Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. The universe isn't mine. I mean absolutely no infringement on any existing copyrights, and the purpose of this material is for entertainment only.

Author's note: Many thanks to Shelly, Frances, and Sonja for proofing, and Cynaera, for encouraging me to spread this around.

Coerced 1:Madeline

"No."

The word is spoken flatly, unequivocally. She's absolutely confident in her decision. It's the reaction I expected, but, unfortunately, it's up to me to change her mind. "I had hoped that you'd be more. . .tolerant . . .of the idea."

"Tolerant?" she spits back. "I tolerate a lot of things on behalf of the Section, Madeline. You and Operations sit back and watch us from the inside; the black king and his queen, deciding when a pawn has outlived its usefulness and must be sacrificed for your 'greater good'. You can tell me where to go, what target to hit, and how hard. But this is where I draw the line." She glares at me as she crosses her legs, unconsciously reinforcing her words with her body language.

I lean back in my chair and steeple my fingers together. "And if I tell you that you could face cancellation for your refusal to cooperate?"

"Then I die." Her eyes are flashing with barely repressed fury. "But I won't do it. Not for my own sake, and certainly not for the sake of the Section."

And, in that moment, I believe that she would rather face cancellation than do what I'm asking of her. But her weaknesses are well known to me, and I don't hesitate to exploit them. "But you already have, Nikita."

She doesn't understand immediately, so I tap a key on my console and turn the monitor toward her. I can see the comprehension dawning in her face as she sees the two figures lovingly entwined, only partially covered by a corner of the bedsheet. The lighting is dim and the volume is low, but she recognizes herself easily enough.

"Your performance was very convincing," I add.

She looks away, unsure of herself now. "That was different."

"Why?"

She bites her lip nervously. "You know why."

I sigh and turn the sound down, but leave the video running. "You're right. There's no point in playing games. It was convincing because it wasn't a performance. You were willing to do it because you care for him." She doesn't argue, and I take her silence for agreement. "It doesn't mean you're being unfaithful to him, Nikita. It's simply the most efficient method to use in this case. He, of all people, understands that it's often the safest and easiest way to gather intel."

"That's not it," she says bitterly. "Madeline, I lived out on the streets for years. During that time, I had to do certain. . .things. . .in order to survive."

It's taking a tremendous effort for her to tell me this. I suppose that she feels that, as a woman, I should be able to understand her position. I nod my approval of her openness. "Go on."

"I needed food and shelter, and later, drugs to take my mind off of what I had done to earn them. I'm not always proud of what I do for the Section, but I can't go back to that, to what I did before. I can't."

Her vivid blue eyes plead with me, desperate for understanding. And I do understand, but not in the way that she intended me to. Apparently, she's done this before, and that will make things much easier. She'll bend, but she won't break. As she said, she's a survivor. I turn my back to her for a few moments, standing to tend to one of my seedlings. The flowerpot has a mirrored, angled surface, and I watch her reflection as I check the moisture of the soil.

She tries not to make it obvious, but she can't help taking furtive glances at the lovers on the monitor. I watch as she relives the episode, no doubt recalling the touch of his skin against hers, the soft rustle of the sheets, the breathless whispers of encouragement.

After a few minutes, I turn back to my console and turn off the tape. "I don't know if Michael told you, Nikita, but, before you were rescued from Freedom League, his performance had deteriorated dramatically. He was on the brink of cancellation when he brought you back to us."

She shifts restlessly in her seat as I continue, "If you force us to do this, my guess is that we'll have to cancel him as well. Of course, I don't think he'll make it six months this time. Perhaps two or three. It might be less, of course. Maybe a lot less." Her reaction is no less than I expected. Her complexion pales, and her hands tremble slightly. I busy myself with my plants, giving her a few minutes to think it over. She refuses to look at me as she eventually asks, "When?"

"The day after tomorrow."

She gets up and walks over to the door, resting one hand against the jamb as she turns to face me. Her voice is low and tinged with sorrow and defeat as she asks, "Madeline, how do you live with yourself?"

Nikita's still capable of surprising me once in a while. I meet her questing gaze and tell her the same thing that I tell my reflection every night when I look in the mirror. "I do only what has to be done. I take no pleasure in it."

She shakes her head, giving me a wan smile. "You do it because it's the job. You don't enjoy it at all?"

"That's right."

"Then it's no wonder that you don't feel any guilt at forcing me to do this. You've been whoring for the Section for years." She slips out the door without looking back, and, a moment later, Paul walks in.

"Well?" he asks as he stops at my side.

"She'll do it. There was never any doubt in my mind."

