"Regrets" by Mala

    "Michael?" she wondered as she stood in the doorway to his darkened office.

    He said nothing, kept the black leather chair swiveled towards the closed blinds. His chin rested against the whitened knuckles that were the only sign of his inner turmoil. She knew that if he turned to look at her, his ice green gaze would betray nothing. . .would echo blank, patient disinterest. She knew that as well as she knew that he was dying inside.

    "Michael, talk to me," she implored, stepping into the dimness and letting the door shut behind her.

    "It won't solve anything, Nikita." Voice barely above a whisper with that seductive French lilt. Any other man would say "I can't" but not him. "Can't" wasn't in his vocabulary, "It won't save me," he added, sounding almost amused.

    She winced. As much as this man had hurt her. . . as much as he'd broken her, she ached for him. . . for what the Section had destroyed. "How do you know?" she demanded, moving towards his chair. "If you let yourself become the walking dead, what's separates you from being in a grave with Simone and you son?" Tears choked her voice. Damn the Section. Damn them.

    "You." One word and he finally spun to face her. Grief splintered his beautiful eyes and a haunted smile tugged at his lips. "You're what separates me. You're the only reason I'm still alive. Operations gave you to me three years ago because I would have swallowed a bullet without something to occupy my mind."

    "What are you saying? That its all my fault? That I'm the burden the Section hoisted on you so you'd have a responsibility other than your own life?" She dragged a hand through her long blond hair.

    "No." He came up, out of his chair, and met her in the middle of the room with the slow grace of a jungle cat. "They didn't give me a burden Nikita." He stroked her cheek with the backs of his slender fingers. "They gave me a love."

    "I love you, too, Michael!" she gasped, tears trailing down her face as she kissed his trembling mouth.

    Even as he succumbed to her. . . she felt the cool steel against her skin, but she no longer cared. It would be the sweetest death she had ever known.


*

    The gun slipped from his limp hand as their tangled bodies slumped to the floor. Matching blossoms of blood bloomed from the backs of their necks and a matching peace was etched across their faces. Michael had no regrets. Not anymore. He had taken the Section's gift. . . his Eve. . . back to Paradise where they belonged.



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