Nikita idly flicked the remote at the television. No. No. Another infomercial. A romantic movie. Argh. She clicked faster. Finally, she threw the remote across the room at the television, and it clicked one final time, turning the television off. She sighed and pulled her hair back with both hands. She had to find a way out of this depression. Or she would surely drown in bad feelings.

She lay back on the couch. She wondered what Michael was doing tonight. She sighed again. That way lay futility. She had stalwartly supported him through the aftermath of losing his wife and son, and now Michael was clearly more functional. As an operative. But she had yet to make a significant crack in his emotional armor, which, ironically, she thought, she had carefully helped restore. When will I ever learn?

Michael was passing Birkoff's computer station when he heard avid whispering. He turned his head and frowned. "Birkoff, are you talking to yourself?" Birkoff looked down at his desk, refusing to meet Michael's eyes. Michael towered over Birkoff, pressing his advantage, since Birkoff was so easily intimidated by the physical. "Birkoff?"

Birkoff shrugged without answering. "Cat got your tongue?" Birkoff actually glared at Michael. "Y'know, I don't have to speak to you if I don't want to."

Michael stepped back a half step. "Wait a minute, what brought that on?" Birkoff shifted his headset and drummed his fingers on the desk. "Y'know, you weren't very helpful when I came to you for advice. When Felix was stalking me…" he added significantly.

"Oh, that," Michael chuckled. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

Birkoff looked startled, then said evenly, "No thanks to you."

"Birkoff, you need to start relying on yourself. I won't always be around when you need help. Neither will Nikita." Birkoff nodded shortly and dismissed Michael from his mind. He had other things, more important things, to worry about.

"So what's up?" Michael inquired. Birkoff sighed. "Couldn't you just go away? You've done enough."

"Now you're intriguing me, Birkoff." Michael leaned back against the wall and waited, arms crossed.

Birkoff tried desperately to ignore Michael's presence, but it was no use. He had absolutely no resistance to physical intimidation, and Michael was perfectly capable of standing there all day if need be. "Well, I can't believe you haven't noticed how down Nikita is."

Michael looked surprised. "Is she?"

Birkoff whistled. "You really are out of touch with us lower beings here on earth. Michael, Nikita has been dragging around here, listless, drawn, and depressed, for days now. I don't suppose you'd know why?"

Michael frowned. "I just thought she was a bit tired."

Birkoff laughed sharply. "Yeah, tired of waiting."

"What does that mean?" Birkoff had finally succeeded in getting Michael's full attention.

"Michael," Birkoff whispered, "you're not very good with…um, people stuff, especially women people stuff…" Birkoff wanted to scream at Michael's obtuseness, but he knew that Michael wasn't faking it. He really didn't know what was going on. For a trained observer, he could be so oblivious to things right under his nose.

Michael laughed. "You're going to lecture me on women? Birkoff, you're dreaming!"

"Yeah, well, maybe, but Michael, I know more about what Nikita wants than you do. Does that seem logical to you?" He stared at Michael for long seconds. Michael finally shifted uncomfortably under the younger man's gaze. He dropped his eyes and his expression grew dark.

"She confided in you?"

Birkoff snorted. "Hell, no! I just notice things, Michael, things you should notice…unless of course, you just don't care what happens to Nikita…" Michael leaned over Birkoff, so closely Birkoff swore he felt his breath. "You've heard something?"

Birkoff flushed. "Madeline is starting to sniff around. If she gets wind of Nikita's depression, who knows what could happen?"

"I see. And you're involved in this how?"

"I just want to help. So does Walter. We thought she could use some cheering up. We don't want to see her go down like this."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well…" Birkoff started to whisper to Michael, and Michael just kept nodding.

Nikita was half-asleep when she heard voices. This is weird, she thought. It must be the middle of the night, and I turned the television off. She looked up blearily and saw that the television had turned itself back on. "Huh?" She was tired, but she wasn't that tired. She distinctly recalled throwing the remote and the television clicking off.

