Twelve Days

This story takes place late in Season Three, and contains spoilers for all five seasons. As always, the characters of La Femme Nikita remained the property of TPTB - Warner Bros and Fireworks Entertainment - and any original characters and situations remain the property of Genevieve and Jaybee.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Twelve Days

Nikita glared at the calendar on the kitchen wall. No matter how much she scowled, sadly, the date remained December 13 - twelve days until Christmas. Great. Just great. She'd just returned from a four-day stint in Dubrovnik, and was due to leave for Hanoi in the morning. It was a cold op - mainly surveillance - and god only knew how long she'd be stuck there.

Tra la la la fa bloody la la, she thought sourly.

Dropping her keys onto the kitchen bench, she looked down and sighed. No wonder I'm not in a festive mood. It's hard to feel like decking the halls when there's gunpowder under your fingernails and someone else's blood on your jacket.

Kicking off her boots, she headed upstairs, stripping off her dusty mission blacks as she went, leaving a scattered trail of clothing behind her. She didn't particularly care about being house-proud tonight. To be honest, she didn't care about anything much, not with Michael stationed in Prague for another two days.

A hot shower helped revive her wilting spirits somewhat, but a stiff vodka rocks was even more help. Dressed in makeshift pyjamas - tatty sweatpants and an old sweater, an outfit that screamed 'I am definitely not expecting my lover tonight' - she wandered across to the stereo. With background music provided by one of Michael's forgotten classical CDs, she headed for the couch armed with a notepad and pen.

Five minutes later, she was still staring at a white, blank page. She chewed the end of the pen, suddenly feeling a little empty.

"Why do I do this to myself every year?" she exclaimed to the empty room, tossing the pen and notepad onto the coffee table. "Another Christmas, another New Year, another goddamn year," she mumbled, bitterness tightening her throat. As if making a Christmas list and thinking about cooking and buying a tree would change anything. As if on December 26th she wouldn't still be stuck in the hellhole otherwise known as Section One.

My fifth posthumous Christmas...my, how time flies when you're having fun.

Tossing back the dregs of her drink, she debated the pros and cons of a second. It didn't take much vodka to give her a hangover, and she did have a six a.m. briefing. She pictured Operations' reaction if she was to be anything less than bright eyed and bushy tailed at the briefing, then grinned. "What the hell," she said under her breath. "It's a long flight to Hanoi. I can sleep on the plane." Rising from the couch, she sauntered into the kitchen and poured herself a double.

Sipping her drink, she walked back to the couch, back to the wretched 'to do' list. Taking another sip, she frowned at the blank notepad. Should I even bother? I probably won't even be here. And if she were home on Christmas Day, all she really wanted was to spend the day with Michael. She didn't care about presents or Christmas trees.

Polishing off her drink, she stretched out on the couch, hugging one of the large sofa cushions. The vodka - lovely but deadly stuff she'd brought back from Poland last year - was already making its presence felt. She was pleasantly weary and warm all over. After four days of sleeping on a camp bed, the couch was heavenly.

Don't fall asleep on the couch, nagged the little voice of common sense in her head, but her body had no intention of moving. She was so tired. She would just close her eyes for a minute, then go up to bed.

~*~*~*~

It took a while for the soft bleating of the phone to sink into her sleep-addled brain. Nikita forced open gritty eyes, momentarily confused by the fact she was lying on the couch, every light in the apartment blazing. Her phone was on the coffee table. Without sitting up, she flung out one hand to grab it, almost knocking it off the table in the process. Finally, she managed to answer the damn thing. "Yep?"

"Josephine."

Nikita blinked at the sound of Madeline's voice. Why on earth was Madeline calling her in the middle of the night? "Yes?" It was hard to sound cheery through a cotton wool mouth, but she gave it her best shot.

"I believe you're late for your briefing."

Nikita sat bolt upright, a very unwise move. Her head swimming, she peered at her watch. It was 6:15 a.m. Muttering a very bad word under her breath, she sprang up from the couch. "I'm sorry, I wasn't feeling well last night," she invented quickly, shoving her feet into her boots, still half-asleep. "I took quite a bit of cold medication." Well, vodka could be medicinal, she mused, fighting the hysterical urge to laugh in Madeline's ear.

"Perhaps you'd care to join us as soon as possible?" Madeline sounded as though she'd heard every excuse there was, and Nikita's was decidedly lacking. "As you're the lead operative on this mission, Operations has been forced to push back the briefing until your arrival."

Shit, shit, shit. "I'll be there in twenty." She stared at the trail of black clothing on the living room floor. Where the hell is my jacket?

"I'd make it fifteen, if I were you," Madeline suggested casually.

"Operations was rather displeased."

At the sound of the dial tone, Nikita flipped the phone shut and looked down. She was wearing her pyjamas, no socks, and her boots. Nice look if she was going undercover as a baglady, not so good for discreet surveillance.

Giving herself a mental shake, she set about breaking the all time record for dressing and getting out her front door. As she turned to pull the door shut she caught sight of the blank notepad still sitting on the coffee table and felt an odd sense of relief. Christmas planning could wait until another night. The way she was feeling at the moment, she'd rather face a displeased Operations than spend the night pretending she had a normal life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Eleven Days

When a loud clomping echoed across Section's main floor, Birkoff looked up from his work in surprise. At 6:30 in the morning, no one ought to have that kind of energy, at least not without the assistance of copious amounts of caffeine. He glanced curiously around the room, cringing inwardly as he spotted the source of the noise: Nikita, taking long, swift strides in her mission-black boots, blonde hair bouncing to and fro as she walked. Her brisk movement would have seemed confident but for the expression of nervous anticipation that twisted her features, and the flushed redness in her face that bespoke of having literally run to Section.

Oh, God, poor Nikita.

He knew where she was going -- and he knew exactly why she looked like she was hurrying toward her own beheading. Operations' hoarse shouts to Madeline earlier that morning had made the situation horribly obvious to everyone within earshot. Since then, the man had been pacing steadily back and forth beside the briefing table, anger billowing out from him like waves of hot air from a blast furnace. As he glowered, the row of operatives seated attentively before him slowly wilted, their posture weakening more and more with each passing minute.

As Nikita's path neared Comm, Birkoff gazed at her sympathetically. Normally, she would have given him at least a wink or a smile as she passed; this time, she didn't even glance in his direction.

Yikes. Just the thought of the scathing dressing-down she was about to get made him want to hide. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to know about it, didn't want to think about it. So he frowned, concentrated on his monitor, and put the rest of the room out of his mind. Nikita could handle herself, anyway. And he had a systems scan to run that couldn't wait any longer.

He licked his dry lips and began typing, focusing his attention on the text appearing on the screen. In the background, he could hear Operations' voice: a low growl, punctuated with occasional sharpness. More faintly, he heard Nikita reply, her tone conciliatory, but her words inaudible. Eventually, even the voices faded away, lost in the general din of morning activity as more and more operatives arrived to start their workday.

He began to relax, breathing more easily. No one was getting throttled over there, after all. Nikita had been stupid, and she got yelled at. That was it. No big deal. He made a face, leaning closer to the screen. Now, why wasn't the scan cycling? Oh, no, Simon hadn't installed anything during the night shift, had he?

Ugh. Now he had to pull up the systems log and see what was going on.Lost in concentration, he jumped when he felt someone tap his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Kristy, one of the newest techs, standing over him expectantly. She was young, but that almost went without saying in their line of work. She was also plump and rather sweet-looking, but attempted to make up for her round-faced pudginess with short, punk-like hair that she had dyed an unnatural shade of purplish-black, a small diamond stud in her nose, and far-too-heavy makeup. It didn't work: she still looked like a mall-rat version of a rebel, someone's suburban little sister.

"I've got the QA done," she said, cracking her gum loudly as she held out a disk.

"Oh, yeah, thanks."

He took the disk absentmindedly and found himself staring at her, not quite sure why. She appeared oddly out of place, although he couldn't identify what it was, exactly. Then it struck him. She wasn't wearing the usual subdued clothing that Section operatives seemed to adopt as their de facto uniform. Instead, she wore a bright green knit sweater adorned with a large, wood-block style pin in the shape of a cheery Santa. She looked ludicrous, like a cartoon character burst to Technicolor life in the middle of a black and white film.

She must have noticed his staring, because she giggled and said, "You like the pin, huh?"

He blinked, embarrassed. "Uh, it's nice, I guess. Cute."

She smiled. "You want it?"

"What?"

"Oh, don't worry, Birkoff. I've got others I can wear." She unfastened the pin, then bent down and attached it to the front of his gray sweatshirt.

"There. Now you look festive," she pronounced, smirking.

He looked down at the pin, discomfited. If a jolly, red-cheeked Santa seemed silly on her, it looked positively idiotic on him. What if he had to go up to the Perch? Or worse yet, Madeline's office. He could just see the new entry in his psych file: Mr. Birkoff has developed a new attachment to kitsch jewelry. This could be a sign of gender confusion. Closer monitoring may be warranted.

