Scarred By:   Kyaran Caledonii  Copyright  January   15,   1999 Michael had been captured. Nikita tried to focus on the mission profile for the thousandth time that day. But she failed, all she could think about was him. His capture was part of a set up destined to infiltrate a terrorist group but that didn't make it any easier on her. And certainly not on him. Michael was wearing a transmitter at the time of his abduction when he and his team had attacked the terrorists’ presumed headquarters. Section knew all along that the location was a decoy and that the real HQ were elsewhere. Michael was supposed to let himself be kidnapped while all his team -abeyance operatives- were decimated. He would then be taken to their real command center for interrogation. His transmitter would allow Birkoff to trace him and attack them.So far the plan had been working perfectly and Operations and Madeline were extremely pleased. Nikita watched Operations’ glass tower with hatred in her eyes. She could see him smile at Madeline, completely oblivious of the fact that as they spoke Michael was being tortured.  And Nikita was following all the stages of his hell. According to the mission profile she was not supposed to monitor him. Section was confident Michael wouldn't break under torture and Birkoff was as usual supposed to keep an open link with him while searching for his location. Nikita was only supposed to lead the team that would infiltrate the base and rescue him. She was on close quarters standby waiting for the attack signal but she had been unable to stay idle not knowing what was happening to him. She had asked-no, ordered Walter to give her a comm-link similar to Birkoff's. He had refused at first, saying it wasn't a good idea. But she wouldn't be denied. He had finally granted her the device after making sure that she wouldn't be able to talk to Michael. Only minimum communications from Birkoff was allowed since the channel was not secured and the terrorists could pick up a long term signal. Walter knew that she wouldn't resist the urge to speak to him if given the chance. At the time, his worries hadn't made sense to her. But after only a few minutes of listening to what was going on in Michael's cell, she had realized that she would have indeed endangered the whole mission. She couldn't stand it. Granted a normal comm-unit she would have tried to soothe his pain with her words, with her voice. She would have told him to hold on, that it would be over soon, that she loved him, now and always, that she was coming to get him out of here and hold him forever. Anything to help him go through this... She had been listening to his interrogation for what seemed like hours and she was now pacing nervously behind Birkoff urging him to hurry. The young man had been relieved when he had realized Nikita was linked to Michael. He hated to monitor these types of mission, plus it broke his concentration. But now, he didn't think it was such a relief after all. He was doing his best to accelerate the process but he wasn't done yet. And he knew Nikita would make him pay for it. "Hurry Birkoff!" she ordered for the thousandth time as she listened to Michael's soft moans. He had been injected with every drug possible and his jailers were beginning to understand he wouldn't break. Birkoff didn't bother to answer and only braced himself for the upcoming storm. He didn't wait long. Nikita leaned threateningly over his shoulder hissing in his ear "Tell me you're done soon or I swear my voice will be the last thing you hear." Birkoff swallowed hard. He thought of all the times he had prayed she would lean over him like that. Her breasts softly caressing his back, her hot breath teasing his ear... *Be careful what you wish for,* he reminded himself. The beginning of his favorite fantasy was turning into a nightmare. "Soon," he lied in a whisper. She slapped his head with the back of her hand and resumed her pacing. Birkoff sighed and returned to his keyboard. He knew this mission was hard for her but he also wished she wouldn't take her anger out on him. Ten minutes later, he was still far from finding the location and began to sweat heavily. When Nikita heard Michael's jailers threaten to use "old-fashioned methods" on him, she slapped Birkoff's head again and urged "Faster!" This time Birkoff lost it. He abandoned his task to turn around in his chair and face her. "I would go MUCH faster if you stopped bitching around!" he yelled. She paused her pacing and starred at him with a death threat in her eyes. Birkoff immediately resumed his work breathing heavily. She looked like a wild cat ready to claw right now and the tight mission gear she wore reinforced the impression. *Gosh, even angry, she arouses me,* he thought, even though he was beginning to wonder if he would survive the day, especially if they could not reach Michael in time. But after a few seconds, he felt Nikita move behind