Disclaimers: La Femme Nikita and its characters are created by and owned in whole and in part by these entities: Warner Brothers, USA Network and Fireworks Entertainment. The piece of fiction is meant to entertain and provoke interest in the show, not to infringe on their copyrights.

Please note there is strong language and occasional violence in this piece of fiction. Although on the TV  La Femme Nikita is bound by certain television censors and standards, these constraints do not apply to fiction writing. In my universe, characters such as Michael and Nikita would act and speak in a manner perhaps unacceptable to some of us in Real Life. Please be advised. All "adult" chapters are so noted and are not intended for reading by children under age 18.

Chapter 1: Question

"Why do you stay with me Nikita?"

The words came out quietly, with no additional accent or inflection to indicate how important the answer was to the questioner. He watched her set her coffee cup down, carefully, and lower her eyes. His heart sank a little lower. She was hiding her first reaction from him, never a good sign.

Michael turned his head slightly and scanned the room again, both relieving Nikita of his fixed stare, and to assure himself (again) of their complete privacy. This was not their first coffee tete a tete; they had been meeting occasionally, once or twice a week for a few months now. They changed locations every few meetings, just to assure their privacy from Section. This coffeehouse was dim and not crowded; no one seemed to be paying any attention to the dark-clothed pair in the corner.

His quick look-over assuring him of their security, Michael turned his gaze back to his table partner. She brought her head up, meeting his look with a clear blue stare of her own. But she didn't answer him.

"Why do you do it, Nikita?" He felt an insatiable urge to understand her a little better. This was not the same woman he had trained for Section years ago. The past year and more had changed her, for the better as far as Section was concerned, but the changes had clouded his understanding of her. "I have given you reason after reason to turn your back on me. Why haven't you done the smart thing and walked away?"

"I-" She stopped and dropped her eyes again. He could see her mind searching for the right words to explain her reasons. He appreciated that effort, being a man of few words himself. She took a deep breath and tried again. "You - you are a good man, Michael, and deserve much better than you have received in your life." She lifted her eyes up to meet his gaze. He could feel his face and eyes go blank, the look she hated, and he shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts, as well as to let her know he wasn't going to close down again.

"You really believe that?" His voice was hoarse and breathy. He felt as if she had struck him in the solar plexus, knocking all the air out of him. A good man? Not a phrase he would ever use in describing himself.

She looked a little dumbfounded at his reaction. She reached across the table to take one of his hands. She must think I'm getting ready to walk away, he thought vaguely. She stroked the back of his hand softly.

"Michael... don't you see? Don't you understand that the idea that Section exists to protect the innocent and destroy the terrorists... how that ideal has permeated every thought you have during a mission? How hard you work to protect your team... and me... and your family... " She stopped, and looked cautiously at him. He turned his hand so he held the smaller one that had been comforting him.

"I-" He cleared his throat, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. "I- I don't see that at all. I think I am a very bad man, as you have many reasons to know. And a very poor excuse for a father-" His voice broke, very slightly, and he paused to get himself under control.

"Michael." Nikita lifted their joined hands and gently kissed the back of his hand. "You are the best man I have ever known. What you have done, what you will do, is to protect me, not to hurt me. Not intentionally..." She gave him a rueful smile. "What I mean is, you have never hurt me for the joy of hurting someone. You have manipulated me for my own protection, or because of mission constraints. Not because you enjoyed it, or because you wanted to do it."

He closed his eyes. Her faith in him was something precious, something to be stored in his memory and brought out in his darkest hours. And, yet, perversely, he felt obligated to remind her, to convince her, that she was wrong. He opened his eyes and looked closely at her beautiful face, at the trust in her eyes.

"I am not a good man, Nikita. I am a violent man, a man who has killed without compassion, who has lied and betrayed and, god help me, will do so again. I told you once and I tell you now, you should walk, no, run, as fast as you can to get away from me. No good will come to you through me. Only hurt and pain and- and death." His hand clenched hard, crushing her hand within his fist. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, she put her other hand on top of his and pulled herself half out of her chair. Her face was inches away from his, her breath sweet and warm on his face.

"Hell, no, Michael." She spoke very softly, for his ears only. "You trained me and you made me and you are stuck with me, come what may." She kissed him, softly, gently, then pulled her hand out from his grasp and walked out the door. Michael sat at the table in the dwindling twilight, rubbing a finger over his lips to recapture the taste of her kiss.

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

Chapter 2: Mission Disagreement

The mission had completely fallen apart. Michael wasn't sure if it was poor planning, bad intel or simple bad luck. They had had complete success until they tried to egress; then it had erupted in his face. He was crouched behind a wall, his three team members behind him. Bullets were flying past the corner, making a quick surveillance look impossible. He had no idea where his adversaries were stationed. There were simply too many bodies, Section and others, in the vicinity for Birkoff to ascertain enemy positions.

Nikita's voice came through his comm link. "Michael? Where are you?"

"Southeast corner. Behind the wall."

"Stay put, Michael. We'll come pull you out." She was gone before he could tell her to stop giving him orders.

"Birkoff?" he barked into the comm. "Call Nikita's team off. We'll get to the van without risking them."

Birkoff's voice was apologetic. "She's already out of here, Michael. You can get her on B channel. She switched so you couldn't tell her."

Michael grunted an expletive. He quickly changed his comm channel. "Nikita. Get your team out of here. There is too much crossfire. We'll get to the van on our own."

Instead of her voice, his answer came in the increased amount of bullets flying around them. Her team was approaching from the south, driving the enemy away from their egress path. Michael eyed his team; they were as aware as he was that their chance to get out was approaching. Gathering their weapons, they waited for their opening.

Tactically, Michael approved of every arrangement Nikita had made. Team Two, her team, was on the approach, firing at the enemy to give Michael and his team a chance to slip out. With a nod, his team began to fall back, Michael at the rear, firing back at their pursuers. Nikita and her team stepped up around him and they all proceeded back to the van. As they approached the van, Team Three gave them additional cover to reach safety. As Michael's team began to enter the van, he turned to instruct Team Two to do likewise. His eyes found Nikita just as the bullet hit her. She fell silently. For one everlasting heartbeat, Michael stood frozen. Then his brain clicked into gear. With a swift motion, he instructed the remaining team members to get into the van. He crouched down and ran as fast as he could to her motionless body. Birkoff's voice crackled in his ear.

"Michael, status? Do we stay or go?"

"Stay." His voice was harsh. He touched her face, so pale and still. Quickly he began to look for her injury. "Damn you, Nikita, don't you leave me. Stay with me..." She gave a small groan as his hands touched her back.

"Hit the vest..." she murmured. Her voice was small and reedy. She cracked her eyes open. He looked in her face to confirm what she said.

"You're sure?" he whispered. She nodded fractionally. "Hang on. I've got to get you back to the van." He picked her up in his arms, holding her close to his heart. She exhaled painfully; his left arm was wrapped around her back, right over the spot where she had been hit. "Hang on. Here we go." His voice changed, from tenderness to brisk business. "Birkoff, have Team Three cover for us. We're on our way back." Trying to cause her as little discomfort as possible, he got to his feet and began to run to the van.