"Um, I don't really need this," he mumbled. "You should keep it."

"What, you don't celebrate Christmas?" she asked teasingly, cocking her head and placing her hands on her hips. "You Grinch, you! I'm gonna tell Santa to leave you a lump of coal in your stocking."

He wrinkled his forehead, unsure what to say. Before he could think of anything, her expression suddenly transformed, her face flushing bright crimson.

"Oh, God, you're Jewish, aren't you?" she asked, her tone mortified. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Boy, I should just keep my big mouth shut."

He opened his mouth to answer, but then realized he couldn't. Was he Jewish? Christian? Anything?

I don't know.

Did he have a family? Had he ever celebrated holidays? Did he have any traditions or history? Or had he just hatched in a Section incubator, like some sort of freak?

I don't know.

He reached down and unhooked the pin, and then handed it back to her. "Here. It looks better with your sweater anyway."

She took it and nodded, her face still bright red. "Thanks," she said, smiling awkwardly and backing away as if she wanted to disappear. "Let me know if you want any more testing done, okay?"

"Sure," he muttered, and turned back to his monitor.

He looked at the screen blankly for several moments. Finally, he sighed and forced himself to start typing, ignoring the phrase that still rang faintly in his mind.

I don't know.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ten Days

Michael stared at their Prague contact, fighting the urge to put his gloved hands around the man's thick neck and squeeze. "You have nothing new." It was a statement, not a question, and Michael saw a flicker of fear in the man's pale blue eyes.

"Well, information can be scarce this time of year," he began nervously, "so many people traveling to visit their families." His voice trailed off as his gaze met Michael's, his throat working as he swallowed compulsively. "I should have something tomorrow."

"I hope so," Michael replied blandly as he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Their position behind the ornately carved gates of a cemetery in the Jewish quarter sheltered them somewhat from the biting wind, but it was still bitterly cold. "It would be a pity if the Section was forced to find a new source."

The informant's face paled. "I'm meeting Kasevich later tonight. He will have the information you requested."

"Good," Michael said quietly, automatically scanning the immediate area. He returned his attention to the other man. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. The Old Town Square."

It was a command the informant seemed only too happy to obey. He nodded wordlessly, and disappeared swiftly into the night. Michael waited a few moments, then walked in the opposite direction. Snow crunched loudly under his boots; he could see his breath on the air. He walked quickly, more from the desire to stay warm than an eagerness to return to his

Section-designated accommodation. He was staying in a particularly spartan hotel cum boarding house a few minutes walk from the main business district. However, comfort and location were of no concern to Section - more important was the fact that the owner was an elderly widow who showed an almost militant discretion when it came to her guests. If ever pressed by an outside source, she remembered no names, no faces. All bills were settled in cash. No records were kept.

Michael had been in Prague for three days. Three days spent waiting for information vital to the demise of a local arms dealer. Three days of seeing families, wrapped up in their winter coats, walking along the snowy streets, excited children pulling at their parents' hands. Three days spent thinking of his own son, of the family that was now lost to him.

Since Salla Vachek's death, Section had provided Michael with infrequent reports that detailed Elena and Adam's wellbeing. Those brief, unemotional recitals of facts and figures had only served to heighten his sense of loss. Finally, last month, he had informed Madeline he no longer wished to be updated on the status of his former family. She'd regarded him calmly, her expression sympathetic yet skeptical.

"I hope this means you've finally accepted the parameters of your deep cover mission, Michael."

"Of course." He forced the simple words out through tight lips.

Madeline lifted one dark eyebrow. "Because I'd hate to find that you'd done something as foolish as attempting to keep watch over Elena and Adam yourself."

He didn't speak but merely returned her gaze steadily until a knowing smile tugged at the corner of her well-shaped mouth. "Thank you, Michael, that will be all."

Now, walking alone through the snow-encrusted streets, Michael felt a piercing loneliness so acute it was an almost physical ache. He forced himself to keep walking. Adam and Elena were gone, but for now, they were safe. They were alive.

He had reached a busy retail district and the streets were no longer empty. His senses kicked into high alert when a willowy form detached itself from the passing crowd and sauntered toward him. On closer inspection, it was a tall, Nordic blonde, her arms loaded with shopping bags. She was wearing pale gray furs and an expression of blatant feminine curiosity. Michael let his eyes meet hers for the briefest moment, subconsciously comparing her features to those of another willowy blonde. The hair is the right colour but her mouth is too thin, he thought automatically. Chin too weak.

The woman smiled at him flirtatiously, her hazel eyes regarding him with obvious interest. Michael merely kept walking, his stride increasing. The sight of the woman's bright blonde hair, spilling over the soft collar of her coat, had filled him with an urgent need to contact Nikita. It had been a week since he'd seen her - she'd been in Dubrovnik when he'd left for Prague, and their contact since then had been sporadic at best.

Their newly resurrected personal relationship was still fragile, still fraught with so many emotional land mines. Nikita avoided the subject of Adam and Elena like the plague, as though she was afraid of hurting him. And while she couldn't bring herself to speak of the past, Michael was reluctant to speak aloud of the future, as if by remaining silent they could avoid the attention of the gods.

He loved her. He loved her more than he'd ever loved any woman. He loved her even when he felt like shaking her for endangering her life for the sake of her damn rose-coloured principles. She'd twice restarted a heart and soul that had become catatonic with pain and sorrow, despite his best efforts to resist her. She'd been his last, desperate anchor in the blur of days that followed the end of his deep cover mission.

"You have to find a reason for living." Her hand gripped his arm tightly, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

He could hardly bring himself to look at her. "Where?" he asked carelessly, wanting her to tell him the answer they both already knew. Even as he sought to push her away, he longed to pull her close, to lose himself in her soft warmth. Help me. Please help me.

Disappointment flickered briefly in her eyes, but she lifted her chin in a silent challenge. "Anywhere you can."

And he had. He had found his reason in her.

But the joy they found in each other was always tempered with the grim knowledge that Section One was a cruel taskmaster. It neither rewarded nor cajoled but merely demanded and punished. Michael knew there would be a price to pay for their defiance of the recently issued Type One Directive - he only prayed he alone would be forced to pay it.

As lost as he was in his thoughts, he was still acutely aware of his surroundings. As he passed a small sandstone church, a stream of hardy fur-wrapped parishioners passed, obviously making their way to the evening service. Drawn by an impulse he couldn't name, Michael turned and slowly retraced his steps until he was standing outside the church. A large nativity scene, festooned with twinkling fairy lights had been strategically placed outside the front door, and several children were clustered around the display, giggling and pointing excitedly at the wooden figures.

Michael lifted his head to read the church's name, which was proudly proclaimed in ornate script. It was the church of the Sacred Heart, a Catholic church. The religion in which he'd been raised, the religion in which he'd found no answers when his parents had died. A religion he'd forced himself to forget after he'd been reborn into Section One and its doctrine of easy death.

His first impulse was to leave, but instead he found himself walking toward the front door of the church. The fragrance of incense and candles teased his nose as he hesitantly stepped inside, bringing back a rush of memories he'd thought long forgotten. As though on automatic pilot, he pulled off his gloves. Dipping the fingers of his right hand into the tiny silver bowl of holy water affixed to the wall, he made the sign of the cross, something tightening inside him at the familiar yet alien gesture.

The mass was yet to begin. Perhaps the parishioners had arrived early in order to avoid the snow Michael could still smell in the air. He stood at the back of the church, his gaze roaming the room. Families mingled with groups of teenagers, smartly dressed couples jostled for elbowroom beside elderly, dark-robed nuns. His throat tightened at the sight of a small, dark-haired, olive-skinned boy sitting at the end of a nearby pew. Secure in the circling embrace of his mother's arm, the little boy was kneeling on the seat, facing backwards, studying the congregation with a child's unabashed curiosity. When his dark eyes met Michael's, he smiled hesitantly. Ignoring the sudden lump in his throat, Michael smiled back. The boy immediately wriggled back down into his seat to peer at Michael through the crook of his mother's arm.

Michael blinked and looked away. Don't think about him. He's safe now. It's better this way. In an attempt to deny the thought of his son, he resumed his scrutiny of the church. In a small alcove to his right, a well-worn statue of Mary of the Immaculate Heart stood guard over rows and rows of small flickering candles, watching with sightless eyes over the tiny flames that were someone's pain, someone's loss. Someone's hope.

Michael stared at the candles, his vision blurring as his grief mingled with longing; despair battling with the instinctive drive to live, to survive. He had thought there was no place in his life for hope. Perhaps he was wrong. He walked slowly toward the alcove just as a well-padded female parishioner rose from her kneeling position in front of the candles. Catching his eye, she smiled shyly, murmuring a quiet "Good evening, Sir," in her native tongue. Michael responded in kind, vaguely grateful for her words of welcome.

