Title: "Be Kind, Rewind"
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating/Classification: AC, ep filler, a few dirty words, Ops/Nikita
Disclaimer: Warner Brothers, Joel Surnow, and other people who aren't me own the characters. All the dialogue in the second section is from the episode.
Summary: Some missing scenes from season one's "Missing." 1000 words. There's nothing Operations can't do.
"Oh, weíve trained you well, Nikita," Operations chuckled even as Nikita crossed to the door and undid the chain.
"I'm tired," she bit off, with as much loathing as she could possibly pour into two words. She folded her arms over her chest, hoping he'd make a quick exit. Of course, he didn't. He "mm-hmm"-ed her declaration like he didn't believe a single syllable of it and took his sweet damn time leaving.
And moments after the door swung shut behind him, it was open again and he was standing there with the smug expression on his face that never failed to make her blood boil over. He didn't have to show her the lock picks, to flaunt his skill. She knew it was there. It was how he'd gotten inside in the first place. He was head of Section. No doubt there was nothing he couldn't do.
"Do you really want to be free, Nikita?" he asked, quietly. His mouth tilted upwards with subtle amusement and the look in his ice blue eyes was his typical party line: He was better than her; she was nothing and would always be nothing.
And yet he trusted her with his son's life.
"No," she snapped, caustically, "I want to stay in Section forever, taking orders from you and wading in the abeyance pool every time I don't meet your standards."
His eyes glinted as he shouldered past her and she emphatically slammed the door. "That implies you actually follow my orders."
"What more do you want, Operations? Do you want me to roll over? Sit up? Beg?"
He actually laughed. "That would be a start."
"When Hell freezes--"
She didn't get the chance to say "over." After all, there was nothing he couldn't do.
Including kiss her.
She tried to hold herself stiff, as she'd seen Madeline do so many times. That ice statue stillness that broadcasted, "Very well, I'm tolerating this, but one moment more and I'll cut your cock off."
But Operations had been handling Madeline, and material, for years, hadn't he? He didn't back down from a challenge. Not with his mouth or his hands. His fingers dug into her arms, effectively pinning her in place, as his mouth staged its assault. His lips were cool, dry, and tasted faintly of pipe tobacco and more strongly of wine. And when her teeth skimmed across them, he warned, "Oh, no you don't," and backed her up against the kitchen island. The corner hit her hip with force but not enough to leave a bruise. He wouldn't leave marks. She knew that.
"So, you're going to rape me, are you? Show me what a leader you are? Steven would be so proud."
He gripped her chin in his fingers, tilting her head up and tracing the letters r-a-p-e back at her, over the contour of her cheek. "No, Nikita. A leader doesn't have to resort to those measures. A leader doesn't even have to seduce." His low, steely voice actually wrapped around the edges of the last word like silk and she shuddered as tendrils of arousal curled, against her will, in the pit of her belly.
Was this where Michael had learned the technique of whispering sex and lies? From the master?
"Th-then what are you doing?" she gasped, grasping for her equilibrium, for that "damn you to Hell," attitude that always pushed Michael away when he got too close.
"Do you know what makes someone a leader?" She shook her head and his mouth grazed her temple, trailing with agonizing slowness to her ear. His whisper was warm, husky, almost inviting. "That people are *willing* to follow them."
When he kissed her again, it was with the demand that she open for him and stay that way. Her hands came up to shove him, but somehow wound up twisting in his shirt. His chest was solid, unyielding despite his age. *He* was unyielding. Operations left no lingering questions. He was not Michael. He would not be waved away and locked out.
Damn you to Hell, she thought, before turning them towards where she'd hidden the video camera and kissing him back.
He actually looked sorry. And that was the biggest indignity of all. The kindness in his tone, the bullshit sincerity as he told her, "You can ask for anything else and itís yours, but not your freedom."
Nikita huffed, shaking her head and not believing the gall. No, no, that wasn't quite true. She did believe the gall. She just couldn't believe he'd given her the perfect opportunity to use her ace in the hole.
"I did warn you not to try this," she reminded, before trying to match his false sincerity. "Listen carefully. The night you came to my apartment the second time, I made a digital recording. Itís all on tape. Your face, your voice, your admission that Stevenís your son." Your hands on my body. The way you made me moan. But she wasn't going to think about those things. No. "Unless I make a phone call, that tape will be delivered to him within the hour. Heíll know everything."
"A tape?" He was the head of Section One. Of course he wasn't going to look ruffled.
But she would be damned if she wouldn't look smug. "Yes. Thatís right."
"You mean this tape?" He held up the small, familiar caseÖand all of her bravado, all of her posturing, swirled, along with her ace, straight to the toilet.
Operations met her gaze. And it was all written there in crisp, blue ink: He was better than her; she was nothing and would always be nothing.
Later, alone in the Tower, Paul critiqued the awkward camera angles and chuckled at the poorly scripted insults. Then, he rewound the part where she turned him against the counter and ferociously attacked his mouth.
He remembered the taste of her defiance. Relished it. Replayed it.
And he froze the frame on Nikita's expression as he conquered her completely.
January 2 2007.