It had been four months since Michael had said the words to Nikita. Four months since he'd given her what she'd always longed for from him. Four months since he'd seen her. Mad'laine and Operations had been sending him on missions with brutal frequency, allowing him never more than a day or two of downtime between each job.

Nikita was being treated likewise. Their schedules never coincided - indeed, they were never in Section at the same time anymore. When Michael was in, typing reports or debriefing, Nikita was away, and vice-versa. The routine was becoming familiar, yet it was taking its toll on them both. Michael could see no way out. *We can't survive much longer,* he thought. *Neither of us.*

His next mission was in Afghanistan. From the profile, it looked like a long one. Another extended nightmare... Michael sighed, feeling far older than his thirty-five years. *God, I'm tired,* he thought, and swallowed his emotions, switched off his heart, and prepared to do the job, or die trying...

~~~~~

Nikita stumbled into Mad'laine's office after an exhaustive debrief. She could barely focus her eyes, and she had a headache that was threatening to drive her to nausea. *What could she want with me this time?* Nikita wondered silently. *I did everything right... No lives were lost...* She stood numbly, her legs shaky, her ears ringing. Sleep deprivation was NOT the way she had intended to die.

"Sit down, Nikita," Mad'laine said softly, her fathomless eyes indicating a chair across from her desk. Nikita collapsed into it in a graceless sprawl, too bone-tired to care about her posture.

Before Mad'laine could say anything, Nikita looked into her eyes and said, "I'm dying, Mad'laine. We both know it. And we both know why. I'd thought no one could be so inhuman, but as usual, I underestimated Section One."

Mad'laine said, "I called you here to tell you that you're off probationary status."

Nikita was too exhausted to feel anything other than a fleeting confusion. "Off...probation..." she stammered, her voice trailing off as a yawn caught her. At Mad'laine's small nod and even more imperceptible smile, Nikita's next word was, "Why?" Then she wondered if the news meant she was to be cancelled. She remembered her last words to Michael three months ago, uttered after he'd already left the room, "I'm not afraid... I'm not afraid..." At the time, she'd believed them. She hadn't been afraid - at least, not of dying. What had gone unspoken was that she was afraid of one thing - living in a world without Michael.

Mad'laine's voice penetrated the fog in Nikita's brain, and she tried hard to focus on what she was saying. "You've performed exceptionally, Nikita. Your casualty rate has dropped, your proficiency is above the standard, and you have improved considerably in your field mechanics." Nikita looked down, not quite believing that she was receiving the closest thing to an accolade she would probably ever get from the woman. Mad'laine continued in that demure, frighteningly calm voice, "But that's not why we've taken you off probation."

"Then why?" Nikita asked. Silently, she thought, *Do I really want to know the answer to that question?* She sensed another round of mind-games coming on, her headache was pounding from the base of her skull to her temples, and she desperately wished for those strong drugs...

"Because, as you accurately brought out, you're dying," Mad'laine said very softly. She paused, almost as if considering how much to tell Nikita. Her next words were chilling. "And so is Michael."

************

Nikita was taken completely by surprise. "M-Michael?" she stammered, sounding in her own ears like the least-talented member of her fourth-grade acting class. She couldn't make her voice say anything else, but her mind kicked into turbo. Michael was dying. Of what? What could be happening with him? Had he been tortured? Wounded on a mission?

Mad'laine's voice interrupted her madly-racing thoughts. "We put him on probation at the same time we decided not to cancel you," she said. "Subjected him to the same inflexible schedule as you were given." Nikita idly wondered who the "we" in Mad'laine's statement was. She continued. "And, like you, he performed in an exemplary manner. Better, in fact, than he ever has before. But the flaw in our logic was that being only human, neither of you could continue indefinitely at the levels under which you were operating. It became necessary to intervene."

Nikita felt the beginnings of a shiver traveling down her spine. Mad'laine scared her, constantly. But worse than that, she disgusted her. Nikita could never stand to look directly into her eyes - it was like trying to find something alive in a pitch-dark grave.

"So - where's Michael now?" Nikita asked softly, trying not to appear too inquisitive, but wanting to at least have an idea of *where* he would be giving his last gasp, if not when. As burned-out as she was, it took a moment for the fact to sink in - Michael was dying. Mad'laine had said he was. Her only fear was becoming a reality - life without Michael. She could not even cry - her eyes were too grainy and exhausted for tears.