There was a small box of unused white candles and a wooden donation box.

Michael took a moment to find several gold coins, then turned his attention to the candles. One by one, Michael said a prayer for both the living and the dead. His mother. His father. His sister. Simone. Elena. Adam.

The flames flickered as he set the small candles in the tiny sconces, their feeble heat still managing to sear his heart. He didn't kneel, as the other parishioners had done, but merely bowed his head, his eyes tightly closed. The faces of the dead were as vivid in his memory as those of the living, their voices still fresh in his ears. He wasn't expecting to find peace or atonement. To his surprise, however, a burgeoning feeling of optimism stole over him. The past was done. The future was yet to be written. Nothing was impossible.

Michael looked down at the last candle - still unlit - in his hand, and his fingers tightened around the cold wax. He didn't want to consign Nikita to the realm of the unattainable, someone to be mourned and regretted. Slipping the candle into the pocket of his overcoat, he quietly backed away from the alcove, blessing himself once more with holy water as he left the church.

Outside, the snow had started to fall. Michael pulled the woolen scarf a little tighter around his throat and increased his stride. Tonight was Nikita's second night in Hanoi. She would have both her cell phone and her PDA with her, no matter where she was. He longed to hear her voice, even if was just to hear her complain about how much she hated doing 'freaking surveillance'. With a heart considerably lightened by his unexpected detour, Michael strode quickly in the direction of the hotel.

Nothing was impossible.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Nine Days

Announcing its arrival with a soft ding, the elevator slowed to a gentle halt and its doors slid open. Madeline stepped out into a brightly lit foyer, brushing tiny flakes of snow off her wool coat as the elevator doors rumbled closed again, then carefully unwound the scarf wrapped around her neck.

But for a single doorway at the far end, the foyer was completely empty, its walls and floor a nondescript beige. The door was equally unremarkable: painted a dark, dull gray, it bore no distinguishing features aside from an embedded glass oval that resembled a slightly oversized peephole.

She began to cross the foyer, zigzagging along a precise path to avoid tripping a laser-activated alarm. When she reached the door she paused, leaned in toward the glass, and stood motionless while a glowing red beam flickered across her eye. She spoke her name loudly enough for a voiceprint to register, and waited until she heard three short beeps. Grasping the doorknob, she pushed the door open, stepped inside an entryway, and allowed the door to fall soundlessly shut behind her.

Home. Perhaps not so sweet, but home nonetheless.

She removed her coat and scarf and hung them neatly inside a small closet. She then made her way down a hall toward the living room, her shoes sinking into the plush carpet as she walked, the only sound the swish of her skirt.

When she rounded the corner, the living room was dark and silent, its furnishings amorphous shadows outlined by the faint glitter of the cityscape through the windows. Paler than moonlight, the city lights cast the room with a ghostly hue, ethereal but brittle, like a thin coating of frost.

She touched a pad on the wall to turn on the lights, and the shadows took shape and substance, emerging from the blackness as tables, chairs, sofas, shelves. Tapping the wall pad again, she dimmed the illumination to a soft, warm glow; another touch, and recessed spotlights revealed a series of paintings and sculptures. As she adjusted the brightness of the spotlights, the room filled with color, dimension, and depth. But it remained hushed and still, utterly devoid of movement.

Strolling toward the center of the room, she examined her environs, feeling uncomfortably like a tourist locked inside a museum after hours. She hadn't set foot in her own home for nearly two weeks. Not that it looked neglected: daily visits by Section staff ensured it remained spotless and well tended. If she ran a finger along the uppermost shelf, there wouldn't be a trace of dust; if she inspected the linens, she would find them soft and fresh; if she lifted the leaves of the plants, the soil would be moist.

Designed according to her very exacting specifications, the apartment was everything she could want in a residence: tastefully and extravagantly decorated, comfortable to the point of sumptuousness, equipped with every imaginable convenience. Yet, despite all of that, despite its near-perfection, she found herself there less and less often.

In fact, almost never.

After her abduction the prior year, she had developed a reluctance to spend time away from Section premises -- a reluctance that lingered, resisting all efforts to shake it off. She knew, logically, that such an incident was unlikely to recur: in fact, every conceivable step had been taken to ensure it could not. The first was the assignment of a new residence -- or rather, a series of them, as the location changed every few months to evade detection. The other was enhanced security: unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, but extreme even by Section standards. If she as much as sneezed without advance notice, ten bodyguards would come running from every direction, guns drawn.

Still, despite the luxury and the nearly impenetrable defenses, she never quite felt comfortable in her new domiciles. Wandering like a pampered nomad, she drifted from one opulent dwelling to the next, never left wanting for anything, but never settling in. Indeed, if she were going to live under armed guard, she might as well stay inside Section, which made no pretense of being anything other than a fortified bunker. As she grew older, she had begun to appreciate a certain virtue in the Spartan plainness of her Section quarters -- which was why she generally chose to remain there.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to return home -- if one could refer to her residence-of-the-moment by such a term -- every so often. It was healthy to leave Section periodically, even if only to witness the passing seasons and remind oneself that the outside world existed.

The outside world, however, looked particularly uninviting at the moment. She stared at the window, where crystals of ice were beginning to form in the corners, and mentally shivered. December. A time of lengthening nights and growing cold, of hibernation, scarcity, and desolation -- yet also, paradoxically, a time of merriment and celebration. The juxtaposition of gloom and cheer was no mere coincidence: no matter what mythology was attached to them, the midwinter holidays had originated as humanity's way of pleading with the sun to return. A futile act, despite its charming optimism, illustrative of man's miscomprehension of his place in the universe.

The holidays had their value, of course; they were an important coping mechanism, and even she wasn't wholly immune to the attraction of their rituals. The cluster of brightly colored poinsettias blooming on the coffee table was a telling reminder of that. She retained a sentimental attachment to the red-leafed plants even after she had learned their less-than-savory history: once prized by the Aztecs, they symbolized the blood sacrifices offered to the sun god. Not exactly befitting the Christmas spirit of comradeship and charity, to say the least. Then again, for someone whose job it was to send people out to battle, they had a certain, almost appealing, suitability.

But enough self-indulgent reflection. She glanced at her watch. Nine o'clock. Enough time for a light dinner, a brief review of substation reports, a bath, and then sleep.

She exited the living room, passing through the dining area to enter the kitchen. Compact and clean, it was crowded with gleaming appliances that, for the most part, she had never actually used. She continued to ignore them now, walking past the counters toward the far corner, where a large, stainless steel refrigerator loomed. Restaurant-sized, it dwarfed the rest of the room.

She pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. Its ample shelves were fully stocked, the contents freshened daily. A platter of freshly cut fruit. Five types of cheese. Two containers of soup. A selection of hot and cold appetizers. Four different pre-cooked dinner selections, and ingredients for several others on the unlikely chance that she would have the time -- or be in the mood -- to cook her own. Whatever she didn't use would be discarded and replaced the next day. And again the next, even if it took her another two weeks to return. It was absurdly wasteful, she knew, but a welcome convenience. It left her some choice: the ability to decide on the spur of the moment whether she would go home any given night. If she were honest with herself, she had little else left to be spontaneous about.

Spotting a silver beverage container with a shiny red bow attached to its side, she pulled it out to inspect it more closely. When she opened the lid and breathed in a heady whiff of rum and nutmeg, she allowed a faint smile to lift the corners of her mouth. Homemade eggnog, courtesy of Christopher -- his gift to her every December. Unfortunately, she despised eggnog, although it would be discourteous to tell him so. Therefore, each year she did the same thing, enacting a private ritual of gratitude for his well-intentioned -- but misplaced -- gesture.

Knowing that the staff would mention it to him if she left the eggnog untouched, she withdrew a glass from a cabinet and poured a generous serving. She lifted the glass into the air in a mock toast.

"Merry Christmas, Christopher," she said quietly, staring into space for a few seconds afterwards.

She then poured the creamy liquid down the drain and carefully rinsed out the sink, leaving the unwashed glass conspicuously on the counter for the staff to discover the next morning.

Another season observed. Until next year.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Eight Days

Pausing in the middle of Munitions Walter discreetly checked the immediate area, then checked his watch. 1:05 p.m. The sun was definitely over the yardarm - time to test the results of his latest experiment. He slipped behind the large storage shelf out the back, the one that housed various pieces of equipment either waiting for repair or modification. For the last twelve months, the shelves had also housed a certain little something that was definitely not standard Section issue.

Crouching down in a seldom-used corner, Walter pushed aside the empty metal boxes he'd put in place almost a year ago, revealing a slightly battered wooden crate. His mouth almost watering in anticipation, he pulled the crate toward him, and reverently opened the lid. A dozen bottles, their contents darkly gleaming, lay on an elderly but clean blanket that had been folded several times over. Walter grinned at the sight of all his babies still completely intact. "Splendido," he breathed.

