Last Rites

There was no situation too extreme for him. Not when she was involved. Not when she was risking her life.

She lifted her head and stared at the heavy metal door. She hadn't fought the guards that took her here. What was the point? She hadn't lost hope. Not yet.

But they were too many men, too many guns pointing at her. When they left her alone, after strapping her arms to the chair, she didn't break either. She had faith. She patiently waited for the next person who would enter and end her misery. Her savior: Michael.

After several hours, her patience was rewarded. The door emitted a long wail and her lover entered the White Room.

"I knew you would come," she simply stated. She could have added “I also knew you wouldn't speak," because he didn't make a sound. Even the cold white walls that usually reverberated the softest noises didn't seem to keep track of his footsteps. He moved like a ghost and looked like one.

Nikita was reminded of the depth of her love for this man when the sight of his despair brought her to shiver in agony, whereas she didn't flinch at the thought of her own death.

"I'm sorry Michael," she added, her voice trembling with the tears she tried not to shed over him. "I failed you."

"You didn't fail me Nikita, just Section." And he moved to unstrap her hands. She absently massaged her wrists more out of habit than real pain. All her energy was focused on him. She got up and moved next to him, facing him.

He stared at her, from her bare feet to the top of her hair. Noticing how the white tank top she wore resembled the one he had taken off her that magic night in Lyon. How the large linen white pants matched those she was wearing during reprogramming.

He memorized every feature, the way her eyebrows gently arched, the curves of her hips, the fullness of her pink lips, the shortness of her hands and those incredible pale blue eyes. So innocent. Even now...

Nikita was taking in him the same way. She silently admired his quiet strength, his strong shoulders hidden by the dark clothes. The power his eyes held and the suffering. So much pain.

Finally, he raised his hand to caress her cheek and she pressed her face in his palm. She sadly smiled and he let the blank stare drop. He drank in her beauty and tasted her lips.

Nikita wanted to stay focused on his face but couldn't help closing her eyes. He was so tender, so sweet. She had imagined their last kiss as full of sorrow and desperation. But there was none, only love.

Michael broke the kiss to hold her tight. Nikita caressed his back trying to comfort him. In a way, she knew it would be harder for him than for her. She knew what she had to do. She kissed him again more urgently and while he was losing himself in her, she moved one hand to retrieve the gun from his holster. Very delicately, like he had taught her.

She sighed. "I always knew you would be the one to do it, Michael. But it doesn't have to be this way. Give me the gun and leave. I'll take care of it," she pleaded.

"No," he countered, his gaze holding her eyes captive. He placed his hand on her cheek again willing her to focus on his face. "Your life is mine to take."

Nikita couldn't contradict him. She was his, she couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been. She silently nodded and for the first time, he quietly smiled, happy that she accepted the truth of his words.

As much as he dreaded it, deep inside of him, he knew this time would eventually come. A time when her innocence would prevent her to carry out orders, a time when he would lose the leverage to intercede for her, a time when their jailers would finally lose patience.

There was no way he could prepare himself for it, but he had decided long ago that if worst came to worst, he would be the one to do it. Nobody else had the right to touch her. She belonged to him and he wouldn't let anyone take her life away. Only he could. It was his privilege. Even the higher powers of Section accepted this fact. They knew he would kill anyone involved in her cancellation. The only way to avoid death was to let him take care of it. As he

Nikita outlined the features of his face with the tip of her fingers taking in the beauty of it. "I love you," she smiled back. His smile faded and both his hands cupped her face as he pressed his forehead on hers.

"Je t'aime," he whispered, so low she was sure no microphones could tape it. She moved her hands to his hair, caressing it from his scalp to his neck.

His body tensed for a mere second before he relaxed. His right hand moved to the holster to retrieve the gun. The charger was empty, he had entered just one bullet.

The special one he kept for himself. It seemed fitting that he would use it on her, for she was his life.

Nikita buried herself in his arms one last time with fleeting thoughts of all the things she needed to tell him, all the things they never shared, all the hopes she had had for them. She tried to pour all her thoughts and love in a single line, and when she moved a little away from him to allow him to finish his task, she just said:

With an eerie smile, he held the gun close to her head, his other hand still on her cheek holding her in place. His voice loud and clear he answered: "No."

Before Nikita could register the meaning of his word, he pressed her closer to him and moved the gun to the back of her head with a 45 degree angle. He felt the panic in her eyes and the pressure of his hand on her cheek increased.

"That's the way it should be, my love. You are my life," he added and rested once again his forehead on hers.

He paused to kiss her deeply and passionately then chastised her with the same disapproving look he gave her when he trained her and she rebelled against his orders. "Ni-ki-ta," he warned. Only now, his voice held a heartbreaking tenderness.

When he used that tone, she knew he wouldn't be denied. So, disagreeing but accepting, she silently nodded. Michael offered her a pure smile of joy as a reward.

There was a noise in the background. A voice coming from a speaker. Was it Madeline? Movements outside the room. People screaming, running. They absently registered it, lost in each other’s gaze. Michael knew he had to do it fast before somebody tried to stop him. But he had waited for this moment his whole life and this was the one thing that Section couldn't deprive him of. So, quickly, he pressed the trigger.

The angle was perfect, an instant after entering Nikita's head, the bullet perforated Michael’s forehead. Neither of them closed their eyes again and they kept on smiling.