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

Chapter 3: Resolution (MA-14, very suggestive)

Michael watched as his team exited the mission van as quickly and as quietly as possible. No one wanted to be near when the team leaders hashed out their problems. The tension in the van had been as thick as a winter fog. Nikita sat on the other side of the van, her shoulders rigid against the wall and her eyes boring into his. He got up to exit, but his innate courteousness made him stop and let her proceed him out of the van and into Section. Inside, Operations stood waiting, impatience written over his face.

"Well?" The Section leader snapped.

"Mission completed satisfactorily." Michael responded curtly. He had no intention of discussing the mission difficulties with Operations, not now.

"That's not my understanding." Operations shot back. "Both of you, debrief now."

"No." said Michael softly. Operations' face flushed with anger. "This needs to be worked out, now, between us. We will debrief as soon as our discussion is resolved." Without waiting for Operations to reply, Michael turned and headed for his office.

'Was that wise?" Nikita stepped next to him. Her voice was very low to prevent being overheard. Michael gave her his best "blank face" in response. His anger was on a very short leash, and he would not let her goad him into a public display.

"My office. Now."

Michael unlocked the door and politely let Nikita proceed him into his office. He locked the door behind him. She heard the lock turn and whirled around to look at him. She is uncomfortable being confined here with me, he thought, good. He noticed that, even though she was obviously furious, she had sufficient control to wait until he turned off the monitoring in his office. He stepped over to the desk to do just that, and found that Nikita had anticipated him by beginning to close the blinds.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to Nikita.

She anticipated him again. "You are such an arrogant son of a bitch, Michael. You really don't think anyone can do anything without your assistance? That you are the only one in Section that is the least bit capable?"

"That's not true."

"Not true? Then what the hell were you thinking?"

He felt a flash of anger run through him. "Don't question my decisions. I made the best one possible at that point in the mission."

She half-laughed, half-sneered at him. "The best decision for whom? The innocents? The team?" Her voice hardened. "Or yourself?" Her sarcasm ripped through what little control he had left. He felt the leash snap in his gut.

Michael grabbed her shoulders and pushed, no, slammed her against the wall. She grunted in pain as her sore back connected with the hard surface. His face was inches away from hers; his eyes fixed on hers in fury. She seemed to coil like a snake and shoved him right back. He lost his grip on her and stumbled back a few feet. Stupid, he thought, to underestimate her like that. He had forgotten that the past few times he had manhandled her, she had been under orders to allow it. She had not tried to fight back when he questioned her about Adrian; she had allowed him to push her around... but not this time. She was ready and able to defend herself against him. Her eyes glowed with the flames of her anger as she glared at him across the room. He sprang at her again, grabbed her upper arms and held her tightly against the wall with the benefit of his greater body strength. She struggled, hard, and he nearly lost his hold on her again.

"Let me go, Michael! You have no right..."

He leaned in towards her, his superior weight pressing her tighter against the wall. "I have every right," he said softly. "After what you did..."

She jerked in his grasp, got an arm free and slapped him, hard, across his face. "What I did was to save your sorry ass and assure the success of the mission, Michael. If you can't handle the fact that I am just a capable as you are of leading a team..." She took a deep breath, and lowered her voice. It was cold and hard. "Get over it, Michael. I am not your material anymore. You'd better learn to deal with me as a peer, not a peon."

"As a peer, then. You disobeyed a direct order. You endangered the whole team and the success of the mission." He caught her free hand in his hard grip and pulled it over her head. He leaned in close and whispered, "And I don't need you to save my sorry ass." He pulled her other hand up over her head. His body pressed against hers, and he could feel his physical reaction to their closeness. And she could too, he knew. Without conscious thought, his mouth swooped down and caught hers in a fierce kiss. There was no kindness, no tenderness in the kiss. His mouth was demanding; he felt her initial resistance, then her lips softened as her passion overrode her fury. He pressed his advantage and continued to kiss her deeply. His body, pumped with mission adrenaline and anger, directed all its energies to his sexual response. He released her mouth and moved down to the little bit of her neck that her mission gear left exposed. Her breath caught as he found the sensitive spot behind her ear. Her body arched against his, pressing her soft abdomen into his crotch. He responded by pressing her tighter between the wall and his body. His control was quickly slipping. He felt the madness that had taken him the night they had spent on the barge. No tenderness, no sweetness, only raw animal instinct and desire. She struggled a little, not really straining, to release her arms from over her head. He tightened his grip.

"God help me, I cannot be gentle, not now," he murmured against her throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to control his raging body. Her breath flew past his face and he realized she was as inflamed as he was. He opened his eyes and looked into her clear blue ones. He saw her desire, mixed with frustration. They both knew they could go no further, not here, not now. She pulled her head forward and kissed him, warm and hard and inviting. He lost himself in her mouth. It was an effort to stop kissing her. He let go of her hands and cupped his palms on either side of her face.

"You are not to disregard a direct order from me, when I am team leader." His voice was soft and breathless. She reached up and caressed the check she had slapped. It was tender and he knew he would probably have a bruise to remind him of her anger.

"Except to save your sorry ass," she agreed, with a smile to lighten up the words. Despite himself, he felt an answering smile cross his face.

"Agreed. Except to save my sorry ass."

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

Chapter 4: Consequences

Nikita walked into Walter's workstation, carrying both her and Michael's equipment. Walter looked up from his tinkering as her shadow crossed his vision.

"Hey, Sugar," he greeted her. "How'd it go?"

Nikita shrugged. "All right. Michael and I had a bit of a disagreement, but it's been settled. We have to go debrief with Madeline." She laid the guns and their comm equipment down for Walter to inventory.

The older operative looked at her knowingly. "Yeah, I heard there was a ... problem... between you two."

Nikita grimaced slightly. Was nothing private in Section? "It's under control, Walter. Leave it."

"Nikita." Michael's clear baritone came from the doorway. Both Walter and Nikita turned to look at him. He had changed from his mission gear to his usual black suit. Walter looked at Michael's face, at the bruise forming on his cheekbone, and looked at Nikita shrewdly.

"Yeah, Sugar, I see you've got it completely under control."

Nikita gave him a pointed stare. "Stuff it, Walter." She spun on her heel and followed Michael out.

Michael touched Nikita's arm just before they entered Madeline's office. He gave her a meaningful green look. She nodded. Michael would handle the debrief. The less Madeline knew the better for them.

Michael proceeded Nikita into Madeline's office. He courteously held her chair for her to sit. Nikita gave him a quick glance; it was unlike Michael to show any partiality for her within the walls of Section. Demonstrating his protection of her? He sat next to her, folded his beautiful hands in his lap and waited for Madeline to begin the conversation. Nikita always enjoyed observing Madeline and Michael spar. One determined to say nothing, the other equally determined to know anything and everything; a classic match of wits. Michael stated the facts of the mission in simple sentences. He would not give any more information than absolutely necessary. Eventually, inevitably, Madeline turned the conversation to the disagreement between Michael and Nikita.

"Why did you interfere?" Madeline directed the question to Nikita; there was no way she could avoid answering.

"I didn't feel I was interfering. I felt I made the proper decision to protect the lives of the team and to complete the mission with the least possible amount of collateral damage." God, she had gotten good at Section-speak. Madeline looked at her unblinkingly.