He'd brewed his first batch on a whim ten years ago, and had been experimenting with the formula ever since. He had high hopes for this vintage. Walter ran a hand over one of the bottles, the glass smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. Time for a taste test, he thought happily.

"Walter, are you in here?"

The intrusion of Davenport's voice had Walter swearing under his breath and hastily closing the lid of the wooden crate. "With you in a minute," he called out loudly. Casting a longing look at his secret stash, he hurried out to the main work area. "What can I do for you?"

As usual, Davenport was dressed as though he was going on a camping trip - duffel coat, hiking boots and woollen beanie. He regarded Walter with solemn brown eyes, as he placed a weapon onto the workbench. "I need you to take a look at this for me."

"What's the problem?" Walter asked as he reached for the gun, all thoughts of shiny bottles temporarily forgotten.

"The sight's still way off."

Walter grinned reassuringly. "Leave it with me. I'll have her up and running in no time." Davenport gave him a quick nod and left without another word. What was it with Level Five Ops and the strong silent act, Walter mused with vague amusement. Do they all read the same manual?

As he turned, intending to pick up where he left off, he caught sight of a familiar figure loping despondently through Comm. For the second time in as many minutes, Walter pushed aside the planned taste-test, anticipating instead a visit from his favourite girl. He'd seen her moping about over an hour ago. Not that he was one to brag, but with Michael out of the country, he was usually the next batter up when it came to a shoulder to cry on. By his calculations, she should be walking into his work area right about...

"Hi, Walter," Nikita said brightly as she wandered into Munitions. For a moment, the cheeriness of her greeting had him fooled, then he saw the sadness in her eyes. She was still wearing her mission blacks, which was unlike her. She normally liked to get back into her own skin - as she'd once put it - as soon as she could, and the team had returned from Hanoi over two hours ago.

"Hiya, Sugar," he replied casually, discreetly scanning the immediate area.

"You're back early."

Lounging against his main workbench, Nikita shrugged. "There was a problem with the target."

Walter eyed her for a moment, studying the tight set of her mouth. "What happened?"

"He died," she replied flatly. "The idiot got himself tanked up on Christmas cheer a little early and walked in front of a bus."

Walter pursed his lips. Given the distant look in Nikita's eyes, it probably wasn't the best time to make a wisecrack. "Well, at least you got to come home ahead of schedule."

Nikita drummed her fingers on the barrel of the gun Davenport had left on the workbench. "Home sweet home," she muttered under her breath. "Home for the holidays," she went on in a softly mocking singsong voice, twirling the gun in circles.

"Uh, Sugar?" Walter walked over to her side, and gently removed the weapon from harm's way. "Wanna tell me about that bee you've got in your bonnet?"

She bit her bottom lip, staring down at her hands where they rested on the top of the workbench. "You know, I never paid much attention to Christmas before I came to Section," she said quietly. "Didn't really care about it one way or the other." When her gaze flicked up to meet his, the misery in her bright blue eyes made his heart ache. "But now that I'm in here..." She shrugged, looking back down at her hands. "I guess I wish I hadn't wasted all those Christmases in the real world."

Walter reached out and tapped her nose with his finger. "Your life is as real as you make it, Sugar."

"Oh, god." Lifting her eyes to his, she managed a shaky smile. "You're not going to give me the speech about the journey and the destination again, are you?"

He grinned and put his hand over his heart. "Would I do that to you? Besides, I try not to repeat my lectures, kiddo."

She was silent for a moment, then looked at him almost shyly. "You've got the right idea, you know, celebrating the Winter Solstice instead of Christmas. No gifts, no turkey, no pressure, no silly rituals."

"Oh, there's rituals, Sugar," he said with a wicked smile.

Nikita's eyes widened. "We're not talking about dancing naked around Stonehenge, are we?"

Walter chuckled, pleased to see the sparkle had returned to her eyes. "Not quite, Sugar. But most Christmas traditions have pagan origins, you know. Christmas trees, holly." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Even mistletoe."

She laughed, then leaned forward to brush his cheek with a kiss. "You don't need mistletoe to get a kiss from me, Walter."

Walter felt his eyes mist over and cleared his throat hastily. Must be getting sentimental in my old age. He checked his watch. "You going out again?"

"No, I'm down for the rest of the day." She patted him on the forearm.

"Thanks for listening to my drivel," she said with a faintly embarrassed smile. "You're a saint."

He looked over her shoulder, scanning the main floor of Section. There was hardly a soul in sight. "Wait right here," he told her, then hurried back to the wooden crate Davenport's arrival had forced him to abandon.

"Where are you?" he muttered under his breath, rummaging in a wire basket on the top shelf. Aha! Now we're getting somewhere. Errant corkscrew in hand, he gingerly lifted one of the bottles out of the crate, and very carefully proceeded to open it. You never could tell how homemade liqueur would react, but steady fingers from too many years of making and diffusing bombs stood him in good stead. The cork came out with a satisfyingly wet pop, and he lifted the bottle to his nose. Oh, this is a good one, he thought as he inhaled the scent of cranberries and lime, overlaid with cinnamon and allspice.

"Glasses, glasses," he murmured, scanning the metal shelf above his head, searching for the collection of shot glasses he'd lifted from various biker bars. He was a sucker for a souvenir.

A few minutes later, he approached Nikita with two shot glasses filled to the brim with the dark red liquid. "A little Christmas cheer for you, Sugar." Her eyes widened as he handed her a glass. "Just don't go walking in front of any buses on your way home, okay?"

Nikita eyed the glass warily. "Not that cranberry stuff again?" she asked in mock horror.

Walter winced inwardly at her description of his carefully nurtured liqueur, then reluctantly admitted she had a point. Some vintages had been better than others. "Trust me - I tweaked the recipe a little," he told her proudly. "This one's the one." He held up his glass in a toast. "Here's mud in your eye, Sugar."

Grinning, Nikita looked him in the eye and clinked her glass against his. "Here's to my favourite guy in Section."

Walter sighed loudly, then gave her a wink. "Now we both know that's not true."

By silent agreement, they tossed back their drinks in one gulp. Walter closed his eyes, savouring the rich, fruity darkness of the liqueur as it burned a trail down to the pit of his stomach. When he heard a gasp, he opened his eyes to see Nikita spluttering, her bright blue eyes glittering with tears. "Good God!" She coughed a few times, then produced a watery smile. "Actually, it's not too bad."

Walter licked his lips, feeling very pleased with himself. "I'm glad you like it. I used some of that killer vodka you gave me last year."

Nikita inspected her glass, a doubtful expression suddenly crossing her face. "The vodka I brought back from Poland?"

"That's the stuff - hits the spot, don't it?" He took the glass from her hand. "One for the road?"

She shook her head hastily. "No, thanks. I've had enough vodka this week, I think," she replied cryptically. "I'd better push off." With a final squeeze of his hand, she was gone, striding through Section as though she owned the place. Walter smiled at the sight, then considered the empty glass in each hand.

Damn, that's a good brew. I wonder if that cute little tech in DRV would like a quick snort?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Seven Days

As he watched the grainy video feed on the screen embedded in the wall of the Perch, Operations began to smile broadly. McDaniel's team had retrieved the target without incident, and had managed to destroy a toxin supply in the process. Amazing. For once, a mission that went strictly by the numbers, with no screwups or unanticipated contingencies. Would miracles never cease?

Tapping a key, he switched the view to the feed from the White Room. There, a perspiration-drenched captive sat, stumbling over his words as he recited the membership roll of his organization to a nodding, encouraging Madeline.

How long had she had with him? Twenty minutes, at most. Beautiful. At the rate the man was talking, she might even be free for lunch.

Content with what he saw, he turned away from the screen and strolled over to the window. Below him, everything looked in order: a disciplined army, working steadily, diligently, quietly. There were no flashing lights or pulsing tones, no frantic operatives running back and forth, no emergencies or incoming wounded.

Every so often, on those oh-so-rare occasions, all was right with the world.Instinctively, he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. As his fingers touched the metal surface of his cigarette case, he frowned, hesitating.

I really need to cut down on these things.

That little nagging voice kept cropping up more and more frequently, and to make matters worse, he knew it was right. Damn it. Couldn't a man indulge in any vices without feeling guilty?

Oh, the hell with it. They haven't killed me yet.

He grasped the case and started to pull it out, but stopped when he heard a shrill beeping from his other pocket. His phone. Only two people called that number regularly, and one of them was presently occupied in the White Room. It figured George would call just when everything seemed to be going well. The sullen-faced SOB couldn't just let him have a good day.

Releasing his grip on the cigarette case, he fished in his other pocket and withdrew the telephone instead.

"Yes?" he grunted.

"Good afternoon, Paul."

Hearing George's voice -- simultaneously smug and dour -- was like touching something putrid: you couldn't help but shudder, no matter how much you prepared yourself.

