Two days

Nikita stared at the vast array of computer games, trying to remember exactly which ones Birkoff already had in his collection. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a well-dressed, fair-haired man come to stand beside her. Darting a glance sideways, she noticed he was gazing up at the display with the same bewilderment she was experiencing. Obviously feeling her eyes on him, he turned his head and gave her a friendly smile. "It's difficult to choose, isn't it?" he asked in beautifully accented French, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe.

Nikita forced herself to return his smile. Not only did he have a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he stared at her breasts, but he also looked a little too much like Alec Chandler for her liking. Turning her attention back to the computer games, she replied without looking at him. "I'm just trying to find one that my friend doesn't already own," she replied flatly in English, unwilling to make the effort to translate her less than enthusiastic answer into French.

"Your boyfriend?" he asked smoothly, also switching to English.

She rolled her eyes. Same old lines. Why couldn't the male species invent some new ones? "No," she replied shortly, still not looking at him. "I don't have a boyfriend." I actually have a wonderful lover who could kill you with his bare hands in the blink of an eye, she thought with a private smirk.

"Then perhaps I can convince you to have dinner with me?"

Nikita blinked, then turned to fix him with an icy stare. He was gazing at her smugly, as though he was in no doubt of her reply. "No, I'm afraid my husband doesn't like me having dinner with other men," she lied blithely. "Especially when I should be out buying the Christmas presents for our five children." She smiled at him and patted her flat stomach proudly. "Number six will be arriving next year."

The blonde stranger's eyes widened as his smile vanished. "Excuse my presumption, Madam," he muttered stiffly, hastily choosing two video games and backing away. "Merry Christmas to you."

"You too," she called sweetly after him, barely resisting the urge to cackle. Idiot. She turned back to the display of video games, trying to ignore the little pang brought on by her teasing brush-off. God knows she didn't want six children, but having the choice would have been nice. The decision whether or not she wanted a husband was no longer hers either.

With a skill born of long practice, Nikita shoved her resentment to one side. There was nothing she could do about either issue right now, but perhaps when it was all over... She shook her head. She didn't want to think about Centre, or Mr. Jones and his annoying alter ego right now. She wanted to think about Christmas presents and eggnog and Belgium chocolate truffles and icy cold glasses champagne with strawberries lurking at the bottom of them.

Easy to say, hard to do, she thought with a sigh. She eyed the video games, scanning the titles. Birkoff loved anything that required shooting the living daylights out of everything in sight. Pretty funny, really, when you considered his attitude toward guns in real life.

"Popsicle!"

Nikita froze. No. It can't be. God couldn't be that cruel. She slowly turned, and came face to face with Mick Schtoppel, aka Mr Jones. The man about whom she'd just been busily thinking bad things. Putting her hands on her hips, Nikita looked him up and down. Judging by the bad suit and the cry of 'Popsicle', he was obviously in a Mick mood today. Well, if that's the way he wants to play it...

"Go away, Mick," she drawled, turning her back on him. One of the few perks of having Mick around was that she could take out any anti-Mr Jones sentiments on him, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. After all, her dislike of Mick was well known. If she suddenly started being nice to him, people would notice.

"Don't be like that, darling," Mick danced around her until he was once more in her line of sight. "Can't a bloke say hello to his favourite neighbour?"

"As far as I know none of the other neighbours talk to you, Mick." Nikita plucked two promising looking video games off the shelf. "Being your favourite is hardly a stretch."

Mick clapped his hands over his heart. "Ouch, baby."

She sighed and looked at him in exasperation. "Did you actually want something?"

His expression didn't alter from its comical mask but his voice was no longer that of Mick Schtoppel. "Just wanted to have a little chat, Popsicle." The endearment was quite different when said in Mr. Jones' voice, and Nikita felt a little shiver dance down her spine. His dark brown eyes never left hers. "You weren't at home, and it is rather important."

Damn, damn and more damn. Nikita looked down at the video games in her hand, then back up at Mr. Jones beseechingly. "Can't it wait?"

He hesitated, and just for a moment, Nikita had the strangest impression that Mr. Jones and Mick Schtoppel were competing for supremacy. However, it was Mr. Jones who glanced at his watch and gave her a crisp smile. "Meet me in an hour."

Her heart residing somewhere in the pit of her stomach, Nikita swallowed hard. "Okay. The usual place?"

Instead of answering her, he studied the games in her hands, then lifted his eyes to hers. "You're doing Christmas shopping," he said in an odd voice. Nikita tightened her grip on Birkoff's intended present. "Yes."

