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.

Author's Note: This story takes place after my first story, A Delicate Balance, and sometime after the Season 3 arc. The Procession of the Species is an actual annual event in Olympia. When I attended this year, I could not get the picture of Michael and Nikita watching the parade out of my mind. I hope you enjoy my flight of fancy.

Thanks to Agent Orange and the members of CRAP for the on-going discussion about the complexities of the Michael and Nikita relationship; and to Cygnet for coffee dates and indulgences in all things LFN.

Day One

Nikita sat on the plane, indulging her senses in the rare luxury of a commercial first class seat. It had been a long flight, but at least the accommodations were generous. Most times she flew on Section airplanes, which, while adequate, were hardly extravagant. The comfortable leather seat and extensive legroom were an uncommon treat for her. She stretched her long legs, kicked off her high-heeled pumps and glanced over at Michael, sitting next to her. His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed, although she doubted he was sleeping. Dozing, perhaps, but always, always aware of his surroundings. She glanced out the window, at the patchwork of fields moving below them; the colors varying by crop and irrigation patterns, the occasional miniscule car or truck rolling below. She took another sip of the water sitting in front of her and recalled the conversation with Madeline... last night? this morning? Her body clock was confused by the multiple time zones changes she had passed through during this long, long day.

Michael's call had come in the middle of the night. She had stumbled through a quick shower and dressed hurriedly, not really paying much attention to her clothing. When she strode into Section, she had been surprised to see only the graveyard shift manning the communications center. Why a call in the night, if nothing critical was breaking? Michael must have seen her come in; he left his office to meet her at Comm.

"Michael." She had greeted him placidly. He looked as elegant and composed as ever. He made her feel bedraggled, with her wet hair hanging down her back and her feet bare in her sneakers.

"Good morning," he had greeted her back. His eyes took in her appearance from her head to her feet. "Sorry to pull you out of bed. We have a briefing with Madeline." They had turned as one to head for Madeline's office.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Is it morning yet?"

His mouth had twitched, very slightly, in a smile. "It's 4AM. It's morning."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a morning person." His eyes had caressed her face, a small shine of amusement glinting in their peridot depths. She changed the subject. "So what's so important to call me in at 4AM?"

He shook his head slightly, tucking a cinnamon curl behind his ear. "We'll find out."

Madeline had been sitting at her desk, looking as cool and composed as ever. Does she ever sleep? Nikita had wondered irreverently. Perhaps she's a vampire and can stay up indefinitely in Section's underground. She pushed her thoughts aside to concentrate on Madeline's briefing. Never, never let your guard down around this woman, she reminded herself. Madeline was like a cobra; coiled, watching and waiting for an incautious lapse of concentration in order to strike.

"Good morning, Nikita. I'm sorry we had to wake you up this morning," Madeline had greeted her calmly. My God, I must look terrible. Everyone keeps apologizing to me. Nikita bit off the tart, sarcastic response that jumped to her mind. She had opted for silence, simply tilted her head in response to Madeline's greeting and slipped into one of the seats.

"I know you both just returned for the Bolivian mission, but something came up very unexpectedly and you are the only team available at the moment," Madeline had continued. Michael nodded as he seated himself next to Nikita. "We have had some intelligence sent to us from the Agency. It appears a bombing may be attempted in the United States." She slid two PDAs across the desk to them. "All the information has been downloaded for you. You will be leaving immediately to take a flight to Seattle, then a limousine has been arranged to take you to Olympia. I have instructed luggage to be packed for you, and," her cool gaze raked over both operatives, "you will need to change. Your cover is that Michael is a lobbyist visiting the capital and Nikita, you are his wife." Of course, thought Nikita ironically, can't pass up a chance to throw us at each other.

"Change?" Michael had echoed. Madeline suppressed a smile.

""It will become more clear to you when you read your mission profile. For now, suffice it to say that that area of the United States dresses very casually for almost every occasion and Olympia is a small town, Michael. Most of the residents have no idea who Gaultier is. Your suit would immediately mark you as an outsider."

Michael nodded. "Of course."

Now Nikita stretched again and glanced at her watch. 3PM, but what time zone was her watch set to? Useless, she thought, to worry about what time it is until we get to Seattle. She gave the area around her a quick glance. No one was paying any attention to her. She pulled her PDA out of her purse and began to review the information again. Their target was a small ultra-violent wing of Earth First!, an environmental activist group. Apparently the group planned to target a community celebration of Earth Day, exploding a bomb to protest the 'rape of the environment'. The target date was Saturday; today was, what, Wednesday? They would be meeting their contact at lunch tomorrow, while she and Michael played tourist.

She suppressed a sigh of frustration. Didn't Operations and Madeline ever tire of pushing Michael and her together as a 'couple'? She and Michael had struggled so long and so hard to come to some kind of personal relationship, strictly outside the bounds of Section, and then to have the lines blurred by these kind of missions... Intentionally done, she realized, they are pushing us together to keep us off-balance, to confuse and distract us. She felt a cold shiver run down her spine. How will we ever be able to manage this? When is it Michael-and-Nikita and when is it Michael-and-Nikita-on-a-mission? She hated how Section used and manipulated their feelings for each other. But she also knew it was much too late for either she or Michael to try to sever their relationship; their feelings for one another were too deep, too critically important to both of them.

Without conscious thought, her eyes were drawn to Michael. Dressed in a green turtleneck and khaki slacks, he looked the epitome of 'business casual'. His beautiful hands were clasped in his lap, over his folded jacket. With a slight shock of surprise, Nikita realized his gun was in his inside jacket pocket, not instantly available. When was the last time he had let his guard down so far? His eyes opened, as if he sensed her watching him.