"George," Operations replied. He forced himself to remain civil, despite the fact that just saying the man's name made his gut turn somersaults. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Crimson Fist. I hear they're becoming active in Southern Europe."

If "becoming active" meant spray painting hyperbolic graffiti on a few highway overpasses and torching a handful of parked police cars, sure, they were becoming active. In reality, they were a penny-ante imitation of Red Cell who couldn't drum up a dozen members for a meeting if they gave away door prizes.

"We're monitoring them carefully," Operations said dryly.

"Well, that's very gratifying," George said, his tone equally dry. "But I'd still like a full report so I can fill in the other Sections. Do you think you can manage that?"

Oh, for God's sake. Couldn't George come up with better ways to waste their time?

Operations sighed in exasperation, not caring if the noise were audible over the telephone. "You'll have it in a week."

George snorted. "It had better be sooner than that. I don't intend to spend Christmas reading reports from One, you know. I want it no later than five days from now."

Shit. Christmas was a week from today. How could he have forgotten? "Fine," he replied, momentarily disconcerted. "Five days."

"Good." George drew in a long, rasping breath. "By the way," he added, his voice lowering to a gravelly drawl, "if you call me on the 24th or 25th, I expect it to be an emergency. Otherwise, I'll remove certain portions of your anatomy that I'm sure you'd rather not do without."

"Don't worry, George," Operations said acidly, "the last thing I want to do is disturb your holiday."

George chuckled. "Then we understand each other. Goodbye, Paul. And Happy Christmas."

After he heard the line click off, Operations snapped the telephone shut and dropped it back into his pocket. Leaning against the ledge, he stared morosely out the window; outside, the operatives continued to work as before, but their quiet industriousness no longer pleased him. Every so often, one of them glanced up nervously: it was as if they could sense his plummeting mood, as if the temperature within Section were literally dropping. When even Birkoff attempted to sneak a covert look upwards, Operations scowled and turned away.

So George was taking the holiday off. How nice. In contrast, he would be putting in eighteen-hour days from now until well past New Year's.

Despite what George might wish, the rest of the world didn't drop what they were doing just because Western countries were celebrating Christmas. Even in the West, terrorist groups saw the season as an opportunity, with police and security forces distracted and short-staffed.

It would be, as always, Section One's most hectic time of year. And there wasn't anything jolly about it. No carving of the Christmas ham; no aroma of fresh-baked gingerbread men wafting from the kitchen; no chopping down the tree and getting covered with pine needles hauling it home; no moonlit sleigh rides around the lake; no singing carols around the piano with Great-Aunt Betty while Grandma dozed off by the fire; no red and white-striped candy canes poking temptingly out the top of the stockings Christmas morning. Just stress-filled days and nights trying to make sure that everyone else got to enjoy those things.

Then again, he wasn't sure he would still enjoy them, even given the opportunity. Or if he ever really had.

As nostalgically appealing as his childhood Christmas might seem in retrospect, the experience at the time had been dramatically different. His arthritic grandfather always butchered the ham, cursing under his breath while he did so, but refused to relinquish the honor of carving to anyone else; helping his father wrestle the Christmas tree indoors made him sweaty and irritable, while the jabbing of the pine needles caused him to break out in welts; and he once got a frostbitten toe while on one of those idyllic moonlit sleigh rides. Besides, he hated singing carols: standing prim and proper by the piano for so long made him restless and fidgety, and Great-Aunt Betty was painfully tone-deaf. As for the gingerbread men, he and his cousin Pete usually bit off their heads and fed the rest to the dogs, sending the poor animals scrambling for their water bowls afterwards. And candy canes? They were such a boring candy, although he enjoyed licking them to turn his tongue funny colors, then sticking it out at prissy cousin Rachel.

Frankly, he could happily do without any of it.

Was there anything he really missed about Christmas? Of course. The excitement of receiving presents, most definitely. Baseball gloves, shiny new bikes, train sets, toy guns: all of those had given him a thrill on Christmas mornings. But his fondest childhood Christmas memory was the year he got the camouflage outfit, complete with helmet and face paint. He spent the rest of the day skulking around the house, leaping around corners and gleefully ambushing the "enemy" -- otherwise known as his younger cousins -- until they ran crying to the grownups for protection. Now that had been fun.

You know, maybe he was spending this Christmas doing the thing he liked best, after all.

Ho, ho, ho, he thought, smirking and reaching back into his pocket. Time for that cigarette. He could always cut back after New Year's.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Six Days

"Take him to Containment." Michael handed the erstwhile arms dealer - a man responsible for thousands of deaths in the last year alone - over to the two waiting Level Three Ops, then watched as they swiftly manhandled him down the corridor.

"Good work."

Michael turned to the white-haired man who'd come to stand beside him, and inclined his head in a subtle acknowledgment of the praise. "His people were not quite as loyal as he perhaps thought," he said quietly.

A humourless smile appeared on Operations' lips. "Disloyalty is a common problem," he replied dryly, looking at Michael with guileless blue eyes.

"Even in Section."

Long practice allowed Michael to quickly school his features into a neutral expression, but his pulse quickened at the other man's words. He'd been out in the field for nearly a week, and the situation regarding the Type One Directive and his relationship with Nikita remained unresolved; a potentially fatal game of cat and mouse. "When would you like me to debrief?"

A barely there smile appeared on Operations' face, as though Michael's bland dismissal of the subject of loyalty had somehow pleased or amused him. "As soon as possible, if you don't mind. While you were away, George gave Section the rather odious task of compiling a comprehensive report on the resurgence of Crimson Fist in the European sector." His smile grew slightly.

"I'd like your input."

The art of delegation at its finest, Michael thought with reluctant admiration. "Of course."

~*~*~*~

Four hours later, Michael rubbed a weary hand across his gritty eyes. As well as garnering a huge amount of intel using one of Birkoff's many encrypted search engines, he'd sent out several feelers into the shadowy world of informants and lowlifes. In twelve hours he should have enough information on Crimson Fist to placate even Oversight. He was now free to leave Section, but there was one more thing he wanted to do before he went home.

Home. The word tugged at his heart. The apartment to which he'd been relocated after the completion of the Vachek profile was no more his home than the hotel room he'd just left behind in Prague.

Abruptly pushing back his chair, Michael rose to his feet and left his office. Madeline was still interrogating their latest guest; Operations was ensconced in a video hook up with the Singapore sub-station. And, perhaps most importantly, Nikita wasn't due in Section for another hour. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her. After all, they had been apart for nearly two weeks, and the longing to see her face, lose himself in the warmth of her smile was almost unbearable. But given what he was about to do, he didn't want his already conflicted emotions further complicated by Nikita's presence.

He walked quickly through Section. Operatives rushed past him, grimly intent on their destinations and tasks, the steady hum of electrical equipment mingling with the sharper sound of human voices. It could have been any time of the day, any day of the year. There was nothing around him to indicate one of the most widely celebrated religious festivals was only days away.

His own intended destination was a much more secluded area, a restricted floor only Level Five Operatives or higher could access. He may have turned down Madeline's seemingly magnanimous offer to keep him informed of Adam and Elena's status, but he had no intention of losing track of them. His refusal of Madeline's offer had nothing to do with his feelings toward his deep profile family. The simple reason was that there was no such thing as a magnanimous gesture in Section.

The only elevator with access to Level Two was located in a narrow corridor directly beneath Operations' office. It had been months since Michael had walked this route. On that occasion, he had been tailing Nikita, vaguely concerned for her safety, completely unaware that she was doing both Adrian's and Operations' bidding. Michael gave himself a mental shake as he keyed in the code that would summon the elevator. Now was not the time for such reminiscences.

Once on Level Two, Michael walked swiftly to the small room that housed Section's most secure databases. As a rule, Section preferred to eliminate loose ends rather than participate in a bastardized form of a witness relocation program, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Michael knew that since the death of Salla Vachek, Adam and Elena's details would have been updated on a daily basis, their every moment monitored.

The question was, however, how much did he want to know?

After he'd gained access to the room, it took a few minutes to locate the correct panel. Michael stood in front of the glowing screen, keying in the temporary access code that wouldn't exist after he left this room, and his heart began to pound. After a few more keystrokes, the screen filled with unemotional, clinical facts and figures that made up his wife and child's lives.

Their exact location was not recorded. Only Operations had the power to recall that information. If he was brutally honest with himself, Michael was relieved he didn't have to face that particular temptation.

He scrolled through the initial psychologists' reports, his heart aching as he read of his son's nightmares and Elena's painfully slow adjustment to the state of widowhood. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to keep reading, knowing he couldn't take the risk of accessing this database again for at least another six months. Michael lingered over the reports of his son's progress in his first year of school, a smile touching his lips for the first time that day.

