Disclaimer: No, I don't own Nikita. *sniffles*
Guess everyone needs a Mikita hug, huh?
These past episodes have been pretty intense. Ohh Michael… My heart bleeds.
Okay, so because of all the emotional stuff in 3x08, it inspired me to write a two-shot based on that. I'm such a sucker for those things. Haha. Sorry. But it seems a lot of people have written about it too. Cool. Might as well join in. ;D
The first part will cover Michael's side, and the second part will be Nikita's. It's mostly drabble… I think. Just some thoughts surrounding the events in that last episode. They're still both into the early parts of the grieving process, especially Michael, so there's some bitterness and resentment ahead.
Oh, and it's angst so don't expect any happy endings. Okay?
Part I: Michael
For the past three weeks he kept on telling himself that everything was going to be alright. Just a little time was needed to recover and he'd be back in the field like he used to. He'd be able to fight and defend for what he believed in. Continue this battle of right against wrong.
But deep down, he knew it would never be the same again.
He just didn't acknowledge it. Nor think about it. Nor talk about it. He didn't want to.
Because by doing so would only make things too real, too permanent.
And he couldn't accept that. Not yet.
So he acted as if nothing happened. He was just wounded like any other soldier in combat. He would recuperate then he would be fine.
But he was lying to no one except himself.
That moment when that rogue cleaner managed to get away in Mexico because he couldn't hold a gun properly, it was like a harsh douse of reality. He had let a killer escape. And it was all his fault. But he was lucky that they were able to put Liam down in the end though. He didn't think his conscience would ever let him live knowing that more innocent people could have been killed had the agent fully escaped their grasp.
But it still didn't erase the horrifying fact of the possibility that his… disadvantage had almost cost them the mission. Or Nikita (he didn't even want to think about what went through his mind when he saw her and Liam hold each other at gunpoint). Either way, it was a cruel illustration of what he couldn't do anymore, what ability he had lost.
He couldn't even shoot straight.
And to think that he was one of Division's finest marksmen. Or at least, used to be before… the incident. Now he realized he couldn't even hit a stationary target to save his own goddamned life. Much less to protect the people he cared about.
And what did that make him?
A burden. To everyone.
He was so ashamed of himself.
He had never been so frustrated with his self in his entire life.
It was too much.
The stress, the anger, the pain... Physically, emotionally, and psychologically…
It was all too much to take in.
But he had to. There was no other choice.
He had to deal with it. Somehow. In his own way.
But then Nikita kept on trying to get him to talk about it, her natural compulsion to help those in trouble coming to the surface.
After that night, he had been doing his utmost effort to keep things civil around her. Explaining what he could, offering half-meant smiles, and half-baked lies. Anything that would placate her, get her off his case even for just a few hours. But he knew it would just hurt her more knowing that he was lying to her. He could even see it in her eyes that she didn't believe a word he said. And it just hurt.So he deemed that it was for the best to just avoid her altogether, stay in Medical rather than their home, gripe at Birkhoff instead of her, sleep alone in his old room in Division than sleep with her.
It was necessary. For him. For both of them.
But she was stubborn. Always has, and always will be. Only this time, it wasn't going to help. It did not help.
She kept on pressing, pressuring him to open up. As if he wasn't pressured enough.
And then it went too far. It was all too much again. It was just too much to contain. His emotions boiled over and slipped out the cracks on the walls he had masked himself in. A momentary lapse of control and he managed to do the one thing he had been trying so hard not to do around Nikita:
He snapped. At her. He took a part of his anger out on her. Lashed out. Told her that she'd helped enough.
His own words still rang in his ears, echoing the severity of his tone, amplifying the meaning behind his remark. Even if it wasn't the right implication. The moment he said those things, he realized what he had done.
He saw the hurt that appeared in Nikita's face. The suffering and culpability in her eyes.
But it was too late. He couldn't take it back.
That was why he didn't want her help.
He didn't want to see the hurt, the suffering, the guilt, and the pity every time she looked at him. Not from her. Anyone but her. He already had enough of those looks from other people after what happened. The curious glances behind his back, the sympathy that he didn't want, and the judgment he most certainly didn't need.
It was almost enough to break him down.
But he didn't. He braved through it. Because of her.
Because he didn't want her to see him weak.
This was his problem. His responsibility.
He was in this alone. He had to face it that way.
And he sure as hell did not want her to suffer along with him. He didn't need her to. One was enough. He would only set her back, detract her concentration and focus. Especially now when there were other more important things going on around them – Amanda, rogue agents, operating Division under the radar.
Nikita was better off held at arms' length. Shut out from him. She'd be spared from the raging anguish he kept inside.
He still loved her though. There was no doubt about that. That was the reason why he was doing this.
Because this… issue, it needed time. Time for him to recover, to adjust, to accept.
Just not now.
And most definitely not when she wants to tell him how to deal with it.
Because she didn't understand.
No one really did.
He always had the need to contribute, to be part of something much bigger than himself – the Navy, Division, running it, fighting it, shutting it down. He had to know that he was useful in whatever war he took part in.
But Nikita took that away from him.
He knew that it had to be done though, to save his life.
He also knew that he wasn't supposed to blame her. He shouldn't blame her. She only did what she thought was right to keep him from dying.
But it was just so hard.
Every time he looked at her, he could see what he was, what he could've been. And there was no way he could ever let her know without hurting her.
That by saving him, she doesn't realize what it was costing him.
And this wasn't just about his hand anymore. It was a part of him that can never be replaced even with the most advanced technology. It was the knowledge and disappointment that he can never be the same again. He can never function the same again. A soldier that was injured like him was almost always a soldier put out of commission indefinitely.
He was a… a… h-handi–
He didn't even want to think about it.
He will have to cope that he'd be of no use to anyone. Not like he used to. Not to the team, and certainly not to Nikita. He could no longer go out on missions with her as her partner anymore. She'd be watching his back, instead of the other way around. He knew she'd be distracted by constantly worrying about his welfare on the field if he did. He was just going to get her hurt in one way or another. Or worse, get her killed.
A surge of self-loath ripped through the ache in his chest, realizing that he wouldn't even be able to protect her properly anymore.
He could never be the same man again for her.
That feeling… That shame…
She didn't understand… It was much worse than death itself.
He was rendered worthless.
And he was going to live with that fact everyday from now on.
And we'll stop there for now.
I'll post the second part later or tomorrow. ;)
Thanks for reading!
Oh, and reviews would be lovely too.