His dark eyes were unreadable, but once again Nikita could have sworn she caught a glimpse of Mick Schtoppel. "Have you finished?"

"No," she replied softly, then pressed her lips into a tight line. I will not ask for favours. Not from him.

"Hmmm." Mr. Jones glanced over his shoulder, his head tilting in an almost imperceptible nod. Following his gaze, Nikita spotted no one that even remotely looked like they could be Centre goons, but she had no doubt they were there. He turned back to Nikita. "There's a coffee shop on the fifth floor," he said smoothly. "Meet me there in ten minutes. I'll need half an hour of your time, then you can return to your shopping."

Nikita was too taken aback by this unexpected show of generosity to say more than a hasty, "I'll be there." She took a few steps toward the cash register, then turned back to offer him an uncertain smile. "Thanks."

"If you're doing your Christmas shopping, Popsicle," Mick Schtoppel grinned at her, "do try to remember that I like red wine, not white, and I'm definitely an 'easy listening' kind of guy." He wriggled his well-shaped eyebrows comically. "None of that techno rubbish you like to play."

Nikita opened her mouth to retort, then clamped it shut. Mick Schtoppel was certainly annoying, but at this very moment, she liked him much more than she'd ever liked Mr. Jones. Marveling at just how very weird her life had become, she gave her neighbour a wry smile. "I'll see what I can do."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Christmas Eve

Gently lifting the earthenware pot, Madeline poured herself another serving of tea. The green liquid gurgled from the spout, trailing a wisp of steam as it filled the tiny cup. Finished, she set the pot back down; it came to rest on the glass surface of her desk with a light clack.

She sipped slowly, the delicate flavor filling her mouth and lingering on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she forced her perception to narrow, limiting her awareness to the sensation of the hot liquid slipping down her throat, to the mild aroma that clung faintly to the sides of the cup. When other thoughts threatened to seep into her consciousness, she took another sip, concentrating harder, until finally they were vanquished.

Calm.

Control.

Focus.

In the waning hours of the night, such moments of clarity were becoming increasingly difficult to achieve. After a full day -- and now evening -- of intense activity, she felt her mental sharpness blurring, her energy fading under the strain of juggling too many tasks for too long a time. In an effort to stave off growing fatigue, she began engaging in mental exercises at brief intervals throughout the evening. Setting aside all abstract thoughts, she would contemplate something simple and concrete: the subtle flavor of the freshly brewed gyokuro; the rich color of the orchid bloom in the center of the room; the gnarled shapes of the bonsai in the cabinet.

It worked, as always. But it required more and more effort each time -- especially now, a full twenty hours after the telephone had jarred her awake that morning.

~*~*~*~

She reached for the beeping telephone instinctively, not even bothering to switch on the bedside lamp. When she answered, Paul's voice greeted her, crackling with impatient energy.

"Madeline. I have an idea."

She had long since lost count of the number of times her day had been launched by exactly those words; their utterance rendered her instantly alert, no matter what the hour. When inspiration seized Paul, the time of day was irrelevant -- as was whatever else she might have been doing. Sitting up, she ran a hand through her hair. "What is it?" she asked, her throat still rough with sleep.

"I've decided I want to play Santa Claus this year," he announced matter-of-factly.

His words registered in her mind, but they made such little sense that she couldn't conceive of a context to place them in, much less a coherent response. After a moment spent recovering her capacity for speech, she asked numbly, "I beg your pardon?"

She heard him chuckle darkly. "You know. Fat man. Beard. Red suit. Slides down chimneys Christmas Eve to leave surprises for all the little girls and boys."

This was a dream, she concluded. Not a nightmare, exactly, but perhaps some bizarre expression of job stress and sublimated seasonal sentiment. If she remembered it when she awoke, she would have to write down the details for further analysis. For now, she had no choice but to allow it to take its course.

"I'm well aware of who Santa Claus is, Paul," she said, struggling to keep the bewilderment out of her voice. "What I'm not clear about is why we're discussing this subject at two in the morning."

"Because we have a lot of work to do," he replied, sounding strangely pleased with himself. "I've got my list, and I've checked it twice, but I think I need your input to decide who's been naughty or nice."

If this weren't a dream, then he had completely lost his mind. Either that, or he was deliberately trying to goad her into anger -- and succeeding at it in a truly spectacular fashion.

"Is there a point to this?" she asked icily.