Suddenly she realized that the voices were speaking to her. To me? She sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her body, clad only in a t-shirt and underwear. "Ummm…" She was a little worried. People who heard voices were more than depressed, they were psychotic. She froze. She knew those voices. Birkoff and Walter.

Birkoff's voice came to her across the room. "Nikita…we are in control of your tv set. We control the vertical, we control the horizontal. Do not attempt to adjust your set. We are in control."

She blinked sleepily, clearing her vision. "Birkoff! Can you hear me?"

"Of course," said the image on the tv screen.

Nikita clambered over the couch, searching for the remote. When she found it, she clicked repeatedly. This was unreal. Birkoff was on every channel. Was she dreaming? Was she hallucinating? Was she finally losing what was left of her mind?

"Birkoff!" she shouted at the ceiling. Birkoff answered her immediately, and she almost backed up into the wall. She dropped the remote. "W-What's going on?"

"We thought you needed some cheering up, sugar," Walter said aimiably. Walter's big grin, topped by a bright red bandana. Yep, it was definitely Walter. Nikita started to calm down a bit. It was surrealistic, but she was beginning to get used to it. She leaned forward. "How are you, Walter?"

"No, the question is, how are you, Nikita?" He grinned again, putting her at ease, then continued. "You look like you could use a lil R 'n ' R, sugar, so Birkoff and me thought we'd volunteer. Welcome to the Birky and Wally Show, sugar."

She laughed despite herself. "You couldn't come to us, so we come to you, courtesy of electronic wizardry, of course." Walter smiled at his sidekick. Birkoff shrugged, as if being a computer magician was too commonplace for more than cursory interest.

She clapped her hands delightedly, like a child. "What are you going to do?" Walter smiled and said, "Anything you'd like, sugar, and it can last more than a minute."

She burst out laughing. "Oh, Walter," she snickered behind her hand. "I've heard that one before."

"I'll bet you have, sugar," Walter drawled slowly, winking at Nikita.

Nikita settled herself more comfortably on the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning on her arms. "I haven't had much energy lately, Walter." Walter nodded. "I know, sugar. You haven't been feeling like yourself." This time she nodded.

It was strange, but it felt okay to talk to the television Walter. If she were sitting across the table from him at Section, or even if he were here in her apartment, she would find it impossible to talk like this about her feelings. But there was something detached and yet intimate about talking to the television.

"Tell Uncle Wally, sugar. What's wrong, sweetness?" He looked serious for a second. "Just pretend I'm Dr. Ruth." Nikita giggled. "I don't think even my imagination is that good, Walter."

She played with her hair, not making eye contact with the television image anymore, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Walter nudged Birkoff, and Birkoff said, "Nikita? Would you like us to sing you a song?" She didn't answer right away. "Oh, oh, sure, Birkoff, whatever you want."

Walter and Birkoff turned on the karaoke machine and sang along with "Born to Be Wild", their rendition somewhat mangled by Walter's off-key howling. Nikita showed no real reaction, and Walter looked worried. He whispered something to someone off-camera, and then spoke. "Nikita, if this were a game show, and you were the winner, what would you like your prize to be?"

She smiled sadly, twisting the errand strand of hair into a knot. "I dunno. I guess I always wanted to go to Paris. Beats me why now." Birkoff and Walter exchanged glances. Walter smiled brightly. "Well, sugar, we try to give the customer what she wants. We can't send you to Paris, but we have this French guy here who can talk a mean streak about it."

Now he had gotten Nikita's attention again. She looked up, frowning. "What?" Michael's face filled her television screen, and her eyes opened wide. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and altogether like he would rather be doing anything else but this. Nikita sighed. So they had enlisted Michael to cheer her up. Didn't they know he was the problem?

"Nikita…" his voice sounded disembodied and cool. Just what she didn't need. "Michael, please don't." He started to say something, but she cut him off. "I don't want anyone's pity. Least of all yours."

"Give me a chance, Nikita." Michael pleading? No, she was certainly hallucinating now.

"I've given you so many chances, I've lost count, Michael," she said huskily, her voice a mere thread. She looked away and missed the anguished look that passed quickly across Michael's face.