"Even though Michael specifically directed you not to do it?" Nikita sensed Michael's tension. She spoke quickly to prevent his interference.

"I felt I made the proper decision. Michael disagreed with me. We have discussed the matter and come to a resolution of the problem. It will not occur again."

Madeline nodded. "Very well. The mission was a success and if you have resolved your differences, so much the better." Dismissed, the two operatives walked out. Nikita blew her breath out. Thank God that was over. Michael glanced over at her and she saw his mouth twitch with a small secret smile in response.

"Michael, if you don't need me any more, I'm going to go take and shower and change." He nodded. Any outside observer would interpret his reaction as cold, but Nikita could see his eyes and knew he was anything but indifferent. "I'll stop by your office before I go home, OK?" He nodded again and walked off. She turned and walked away to find a shower and clean clothes.

>From the observation aerie, Operations watched Michael and Nikita separate. Madeline came up the stairs to join him.

"So?" Operations spoke to her without turning.

"As we thought. She broke the mission profile because she thought Michael was in danger."

He stood for a moment longer, watching. "Have they worked it out?"

"Oh, yes." She came up to stand next to him. "Michael will have a lovely bruise to show for it. She let him have it." Madeline smiled slightly, grudgingly giving Nikita her due. Not many operatives would have the guts to strike Michael. Even fewer would get away with doing it.

Operations nodded. "Send Nikita out on a few missions with other teams."

"Time for a punishment stage?" Madeline was faintly amused at the notion that Operations could control Michael and Nikita like a pair of hunting dogs.

"Enough for her to learn she needs to follow the profile if she wants to stay on his team."

"Is she in abeyance?"

He turned his glare towards where Nikita had disappeared. "Not yet."

As she had promised, Nikita stopped by Michael's office. She had a cold knot in her stomach. Michael was sitting at his desk, typing on his laptop. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose, she thought ironically. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Michael looked up at her entrance, regarded her mission attire for a moment, then reached over to screen his office from surveillance.

"Going home?" He already knew the answer.

"No." He waited, head cocked and raising an eyebrow at her. "Going back out. With Nichols' team."

"You just came in."

"Special request from the powers that be." He dropped his eyes, thinking. They both understood the unstated purpose of her reassignment. "I'll see you when I come back in?"

He looked straight into her eyes. "Be careful." She gave him a half-smile and walked out to join her new assignment.

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

Chapter 5: Mission Aborted (This chapter is dedicated to Dr. Mel.)

The message board over the van egress was flashing. "Incoming wounded." The medical team scurried around, preparing for the injured. Michael stalked the hall outside the egress area. Walter and Birkoff hovered nearby, not speaking to him. They all knew this was Nikita's mission. The doors opened and the medical team went to work. Their voices floated out to those waiting in the hall.

"This one's gone. There's nothing we can do."

"Get an IV in this one right away. There's a lot of blood loss. He's going into shock."

"You sit down right here. We'll get to you as soon as possible."

Michael paced some more. He knew better than to interfere with the medical team. He looked up to see Operations and Madeline coming down the hall to inspect the damage. With an effort, he stood still and put on his best blank face.

"Status?" Operations barked at him.

"The medical team is working now. There are casualties, I don't know how many yet."

"Where's Dominguez?" Madeline interjected. She looked at Operations. "You should be talking to him. This was his mission, not Michael's."

The medical team began to move their patients. As per standard procedure, the most critically injured operatives were moved to Medical first. Dominguez was on the second stretcher. He had an oxygen mask on and IV in his arm. Operations snorted disgustedly.

"We're not going to get anything out of him for a few hours at least." He turned to the silent operative at his side. "Michael, find out what went wrong. And fix it." Operations strode off to his office, Madeline trailing behind.

Michael waited. More stretchers were moved out; none held Nikita. She not among the critically injured, then. That meant she was uninjured, or dead. He waited.

After what seemed to be hours, she came out of the egress. With Dominguez down, she had become de facto mission leader and she understood her responsibilities; she had stayed to be sure her team was taken care of before seeking medical attention for herself. Her face was white and strained. A med tech walked next to her, supporting her. The right pant leg had been sliced up above her knee and white gauze swathed her calf. Even as he looked her over, making sure she had no other injuries, he could see more blood staining her bandage. Without thinking, he stepped forward and took over for the technician, slipping his broad shoulder under her right arm. He put his left arm around her waist, supporting her weight. He looked down into her azure eyes, asking an unspoken question. Her silent answer was easy for him to read; she was in pain, but all right. She could walk to Medical. He supported her down the hall. As she passed Walter and Birkoff, she nodded to them. Walter nodded back; Birkoff touched her left arm briefly.

Michael sat with Nikita as her leg was treated. It was a fairly simple injury, a through-and-through bullet wound in her calf. The bullet had missed the bone and arteries, fortunately. She was in a fair amount of pain and with only a little convincing she allowed the technician to give her a pain medication, which enabled her to sleep. Michael sat with her a little longer, looking at her peaceful form. Even asleep, he could see the lines of stress carved in her face. It had been three weeks since their argument and she had been on four different missions, with four different teams in that time. He felt his fury stir. She could easily have been killed on any of those missions, because of exhaustion or insufficient briefing or unfamiliarity with the teams. He coldly pushed his fear and frustration to the side. He needed to find out what had gone wrong before he could make any accusations to Operations. Leaving instructions to call him if Nikita awakened, he went off to interview the other members of the shattered team.

When Nikita opened her eyes, she stared blankly at the ceiling for a few moments. She pieced together the bits of memory floating around her brain. Mission... abort... shots... the horrid ride back to Section... ah, Medical. That's where she was. More certain of her surroundings, she turned her head slightly. Michael was sitting next to her, his back against the wall and his eyes closed. She reached for him, but he was too far away. The slight noise of her movement was sufficient to wake him up. His green eyes flickered up and down her body, then fixed on her eyes. She gave him a tentative smile. He got to his feet and stood next to her.

"How are you?"

She raised her left hand and placed it on his arm. "Better then some. How is my team?" Michael's mouth twitched.

"It wasn't your team. 2 dead, 3 critical."

"You weren't in the field. It was my team. How's Dominguez?"

"He's one of the critical. I've spoken to everyone conscious. Can you tell me what went wrong?"

She gave a slight snort. "Other than being ill-prepared with an untrained leader? Michael, I like Dominguez, but he wasn't ready for this responsibility." She paused. " Am I in abeyance?"

Michael's face stayed still. "Not to my knowledge. And you're not doing Dominguez a disservice; everyone else on the team agrees with your assessment."

She sighed. "Make sure you note he has potential, Michael. Can I get out of here? I need a shower and about 48 hours of sleep."

Michael sat on Nikita's couch as she hobbled around the kitchen, making tea. He had offered to get it for her, but after two days in Medical, she was restless and needed to move around. She put the kettle on the heat and set out the cups, then looked over at Michael. He was watching her, barely blinking, his gaze intense. She adjusted her crutches and limped over to him. She stood over him and gave him back stare for stare. He broke the eye contact, looking down at his folded hands.

"I'm sorry, Nikita." Of all the things she thought he might say, this was not what she expected.

"Sorry?"

"I failed you. I haven't protected you." She hopped over to the couch and sat next to him.

"Michael, you're not my protector."