He burst into laughter, apparently amused at her annoyance. "Yes, actually, there is a point," he finally answered, the laughter fading and his tone growing serious.

"And that might be?"

"Every year at this time, just like clockwork, we go on high alert, waiting for one of these groups to try and take advantage of the season and catch us off guard. Well, I'm sick of playing defense every Christmas. I want to go on the offensive instead, and hit our enemy full force just when they expect us to be slowing down."

As she listened to his explanation, her eyes began adjusting to the darkness, the outline of the room slowly taking shape. She nodded in relieved comprehension. "You want to initiate a preemptive strike. On the holiday."

"On Christmas Eve," he affirmed, his voice rich with mirth. "I want to pay them a little nighttime visit, just like good old St. Nick. Except without the sack of toys."

Through the telephone, she heard him suck in a long drag on a cigarette, then exhale forcefully. She could picture him perfectly; right now, he'd be looming at the Perch windows like a dark-suited Mephistopheles, framed in a hazy swirl of smoke as he stared intently across the nearly-empty floor below. Judging by the trace of hoarseness in his voice, he'd probably been up all night, pacing and mulling over his idea until he couldn't stand to keep it to himself any longer.

Not that she blamed him for wanting to share it. It was brilliant, inspired, and pure Paul -- an aggressive, impulsive plan of action, full of that lethal deviousness that she had come to admire so much in him. It was the sort of idea she never would have conceived of herself, but took joy in taking and bringing to life, painstakingly molding it from abstract vision into material existence.

"Who's the target?" she asked, her mind starting to race with the various possibilities.

"All hostiles posing a Class C level threat or above, where we have a seventy-five percent or better fix on their location. I'll leave it to you to coordinate with DRV to narrow it down to specific individuals. But I'm committing full capacity to this -- I want this to be the biggest surprise raid in the history of the Agency."

She caught her breath, taken aback by the scope of what he was proposing. "An operation of that magnitude will strain our resources to the limit," she cautioned. "If anything goes wrong, Section could be crippled irreparably."

More to the point, Section's leadership would likely suffer the harshest possible punishment for such a colossal failure. However, she declined to voice that thought.

"Then we'll just have to make sure nothing goes wrong," he replied confidently. "After all, that's what I have you for, isn't it?"

~*~*~*~

She glanced at her watch. Only five more minutes before the first wave of missions went live and she was needed on Tactical. She had spent the past twenty hours working frantically -- sifting through data, coordinating profiles, redeploying teams -- all with the aim of striking against virtually all their enemies at once, in a single, frenzied moment of concentrated violence.

The plan was insane: excessively ambitious, hideously complicated, and dangerously dependent on their being able to prod scores of reluctant and resentful operatives into working harder than ever before -- on a day when all of them wanted desperately to be at home. Paul's idea was virtually impossible, in fact, and he had dropped it in her lap with the blithe assumption that somehow she would figure it all out.

Yet, to her surprise, the experience had been completely thrilling. The unprecedented scope -- and the dire cost of failure -- made it a form of high-stakes gambling: risky, nerve-wracking, and utterly addictive. Indeed, as the final minutes wound down, she found herself caught up in a sense of excitement that swept away her fatigue, restless with an impatient anticipation of the coming holiday that she hadn't experienced since the earliest years of childhood.

It seemed that everyone celebrated Christmas in their own, special way. At long last, she had found one that suited her.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Christmas Day

Operations stalked energetically back and forth in the Perch, listening to the chattering radio traffic from Comm with a burgeoning sense of glee. The night was just starting, and every team so far had exceeded expectations. His instincts had been right -- no one saw them coming, and no one escaped the dragnet as Section's teams swooped down like bloodthirsty demons, intent on dragging their prey to hell.

It was ferocious. It was chaotic. It could even be called barbaric. And he hadn't had so much fun in years.

Even better, Madeline seemed to have been infected by his enthusiasm. Each time she came upstairs to strategize, he recognized a glint of predatorial enjoyment in her dark eyes that he had rarely witnessed since their days out in the field. She laced her progress reports with a cutting, dry humor; she even laughed instead of rolling her eyes when he began making sarcastic, holiday-related puns.

Yes, decimating one's opponents was marvelously invigorating. Alas, aside from Madeline, none of the other operatives seemed capable of appreciating it. They were such crybabies, moaning about how unfair it was to make them work on their precious holiday. Unbelievable. They had just taken scores of monsters off the streets and probably saved countless lives, and all these people could do was boo-hoo over not getting to open their stockings by the fireplace Christmas morning.