"Kita…" It was the sound of his nickname for her that brought her back to the screen. She looked at him, her lower lip trembling, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

Michael gestured to Walter and Birkoff, who quietly left the immediate area. "I should thank you for what you did for me," referring to the loss of his wife and son. Nikita merely nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't," he continued softly. "But I thought you knew you had my gratitude."

"I don't want your gratitude, Michael." Nikita sounded weary, but curiously angry undertones crept in. "I want you," she said, quite brokenly, burying her face in her hands. Michael winced.

He didn't know what to say. He was so good at handling crises and missions, but give him a moment alone with Nikita, and he was as awkward as Birkoff. He had thought that the distance of the television hook-up might help him in expressing his feelings better, but it wasn't working. And worse, they seemed to have exacerbated Nikita's depression. He held up his hand to the screen, as if he could touch her through it, and when Nikita looked up, she cried out and touched the screen with her own visibly shaking hand. "Oh, Michael…you just don't understand…you never will…"

"Are you giving up on us?" he asked with a curious lump in his throat. "There never was an us." Nikita whispered sadly, her heart breaking for anyone to see.

Nikita reached out with one finger and turned off the television set manually. She fell forward onto her knees and sobbed. "There never was an us," she kept repeating to herself. She lay on her stomach finally, burying her face in her crossed arms, giving way to the grief inside.

Michael reacted as if physically struck. He stepped back, avoiding Birkoff and Walter's worried glances. "I don't think she meant that, Michael," Walter said raspily, patting the younger man on the shoulder. Michael flinched as if burned. "I don't know about that." Birkoff, who had been convinced earlier that Michael needed a jolt or two to wake him up, now looked at him in obvious sympathy. "Michael, we didn't know it would turn out this way—"

Michael's mouth tightened. "Obviously." He strode out of Walter's workshop, never stopping to look back.

Michael walked for what felt like hours, but it didn't help. He couldn't get Nikita's heartwrenching sobs out of his mind. She was right, he had given her a few moments of physical gratification, but he had never shared his true feelings with her. He didn't know if he could. He was not someone who liked being vulnerable. Even to Nikita?

He stopped suddenly, realizing where his steps had taken him. He laughed out loud. Unconsciously, he had walked to Nikita's apartment. He stood under her window and looked up. The light was still on. What was he doing down here?

He ran up the stairs, two at a time, then stopped abruptly in front of her door. He wrenched his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. Knocking once, he listened carefully. No answer. He knocked again. Perhaps she was sleeping? No, he told himself, she didn't look like she would ever sleep again, stop stalling. He tried the door, found it open, and went inside, unprepared for what he finally saw.

Nikita was sprawled across the floor in front of the television set. Her hands were outstretched as if she could somehow remain tenuously connected to the television image by physical touch. She looked dead. His heart jumped into his throat.

He bent to touch her neck, and she jumped, startling them both. "Michael!" "Nikita!" They both shouted at the same time. She slid back across the floor, immediately putting distance between them. Her face was slightly swollen from lying on the floor, her eyes reddened and her cheeks blotchy. She looked beautiful to him, and Michael knew he was in trouble.

"I don't know why you came, Michael. I've had enough cheering up for tonight." She sounded bitter, and he was not surprised, given how things had turned out.

"Let me explain, Kita."

"Don't…don't call me that." She looked defeated for all of two seconds, then began to berate him. "You know what I don't get, Michael? You've given everyone else bits and pieces of your love over the past five years, but me…nothing! There is nothing standing between us now, Michael, nothing! And that's exactly what I've got! Nothing!" She wiped at the tears angrily, as if they merely distracted her from what she wanted to say.

"Kita!" he shouted, suddenly grabbing her and kissing her as hard as he could. When he broke away, he was gasping, and she was rubbing her mouth with one hand. "No, Michael."

He looked at her, his own eyes wild and disturbed now. "Please…" She shook her head sadly. "No, no, no…"

"I'm sorry, Nikita, so sorry…"

She stared at him through her tears. "I don't think you know what the word means."

He grimaced. "How can I help you?"