"What?" He must have read something in her face. She gave him a small smile.

"Nothing. You just seemed so... relaxed. I was trying to remember the last time I saw you that way."

Michael picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. "We need to go on vacation more." She felt the shock of recognition like a bucket of cold water in her face. Mission, this is a mission. He is playing his role and warning me to play mine. She carefully hid any disappointment from her face, and dropped into her role.

"Vacation, huh?" She gave him a teasing smile. "More like a working vacation, you mean. You are planning on some meetings, right?"

His eyes were warm, and she was unsure whether it was an act or signaling approval of her resumption of her part. "Only a few, only a few." He glanced at her PDA, lying in her lap. "You're on vacation, too," he continued, with blatant mock-seriousness. "You are not supposed to be doing work." He took the PDA, closed it down and returned it to her purse.

"Just checking my calendar," she protested smilingly. He kissed her knuckles again and sat back, still holding her hand. Uncertain whether this part of the act or not, Nikita moved to pull her hand back. His fingers tightened, refusing to release hers.

He glanced over at her. "This vacation is too short," he said. "Let's enjoy it as much as we possibly can." She gave him a glowing smile of happiness, one that curved her lips but did not reach her eyes. And what, exactly, did he mean by that? She realized she was already struggling to determine what was 'real' and what was 'mission'. She gave a small sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. This will be an interesting trip...

***

As the plane began to descend, Nikita sat up higher and glanced out the window. The view nearly took her breath away. The plane was literally flying over the shoulder of a mountain, so close she felt she could have touched the snowy glaciers if she were riding on the wing. Behind it rose several more peaks, all shimmering rosily in the late afternoon sun.

She nudged Michael. "Look, isn't it beautiful?" His eyes swept over her face, rather than the scenery outside the plane. "I wonder which are which?" She reached for the in-flight magazine.

The woman in the seat ahead of her turned around. "I can tell you, if you'd like." Her brown eyes were friendly and open. Nikita caught Michael's immediate tension and she squeezed his fingers lightly.

"I've never been to this part of the country. Is this Mt. Rainier?" Nikita gave her best bright vacuous smile.

"Yes. If you look to the right a little, you can see Mt. St. Helens," the woman gestured vaguely. Nikita peered in the direction of her hand. "On the left is Mt. Adams. Behind that is Mt. Hood, then Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Washington and, along the horizon, the Three Sisters. They're in Central Oregon." Nikita gazed down the string of mountains, their craggy peaks glowing in the waning sunlight. It was a beautiful sight; she had never had the chance to see mountains like these before.

"You're going home?" she asked her helpful companion. This was where she really excelled over Michael, the art of small talk. He gave her a sharp glance, but remained silent.

"Oh, yes, I've been out east for the past month. It's good to come back. You're visiting?"

Nikita nodded. "We're going to Olympia."

The woman's face fell slightly. "Oh, Olympia." Then she brightened. "Well, you'll have to make sure to come up and see Seattle. There's not much to do in Olympia."

***

Michael eyed Nikita as she continued chatting artlessly with the woman. Have to give her credit, she is quite accomplished at the art of talking without saying anything, he thought approvingly. His own natural reserve made setting up a cover story more difficult; within minutes Nikita had effortlessly laid the groundwork for their entire mission. She had polished her acting abilities; her glowing exterior gave no indication of the darker thoughts that lurked within her mind. It still gave him a small shock to realize how adept she had become at hiding herself, how much she had become like him. She glanced out the window at the lofty mountain peaks below them and for a moment, just a moment, her mask dropped and he saw the innocent young woman he had once met, long ago. She looked over at him, her eyes glowing, and said something about looking out the window. He let her words flow past him and concentrated on her face, enjoying her enjoyment.

"Michael," she said again and he forced himself to focus on her words. "I said, aren't you enjoying the view?"

He gave her a small smile, a real smile, not a mission one. "I am." She blushed slightly as she caught his meaning and gave him a gentle smile back.

***

The trip to Olympia was uneventful. The limousine deposited them at the Bed-and-Breakfast that would be their 'base camp' for the mission. It was a beautiful Italianate Victorian painted various shades of blue and cream, overlooking a fingertip of the Puget Sound. Rather than trying to find a decent meal in a strange town, Michael gave the proprietor a generous tip and asked her to order dinner in for them. Nikita leaned against a doorframe, rubbing her temples and feeling her exhaustion pulling at her like a lead weight. She had napped briefly in the car; rather than refreshing her, the catnap had made her feel worse.

She glanced around at their surroundings while Michael talked to the innkeeper, noting the beautiful period furniture, the mahogany woodwork, and the various doors and windows that could be used for ingress and egress. His conversation over, Michael picked up their luggage and approached her, his eyes flickering over the rooms and hallway. He could probably better describe the furnishings after his split-second surveillance than she could after several minutes of observation, she thought sourly. Her fatigue was resulting in bad temper and an incipient headache.

"Darling?" Michael gestured to the stairs. She tossed the hanging bag on her shoulder and preceded him up the curving stairs. Their room was on the third floor. It was charming, furnished in chintz fabrics and white wicker and tucked under the gables of the roofline was... one queen sized bed. Nikita dumped her bag on the bed unceremoniously and turned to Michael with a suspicious glint in her eye. He put the luggage down with considerably more care, then raised his hands, palms out to her in supplication. "I didn't make the arrangements, you know that."

She whirled away from him in irritation. When are we Michael-and-Nikita and when are we Michael-and-Nikita-on-a-mission? she thought again. She stood at the window, arms crossed, and watched a sailboat slowly cruise by before she said, "I hate when they play games like this with us."