He smiles. "Well done. I knew I could count on you, Madeline." He drops his hand to my shoulder and rests it there, his touch light and sure. "Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

I place my hand briefly over his. "Of course."

He gives my arm a parting squeeze and leaves with a smile on his face. I cross to my desk and close her file. I know it will be hard on her at first, but it gets easier with time.

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

Coerced 2: Nikita

If I thought that fucking a complete stranger for information was as bad as things could get, I was wrong. This is even worse. The operative debriefing me opens his mouth, but before he can ask the question again, I tell him, "I don't know. I mean, I wasn't exactly timing him or anything. Maybe five minutes of foreplay."

He types in the answer dutifully. "All right, did he say anything at all during the foreplay?"

"Yeah. He said, 'The escort service told me you were beautiful, but I had no idea.' That was the extent of our conversation. Oh, wait. He also said, 'You've got a great ass.'"

He smirks at this, but he records it anyway. "And did he wear a condom?"

"Yes." This is getting really old, really quickly.

"Did he put it on, or did you?"

"I did."

"Before or after the foreplay?"

"Before. And it was green, smelled like mint. You'd better include that as well." For some reason, I'm not really surprised when he actually does.

"Did he, at any point, scratch, strike, pinch, or bite you?"

"No," I drawl slowly. "He was a perfect gentleman." The idiot doesn't even acknowledge my sarcasm.

"Did you engage in any form of oral sex?"

"He didn't ask, and I didn't offer."

"So then, after the foreplay, you proceeded directly to intercourse?"

"Yeah." I pop my gum, and he looks up, irritated. "Isn't that the way it's 1usually done?"

"What was the duration of the intercourse?"

"Long enough for me to determine that there were over two hundred tiles on the ceiling."

He gives me a sharp glance.

"Probably three or four minutes."

"Did you experience or fake an orgasm?"

"Yes," I grind out.

"Yes to which one?"

"Yes, I faked one." I swear, at the next stupid question, I'm going to throttle him.

"Did he experience an orgasm?"

"How the hell should I know?" I'm practically yelling now, but I can't seem to help it. "He acted like he did, but maybe he was faking it too!"

He doesn't even flinch. Maybe he's used to people getting pissed off at him by this point. He checks the next question on his list. "You were instructed to ask if you could see him again. What did he say?"

Finally, we're getting to some relevant information. "He told me that he'd like to see me again as soon as he got back from Athens. When I asked when that might be, he said probably a week, maybe ten days."

"All right, what happened immediately after intercourse?"

I sigh heavily. "He went to the bathroom to take a shower. While he was in there, I got his personal organizer out of his jacket and downloaded all his records to the unit that I was given. Which was, in turn, given to Birkhoff as soon as I got in."

"And after he got out of the shower?"

"He got dressed and said that he had a meeting to go to. Then he kissed me, told me that he intended to ask for me again, and gave me this before he left." I reach into the front of my dress and pull out a crisp thousand-dollar bill. "That's it. Are we finished now?"

At his nod, I pull a cigarette lighter from my purse. As soon as he sees it, he says, "Smoking's not allowed in here."

Ignoring him, I touch the lighter to a corner of the slip of paper, smiling as the flames consume it hungrily. Just as the tips of my fingers begin to get warm, I bend toward my inquisitor and drop the flaming remains into his coffee cup.

As I walk out, I begin to create a mental list of all the reasons that I shouldn't go home and eat a bullet for dinner. Doesn't take long. It's a very short list.

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

Coerced 3: Michael

I know it's an invasion of her privacy, and in some ways, that's the last thing that she needs right now, but it can't be helped. There are things that I need to say to her, and the Section is not the proper place. I wait until she closes her door and throws the deadbolt before whispering her name.

She hesitates for only a second before dropping her bag on the floor and reaching for the cabinet by the door. As soon as she pulls the gun out, she knows that its weight and balance are all wrong. She looks at me accusingly as I hold out my hand to show her the clip from her automatic nestled in my palm. When she reaches for it, I shake my head and set it on the table behind me.

Sighing with resignation, she puts the gun away. "Go away, Michael. I don't want to see you right now."

She looks so tired, lifeless, defeated. I try to take her hands in mine. "We need to talk."

She jerks away from my touch. "Like hell. The last thing I want to do now is talk about this. Just go."

"I didn't write the profile, Nikita."

"I don't care who wrote it. I got the job done, and that's all that matters, isn't it? So get the hell out!"

"Please." I touch her arm lightly. Her eyes widen slightly at my tone of voice before moving to look at the way that my fingers linger on her sleeve. My other hand reaches for her face, fingertips caressing the curve of her jaw. She finally looks directly at me, and it's all I can do to not flinch at the pain in her expression. "Please," I whisper again, and she turns away from me, swearing under her breath before taking off her coat and tossing it onto a chair.