He'd even overheard Walter muttering "Bah, humbug" behind his back as he passed by Munitions several hours earlier. If he hadn't found it so funny, he might have been offended. Luckily for Walter, the day's events had put him in a very forgiving mood.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Madeline's voice from the entryway. "The team in Copenhagen just returned," she announced crisply. "They're behind schedule," he remarked, frowning. "Was there a problem?"

She crossed the Perch to join him by the ledge, turning her head to gaze out at the floor below. "The target indulged in too much Christmas cheer tonight," she explained, continuing to look out the window as he studied her serene profile. "After monitoring his usual haunts, the team eventually found him passed out in an alley."

"Mmm, fine then," he grunted, satisfied. "Has he sobered up yet?"

"You mean can he answer questions?" When he nodded, an amused smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Not quite yet, but I expect to entertain him in the White Room sometime soon." An eyebrow arched upwards as her smile widened ever so slightly. "I'm afraid he'll have to take a number, however. Containment's starting to get rather crowded."

He leaned against the ledge and folded his arms, taking a deep, contented breath. "You know," he mused, "there's only thing that keeps this from being perfect."

"What's that?" She turned from the window toward him, her expression full of curiosity.

"That I won't be there in person to see the look on George's face when he finds out we've done this," he replied, unable to hold back a smirk.

"You didn't tell him?" Her voice was as smooth as ever, but a subtle widening of her eyes betrayed her shock.

"He told me not to contact him over the holidays except in an emergency," he said, his mouth twitching as he tried to repress a laugh. "Far be it for me to disregard his wishes."

"It was a significant risk." Her manner was half reproachful, half teasing. "All the better," he retorted. "The bigger the risk, the more satisfying it is to win."

They held a long look, and he knew they were thinking the same thing: how even more satisfying it would be to win the war against George, instead of just skirmishes like this one. Why, this night was just a small taste of things to come if they wrested Oversight from the old man's clammy grasp. Soon, he reassured himself. Just a little longer and that son-of-a-bitch won't know what hit him.

She finally broke their shared look to glance down at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. "It's Christmas," she said, her expression growing slightly uncomfortable.

He checked his own watch. Just past midnight. "So it is."

After an awkward silence, he cleared his throat. "If you're not too tired to eat, I've had some food prepared," he said, forcing a false casualness into his voice. "It's already set out in the dining room, if you'd like to join me."

When she frowned and averted her gaze as if she were about to decline his invitation, he felt his muscles tighten, his abdomen clenching as if preparing for a physical blow. But then she lifted her eyes back toward him and smiled faintly. "I haven't eaten all day. Perhaps I should have something." She paused, then added apologetically, "However, Lagos goes live in twelve minutes. Do you think the food will keep a bit longer?"

"Of course," he said, relaxing in relief.

With a curt nod, she turned and departed. He turned back toward the window, watching keenly as she crossed the floor and took her position behind Birkoff. Smiling to himself, he resumed his steady pacing, relishing the impending commencement of the next mission as if it were a new present to unwrap.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

~*~*~*~

Entering the corridor leading to the executive dining room, Madeline picked up her pace. Now past four a.m., the onslaught of missions had reached a temporary lull, and she could finally accept Paul's invitation to join him for a meal.

At this odd hour of the morning, she expected to find their standard spread of breakfast dishes, as well as copious amounts of coffee and tea. The tea, at least, would be rejuvenating, and she might indulge in a few pieces of fruit if that made Paul happy. In all honesty, however, she wasn't remotely interested in eating. After twenty-six hours of work -- on only two hours of sleep -- she was operating on adrenaline and sheer determination, her mind channeled into a type of tunnel vision where only the most short-term goals were visible. She was almost afraid to relax until the day was completely over, worried that once she did so she would no longer be able to hold down the exhaustion that bubbled beneath the surface of her consciousness, threatening at moments of weakness to erupt and swallow her whole.

But she could work while she ate, and that would keep her sufficiently occupied. The reports from the team in Riga were coming in every fifteen minutes; they couldn't paint their target, and were roaming from location to location in standby mode. If she could divert the team in St. Petersburg -- now about to return to Section an hour ahead of schedule -- into backup, they could cover twice the territory, and might complete the mission before sunrise. Then again, Riga wasn't a priority. If it took them longer to get back, it would actually take some pressure off Processing, where the backup of prisoners to be examined was reaching critical proportions.