"Before I tell you that, I think you should know that we've decided to allow you and Michael to carry on a..." Mad'laine hesitated before saying the word, "relationship." She waited for Nikita's reaction, and was mildly disappointed when she did nothing more than raise one eyebrow slightly. She didn't even bother to mimic Mad'laine's words and tone, as she might have done four months ago.

"Now," Mad'laine resumed. "This relationship must NOT be made public. No one inside Section or outside will know of it. Any form of affection demonstrated inside these walls will be grounds for cancellation of either or both of you. Any "dalliances" which negatively impact your performance either separately or as a team will result in cancellation of either or both of you."

Nikita finally found her voice. "Why are you doing this?" she interrupted. "Is it some sort of perverse way of finally pushing us over the edge?"

Mad'laine smiled then - a Cheshire-cat grin that chilled Nikita even more than her inscrutable gaze. She wished she could just go back to her apartment and die. Her survival instinct was almost depleted, and one more manipulation from anyone even remotely connected with Section One would completely exhaust it. Her next mission would be the one in which she took a bullet in the head. She'd already resolved it. The only thing that had kept her from doing it four months ago had been Michael's words. He'd told her he loved her - would always love her. And they hadn't seen each other again, not even incidentally.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Mad'laine was saying, almost cheerfully, her voice lilting. "We're doing this because it's really the only way we can keep either of you alive."

For the second time in the course of the conversation with Mad'laine, Nikita was stunned. Were the powers-that-be actually going to sanction a relationship between her and Michael? She was instantly suspicious. There had to be a catch - there had to be a hidden agenda. Nikita stood up, intending to walk away before the situation became any more ludicrous. Her legs were weak, though, barely holding her upright, and she swayed dangerously, her vision closing to a pinpoint of light, an obnoxious, irritating ringing setting up a vibration in her ears. She didn't realize she was fainting, and only barely saw Mad'laine hastily get up and rush around the corner of the desk to catch her before she slumped to the ground. She punched a button on her console. "I need med-lab in my quarters, now."

With a gentleness completely out of character for her, Mad'laine helped Nikita to her sofa. Once she was securely on it, Mad'laine whispered, "This is precisely why we're sanctioning your relationship." Nikita didn't hear her - she'd fainted dead away.

************

Nikita spent two days in med-lab, sleeping, being slowly brought back to life with intravenous feedings and various vitamins. Her wounds had been tended carefully, and when she finally awoke completely, she felt, if not completely human, at least a little closer to it. She still could not believe what Mad'laine had told her. *Michael,* she thought. *It's a chance for us...* Then, she shook her head in irritation. It was a trap. It had to be. But it didn't make any sense! If Section had wanted to kill them, they'd almost succeeded by pushing the two of them to their physical limits. There would have been no need to give them a "relationship" and then use that closeness against them in order to cancel them. What was Mad'laine's game?

As soon as Nikita was able to leave med-lab, she went to Birkoff's station. He, of course, was busily punching keys and checking a myriad of computer screens. Nikita sidled up to him, slipping her arm seductively around his shoulder and tickling his ear briefly, saying his name in her most sensuous voice. Birkoff shook her off as if she were an annoying mosquito, not looking at her. "I'm busy, Nikita," he said, not unkindly, but somewhat distractedly.

"Please, Birkoff - I need a favor..." she said softly. He was oblivious. Her seduction tactics were getting her nowhere with him. *God, guys can be so DENSE sometimes!* she thought, a little amused. She finally dropped the act. "Birkoff, I'm serious. I really need for you to do something for me."

At her change of tone, he stopped what he was doing and looked up at her, sensing that she meant business. He saw the vestiges of exhaustion still lingering in her - the bluish scallops under her eyes, the half-closed lids, the too-thin frame, the too-pale skin...

His heart hurt for her. He'd heard what Section had devised for her and Michael. Drive them until they dropped, or were killed. He hated it - hated the cruelty and lack of compassion. Most of all, though, he hated that there was nothing he could do to stop it. At least, nothing yet. Now, though, he could tell that things were about to change. He wanted to be part of that change. Aloud, he said, "What do you need me to do?"