He moved to stand behind her, not touching her, but close enough for her to feel his body heat radiating off him. "The bombing is not a game." She glanced over her shoulder at him; he held her eyes for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the boat on the water.

"I know that. But you aren't going to tell me they couldn't have found another team, another scenario, for this mission." Her headache ratcheted up another notch. He put his hands in his pants pockets and walked away, moving smoothly across the room.

"No, I won't argue that. But this is the profile that was designed and it's our job to complete the mission."

"Including sleeping together?" Her voice was low, but laced with anger. She turned away from the window to glare at him. "Is having sex part of the mission profile too, Michael?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "We are supposed to be married, Nikita. It would be suspicious to ask for separate bedrooms." She turned away, feeling her face grow warm under his scrutiny. He lowered his voice to a soft whisper. "This is not the Armel mission. There is no surveillance. What we," he corrected himself, "what you, chose to do or not do in this room is none of Section's business." She turned to meet his cool, unblinking gaze. Several long seconds ticked by. Finally he broke their locked stares, glancing down at the luggage at his feet. "Shall we unpack?"

***

Sandra, the innkeeper, came up to tell them when their dinner arrived. She insisted they use the kitchen of the inn, rather than eating in their room. When they entered the kitchen, it was apparent that Sandra had been busy. The table was set, complete with flowers, the food was waiting for them, and a bottle of wine stood open and ready. Nikita felt her stomach contract at the smell of their food and wondered briefly when she had last eaten. Several so-called meals on the airplanes, she thought, no wonder my head hurts.

Michael moved to the table and poured them both a glass of wine as Nikita sat down. She was so hungry she didn't even ask what exactly had been ordered for them. She took a few quick bites of the various dishes, deciding which one she liked best. She sipped the wine he offered her and concentrated on moving her head as little as possible to help minimize the throbbing in her temples. The touch of his hand on hers made her start slightly. She raised her eyes to meet his intense green gaze.

"I asked if you wanted to walk around town tonight after dinner," he repeated. We need to do reconnaissance, she translated. She blinked, struggling to focus her thoughts. Her headache was impeding her thought processes.

"Oh, honey, that sounds like such fun," I know we need to do it, "but I have such a headache... can I take a raincheck?" Can it be done tomorrow? He gave her a deep, searching look. Whatever he saw in her face must have convinced him of her truthfulness for he nodded his agreement.

His hand slid across the table to take hers. "I'm sorry, darling, I didn't realize you were indisposed." She looked into his eyes, seeing the real concern in his peridot eyes.

She gave him a gentle smile, a real one. "Unless you can crawl inside my head, there's no reason for you to apologize. You didn't know." His fingers tightened on her hand.

"Let's finish eating and get you to bed. Perhaps I will take a short walk by myself, then."

She gave him a sharp glance. "Do you think you should? By yourself, at night in a strange town?"

He stroked her fingertips. "I'll be fine. We're only a couple of blocks from downtown." No more argument. It needs to be done.

She nodded, accepting his reasoning, and changed the subject. "This is wonderful. What did you order?"

He gave her a small smile, a real one that warmed his eyes. "I have no idea."

***

Michael walked along the streets, observing both the town and its nighttime denizens. He had changed into his customary black clothes: long coat, sweater and slacks, and knew he looked formidable and slightly threatening; even the panhandlers left him alone. His eyes swept from side to side: observing, noting, and calculating. Even as he processed all the information, another part of his mind returned to Nikita. How did I miss her headache? Her pallor, her short temper and her fatigue were all indications she was feeling unwell and he should have realized it. He had accompanied her back to their room, changed his clothes and had intended to make sure she went straight to bed, but she had told him, in no uncertain terms, to go and complete the initial surveillance.

"I can get undressed without your assistance, Michael," she had said sharply, giving him a firm push out the door. Stretching her arms across the doorway, she prevented him from reentering the room. She looked him up and down from under her lashes, a look he found particularly provocative, as she said, "The sooner you're done, the sooner you're back."

Michael crossed the street, heading south on the main street. The sky was draped in dark clouds that threatened rain; no moonlight slipped through the gray cloudbank. The old iron-façade buildings were dark and shadowy; the streetlights gave only enough light to partially cut the gloom of the night. Ahead, at the top of the hill, the Capitol dome glowed in the darkness, towering above the smaller buildings that surrounded it. Even as his eyes continued to scan his surroundings, his mind remained centered on Nikita. What, exactly, did she mean by that? One minute she was glowering at him because there was only one bed, the next minute she was inviting him to join her...Of course, he had been standing in the hall, with the door to their room open. Part of the mission, he thought, uncertain whether he was disappointed or not. A small park glimmered in the darkness on his left. His mind snapped back to the mission. There. According to their intelligence, that was where the bombing attempt would be made. His eyes scanned the park in the dim light. Too dark. We will need to come tomorrow and see it in the daylight in order to make appropriate plans, he decided. He glanced around, spotting a small coffee shop across the street. His plan set for tomorrow, he headed back to the B-and-B.

***

Despite his best efforts to be quiet, the door gave a muffled click as the lock turned. He pushed the door open and his eyes automatically moved to the bed to look for Nikita. The room was dark except for the light from the hallway spilling over his shoulder, making her golden hair appear silvery and glimmering on the pistol she held, two handed, pointed steadily and directly at his heart. The air between them crackled with tension. He stood perfectly still for several heartbeats, giving her time to recognize him, then closed the door with his booted heel. In the same instant, she aimed the gun at the ceiling and released the hammer. She let out a sigh, engaged the safety on the pistol, and slipped it back under her pillow. He moved silently into the room and took off his coat, hanging it in the closet. She turned on a bedside light and lay back on the bed; her movement drew his eyes to her again. She was dressed only in a T-shirt and panties, her eyes were heavy lidded and her hair was sleep-tousled; the overall impression was incredibly sexy, incredibly dangerous. He was half-tempted to turn right around and go back out into the night.