him. He followed her from the corner of his eye and saw her leave. He exhaled heavily and typed faster on his keyboard. Nikita walked unconsciously towards Michael's office unaware of her surroundings, focused only on the sounds coming from Michael's cell. She passed Walter's counter and heard him call her. "Sugar..." he gently said. "Not now, Walter!" she warned, raising her hand to stop him. Walter sighed shaking his head as he watched her enter Michael's office. **************** Nikita closed the door behind her and leaned on it. She then moved to close the blinds plunging the room into darkness. She sat on his chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. She closed her eyes focusing more acutely on the sounds she heard. As promised, Michael's jailers had gave up on advanced technology to make Michael talk. Nikita heard the distinctive clicks of metal around his wrists. Then, a noise she had trouble identifying. A piercing whizz and then a sharp rip as it connected with Michael's skin. It took her a few seconds to realize Michael was being whipped. He was still silent but Nikita's heart was breaking a little more every time the whip slashed his skin. She could see the scene in her mind's eyes: Michael chest bare with each arm attached to a wall by metal chains. His muscles taunt and hard and his back slashed repeatedly by the monster holding the whip. While she was pacing behind Birkoff she had tried to hide her true emotions, masking them with her anger and nervousness. She was in the middle of Section with a mission at hand and Michael would have wanted her to remained focused. She had tried hard but now that she was alone, she allowed herself to cry. She was comforted by Michael's silence in a way. All she could hear was the muffled sounds he made every time the whip hit him. She wiped the tears from her face, if he could be strong under the circumstances, so could she. She was bracing herself for more when all sounds stopped. Then she heard footsteps and a voice ordering Michael to open his eyes. "Tough guy, hum," she heard the voice say. "Well I have a special recipe for men like you. I like my meals salty, don't you," he laughed. Then the whipping resumed. Shortly after, Nikita heard Michael scream in agony. ******************************* At his first cry of pain, Nikita jerked in her chair and nearly fell. She opened her eyes realizing she had never heard him yell like that before and it scared her to death. She remembered the thug’s last words. *Salt,* she thought. *Oh my god, no.*She imagined the scene again. She was sure the bastard had poured salt on the whip's lashes, doubling the suffering each time they ripped Michael's open wounds. She bit her lip resisting the urge to shout out of her lungs. For a few seconds, Nikita tried insanely to convince herself that Michael was pushing it a bit so that his jailers would think he was about to break. Giving them what they expected instead of his usual stoicism. Madeline had designed a little scenario if Section couldn't retrieve him fast enough. False intel he could feed them to divert their attention while Section was trying to find his location. Nikita waited for Michael to beg them to stop, following the mission profile. But he didn't. Instead he only yelled in pain. Nikita closed her eyes again and pressed her hands to her ears but she kept the comm-link. She was panting and vowed to place a bullet in each of Michael's torturers after she broke every bone of their soulless bodies. And if any lived long enough to make it to the White room, she would then gladly take Madeline's place this time. She looked forward to it... As she heard another yell coming from Michael, she started to rock back and forth in the chair, sobbing. "God, please make them stop," she prayed silently. "Please, Michael, please. Say something to them, anything. Feed them the lies Madeline made up, please...." She heard another sharp cry and she sobbed more heavily cursing Section, those bastards and herself for not being able to make them stop. "Why don't you speak Michael, why," she said out loud wishing he could hear her. Suddenly the cries stopped and so did Nikita's heart. ************************************ Inside the terrorists’ headquarters, Michael welcomed unconsciousness with relief. His body sank towards the floor but his arms chained to the wall kept him from falling down completely. He fainted nevertheless, his body standing up supported by the cuffs holding his wrists. He had been fighting his jailers for hours and now he was happy to just let go.Torture, Madeline had taught him during his training, was a battle for control. Not just the vicious pleasure to inflict pain. It was a battle of wits between the torturer and his "victim". The torturer's goal was to gain total submission to his brutal will. He looked forward to owning his victim literally, body and soul. Any piece of information relinquished, even