There's this rule in section. You're supposed to learn it early. Don't get personally involved in the lives and the problems of civilians. It's not like I haven't been burned before by going against this particular rule, so I know what kind of problems it can cause. I just have a real problem with rules in general. I think if you copied the rules in Section down on a sheet of paper, the length of the list would beat Mike Tyson's rap sheet hands down.

Rules, in my book, were made to be broken. Well, bent anyway. In school I don't remember ever having a sharpened pencil and one of those little envelopes of Kleenex every morning like Mrs. Timmons said was the rule. Kleenex! Ha! I was lucky if I had a lunch to eat or clean clothes. My mother didn't shop for food very often. Sometimes we went to the church soup kitchens. One of the nuns would hand me an extra peanut butter sandwich. I'd save it, thinking about how good it would taste the next day for lunch. Inevitably I'd eat it. Once in a while I would steal from the other kids. It shamed me to do it, but I was often so hungry. I learned early that I had to be creative in order to survive this world of rules. Not to brag, dear diary, but I'm still rather creative.

But, as usual, I digress. It was my night off. I'd been at one of those bookstores that stay open until midnight. This one has comfy wing chairs and a good selection of classic novels and fashion magazines. They also have computers with access to the net. I'll talk about my addiction to the chats later. Anyway, I know Michael frequents this particular store. Sometimes I've seen him perusing the shelves, dressed in faded, butter soft jeans and a suede jacket, a paper cup of coffee in his hand, a French newspaper rolled under his arm. He comes often on his days off because it's only blocks from his loft. I've never come out of my hiding place and said hello to him. I don't know why. I guess I'm afraid that he'll feel like I've discovered his shocking little secret and he'll stop coming. I like to think that this place that smells heavenly of roasted java and new books is something we can share, even if he doesn't know that we do share it. Maybe I'm just too shy. Don't laugh. Deep down I know it's true. Otherwise I'd have come out long ago and told him that I'm in love with him.

Sometimes I ask the girl at the desk what book he's purchased. Then I buy the same one. I think she wonders if I'm a stalker. At any rate, Michael has very good taste in books. The last one he read was A S Byatt's Possession. It took me three weeks to wade through it, but it was a lovely, romantic book, brimming with epic poetry and mystery. I wanted nothing more than to curl up with Michael in front of a fire to discuss it. One day I am going to do that. One day when things are better for him.

At any rate, I should get to the point here. It has a lot to do with Michael. Again, he has, with a little urging on my part, played guardian angel and I must write this all down so that I never forget it. Not that any part of me will ever forget that night. It is burned in my heart forever.

I had been to the bookstore that night. It was one of those crisp nights that chills your lungs when you breath but I had dressed warmly with the intention of walking. I had two paperbacks, a Jane magazine and a Toberone bar in a bag. I was thinking about a bubble bath and reading in bed when I heard the commotion in the alley. I might have kept walking because there are many drunken brawls in this neighbourhood, but I heard the woman's cries and knew I had to do something. A huge, burley man had her up against the dumpster and was banging her head against the metal. Two little boys about five or six were pounding on the other man as he tried to kick them off. I didn't think too much about it. I just sprang into action. I wasn't carrying a weapon so hand to hand would have to do.

I think I've said it a few times before in these pages. I hate violence. I know that sounds weird considering what I do, but I hate anything to do with it. I don't intend to describe it here in detail except to say that despite being outweighed I held my own. Except for the fat lip and the grazed cheekbone, I got out of it pretty well. I was mostly worried for the two little boys and the woman who was trying to help me. I think it may have been the car headlights shining through the entrance to the alley that scared the man away. It spooked the woman and the boys, too. She tried to gather them up and run away in the same direction as the man, but I didn't let her. I pulled the boys by the hoods of their coats behind the dumpster and she followed us. We all sat there shaking and panting as the police car passed.

