wanted to tell her; Nikita only hoped that he'd be willing to volunteer the information whenever it became relevant.

Birkoff nodded again and turned his head to look at Michael's discarded mission jacket. He picked it up hesitantly and crossed the room.

"Here," he said brusquely. Michael glanced up, his bruised face a mask. Nikita could read the expression hiding in his eyes. Surprise.

"Thanks," he answered quietly. Michael shrugged on the jacket sluggishly, favoring his right side. Most of the torturers had been right-handed, and his ribs on the opposite side must have taken the brunt of the beating.

Birkoff's simple gesture eased the tension headache Nikita had developed at the start of their conversation. It was good for Michael to know he still had some allies within Section One, and better for Nikita. Relief flooded through her as Birkoff settled down companionably beside Michael.

Here, for a little while, she could relax the vigilance with which she'd protected Michael. Although Nikita saved Michael's life countless times on missions, the brand of protection she was shielding him with was a relatively new concept for her.

It had been born that first night that she'd stood vigil outside his loft.

Nikita imagined this was how Michael had been feeling for years. It was time she caught up.

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

Operatives drifted into mobile command as Michael directed a team to recover the disk he had hidden before the original team had been captured. When Birkoff's screen was illuminated by the detonation of the charges, Michael pulled the com-unit from his ear and wearily rubbed his chin.

The last operative climbed in and banged on the partition to notify the driver. The engine purred to life and the vans began the return trip to Section. Lee and Thompson were sacked out near Nikita. She sidled over and patted the bench next to her when Michael rose.

She saw a brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he lowered his tired body next to hers. Nikita closed the gap between them, moving over so that their thighs and hips were pressed together. She covered the hand resting on his leg with her own.

Michael didn't pull away.

Nikita kept a triumphant smile off her face and propped her head on Michael's shoulder. A moment later, she felt the pressure of his cheek resting on her hair.

Nikita didn't know what it would mean, this tiny showing of affection in full view of Section personnel. Nothing stood between her and Michael, anymore. Not Simone, not Elena and Adam: not even Michael seemed likely to manipulate her away from him. He had tried to warn her off, but Nikita had exhibited her leech-like tenacity to do what she thought was right.

No, nothing stood between them. Nothing, except Section One.

Nikita snuggled imperceptibly closer to Michael. She wished she knew exactly whose policy it was that a partnership like her and Michael's was detrimental. Was it Operations? Could it be Madeline?

Madeline's thrown us together as a couple on so many missions, Nikita thought. It doesn't seem likely. But then, it could be another one of her twisted mind games. Throw us together and watch us squirm.

Nikita sighed and closed her eyelids firmly. She was frazzled; her brain was tired and no deeper insights would be forthcoming. Trying to decipher the motives of Section's leaders knotted her mind on the best of days.

Slowly, Nikita was lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of the van and Michael's measured breathing.

When she jerked awake, his warmth was gone.

The free fall of her heart was checked as her searching eyes caught his familiar profile at the door of the van. As always, he sensed her gaze and turned his face, like a wild animal catching a scent in the forest. Nikita reoriented herself as an exiting operative's broad back cut off her connection with Michael.

Van access.

Nikita felt a reactionary chill creeping over her body. They were back at Section.

"Ni-ki-ta?"

Nikita's eyes flew to Michael's questioning gaze. He crossed the van rapidly, a stiffness the only hint of the extent of his injuries. They were the last two in the vehicle. Nikita pulled herself upright at his approach and gave him a resigned smile.

"Ni-ki-ta," he said again, bringing his hand up to brush his knuckles over her cheek. He leaned in close and rubbed his lips over hers. "Behave yourself," he breathed, catching her eyes to drive his point home. Then he was gliding away from her and Michael disappeared through the door in the van.

Behave yourself.

It was a loaded phrase. Michael had said that to her on the mission where Operations had personally asked her to protect his son. That had been one of the many missions where Michael had foiled her attempt at gaining freedom.

Now that she was a little older and wiser, she knew that Operations would never had kept his promise to set her free. She should have asked for something else, something feasible. Not for the first time, Nikita wondered what Operations would have said had she asked for Michael.

Nikita exited the van and followed the remainder of the team.

Behave yourself.

Nikita took it to mean: don't do anything stupid while I'm not in a good position to haul your ass out of the fire.

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

Operations and Madeline were waiting for them just outside van access. Michael spared Madeline a glance before reaching in his jacket and pulling out the disk. He held it out to Operations, who plucked it from his hand with a pleased smile. Behind Michael, Nikita stifled a shiver as her stomach collided with her spine.

A happy Operations usually meant he was up to something.

"We have containment," Michael said. He was holding himself erect on sheer will power. As usual, Operations didn't seem to notice.

"Good," Operations drawled, glacial eyes narrowing under his shock of startlingly white hair.

"Losses?" Madeline asked, stepping forward.

Michael turned his battered visage toward her. "One."

"I'd like a full debrief," Operations said and began walking back towards his aerie.

"After Michael visits Med Lab," Madeline interjected. Her hands were folded calmly in front of her plum dress when Operations halted.

He half-turned to look at her. "Of course."

Madeline nodded briefly at Michael before departing for her office. Nikita moved to squeeze his shoulder.