"How was your walk?" she asked, her voice husky with sleep. He reacted as if her voice was a caress and felt a shiver run down his spine. He controlled his body with an effort.

"Fine. I'd like to take you by a little park I saw; it looked," he paused, searching for the right word, "interesting."

"Interesting, hmm?" Her voice and eyes transmitted her amusement at his choice of words. He turned his back and pulled off his black sweater, reaching in the dresser for a clean undershirt to wear.

He spoke without turning around. "How's your headache?" The sheets rustled as she adjusted her position in the bed. He turned around to see she had turned her back to him, facing the half-opened window and gazing out at the darkness outside. He was partially amused and partially relieved by her averted gaze. Modesty was not a common commodity in Section; between the lack of privacy in the ready rooms and the necessity of close quarters during long missions, most operatives quickly lost what little qualms they may have once had about exposing themselves. Certainly Michael had no inhibitions about revealing his body, except with this woman. This was a delicate, dangerous situation between them and he had already decided to proceed very cautiously. He slipped out of his pants and put on a pair of comfortable sweatpants.

In answer to his question, she waved a vague hand at the bedside table. "Industrial strength ibuprofen. Works wonders."

He approached the bed, wondering if he should ask for permission to join her. She must have sensed his nearness for she rolled on her back, her eyes flickering over his face. They stared silently at each other for a few moments. Oh, to hell with it, Michael thought and trusted his instincts. He put a knee on the bed and leaned over her. He gave her a quick, nearly chaste peck on the lips and murmured, "Move over." He could see the challenge rising in her eyes and quickly continued, "You're hogging the bed." Her incipient anger dissolved into amusement.

"Sorry," she replied, and began to slide over the bed, moving away from him. He slipped in next to her, reaching over her to turn out the light. He settled back on his side, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. His knees tucked behind hers, their bodies curved together. She sighed and adjusted her position slightly to get more comfortable, pressing her rear closer to his body. His arms tightened slightly and he willed himself not to respond.Not yet, not tonight... he chided himself mentally. He kissed her again, gently, on the cheek and felt her relax as she slid back into sleep. He lay there, enjoying the feel of her in his arms for a long, long time before sleep claimed him.

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

Day Two

The day was sunny and warm, a minor miracle considering it was early spring. They sat on a wooden bench outside the coffee shop, enjoying croissants and coffee and evaluating the park across the street. Nikita brushed the last few crumbs off her lap and finished the last of her vanilla latte. Her eyes scanned the park again and she couldn't resist a smile.

"What's so funny?" Michael looked over his cup of espresso at her.

She waved a hand in the direction of the park. "It's just so... normal. The ideal small town... the ideal village square... even down to the statue of Mr. Stuffed-Shirt overlooking the park. " In her mind she could hear Walter's wry response, Yeah, we all remember normal. Michael cocked an eyebrow at her, amusement glowing in the green depths of his eyes. He remembers too, she thought, curiously comforted by the idea that Michael would have pleasant memories of the Armel mission. He finished his coffee and rose to throw away their trash, then turned back and offered her his hand. Nikita felt a brief moment of confusion and frustration at the blurred line between reality and mission. Her brain raced to try to differentiate between them. Mission, she realized with a tiny twinge of pain, we never hold hands in Real Life. She put her hand in his and felt his rough calluses caress her palm as they crossed the street.

Hand in hand, looking to the world like lovers on a casual stroll, they wandered around the park, observing the layout and calculating the probable movements of their opponents. Huge ancient trees bordered the park, their gnarled trunks twisting low to the ground. Nikita stopped to watch several children scrambling up and down the tree limbs. If children could get up the trees, then so could the targets, she thought, and let her eyes drift upwards, evaluating and sifting through possibilities. Michael pulled her gently toward the gazebo located at one end of the park. They circled it like hawks, looking over every inch. A simple white wooden structure, it would be the centerpiece of the celebration on Saturday night. A stone tablet indicated it was registered as a National Historic Monument and still another plaque designated Olympia as the 'End of the Oregon Trial'. Every place west of the Rocky Mountains claims to be the end of the trail, Nikita thought with a brief flash of humor. Satisfied with their surveillance, Michael led her from the park and they headed north on the main street, walking toward the Sound. A boardwalk had been constructed running north and south along the waterfront, overlooking the marinas and various maritime businesses for a mile or two. They walked together, strides matching, moving further down the boardwalk until most of the other casual pedestrians were left behind. They chose a bench at random, each sitting with their bodies turned to slightly face the other, allowing them to observe any traffic approaching them from either direction. Nikita had prattled on innocently as they walked, with Michael simply interjecting a short answer or question. Now they sat silently, evaluating their location, determining whether it was safe to talk.

After a few moments, Michael broke the silence between them. "It will be the gazebo," he stated simply.

Nikita looked at him quizzically. "You're sure? There are other possible targets."

He met her gaze, his face and eyes composed and emotionless. "It will be the gazebo," he repeated. Nikita was suddenly, coldly, reminded that the man before her had once been a bomber, responsible for who-knows-how-many deaths. She swallowed the argument that had been on her lips, nodding her head in agreement instead.

"So what's our next step?" she asked.

Michael glanced at his watch. "We have two hours until we meet our contact at lunch. I need to..." he paused a moment, his eyes flickering behind her and back to her face, "to pay a few visits, since that's the point of this trip." His voice had changed subtly, he had dropped the serious tone and adopted a lighter one. "And you, my beautiful wife, need to go spend some money." He lifted one of her hands and kissed her knuckles gallantly. A couple of women passed by, glanced over the pair of them and continued on their way. Behind Michael, Nikita saw more people approaching and she let a bright smile cross her face in response to Michael's action.

