The mission briefing was fifteen minutes away, but she deliberately arrived early. Taking a seat, she watched. Waiting.

With a scant three minutes to spare, he emerged from the north corridor and made his way towards her.

He was so beautiful - his body poetry in motion. Mouth watering, she gently sighed as a slight flick of his head removed a careless lock obscuring his vision. Her fingers ached to run through his hair.

She watched as he took a seat next to her, unaware that she held her breath until his glorious lips uttered one softly spoken phrase.

"Nikita, breathe."

She prayed no-one else noticed.

“Good morning.”

He scowled at his screen, not bothering to look up as he shot back a terse, “Not from where I’m sitting.”

“What’s up?”

He sighed harshly. “George is…” Lifting his gaze, his voice died in his throat. She quirked an eyebrow, silently inviting him to continue.

“You’ve cut your hair.” It was something of an understatement.

She smoothed a hand over the extremely short curls. “I felt like a change,” she remarked coolly. “You were saying about George?”

Quickly gathering his scattered thoughts, he tried not to look at the pale softness of her exposed throat.

Damn her.

She says she's not a killer, but I know better.

She's too fluid, too graceful -- too natural. That she takes no joy in dispensing death doesn't diminish the instinct. It shows in the flash in her eyes when she pulls the trigger -- an arc of blue voltage, flaring and searing through the night sky.

She denies it. She fights it. Someday, she'll come to peace with it. Until then, she can blame Section. Or fate. Or me.

I wish I could take that blame, but that would be a lie.

I gave her direction, but she created herself.

Madeleine smiled in recognition as her favorite music floated through the room. Her eyes rested on the white French tulips, carefully arranged in the antique Lalique vase she had given Paul on his birthday the year after they met.

Her nose twitched as subtle culinary scents eminated from the kitchen. Despite her disdain for Paul's emotional weakness, she sighed gently. The Tower was still her favorite place to recreate.

The corners of her mouth crinkled as Paul's fingers slid over her shoulders, their gentle pressure urging her to turn toward him. Their eyes met, ice to fire.

"Dance with me."

It was a dance. A mysterious, dangerous, playful dance.

“The mission was a failure,” he complained, tugging at his tie.

“We captured the data, I would consider that a success.” Her hand rested on the café table, her fingers within a breadth of his.

The waiter placed their drinks before them and smoothly took their order. He graciously disappeared without a sound.

“Your standards seem to be dropping,” he groused.

She smiled, cool dripping from her lips, eyes bright with mischief. “You’re right,” she said. “Perhaps I should leave.”

Visibly startled, he said, “Stay.”

“And my standards?” she asked.

“Perfect.”

The monitors told him everything he needed to know about her condition. Yet he still touched her hand to make sure that it was warm and that she was alive.

“This is who we are”, Reality spoken from her just moments earlier.

The torture that she must have endured ripped through him. To imagine losing her was excruciating.

He stood and leaned over her, studying her pale face troubled in sleep. He placed the lightest of kisses on her cheek and whispered, “Madeline, we are more than this, my love.”

No matter what, he would protect her. His valiant queen.

"It's unacceptable," Madeline stated to the bonsai.

"After all these years, all my meditations and the sheer . . . logic of it all, I still have the problem." Madeline sighed and put down her snippers.

She moved back to her desk, looking for something to divert her attention, but she knew it was a futile attempt. He had been there earlier and she could still smell his lingering scent.

Angrily, she stood up and flicked the temperature control to sub-arctic, in an attempt to dissipate his presence. 'Let's make it as cold as those ice blue eyes of his.'

The bonsai shivered.

She wasn’t afraid. That alone was enough to pique his curiosity. New recruits always showed some measure of fear, but this one was different. She was beautiful as well, but he found her inner strength and confidence far more attractive than her shapely body or her deceptively soft eyes.

Hoping that he had finally found a partner whose cunning and ambition matched his own, he oversaw her training personally. In her first year, she learned to protect herself. In her second year, she learned to protect him. After that, she was wholly his, as was control of the Section itself.

"I'm having Christopher prepare coq au vin a little later. Would you like to join me?"

How often had Paul spoken those words to her? Obviously far too many, for she had lost count!

How many times had she agreed to dine with him? Not frequently.

How often had she declined his Dinner invitation? Too many.

Madeline looked at the man who had nonchalantly, yet expectantly, asked her to meet him for Dinner in the Tower.

Would she put him out of his misery? Would she say yes?

Turning to look at him, Madeline replied, "What about my place Paul?"