"This is pointless. I've got nothing to say to you."

"Then I'll do all the talking."

"Fine. Talk to yourself, then." She stands well away from me and places her hands on her hips. "Should be at least as interesting as most of our conversations, and it'll probably last longer. I'm going to take a shower."

"I'll go with you."

Her eyes turn to ice. "You bastard. Did you figure that if I'll spread my legs for a complete stranger, you might get lucky too?"

Fighting the urge to take her arm, I speak to her gently, but firmly, "Do you really think it's that much easier for me, Nikita? Do you think I enjoy manipulating women so that I can see the pain in their eyes when they realize that I used them? Can you imagine how much worse it is when it's someone that I have feelings for?"

I can see by her expression that she knows exactly what I'm getting at, but she still isn't entirely convinced. "It's different for you," she insists.

"Yes, it is," I agree. "I've had to pretend that there was an emotional involvement, sometimes for days on end. And I have to be able to 'perform' adequately. Whether I'm attracted to the woman or not doesn't matter."

She seems to shrink in on herself as her anger slowly begins to dissipate. Finally, she brings herself to ask, "How many women were there, Michael? How many does it take before you start to get used to it?"

I shrug. "Maybe a dozen. And you don't get used to it. I protected you from this as long as I could, but it was inevitable."

"Why is that?"

"Because you're so beautiful." She looks startled to see me say that, but she sees the honesty in my eyes. Her expression softens, just for a moment, before her defenses fall into place once again.

"You don't even know why I blame you, do you?"

"I can guess," I venture softly.

At her raised eyebrow, I say, "You refused. They threatened you. You told them to go to hell, so they threatened someone you care for."

"I shouldn't be angry with you. It's not your fault," she says softly.

"Of course it is." I cautiously cup her face between my hands, rubbing my thumbs lightly against the lines of her cheekbones. I'm pleased when she accepts the caress. "If I hadn't protected you, you'd have been cancelled a long time ago. I can live with your anger, Nikita. I don't know if I can live with your death."

She pauses for a moment, as though trying to decide whether or not to tell me something. Finally, hesitantly, she admits, "I almost wasn't able to go through with it, Michael. Even though I knew what would happen if I didn't. The only way that I could stand it was by pretending that it was you."

She must have assumed that I might be offended, because she seems surprised by my calm acceptance. I explain, "The last few times, Lisa Fanning, Andrea, two or three others before them. They were always you."

She pulls away from me and avoids my gaze, but she can't help but ask, "And when you really were with me?"

I smile cautiously. "You will always be you, Nikita."

She sighs softly. "Why did you come here, Michael?"

I didn't want you to spend the night alone, with only the memories of what you had to do today for company."

I'm disturbed by the glimmer of suspicion in her eyes, even though I know that I deserve it. Her eyes hard, she asks, "Answer one question first. And if you ever had any feelings for me at all, you'll tell me the truth."

I nod once and she continues, "Did they send you? Did they tell you to come here tonight?"

"No. I chose to come."

"And if they find out about this?"

I glance away briefly, but force myself to look back into her eyes as I tell her, "Today proved that you're capable of keeping your feelings separate from the mission. As far as they're concerned, you can do what you like, as long as you're discreet."

Her eyes widen. "Is this official policy, or are they making an exception for me?"

I reach to take one of her hands, holding it tightly in mine. "It's hardly 'official', but it's accepted policy." Not surprisingly, she's shaken by this revelation and its implications. "Then you knew all along that you and I could be together if . . ."

I don't need to confirm her assumption. She sees the answer in my eyes. "And you never told me?" Her question is equal parts gratitude and accusation.

My throat tightens abruptly, so my words are low and husky. "How could I?"

She steps closer and lays her head gently against my chest. She laughs low in her throat, but the sound is more akin to hysteria than it is to humor. "It's really funny, in a way, Michael."

"What?" I brush her hair gently with my fingertips.

She gestures at the walls surrounding us. "This apartment is the only place I've ever been that felt like home, and I killed a man in order to get it. For years now, I've wanted the freedom to be with you, and all I had to do to for that was to prostitute myself."

I pull her tightly against me as I caress her back with my palms. Her words are muffled against my shoulder, but I'm still able to make them out clearly enough. "The Section giveth, Michael, and the Section taketh away."

Still holding her body close to mine, I whisper, "I'll do whatever you ask of me tonight, except leave you alone."