When the cops were gone, I led her out to the street light where I could get a good look at her. She had a plum sized knot on her head and a bleeding nose . She was young, maybe twenty. The boys, twins, were older than I thought, small for their age, perhaps nine or ten. They were unhurt but one of the boys had broken his glasses and was staring down at them in dismay.

" Thank you, miss," said the woman in halting English. She was weaving a little unsteadily. Her dress was torn from neck to waist. Had I stopped a rape in progress? " We will be okay now. We will go."

" Where?" I asked. " Do you have a place?" She nodded but one of the boys was shaking his head.

" We did have a place for a week. We don't now. We cannot go to shelter because we're illegal immigrants," said one of the boys." The police will send us back to Kosovo. Are you Supergirl?"

" Niko!" cried the girl. She rattled something off in her own language. I tried not to grin. Supergirl! That's a new one. Yea, kid, the cape's at home.

" That man helped us to come here, but he was trying to make our sister a prostitute," said the boys. One was Niko Pavic, the other, Marco. They were absolutely identical. They even spoke on the same breath. " And us, too. He lied to us."

I took a deep breath and held it. My split lip was hurting. The girl looked as if she might faint. I made a quick decision. He had helped me before. He would help me again. He had to know some way I could help them. His place would be safer. As an agent of his stature there is very little surveillance executed. I doubt Section has much say in Michael's private life. Even I'm not supposed to know that he lives here. " I have a friend with a large home about two blocks from here. He's very nice." Be nice, Michael, I prayed. Be nice. I smiled at the boys. "My name is Nikita. If you trust me, I can help. " I pointed to the bag that one of the twins had rescued from the alley. " There's a huge chocolate bar in there. You two can share it on the way."

I never quite know how Michael is going to react to the things that I get myself into. I imagine him like a pot of water sometimes, simmering just below the boiling point. He came to the entrance to the loft in a soft looking blue robe and pyjama bottoms. His hair was standing up all over the place. I felt my heart kind of jump in my chest at his handsomeness. I hoped he had been sleeping and not entertaining. He stared at me and my charges. " What is this, Kita?"

" May we come in? Eva is hurt. And Niko has to use the bathroom. "

He looked at me uncertainly and then nodded. He pointed to the bathroom,leading the girl, Eva, to one of the leather wing chairs in his living room. He'd fixed it up since I'd been here, installed a kitchen, a fireplace and a large loft for sleeping. There were Dhurrie rugs layering the floors. There were books everywhere and his cello was on a stand in the corner. Over in the far corner was a baby grand piano with a Harley motorcycle parked beside it. So very Michael. A contradiction in terms.

He didn't ask me to explain why I had brought these waifs to his door. He told me to get the first aid kit from the bathroom and one of his shirts so Eva could cover herself. He asked the boys if they were hungry. When they nodded he told them that there was leftover pizza and a jug of milk in the fridge. Just the fact that he eats pizza is enough to impress me. By the time I got back they had poured out the story of what happened in the alley to him. He is fluent in all Slavic languages. The boys were saying something about Supergirl again as they munched on chocolate chip cookies. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. I found myself blushing. He went back to his usual inscrutable look as he coaxed the story out of Eva.

She was nineteen. Her father, journalist, and her mother had been dead for a year along with the rest of her family, the result of ethnic cleansing. Eva had been raped by soldiers. They had paid a man all of their savings to get them out of the country. He had told Eva that there would be a job for her and schooling for her brothers. When they arrived in this city they realized that he was no more than a pimp. She was adamant that she would never go back to her home country. There was nothing left to return to anyway.

It took a while for him to convince Eva that she and the boys would be safe sleeping in Michael's huge bed in the loft. She didn't want to put him out but he said that the couch would be fine. I helped to settle them. Before she went to sleep she took my hand and squeezed it. She told me that her grandmother had told her once that angels walk the earth. She said that now she believed it. I thanked her. I didn't tell her that I am far from being an angel. I didn't tell her that I was the one afraid now because I would have to go down to face Michael.

