I am going through Nikita withdrawal, but the time is nearly here! Huzzah!

Just something off the top of my head. Nikita/Owen, of course!

"You're trapped, Nikita," Michael said as he held her at gunpoint. She was trapped in a narrow alley in Manhattan, just outside the hotel room where Division's target was supposed to be lying dead. (Nikita had other plans, though.)

These plans didn't involve this however, and Michael took that as a small victory.

Nikita sighed and stepped closer, her hands up in surrender. "This scenario is getting old. Are you going to shoot me this time, Michael?" She tried to sound cool and calm, but she was rattled. Ever since she had stopped Michael's suicide mission, since she had seen the hatred in his eyes, she knew that if he could, he would kill her.

He wasn't as sure. The gun felt heavy in his hands. Just get it over with, he commanded himself. Kill her.

"You're getting sloppy," he said, prolonging the time before the decision. He just needed to think for a second. "Jumping into a dead-end. I think you get an F for this mission."

She cocked her head to the side. "I think I deserve at least a C+. I saved Gombrich, didn't I?"

"Still, this isn't like you." He almost smiled victoriously. "No plan B. When has that ever happened?"

"Actually..."

Shit.

Michael felt the gun at his back and he slowly closed his eyes in defeat, dropping his own weapon.

"Hello," the man behind him said happily. "We've haven't formally met yet. I'm Owen. AKA: Plan B."

Michael looked in time to see Nikita roll her eyes. "Let's just get out of here. Gombrich is safe."

She did not move forward, however. She was staring intently at Owen, as if trying to communicate with him. Michael felt the gun press harder onto his back.

"Owen," she said, her voice low and comforting. "Owen, he's not Percy."

The pressure lessened.

Owen jerked his head back, motioning for Nikita to walk out of the alley. As she did, he whispered savagely to Michael, "You're one lucky son of a bitch. You have no idea what I would've done to you if you pulled that trigger."

They rode in contemplative silence back to her house. Nikita was driving.

"That guy was a douchebag, huh?" Owen finally said tensely.

Nikita raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised he left you with such a strong impression."

He didn't seem to hear her. "And what's up with those huge bags under his eyes? Broody needs some sleep."

"Broody?"

"And did you see him flirting with that Alex girl? You know, your inside contact? Shit, he's like some pedophile." He turned to her, wide eyes. "Or is it some weird complex? Is he projecting his feelings for you onto her? It's sick, huh?"

Her jaw dropped. "He has no feelings for me! We're on opposite teams!"

"That's all you heard? I just told you the dude's a pedophile."

"I block out nonsense. She's in her twenty's. It's not that gross."

Owen didn't continue because he knew he was being slightly ridiculous. "What's your story? The two of you?" He tried not to sound too curious.

"We used to be... partners. Sort of."

"Partners?" he repeated. "Like us?"

She almost smiled. "Like us... except, different."

"Different?"

"Yeah... I don't know how to explain," she said, feeling uncomfortable.

Owen put his feet up on the dashboard and smiled slightly. "I know why we're different. Me and Broody."

"Pray tell."

"I'm on your side. He's not." He looked straight at her and Nikita was hit full blast by his smile. "You can trust me."

She swallowed hard. "Yes, I can."