Lost in these thoughts, she pulled open the door to the dining room and stepped inside -- and then stopped abruptly, all considerations of work vanishing in her shock. She was tempted to gasp, but unable to find the breath to do so.

The twin computer monitors that usually flanked the head of the table were absent, replaced by an elaborate silver candelabra, its host of flickering candles the room's sole source of illumination. Draped with a heavy white tablecloth, the table bore a formal setting for two: a dazzling array of plates and glasses and utensils, all gleaming with reflected candlelight, multiplying the flames into a galaxy of dancing lights. At the far end of the table stood a semi-circle of warming trays, their metal covers pulled back to reveal a lavish selection of traditional Christmas dishes. It was an image of seasonal abundance that could have come straight from the pages of a glossy magazine advertisement.

Paul rose from his chair and looked at her with an expectant expression, but said nothing. She searched for an appropriate choice of words, finding it surprisingly difficult to verbalize her thoughts. Finally, she just stated the truth.

"It's beautiful," she said, her voice nearly a whisper.

He smiled, then gave an apologetic shrug. "It's not exactly the normal time of day for Christmas dinner, but I think it's the only chance we'll get." In a daze, she joined him at the table and allowed him to fill her plate with servings of each dish. While she waited for him to finish, she stared into the luminous candlelight. It cast a strange glow against the normally utilitarian walls, warm and yet also otherworldly, as if the two of them were ghosts enacting a spectral ritual, caught forever in a place outside the bounds of time and reality.

They ate in near silence, broken only by the clink of silverware on china or an occasional scrape of a spoon against a serving tray. Speech seemed unnecessary. Too ordinary. Inadequate. Like a thin imitation of a richer, more rewarding form of communication, conducted simply by sharing each other's company.

Eventually, however, the meal was finished, and it was time to return to the world, however reluctantly.

"Well, it looks like we've managed to live through another year." He sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

"Amazingly enough," she replied.

There was a bit more silence, and then he raised his wine glass. "A toast?" he asked, raising his eyebrows invitingly.

"To what?"

He grinned. "To a better year to come."

For a moment, she hesitated, strangely reluctant to join in such a toast, as if wishing for luck might bring its opposite. A tiny, illogical fear flashed, then passed as quickly as it came.

She smiled warmly and lifted her glass. "Cheers," she said, and clinked her glass against his.

To next year. Whatever it might hold.

~*~*~*~

Walter stared at the near-empty Munitions shelves and shook his head in amazement. Nearly every piece of weaponry Section owned was signed out, something he hadn't seen for many, many years. Section itself was practically deserted - almost every operative was out in the field. This is not the best way to spend Christmas Day, even if we are killing the bad guys, Walter thought wearily. It's bad karma all round. Of course, The Powers That Be didn't agree with his sentiments. Not only was Operations literally skipping through the corridors, his grin growing broader with every returning mission, Madeline looked happier than Walter had seen her in a long time. Funny what gives folks a sense of purpose, he mused dryly.

He pulled down the metal security gate that led to Munitions. He'd been on his feet for twelve hours. The next team due back wouldn't arrive for another two hours. It was way past time for a serious coffee break, Walter decided as he checked his watch. He would have loved a beer, but he needed to be on the ball today.

At the thought of alcohol, he slapped himself on the forehead. He'd meant to put a little surprise in his girl's locker while she was out in the field. A bit of Christmas cheer, so to speak. He'd even bought a gigantic silver bow and a hideously kitsch Santa card for the occasion - he couldn't let those go to waste. Lifting the metal gate, Walter hurriedly retrieved a bottle of his cranberry liqueur from its hiding place, made it look pretty, then hastily deposited it in Nikita's equipment locker.

That task done, he was free as a bird for the next two hours. He walked past Comm., on the off chance Birkoff was also ready to take a break. However, judging from the speed with which the kid was typing and the way he was barking out orders to his two little helpers, he wasn't going to be able to leave his workstation until January.

Walter shrugged. The kid would be okay. He headed for the ground access elevator with a spring in his step. Somewhere up there in the real world was an extra strong espresso with his name on it. He keyed in his access code, humming under his breath. Recognising the tune, he smiled to himself. He might not celebrate Christmas personally, but there was no rule that said he couldn't enjoy the occasional rendition of 'Frosty the Snowman'.

"Hey there, Walter." The sound of a weary but definitely feminine voice had him spinning around, an appreciative grin spreading across his face when he saw who had spoken. It was that cute little tech from DRV, the one who'd loved his cranberry liqueur. Damn, what's her name again? Emily, that's it, he thought with relief.