He took a deep breath. His gaze was still riveted on his hands. She tried to get him to look at her by putting her hand on top of his.

"It's my fault." His voice was very low. A million responses jumped into her mind. She said none of them. Instinctively she realized he had just expressed a very deep truth about himself. She tightened her grip on his hands.

"Michael, I told you. I make my own decisions." As hard as the words sounded, her voice was soft and gentle. For a second, he looked over at her and she saw all the pain he carried silently inside himself. Then he glanced down. When he finally looked up again, he had shut away every emotion. Pulling his hands from hers, he walked out of her apartment.

Nikita continued to sit on the couch, resting her hands on the warmth he had left behind. Damn the man, why wouldn't he talk to her? She could feel his distress, could see how close his emotions were to the surface. With a deep sigh, she pulled herself to her feet and went to make her tea. She was tired of this game, tired of chasing after him begging for his confidence.

"Fine," she said aloud to the empty apartment. "Take your time, Michael. I won't push any more." She knew how petulant she sounded, even as the words left her lips. She gave a snarl of frustration and threw her teacup across the room.

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

Chapter 6: Briefing

Another briefing. Michael shifted ever so slightly in his chair, still aching from his last mission. He had jarred his back making a two-story jump and it was uncomfortable for him to sit very long. The remainder of his team slowly filed into the briefing room and took their seats. The last one in was Nikita. She had just been released by Medical to return to operative status. She sat next to him, as usual, but refused to make eye contact with him. He frowned at the back of her head. This was not good. She had been supporting the team from Tactical during her medical leave, but they had not had any private conversations since he had walked out of her apartment, nearly six weeks ago. The unspoken tension between them needed to be resolved, now, before they went out on the mission. Before he could do anything, Operations walked in and began to give them the details on their new assignment. Obediently, Michael turned his attention to the holographic screen.

"This is Guisseppi Verdi. He is the leader of the People's Wrath, a small branch of the Red Brigade. They operate in small cells, no more than six members per cell. We believe Verdi and several of his key assistants are presently located here," the picture of Verdi dissolved into a map of Italy, "and will be in the same location for up to a week. Our job is to go in and destroy this cell of the People's Wrath and take out as many members as possible. It would be preferable if Verdi could be taken alive, but not imperative." Operations' sarcasm was palpable. "You leave in 2 hours. Michael will be receiving final tactical information from Birkoff immediately prior to your departure. Study your PDAs. This is a guerrilla group, people, so watch your back."

Operations left the briefing area and the team began to break up. Michael reached for Nikita's arm.

"I need to go over some details with you. Get your gear and meet me in my office." For a moment, he thought she was going to snatch her arm out of his grasp. She looked at his hand, then up into his eyes. It still shocked him that she could be completely unreadable to him. He had no idea whether the prospect of a talk pleased or angered her.

"Sure, Michael." Her lips curved as if she were going to smile; then she thought better of the idea and simply looked up at him. They stood still, staring into each other's eyes as the other operatives moved out around them. Finally she blinked and looked back down, where his hand still encircled her wrist. "Are you going to let me go, Michael?" He dropped her arm immediately. Now she did smile, a small secret smile, and left the briefing area. He continued to stand there for a moment, watching her back.

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

Chapter 7: Coming to Terms

Nikita stood outside Michael's office, gathering herself. She was not sure why she was so unsettled about this conversation. Inside the room, Michael sat at his desk, in full mission gear, working at his laptop. He saw her, she noted; he looked at her through the window, but resumed his work when she didn't immediately enter the office. She paused a moment more, then walked in and sat down. Michael finished entering his information, closed down his computer and sat back to look at her. She tipped her head slightly. He blinked, then reached over to screen his office. She waited. He asked for me to come, she thought, let him start the conversation. The silence stretched on. Finally Michael took a deep breath and started.

"How are you? Are you ready for the mission?"

"I'm fine, Michael. I could have come back on active status a week ago, but Medical wanted to be careful." More silence. Come on, Michael, she thought, spit it out.

"We need to be able to work together on this mission."

"Of course." Well, duh.

"You seem to be..." he paused, searching for the right word, "disengaged."

"What are you trying to say, Michael?" In some small corner of her mind, she was perversely enjoying herself, making him work at this conversation.

"Can you work on my team?" His eyes were blank, unreadable.

"Work on your team, or work with you, you mean?" She kept her voice cold. He looked at her for a moment. She kept her temper under tight control and waited for him.

"Can you?"

She gave him a cynical smile. "Why not?" He took another deep breath. I'm getting to him, she thought.

"You have avoided me since... since our talk a few weeks ago."

"Eureka! You noticed. I'm touched." She laced her words with sarcasm.

"Do you need to say something to me, Nikita?" He sat back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. She, however, wasn't able to remain sitting. She rose and paced across the room. The words raced in her mind. Something to say? Where to start was more to the point.

"When you were at my apartment, you apologized to me. For my injury, on a mission you didn't plan, didn't run. Why?" He kept his blank face on and didn't answer. "You seem to have this need to be in control, Michael. Seems a little neurotic to me, but that's not the point."

His voice was cool. "What is the point?"

"What was an appropriate relationship between us when you were my trainer is not acceptable now. I'm not your equal, Michael, I know that, but I am also not your material anymore. You cannot continue taking all responsibility for my actions. Don't you see how unhealthy that is for both of us?" She paused. He still sat stonefaced. Was any of this getting through? "Don't underestimate me, Michael. You are not and can not be my protector." He blinked. She wasn't sure how to interpret that: hurt, shock, recognition? Whatever he felt, he pushed the emotion down. Even as she looked at him, she saw his emotionless mask harden further.

"What do you want me to be?"

"My friend, my lover, I don't know. But not my savior." He got up and walked away from her, hiding his reaction. Nikita swallowed her first impulse: to follow him, to touch him, to make him listen. She had pushed him too many times, too quickly, expected too much of him. After all his years in Section, his emotions were buried very deep, deeper than she had ever imagined. He needed to hear this, but he also needed time to process it. Don't push, she lectured herself, don't expect him to give more and say more than he is able.

"Michael?" Simon's voice came over the intercom. "The team is assembling at egress." That made Michael turn around.

"Thank you." Nikita heard the soft click as Simon turned off his comm unit. Michael raised his eyes to meet hers. "We need to go. Are we done here?"

Nikita stepped next to him, debating whether to touch him or not. Too much, too soon, she decided, and jammed her hands in her pockets.

"I can work with you, Michael. I just need to figure out how to live with you." He gave her the slightest of nods and courteously held open his office door for her. She changed the subject. "You're taking Simon? Why not Birkoff?"

"Birkoff is needed to work on the Venezuelan mission." She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was relieved at the topic change. "Simon will do fine." They walked silently through the halls of Section, headed for the van egress. Just before they turned the last corner, Michael stopped and touched Nikita's arm lightly. She turned to him inquisitively.

"I will try." His voice was very soft. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. "It's just, " he stopped and took a deep breath. " I don't know what I would do without you." Her breath caught at those words. His hand was still on her face; he gently stroked his thumb on her eyebrow. She turned her face into his hand and put a delicate kiss in the palm of his callused hand. Section's cameras be damned, she thought.

