It is dark at 3 AM. The still of night is punctuated by my sobs. I lie upon our bed, the one from my apartment that I have moved here to Section. Pain burns through my throat as the tears commence again.

Most of the time I can be strong. I must appear strong; I cannot allow any chinks in my armour.

There is opposition from so many sides: Mr. Jones' doubting colleagues on the Committee, the operatives who fear my position, yet rely upon my decisions and policies to support and lead them, and the ever-present terrorist agencies from whom we collectively must protect the innocent. I play along: I walk tall, use your blank stare methods, maintain control. I can even make myself believe it. The life I have to live every day, making gut-wrenching life and death decisions - I am learning, and horrifyingly, I am capable. But this does not make it easy or palatable. It is all I can do to make myself allow operatives to leave Section on missions, knowing that some may not return, knowing that according to certain profiles, some will not return. I make myself listen to your voice in my head, reminding me of the thousands of innocents who must be protected.

It is times like this, working late into the night, when something small can spark the tiny glimmer of feelings I cannot, do not want, to eliminate. So many things remind me of you. Seeing the small boy tonight on the screen, terrified at being separated from his father after the Black Storm attack in the marketplace of Gdansk - that opened the floodgate tonight. How can I help but think of you and Adam, rebuilding your lives so far away? Your encrypted morning emails to me, which I look forward to every day, filled with anecdotes of Adam's adventures and your hopes and dreams and love - you have no idea how they sustain me. And even knowing that I may get to see you for a short period of time - a week, perhaps two, in several months - at 3 AM this does not ease the pain.

My legs writhe against the sheets, which feel oppressively hot. My tears wet the pillow that I clutch to me; my mouth opens for long nonbreathing pauses as my lungs decide whether they will once again accept air in your absence. Crooked, ludicrous sobs emanate from my body, embarrassing me with their pitiful sounds. Here I am, the leader of the most covert anti-terrorist organization in the world, reduced to a weak, blubbering mess. A yawn interrupts the noise, annoying me with its reminder of the early morning time. The yawn would come anyway, no matter the time of day; my distress at your absence exhausts me day after day.

My eyes burn, and my bloated eyelids will be hard to disguise in the morning. I am grateful you cannot see me now, but wish desperately that I could feel your strong body pressed against me from behind, to have your comforting arms wrap around my waist and to feel your lips and nose press against my neck. I want to turn to you for comfort, to trap my head between your broad shoulder and your jaw, and to wrap my arms and leg around you while you stroke my hair. To hear you tell me that I made the right decision in ordering the destruction of the Black Storm base, where thirteen innocents were also killed; to continue to order Valentine and abeyance missions, even when for so long I protested so passionately against them. I need help to reconcile the new and old me.

I grieve and feel anger at your absence. This is the only way it can be for us now; in the future it will, it must somehow, be different. It seems too much, too hard, all of these decisions which must be made, the tasks which must be carried out. For one person to carry this much responsibility - it is not, cannot, be fair. This life demands too much.

I wish I could hear the soft words coming from your mouth, heard only by me, revealing that quirky sense of humour you keep hidden from the world. My body misses you in aching ferocity. My breasts strain to feel your palms sliding over them, my thighs part and my hips lift to allow you access. The empty bed ridicules my fruitless efforts.

Inevitably, I calm. The dark blanket lays upon my thoughts, bringing me towards a dreamless sleep. All too soon I will reawaken to this new reality - where Section is my responsibility, and you are my dream life.

I make it through the days, as I struggle to do the job that I have inherited. I have become competent, and I am proud of the efforts I have made. I feel triumph when we outwit the terrorists, and I've come to find satisfaction in multi-tasking, working on the numerous scenarios necessary to keep so many of these brilliant, evil groups at bay.

But this is a job that is just as hard every day. Nothing is routine; nothing gets easier as time goes on. As one terrorist group is eliminated, splinter cells and other groups are there to take up the slack. When I was an operative, I could mentally check off a mission as it was accomplished. Now, there are so many profiles, missions, scenarios - it is so overwhelming. How did Paul do it for so many years? How did you do it, when you filled in for him? I emit a bitter laugh now when I think back to my simplistic, innocent views of the world, of Section, of this position. I still don't agree with many of the decisions that each of you made while acting as Operations, but now I can begin to understand some of the motivations behind them.

This is such a difficult job; I am so grateful for the support that I do have. Walter hasn't let my position change anything - you should've seen him in the briefing last week. When Kunelle and Frederic were paired on a Valentine dual seduction mission, Walter suggested that he and I should practice the scenario ourselves, to make sure it was still effective! It was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing in the middle of giving orders. Jason's sarcasm and pickup lines (thankfully not directed at me) are another welcome diversion, and the operatives with whom I have worked closely know me well enough to make the distinction between me and Paul, although comparisons are inevitable.

With the help of these people, and thoughts of you - I make it through each day. I feel you beside me as I brief the teams. I profile missions using the tactics and insights that you instilled in me in training. I hear your voice playing devil's advocate to my reasoning processes, driving me to think further ahead, to make that connection between seemingly unrelated facts.

But I also feel your arms surrounding me, giving me strength. I see a hint of your elusive smile, a smile that then comes to life when you see how your teasing has made me squirm and laugh. I see the challenge in your eyes as we spar in practice. I remember our precious days of freedom, when we could finally talk openly about our hearts and hopes and dreams and fears.

To those who do not know me, I am the calculating Operations, head of Section One, invincible. But you and I know better.

At 3 AM.

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