"Hey yourself, Em," The doors of the elevator opened, and Walter shot her an expectant look. "You coming up?"

Pursing her lips and blowing out a loud sigh, Emily nodded. "For the rest of the day, thank god. I'm dying for a break. I think my eyeballs have actually dried out," she added laughingly. "I just want to get home." Her smile faded. "Not that there's anything to rush home to, of course."

Walter stood back to let her enter the elevator, discreetly checking out the view. Emily had been in Section for two years, but Walter had only recently noticed that she was a pretty forty-something strawberry-blonde with dark brown eyes, a quirky smile and great legs.

Be a pity for such a looker to spend what was left of Christmas Day by herself. As the elevator doors shut behind them, Walter gave her his best grin, suddenly feeling ten years younger. "Wanna grab a coffee?"Emily smiled back, her dark brown eyes sparkling. "As long as there's no homemade liqueur involved, it's a date."

~*~*~*~

As the last of the live missions ended transmission, Birkoff slumped back in his chair, astonished that he still had the energy to sit upright. He must have set a record for the amount of time spent at a terminal without getting up, and he wondered if his legs would even still work.

To his right, Kristy rested her head on her keyboard, looking close to catatonic. To his left, he heard the other tech, Brian, emit a low, pained moan.

"Oh, my God," muttered Kristy, still not lifting her head. "Do you think sleeping right here would cause permanent keyboard imprints on my face?" "I dunno," said Brian, rising shakily to his feet. "You could call it a fashion statement."

As Birkoff removed his glasses and rubbed his throbbing temples, the two techs slowly extricated themselves from their workstations and staggered off. Sighing, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift off."Well, Boy Wonder," said a sneering voice by his ear, "the Cavalry's here. You can let me take over now."

Startled, he snapped his eyes open and pulled on his glasses, only to see the visage of Greg Hillinger looking down at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, fighting the urge to grimace in disgust.

"The boss says growing boys like you need your naptime. You've got 48 hours down. But never fear, I'll make sure you aren't missed."

He wanted to argue, or at least to toss back an equivalent insult, but couldn't find the energy to do so. Rising slowly, his legs slightly cramped, he shook his head dismissively. "Save it, Greg. I'm too tired to care about you."

Without looking back to see if Greg was about to retort, he walked off, shuffling in a zombie-like autopilot toward the elevator leading to his quarters.

Forty-eight hours of downtime, to do...what? It was Christmas, he was alone, and he didn't even know how one was supposed to celebrate the holiday in the first place. But he had a feeling it didn't involve playing videogames by himself in an underground room.

Without knowing what he had in mind, he turned sharply and began walking in the opposite direction, heading for the ground access elevator. Where was he going? He didn't know. He'd find out when he got there. But it would involve snow, fresh air -- and people.

Being spontaneous wasn't about trying to impress other people with how "fun" he could be, or with proving anything to anyone. It was about being open to whatever opportunities came his way. And while he might not know any Christmas traditions, maybe he could make his own.

~*~*~*~

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Michael tilted his head back until it rested against the wall of the mission van. It was just after 9:00 p.m. Christmas Day. They were an hour out of Johannesburg, still two hours from Section. His hands linked loosely on his lap, he closed his eyes. He was exhausted, but a long-ingrained sense of discipline meant he would not sleep while they were still technically in the field. It was his usual habit to mentally sift through the events of the just-completed mission, but tonight he found his thoughts straying, a strange feeling of restlessness stealing over him.

His restlessness had nothing to do with the profile they'd just executed. Despite Michael's personal desire to be elsewhere on this particular day, he couldn't deny that Operations' decision to launch several simultaneous flash missions in the dying moments of Christmas Eve had been a brilliant tactical move. Michael's own team had achieved a success rate of 95%, a satisfying result. They'd lost two abeyance operatives but as that possibility had been factored into Madeline's initial profile, their deaths had had little impact on the final outcome.

Michael closed his eyes, letting the quiet hum of the transport vehicle seep into his thoughts. He'd told Nikita that he would come to her tonight, that they would be together. It was a vow he was no longer certain he could keep. The team's departure from Johannesburg had been delayed by two hours, and by the time he'd finished his inevitable debrief at Section, the day would be over. Nikita would understand, of course, but that didn't lessen his own disappointment.