"Just think about it, Michael." She slid her hand up and put it over his hand, which still rested against her cheek. They stood silently for just a moment, looking into each other's eyes. Finally Michael broke their tentative embrace. He lowered his hand and touched her back with his other hand, steering her around the corner.

"Let's go."

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

Chapter 8: Mandatory Refusal

Nikita crouched in the darkness. The moon had not risen yet and they were far enough out from the city that the glow from the street lamps was completely gone. The darkness was all enveloping, like a thick blanket around her. Her nightvision goggles were on her head, but as yet there was no reason to wear them. There was nothing to see. Birkoff's intel had indicated that Verdi was in the process of obtaining some Sarin nerve gas. Between monitoring movements, phone calls and backtracking the nearest available Sarin, Michael and Simon had determined that the meet would be happening here, tonight. But no one had been able to pinpoint the time of the meet. The lack of certain intell required Nikita and the rest of the team to creep to their locations by mid afternoon and wait. And wait. Nikita felt her muscles cramp and carefully stretched her legs. She would be worse than useless if she were twisted into a pretzel by the time the deal went down, she thought. As if reading her thoughts, Michael's soft voice came through her earpiece.

"Nikita, report."

She resisted the impulse to sigh. "Nothing, Michael. No sign of an activity."

She listened as he checked in with all the teams set around the perimeter. Finally Team Four reported a vehicle approaching. Nikita pulled her goggles over her eyes and looked towards their position. She could faintly see the approaching car headlights. Michael, back in the van with Simon, checked with his teams again looking for the other party to the deal. No other vehicles were coming. Nikita tried to ignore her growing suspicion that something was wrong with the mission. No luck. She couldn't disregard her intuition; it had saved her skin more than once. She gave a quick double pulse on her comm unit, her signal to Michael to switch to the private 'B' channel. In the second or two it took to change her communication channel, her unease grew exponentially. She was actually relieved to hear Michael's voice come over the comm.

"Yes."

"Michael, this is wrong."

"What." Not questioning her, but requiring information.

"Not sure. It feels bad. Where's the other party?" Michael was silent. Not ignoring her, she knew, but processing all the pertinent information, including her suspicions. She knew he trusted her completely regarding mission parameters. Finally he responded.

"Change back to 'A' channel." Nikita did as he directed. He continued, "All teams, pull back. This isn't going right, abort. Return to the van." Nikita glanced around at her team members, making sure they followed instructions. She needn't have worried; if there was one thing Section taught its operatives, it was to follow orders when pulling back. She let her team slip out first, then she began to creep back to the van. Without warning, a shadow detached itself from her surroundings. Before she could react, the world went black.

Simon was in the van, awaiting the retreating teams. He looked over at Michael, who sat quietly at the communications center. The operative was silent, and Simon made no attempt to start a conversation. He was completely in awe of Michael and still very uncomfortable around him, even though it had been a few years since Simon had inadvertently compromised a mission. Michael had never blamed Simon for botching the mission, but Simon felt his failure keenly. Michael's cold green eyes swept over Simon and observed the teams entering the van. Simon repressed his involuntary shudder. Rumor had it Michael had no emotions. He certainly looked the part. Michael's voice snapped Simon out of his reverie.

"Where's Nikita?" Her team looked blank.

"She was just here, behind us..." one of them stammered out. Michael moved quickly, standing by Simon's shoulder. Simon was already pulling up the data on her comm unit. His finger moved along a topographic display of the area.

"There." The red light was not moving, only blinking steadily. Michael stood perfectly still. Simon glanced up at him and immediately regretted it. Michael's face was white, his eyes wide and staring. Simon averted his gaze; Michael would not want his distress witnessed.

"Michael?" It was one of the operatives from Nikita's team. "What should we do? You want us to go back for her?" Michael turned slowly. He took his comm unit off and deliberately laid it on the desk by Simon's hand.

"No. Return to Section." He took his pistol out its holster and checked the clip. Reaching around the other operatives, he pulled another clip out of storage and slipped it into his pocket. He opened Birkoff's 'holdout storage' and took that pistol and clip too. Simon was totally bemused by Michael's actions, but the cold operatives seemed to know exactly what was going on. Jensen, one of Nikita's team, stepped forward and put a hand on Michael's arm.

"Michael, you want back up?" Michael looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at his questioner. To Simon's surprise, Michael seemed to be touched by the gesture.

"No. Return to Section." The operatives silently stepped back and let Michael step out of the van into the dark night.

Jensen pounded on the wall and called to the driver, "Go." The van rolled off. Simon was more confused than ever.

"But, what about Michael - Nikita..." Jensen looked down at Simon and shook her head slightly.

"Michael's on mandatory refusal, Simon. He'll contact us when he has Nikita and is ready for pick up." She turned to sit down with what remained of her team. The words echoed in Simon's mind: mandatory refusal.

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

Chapter 9: Capture (MA-14, violence)

Nikita woke slowly. Years of Section training had ingrained the habit of not moving as she regained consciousness. It was to the operative's advantage to assess his location before the enemy realized the operative was awake. Her head throbbed; OK, a blow to the head, she thought. She cracked her eyes open a little. Good, she could focus. That was a positive sign. As she tried to ascertain any other injuries, she realized she was bound. OK, not so good. She turned her head a little. Was anybody here with her? Her eyes quickly scanned the room. There was a man sitting in the corner, head slumped down on his chest. Asleep? She began to review her restraints. She was in what she personally referred to as the 'classic interrogation position', hands bound behind her, feet tied to the legs of the chairs. At least this one was smarter than Brevich a few months ago; her flap jacket and bulletproof vest had been removed and her feet were tied to the chair; no chance of kicking a gun out of her interrogator's hand this time. She glanced over at her attendant; he was still asleep. She gave a tentative pull on her bindings. They held firm, not really surprising her. As if he heard her thoughts, the door opened. Verdi walked in, accompanied by two thugs. She didn't pretend to be unconscious; she met his eyes, giving him what she hoped was her best stubborn look. He gave a slight grunt of amusement and walked over to where the sleeping man sat. His foot swung out and whipped the chair out from under the slumbering form. The attendant fell, hard, and smacked his head against the wall. He opened his eyes to look straight into the barrel of Verdi's pistol, inches from his nose.

"Another failure will be your last." Verdi held the gun for a second more, then returned it back to its holster. He gave the fallen man a vicious kick and turned his back. "Get him out of here," he ordered his thugs and returned his attention to Nikita. His henchmen did as they were ordered and left the room. Verdi approached Nikita, staring at her face. They were nearly nose-to-nose before he stopped. He reached out to touch her face and hair. Nikita twitched, involuntarily, then controlled herself.

"So beautiful..." murmured Verdi. "Who are you?" He looked directly into her eyes, expecting an answer. She gave him a broad, taunting smile in return. His brown eyes darkened and he grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking her head back. "I asked you a question, girl. Who do you work for?"

"You're hurting me." Nikita stared back into his eyes. How much did he know? He let go of her hair and took a half step back. She swallowed quickly, pushing aside the ache in her neck and missed his hand coming at her. The slap was hard, vicious, and caught her by surprise. She could taste the iron tang of blood in her mouth from where her teeth had ripped the inside of her cheek.