"Call up Mad'laine's file," she said simply.

Birkoff drew in a shocked breath, wondering what Nikita was planning. "That's-"

"-I know, I know," she interrupted him. "Save the speeches, Birkoff. I'm looking for something specific. I'll speed-read through anything that can't possibly have anything to do with what I need." Seeing his skepticism, she added, "I promise." She put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and he finally nodded curtly.

"It'll take a few minutes - heavy security and about ten watch-dogs." Nikita nodded, relieved. She needed to verify something she had suspected about Mad'laine for quite awhile, but until now, had never had any reason to delve into with any thoroughness. She nervously chewed her thumbnail, then, realizing she was doing it, stopped abruptly. Michael had gently chided her once about biting her nails when she was nervous. He'd told her it was a dead giveaway to her inner thoughts - a habit she could not afford to have, if she wanted to stay alive.

Now, she seemed to be remembering everything Michael ever told her, in bits and pieces, as if her brain were forcing her to keep him, if not in mind, at least in front of her eyes. She wondered where he was now - in what condition he was. She wondered if he still looked the same, or if the brutal treatment of him had taken its toll on his features, etching them with lines, or scars...

"Got it," Birkoff announced softly. He scooted away from the computer and Nikita bent down, scanning the information quickly, looking for something that could possibly have been nothing more than a vague hunch.

After a few moments, she exhaled in satisfaction. "So THAT'S your secret!" she murmured, and then, spontaneously, she kissed Birkoff's cheek quickly. "Thanks, Birkoff," she said, and smiled, turning to leave. Birkoff sat there, dumbfounded for a second as he watched her walk away, wondering what he'd done to deserve such a benediction, then a crooked grin creased his features. Whatever it was, he was glad he was able to see her smile again. The past four months had been pure hell for her, he knew. And for Michael, too. *God, Nikita,* he thought, *you've survived this long with everything they've done to you - you deserve to be happy for a change...*

************

Nikita was at her apartment, wrapped in her favorite chenille robe. She had her usual cup of chamomile tea, and the novel she'd started months ago but had never finished. She was looking forward to spending the next three days completely inert - reading, lounging around the apartment, watching sunsets or the TV, doing nothing more taxing than painting her toenails. Even with this new schedule, or non-schedule, she could not escape the nagging worry about Michael. As far as she knew, he was still out, still being pushed as hard as she'd been pushed, still fighting for his life every second of every day. It had been three weeks since Mad'laine had told her she was off probation. She'd been sent on a couple of missions, but nothing dangerous, and nothing that required her to go without sleep for more than a day at a time. It had been like a vacation, and despite the constant uneasiness Nikita felt at the seemingly preferential treatment, she thrived.

After she'd finished her tea, she yawned, a voluptuous sleepiness washing over her like a warm wave. Putting her cup in the sink, she set her security system, shut off the lights, and slipped between the covers. Sleep found her almost instantly - she was still recovering from the extremity of the punishment Section had inflicted on her and ostensibly was still inflicting on Michael, but even with her tenuous grip on a sort of peace, she thought of Michael, remembering how he'd kissed her cheek in goodbye. She missed him - missed his green eyes staring into hers, missed his disapproving words when she made judgment calls that went against Section norms, missed his passion when he tried to reason with her. She missed the feel of him next to her on missions, the connection they shared which enabled them to complete each other so effectively it sent shivers through her.

*Michael,* she whispered in the darkness, *be strong - please, be strong... just a little longer...*

************

Five months. It had been five months since the nightmare had begun. Five months since the debacle with Adrian had ended. Five months seen Nikita had seen Michael. Five months, during which time Nikita had healed physically from her hellish journey into the valley of Hinnom that was Section's method of dealing with recalcitrant operatives. Five months. For all she knew, Michael could be dead.

*No,* she thought. *He wouldn't let himself die, as long as he knows I'm alive.* Then, *But what if he DOESN'T know I'm alive? What if he thinks I'm dead? What if he just gives up?* Nikita's thoughts were jumbled and confused as she paced in her apartment after her latest mission. He'd check - surely, he'd check on her whenever he was in Section. He was Class-Five - he had access to everything. He'd make it a point to keep tabs on her situation, her condition. He probably knew she'd been in med-lab for two days - he probably even knew what was in the IV's she'd had stuck in her arms.

