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Date Posted: 23:18:48 03/07/09 Sat
Author: Odelle
Author Host/IP: CPE0013f7f24246-CM0013f7f24242.cpe.net.cable.rogers.com / 99.234.121.213
Subject: When A Time Comes (Chapter 19)
In reply to: Odelle 's message, "When A Time Comes" on 22:50:15 03/07/09 Sat



The sound of the rubber hitting the pavement appeared on a delay; the body was already gone before the sound could announce its presence. The air was crisp for the time of year, but the sun more than compensated to allow the lungs a full breath from the very base of the chest with each inhale.

Michael loved to run; he loved the wind he created by his speed, he loved the ache in his thighs that started two miles back, he loved how clear his thoughts became when he sweated out the ancillary and left it all in his wake.

It was the third day since their morning together, and he was going to call her again tonight.

Their shopping yielded a much more liveable apartment for him to enjoy. The bookcases had arrived just before he left for his run this afternoon. He would fill them before he called her, so that he didn’t phone the moment he got home. Michael found he had been doing that since he had arrived: putting obstacles between himself and her, so that he didn’t rush her.

He wanted to say ‘thank you’. That’s all. And maybe ask her to have dinner with him – to show his thanks. Okay, maybe lunch. Lunch didn’t say “I want to go out with you” the same was dinner did. Especially since there was a man living in the house he would call tonight. Another man, an unknown man.

Michael rounded the last block to take him back to his penthouse and he shook his head in frustration. Initially, he had logged on to his computer the moment she left and looked up this man “Guillaume.” His search of his own old Section files yielded nothing. So he went to probe some outside sources...but stopped himself. Hunting down the identity of her–- of Guillaume was not the way to begin to build her trust. Valiantly, he had closed down the computer and walked away. Nikita herself had certainly given him plenty to ponder between the time that they were apart, without him sabotaging some of their progress by stalking the other man.

For instance, she hadn’t told him Why.

Why she doesn’t sleep at night. Why she always wakes up angry and terrified. Why she doesn’t eat anymore. Why she’s living with another man. Why he wasn’t enough. Why he has to keep her from hurting herself and others.

Michael shook his head, returning to a walk as he approached the revolving glass doors of his building. There was something there, something present – now, not merely in memory – that was keeping her prisoner. Michael could sense it as strongly as if she had revealed it in words. She was a prisoner within herself. And the warden didn’t live in her unconsciousness; he lived in her present.

The elevator announced his arrival to the top floor, and he opened the door to his apartment while pulling the wet sleeveless tee over his head. It slapped to the hardwood floor next to the entrance, and Michael turned to put his keys and cell on the side table.

His skin prickled.

With instant speed oblivious to his fatigue, he spun and knocked the gun from his attacker’s hand. The metal clanged to the floor and skittered under the sofa. Michael quickly spun down to kick the intruder’s legs out from under him, but the smaller figure leaped effortlessly into the air, somersaulting over Michael and landing behind him to deliver a blow to the back of his neck. Michael was faster to react, though, and lunged forward, twisted, and hoisted the attacker up and over himself across the room. With incredible agility, the other man gathered himself mid-flight, and landed easily on his toes.

In an instant, they both stood facing one another, ten paces between them.

Their gazes met, held. One boiling with anger, the other stoic – then the latter blinked, his mouth parting. What... Michael's head tilted a small faction as something in his mind clicked with familiarity. He adjusted his stance and blinked again. For some reason, his attacker decided to adopt a rubber mask that was Michael himself. And yet, oddly, somehow, twenty years younger, at least.

“What are you waiting for?” the younger version spat, firming his fists in his defensive stance.

Michael righted himself slowly – the owner of the voice lacked any accent, but still it was distinctly his own.

Bang bang bang!

Michael watched as the gaze of the younger man flicked to the door over Michael’s left shoulder, then back to his face. Someone was on the other side, knocking with resounding determination.

“Michael, it’s me, I need to talk to you.”

Nikita.

The younger man’s jaw tightened, clearly assessing, and then he righted himself to stand in a tense pose that lacked enough threat to tell Michael that this person knew Nikita personally. Like a cardboard piece clicking into its place, Michael blinked once more as he realized what it was that stood before him.

“Michael!”

“It’s open,” Michael called back, never taking his eyes from the man before him.

Immediately, the door opened and Michael felt the rush of outside air as Nikita walked in.

“Shit, Jak. What are you doing here?”

Michael watched the young man stare back at her for a moment, flick to him briefly, and then back to her. Releasing some of the tension of the moment, Michael turned sideways to put them both in his gaze.

Nikita glanced at Michael, then his bare chest, and then turned to glare at Jak. “Attacking an unarmed man, Jak? That’s against–“

“He’s his own weapon, Nik.”

Michael saw her jaw clench. It was oddly satisfying to watch her consider this statement of his abilities. He turned and grabbed a clean shirt off the back of a nearby chair. Flicking his eyes to the threat of the unruly young man briefly, he shrugged the shirt on and went to pick up the gun.

“What were you going to do? Shoot him?”

The man ‘Jak’ sighed and walked toward her, “What did you expect me to do?”

“Something not thought through, clearly.”

Michael returned with the glock, spun the handle away and handed it to a visibly angry Jak. Nikita folded her arms over herself while the younger man considered the metal offering, and then picked up the gun from Michael’s open hand.

Everyone waited while he tucked the gun into the back of his belt. Michael watched the other man’s eyes never leave Nikita – never venture again to meet his own.

Nikita softened a little. “What are you doing here?”

“Maybe I wanted to see for myself,” Jak offered with a shrug.

“And what, hurt him?” she shifted her weight with angry unease, and added pointedly: “Tell him something?”

Jak looked down, and gentled his stare when he met her eyes. “Maybe the man deserves a little pain.”

“Maybe you don’t know the first thing about how much pain he already carries,” she retorted, “It would make yours and mine look like a Disney movie.”

“Nikita,” Michael decided to interrupt softly. Comparing scars was not what this conversation needed.

“Regardless. I don’t care how tortured he is. I don’t care how little he knows about anything. He’s here, and it’s clear that he thinks he’s staying.” Jak responded, frustrated.

“I am,” Michael supplied firmly. Jak’s eyes snapped up to his with unconcealed fire.

Nikita stepped immediately between them, putting her hand on Jak’s arm. “Stop.”

“Go ahead, tell me it’s not my place, Nik.”

Of course she couldn’t tell him that. Of course it was Jak’s place to protect her. It was a place he had long since earned. It was something she couldn’t take from him, and she didn’t want to.

She nodded slowly, staring at his chest. “I get that you want to hurt him,” she started softly, meeting his eyes and trying to get him to understand, “But I need to handle him myself. I need to handle all of this – this situation, myself.” She swallowed and looked at him seriously, “Right now, you’re not making it better for me, Jak. You’re making it harder.”

The younger man took a deep breath and looked up to meet Michael’s steady stare. Shifting out of the tense scene, he gave a short nod to Nikita and walked silently to the door. Michael watched Nikita sigh and raise a hand to rub one temple. The latch of the door clicked open, and in a moment closed again.

************

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