He swiftly scanned the most recent information. As of last week, Adam's nightmares had decreased in frequency. Two days ago, for the first time since her husband's 'death', Elena had left Adam with an elderly neighbour and gone for coffee with a girlfriend. Yesterday, she had taken Adam on a visit to Father Christmas at their local department store. His family was slowly healing, Michael realised. Perhaps it was time he did the same.

~*~*~*~

When he reached his office, Nikita was casually leaning up against the closed door, reading a paperback, looking for all the world as though she were waiting for a bus. She was dressed simply in narrow black trousers, a black polo neck sweater and a bright red overcoat. As he drew closer, she looked up and gave him a brilliant smile. "Hi there, stranger," she drawled flirtatiously. "What's your name again?"

It was obvious she had no idea Operations was deep in conversation with Davenport less than five metres away. "What are you doing here?" Michael asked softly.

Surprise flickered in the depths of Nikita's bright blue eyes at his lacklustre response. "Well, I missed you too," she shot back with faint sarcasm.

Michael didn't reply. We have an audience, he silently implored her, holding her gaze with his. When he didn't speak, Nikita glanced over his shoulder, and her irritated expression was replaced with one of understanding. "I wanted to let you know how Hanoi went," she replied coolly, raising her voice slightly. "But I think I'll come back when you're in a better mood."

Her tone was one of pure petulant resentment, but he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes. Hoping Operations was less astute than he when it came to reading Nikita's expressions, Michael frowned at her. "Unless it's urgent, it will have to wait until tomorrow. I'm leaving in a few minutes."

One corner of her generous mouth tilted upwards in a secretive smile as she caught his unspoken message. Rolling her eyes, she turned to walk away.

"Jeez, Michael, you should try lightening up one of these days. Try not to be so bah humbug, would you?" Giving Operations and Davenport a tight little smile, she stalked off.

Michael ignored her parting words, and - as much as he usually enjoyed the view - deliberately averted his gaze as she walked away. As he opened the door to his office, Operations came to stand beside him, his business with Davenport obviously concluded. "I see she's in fine form," he said dryly. You have no idea, Michael mused silently as he let his gaze alight fleetingly on Nikita's departing figure. Feeling the familiar twist of desire streak through him, he nodded to Operations and slipped quickly into his office.

As he shut down his computer and shrugged into his overcoat, he thought of Nikita's veiled reference to the coming Christmas holiday. Bah humbug, she'd said. Even though it had been a comment made for Operations' benefit, Michael couldn't help wondering if it had a basis in truth as far as she was concerned. He'd certainly never celebrated the holiday with her. Indeed, Christmas had never had a place in his Section Life.

Slipping his hand into the pocket of his overcoat to retrieve his gloves, his fingertips brushed something cold and smooth. He pulled out his gloves, and the small white candle he'd brought back from Prague fell into his palm. Curling his fingers around it, he remembered the sense of peace that had come over him in that small church. The feeling of hope, after so much grief.

Michael slipped the candle back into his pocket. Section One did not close over Christmas. Evil had its own agenda, and the terrorists of the world did not stop to observe December 25th. But perhaps he and Nikita could find peace in each other.

Knowing her as he did, he suspected Nikita would now rush through whatever task had brought her into Section in record time so she could beat him back to his own apartment. If she did, he would find her curled up in his bed, waiting for him, clad in little more than a mischievous smile. After two weeks of enforced abstinence, the mere thought sent a wave of pure lust surging through him.

Perhaps he should make certain she arrived at his apartment first. After all, even if he lost, he would win. Turning off the light in his office, he pulled the door shut behind him, making no effort to hurry. Bah humbug, he thought with a tiny smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Five Days

Operations made his way steadily along the sidewalk, stepping carefully in his polished dress shoes to avoid slipping on patches of ice. Glancing around at the snow-covered surroundings, he found himself surprisingly relaxed. The air was frosty, the sky was a crisp winter blue, and he was blissfully alone: no bothersome operatives tagging along, not even the usual coterie of beefy bodyguards trailing him from a discreet distance. To his immense satisfaction, he had managed to ditch them shortly after leaving Section. By now, they were probably in a state of panicked horror, trying to decide whether they should call Madeline and report that they'd lost him, or pretend that nothing was amiss in the hope that he'd quickly reappear.

He hoped they'd have the sense to choose the latter. The last time he disappeared, his now ex-bodyguards had been foolish enough to trigger a formal alarm: the priority ten protocol they'd set in motion had bypassed Madeline and gone straight to Oversight, causing no end of aggravation.

Idiots. Why couldn't these people figure out there were times to follow procedures, and there were times to look the other way? If they didn't have the brains to recognize the difference -- even after the broad hints he kept dropping -- then abeyance was probably too good for them.

Still, as long as they avoided contacting Oversight this time, things would probably be fine. At least if they called Madeline first, she would know to keep a lid on it. While she'd be annoyed that he traveled without protection -- and would mince no words expressing her displeasure afterwards -- that was just too bad. Frankly, it was none of her business if he chose to forego his Section escort occasionally, anyway.

In any event, he only needed his freedom for a few minutes. Just long enough to take care of a little personal business. Then he could 'remember' to switch the tracking device in his watch back on, and no one would be the wiser.

Walking faster, he breathed deeply, allowing the cold air to fill his nose and lungs, steamy clouds spiraling away as he exhaled. In his tan overcoat and leather gloves, he adopted the attitude of an ordinary businessman on a mid-morning errand, indistinguishable from the other pedestrians hurrying along. Every so often one of them brushed past him or knocked his elbow; they would murmur a polite apology and move on without a second glance.

Their indifference amused him: it was so different from Section, where operatives scurried out of his path like timid squirrels fleeing a hungry-looking dog.

It was refreshing to be anonymous for a change. A man of no consequence, instead of one who bore the world's problems on his shoulders. Well, refreshing for a while: in truth, it bored him rather quickly. But for a moment or two, it was more than pleasant to be Joe Average, out for a winter stroll.

Spying a pay phone at a corner, he slowed his pace. Casually, he glanced over his shoulder to ensure he wasn't being observed. No one. He grasped the telephone receiver, discreetly attached a tiny scrambling device, and rapidly dialed a number.

The line picked up on the second ring. "Guten morgen," said a bland male voice.

"This is Williams, from Baltimore," Operations said cautiously.

"Ah, Mr. Williams." The man switched immediately into precise, Swiss-accented English. "What can I do for you today?"

"I want to make a transfer into Mr. Kane's account."

"Certainly, sir. The usual amount?"

He hesitated. The usual amount was more than enough -- in fact, probably too much for someone like Willie to handle responsibly. As he pondered the question, his gaze fell upon a threaded silver wreath hanging in the storefront window across the street.

Another Christmas, and Willie had no one. Other than his buddies Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, that is.

"Double it," he ordered curtly.

"Very well, sir. Anything else?"

"No. That's all for now."

He pressed the lever to terminate the call, detached the scrambler, and returned the receiver to its cradle. Slipping the scrambler into a coat pocket, he walked swiftly in the direction of his car, snow crunching noisily underfoot.

As he turned onto a main thoroughfare, he fell in step with a procession of holiday shoppers. Immediately ahead ambled an elderly woman in a long fur coat. Clutching several shopping bags in one hand, she jerked periodically on a leash with the other, dragging a doddering poodle in a red knit sweater. She sauntered slowly, as if she had nowhere in particular to go, seemingly indifferent to the fact that she, her packages, and her dog were blocking the sidewalk completely.

He remained stuck behind her for several minutes, his patience rapidly ebbing. He tried unsuccessfully to find a way past without shoving her aside, while his perfectly shined Italian shoes squashed in the heavily-trod snow, slowly collecting a coat of sodden gray slush. He stepped to one side, then the other; somehow, she managed to meander into his path no matter which way he weaved. The poodle snuffled and wandered aimlessly as its owner peered at window displays; while they moved more and more slowly, his aggravation mounted.

Would you get a move on? he urged her silently. I have to get back to saving the world, you old biddy.

As if to spite him, the woman abruptly stopped. Juggling with her bags, she fumbled in her purse for several moments and withdrew a handful of change. Leaning over, she dropped the coins into a can resting in front of a homeless man who sat cross-legged on a battered piece of cardboard.

When the coins clattered noisily into the can, the man curled a scornful lip.

"That's all?" he asked belligerently. "Where's your Christmas spirit?"

A shocked expression filled her wrinkled face, her generosity quickly turning to anger. "Ingrate! You don't deserve even that, Christmas or no. A healthy young man like you should be working."

With a disdainful lift of her chin, she stalked off -- at long last moving briskly -- the leash jangling as the poodle trotted alongside her.

Relieved that he could finally progress at a normal pace, Operations took a step to leave, but then stopped short. There was something about the figure on the sidewalk that bothered him. Dressed in a grimy ski jacket and sporting a patchy blond beard, the young man looked about the same age he and Willie had been when on their tour of duty. Except that this kid was pathetic, whining and begging for money on the streets, at an age when he and Willie had been getting shot at for flag and country. What a disgrace.

