It isn't something she likes to admit, but she had seen whispers of Sam in Owen long before he had succumbed to his more brutish half. Or whole? She didn't know anymore.
If Owen was a fiction created to ease him into the Division lifestyle of cold, impersonal kill and clean operations, then why would he develop a conscience that he had clearly lacked in his early years as Sam? Was the Owen that she knew, her Owen, was he real? Did he still reside in the mind and body of Sam or had the Owen she'd known been Sam all along; merely an invention wiped clean of memories and engineered to be cold, competent and complacent? Was Owen simply a Sam without memories, but with the same effusive personality, the goofy grin that always seemed to edge on a smirk, and the same uncultured, but disarmingly sincere way of interacting?
Despite his rather unrefined demeanor (something more parallel to her own nature, if is she was honest with herself), he had always been the strategist—the planner, between the two of them. She was one to react on instinct—it was the only way she knew to survive. As a foster kid, she couldn't guarantee her next meal let alone any externalities that convoluted strategies tended to hinge upon, so no. She assessed a situation to determine whether she would survive, and if she got a good feeling about it, she proceeded as she saw fit. Owen had always included her in on his strategies, but she had never extended him the courtesy—nor had she ever intended to. She had never felt the need (or perhaps, even possessed the capability) to rely on anyone but herself and that impulse certainly did not shift in life-or-death situations. Perhaps if she had included him, he would have felt attached enough to her to at least not happily pass over her unconscious body to Amanda's cruel and vindictive hands.
"You're used to working on your own, huh? Kinda just get right in there—direct offense. Solo right?"
She turned to him with an affronted look.
"You know what I'm not used to doing? Sitting outside a building I'm about to infiltrate and talking about how I'm going to infiltrate it. When I do something, I just get in there—" The edge of her hand nearly came down against her palm in a decisive motion.
She remembered halting in her movements, aggressively biting her lip to keep from smiling. Hastily exiting the vehicle she had managed to get out "Wait here," before walking away confusingly flustered.
It was the first time in a very long time that someone had just seen her. Not Nikita the rogue agent and infidel, not Nikita the drug addict or Nikita the woman, but Nikita the person, the soul: the mind, the quirks and mannerisms. It was then that she realized that along with his eerily precise skills as an assassin and cleaner, he was a rather perceptive individual, sharp in his own casual way that could catch you by surprise. Sometimes he was haste (usually when overcome with anger, remorse, or grief) but he truly thought things through, albeit in a rapid fire way and with plans he tended not to disclose—except to her.
He was intuitive, a quality that always made her feel close with him without having to disperse with the monotonous 'getting-to-know-you' procedure that inevitably ended with the other party inexorably distancing themselves from her. She had a past, worse than Sam's and no one, not even Michael or Alex knew to what extent. She loved Michael, but sometimes she felt like he could never understand her darkness because he was so good, so honorable in a way she just wasn't (either due to her nature or experiences, she couldn't surmise). Other than his decade long vengeful (and warranted) search for Kasim, she could not remember a single unjustified sin he had ever partaken in. Sometimes it served as a balance between them, Michael was certainly amused by her quirks and rugged attitude, but other times…
At other times she felt that she was suffocating under his expectations. That he mistook her playfulness with others for promiscuity, her passion for idealism, and her addiction (because she will always be an addict) for weakness. But she was weak. She was emotionally handicapped because she had never known love or attachment until Carla, and Daniel, until Alex and Michael. The Nerd and Owen. And even then, she wasn't sure how much of her love was reciprocal or how much she was capable of loving and being loved, truly loved, at that stage in her life. And without her idealism? Well, she would have rotted in a filthy drug house, been canceled by Amanda, or worse, still be working for Percy, without it.
Owen had thought she was, though—capable of love, that is. He had told her, one day, while they were sparring (him with a broken rib earned from a recent mission), although she didn't quite know what he was saying at the time. He had clutched his torso, grimacing as she half-heartedly lunged at him, grumbling that she shouldn't just let him win because he was injured.
"Don't go soft on me Nikita," he said, throwing a right hook, wincing in pain but continuing through with the motion. She dodged it easily.
"And let you win? Don't flatter yourself." She performed a roundhouse she knew he could easily dodge. He was injured, so sparring with him was less of a challenge and more of an opportunity for conversation. Though ultimately, she certainly was not going to let him win out of pity.
He immediately stopped, lowering his fists to his side. She stopped, staring at him with wide eyes. "What? Is it your ribs? Are you alright?"
He approached her slowly, left hand on his rib, placing his right hand on her shoulder to keep himself upright. Wincing, he brought his face to her eye level and she leaned back slightly, if only out of instinct. "You are too soft hearted, Nikita."