"Go on, Michael," she whispered. "I'll be good."

His chin came to rest on her hand, his stubble rasping against her skin.

"Promise?" he said quietly.

Nikita flashed him a grin. "Yeah. Promise." Her hand slid off his shoulder as he walked away and followed the corridor towards Med Lab. Feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck, Nikita craned her head around to look up at the aerie. Operations stared down at her, hands planted wide.

Nikita suppressed the urge to wink at the older man.

I'll behave, she groaned to herself. But I won't like it.

Instead, Nikita joined Birkoff in Systems and waited for her call to debrief. Birkoff kept glancing at her and back at a window flooding with numbers on one of his consoles. Nerves made rough by fatigue, Nikita did her best to ignore him.

They were on camera, after all.

When Madeline was ready to debrief her, Nikita strolled by Birkoff's chair and hunkered down next to him.

"You know, Birkoff, if you've got something on your mind...you could talk to Michael about it. It sounds kind of weird, but he's good at working problems out." Nikita stood and wrinkled her nose. She had to give him an out for the surveillance. "Even with girl trouble."

Birkoff stared at her back as Nikita walked toward Madeline's office. He trusted Nikita, but Michael?

Good question.

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

Birkoff bounded up the steps to Operations' aerie and waited at the entrance.

The leader of Section One turned around and asked irritably, "Are those the numbers?"

"Yes," Birkoff said and crossed the bare expanse to lay the data panel in Operations' outstretched palm. Birkoff backed away to let him scroll through the results of his analysis. The longer Operations stared at the data, the deeper the furrows in his forehead grew; Birkoff tried not to fidget and draw his attention.

When Operations finally looked up, he was glaring at Section's computer genius like he done something utterly gauche like break wind or say, "Hey, that Nikita is one cool chick!"

"Is this an accurate presentation of the available data?" he demanded.

Birkoff lifted his chin defiantly. "Yes. I've run the sims three times." Operations turned his back on him, which Birkoff took as his dismissal.

"I don't have to remind you this information is strictly confidential," Operations called, still facing the glass. Or, in Birkoff's own words, don't tattle on me to Madeline.

"Yes, sir."

Birkoff walked slowly down the steps from Operations' office. From the thunderous expression on his face, Birkoff gathered that Operations had entertained hopes of turning over the results of his analysis to George.

Long inured to the idea of Michael being Section's 'golden boy,' the idea that Operations seemed out to get Michael deeply disturbed Birkoff's frame of reference within Section One. Even more shocking were the results of the study Operations had asked him to perform.

Birkoff collapsed into his swivel chair and stared blankly at the row of monitors before him.

Section wouldn't survive without Michael, not in the way it existed now.

Birkoff had run the numbers, and the success rates of missions would plummet were Michael not there to profile and lead them. Losing Michael would mean Operations would be out of a job; Oversight didn't tolerate mistakes like that, especially after Michael's success in the "impossible mission" with Vacek.

That Michael had survived time and again when Operations was ready to write him off spoke volumes about the 'Top Op' of Section One. Birkoff had always regarded Michael as something not human. He was an emotionless superman, able to perform HALO jumps perfectly on the first try; he survived multiple gunshot wounds and horrendous torture. He seduced women with a single, heated glance.

Hell, Birkoff thought. Michael is James Bond with a French accent.

He idolized Michael, yes. But Birkoff also feared him.

Nikita's penetrating blue eyes came back to him. She had urged him to trust Michael, to talk to him. Birkoff glanced down at his console. Before he knew what his fingers were doing, he downloaded the analysis to another data panel. He clutched it in his hands, stood, and began the journey to Michael's office.

Please let him be there, Birkoff thought.

As he approached Michael's office, he could see that the blinds were open and a light was shining through the slats. Birkoff stood outside his door and rapped before his courage failed him.

Heart beating in his jugular, Birkoff was doing what he should have done when he found that file implicating Operations in Adrian's death. He should have hidden it and waited until Michael returned to his normal self; then he should have shown it to the Level 5 Op. Instead, he had conspired with Walter and the entire debacle had blown up in his face.

Gotta learn from your mistakes, Birkoff thought. Only this time, if Operations finds out I doubt he'll just ground me for six months.

A muffled "yes" drifted around the door. Birkoff clenched the handle and entered. Michael's fingers stilled on his keyboard and he pushed back in his chair. Birkoff skirted Michael's desk and held out the data panel.

"Here's the numbers for Stoya mission," he said.

When Birkoff hovered at his side, Michael gave him an inscrutable look and turned his formidable attention to the tiny screen of the panel. After speed-reading its contents, Michael glanced back up.

"Thanks," he told Birkoff. The younger man nodded jerkily and loped out of his office, hands buried in his pockets.

Michael put the data panel screen-down on his desk and resumed typing his report. After a moment, he halted again and regarded his reflection on the monitor. His hand crept upwards to rub his chin.

For a few seconds, Michael allowed himself to ponder his place within the Section hierarchy; he allowed himself to curse Operations in the gutter versions of all the languages he knew; he allowed a brief flare of relief that Nikita's security increased with his own; but he didn't allow the grim smile to grace his face.

The balance of power was shifting.

But Michael knew, better than anyone, that within Section One, everything was not what it seemed.

The End

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