WITH SAIMHE

Author's Notes: This is what happens when you put two LFN fan fiction writers in a room together for a weekend with Broadway music and Roy DuPuis tapes.

The black clad ghost walked the rain washed streets of Paris; his blonde shadow never far from him. He had walked for hours with no apparent destination, but with purpose. He had started his journey as the sun peeked over the horizon, reflecting briefly on the grey waters of the Seine, before disappearing again behind the storm clouds that dominated the autumn sky. He continued his solitary pilgrimage throughout the day, seemingly unaware of the drenching downpour that baptized both him and his shadow. Now, finally, as the weak fall sun sank away, his strides slowed; his shadow moved in closer to stand near his shoulder.

Together they turned the corner of the tiny street, the lights from nearby windows reflecting off its wet surface like a mirror. Before them lay a small square, an old stone fountain its centerpiece, a tiny café tucked into the far corner. The few patrons brave enough to challenge the storm clouds sat huddled at little tables, beneath brightly colored umbrellas that proclaimed the names of liquors and beers. The grey day, and the chilly air, had not dampened their spirits, and joyous laughter drifted across the square to the two silent figures standing there. The blonde shadow smiled at the sound - an affirmation of life. The ghost shivered.

It had been a month since Rene's death - since he had betrayed Rene - and still Michael could not reconcile his past with his present. He had tried to simply push his feelings aside and move on as he always did - but the dreams had haunted him until he avoided sleep. Then the lack of sleep had worn him down and eroded what little emotional control he had left. Finally, he had been unable to pretend any longer that he was "fine." He was quietly falling apart, shattering into so many pieces that he doubted his ability to reconstruct himself, yet again, and move on. Knowing that he was a danger, not only to himself, but to his team as well, he had requested a few days off in a final attempt to regain his equilibrium.

Michael hadn't thought it possible to shock Madeleine any longer, but his request for time off had surely done so. For a brief moment he imagined he'd seen compassion in her beautiful eyes, then she'd quickly regained her composure and regarded him for a long moment before responding. She had granted his request, but with one caveat: he was not to go alone. Michael had relented and accepted her condition, because it was his only option. He had been surprised when Nikita showed up at the door to his office and asked, "So where are we going?"

The sound of laughter drifting across the square caused a shiver to run up Michael's spine and his mind to tumble back in time. It was at those very tables that he and his friends had spent so many hours. In the shadow of the old fountain they had laughed and sang; they had talked of classes, of love, of politics - and of revolution. It was here, on a warm spring day, that L'Heure Sanguine had been born. It was here he had made choices that shaped the path of his life - a path he had walked for over a decade - a path that soon would equal half his lifetime.

At the time he'd wanted to help effect a change; he'd never guessed that it was his own life that would change most of all. Looking at the young faces across the square, they easily transformed into those of his friends - friends now dead and gone. He alone survived. The one everyone thought was the first to die was the sole remaining witness that any of them had lived at all.

Everything had seemed possible then. They had been so full of anger and fury and self-righteousness. They had believed that they could change their world. But nothing had gone as they'd planned; or at least as Michael had thought they had planned. He knew now that from the start Rene had intended the bomb to kill; but while they talked of demonstrations and marches his true colors had remained hidden. It was only hours before Rene's death that the veil had finally lifted from Michael's eyes and he'd seen the truth that had always been there: Rene had always been a terrorist - never a revolutionary.

Michael had not seen that at the time. Even when he had been left behind after the bombing, and arrested. Even during the trial, and following his abduction by Section, Michael had maintained his belief that he was a casualty of an undeclared war and that his sacrifice meant something. All his years in Section, while trying to find some justification for his continued existence, he'd clung to the knowledge that for a brief moment in his life he had been valued, he'd had friends, and his life had mattered. There were times, before Nikita, when that was all that had kept him sane.

Then in a matter of days, of hours, his entire life had been shattered; the very tenet that had rationalized his existence, blown to pieces. Michael could not reconcile the friend he'd sacrificed everything for with the man Rene had turned out to be. A month ago he had betrayed Rene; fourteen years ago Rene had betrayed him.