Reassured, Nikita relaxed again. Michael had told her he loved her. He'd said the words. She had lived because of those words. She would never tell him, but he had given her the only reason she would ever need to stay alive. She'd endured the most unrelenting, uncompromising regime to which she'd ever been subjected, and she'd done it willingly because Michael had told her he loved her.

The background music coming from her CD player was a song called "Lovers In A Dangerous Time" by a Canadian artist named Bruce Cockburn. As Nikita listened to it, she was surprised by how closely the words reflected her life with Michael. "When you're lovers in a dangerous time/sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime/but nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight/you've got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight/When you're lovers in a dangerous time..."

The poignancy of the words ran her through - tears began to fall, and she wondered if she would ever have the chance to share the song with Michael. She knew, beyond a doubt, that if she could see him again, she would not withhold anything from him. She would not seek his faults, but would embrace his strengths. She would not pick him apart for the things he'd done in the past, but would unreservedly plan for a future with him, tabla raza - clean slate. All past indiscretions and deceptions would mandatorily be forgotten. There was no other way it could be, and Nikita grudgingly had to thank Mad'laine for that epiphany. Life was too short, and the precious moments of peace and love too fleeting and too elusive to spend dwelling on the past, which could not be changed.

Nikita had learned something about Mad'laine in her research. Mad'laine liked to watch. She lived vicariously through others, because she was a damaged soul. Killing her sister hadn't done it - it had been what OTHER people had inflicted on her that had caused her to withdraw and seek some sort of control over her life, her emotions, her heart. Mad'laine lived her life like a parasite, leeching pleasure, fear, lust, joy, tears, anguish - the gamut of emotions - from other people. She never allowed herself to experience those emotions herself, fearing or perhaps loathing the possible repercussions of a moment of weakness. So - she watched. She observed surveillance tapes of operatives in action, in sleep, in bed, in the bathroom. She pretended to know what they were feeling, and to a certain degree, she WAS empathetic. But after an unspecified time, by an unknown trigger, she shut off and became Mad'laine-The-Dead again. She gleaned just enough information about the truly-living to use against them because they were living.

As Nikita thought about it, she almost felt pity for Mad'laine. Almost. And she had her weapon of choice - knowledge. Now, it was knowledge about Mad'laine. Unlike Mad'laine, though, Nikita would not irresponsibly use that knowledge to take down her opponent. She would keep it inside, storing it away, just in case...

************

It was after ten P.M. Nikita had lit candles, and was enjoying her first night home from a mission which had taken her halfway around the world. She'd been nicked by a sniper's bullet, but other than that, the mission had been a complete success. She'd been on top of her game, and even Operations had given her a glowing commendation. She'd provided a disk, swiped in the heat of battle, which had extensive intel on several major terrorist factions doing business with Red Cell. It had been fortuitous, Nikita knew - purely an instinctive action. The disk had been on the desk, along with others, but when she'd seen the words "Exotic Dishes" on it, something had alerted her to the possibility of something far more damaging than a bad recipe for Boeuf Bouilli. She'd snapped up the disk, shoved it in the pocket of her black pants, and had completed the profile to the letter.

Nikita smiled when she remembered Operations' face as she'd handed him the disk. He'd read it, his lips curling into a sneer. "Recipes, Nikita? Are we trying to take down Julia Childs?" Despite his serious delivery of the line, Nikita had enjoyed a secret moment of pride.

Aloud, she'd said, "I, uh, just thought that since it was with several other disks containing valuable data, we could, uh, check it out." She hesitated, seeing Operations' ice-blue glare, and added, "Couldn't hurt." She'd wished for an easy escape route, but of course, Operations would not allow that.

"Okay, Nikita," he said, in his most condescending manner. "We'll, as you put it, 'check it out.'" He'd palmed the disk, smirking as he strolled out of the room. Once he'd gone, Nikita had wilted. *Jeezus!* she'd thought. *Why can't he ever make things EASY?!*

The disk had yielded such valuable intel that Operations had been almost NICE to her when he'd summoned her to the aerie. She'd stood in front of him, her hands behind her back, her face unreadable. She'd been Michael - when she'd realized she had been imitating her mentor, she'd almost broken cover in alarm. Recovering instantly, she had kept her straight face, her unbending stance. Michael would have been proud of her...

