***AUTHOR'S NOTE*** This is a short vignette based on the episode, THRESHOLD OF PAIN.

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"Thank you."

Michael continued staring over Nikita's shoulder, until something compelled him to turn his eyes down to her face. She wasn't wearing heels today, and it took him a second to seek out her earnest blue eyes. Nikita was wearing an entirely gray outfit, and Michael didn't fail to notice the significance. She had never learned to be subtle with her clothing, but then, Nikita was anything if a subtle creature. Nikita was always too proud to back down or believe the worst, unless the situation involved him.

Michael froze as she stared back, realizing that he had let raw emotion spill into his gaze. Nikita seemed transfixed, coral lips parted as her slightly shocked eyes met his. As well as she should be shocked; he was fairly broadcasting his fear and concern, his agitation. His love.

What is it they call it? Michael asked himself. A deer in headlights. But which one of us is the deer?

He stepped back and broke the connection, eyes fluttering down to the floor and back to her angelic face before stepping through the door. Michael's steady, swinging gait took him farther from the room of wire cages: a room which never failed to remind him of the day he had forced Nikita to break and feed false information to Red Cell. Or the day in which she had thought he would let her be canceled. Canceled. The idea of it made the skin on his back crawl in terror. Were Michael a superstitious man, he would stop at the practice room and knock five times on the wooden blades. But Madeline would ask questions, and Michael dared not pause in his stride.

He had been in that room twice recently, a place where a Level 5 Operative rarely stepped foot into; cancellation was assigned to those who had no redeeming values, other than the fact that they could kill quickly, and without remorse. Michael could do both, but he had other skills which kept him from the death duty. Not that the two torture specialists hadn't requested his transfer, on occasion. The two, nicknamed Frick and Frack by operatives who still retained a twisted sense of humor, honestly liked Michael.

His lips quirked briefly as Michael strode past Systems, ignoring the ever-present speculative stares from Birkoff's technicians. Frick and Frack, actually named Bryce and Donna, had asked him to a movie, once. Years ago, perhaps as many as seven. The Cemetery Man. Donna had fondled his knee throughout the macabre film starring a surly Rupert Everett. When Michael had arrived home alone, he had thrown away the grease-stained pants. Donna liked extra buttery flavoring on her popcorn. Sometimes Michael wondered if Donna was trying for death by preservatives. Bryce had elected for Sour Patch Kids and a large Sprite. It had been unnerving to see the impassive torture specialist giggling like a hyperactive little boy at the special effects rendered upon the resurrected dead people.

It had been an...experience. Madeline had been pleased with the outcome, but unsurprised.

Michael shrugged as he entered his office, discarding the memories like lint from his jacket. Nikita's recent rash of adult behavior was beginning to unnerve him. She had told him "thank you" for the last two good deeds he had done.

Somehow, an angry Nikita was easier to deal with than a grateful Nikita. Her prickly side kept him at a distance. If she kept saying, "thank you," Michael was likely to toss aside his cool facade and kiss her into admitting she deserved his protection and his love. In front of the cameras. She didn't need to say thank you because she had earned it. He could see in her blue eyes that she was disappointed every time he didn't lose control. Michael had become so inured to disappointment that he hardly recognized the emotion for what it was, anymore. Losing his carefully wrought control was never as easy as it might seem, and even more difficult to replace once breached.

Michael seated himself at his desk and called up the assorted missions he had been assigned. From years of practice and conditioning, Michael's mind functioned on separate levels. While he wrote up a startlingly accurate profile for an upcoming mission, his mind worked out the reasons why Nikita's sudden politeness worried him.

"Thank you."

The words seemed to carry an admission of a debt. Michael would never claim such a debt of Nikita.

Guilt? Was he feeling guilt for not preventing Nikita's capture and torture? Should he have seen it coming? How could he have?

And Walter's guilt, how did that fit in? Michael trusted the older man with his life, and tried to tell him that by asking him to recalibrate the timer without any qualms about Walter's accuracy. He hadn't picked up on Michael's trust; but then, Walter had never been close with Michael, only with the women whom Michael loved.

I wonder what Walter would say if I told him that I envied his easy way with my women? Michael thought, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Walter had had an easy repartee with Simone, Nikita, and even Elena when helping set up Michael's profile on the Vacek mission.

Michael didn't wonder long. He heard Walter's rusty laugh in his inner mind, and knew that would be the way of it. The old man was luckier than he knew, or would ever admit..

Michael had no friends, save Nikita, on rare occasions. Whenever Michael wasn't ravaging her hardy spirit, Nikita stood up for him.

She saw too much. Or perhaps he allowed her to see too much.

The rare occasions that he did show her true emotion were becoming more frequent.

What's wrong with me? Michael wondered. I'm putting her in danger. Can she be trusted with this? Can she handle being an adult, for once? Can I handle a Nikita that can take care of herself? Isn't this what I've been working towards, a Nikita that can function without my help?

She still trusts too much, an inner voice told him. Another betrayal would drive that characteristic from her for a long time to come.

In quick succession, Michael saw Simone's death in twofold. He saw Chuck's death. Michael saw every single dead person whom he had ever cared for die in a split second while his fingers paused on the keyboard.

Michael knew he couldn't do it again, not willingly. The next time he betrayed Nikita could very well be his last. By personal choice, not that Nikita could kill him anymore than Michael could kill her.

Michael wondered idly if Madeline noticed his change, noticed the difference. Most likely, she had. Every once in a while, she missed something that Michael had concealed too well. He sometimes regretted learning the game better than its mistress. Madeline always managed to keep him in check. If Michael could fool the inventor of the game, then what hope could he have? He would eventually take Operations or Madeline's place...

Nikita could no longer be his weakness, then. If he died protecting her, she would have something to hold onto, something to believe in...

Michael knew Nikita needed something to believe in, just like he did. Only she needed someone else's guilt to drive her, for she felt none of her own.

That he knew she could live without him occasionally infuriated him. Normally, though, it warmed his flinty heart. She would go on, regardless of what he did.

Regardless of what he did, she could survive. Her threshold of pain was unimaginably high.

"Thank you."

Michael's threshold of pain was even higher, to be able to accept those words without dissolving. Without breaking down. Without showing fear.

But each time, he died a little, inside.

Each time she said, "thank you," his insides were pulverized to a bloody pulp of pure agony.

Each time, she wrenched more fleeting peace from him.

Each time, Nikita made it that much harder for him to betray her again. Michael knew there would come a day, soon, that he would tell her the truth.

Each time he thought of that day, the skin on his face tightened in fear.

Each time, he became more brittle.

Each time, the occasions of silence became more rare. And Michael knew that, soon, he would have to bare his soul to her. All of it.

And he would have to live with the consequences.

THE END

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