It's Ryan she goes to.

He doesn't know how long they all stand there, silent, watching her. It feels like hours before Nikita finally untangles Carla's pendant from her hands, laying it down gently against the dead woman's chest.

When she stands up she seems disconnected, distant. She glances at him, and her gaze is vacant. She doesn't wipe the tears away from her face. Nikita had always been able to control her emotions pretty well, but in those rare moments when she let her guard down, she was never ashamed of it. She wasn't afraid to appear vulnerable. Fragile. She was far too strong for it to matter.

He wants to go to her, to pull her into his arms and hold her close, assure her that he would always be by her side. That Carla had done the wrong things for the right reasons, that they wouldn't rest until that son of a bitch Percy was dead-anything to ease the hurt, the betrayal-but the thought dies even before he starts moving, as he realizes she isn't looking at him. She's looking straight through him, as if he's made of glass.

She takes a few steps in his direction, but not to him, with that dazed look in her eyes, arms wrapped around herself. It's as if he isn't there, he doesn't exist. She walks right past him, his arms lying limp by his side, suddenly at loss of what to do.

She falters, as her eyes fall on Ryan, standing a few paces behind him. It snaps her out of it, and he watches as her profile trembles, and fresh tears begin to fall. Ryan mumbles a few words of comfort, pulling her to him. She wraps her arms around the CIA agent, and he forced to watch as he presses his hand against the small of her back. He averts his gaze, jaw clenched. Suddenly, there is no Percy, no Amanda, no Division. No Carla. Just Nikita, oblivious to his presence, seeking comfort in another man's arms.

At first he thinks he'll ignore it. Pretend he hasn't noticed, that it doesn't bother him. But it's Ryan she goes to, and it does bother him, as she needs to know that. He walks past the two of them and takes the stairs a little faster than he should.

Let him look petulant, selfish, angry. After London, the two of them had been stuck in limbo, unsure of how to act, how to think. Unsure of how they each felt. But now he knows how she feels, whenever Cassandra comes up in conversation. It's all the same. The photo of Max and Cassandra in his duffel, Ryan's hands on her. Both innocent, yet both capable of causing the worst kind of damage. He should have known better, he shouldn't have made her go through that.

He pulls that damned photograph out from where he'd stashed it earlier. Holding onto it had been a mistake, on many different levels. He knows what he has to do, and he doesn't hesitate to do it now.

They were hurt. They were jealous. They were still very much in love with each other. And despite all the shit that was going down, that was the only thing that mattered.