Disclaimer: LFN and its characters do not belong to me (unfortunately). They do, however, belong to Fireworks Productions, Warner Brothers, USA Network, Joel Surnow and the rest of the La Femme Nikita production crew, and the wonderful actors who bring these characters to life for us. I am only borrowing them for amusement and are not making any money from them whatsoever.

This vignette was written after the events in On Borrowed Time.

Standing in the shower he let the water pound over him and wash off the frustration of the night. The opaque night where sleep eluded him. So when he finally caught it the dreams took their toll. For there he could have the illusion of happiness that was out of his grasp during the bright light of day. She was there complete and whole.

As he stepped out of the shower droplets of water slowly caressed his body leaving a moist trails on the freshly moistened sculpted body. Grabbing a black towel he wiped off the excess moisture of his body in a slow methodical rhythm that he could without thinking. Once he finished he tugged on the black robe that was hanging on the back of the door to the bathroom. He proceeded then to use the towel to dry off his hair. Standing in front of the sink his hand reached out to wipe the condensed water on the mirror. In the mirror he looked at his reflection. In his fathomless eyes the depth of green, the clarity of thought, the bright light that shone despite the trappings of darkness. A hint of five o'clock shadow graced his face he was in no mood to shave. He had too much to accomplish.

Walking out of the bathroom to his room in order to dress. He stood in front of his open closet. A splash of color could not be found in the closet. All that could be seen were a variety of suits, shirts, and coats in various shades of black. Black the color of choice. The only color he dressed in if given a choice. The color of darkness that hides all sins. The color of mourning for a life that never had a chance. It was the shade of solitude. Member in highly select group destined for a life of solitude. The color of roads which were meant to be traveled yet not at the speed that had been chosen for him. The color wrapped, protected, and was his armor through which no one can break.

To wear color was to put on a different persona. Attiring himself in the dizzying shades of the rainbow allowed glimpses into his hidden self. A smile, laugh, a carefree joy all was a sham dressed in color. It was never truly felt for once that color was shed so was the emotion that went with it. Anything that was real to him was dressed in black.

He made all of his wardrobe choices consciously. This mode of dress allowed him to attempt to save a shred of his multihued soul. Yet as there years passed in Section he believed it had died despite his best attempts.

Even the women in his life had not done much to change his wardrobe decisions. With Simone black was still the color of choice. Although with Elena, gray and beige became the shade for the half-life he was leading. When he realized immortality through the birth of his son, Adam. He allowed more colors into his wardrobe around the child. Some part of him would be free to wander yet he was still caged.

It was not until he saw a pair of dazzling yet devastated blue eyes that sparked a glimmer of light back in his dark soul. The change was imperceptible at first. Then he began to realize that perhaps the color of life had not completely died in him. The riot of color that encompassed Nikita was the entire rainbow he needed. The pink flush of her cheeks, the yellow silk of her hair, each distinct and wild pair of sunglasses, the amber hue of her laugh, the riotous colors that she wore in the beginning before the assimilation began. He did not realize how much color she had given him until he believed her to be dead and he was plunged into darkness once again.

Upon her return color slowly disappeared from her wardrobe as well gray and black began to predominate her wardrobe towards the end. Yet colors still made an appearance in her attire. Until that day when something changed in the woman who was the rainbow life. Section deflected the multi-layered woman into one color: white.

The color of purity, the color of nothing hidden, no depth of passion, bland, empty erased clean. White the color of snow that erases all marks of anyone's footprints as if they had never walked that path. As if he had never had a place in her heart or been bound to her soul, it had all vanished. She was painting her wall in the blinding purity of white when she made the shocking pronouncement that she no longer loved him.

That declaration of love lost was the equivalent of a neatly thrust sword through his chest. The blood poured from his body in that moment. Droplets of the crimson substance could be found everywhere he looked. Every meeting with her left him wounded. He gathered the tattered remains of himself and made a vow that he would not let them do this to her or to them.

Yet as he thought about it, he realized that while white was the absence of color and black the amalgamation of all color. The two polar extremes divided by the realm of color in the valley below. He could scream his displeasure from the high peak where he was situated. Yet the cavernous valley of hues below swallowed it. Never once breaking through to the other side.

He longed to leap to take away those blinders of white she was sporting and bring her back to life even if it was to see red the color of his pain.

Razor blades cut at him at every turn. Thankfully they had not made love at his apartment or he would have been driven mad by memory. For this was never his home her apartment was where their love found a home. Her apartment held so many memories. There were few memories of her here. The one memory that was a beacon to him was when she tried to call him back from the edge after his separation from Adam.

He considered this whole experience penance for being cautious in the beginning. These are the thoughts that kept him company those long two months when she was out of reach. He was an open wound that left a trail of unseen blood wherever he went but at least she was alive. Chastising himself for not throwing caution to the wind was driving him insane. All those times he pushed her away played through his mind.

"I can't allow you to become my weakness."

Her gentle touch on his shoulder after he delivered the message of rejection. The gentle quiet yet angry understanding in those eyes shone in her eyes. She was not only his weakness she was what he looked to as the barometer of the state of his soul.

He anxiously awaited her return. When the day finally arrived he could barely contain his excitement. When he looked into her eyes they were endless abyss bent on beating him in the sparring match. There were noticeable changes everywhere he looked: her fighting technique, her hair, and her choice in clothes. It seemed she had ripped out a page from his book. Now all she wore was black in section. Black was now her color of choice. She now wore black in an attempt to color the slate that had been erased.

Those cerulean eyes that reflected strength, tenacity, innocence and verve for life now reflected a chilling icy gaze. Frozen in place held by invisible chains he could not break. For now she was the operative he always wanted her to be but never like this.

Every meeting with her left him drained and chilled. Now the words I love you tripped off her lips. Before it was him who pulled away and left her standing. Now she was the one who left him abandoned with an aching longing.

She could only bear his touch if they were sparring. Other than that human contact made her flesh crawl. He could tell for Nikita would burrow further into their embraces or into his hands she would lean in forward. Nikita hungered for contact with him and her unconscious desires betrayed her. He recalled that a touch from her energized his flagging spirit. Her kisses were his resurrection. The last kiss she gave him was not of resurrection it was the kiss of death from a walking cadaver, a soulless spirit.

Now he was on a mission. The most important mission of his life to save the woman who redeemed his soul. It was up to him to retrieve and resurrect hers. No matter the cost in lives, to himself even if he had to sacrifice his life for her. He was a willing supplicant praying to be the instrument of her salvation.

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