Would have been... Nikita lay on her bed now, wearing a white silk sleep-shirt. She ached for him, more than she'd ever wanted him in her life. Always before, she'd had access to him pretty much whenever she'd wanted him. His office door was always open to her. He was paired on missions with her. He sought her out, just to make sure she was all right.

Now, though... Nikita sighed. Five months since she'd seen his face, heard his voice. She walked past his locked office every time she was in Section, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Five months, with no word from him at all. It was different than the time she'd been free in France. He'd sent her a message every day then, sometimes several times a day - "Nikita, are you there?" He'd tried to contact her. He'd never let the lifeline be severed, and despite the fact that she was free, she took comfort in his daily contact with her, even as she was pained by it.

Now, though... He could be dead, and she would not know. *No, that's wrong,* she corrected instantly. *I'd know. I'd feel it if he were dead. I'd know.* Reassured, she tried to relax. Her body was keyed up, her thoughts jagged and speeding from one contact point to another. She felt so kinetic that she wanted to burst out of her skin and become spirit. Unable to account for these alien feelings, Nikita was on the verge of changing into sweats and heading to Section for a workout when she heard a knock on her door. Three taps, tentative, yet somehow definite.

*Michael,* she thought, and her heart skipped a beat She knew his knock, after over three years. Then, she whispered in awe, "My god, *Michael!*" She still checked her visual monitor - he stood there, dressed in black, his hands clasped in front of him, his posture straight-backed and solemn, as if he were the bearer of sorrowful news...

Nikita quickly disarmed her security system and opened her door. A rush of something like astonished ecstasy washed over her. She fought it, tried to give the impression of mild surprise. "Michael!" she said. "Come in." She stepped back, allowing him to enter. He did so, with his usual stoic manner, his eyes directed everywhere but at her. He scanned her apartment as if searching for intruders, or a lover.

Nikita closed the door, locked it, and armed the system again, watching him as he prowled her living room like a jungle cat, his eyes missing nothing. He was devouring her space, and Nikita knew that by doing that, he was devouring her as well. She stood, her arms crossed, allowing him to finish his territorial surveillance of her domicile.

Finally, he touched down in front of her. Wordless, he took her shoulders tenderly. His eyes were a color Nikita had never seen before - a strange no-color, like fire opals. His expression was unreadable in its intensity. She held her breath, saying nothing, waiting, poised, ready, yearning - his touch on her, even through the silk of her shirt, was hot, burning. Her mind screamed, *Yes... yes... this is what I survived for - this is what I needed... only this...* She didn't realize that she was leaning almost imperceptibly toward him, seeking his scent and his strength...

************

Michael whispered, "Ni-ki-ta..." and then his voice failed him for a moment. She was so hot, so beautiful, so alive... Nothing else mattered then. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, feeling her yield instantly to him. "I've missed you," he uttered, his voice husky and shot with desire. "I don't know how I survived..."

Nikita pulled away from him for a second, her eyes alarmed. "Did Mad'laine tell you--?"

"-Yes," he interjected softly. "Section is willing to condone a relationship between us. Nikita..."

"-I know, Michael," she said, completing his concern. "I didn't trust her, either. But I found out something about her, and I think it'll help us..." Nikita pulled out of his arms, took his hand and led him, bemused, to her couch. She poured them each a glass of wine and as they sipped, she told him what she'd discovered about Mad'laine. During the course of the conversation, when the wine had loosened inhibitions a little, Nikita gently told Michael to kick off his boots and relax - to her surprise, he had. His boots were by the front door, his socks stuffed into them. Nikita had never noticed what beautiful feet Michael had - long, flexible toes. A dancer's feet - graceful, elegant, agile...

She forcibly turned her attention back to her story of Mad'laine. When she'd finished, Michael stared at her, and she saw respect in his eyes - respect and profound love. He was near tears, and it was unbearable for her to see him so vulnerable.

"Michael," she breathed, taking his wine glass from his fingers and setting it on the table. "I've missed you so much... You were the only thing keeping me alive..."