"You're all alone here, with me, you know. Your team has fled with its tail between its legs. No one will be coming for you. Tell me what I want to know." Nikita closed her eyes, feigning weakness. The van might have left, but Michael would have stayed. She needed to stay alive and alert until he could find her. So much for not needing his help, she thought ironically. Verdi's hand snaked around her head and grabbed her hair again. He used his other hand to slap her again, lighter this time, on both cheeks. Nikita opened her eyes and gave him her best Michael stare: blank face, blank eyes.

"Who are you, girl? Who do you work for?" He punctuated the questions with more slaps to her face. She only blinked, giving him no indication of fear or pain. He let go of her hair and walked to the door, calling for his cohorts. Nikita took the split-second break to take a deep breath and calm her nerves. Michael would need time to locate her. She had to give him that time.

Verdi approached her again and several men filled the room behind him. He stepped up close to her and reached out to her neck. Little early for strangulation, she thought with black humor. Instead he grabbed the neck of her T-shirt in both hands and ripped it from top to bottom, leaving her completely exposed. Verdi grabbed her breasts and gave them a brutal twist. Nikita could not stop a grunt of pain from slipping out. Verdi pressed his advantage and leaned in to her.

"Tell me what I want to know, girl." Nikita spit a mouthful of blood in his face.

"Go to hell."

Michael slipped out from under the sheltering trees, silently approaching the cabin. He was sweaty and trembling slightly with exertion. Tracking a vehicle in the dark of night was not an easy trick. He stopped for a moment, both to catch his breath and to do a quick surveillance of the area. This was definitely the location Birkoff had indicated back in Section. Michael had opted to attack the meet, hoping to catch both the People's Wrath cell and their nerve gas seller in one action. But Michael was nothing if not thorough. He had also researched the probable location for the cell, just in case. Just in case... now a reality.

He crouched for what seemed like hours but, according to his watch, was only ten minutes. He could not see any movement, guard or security. There had to be a guard on watch, somewhere. He must simply be on the wrong side of the building. He slipped up to the building, flattening himself against the coarse stucco. His left hand reached for his garrote and he strung it between his hands before proceeding around the house. The windows were all knocked out and boarded over, he noted, eliminating that possible means of ingress or egress. He edged up to the next corner and peered around cautiously. There. The guard was stationed in front of the door. He was mumbling softly to himself and rubbing his head painfully. Michael reached down and picked up a small pebble. He tossed it as hard as he could without exposing his location, and the pebble hit another rock as it landed. The tick of the colliding rocks echoed in the silence. As anticipated, the guard turned his head away from Michael to try to locate the origin of the noise. Michael crept up behind the guard and whipped the garrote around the guard's neck. It took only seconds for him to die. Michael put his back to the door and tipped his head against the rough wood. It was no use; the wood was too thick to hear anything clearly. Michael briefly wished he had communication with Section. How many rooms were there? He needed intell on the floorplan. Pulling both guns out, he leaned against the door, hoping against hope it would yield to pressure. The door was uncooperative, refusing to give way. Have to do this the hard way, he thought, and turned the doorknob, easing the door open and slipping inside. The interior was dark and the room empty. He quickly crept along the wall, headed for the hallway. There were two more rooms down the hall and one was lit. He wondered fleetingly about the enemy's overconfidence; Verdi was obviously certain no one would be pursuing him, to be so careless.

His mind raced, calculating the odds. Six man cells, intell indicated, and one man down. That left five adversaries to be removed while avoiding injury to himself and Nikita. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud cry.

"Bitch!" A man's voice. Then the sound of a fist striking flesh. A woman's grunt of pain; Nikita's voice. Michael moved forward, acting completely on instinct.

Nikita leaned forward in the chair, as far forward as her bound arms would allow. She inhaled painfully, forcing air into her lungs. She coughed and inhaled again, her wheezing breath sounding loud in her ears. A hand grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. With his left hand, Verdi forced her head back painfully, with his right hand he wiped her blood off his face. He brought his face down close to hers.

"I will give you to them," he indicated the knot of watching men, "and you will beg me for death before they are through with you. Have you ever experienced rape? Not once, but over and over?"

Her voice came out in a sibilant whisper. "Go to hell."

Infuriated, Verdi pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Flipping it open, he laid the point on her sternal notch, where her collarbones joined at the base of her neck. She stared brazenly into his eyes, showing no fear. Michael, I need to you to show up about now, Nikita thought. Verdi looked into her face, and pressed on the knife. The point of the knife sliced into her skin. Nikita's body gave an uncontrollable shudder. Slowly Verdi began to slide the knife down her chest, a thin trail of blood following the blade down her body. Nikita closed her eyes. The blade was cold; the cut burned like fire. He stopped the knife at the base of her ribcage, the blade angled slightly up toward her diaphragm.

"I could kill you now," he said conversationally. "A simple blow upwards..." He demonstrated by leaning slightly into the knife, increasing the pressure on her skin, but not enough to pierce her. "Tell me what I want to know." Nikita lifted her chin a notch and opened her eyes, prepared to be defiant again, when the room burst into bullets. Without thinking, she flung herself to her left, crashing to the floor. Her shoulder exploded in pain. She lay, unmoving, eyes closed, waiting for the gunfire to end. Either Michael would be successful and extract her, or they would both be dead in a minute.

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

Chapter 10 Rescue

The gunfire ended as abruptly as it started. Nikita continued to lie on the floor, not moving, with her eyes closed. The pain in her shoulder was excruciating. She felt a cool hand on her neck.

"Michael?" She didn't try to move her head to see him. Everything hurt too much.

"Give me a second to get you untied." His soft accented voice allowed her to start breathing again. The pain from her shoulder increased and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She cracked her eyes open and watched him move over to Verdi, taking the knife that a minute ago had threatened her life. He cut the ropes that bound her arms and feet and extended a hand to help her up. She took his hand, gripped it hard, but did not move. He crouched down next to her.

"What's wrong?" She met his glance, blinking back tears of pain.

"I think I dislocated my shoulder when I fell." She managed to say the words while gritting her teeth over a scream of pain. The flaming agony that had been her shoulder moved up the pain register from excruciating to agonizing. He moved over to her left side.

"Let me see." He gently rolled her on her back, pushed aside the remains of her shirt, and delicately touched her swollen joint. "I'll need to put it back in for you." He stood up and put his left foot in her armpit. He reached down and picked up her left arm, holding her hand tightly in his hard grip and slid his right hand under her elbow. Nikita could not hold back a cry of pain. His pale eyes swept over her face. "Are you ready?" She looked up into his face, the tears she could not hold back making shiny tracks on her cheeks. His face was composed, almost cold. He moved suddenly, giving her no chance to prepare. He snapped her arm up toward her head. Her agonized scream left her throat raw, her back arched off the floor and her body twisted in a spontaneous convulsion. As soon as he felt the shoulder slip back into the joint, he let her go and dropped to his knees. He pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her, letting her collapse and shake in reaction to his rough ministrations.

How long she sat enfolded in his embrace, she was never able to determine. The pain in her shoulder had eased as soon as the joint was reset, but she had an uncontrollable reaction to the stress of the past few hours and needed the comfort of his presence. After the shaking stopped, she lifted her head from his shoulder and wiped away her tears surreptitiously. He turned his cool, intent gaze on her.