Because, Christmas Day or not, he wanted her with a passion that burned bone-deep. Michael shifted in his seat as sexual hunger clawed at his gut. His desire for her always seemed sharper after a mission, the need to forget the lives he'd taken - to revel in the sensual amnesia he found in her arms - sometimes winning out over the need for tenderness. He might have thought his feelings selfish if he didn't know that Nikita sought him out after every particularly grueling mission of her own for exactly the same reason. It was just after 11:30pm when his team arrived at Section. As was his usual practice, Michael waited until every Operative was clear of the transport before he followed. As he walked through Van Access, he found not only his team loitering, but Operations standing in the corridor, his arms folded across his chest.

"Your debriefing has been deferred until fourteen hundred hours tomorrow," Operations announced casually to Michael. "With so many teams returning at the same time, we've had to stagger proceedings slightly." His gaze alighted on each member of Michael's team in turn. "You're all down until then. Good work," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Michael's team scattered eagerly, leaving him alone with Operations. The other man studied him for a moment, then smiled, amusement glittering in his pale blue eyes. "Well, Michael? Surely you don't want to debrief that badly?" he asked when Michael made no move to leave. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

The words hung heavily between them, but if Operations regretted his choice of phrase, he showed no sign of it. Refusing to let himself be drawn back into the past, Michael forced himself to think only of the woman he knew was waiting for him. "Of course," he said coolly. With a brief nod to his superior, he turned on his heel and began to walk in the direction of his office.

"Oh, and Michael?"

He paused, then slowly turned. Operations smiled at him. "Have a merry Christmas, won't you?" Surprisingly, there was no malice in the other man's tone. In fact, he seemed genuinely pleased with the world around him. Michael returned his gaze steadily, then reluctantly let a small smile touch his own lips.

"And you, sir."

~*~*~*~

Nikita checked the time for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, then flopped back onto the couch. It was just after 11:00 p.m. Christmas Day was nearly over. She'd spent most of it in Berlin, which was certainly something she hadn't been expecting to do. It hadn't seemed right, going out on a mission on Christmas Day. Of course, Operations (and therefore Section) hadn't agreed with her. No big shock there, Nikita thought wryly. So instead of wrapping presents and trying to make eggnog even though she'd forgotten to buy eggs, she'd been dressed up in what she called her 'disco dolly' clothes in order to bring down a particularly nasty drug dealer. They'd had to visit three different raves before they'd run him to ground, and her ears were still ringing. No-one did techno quite like the clubs of Berlin, but when you were hankering for a bit of Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas', it struck a slightly jarring note.

She'd gotten home three hours ago. After a hot bath and some reheated pasta, there was nothing left to do now but wait.

Wait for Michael.

He had been sent to Johannesburg with a team that - for once - hadn't included her. Nikita had a pretty good idea why she'd been reassigned, and she had no doubt it had been Madeline's doing. There had been a gleam of satisfaction beneath the weariness in the other woman's eyes as she'd informed Nikita of her particular assignment.

It would have been nice if Mr. Jones had thought to warn her, Nikita thought with a scowl. He'd certainly bent her ear about every other subject under the sun during their little chat, including his usual reassurances as to her - and Michael's - future in Section One. Would it have killed him to let her in on Section's 'Operation Kris Kringle', as Walter so aptly put it? Perhaps he hadn't known, she admitted reluctantly. Perhaps there were still some things beyond his control. The thought was more than a little unsettling. Suddenly filled with nervous energy, Nikita sprang off the couch and walked quickly to the stereo. She picked up the CD she'd been about to play last night when a call from Section had interrupted her plans and transported her to another country to play the part of a flirtatious, crack-addled party girl.

As the lilting strains of "O Holy Night" wafted through her apartment, she eyed the meagre assortment of unwrapped presents sitting on her kitchen table. Two computer games for Birkoff, a new silk bandana and a pair of small, silver hoop earrings for Walter. That was it. She had nothing for Michael.

Wandering the stores and market stalls in the course of her browsing, she'd seen so many things she would have loved to buy for him. So many beautiful things that - even now - she didn't feel she had the right to give him. Not now, with Section watching them so closely. Not now, with Centre monitoring her every move. Her feelings for Michael were not for public consumption. Any gift she gave him would be noted, scrutinised and analysed, and she refused to give their watchers any more ammunition than they already had. She quickly wrapped the presents, having no idea when she'd be able to give them to her friends. Walter and Birkoff were supposed to be down for the next two days. It didn't matter - she could give the gifts as New Year's presents instead.