"You are just trying to bribe me so I won't be angry that you are deserting me in a strange town," she said teasingly.

He gave her a full smile. Even though she knew it was a false one, that Michael was playing a role, her stomach did a quick flip at the sight. He smiled so rarely that she treasured every one. A pair of joggers passed on her right side. "Well, I have to do some work, if we're going to be able to write this off as a business trip," he reminded her. He helped her to her feet. "Do you need any money?"

She laughed. The entire situation was borderline ridiculous. Two cold, hardened assassins playing Joe and Suzy Homebodies. "No, no, darling, I have the credit card," she answered. He leaned over her and kissed her gently.

"Have fun," he murmured softly. His eyes flickered over her face and she leaned in to give him a kiss back. His lips softened and he kissed her with a little more intensity. She felt his body tense as he clamped down with his iron self control. He pulled back, only slightly, and whispered against her lips, "Be careful."

***

The profile called for Michael to go to the Capitol Building and pretend to meet with various state officials. Neither Michael nor Nikita thought that it was necessary to set up actual contacts; Michael's entering the State Buildings should be enough to convince any possible watcher of his cover story and the possibility of raising more questions with dummy meetings was too great. Operations had made arrangements with Oversight, which resulted in an empty office being left conveniently available for Michael to set up his computer and contact Section. He filed a quick report on their activities and expectations for the mission, then signed off and disappeared as silently as he had come.

He returned to the boardwalk on foot. Olympia was a small town and it was easier and less conspicuous to simply walk from destination to destination. He was dressed casually in a sweater and slacks and blended in easily with the state workers scurrying around him. He set his pace carefully, neither too fast nor too leisurely. His laptop was in its case, slung carelessly over one shoulder. His eyes, hidden by his customary sunglasses, habitually scanned from side to side as he walked. He approached the boardwalk from the south, pausing briefly by a fountain that spurted sporadically to the delight of the young children dashing in and out of the spray. He watched their innocent glee for several long seconds, swallowed the now-familiar ache in his throat, and walked on.

His eyes focused on Nikita before he was aware of looking for her. She was on the boardwalk, leaning back against the railing, with her arms crossed in front of her and her packages at her feet. His steps faltered for one second. She is so beautiful, he thought, amazed again at the very idea she could possibly care for him. Her long hair was piled on top of her head, but the breeze had teased several long strands out to blow around her face. She was dressed simply in a cobalt blue sweater and linen skirt that ended several inches above her knees, showing her long, elegant legs to their best advantage. She was even wearing what were, for her, sensible shoes, nearly flat, which gave him a height advantage. Behind her the Olympic Mountains shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting the sun's rays off their snow-capped peaks into a sky nearly as blue as Nikita's sweater. He crossed the street and approached her. She saw him coming and a smile crossed her face. He felt a slight twinge of pain at the sight. She used to look at me that way, he thought, his mind subconsciously creating a schism between himself and the role he was playing, a long, long time ago. Before..., his mind refused to catalogue his manipulations and betrayals, ...just before.

"Hello, darling," he greeted her, kissing her offered cheek. He glanced at the bags at her feet. "I see you've kept yourself busy."

She handed him one of the shopping bags and gave him a sidelong look. "What else am I supposed to do when you leave me for your boring meetings?" Her tone of voice was perfect; slightly aggravated but with an undercurrent of a long-standing jest between a happily married couple.

With his free hand, he caught the loose strands of hair and tucked them behind her ear, the gesture both affectionate and possessive. He looked deeply into her azure eyes for a long moment, drinking in her beauty, then put his hand at the small of her back and directed her down the boardwalk. "Come," he said, "we have a lunch reservation at the café."

***

The restaurant chosen was on the boardwalk, overlooking a marina and the Olympic Mountains. They found a reservation had been made in Michael's cover name; they proceeded outside to a table set out on the sunny deck, centered amid the many diners. Nikita gave Michael a quick sidelong glance, wondering at the security of a meet surrounded by so many people, but as they sat and ordered drinks, she realized the wisdom of the choice. A table on the outer rim could be overheard by a casual passerby or picked up by a hidden microphone worn or carried by any of the numerous people lounging on the boardwalk enjoying the weather; the buzz of conversation surrounding their more central table made their low-voiced discussion as secure as possible. Their waiter approached with their drinks and Nikita automatically scanned his appearance. Young and tall, his hair had dark roots and bleached orange-blond tips; his eyes were dark and punctuated by a gold ring in his eyebrow.

He placed their drinks down and handed menus to both of them. Michael glanced up and met his eyes. "What do you suggest to eat?" Nikita frowned slightly. That was out of character for Michael.

The waiter glanced at the menu in front of Michael. "Any of the specials listed on the inside are especially good. The salmon is fresh today, as are the oysters and butter clams."

Michael nodded courteously. "Thank you." Obviously dismissed, the waiter left. Nikita put her elbows on the table, took a sip of her iced tea and gave Michael a what-was-that-all-about stare.

Michael didn't meet her eyes, simply opened the menu and looked over the 'specials' sheet, which was a separate white typewritten sheet of paper clipped to the inside of the menu. Michael slid his left hand under the sheet, opened the clip with his right and pulled his left hand back out, reattaching the clip. His left hand disappeared under the table; in a second she felt his fingers nudge her right thigh. She let her right hand fall casually into her lap and felt Michael pass a small piece of paper to her. She opened the purse in her lap and withdrew her lipstick and mirror, slipping the paper into her purse at the same time.

