To strive,
To seek,
To find,
And not
To yield.
--Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Nikita's right knee stung. The cat was curled up on her lap, loudly purring on top of her full bladder. Her feet were getting cold. And all she could think about was Michael. Just like he'd intended, probably.

Had she not been petrified of blowing her cover after her little swim around Alec's boat, she would have giggled herself silly at Michael's play-acting.

"Hey, great party Mr. Chandler. Ah, listen...I'm giving you guys twenty minutes to cut that out," Michael had slurred, grinning unsteadily at one of Alec's guards. Then, patting Alec's face as he stumbled past, "Well, you take what you can get, right pal?"

On second thought, Nikita had been too shocked at Michael's goofy grin to do more than stare with her mouth open. Michael, the cold, austere man who had ruthlessly trained her to kill and seduce, had given her the thumb's-up. And what he'd said...

Nikita snorted to herself. Yeah, right, Michael. You could have women lined up around the block to frisk you for twenty minutes. If you spoke to them, I'm sure they'd settle for five minutes and call it an even trade.

Nikita ran her hand across the silky fur of her purring cat, grudgingly admitting that she would probably be first in line. If only to see his expression. If his green eyes, framed by that curling, chestnut hair, would allow an expression...

"Twenty minutes," Nikita muttered under her breath. "Right."

She'd felt her heart stutter when Alec's guard had fingered Michael as the person who had accessed his computer, saying that they had been looking at each other during the party. The rebellious portion of Nikita's brain wanted her to say, "Hey, I'm a woman. He's a man. He's a snappier dresser - that copper jacket really brought out his eyes. And besides, he's got a better accent. What was I supposed to do, pour my champagne down his tight pants and claim I wasn't interested?"

For once, Nikita had been the good little operative and had kept her mouth shut while Alec gave the young man hell about betrayal. Mikey. His name had been Mikey.

Nikita cupped her cat's striped face, its whiskers tickling her palms. "I hate irony, Miss Melanie," Nikita drawled. The cat mewled, blinking its light green eyes. Its furry, trusting face made Nikita's throat ache. "I wish I were a cat," she muttered, blinking rapidly to forestall the tears.

If she were a cat, she wouldn't have to live with the fact that she'd willfully been falling in love with a man who sold children for a living. She wouldn't have to live with the fact that Michael had betrayed her again, and having finally told her the truth, sent her back into the field to keep giving Chandler goo-goo eyes. She wouldn't have to live with the fact that Michael had been warning her the whole time, and she'd been too arrogant and immature to see it.

And she wouldn't have to live with the fact that she had almost blown up a truck-load of homeless, helpless children trying to get back at Chandler.

Nikita had excused her actions, telling Operations, telling herself, that she had only been going for the lighter. She knew Michael had had the situation in hand. Chandler had been rising from his crouch, his curiosity piqued by Michael's statement. Chandler had obviously been in the process of realizing he was alive for a reason, and that he could probably cut a deal and come out on the winning side.

"Little fellow," Nikita murmured to herself. Chandler had had the gall to call Michael a little fellow.

Hysterically, Nikita began giggling and she hugged Miss Melanie so close to her chest, that the tabby cat mewled in protest.

Be honest, Nikita, she told herself. You wanted him dead and you didn't even think about those kids until Michael had already saved them.

"Know what, Miss Melanie? I'm glad he did. It's a good thing to know," she murmured, scratching the cat between her ears. For all his other faults, Michael had immediately jumped into the truck and driven it to safety.

Ah, Michael. When he'd explained why he hadn't told her the truth about Chandler, he had almost sounded like he was also trying to convince himself.

"You had to get close to him...care for him...make him care for you. You couldn't have done that if you knew who he really was."

"Not enough to lie to them," she had drawled. "Gotta lie to each other, too."

"You have to go back to him."

Nikita stirred restlessly on the platform, the cat jumping off her belly and scampering towards the bedroom.