unimportant, was a symbol of his upcoming victory. But, according to Madeline, torture should not be experienced from a submissive point of view. Just because somebody could take advantage of your body didn't mean they had the power. There was a way to turn the tables around, to win the battle. And it was through resisting, giving away nothing. By refusing to surrender one's control to another person, one could still fight. Resistance was not easy and each person needed to find a specific way to face torture. Every individual used a different defense mechanism, but it could be achieved with the proper training. And Michael had been thoroughly trained. You didn't achieve Level 5 status without several torture sessions at the hands of Madeline and her dreaded duo. Michael had not broken a single time under brutal force. The drugs were different, harder to fight. But Section had made sure his body was accustomed to most of them. It had been an excruciating process. But then again, it was the usual path towards Level 5. Madeline had often asked Michael what was his way of dealing with torture and every time he had just smiled. The young operative had learnt long ago that there was no trick to ignore pain. No secret relaxation method, no Taoist exercise. There was no distancing of the mind from the body, no comfortable place to reach inside your head to escape. No, the pain had to be faced and endured. Each operative had different reasons to remain silent under torture. Fear of being cancelled by Section was the most common. But there was always a moment when the sharpness of pain exceeded the need to stay alive. And Michael had known those moments more often than most. Anyway with him, the fear of cancellation had never been the thing that kept him going. His resilience lied elsewhere. As far as he could remember, Michael had always resisted authority. He hated relinquishing any control. Anybody who thought they knew him since he "joined" Section would have been surprised to hear that, but it was true. He had become an anarchist because he loathed any kind of Power telling him what to do and how to do it. It was a real cosmic joke that his sentence for his crimes as a terrorist had been to submit to the most controlling organization ever created. He had eventually submitted to it though. Mainly because he felt he DESERVED it. For his crimes demanded penalty. He had been full of arrogance and idealism when he had joined René Dian's L'Heure Sanguine. He had agreed with his friend's logic when he had told him they were at war and all wars made innocent victims. He had helped build the bomb and planted it with René. Then, he had stayed to witness the first stage of the upcoming Revolution they were initiating, following the traces of their heroes Danton and Robespierre. But when the bomb had exploded, when Michael had seen the blood, the torn bodies, heard the screams... And that smell! Oh my god, he had never been able to forget that smell. The smell of death HE had brought upon these people. When that happened, all his certainties shattered. René had urged him to go but he had remained frozen. He had just stared at the scene in horror. René had tried to drag him away but he had silently pushed him away in shock. At the sound of the first sirens, René had ran, urging him to follow. But Michael had stayed. He had watched the people run around crying for help, witnessed the first ambulances helping the wounded, the passers-by offering their help, the photographers taking pictures to capture the drama... When the police had arrived, he was still there. He had noticed a man pointing at him whispering to a police officer. But he still hadn't moved. A nurse had approached him asking if he needed any help, but he was still silent. Only when the police agent had discarded the nurse and asked him to follow him to testify "as a witness", had he regained the faculty of speech. He had looked at the scene and just said "C'est moi" ("That's me") in a hollow voice. Complete confession apart from René's involvement in the attempt had soon followed at the police station. Then he had been jailed and finally recruited by Section One. He had first fought Section like any new recruit, hating to give away any bit of control. But he was intelligent and he knew this was a battle he could not win. He had ultimately complied because he looked at it like his death sentence for his crimes and also because he could agree with Section's methods. He could see the big picture and understand Section's ruthlessness. Given his innate disgust for authority, it had been difficult for him not to resist any attempt made at breaking his will. Many operatives saw him as Section's pawn, completely under Operations' control. But that was not true. He accepted the logic of Section's rules willingly, so to speak. But, when his own system of values clashed with it, he usually found a way to bend those rules