She applied her lipstick, replacing it back in her purse and gave Michael a bright mission smile. "So, are we going to order?"

Michael gave her a long look. "Are you hungry?" he asked. His voice had an unexpected sensual overtone. She repressed a small shiver at his implication. She met his gaze and ran her eyes over his face.

"Starving." She saw the heat leap up in his eyes, quickly dampened down and hidden beneath his usual calm exterior. She deliberately ran her nails down his arm, feeling his muscles twitch beneath his sweater.

He caught her hand and brushed her fingertips with his lips. "Then let's order."

***

Michael sat on the bed in their room at the inn, his computer open on the small bedside table. He used his cellular phone to make a modem connection with Section and began typing, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Nikita stood next him, running her left hand through her now-loosened hair, examining the paper from their contact. It was a photograph of a dark-haired man in his mid-20s. Michael reached into his computer bag and withdrew a small scanner, which he swiftly attached to the laptop. Nikita handed the picture to him and he scanned it, then hit the 'enter' key with a small flourish, beginning the download to Section. He flipped the picture over and they read the few words written on the back.

PETER MASON. THEKLA. 10PM.

"Thekla? What's a Thekla?" murmured Nikita. Michael shrugged, leaning back on the bed. He gave a small grunt and sat up again, pulling his gun out from the small of his back. Placing it carefully next to the computer, Michael lay back down, reaching his arms back and over his head. He closed his eyes and arched his back slightly, stretching like a cat. Nikita watched him with amusement.

"Tired?" she asked, trying without success to smooth the smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

Michael cracked open his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. "Yes. I didn't sleep very well." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Too much distraction."

Nikita felt her cheeks grow warm. Damn the man, she thought with some irritation, he always manages to get to me. She covered her embarrassment with a saucy smile. "You could always sleep on the floor..." she suggested.

He gave her a flinty look. "I should report you for that kind of cruelty," he deadpanned. Nikita felt her heart beat a little faster at the levity in his eyes; Michael's sense of humor was a rare and treasured treat.

Her smile grew a little wider. "I know, I know," she answered, reciting her lines and enjoying their 'inside' joke. She was rewarded with a small smile from Michael before he lay back down, cradling his head on his hands.

Nikita stepped between Michael's knees to peer closer at the computer screen. "Now what?" she asked without turning around.

"Now we wait for Birkoff to run the picture through Section's database and see what information he can pull up," Michael responded.

"How long should that take?" Nikita glanced over her shoulder at him. He was still on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He shrugged. "Hard to say." He dropped his eyes to look at her, standing between his legs, and she watched his eyes grow warmer. "You have something in mind?" His tone of voice changed slightly, a sensual overlay changing the innocent sentence into something much deeper, more erotic. She was reminded again of their relative privacy from Section.

She slowly turned around to face him completely, leaning back with her arms braced on the table behind her. She let her voice drop a few pitches, becoming huskier. "Maybe. You?" He didn't respond, just caught and held her eyes with his.

She stood still for a long moment, considering. His words and his body position were as open an invitation as she was ever likely to receive from Michael. He left the decision completely up to her, neither encouraging nor rebuffing her. Slowly, go slowly, she reminded herself. Michael's apparent passivity could be deceiving. For one brief moment he reminded her of a wild animal, coiled to bolt and run at any sudden movement. She felt as if she were walking a tightrope. Turn away, and he may never open this door again. Move too fast, and he would read pity or desperation. His face and eyes were calm and controlled, too calm, too controlled. She had a sudden insight into his psyche. He's afraid. Afraid to be close, afraid to care, afraid of rejection. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she slowly knelt on the bed and began inching her way up his body, her knees straddling his body. She leaned over him, her hair falling in a curtain around their faces. Slowly she lowered her head and gently kissed him. For a long heartbeat, neither breathed nor moved; they both stayed perfectly still, only their lips lightly touching. Nikita let her breath out in a soft sigh as she broke the kiss, pulling back slightly. She felt his fingers thread through her hair; his other hand came up to rest on her shoulder, as soft as a butterfly. She opened her eyes to find his intent green gaze on her. He didn't move or speak, gave her no indication if he wanted her to pull away or kiss him again, except for his feather-light touch. She leaned in again, slowly, tentatively, giving him plenty of time to pull away or stop her. He did neither. Her lips touched his again, tenderly, and his fingers tightened infinitesimally on her shoulder.

The computer beeped. "Michael?" Birkoff's voice sounded loudly in the silence of the room.

Nikita jerked back from the kiss at the sound. His fingers closed tightly on her hair and shoulder, preventing her from pulling away from him. Their eyes locked together for a moment, and she could see barely-restrained passion and frustration shining in his gaze. He closed his eyes, stilled his face into its usual blank mask and released his hold on her. She rolled to the side, sitting with her head slightly lowered, hiding her face behind her spill of hair. He sat up and hit a key on the computer.

"Yes, Birkoff, I'm here."

***

Nikita gave herself one final look in the mirror, adjusted her hair one last time, and left the bathroom. Michael was doing a final status check on the computer before they left. He was dressed in black, as usual, but not his 'Section suit'. As per Madeline's instructions, he was simply dressed in black cotton slacks and pullover sweater. His gun was tucked neatly into the back of his pants, and his jacket lay folded on the bed, waiting to be put on.

Michael turned his head and gave her reappearance a quick scan. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but he nodded his approval at her attire. She crossed the room to peer over his shoulder. No changes in the profile, she noted, and crossed back to the dresser to pick up the tracker she would be using tonight. She slid the tracker under her hair, attaching it behind her ear, where it would be inconspicuous until needed. She checked her gun and put it into her purse, slinging the bag back over her shoulder. Sitting down on the bed, she ran over the mission profile as she waited for Michael to finish his conversation with Birkoff.