Trying very hard not to look at her watch, she wandered into the kitchen, opened the door of the refrigerator and peered inside. Perhaps she should have a drink, or something festive to eat. It was a nice thought - too bad she didn't have anything particularly festive in the refrigerator. Once again, the cupboards were bare, and so was her wine rack. In fact, the only thing to drink in the house was the bottle of Walter's cranberry liqueur she'd mysteriously found in her equipment locker when she'd returned from the Berlin mission. It was now sitting on the bench top, wrapped with a big bow and a card covered with kisses.

With a grin, Nikita found her corkscrew and gingerly eased the cork out of the bottle, Walter's many tales of exploding vintages ringing in her ears. Having successfully avoided a sticky disaster, she retrieved a small glass from the overhead cupboard, and poured herself a generous nip. She clinked the glass against the bottle, smiling to herself. "Merry Christmas, Walter." Glass in hand, she meandered through the living room to stand at the French doors that opened out onto her terrace. It was freezing outside, she knew, but it looked beautiful. Cold, but beautiful. It wasn't snowing, and the sky was clear, the lights of Paris ablaze below. It looks so peaceful out there, Nikita thought longingly. Making a snap decision, she put down her drink and grabbed her warmest coat. Slipping her sock-clad feet into sheepskin boots, she pulled on a woolen cap, picked up her drink, and opened the French doors.

The light from inside her apartment spilled out onto the sleet covered tiles, showing her the way. Wondering vaguely if she'd indeed lost the plot, Nikita walked carefully over to the battered table and chairs she hadn't used for weeks, she dropped down into the chair with the best view. She took a large gulp of Walter's liqueur, grimacing slightly as the liquid burned its way down her throat, then sighed as she felt tendrils of warmth spreading through the pit of her stomach.

Her warm clothing and Walter's killer liqueur might be keeping the cold at bay, but nothing could stop the icy finger of dread that trailed down her spine. Tilting her head back, Nikita stared up at the stars. If all went according to plan, the Johannesburg team should have arrived in Section an hour ago. During their very hurried conversation at 2:00 a.m. this morning in the middle of Section, Michael had assured her he would be with her tonight. Surely he would have contacted her if he wasn't coming over. Perhaps something had gone wrong. After all, how long could you go on cheating the odds?

She took another sip of her drink, blinking rapidly. Don't. Don't do this to yourself. If you cry out here, you'll freeze your eyelashes together, she told herself sternly. And that's not a good look. Putting the now empty glass down on the table, she wrapped her arms around herself and stared up at the stars once more. She was so tired, but she didn't want to go to bed. Not until she heard from Michael.

She sat there for what felt like an eternity, then a sudden sound behind her had her springing out of her chair, her heart pounding. A few seconds later, she was in Michael's arms and he was holding her against him so tightly she thought her ribs might crack. She pulled back, intending to scold him for sneaking up on her. Without speaking, he cradled the back of her head in one gloved hand, tilting her face up to his for a cold kiss, a kiss that quickly grew warmer as his tongue gently parted her lips. Nikita sighed and leaned into his solid warmth, kissing him back fiercely, slipping her hands inside his overcoat to run her hands over the muscled contours of his body, as if to reassure herself that he was here. That he was alive.

Just as her exploring hands discovered that he was still wearing his mission clothes, Michael lifted his head. They were both breathless, as much from the icy wind that had began to blow as from the desire flaring between them. Nikita smoothed a hand over his tousled hair, briefly mourning the absence of the curls she'd loved so much. Not that she was complaining, of course. Michael was the type of man who'd look good even if he shaved his head. Linking her hands behind his neck, she pressed her cheek to his, feeling his cold skin against hers. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."

"I told you I would," he said softly, the words rumbling deep in his chest, his hands skimming down the length of her spine. Nikita buried her smile against his shoulder at his faintly quizzical tone. He told her he would be here, therefore he was. He'd made a promise, so he would keep it. For Michael, it was as simple as that.

He drew back, stroking the side of her face with leather-clad fingertips. "I haven't brought you a gift," he said almost sadly, his eyes searching her face.

Nikita felt her throat tighten, an overwhelming rush of love for him flooding her heart. No matter how much she asked of him, still he strove to give her more. As the first soft drift of snow began to fall, she reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his to pull him closer. Holding his eyes with hers, Nikita put her other hand over his heart, pressing her palm over the steady beat of his life's blood. "Yes, you have," she whispered.

The End.

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