successfully. Section controlled his life but not him. It was a distinction that allowed him to keep his sanity. During torture, it was still his will and his pride that forbade him to relinquish any kind of control over him. He could let his body be brutally used by Section or others, but his mind was his. And he would never divulge any information he had refused to give. The safety of Section didn't even enter his thoughts. He just refused to break. This was his way of winning the battle of wits. His stoicism under pain always angered his jailers. He knew he would probably escape more brutality if he allowed himself to scream, just to make them believe they were getting to him. But he would not grant them the smallest victory if he could avoid it. And this time was no different. He had managed to remain silent through it as usual, focusing on turning the tables of control. He was the one in control of his body by refusing to yell. He was the one in control of his mind by refusing to speak. When his torturer had threaten to pour salt on the whip, the thought of adjusting to Madeline's profile had entered his mind. But he had soon discarded it. He didn't need to use it. He could face the pain. He had smiled then. After all he deserved it... There was a part of him Michael had managed to keep hidden from everybody, especially Madeline's inquisitive brain. An emotion that resurfaced every time he was tortured and his main weapon to resist it. In a dark corner of his soul lied an evil feeling that had blossomed to life the day he had placed the bomb in Paris. Since then, Michael "enjoyed" the pain. If his life in Section was the punishment for his first crimes, his deeds as a cold op had only added new sins to the list. And Michael was not naive enough to think that Section's greater good policy discharged him of any responsibility. He carried the burden of his acts alone, he knew where to lay the blame. He was the one pulling the trigger, the one whoring himself. The liar, the murderer, the damned... He had made a conscious choice when he had decided to live under Section's laws and Michael was not the type of man to deny his responsibilities. If there was ever a trial of Section One, Nuremberg style, he would never be the one claiming innocence for he was only obeying orders. He would plead guilty as charged and wait for his sentence. But, he still felt the dark need to pay for his deeds. And physical pain allowed him to do so. He never willingly inflicted pain upon himself. But whenever he was tortured, he lived through it as a retribution for the sufferings he caused. And when the salty whip's lashes had burnt his bloody back, he had known he would not go along with the profile. He needed to indulge his masochism. He had caused a lot of harm lately. He had a lot to pay for.... Maybe the excruciating pain he now felt would be punishment enough? When the man had ripped his skin again and again, he had thought of Adam and Elena. How he had broken them, destroyed their lives. And when the torture had threatened to overcome his senses, when he had nearly fainted from the pain, he had struggled to stay awake focusing on Nikita. He always thought of her under torture but not for comfort. No, he then remembered all the times he had hurt her physically or mentally. He had focused on the look of hurt on her face during the Vacek mission, on the numerous times he had brutally beaten her to follow a mission profile, he had thought of her more recent beating. She had been hurt and nearly died because he had been more concerned with himself than her own safety. He had wallowed in self-hatred and welcomed the pain. It was a catharsis for the hurt he felt inside but could not express. And as the salt was burning his back, he had allowed himself to yell this time. He had yelled for all the times he had betrayed her, screamed for being the one who brought her pain, cried because he loved her and couldn't tell her. Only then had he allowed himself to faint. And he had welcomed the darkness. *********************************** When Birkoff opened the door of Michael's office he found Nikita sobbing. But as soon as she heard he had discovered Michael's location, she was back in mission mode in a flash. She wiped the tears from her face and left to meet her team in van access. The trip was long but Michael would have been proud of her. Nikita was the epitome of the perfect cold op. She unconsciously mimicked his blank stares and apparent ruthlessness. She made sure that everyone in the van was aware that she would not tolerate any mistakes this time. She had lost all contact with Michael but she showed none of her fears. It was only because Michael's rescue depended on her ability to stay focused because she couldn't care less about the mission at hand. She silently prayed he had just fainted. She couldn't start to envision her life without him. She didn't know what she might do if he was