"We need to get out of here. The deal was obviously a ruse and he may be expecting reinforcements." Nikita was reminded again of Michael's ability to deal with crisis and still think out all the possible ramifications. Of course, they had been set up. Someone knew they were there and Michael was absolutely right, they needed to get out of the house. Michael got up and began to rummage through Verdi's pockets. He glanced over at Nikita, who was struggling to sit up, still favoring her left arm. He stopped his search and took off his leather jacket and Kevlar vest.

"Take your shirt off." He stripped off his own T-shirt. She stared at him in disbelief. His mouth twitched slightly in amusement. "Nikita," he said her name in his most sensual voice, "now is not the time. Give me your shirt. You will need a sling for that shoulder. You can wear my shirt out of here. Do you know where your vest and jacket are?" He tossed his shirt in her lap and slipped on his vest again, fastening it over his muscular chest.

"No. I was unconscious when they brought me in. I know they must have had some kind of transportation, too, but I don't know where that is either." She obediently took off her T-shirt, easing it around her left shoulder, and handed it to him, absently covering herself with her good arm. He ripped the shirt into three strips, tied two of them together and tossed her the remaining piece.

"Use this for your cut." She dutifully rolled it up and pressed it on the burning gash on her chest. He picked up the thread of their conversation. "We don't have time to search for your clothes. If I can find the car keys, we can look for the vehicle on our way out of here." His search of Verdi proving unsuccessful, he moved to search through another corpse's pockets. Nikita gave herself one second to indulge her eyes, watching his graceful movements and the amount of skin exposed by the vest. Then she determinedly took her eyes off him and began to dress in his shirt. It was still warm with his body heat and she quietly inhaled his scent. Michael glanced over at her, and she quickly wiped her face clear of emotion.

They drove through the oppressively dark Italian night. Nikita sat in the corner, wrapped in Michael's jacket. The temperature had dropped since she was taken and there would be frost in the fields come morning. She glanced over at Michael, dressed only in his vest; he didn't seem to feel the cold. His face was grim in concentration. He had located the car keys in the pocket of one of the corpses and the vehicle itself had not been difficult to locate, simply hidden under some tree branches to protect it from overhead surveillance. The silence between them stretched on and on; finally Nikita broke it.

"Where are we going, Michael?" He gave her a quick preoccupied glance.

"A safe house."

"Section?"

"No." She thought that over.

"How long?"

He gave her another inscrutable glance. "To the safe house? An hour or so."

She shook her head slightly. "No, until we contact Section."

"I don't know." Nikita thought she could probably count the number of times he had ever admitted being unsure what to do. He stayed silent for several long minutes, then continued his thought. "There must be a mole in Section. Too many missions have been aborted or compromised. Especially your missions." He glanced over at her again, his face still expressionless. She thought that over for a moment, then caught his meaning.

"How could you think..." She twisted in the car seat, reaching for him with her right hand; the jacket slid off her body and fell to the floor. Before she could reach him, he thwarted her move by grasping her wrist with his right hand while he drove with his left. He gave her another green glance, but this time he let a little of his concern show through.

"That's not what I meant. You may be the target." He turned his hand so he was holding her hand rather than her wrist. "I", he glanced over at her again, "we need to think and plan. You may be safer out of Section than in." She looked at his profile as he drove on in the darkness. Then she released his hand, picked up his coat and covered herself again. She turned her eyes out the dark windshield and thought. Many missions did not run smoothly or as planned, but Michael had a point: too many of her recent missions had had unforeseen complications.

The town was small and anonymous. Nikita didn't ask the town's name; it was safer for her not to know. She could honestly answer she didn't know where she had been. They left the car in a nameless lot and walked the last kilometer or two to the safe house. The house was small and nondescript, on a winding, dingy street in the seedier side of town. Michael left her sitting on the doorstep while he walked down the street to retrieve the key from its hidden location. The interior of the house was as bleak as the exterior. It was cold, the heat had been turned off, and meagerly furnished. Michael knew his way around without light; after first checking out the premises as was his habit, he walked into the kitchen and produced several fat, inexpensive candles and matches, as well as a roll of Italian lira. He returned to the foyer where Nikita waited for him. He handed the candles to her and motioned for his coat. She slipped it off her shoulders and readjusted her sling.

"Go in and get as comfortable as you can. I will go out and get some supplies for us." He shrugged into his coat and turned to leave. Nikita put her hand on his arm.

"Michael? Whose house is this?" He gave her an impenetrable green stare.

"It's mine." The door closed behind him and she automatically locked the door. Then she turned and stood, half leaning with her back against the door.

"Yours?" Her quiet whisper seemed to echo in the empty home.

Michael walked down the dark streets, mechanically observing his surroundings. Locating one of his underworld sources had not been difficult, but time consuming. However, it had been ultimately successful and he had a bag full of various supplies in his left hand. He approached the house, checked up and down the street and opened the door. The hallway was still dark, as was the kitchen beyond. Michael frowned slightly. He had left Nikita with the candles and matches. He took two steps into the house when he felt the cold barrel of a gun on his neck. He stopped immediately.

"Nikita," he murmured softly, "it's me." He felt the gun pull back and heard the distinct click of the hammer being released. She moved invisibly past him and awkwardly lit the candles in the kitchen. She turned towards him, her eyes burning.

"Where the hell have you been?" His mouth twitched. She sounded like a jealous wife. Then he looked closer at her face. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. The bruises from Verdi's beating were beginning to show on her pale skin and she looked ready to drop. He put the bag on the counter. It made a satisfying thump as it hit the surface. As he intended, she turned her fiery gaze onto the sack.

"Food." He nodded at the parcel. "And blankets, bandages for you. Enough to last a couple of days." She wavered slightly on her feet. He moved swiftly to her side and pulled a chair behind her. "Sit down." He pressed gently on her shoulders and she collapsed gratefully on the seat. "You need to eat."

A tired grin crept on her face. "You sound like a Jewish mother." He glanced up at her and gave her one of his rare smiles. He rummaged in the bag and came up with a bottle of wine and some plastic cups.

"It's not French, but Italian is nearly as good." She choked on a giggle.

"A joke? Michael, you made a joke!" He poured them both a full glass of ruby liquid. He pressed one into her right hand.

"Drink. I can't get any painkillers for you until tomorrow. This will take the edge off your discomfort." Her brilliant blue eyes glowed at him over the rim of her glasses. She took a deep drink.

"Michael, I think you are trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of the situation." He turned away from her without responding and pulled a loaf of bread and some fruit out of the bag. He tore the bread into chunks and popped a piece into his mouth as he brought the remainder over to the table. The rich yeasty flavor filled his senses. How many hours had it been since he had eaten, he wondered, but let the thought drift away.

(MA-14, suggestive)

They had finished the entire loaf of bread, most of the fruit and the better part of the wine before they were sated. Michael had made sure Nikita had several glasses of wine. Although she wouldn't complain, he knew her shoulder and cut must ache. He pushed up from the table and dug into the bag again, coming up with a box of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic. She turned her head to watch him, her eyes dull with exhaustion.

"You need to get that cut treated." He approached her. She sat up a little higher in the chair and extended her right hand for the bandages. He stopped before her, but didn't give her the dressings. She raised her eyes and he could clearly see the lines of exhaustion etched in her face. "Let me," he said. "You can't do it right with only one hand."