She scoffed, denying his statement, although she lifted his shirt to see if he had bled through his bandages. Before she could access his wound she suddenly found herself in a headlock. She struggled to get out, using her core to throw him off balance and kicking her legs for good measure, but he had used his weight against her and she knew she had lost this round. Refusing to tap out, she nearly went unconscious, the training room dimming around her, before he relaxed his grip on her. She stumbled a bit, gasping for air, his arm anchoring her from falling to her knees. She could feel his lips ghosting her ear, breathing heavily from the strain of his injury and their sparring.
"Yes, you are. You need to watch out for yourself Nikita. Its too easy to exploit you."
He let her arm go.
She wrenched away from him, and her clutched her throat, struggling for oxygen. She was furious, furious enough to turn around and punch him in the face, but she didn't. He was injured, and it wouldn't be a fair fight.
Sliding her hand away from her throat, she warred with the sense of betrayal she felt snaking its way through her veins. The same sense of betrayal she had always felt when her foster family managed to earn her trust before discarding her at the next home.
Turning slightly to the left so that she could shield her face, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Its over, its over its over—
When she lifted her eyes she was no less calm, but she hoped her face did not show it. She finally met his eyes. He frowned, bringing up his hands, as though to placate her.
"Nikita, I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant."
"No, Nikita, I'm saying—"
"You know what," she began, incensed. "I care about people, so what? It doesn't matter if they don't care back."
He looked at her in confusion, although she could see him attempting to calculate her meaning in his head.
"That wasn't what I—"
"Its not a weakness, it's a strength, Owen. Its what keeps me going," she insisted fervently.
He shrugged, leaning against a punching bag, and bringing his hands back to his ribs.
"Alright, alright, I was just saying…I was just saying that you shouldn't make it so obvious, that's all."
She brought up her arms, spreading them wide. "Yeah! Because I am known for being so fucking forthcoming as it is."
He looked at her, a shade of amusement in his eyes. "You kind of are."
"What?"
"You're straightforward, which works for you. But you shouldn't—I'm just saying." He looked serious, then, not deliberately demanding her eyes to meet his but attracting them anyway. "Just, don't go soft on me, that's all." He paused, pushing himself against the bag, and saying, "I'm gonna go hit the hay. It's been a fucking nightmare of a week. Goodnight Nikita."
He walked away and she could still hear the bag's chain jingle from his pushing against it. She hadn't known what he'd meant, and to be honest, she hadn't given it that much thought in the days after. She was too preoccupied with the fact that he had gotten the jump on her, and injured too! Later, after a three-hour training session that helped convince her that she was not, in fact, 'losing it' as she feared, she concluded that her lapse had been an outlier. She just hadn't had her guard up right then.
But the thing is, she always had her guard up, except around the people she loved and trusted. Alex, Michael, and the Nerd. And apparently Owen. He had seen her intrinsically trust him and his usurpation of her had not been a friendly tumble between friends, or even a betrayal, as she had felt it was.
It had been a demonstration. A warning. Because nestled somewhere within Owen was the cunning Sam, and Sam (or Owen, she honestly didn't know anymore) had anticipated that he could somehow be used against her. Her affection for him would cause her harm, although he had probably assumed it would be by someone other than him.
With his demonstration, he had clearly meant to show her two things: that the ones you cared about could be used against you (as she herself had done with Emily) and that it was the ones you cared about that could hurt you the most.
The memory never ceased to incense her, as it did even now. It hadn't been the first time she had learned those lessons, but it had been the first time in the years since she had fled from Division.
Taking a deep breath, she began loading bullets into her clip, a task she found both calming and frustrating at the same time. It's time, Nikita thought suddenly. It was time that Owen or Sam or whatever the fuck he called himself learn the lesson he had once demonstrated to her. Because she could see the Owen she knew slowly melding into the elusive and foreign Sam. Because he had destroyed the black box when he didn't have to. Because she had seen the hesitation in his steps, the anxiousness in his eyes when he had seen her strapped to a table with Amanda's figure looming above her.
Because he had let her out of the headlock even though she didn't tap out.
Because she knew that even if he may knock her out, shoot at her, and even sell her, there was a seed of Owen still present in the abyss of Sam.
And she would exploit it to her every advantage.
This is the first thing I've published on in a very long while, so I am a bit rusty. This could serve as a one-shot although I may continue it if I feel so inclined. I meant for this to explore Nikita and Owen's friendship-which I believe is the strongest among all of them considering how brief of a time they've known each other. I think he understands her in a way no one else seems to, and I think Nikita is comfortable around him in a way she isn't with even Michael. And this is coming from a Mikita shipper.
Let me know what you guys think! If you see any errors or inaccuracies, please let me know. If you love it, let me know, if you hate it, let me know. I'd appreciate any feedback.