"So," said the youth sharply, "are you going to give me some money, or are you just going to stare at me all day?"

Operations folded his arms, narrowing his eyes to examine the man with disapproval. "She's right," he announced sternly. "You ought to get a job."

A snort of disgusted laughter erupted. "Oh, fuck off, Mr. Big-shot Executive. I don't owe you anything."

Watching this scrawny societal reject regard him with a superior sneer, Operations felt a flare of rage well up from his stomach to his throat. Livid, he reached into his pocket, yanked out his wallet, and plucked several crisp bills with large denominations from the billfold.

Crumpling the money and flinging it into the can, he barked, "Now you owe me plenty, and you're going to listen to what I have to say."

The young man gaped at the wad of cash, his eyebrows raised in a look of astonishment.

Operations bent down and fixed him with a baleful stare. "I'm sure you've got all sorts of reasons for being out here," he said mockingly. "Your puppy died when you were three, or your Mommy didn't hug you enough, or you didn't eat your vegetables. Whatever they are, I don't want to hear them." He jabbed his finger toward the money. "See that? That's enough to get you into rehab, or find an apartment, or do whatever you need to do to clean yourself up. So no more excuses."

The man shook his head defensively. "Look, it's not like that. I'm not lazy -- I've just had some bad breaks."

"Well, then, today's your lucky day," Operations said caustically. He glared at the young man, fighting the sudden impulse to reach down and wring his neck. The ferocity of his response disconcerted him. This kid was nobody, of less importance even than the terrorist vermin he exterminated, but somehow it had become desperately important that he make him listen. With a controlled intensity that nearly made his voice shake, he demanded,

"Twenty-five years from now, do you really want to be a drunken wreck, living off other people's handouts?"

"Of course not."

"Good," he snapped. "Because now you have a choice. You can take this money and try to turn your life around, or you can waste it on something stupid and stay out here on the streets. If you waste it, then you deserve to have little old ladies with overfed poodles turn their noses up at you."

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, and continued. "I, for one, don't really give a damn which choice you make."

"Then why'd you do this?" the young man asked, his forehead wrinkling with a bewildered expression.

Why? Good question. He frowned, puzzled by his own behavior, until the answer came to him, nauseating in its trite obviousness.

It was because he couldn't do it for Willie, that's why. He couldn't grab Willie by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, couldn't show up at his doorstep and yell at him until he agreed to go straight. All he could do was keep anonymously feeding his old friend money -- and watch helplessly as he destroyed himself.

I'm not going to let you become Willie, you sniveling little brat. That's why I'm doing this.

He shrugged, swallowing through the growing constriction in his throat. "Just call me Santa Claus," he said sarcastically. "Now, get out of my sight before I change my mind."

The youth scrambled to his feet and snatched up the can of money. As he turned to leave, he paused. "Hey, thanks," he said hesitantly.

"Didn't I tell you to go?" Operations snarled.

Paling, the man bolted, nearly tripping in his haste. When he had vanished down the street, Operations turned abruptly on his heel and marched in the opposite direction, his jaw clenched so tightly that he felt his muscle twitch.

The sorry bastard's lucky I didn't recruit him. I could find the little punk a job, all right.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Four Days

"See you maņana, amigo." Walter playfully cuffed Birkoff on the ear as he passed his desk. "I'm outta here."

Birkoff didn't look up from his keyboard. "Another hot date?" he asked, more than a trace of envy in his voice.

Walter winked as he zipped up the front of his leather jacket. "I'm not one to brag, but..."

"I don't know when you have the time to find these women," Birkoff muttered as his fingers flew over his keyboard.

Walter waggled his eyebrows. "It's all about priorities, my friend."

Birkoff finally looked up at him. The overhead light glinted off his glasses, making it hard to see his eyes. "Considering my track record, I think I'm better off staying here," he said forlornly.

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, knowing Birkoff would just die of embarrassment if he smiled. But it was true - the kid had rotten luck with the ladies. He'd dated that little hottie Gail for a while, but she'd turned out to be less than devoted. To make matters worse, just when it seemed he'd accepted the inevitable - that he was never going to get the blonde - he'd scored a roll in the hay with Nikita's exact double (who'd then promptly dumped him on his ass). Not exactly the kind of thing to leave you brimming with confidence.

"You just need to look up from that keyboard once in a while." He reached over and patted Birkoff on the shoulder. "There's plenty of talent down here, amigo."

"For you, maybe," Birkoff muttered carelessly, and Walter felt a sharp pain lance his heart. Glancing up at him, Birkoff suddenly looked stricken. "Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Feeling a familiar burning at the back of his eyes, Walter shook his head. He didn't want to talk about Belinda. Not in Section. Never in Section.

"It's okay, Birkoff." He made a show of straightening the cuffs off his leather jacket, then gave Birkoff a determined grin. "Gotta go - can't keep the ladies waiting."

"Sure, sure," Birkoff said hastily, obviously wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "See you tomorrow."

As he headed for the ground access elevator, Walter felt as though he'd been kicked in the guts. Isn't it always the way? You manage not to think about it at least a whole day, and then a couple of innocent words can make you feel like complete crap.

As he passed Systems, Walter noticed Operations and Madeline having what looked like a deep and meaningful conversation. He ignored them. His head was full of Belinda, and he wasn't sure he could smile and play nicely just at the moment. He felt their eyes on him as he passed by, but he just kept walking.

When he reached the real world that lay five hundred feet above, it was lined with snow and looked bright and shiny, almost too bright for a pair of old eyes that had spent the last ten hours under artificial lighting. He fished out his sunglasses, then considered his options. Despite what he'd let Birkoff assume, he had no plans of the female variety for the evening.

No, the only thing he planned to do was find some quiet corner in the nearest watering hole, sink a few beers, then go home to bed. Alone, he told himself determinedly, then sighed as two long-legged, forty-something brunettes sashayed past him, chattering excitedly in their native tongue. There was nothing like a handsome French filly, Walter thought appreciatively, but tonight he just wasn't in the mood.

He started walking in the direction of the nearest bar, then stopped. He wasn't in the mood for staying out for a few drinks either. Or catching a movie, or going for a burn on his latest bike. Walter stopped walking, letting the Parisian shoppers - their arms laden with exciting looking parcels - rush past him. Tonight, he really only wanted one thing. The problem, it was the one thing he couldn't have.

Walter turned on his heel and headed for home. It was a twenty-minute walk, but he wanted to clear his head. He was certainly in no rush to get home. No matter how much he wished it to be otherwise, his apartment would be dark and empty. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes watered, making him blink angrily. Damn it, he'd lived alone for years and it had never bothered him before. But that was before he'd met Belinda, and for a few, glorious days, had known what it was like to have it all.

It was true what that old song said, Walter thought sadly. A taste of honey was worse than none at all.

~*~*~*~

After stoking the fire to a glowing roar, Walter poured himself a whiskey - straight up, no ice - and returned to his battered but beloved leather armchair. The whiskey - the finest Dublin had to offer - was as smooth as silk, but it did nothing to smooth his ruffled thoughts.

God, how he missed her. Missed that cute little lop-sided smile. Missed hearing her delighted chuckle when he told her one of his jokes. How had she gotten to him so much, so quickly? Christ, he'd only known her two weeks before he'd found himself getting down on one creaking old knee and asking her to marry him. Walter took another sip of his drink, his eyes blurring with tears. If he'd been surprised by his own question, Belinda's answer had almost floored him. She'd said yes. Yes, to him, an old coot who liked to play around with gunpowder and remote triggers.

Walter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. You silly old bastard, sitting here crying into your soup. He had to admit, though, there was a lot to be said for feeling sorry for yourself. It was almost a perverse pleasure to wallow in the misery he hadn't let himself show or even feel for months and months. Birkoff's little comment earlier that day had been the trigger, but it wasn't the kid's fault. Birkoff knew better than anyone that Belinda's death had nearly been the end of him. After all, Birkoff had been the one to break the news that Walter's bride of only a few hours had been on the business end of an abeyance mission. Walter didn't want to think about the murderous rage that had filled his heart that day, but he knew he'd managed to scare the bejeezus out of both Birkoff and Nikita.

Birkoff had come to see him at home the next day. Walter's rage had subsided somewhat, but he'd still been in no mood for chitchat. He could still see the look of determination on the kid's face as he'd put his booted foot in the door. "Walter...wait. Belinda told me....uh....she wanted me to tell you...she said to tell you that it's not a bad thing to die on the happiest day of your life."

Poor Birkoff, Walter thought guiltily. He must have gone through hell steeling himself to pass on that message, and all Walter had done was slam the door shut in his face. Miserable, he'd then gone back to bed, burying himself in a bottle of scotch and sheets that smelled of Belinda's perfume. The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie. Still nursing his glass, he rose from the armchair and sauntered over to the telephone. Must be Section. He couldn't think of anyone else who'd be calling him here. Biting back a heavy sigh, he answered the phone. "Yup?"