I don't know what I was expecting as I came back downstairs. He had dressed in jeans and a shirt. Wrinkled and seemingly out of the hamper. He hadn't gotten around to buttoning the shirt or the top of the jeans.. I tried not to look at his bare chest or his hard flat stomach.

" Are you mad at me?"

" No. I'm used to this by now. Let's just say you owe me one. I'll collect later."

I looked at him uncertainly. " Okay, Michael. Anything." I tried to look nonchalant but my knees were shaking. " Why are you helping me?" I asked. " Aren't you concerned about Section?"

" I guess what they don't know won't hurt them. " He ran his hand through his messy brown hair. " Let's just say that I've been infected by your benevolence again. It's like a virus. Would you have let this go? Abandoned them? "

" No, of course not. I would likely have coerced you in some way to help me. I need to help them. I was like them once. An indigent. If I'd called the police the authorities would have been called. They might be sent to a refugee camp or even back to Yugoslavia. They need help, Michael. Papers. A place to live. You will help me.' It was not a question, but a statement of fact. I knew he wouldn't let me down. " You have far more power than I do, Michael. I promise not to ask anything else of you in the future."

He grinned " Do you think I believe that, 'Kita ? Not that I'm calling you a liar."

I am a liar, Michael. Each moment that I do not tell you that you are my life, my breath, my dearest love, I am a liar. " You know me too well."

His eyes, that fascinating, changeable smoky teal colour I love so much, met mine and held. " I know every inch of you, Kita. I don't think that lip looks too good or your cheek either. And your knuckle is split. Come here. I'll see to it." He picked up the first-aid kit. I was afraid of his touching me. I might shiver or quiver or something. My insides were turning somersaults. I wanted to look him right in the eye and tell him that I loved him. For everything that he's been to me, for everything he's doing for me now. I love him. I know I won't tell him though. I'm still too afraid that he won't say it back to me.

" Sit." He pointed to one of the bar stools. I was still protesting as he lifted my chin and examined my face. He was very close. I could smell his skin, see the fine texture. I love the way he smells, like midnight summer rain. Dark but clean.

I love his gentle touch. His hands are slightly rough, but long and shapely. " Poor, angel," he whispered. He cleaned my facial wounds with something that stung a little. I thought perhaps his fingers lingered over long against my mouth. I didn't mind. Finally he gave his attention to my swollen knuckle. He wondered aloud if it were bruised or broken, then he turned it over and pressed his mouth to the palm of my hand. He touched his tongue to the skin and I nearly leaped off the stool at the sensation. I wanted to kiss him, spread my fingers through his wild, brown hair and tell him how I loved him. I wish I had done it, Michael. I do.

I couldn't speak. Tears were threatening to spurt out of my eyes and my throat hurt. He grinned up at me. " Didn't anyone ever do that? Kiss it better?"

" I don't think so. Not my mother. Did you learn that from your mother ? "

" Yes."

" She was a smart lady. I think it feels a lot better."

" You need sleep, Kita. Why don't you take the couch? You'd better stay in case she wakes and gets worried. That head wound of hers needs checking too. I might scare her. I'll go and make some calls. I might know of some people who can help them." He lead me to the couch and handed me a cashmere afghan.

" Michael? " I longed to tell him, to say the words. I have never said them before. They are too intimidating. Instead I rambled off something stupid about what a good person he was. That he was the angel. That I cherished his friendship. I thanked him again, knowing that the simple words were not adequate. He said that on second thought that maybe he owed me one. Then he told me to shut up but his eyes were gentle. Almost teasing. I buried my face in the afghan and fell asleep thinking about him. It is nothing new.

Michael managed to find Eva a job in England at the bed and breakfast establishment of a young couple. The boys would have a place to live and Eva would go to chef's school. It only took him days to arrange it, to get their papers and see them off safely. I had gotten to like her and the boys. The only thing that Michael asked of her was that she didn't try to communicate with us again. She looked sad about it but understanding. He promises me that he'll monitor their progress.

I have not told him that I love him yet. I tell myself that I will one day. One day soon.

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.