"You do what you have to do, Ni-ki-ta." Michael's voice echoed in her head, resounding through her darkened, empty apartment. Her anger rose up from the pit of her stomach like a canker, plugging her throat with bile. Why had she been defending him to herself? Nikita grabbed the wire sculpture above her head and began worrying on the loose end with her molars. What about me? Wasn't what I did worse? After all, I did what I had to do - callously taking out a slaver without any regard for the innocents involved.

Michael chose that moment to knock on her door.

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

Nikita swallowed in disbelief, blinking back tears. He knocked again, and then Nikita heard the metallic crunch of a key turning in her lock. The door swung inward silently, propelled by his lean hand.

"Can I come in?"

She didn't answer, and so he closed the door behind him quietly and stepped farther into the room. He pulled back the edges of his leather jacket to slip his hands into his pockets, exposing a goodly amount of sculpted torso under his tight shirt.

"What do you want?" Nikita blurted, attempting to draw her attention away from his chest. Knowing that if she didn't, she might embarrass herself by touching him, her betrayer. If that happened, she would never be able to forgive herself.

"I came to apologize."

"Hmm," Nikita murmured, her lips twisting into a smile. A manipulation. She could smell it a mile away. Her fingers twisted the plastic-covered wire, in thought. "You know, you're becoming very predictable Michael. You lie, then you say you're sorry."

Michael ducked his head, seeming to acknowledge her point.

"You lie...then you say you're sorry. Can't you come up with anything a little more interesting?" Nikita sat up and grabbed the pole running horizontally over her head.

"I do what I have to do. We all do." His conciliatory expression cranked Nikita's rage up another few degrees. "It's not what I would choose for myself...or...for us." His thick eyelashes fluttered.

Nikita gave a little laugh. Manipulation again. Gosh, Michael, you're not doing a very good job on this one. Well, not this time. I won't let you get away with it.

"Us?" She rocked forward and spread her hands on the wood floor. Then, without further consideration, Nikita's desire to end it forced its way to the front. "Will you answer a question for me?"

He paused. "If I can." The little head shake nearly undid her resolve. The gesture was so...honest.

"Why shouldn't I--" Nikita shoved herself off the dais, "just kill you?" She brought her polished gun up and aimed it at Michael's face, leaving several feet between them for safety. Michael could move fast, she knew. "Hmm? Why shouldn't I just...pull the trigger?"

Nikita could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears as Michael did the unexpected and began stepping forward. He stopped as the gun barrel rested just under his chin and shook his head.

"I can't think of a single reason," he whispered, chin bumping against the metal. His green eyes didn't blink, they just stared back...daring her.

Nikita's hand began to shake.

His expression had been so open, so honest...so free of that blank mask he always wore to keep her out.

Nikita watched as Michael brought his steady hand up and wrapped it around her wrist, tilting his head to press a kiss to her second knuckle without breaking their stare. His fingers trailed over her thumb and the gun, caressing the metal, leather creaking as he backed away.

Nikita clenched her teeth and blinked as Michael turned on his heel and stalked out of her apartment. Without fear. When the door swung shut, she closed her eyes and put the safety back on her gun.

Her attention was drawn to the floor, and she quickly exchanged the cold metal of her gun for the purring warmth of her cat. Nikita readjusted the ball of fur to stare at her hand. It didn't look any different, the place where her skin was tingling from the touch of his lips. She brought her hand up to her nose and breathed in, the faint musky smell of Michael there for a brief second. And then it was gone. Like him.

Nikita stared at the door and squeezed the cat again, needing comfort as shivers radiated from her spine. She sank to the floor and rocked Miss Melanie like a baby.

Her death wish had evaporated.

"I'm sorry, Michael. I couldn't do it," she whispered.

She couldn't get rid of the cat and she couldn't kill him. Couldn't put him out of his misery...couldn't put him out of her misery.

She couldn't. She wouldn't.

The cat squirmed out from between her too-tight arms and Nikita reached for the gun again. Her face reflected back to her in the polished metal. A hot tear spilled from her eye as she regarded herself, quickly followed by another as Nikita damned herself for her weakness.

She wanted to live.

THE END

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