"Go away, Michael. You can't give me what I need. You have to let me go…" She almost choked on the last word, but she managed to say it finally.

"No." He refused to accept what she was saying.

"Go now." Her voice trailed off.

"And what will you do?"

"Oh, don't worry, Michael, if I kill myself, I promise not to implicate you," she said bitterly.

Had Nikita not threatened to take her own life, Michael's feelings might have remained unspoken and unspent. But instead, he felt a roiling turmoil inside that made him physically sick. "Kita! I won't leave you like this!"

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me, Michael! Dammit, why can't you understand that much?"

He shouted back at her. "I do understand! I didn't know I was making you so unhappy, Kita!"

"You're not making me unhappy, Michael! I'm doing that all on my own! It's not your fault you're a cold, impersonal automaton! You're perfect for what you do! Who needs feelings?"

"Just cause I can't express them doesn't mean I don't have any, Kita!"

They were both on their knees now, shouting in each other's faces, reddened with exertion and emotion. She looked fragile yet wild-eyed still. He was still trying to catch his breath when she suddenly punched him in the stomach. She sat back on her haunches, happily contemplating the damage she had done. Michael groaned.

"Did that make you feel any better, Kita?"

"Much," she said enthusiastically.

He sat up and held his abdomen, wincing. "I'm…glad."

"Michael…"

He reached over with one hand and grabbed her wrist. "Kita, I won't…I can't let you go."

"Yes, you can." She wrenched free from his grasp. "You have to."

He closed his eyes tightly and prayed. When he opened them again, they were shiny and not a little wet. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you, Kita. I mean that."

"I'm sure you do, Michael. I know your sense of duty and responsibility well. You're positively driven by guilt sometimes." Nikita looked resigned. She sighed, exhausted beyond words.

His grip on her wrist tightened painfully. "It's not always guilt that drives me, Kita," he whispered hoarsely. "It doesn't have to be about us hurting each other," he said.

"I know," she replied, "but most of the time, it is."

He released her abruptly, and she rubbed her wrist unconsciously. "I thought if I came here, it would make a difference to you."

She laughed softly. "Yes, well, I can see why you might think that."

"Then there is nothing I can say?"

She looked at him, her heart in her eyes. "You know what I need, Michael."

He met her gaze for a second, then his eyes slid away, as always. Nikita made a tiny sound. He pulled her into his arms and held her. "I can't live without you, Kita. I know that's not good enough, but…" He pressed his lips to the top of her head gently and kissed her hair. He drew back and touched her face. "You go on to sleep now, and I'll stay out here in the living room." He shushed her automatic protest with one finger to his lips. "I have to know that you'll be okay, Kita, please…"

She nodded. He let her slide out of his embrace, and she stood, curiously unwilling to leave the room now. She felt as though there were something different here now. It was Michael. Something had shifted between them. It didn't feel as though they were engaged in a power struggle anymore.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Michael watching her carefully, as if he were storing up memories for when she would no longer be his to touch and to hold. Suddenly, she realized that was exactly what he was doing. With a cry, she turned around and pulled Michael to a standing position. He looked confused, then sad. "Now who's feeling sorry for who?"

"Michael, I've been going about this all wrong." He started to object, but she held up her hand. "No, let me say this." She ran her hand up and down his arm, and she felt his response, uncontrollable and unmistakeable. "You feel that?" He nodded silently. "That's us, we react to each other, physically, and we never put what we feel into words." He started to say something, but she said, "Wait."

"All this time, I've been holding out for the words, as if they were some kind of guarantee. As if the feelings weren't there unless the words were too."

He said hesitantly, "I do care about you, Kita."

"I know." She kissed him gently. "I love you, Michael." She touched his face, and he gripped her hand in his, pressing it harder against his face before kissing it. "I know."

He claimed her mouth, and his arms wrapped themselves around her waist, pulling her in tight against his body. He shuddered with reaction, and he whispered, his mouth against her ear, "I love you, Kita."

She started to cry, and he sighed. "Please don't cry, Kita, it kills me when you do." She wiped a tear away unobtrusively and smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

THE END