Nikita shadowed Michael as he prowled the gray streets of Paris wondering what haunting memories he followed. The had walked the rain drenched streets for the better part of the day: starting as the sun rose. She had kept a quiet distance, giving him what solitude she could, while keeping him always under her vigilant gaze.

For the last month she had watched as Michael slowly tore himself apart with guilt. In the aftermath of Rene's death, Nikita had been paralyzed by her own fear; unprepared for the impact that Michael's willingness to die had on her. Never, not when she witnessed the murder of the policeman, or when she had awakened in a sterile white room, had she experienced the terror she felt when she had seen the look of resignation - the longing for death - in his eyes.

Nikita had not been surprised when summoned to Madeleine's office; Michael's deterioration could no longer go unnoticed by Section. What had surprised her was learning that she would be accompanying Michael on a trip - not a mission. Madeleine made it clear to Nikita not to let Michael out of her sight, he was on edge and thus unpredictable. In her trademark dispassionate voice she had stated that either Nikita returned with Michael fully capable of performing his duties or they would both be canceled: failure was not acceptable. It was not an empty threat, yet Nikita knew that Madeleine understood that it was not what motivated her to help Michael and a quiet moment of communion passed between the two of them. As she had turned to leave, Madeleine had called after her, "You're the only one who can reach him, Nikita. Don't fail him." Nikita left the office, never looking back.

The sound of laughter drew Nikita's attention back to the present. She realized for the first time that Michael had stopped the perpetual motion he had been in all day and she moved to stand beside him. They had stopped in a small square that surrounded an old fountain; the laughter drawing her attention to a café nestled in one of its corners. She smiled unconsciously and glanced sideways at Michael, seeing the haunted expression on his gaunt features. She shivered, still feeling the shadow of death that clung to him. Instinctively she knew that this café was the catalyst she needed. Calling on everything he had taught her, and her love for him, she forced a smile to her lips and took his hand.

His quiet acquiescence to her touch both unnerved and encouraged her, "Come on, Michael." His only response was to look at her, his face expressionless, his eyes tired and filled with pain. Pulling gently on his hand, she lead him to the café, finding them a table tucked in a dark corner. He sat quietly, his gaze slowly drinking in the sights and sounds around them, although Nikita doubted that he truly saw anything but shadows from his past.

Nikita quietly ordered two coffees from the waiter then sat back and hoped for the right moment to present itself.

Part Two The café was filled with boisterous voices and laughter; Michael barely registered the noise. Instead he heard the voices of friends long dead, and the sounds of protests and demonstrations. He could hear Rene's voice, soft and persuasive, leading them - leading him - down a path of betrayal and lies.

He accepted the manipulation of his life by Section - had done so, since the moment he first woke to Jurgen's face in the white room, to protect those he loved. He had accepted it because it was his due, the price he paid for the mistake that had cost innocent lives. He believed that he was sacrificing himself for those he loved, so that they could continue to live untouched by the darkness that had claimed him when the bombs had exploded prematurely. But it was all a lie. Rene had manipulated Michael from the start, targeting his naivete, his idealism and his trust, and used it to murder. He had turned Michael into a martyr to the cause - using his name and sacrifice to draw others in - others now dead as well. More innocent blood he could not clean from his hands.

"Michael?"

Staring at the table that sat off center to a fireplace - the table where L'Heure Sanguine was born - he could hear Nikita's voice softly calling to him. Michael felt Nikita gently squeeze, then caress, his hand. Turning to look at her, he saw the love and concern in her eyes. A slight smile curled his lips; he was glad she was here with him. He needed her - she was a balm against the pain - a certainty amidst his confusion. His rock.

She tilted her head to the side and seemed to absorb his very presence, enfolding him with the warmth in her eyes. "What do you see, Michael?"

Turning away from Nikita's penetrating gaze, refocusing on the table by the fire, Michael whispered, "Lies." Taking a deep breath, he wanted, needed, to finally explain things to her. "We met here during the student protests. We sat there making plans. The government was not responding as we had hoped. Rene wanted to escalate the protests - to show them we were serious." He paused, still unable to look at her, squeezing her hand. "The bombs were Rene's idea. I built the timing mechanisms. No one was supposed to be there." Michael paused again, looking toward the ceiling.