She gave him a small smile. "Still trying to take advantage, Michael?" He gave her a little half-smile in answer. She slid down on the seat until she was half lying in the chair. He knelt down between her legs and carefully, with only a slight hesitation, lifted up her T-shirt. He gently dabbed the crusty furrow with antiseptic, causing her to grunt in discomfort. He then carefully applied the butterfly bandages all the way down her chest, pulling the edges of skin together. He looked up into her face.

"It's not deep. There shouldn't be any scarring." She nodded sleepily, so tired she seemed to forget her partial nudity. Moved by an impulse he couldn't define, he leaned forward and softly placed kisses down the bandaged gash. She gave a sigh and her fingers slid into his hair, holding him close. He laid a delicate kiss on each soft breast, then pulled down her shirt. She roused herself enough to open her eyes and gave him a dreamy smile. He rose and picked up the blankets he had brought, folding them into a pad on the floor. He took her hand and led her to the makeshift bed on the floor, picking up his gun from the table as they passed. He sat down with his back against the wall, and tugged on her hand to pull her down. She sat, uncertainty written across her features, and forced her eyes to focus on his. He ran his thumb over her eyebrow and laid an arm around her waist, encouraging her to lie down.

"I'll take the first watch," he said softly. "You need to sleep." She didn't give him any argument, simply lay down next to him and pillowed her head on his muscular thigh. He pulled another blanket over her shoulders. In moments, she was sound asleep. Once Michael was sure she was sleeping, he allowed himself the luxury of stroking her ashen hair where it spread over his legs. He laid his right hand in his lap, the muzzle of the gun pointing towards the door. He tipped his head back against the wall and prepared himself for a long night.

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

Chapter 11: Nightmares

Nights were always bad for Michael. For as long as he could remember, he had been haunted by nightmares. Being recruited into Section had only intensified his dreams. At night he felt surrounded by those he had killed, especially the innocents, and by those he had betrayed, especially his son. Perhaps he should never sleep, he thought wearily, then the ghosts could not come. His body craved sleep, but one of them needed to stand watch and he was definitely in better shape than Nikita. Soon, he promised his aching muscles, soon he could rest. But not now. He looked down at Nikita. Her breath was slow and even; no phantoms stalked her dreams tonight. She was sleeping on her right side, her uninjured side, and he could not see her face from this position. He didn't need to. His mind brought out all the different facets of Nikita: her joy, her passion, her pain. Oh, yes, her pain. He could remember every time he had hurt her, every time he had manipulated and used her for his own or Section's purpose. Her voice echoed in his memory: "I understand this is something you've been ordered to do, Michael. But I don't know how you live with yourself." How did he live with himself? It was getting harder to do. He had always been successful at compartmentalizing his life; not letting his emotions interfere with his work. Even before coming to Section, he had learned to shut off his feelings. The loss of his son had shattered that particular skill and Michael was aware the walls he had constructed to maintain his balance were slowly crumbling. Sometimes the knowledge of whom and what he had become was more than he could bear. How did Nikita survive? As much as it frightened him, he was becoming more like her, even as she was becoming more like him. The emotions that threatened to overwhelm him were unmanageable, things he was incapable of controlling. He had to walk a fine line, keep a delicate balance between the cold demands of his job and his burgeoning emotional needs. He slowly lifted his left hand and tentatively laid it on the swirl of blond hair on his leg. He slowly, tenderly, stroked her hair, then caressed her cheek. Her faith and trust in him and her love for him constantly amazed him. He had certainly never done anything to deserve this gift in his life. His fingers burned where they brushed her smooth skin. He felt his soul divide into two: the half that brought death and destruction to all he touched and the half that ached with love and need for her.

The night dragged on. Michael dropped into a series of short, light naps; some part of his mind remained aware of his surroundings. Something outside made a noise and he started awake, the gun already raised and aimed at the door. He glanced around the room and then at his watch. Just before dawn. He heard the noise again but this time was alert enough to identify it: an animal in a garbage can outside. He let his gun hand drop into his lap again. His head tipped back and rested against the wall and he closed his tired eyes.

He saw his little boy come down the stairs, crying. One part of his mind knew he was dreaming, the other part didn't care. He missed his son terribly, more than he had ever anticipated. He felt Adam's weight and warmth climb into his lap, snuggle against his chest. He could smell the sweet, unidentifiable scent of his child. He wanted to wrap his arms around his baby and hold him close, forever.

"Hush, mon petit, what is the matter? Did you have a dream?" His own voice echoed in his head.

"Daddy, I dreamed you were gone." His son's body shook with sobs.

"Shh, sweet, Daddy's here. Daddy will always be here." He stroked the dark hair tucked under his chin and felt his own tears run down his cheeks. He opened his eyes to the dark house. He was alone, but for the woman sleeping in his lap. No child in his arms, no childish hugs or kisses for him, never again. The emptiness in his heart threatened to engulf him. The weight of Nikita's head on his leg ceased being a comfort. He needed to be alone, needed to get his emotions under control. He carefully eased out from under Nikita, pillowing her head on a lump of blanket, and went to the kitchen window. He stared out the window until the dawn broke.

As she had when recovering consciousness the previous day, Nikita woke up and stayed perfectly still as she regained her bearings. Her first thoughts were concerned with her various aches and pains, as her senses became fully alert. Her head hurt with a slight hangover, her left shoulder throbbed dully and the cut on her chest was stiff and sore. Not too bad, considering, she thought. Her memory finally kicked in and she recalled falling asleep on Michael's lap. Now she felt the scratchy wool of the blanket beneath her cheek. She stopped herself from leaping to her feet by sheer force of will. Cracking her eyes open a little, she searched her limited field of vision. As she swept her eyes around the room, she saw Michael standing by the window, looking out. Something about his posture indicated a profound sadness. She sat up slowly, working out all the kinks in her back. Michael saw her movement out of his peripheral vision and turned to look at her.

"Good morning." The first words he had ever spoken to her. She looked him over. How he had changed since that first meeting! Then he had been well groomed, icily cold and completely in control. The man before her was rumpled, exhausted and, she sensed, emotionally devastated. She stifled a groan as she struggled to her feet and walked over to him. She reached up and smoothed back his hair, which was tumbling around his face in unruly curls. His eyes were red-rimmed and deep lines of grief and exhaustion were carved in his face.

"Good morning yourself. Michael, you look like hell."

He shrugged self-consciously, averting his eyes. "It was a long night."

"You should have woken me up." She put her hand under his chin and forced him to meet her gaze. "Everything all right?"

His eyes were like peridots, a clear pale green, revealing nothing, as if to deny the signs of anguish written on his face. "Fine."

She reached down and took the gun out of his hand. "Go to bed, Michael. My turn to stand watch." He nodded. He slipped out of his coat and vest, tossing them on a chair as he walked by the table. Just as he reached the jumbled bedding she asked, "Michael, aren't there any real beds in this house?"

He kept his back to her. "There are. But we're safer out here, if someone tries to get in." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Better egress." She nodded. He let out a sigh as he stretched out on the blankets. Within minutes he was asleep. Nikita crossed to the table and began to peel an orange for breakfast.