"Walter?"

He had to smile. "Who else would it be, amigo?"

"Yeah, I guess. I hope I'm not interrupting your date," Birkoff sounded faintly nervous, which wasn't like him at all. Maybe he still felt bad about accidentally bringing up the subject of Belinda. Walter felt a flicker of guilt. Poor kid. No use both of us feeling like crapola. "That's okay, she didn't show," Walter hedged slightly, "What can I do for you, kiddo?"

There was a brief pause, then Birkoff said in a hesitant, quiet voice, "Gail's working the late shift tonight so I've got some downtime." He cleared his throat. "I thought I might go catch that James Bond double at the Metro, and was wondering..."

Walter put his glass down on the nearest flat surface, a grin tugging at his lips. Birkoff suddenly sounded as though he was about ten years old. "And you were wondering?"

"If you wanted to come along," Birkoff said in a rush, and Walter's grin widened. Did Birkoff know all along that his 'hot date' was a ruse, or was he so anxious for company that he was willing to risk interrupting that hot date?

He could almost feel Belinda standing beside him, her long fingers tangling with his, her chin resting on his shoulder. You're too young to sit around here all night, drowning your sorrows and feeling sorry for yourself, Walter Jay. Don't make me get tough with you.

Walter took a deep breath. Maybe it was time he took his own advice. Life wasn't just about the destination, but the journey along the way. "Sure thing, amigo," he replied softly, his eyes gritty but dry. "I'll meet you there in fifteen."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Three Days

"Hey, Walter, here's that calibrating software you wanted," announced Birkoff, stepping across the threshold into Munitions with a disk clutched in his hand.

Seeing no one, he halted and glanced around in surprise. The workroom was oddly quiet, the low-frequency hum that suffused every location in Section clearly audible, broken only by the disembodied echoes of foot traffic and conversation seeping in from the main floor outside.

"Walter?" he called out, more hesitantly.

Walter had to be nearby -- a haphazard pile of loose wires and stray electronic components strewn across the table testified to his recent presence. As carefree as Munitions Chief seemed to be about other things, he was meticulous about keeping his workspace clean and orderly. As meticulous as Birkoff himself about writing clean code. It was one of the reasons they probably got along so well, despite their outer differences.

"Helloooooo, Walter? You back there?" Birkoff raised his voice slightly, peering into the depths of the storage area.

When he heard no answer, he set the disk on the table and headed into the rear corridors, glancing to each side for a sign of his friend. To his left stood rows of locked rifles, their barrels polished and gleaming, encircled by glass wall cases brimming with scopes and replacement parts. On the right, the armaments were more varied: handguns, tear gas launchers, tranq guns, tasers, and strange-looking contraptions that he couldn't even recognize. Further down were glittering knives and bladed weapons: row after row, shelf after shelf. There were implements of killing in every direction, but nowhere the bandana-wearing man of peace who tended them all.

Leaving the weapons, he made his way through racks of hanging gas masks and bulletproof vests. They swung slightly to and fro as he passed, like columns of soldiers standing at attention, ready to fall in line and march behind him. Finally, he entered the deepest region of storage: a cluttered warehouse full of dusty boxes and pallets, their sides bearing cheerful warnings like "Caution: Corrosive Materials."

Oh, boy. It's a miracle there hasn't been a chain reaction in here. Yet.

This was pretty much the end of the road, and Walter was nowhere in sight.

Oh, well. He could stop by and talk to him later.

Turning to leave, he spotted a small wooden crate poking out from behind several boxes. It seemed woefully out of place, overwhelmed by the massive containers surrounding it. In fact, it looked suspiciously like something off the books.

What are you up to now, Walter?

He dragged the crate from its hiding place and squatted down to peek inside. He shook his head in amusement at the contents: bottles, several empty, but most filled with an ominous-looking reddish-purple liquid, the color so bright he could swear it was radioactive.

Sure enough, Walter had made that toxic cranberry concoction again. Birkoff always refused to touch it, not wanting to kill off precious brain cells with some hippie equivalent of moonshine. In return, Walter scoffed at his squeamishness.

You gotta loosen up a bit, kiddo, Walter had told him the night before. That's why the girls give you the brush-off. Being nice and sensitive is all well and good, but you've got to show them that you can be fun and spontaneous sometimes, too.

Fun. Spontaneous.

Okay, Walter, he thought. I can loosen up. I'll prove it right now.

He reached determinedly into the crate and withdrew one of the already-opened bottles. Pulling off the top, he sniffed the contents warily. Whew! It smelled ghastly, like the vile chemical brew they used to sterilize the White Room after each use. He gulped, gathering courage to take a swig from the bottle, when his gaze landed upon a collection of shot glasses arranged lovingly upon a shelf.

Sheesh, he's got quite the setup back here, he thought, half expecting to discover a lawn chair and a barbecue lurking behind another group of boxes.

He snatched a glass from the shelf and poured a shot of the day-glo liquid, forcing himself to hurry before he came to his senses and changed his mind. He took a deep breath, counted to three, then threw the shot back like he'd seen people do in movies.

Holy cow!

His entire throat, nose, and even sinuses seemed afire. Coughing and gasping uncontrollably, he sprayed half of the drink out his mouth and across the front of his shirt, soaking it with deep scarlet splotches.

"God, Walter," he exclaimed aloud, eyes tearing, "you could remove paint with this stuff!"

Thumping his chest in an effort to recover, he didn't hear the footsteps approaching until they were nearly upon him. Shit! Someone was coming, and he was standing there with a shot glass in hand and wet cranberry stains on his clothes.

Please, God, let it be Walter.

"Walter?" asked Michael, sounding mildly concerned as he came into view. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking up and down as he gazed at Birkoff without expression.

Self-consciously, Birkoff wiped traces of the liquid from his mouth with his sleeve and set the shot glass back down on the shelf. A hundred possible explanations for the situation ran through his mind, but none of them made any real sense. Better not to say anything yet.

Michael watched him in silence, then finally spoke. "I was looking for Walter," he said softly, nothing in his demeanor giving the impression that he thought anything remotely odd was going on.

"Uh, he's not here," Birkoff answered, his face flushing uncomfortably. Was that the dumbest thing to say or what? Way to state the obvious, Birkoff!

"I see," said Michael. He stood there for a moment, and added, "I'll come back later."

Birkoff nodded hastily. "Yeah, okay. If I see Walter, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

Michael stared at Birkoff for another split second. He had this way of looking at people without really looking at them that would have come across as almost creepy if Birkoff hadn't known Michael so long. It was the kind of look he must use on terrorists right before he snapped their necks. "I would appreciate that," Michael said quietly, and then walked out as suddenly as he had arrived.

Oh, boy. Could it get more embarrassing than this? At least it was only Michael, and he'd never say anything to anyone -- even if he did think Birkoff had lost his mind. But what if it had been someone else? Someone with a big mouth, who would have gone blabbing about how Birkoff was drinking on the job? What had he been thinking?

God, I'm an idiot. Only I could screw up "loosening up."

How did people like Walter make being fun and spontaneous seem so effortless? No matter how hard he tried, it was hopeless. Maybe it was a skill someone had to be born with. Once upon a time, he had thought it could be learned: that if he'd only had a normal life, things could have been different. That, raised in another environment, he could have been a life-of-the-party type, as much a ladies man as Walter, even if not as suave as someone like Michael. Yeah, right, he thought sourly. Short, skinny, nearsighted. All the raw ingredients for a playboy, all right.Let's face it, you'd be a nerd anywhere, Seymour. At least in Section you're important. Well, kind of, until they can figure out a way to replace you.

This gloomy train of thought was cut short by Walter's booming voice. "Well, I'll be damned! Can't an old man take a bathroom break without someone raiding his stash?"

Birkoff sighed. Yet another witness to his stupidity. "I'm sorry, Walter. You were talking about how good it was last night, so I decided to see for myself."

Walter grinned, a look of almost fatherly pride dancing in his eyes. "Good for you, amigo!" He walked over to the crate and pulled out one of the unopened bottles, and thrust it at Birkoff. "Here. Take one. Consider it an early Christmas present."

Birkoff shook his head. "That's okay. I didn't like it that much. You should keep it for yourself."

"No, I insist," Walter scolded, forcing the bottle into Birkoff's hands. "Keep it around -- it's not like it's going to go bad anytime soon. Maybe one of these days you'll change your mind." He chuckled. "Once your palate matures," he added, winking.

Birkoff shrugged noncommittally. "Okay," he said, taking the bottle reluctantly. "But if you want it back, just say so."

"Don't worry, I will. And Birkoff?"

"Yeah?"

"Go change shirts, okay? The ladies aren't usually too impressed by a fellow who drools on himself."

Birkoff stifled a groan of embarrassment. "Gee, thanks, Walter."