"But people were there," Nikita whispered, turning her hand over in his, lacing their fingers tightly together.

While the compassion and sympathy in Nikita's voice soothed him, it was the lack of accusation that allowed Michael continue. "Yes," he replied absently. He looked into his coffee cup, at his hand in hers, at the blazing fire - everywhere but at Nikita's face. "15 minutes after I placed the bombs, they detonated too soon. I stayed to help the wounded. When the police came, somehow they knew I was responsible. They wanted the names of my friends - I refused. I protected them from my mistake." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories of the days following the explosion. Trying to forget the pictures on the front of the newspapers that the police had thrown in front of him: pictures of death and destruction that he had caused. Michael felt Nikita's hand on his chin, gently turning his face toward her. He finally looked at her, saw her body tremble, heard her breath catch in her throat, at the grief and pain he knew reflected in his eyes.

"Michael?" she whispered, as if afraid that any loud sound would shatter the man before her.

"It wasn't an accident. I did not misprogram the timers; somehow Rene reset them. He planned it. He planned the death of innocent people. He ..." Michael's throat constricted making it impossible to speak. He felt the gentle caress of Nikita's fingers on his cheek and saw her eyes fill with tears. "He left me there to believe I had murdered...," his voice broke as he fought the catch in his throat, struggling to free himself of the final words.

Nikita said them for him. "He left you to rot in jail knowing you'd be charged for something you didn't do," her voice cracked and she paused. He could see her struggling to control her own grief, and outrage, at what had been done to him. Nikita gently brushed the moisture from his lashes, staring straight into their smoky green depths. Her voice deepened, becoming more precise, as it always did when she became impassioned, she whispered, "He betrayed you."

There they were; the words that had been racing through his head since the night of Rene's death. Words that had come crashing down on Michael's soul when he'd heard Rene order his followers to place bombs they were assembling where they would kill the most people. Until that moment, despite the fact that he knew Rene had planted a bomb days earlier in a courtyard full of school children, Michael had refused to believe Rene was a killer. He had needed to believe that Rene was exactly what he had always imagined him to be: the student activist, the idealist. It was necessary for his own sanity that it be true - and in that split second Michael knew with absolute certainty that it wasn't true. It had never been true. Now, with Nikita's words hanging in the air between them, Michael didn't know what to do next to set his world back on it's axis. He didn't know how to stop his fall into the grief and pain that consumed him. He stared into Nikita's troubled eyes then pulled their clasped hands toward his lips, placing a kiss upon her palm, he whispered, "I'm glad you are here."

Nikita's heart caught in her throat at Michael's soft, almost inaudible words. Even in his pain he could make her heart soar. She looked a moment longer into his tormented eyes and then her mind started to turn. Her own anger and pain no longer mattered. She had to find a way to bring him back, to set his world right, and to make palatable the choices he had made and the life he had lead. Nikita understood, for the first time, that she and Michael were not so very different - at least not in the beginning. He had been an idealistic young man, searching for a place to belong, ending up in a circumstance out of his control. Granted, his actions had resulted in the loss of innocent lives, but it had never been his intention. Michael had come to Section just as she had - without the soul of a killer.

It made Nikita mad to know that the sweet passionate young man - the one willing to sacrifice himself for his friends - had turned into an emotional cripple. He had turned into a man so afraid of giving into his feelings that he was going to strangle on them. The crime that Michael had committed, the killing of innocents, was no less heinous than what had done to him - the killing of innocence.

Words, and half formed memories, flashed in her mind as she sought for a way to help heal Michael. Dragging her chair close to his side, Nikita locked her gaze onto his gray-green eyes. "Why did you protect them Michael? What did you gain from it?" She watched the parade of expression through his eyes, the initial shock, the bewilderment.

"Nothing. They were my friends." He answered in a confused, pained tone. The tortured look in his eyes telling her clearly of his self doubt.

"Exactly Michael. They were your friends, you protected them. To do anything less would have been unthinkable. Whatever you did Michael, your reasons were honest. You followed your heart. It doesn't matter what anyone else did, only what you did," Nikita said, her voice strong with conviction. She wanted desperately for Michael to hear her- to believe her.