dead. During the journey, she made any possible promises to God. She then bargained with Him. She vowed to pay any price He would ask if only He kept Michael safe until she arrived. She could take it from there. Even though she knew it was a promise she could never keep, she swore to protect him from harm until her dying day. She boldly entered the terrorists' base leading her team through the stairs and corridors with the taste of blood in her mouth. She killed without a second thought anyone trying to stop her. She gave the order to plant detonators before she retrieved Michael. But she refused to activate them before he was safe and sound. When she finally found his cell, Michael was still unconscious. She swallowed a cry at the sight of his bloody back. She moved rapidly towards him and opened the cuffs holding him with a key found on a guard she had just killed. His body collapsed in her waiting arms and she sighed with relief when she felt his pulse. She held him strongly but carefully as if he was the most fragile piece of china. He moaned and pressed his face into her neck. She felt a stab in her heart at the look of his injuries and wished she hadn't just killed the guard. She allowed him to sink to his knees still supporting him. She then gently touched his face urging him to wake up. "Michael, please, it's me, we need to get out of here," she whispered. He moaned again but opened his eyes. "Ni-ki-ta," he sighed breathing her scent and nuzzling up against her. She swallowed her tears at the tone of his voice and tried to make him stand. "We have to hurry," she insisted. He blinked and managed to take a few steps with her help clenching his teeth against the burning sensation on his back. "The charges?" he asked hoarsely. Nikita was always amazed at his capacity to revert to mission mode so fast. "Planted, but I take you out first," she said in a tone that meant the subject was not opened for discussion. He didn't fight her and instead focused on walking towards egress. Only when they were out did she give the order to detonate the bombs. She lead him back to the van and helped him sit. "Go," he ordered Birkoff before Nikita had time to give the command herself. With this simple word, Nikita was stripped of her mission leader status. Michael, wounded or not, was back in charge. She silently accepted it, aware he was not trying to diminish her by it. He just needed to be in control. The return trip to Section One was quiet. Everybody in the van avoided watching Michael. His pain was so evident that everyone was scared he would one day get back at them for seeing him in such a state of weakness. Only Nikita tried to take care of him. She refused to ask him how he felt, wishing to avoid the "I'm fine" routine. He looked terrible but she knew he would refuse to acknowledge it, especially in front of the rest of the team. His face was pale and his brow hot. He looked feverish but she couldn't give him any painkiller as long as she didn't know what kind of drugs were used on him. She still tried to tend his wounds with the medical kit at hand. She attempted to clean the blood on his back but Michael quickly stopped her. She saw in his clouded eyes that the lightest touch on his bare skin was only causing him more pain. At this stage even a breath of air on it made him wince. She nodded and sat back next to him. She stared at him tenderly, her eyes holding an apology for not arriving sooner. He returned her gaze, silently meaning he didn't blame her. She gripped his hand in understanding. To her surprise, he didn't push her away. On the contrary, he held her hand tightly until they reached Section. ****************** At van egress, Michael insisted to walk without Nikita's help. She didn't argue but stayed very close to him in case he would stumble. He didn't and gathered enough strength to meet Madeline waiting for him in the hall. "How are you doing, Michael?" she asked him coloring her voice with a hint of "sincere" worry. She noted that Nikita hadn't left the young operative’s side."I'm ready to debrief," he forced himself to say. He was staggering slightly, only able to stand up by sheer will power. Madeline observed Nikita's quick movement as she thought he would faint and then her retreat when she realized he wouldn't. She also noticed how the blonde operative silently begged her to spare Michael from an immediate debrief and to send him to Medlab. She felt like being lenient for a change. No need to torture him further. "I believe the mission was a success Nikita, congratulations," she said. "You'll debrief first, Operations is waiting for you. Michael go to Medlab now. I'll see you later." She didn't give him time to argue and left. She had nothing to learn from them anymore at this point. She could wait... ************* After her debrief with Operations, Nikita nearly ran to Medlab. It had taken all of her energy to remained focused on the questions of