He groaned very softly, and all restraints were discarded. The moment mattered, nothing else. They'd both gone through a gauntlet worse than anything any mission had thrown at them, and they'd survived. They'd lived - for each other, although neither of them had known the other's motives for survival. For Nikita, it had been three simple words. For Michael, it had been more complex - a soul, a life, an essence.

Michael's hands took Nikita's, pulling her closer to him on the couch. His thumbs caressed her skin, and the contact made her shiver. She was shuddering inside as if she were freezing - yet, she was burning. She waited breathlessly for his words, for his next action. Her life was completely, willingly in his hands now.

"We have to be careful," he said very softly, still caressing her hands. "We both know what can happen if we fail."

Nikita nodded - she knew, perhaps better than Michael, what would happen. She'd had it brutally hammered into her subconscious, into her body, into her heart, for the last five months. It was second nature to her now. She'd learned valuable lessons from her five months in another reality, and she would be able to go there again, if necessary - she was strong enough to do it. But for now, she and Michael were together, alone, without surveillance. Mad'laine would have to use her imagination regarding THIS interlude...

************

Nikita let Michael take control of the situation. She hadn't seen him in five months, and she had no idea what he was thinking, what he was feeling. For all she knew, he might have had second, even third, thoughts about the words he'd spoken to her. Time had passed, and they each had changed drastically as a result of the intensive "boot-camp" regime they'd undergone. Perhaps he didn't really want to commit to his words...

Her fears were unfounded. Michael softly pressed his lips to her neck, his eyes closed. He breathed, "Ni-ki-ta..." Her name was music when spoken by him, and Nikita sighed and yielded completely. Tonight was theirs, no matter what else happened in their lives. This would seal them forever, irrevocably.

Michael's hands slid from her upper arms to her wrists - his lips remained against her flesh, kissing her throat, traveling up to her jawline, her temple, her eyelids, the tip of her nose... He was memorizing her again, forever. This was no act of seduction - this was Michael, the man, the lover, the human being, the vulnerable child. Nikita almost wept for the tenderness - instead, she uttered his name, reverently, as a benediction, a blessing, a plea. Then, she breathed it again, in passion as his hands found bare flesh under her silk sleep shirt.

"Oh, god..." she sighed. How she'd missed him - how she'd ached for him, not knowing if he was dead or alive - and now he was here with her, like a beautiful dream...

Michael stopped his caresses suddenly, and Nikita felt a pang of disappointment so strong it was almost a physical pain. She nearly asked what was wrong, but before she could voice her question, Michael had stood, and was pulling her to her feet. "The bedroom would be more comfortable," he said, his voice husky with desire.

Nikita willingly followed him up the stairs to the bedroom, where she had scented candles burning. The room smelled of freesia and ocean mist - a clean, clear, untainted scent. Michael glanced around the room instinctively, checking for intruders, and hating the fact that he was still on guard, even during so private a moment. Satisfied that no danger existed, he approached Nikita again. She was standing, a little defensively, having watched him ensure their safety, reminded again that they belonged to Section One, even before they could belong to each other.

Michael moved fluidly to her, took her face tenderly in his hands, and kissed her, his mouth closed, his touch prim and reverent at first. Then, as he felt her response, he opened his mouth, teasing her lips with his tongue. He licked her lips, tasted her mouth, then invaded her fully at her invitation. Nikita groaned softly, abandoning herself utterly to Michael's skill.

Only tonight, Michael was not skilled - he was in love, and his actions were those of a man completely abandoned to love. He kissed her with a wildness that took her breath away, while his hands hurriedly divested her of her sleep-shirt. Nikita, feeling his urgency, ripped his shirt from him, popping buttons in her haste to get him nude. Her fingers were surprisingly deft in undoing the buttons on his jeans, and he squirmed out of them, along with his briefs. Naked, he captured her in his arms and pinned her to the bed, kissing her cheek, her eyelids, and finally she raised her face up to taste his mouth fully, pulling his tongue deep inside her mouth and sucking gently on it. He groaned against her lips, his hands trembling as he caressed her in places he'd only ever dreamed of touching.

*Mon dieu!* he thought as he tasted her flesh. *I can't stop this...* In the next instant, he realized that he didn't WANT to stop it.