Birkoff's database search had brought up some interesting intelligence on their target. Peter Mason was a 27-year-old professional student. He was presently enrolled at the local State College where apparently his sole purpose on the campus was to recruit new members for the Earth Brigade, a breakaway sect derived from Earth First! Mason had attended nearly 10 colleges and universities in the past eight years, first as a high-ranking member of Earth First!, now as a leader of the splinter group. So far the Earth Brigade had not done anything besides talk, which was why Section had been tapped for this mission rather than the local police department. According to their informant's report, there were plans under discussion to disrupt the Procession of the Species parade, an annual event celebrating Earth Day. It was not clear yet whether the disruption would include violence; although a bomb had been mentioned, the membership of the Earth Brigade was not unified in their support of such an action. There was a great deal of uncertainty and concern at the Agency and within Section about the Earth Brigade's motives and methods; they were a loose cannon. Michael had designed the mission profile to get Mason tagged with a combined audio link /locator, which would enable Birkoff to track his movements and assist Michael and Nikita in determining exactly what was planned for Saturday.

Thekla, they had learned, was an 'alternative' dance club in town. Mason and several members of his cell were going partying tonight; therefore, so would Michael and Nikita. Unconsciously she ran her hands down her black leather mini skirt, adjusted her nylons and let her high-heeled pumps drop off as she swung her feet in the air. The thump of the shoes caught Michael's attention briefly; his eyes caressed her quickly before he returned his focus to the computer. Nikita closed her eyes and ran the profile over and over in her head. One small part of her mind recognized when Michael signed off and closed down the computer, but the touch of his hands on her nearly bare shoulders still made her jump. Her eyes flew open and she turned her head to look at him. He had her coat over his jacket on his arm. She put her 'mission nerves' under tight control, slipped her feet back in her shoes and got to her feet. He draped the coat over her shoulders, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. She gave him a quick glance over her shoulder, trying yet again to determine what was real and what was mission. His face, as usual, was inscrutable, completely in mission mode.

He ran his fingers down her back and she repressed the shiver triggered by his motion. He let his hand rest on the swell of her hip as he directed her to the door. "Let's go," he murmured in her ear.

***

Thekla was dimly lit, smoke-filled and packed with gyrating bodies. Michael and Nikita stood on the upper balcony, overlooking the dance floor, seeking their target. The club's clientele was a mixed bunch, everyone from overly pierced and tattooed college students to middle class suburbanites out for a night on the town. The music was nondescript, loud and mostly atonal, and the pounding bass line resounded through Michael's body. Their search was somewhat hampered by the flickering lights that flashed over the dancers, the walls and the ceiling, distorting faces throughout the club. He scanned the crowd below him again, failed to locate Mason and glanced at his watch. 10:45 PM. Beside him, Nikita blew her breath out in a puff of frustration. He turned sideways to look at her, leaning his arm on the railing. She glanced over at him, shook her head slightly and returned her gaze to the whirling dance floor. He leaned forward, brushed his fingertips over her shoulder and felt the responding twitch of her muscles.

"Shall I get us something to drink?" Although he was using nearly his usual speaking voice, his words barely carried over the din issuing from the speakers.

She nodded in response, mouthing the word 'please'. He gestured to the floor below with a tip of his head and she nodded again, continuing her scrutiny of the dancers. Michael threaded his way through the crowds to the bar, retrieved two glasses of Perrier and began to return to their post. He realized there was trouble as soon as Nikita came into his sight. Her back was to the dance floor, her body posture tense, and as he warily approached he could see her hands were clenched into fists at her side. She shook her head and tried to inch away from the man in front of her, only to have another man move swiftly to her side and cut off her exit. Michael paused for a moment, locking his temper under tight control and letting fifteen years' of mission experience take over. No trouble, no notice, he thought, knowing the same thoughts had run through Nikita's mind. That was the only reason her would-be admirer was still standing.

He moved smoothly and swiftly into the center of the group, standing in front of Nikita with his back to her pursuer. "Darling? Here you are," he said as he handed her one of the glasses. His eyes locked with hers; he could read her emotions as she went from frustration to recognition and acceptance of his unspoken order to follow his lead. She took the proffered drink, her knuckles turning white as she clenched the glass hard. He spun around, backing up a step so he was directly in front of Nikita. He felt her hand on his back, slipping under his jacket and resting on his hidden pistol. Michael locked his eyes on his opponent. "Was there something you required?" Michael's voice was deceptively calm, his right hand holding his glass idly.

His antagonist eyed him angrily. "Get out of the way," he hissed, apparently mistaking Michael's actions as those of an altruistic on-looker.

Michael let his eyes and face harden further. "I'm afraid not," he replied quietly. "If you have business with my wife, you have business with me." He glanced over at the other man at his side, evaluating the other's intent and potential for violent action.

"Your wife?" His voice was incredulous. Whatever the troublemaker had expected, a declaration of marriage wasn't it. Michael raised his left hand in reply and Nikita put her left hand on his, leaving her right hand resting on the butt of the gun. Their matching gold bands twinkled in the flickering light. Michael narrowed his eyes at his opponent. The man took a half step back and his buddy- so Michael had pegged him- backed off as well. "You let your wife out in public dressed like that?" he sputtered.

Michael moved swiftly, stepping forward and grabbing his adversary's throat. "My wife will dress any way she pleases, and it's none of your damn business," he murmured in the man's ear. "Now you will walk away and take your business somewhere else." Michael let go of the man with a slight shove, gave the friend a get-out-or-else glare and jerked his head towards the door. "Go."