Nikita could see Michael resisting her words, retreating behind protective walls. She felt him pulling his hand from hers - she tightened her grip. His eyes darted away from her gaze, returning once again to the tiny table in the corner. "Michael, look at me," she said, her voice soft and pleading.

Waiting for his response, Nikita watched as he slipping away. His posture shifting forward, the muscles across his back bunching and tensing as if he strained toward something. His brow furrowed in concentration, as if listening to conversations only he could hear. His eyes following phantoms only he could see. When Nikita saw Michael's face clouded over with sorrow and resignation, she knew she had to stop him from withdrawing further. In an clear, authoritative voice, she demanded, "Michael, look . . .at . . . me!

As she hoped, Michael responded to the command in her voice, turning toward her. Nikita watched as the clouds lifted from his face, the grief still evident in his eyes, his attention again focusing solely on her. She saw his desperation, his need to believe in her version of events. A silent plea for help. "Michael, you were young and impressionable. You wanted to belong. Rene took advantage of that - he took advantage of you. He wasn't the man you thought he was. If you had stayed with him, instead of going to jail, you would have become just like him. Intentionally killing innocent people for obsolete causes." Nikita watched as his shoulders sagged and he sank into his chair, his eyes shifting their focus to just over her right shoulder.

She recognized that Michael diverting his gaze was not a withdrawal from her, but rather his means of shielding himself from the depth of his own emotions. She had seen him do it many times and she knew he was still listening to her. For the first time since Michael had brokenly told her that she should have let Rene kill him, Nikita felt a sense of hope. His resistance was wavering, he was beginning to accept that he wasn't the traitorous friend he had painted himself to be.

"Michael, you told me that you can't separate a man from his actions. What about your actions? You chose to help the injured people instead of running. You chose to protect your friends, even knowing what it would cost you - your sister. You're not perfect, Michael, and you've been forced to make some damn hard choices. Don't let Rene take that away from you."

Nikita watched as Michael's eyes closed, tears clinging to his lashes . He took several shuddering breathes, attempting to regain his composure, before he opened his eyes to meet her gaze.

"Don't let Rene take that away from you."

Michael heard Nikita's words, and recognized the simple truth in them. Closing his eyes against the tears, Michael fought for control. It did not matter what he could have done - it was what he had done, and what he continued to do - that defined him. That Rene had turned out not to be who Michael thought he was, didn't change who Michael was himself. For fourteen years he had believed that he had sacrificed himself to protect his friends - that his role in Section was penance for his sins. He had never regretted it. Not until he had come face to face with Rene, the cold-blooded terrorist. Not the friend, but the enemy. The truth that was the foundation of his life, his solace, ceased to exist and left Michael floundering to understand his role, his purpose.

Nikita's words, her gentle presence, had forced him to reexamine how he justified his existence. He finally understood that his life still had meaning. That the friends he had now valued him, not because they shared a cause, and regardless of the lies and pain he often inflicted, but because they genuinely cared for him. Through Section, Michael had been able to affect a far greater change - a change for good - than he had ever dreamt while in L'Heure Sanguine. Although this wasn't the life he ever would have chosen for himself - it was a life with purpose. That was more than most people could claim.

Feeling a weight lift from his heart, he opened his eyes and gazed into Nikita's concerned blue eyes. Bringing her hand to his lips, he again kissed the soft skin of her palm, smiling gently at the quizzical look she gave him. "Thank you, Nikita," he said softly. He watched the transformation wash over her face, the concerned look giving way to one of happiness, a smile kissing her lips and her eyes filling with tears of relief.

" It stopped raining. Let me show you my Paris tonight." he said, rising from his chair, pulling her up with him. Nikita continued to stare at him, her happiness palatable. In that moment, seeing the smile so long missing from her beautiful face, Michael realized just how frightening the past weeks must have been for her, and he pulled her into a crushing embrace.

She quickly wrapped her arms around him and whispered her reply, "You're welcome, Michael. I'd love to see you're Paris, but can we eat first? I'm starved."

He laughed at her response, enjoying the playful sound in her voice. This was his Nikita. This was the woman he loved. This was his friend.

"I think there might be one or two restaurants in this town. Let's go find one," he teased. Slipping his arm around her waist, he escorted her from the café and away from his past.

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