"Michael..." Nikita's voice was whisper-soft and a little awe-struck and he felt her body arch against his, her own touch like fire on his sensitive skin. He pulled Nikita hard against him and his kisses became abandoned, open-mouthed and wet and breathless. She could feel the strength in his muscles as they bunched and relaxed - she felt his erection between them, rigid and heavy, larger than she'd remembered him to be. It almost intimidated her for a moment - he would hurt her if he tried to take her too quickly, but he seemed completely consumed by his own desire.

Michael was over her, dancing himself against her teasingly while he kissed her softly, his eyes an unreadable green as he drank in the vision of her, abandoned to passion - his passion. He lost his sense of propriety completely. He became an animal, and as an animal, he did things to her that he would dwell on for months to come. His hands found places on her that he'd never touched before. Even in Lyons, he'd only tasted parts of her - the parts which had assuaged his need, and later, his desire. He'd explored her, but not in depth, as he was doing now. And Nikita - Jesus! - she was doing things to him that no woman had ever done...

He stroked her face, trailing his hands down to her shoulders, sliding his fingers over her breasts, gently coaxing her nipples to hardness, marveling at the wonder of her response to him. He couldn't stay away from her for long, and he eased himself between her thighs, very gently pushing, feeling her lift up to take him, her eyes closing in something like exultation. At the first clench of her inner muscles around his hardness, Michael groaned and froze, forcing Nikita to raise up again and pull him deeper.

He let her set the rhythm, and her fingers pressed hard into his buttocks and pulled him down on her, lifting her hips off the bed. Michael felt the slickness of her and as he slid deeper, he was surprised to feel her climaxing, her muscles gripping him tightly, in absolute synchronicity with his own body's song. She had gasped at the onset of her orgasm and he held himself fully inside her, unmoving, watching her body convulse in a beautiful dance of unspeakable rapture. He couldn't believe it was he who was causing this ecstasy in her, and he felt a rush of adrenaline that threatened to carry him over the edge of control.

After a moment, Michael began to move slowly inside her, sliding deeper with each thrust, feeling Nikita meet every movement until they were in complete harmony with each other. He breathed against her ear, "My God, Nikita - you make me *wild...*" His hands and his parted lips were sliding all over her, everywhere he could reach, as if memorizing her.

Nikita found his mouth and took his tongue again, loving the feel of Michael inside her. He was more than she'd dreamed of, gentle yet forceful and strong as he moved on her and in her. She whispered in awe, "Michael, please take me forever..." and Michael felt her coming again. Her release was more intoxicating than anything he could experience for himself. He froze, wanting, craving her to move on him to complete her pleasure in her own way. It was his way of giving her the most profound gift he could impart to her, but it was almost unbearable for him - he was so close to his own orgasm that he knew it wouldn't be long.

When Nikita's movements had subsided a little, he resumed his sensuous dance over her and inside her, slowly at first, then with mounting pleasure. On the edge of his release, Michael felt Nikita spasming once more, and he couldn't stop it this time. "Coming..." he gasped out, and his body went rigid as he climaxed, his cock pulsing and beating within her as he emptied himself. It was unendurable - he couldn't control his reaction, couldn't clamp down on his movements to keep from possibly hurting Nikita in his almost violent release. His body rose and fell on her and she clung to him with arms and legs, riding his climax with him as he sobbed out her name over and over, driving himself completely into her rhythmically until he was drained of everything.

Their lovemaking had eclipsed anything either of them had ever experienced before, either with each other or with someone else. Exhausted, sated, peaceful, Michael collapsed, propped up on his elbows to keep from crushing Nikita under his weight. Both of them were wet with sweat and gasping for breath. Michael raised up slowly, unnaturally weak, to smooth a strand of blond hair which was plastered to Nikita's cheek. In turn, she reached up to wipe his untamed hair away from his eyes. He didn't want to move - it felt too incredible to be this close to the only woman who'd been able to draw him out of himself and make him feel life again.

************

Neither of them remembered falling asleep - Michael had stayed sheathed inside her but more to her side, and the position had been so comfortable for both of them that neither felt inclined to move. During the night, Michael awoke, and Nikita was gone. He ached, not just in his body, but in his soul - they would never have a normal life; he would never be able to make love to her and wake up with her in his arms, never be able to spend a leisurely day over coffee and indolent caresses leading to the indescribable pleasure. He would never be able to openly hold her against him and tell her how much he loved her. Section would make certain he remained alone and focussed on whatever the next mission would be, despite Mad'laine's assurances to the contrary. He would never be allowed to have a love...