	LAST RITES By: Kyara Caledonii Copyright November 23, 1998 Nikita waited. She knew he would come. He always had. He always found a way. There was no situation too extreme for him. Not when she was involved. Not when she was risking her life. She lifted her head and stared at the heavy metal door. She hadn't fought the guards that took her here. What was the point? She hadn't lost hope. Not yet. But they were too many men, too many guns pointing at her. When they left her alone, after strapping her arms to the chair, she didn't break either. She had faith. She patiently waited for the next person who would enter and end her misery. Her savior: Michael. After several hours, her patience was rewarded. The door emitted a long wail and her lover entered the White Room. **~~~~~~* "I knew you would come," she simply stated. She could have added “I also knew you wouldn't speak," because he didn't make a sound. Even the cold white walls that usually reverberated the softest noises didn't seem to keep track of his footsteps. He moved like a ghost and looked like one. Nikita was reminded of the depth of her love for this man when the sight of his despair brought her to shiver in agony, whereas she didn't flinch at the thought of her own death. "I'm sorry Michael," she added, her voice trembling with the tears she tried not to shed over him. "I failed you." He looked directly at her for the first time and voiced. "You didn't fail me Nikita, just Section." And he moved to unstrap her hands. She absently massaged her wrists more out of habit than real pain. All her energy was focused on him. She got up and moved next to him, facing him. He stared at her, from her bare feet to the top of her hair. Noticing how the white tank top she wore resembled the one he had taken off her that magic night in Lyon. How the large linen white pants matched those she was wearing during reprogramming. He memorized every feature, the way her eyebrows gently arched, the curves of her hips, the fullness of her pink lips, the shortness of her hands and those incredible pale blue eyes. So innocent. Even now... Nikita was taking in him the same way. She silently admired his quiet strength, his strong shoulders hidden by the dark clothes. The power his eyes held and the suffering. So much pain. “I never meant to cause you so much pain, Michael,” she thought. Finally, he raised his hand to caress her cheek and she pressed her face in his palm. She sadly smiled and he let the blank stare drop. He drank in her beauty and tasted her lips. Nikita wanted to stay focused on his face but couldn't help closing her eyes. He was so tender, so sweet. She had imagined their last kiss as full of sorrow and desperation. But there was none, only love. Michael broke the kiss to hold her tight. Nikita caressed his back trying to comfort him. In a way, she knew it would be harder for him than for her. She knew what she had to do. She kissed him again more urgently and while he was losing himself in her, she moved one hand to retrieve the gun from his holster. Very delicately, like he had taught her. Her mentor caught her hand before she reached it. "No, Nikita," he just said. She sighed. "I always knew you would be the one to do it, Michael. But it doesn't have to be this way. Give me the gun and leave. I'll take care of it," she pleaded. "No," he countered, his gaze holding her eyes captive. He placed his hand on her cheek again willing her to focus on his face. "Your life is mine to take." Nikita couldn't contradict him. She was his, she couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been. She silently nodded and for the first time, he quietly smiled, happy that she accepted the truth of his words. As much as he dreaded it, deep inside of him, he knew this time would eventually come. A time when her innocence would prevent her to carry out orders, a time when he would lose the leverage to intercede for her, a time when their jailers would finally lose patience. There was no way he could prepare himself for it, but he had decided long ago that if worst came to worst, he would be the one to do it. Nobody else had the right to touch her. She belonged to him and he wouldn't let anyone take her life away. Only he could. It was his privilege. Even the higher powers of Section accepted this fact. They knew he would kill anyone involved in her cancellation. The only way to avoid death was to let him take care of it. As he was about to. Nikita outlined the features of his face with the tip of her fingers taking in the beauty of it. "I love you," she smiled back. His smile faded and both his hands cupped her face as he pressed his forehead on hers. "Je t'aime," he whispered, so low she was sure no microphones could tape it. She moved her hands to his hair, caressing it from his scalp to his neck. "Do it now, Michael," she said quietly in his ear. His body tensed for a mere second before he relaxed. His right hand moved to the holster to retrieve the gun. The charger was empty, he had entered just one bullet. The special one he kept for himself. It seemed fitting that he would use it on her, for she was his life. Nikita buried herself in his arms one last time with fleeting thoughts of all the things she needed to tell him, all the things they never shared, all the hopes she had had for them. She tried to pour all her thoughts and love in a single line, and when she moved a little away from him to allow him to finish his task, she just said: "Live, Michael." With an eerie smile, he held the gun close to her head, his other hand still on her cheek holding her in place. His voice loud and clear he answered: "No." Before Nikita could register the meaning of his word, he pressed her closer to him and moved the gun to the back of her head with a 45 degree angle. He felt the panic in her eyes and the pressure of his hand on her cheek increased. "That's the way it should be, my love. You are my life," he added and rested once again his forehead on hers. She mouthed “no” and a tear escaped her eyes. He paused to kiss her deeply and passionately then chastised her with the same disapproving look he gave her when he trained her and she rebelled against his orders. "Ni-ki-ta," he warned. Only now, his voice held a heartbreaking tenderness. She calmed down immediately, captivated as always by the sound of his voice. When he used that tone, she knew he wouldn't be denied. So, disagreeing but accepting, she silently nodded. Michael offered her a pure smile of joy as a reward. "Thank you," he said before moving his finger on the trigger. There was a noise in the background. A voice coming from a speaker. Was it Madeline? Movements outside the room. People screaming, running. They absently registered it, lost in each other’s gaze. Michael knew he had to do it fast before somebody tried to stop him. But he had waited for this moment his whole life and this was the one thing that Section couldn't deprive him of. So, quickly, he pressed the trigger. The angle was perfect, an instant after entering Nikita's head, the bullet perforated Michael’s forehead. Neither of them closed their eyes again and they kept on smiling. THE END**