Section's leader. She had masked with a cold stare the urge to rip his chest open. She wanted him to feel just once the kind of pain he inflected on his subordinates. When he had dismissed her, she had left to check on Michael. She had no official business in Medlab. She was even ordered to go back home by Operations. But disobeying direct orders was her trademark and she knew he didn't expect her to leave. Madeline was probably spying on Michael right now, waiting for Nikita to appear to analyze each other's reactions. The game was on but she didn't care. She needed to be with him. Needed to be reassured he was alive and relatively well. It was no use pretending. Everybody knew better. Michael acknowledged her presence in the room the moment she was in. He didn't even need to turn his head. He had hoped and dreaded with the same fierceness that she would come. Nikita observed Michael's scarred back as a doctor cleaned his wounds. The whip had left long red cuts on his body and every movement made him wince. He had refused to lie down and just sat on a bed, still wearing his mission pants. A PDA lied on his lap. Michael had began to study Nikita's rescue mission profile, as soon as he had reached the Medlab welcoming the chance to review it before his debrief. He had stopped in his office first willing to study it there but he had been afraid to faint if he was left alone. So he had followed Madeline's command and let the doctors take care of him while he read the PDA. To his relief, Nikita's performance was flawless. There was only her reluctance to activate the detonators before he was safe but it had not threatened the success of the mission. He had been worried to learn that Nikita would lead the rescue team. Her competence was not at stake. He had trained her well and trusted her on the field. But he knew that when his safety was concerned she couldn't think straight. It angered him as much as it made him happy that she should react that way. He felt Nikita's roving eyes on his skin. And suddenly the burning feeling his back endured was not related to his torture anymore. Would she ever know how much she made him FEEL in spite of himself? Nikita continued to examine his back. He had such a beautiful body. She loved his strong muscles and soft lines. And it had been so brutally damaged... She knew once she'd be back in the relative safety of her apartment she would cry. No matter who was watching... For now, she tried to fight her tears, reassuring herself with the knowledge that the long red scars would soon disappear. Section would make sure of it. Plastic surgery had been used on Michael before. With all the bullets he had received, his skin was strangely unmarked. During their first night together, Nikita had marveled at the softness of his skin, like silk under her eager hands. But she had also recognized the tiny traces left by surgery on the spots where she remembered a bullet or dagger hitting him. Surgery was indeed necessary, or one look at his scarred body would have revealed his line of work and betray his cover. Yes, it would take a while before the cuts disappeared... but they would. As if they were never there... But the doctors could do nothing about the emotional scars. Madeline alone was supposed to provide the emotional support operatives needed after a torture session. The whole idea sounded like a joke! Nikita still had nightmares of her own torture sessions. She couldn't begin to imagine how Michael felt, he who had known so many over the years. She doubted one could ever get used to this sort of treatment. The doctor finished his work on Michael and left the room, leaving them alone but probably not unobserved. Michael still didn't bother to turn around to look at her. There was nothing to say. He wished he could alleviate her concern for him. He sometimes hoped he could destroy it. She would be so much safer if she didn't care for him... He lifted his head from the PDA and focused straight ahead looking absently at the wall. Nikita hesitated and moved closer to him. She stayed behind him though. She felt exposed, her feelings for him raw and intense. She voiced the question she had been wondering about earlier in his office. "Why didn't you use Madeline's scenario?" she whispered. Michael flinched involuntarily. *How did she know that?