She gradually pulls away from my embrace and caresses my cheek with her open palm before taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom. As she adjusts the temperature of the water, I begin to shed my clothing. She briefly nods her approval before dimming the lights and taking off her own clothing, ignoring me when I offer to help. We step into the stall and she moves to stand under the spray, still as a statue, as the water soaks her hair and runs over her skin before disappearing into the drain.

I'm fully aware that it's a ritual cleansing, and I stand well away from her until she finally reaches for something and pushes it into my hand. I can't quite make out the label in the dim lighting, but, upon opening, it yields a light floral scent. Shampoo. As she tilts her head backward, out of the spray, I pour a generous amount into my palm before massaging it through her hair. When the entire mane is full of suds, I gently push her head back under the spray and rinse it.

I perform the entire procedure a second time, and she seems satisfied as she points toward the conditioner. I work it through the strands until they finally feel silky and soft beneath my fingertips. Then I rinse it away as well. After her hair is finally clean, I pour a generous amount of liquid soap onto a washcloth. Starting with the back of her neck, I gently scrub at the exposed skin, gradually working my way down to her shoulders, her arms, then the middle of her back. As I work, I'm pleased to see that there aren't any marks on her. He must have been fairly gentle. I've heard of other women coming back with bite marks, scratches, bruises. Of course, the lack of obvious wounds doesn't mean that she isn't in pain.

Working slowly, but surely, I wash her buttocks and the backs of her thighs and calves before kneeling to cleanse her feet. She continues to keep her back to me, so I just start again at the bottom and reach around her to wash the front of her legs, and gradually work my way back up again. I'm forced to move closer to her in order to wrap my arms around her front. With my body still pressed against hers, she separates her feet slightly so that I can wash the area between her legs. I do so without comment, and then I finally bring my hands around to wash her breasts, carefully avoiding any touch that might be considered overtly sexual.

Finally, she turns her face to me, but her eyes remain shut. I wash her there as well, carefully caressing her nose, her chin, the sweep of her cheekbones.

After I'm done, she turns back into the spray before whispering, "Again."

Starting with her neck again, I proceed to wash her entire body once more.

After the second rinsing, she says "Enough," and places a hand on my hip to guide me into the spray. As the warm water sluices down my body, she repeats the process, washing first my hair, then my body, her light touch mirroring my own.

When she's satisfied, she turns the water off and grabs a towel, tossing me one as well. We dry ourselves with brisk efficiency, and she leads me back into the bedroom. After turning out all the lights, she slides into her bed and holds up the corner of the comforter until I join her beneath it.

I extend my arm toward her, and she accepts the invitation, settling her head against my shoulder and wrapping her arm firmly around my chest. Her voice low and exhausted, she whispers, "Just hold me, Michael, and don't let go. If I'm going to have dreams about someone's hands touching me tonight, I want them to be yours."

"Of course." She tilts her face up toward me and accepts my kiss: gentle, sweet, undemanding. "Sweet dreams, Nikita."

I cradle her protectively within my arms, surprised to realize that, for the first time in years, I'm content to simply hold and be held by someone, for no other reason than shared comfort. Some hours later, she begins to stir, and it's apparent that her dreams are anything but sweet. As she mumbles and moves restlessly, I pull her even more tightly against me and begin to murmur gently into her ear. I've never before told her what she means to me, but I tell her now, the words of love and devotion somehow easier to say in my native French. Or perhaps it's easier for me to tell her because I know she doesn't understand. In any case, the sound of my voice seems to calm her, and she relaxes against me, falling back into a peaceful sleep.

The next time that she stirs against me, I see daylight beginning to peek through the windows. She gradually opens her eyes and sees that I'm awake as well, and watching her. Without a word, she reaches across me, rummages around in the drawer of her nightstand, and withdraws a book. She pushes it into my hands as she slides out of bed and heads toward the kitchen.

I tear my gaze away from her glorious figure long enough to notice that the book I'm holding is well-worn, and obviously frequently used. She looks back over her shoulder in time to catch my expression as I realize that it's a textbook: Conversational French. It falls open in my hands, revealing pages full of highlighted text and small notes, in her neat script, written in the margins.

I curse myself for a fool for being unaware of her studies, and my stomach knots with apprehension. How can I love her, how can I allow her to love me, when either of us could be dead before nightfall? Before I can voice my doubts, I raise my eyes to hers, and she gives me a broad, beautiful smile, made all the more precious by its rarity. Last night, I was afraid that she would contemplate suicide if left alone. This morning, she is beautifully, radiantly alive, and I can't bring myself to regret that she finally knows exactly what she is to me.

I slip out of bed and go to her, for once, eager to begin the day.

End

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