Nikita rejoined him then, slipping under the covers carefully and curling up beside him, interrupting the dark turn of his thoughts. His arm went around her and he pulled her closer, not speaking. He kissed her temple softly, and felt her fingers gently caressing his chest. Her hand moved lower, and Michael caught his breath, his heart beginning to pound. He had been idly stroking her shoulder and neck, but all movement stopped when Nikita's fingers inadvertently grazed the tip of his rising manhood in their wanderings.

Michael glided his hand down to hers, holding her wrist firmly, then slid his fingers over hers, guiding them to his shaft and closing them around it. He gently moved her hand up and down, showing her what he wanted. When he felt her pick up his rhythm, he released her hand and closed his eyes with a sigh. She stroked him, holding him firmly in her fist. Michael could feel her heart pounding against his arm, her breathing warm and fast as she grew more aroused by what her touch was doing to him. He began to gently thrust upward into her hand, his hips lifting off the bed. He breathed, "More... harder..." and was rewarded by the tightening of her hand and the increasing motion.

Nikita whispered erotically in his ear, "Come for me, Michael..." Seconds later, Michael convulsed with a sharp cry, and Nikita continued to stroke him until finally, Michael reached down and gently removed her hand when the orgasm had completely played out, murmuring, "Thank you, Ni-ki-ta..." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, tasting himself on them, then kissed her mouth, sharing his essence with her.

She cleaned him with a tissue, not wanting to get up and fetch a washrag, unwilling to break the pensive, almost ethereal magic of the moment. In moments, both of them were asleep, neither of them dreaming of anything.

Morning found them tangled together, the sheets twisted around them haphazardly. Michael's hair was a beautiful disaster around his face. Nikita was on her side, almost protectively covering Michael's body with hers, her arm across his chest, her leg over his lower body, her head on his chest.

Michael awoke before Nikita. At first, he thought he'd been dreaming, but when he felt soft skin under his hands, soft hair, the scent and feel of Nikita, he knew it was real - Nikita was with him, again. He sighed, an ecstasy traveled through him, and he closed his eyes and reveled in it. For once, he didn't feel guilty, didn't feel responsible for a death, didn't feel answerable to Section for anything. It was freedom, and Nikita had given it to him...

Her eyes opened slowly, and she made a soft sound. Instantly, Michael's hand went to her face, stroking her cheek, and he whispered, "Don't move - not yet..."

Nikita sighed and snuggled closer to him, and he welcomed her with an arm around her. "I thought I was dreaming," she said softly.

"So did I," Michael answered, and his fingers caressed her cheek. "I'm glad this is real."

There was a pensive silence, then Nikita's voice cut through Michael's otherworldly thoughts. "Michael - do we trust what Mad'laine is giving us?"

Michael started, the dreamy ambiance of the morning shattered. He felt a physical pain when he realized Nikita's very sensible question. Section would know - it knew everything. He'd tried to hide his feelings for Simone - Section knew. He'd tried to deny his emotion when Chuck had been blown apart - Section knew. He'd masked his feelings for Nikita - Section knew.

Michael sat up in bed, pressing his palms to his eyes in frustration and anger. Section always knew. For that matter, Section could be monitoring his actions, or Nikita's, right now.

Nikita put her hand against his forehead and murmured, "I know, Michael. I feel it all the time, too. We're never free of Section." Then she added very softly, "Except when we're together."

Michael looked at her, his eyes sea-green and full of love. He groaned and pulled her into his arms, closed his eyes slowly and whispered reverently, "You keep me alive, Nikita..."

And Nikita answered, "And you complete me, Michael..."

~~~~~

Back at Section, Mad'laine sat at the breakfast table alone, sipping orange juice and staring pensively at the artificial outdoor environment created by the holographic video projector. She knew Michael and Nikita had spent the night together. She was certain their lovemaking had been powerful and passionate. And, she wondered how it would affect their performance as operatives. She intended to view the surveillance videos of last night's tryst, right after she finished her orange juice. She was glad she'd had the monitoring equipment re-installed in Nikita's apartment while she'd been on her last mission.

Mad'laine liked to watch...

The End