* he thought. It dawned on him that she had been listening to it all. He closed his eyes. She shouldn't have. It hurt him that she had forced herself to follow his descent into hell. She didn't need more darkness in her life. "The scenario was unnecessary at the time," he finally said with an even voice, opening his eyes again. Nikita felt her anger resurfaced. She feared his death wish had returned. What was he trying to do, get himself killed?! "When would you have considered it necessary, Michael? After they ripped all the skin off your back?!" she breathed hoarsely. Michael sighed and turned his head slightly to look at her. She was on the verge of tears. She still wore her mission gear and looked like she hadn't slept in days. She was beautiful. "You shouldn't have listened, Nikita," he whispered under his breath. He knew Madeline was probably watching this. She would soon ask him the very same question. And he would give her the same answer, he couldn't begin to explain to any of them why he had done it. "You always did when I was being tortured," she replied in a sorrowful voice. Yes, he did. And that was exactly why he didn't want her to go through it. But he couldn't say this. "This is different," he insisted. "Different how, Michael?" she asked, moving closer to him but staying behind his back. "You're my material," he explained. He had chosen his words carefully but couldn't conceal the softness of his voice. His sentence seemed to reduce her to a pure product, an object Section and he used. But the tender way in which he had pronounced "material" gave it a whole new meaning. Michael rarely told Nikita the whole truth but she had grown accustomed to decipher the hidden meanings of his scarce words. And what she heard him say was "You belong to me." She sighed and very lightly touched one of his shoulders far above the red marks. She felt him shiver and for a moment she was afraid she had hurt him, but when he didn't ask her to stop she grazed his skin again. "I know Michael, and you'll always be my mentor," she vowed. She felt a sigh leave his lungs as Michael lifted his head towards the ceiling, his short hair grazing her breasts. He stayed like that for a while, the back of his head nearly pressed on her chest. Then he moved slightly and she broke contact with him. She was about to leave when she caught his reflection in a mirror on the left wall. She couldn't see her own image in it and neither did he, she was too far on the left. His eyes were closed but when he opened them he looked at himself and she caught his look. She had hoped to see longing for her in his gray-green gaze but instead what she saw made her shiver. He looked at himself strangely as if he was staring at a complete stranger. As if he was surprised to meet him there. He soon painfully closed his eyes as if he couldn't stand the sight. He had not realized Nikita was still watching him or he would have been more careful. The truth was Michael hated mirrors. Every time he caught his reflection in one he was reminded of the poet Jean Cocteau's sentence: "Les miroirs sont les portes par lesquelles la mort vient et va" ("Mirrors are the doors death uses to come and go"). And that was all that he saw when he looked at himself: Death. Nikita, mouth opened, was trying to make sense of this. She suddenly wondered how he would look right now without the Medlab surgery team. Was it the way he saw himself in his mind's eye: a cripple, hurt, tortured body instead of the stunning young man for everyone else to see? Could he still see himself with all the scars, all the wounds untreated, when he looked at his reflection? She was reminded of the book "The Picture of Dorian Gray". In the story, a painter had captured the perfect beauty of a handsome young man. As the years passed, he stayed the same, unmarked by the passage of time and his unruly life. Only the painting showed his true image, the reflection of his physical and emotional decay. Was it what Michael had seen in the mirror, his true tortured soul? She couldn't know for sure but couldn't leave him like this. Not when she had witnessed so much pain in his eyes. No one cared enough for him to try to understand him and acknowledge his need for comfort. But she did. She silently walked behind him again. She saw his eyes open in the mirror. She saw a question in his gaze. He tried to move his head to face her but she placed her hands on his neck gently keeping him in place. She then lifted his head slightly until he was looking at their reflection in the mirror. Her fingers tenderly caressed his hair while she admired his image. She was watching him watching them. Then, pressing herself closer to him she willed him to focus only on her eyes. She let her heart speak through her gaze as she lovingly took in his features. He saw her caressing his brow with her eyes, then lower them heatedly on his lips. He followed their trail down his body, along the strong lines of his chest, to his hands and back to his eyes. He observed with wonder how she seemed to enjoy -No, love, want, worship- all she saw there. "This is you, too," she breathed against his ear. Michael desperately tried to control the urge to touch her when she bent her head to very slowly kiss his temple. She stood up again and placed her hands on his shoulders. She made him look once again at the beautiful picture they made, then moved to leave. Michael's eyes didn't follow her. Instead, he watched his reflection in the mirror again. And this time all he could see was the man Nikita loved.