Michael waited and watched for several moments after they left before turning back to Nikita. She had stayed directly behind him, her hand still resting on his pistol, equally unsettled and cautious. When he was relatively certain the situation had been resolved, he turned to her and slid an arm around her waist, holding her close, apparently comforting her for the benefit of the curious onlookers. His mouth close to her ear, he whispered, "Exposure?" Over her shoulder, his eyes evaluated the crowd around them and he knew Nikita was doing the same.

Her voice was a soft murmur. "Nothing out of the ordinary." She released her breath in a hard sigh and he felt her tense muscles relax slightly. She shook her head and her hair brushed his jaw. "Man oh man, what I would have given to slap that creep upside the head..."

He let a small smile curve his lips. He would never have known what hit him. He knew from personal experience how fast and powerful Nikita could be. "We need to move in case they decide to return," he murmured. He felt her nod and cuddle closer to him, letting her hand slide from his gun to his waist. They drifted around the balcony to the other side of the room and positioned themselves again to search for their target.

Michael stepped a little closer to Nikita and ran his fingertips down her back, stroking the bare skin where her shimmering gold sweater dipped down nearly to her waist. "Well, what do you expect when you dress like that?" he said teasingly, picking up the thread of conversation.

She turned to him, her eyes glowing angrily until she realized he was needling her. The hard lines of her mouth relaxed into a humorous smile. She ran her hand seductively across her collarbone. "You said I needed to tag Mason without him getting a good look at me," she reminded him lightly. "A man will always forgo looking at a face when there's cleavage to be seen." His eyes dropped involuntarily, eyeing the expanse of skin exposed by the low cut sweater. She put a finger under his chin, raising his eyes to meet hers. "Right?" He shook his head and gave her a small smile in recognition of her insight. He let his gaze drift back to the dance floor and she turned her head to do the same. He felt her body stiffen slightly and followed her gaze. Peter Mason had arrived.

***

Michael's hand never left her back as they descended to the dance floor. His touch was comforting and Nikita realized how badly she had been shaken by her encounter with her unwanted admirer. Focus, she scolded herself. This part of the mission would take all her concentration. Michael swung her out on the dance floor, holding one hand and twirling her around to the music, then pulled her back against his hard body. Michael was an expert dancer and Nikita enjoyed the feel of his body next to hers. Slowly they worked their way around the dance floor, taking their time, maneuvering to their target. When they were in position, Michael pulled her tightly to him and they moved sensuously together. She kept her eyes focused on Michael's face, running her fingers over his stubbled jaw and broad shoulders. His green eyes held hers, his expression cool and distant, even as she felt him respond to her closeness. She was finding it easier and easier to separate her mind and her body during missions; while her body responded to his arousal, her mind was completely occupied with assessing their proximity to the target. Apparently warm from dancing, she lifted her hair off her neck, carefully removing the tracker from behind her ear with one finger. Michael took her other hand and spun her around; she fell off her high heels, twisting her ankle and grabbing onto the closest body for balance. Her hands encircled Peter Mason's neck and she deftly positioned the tracker at the base of his neck, under his hair.

"Whoops, sorry," she giggled, glancing up at his face. He was staring bemusedly at her cleavage, just as she had planned. She bent over to put her shoes back on, simultaneously giving him more of an eyeful. She spun back into Michael's arms, calling another "Sorry" over her shoulder as Michael whisked her away through the crowd. She melted into his arms, letting him lead her around the dance floor and away from Mason.

***

Michael held her close, feeling the tense muscles of her back and shoulders slowly relax after the apparently successful tag. They continue to dance, taking turns at inconspicuously watching their target. Michael spun them around and she turned her head to keep Mason in view, brushing Michael's jaw with her silky hair. He smelled the soft fragrance of her shampoo. He spun again and now he took over the surveillance, surreptitiously eyeing the dark man across the dance floor. Another turn and she pulled his head down to kiss his cheek, murmuring, "Mason's leaving the dance floor and going to the bar."

He turned his head to nuzzle at her ear. "Any indication he realizes he was tagged?" He felt rather than saw her shake her head negatively. He glanced at his watch. "It's been an hour. We can go." He let her go and twirled her around with one hand, finishing the move by pulling her to him, wrapping his arm around her slender waist. He kissed her forehead and spoke louder for the benefit of any onlookers, "Time to go home, darling."

When they reached the edge of the dance floor, Michael took her hand and led her out of the club, stopping at the cloakroom to get her coat. He draped it around her shoulders as they walked out into the night. Michael was very cautious and careful as they left the club. Part of the 'cachet' of Thekla was the fact that the only entrance was in an alleyway. Although this added to the experience for civilians, a dark narrow alley was a nightmare of nasty possibilities for a cold op. He glanced up and down the alley, up at the rooftops around them, the rusted fire escapes looming over their heads, and moved as quickly as possible into the relative openness of the street. His arm was still wrapped around Nikita, holding her close. Once clear of the alley and its potential dangers, he became aware that something was wrong with Nikita. Her shoulders were shaking spasmodically. He caught her hand, pulling her to a stop and turned her face towards his, wondering what was bothering her. The look on her face caught him completely by surprise. She was biting her lip, amusement radiating from her. She inhaled deeply, and began to giggle uncontrollably. Her laughter was infectious and Michael found himself smiling back at her even though he wasn't sure what the joke was. She took his arm and they continued to walk down the street, headed back for the inn.

"Did you see," Nikita paused to inhale again and visibly struggled to keep from whooping in mirth, "did you see his eyes? I thought they were going to fall out of his head!"

Michael could not restrain a chuckle. "They nearly did," he agreed. "You were right: he didn't look at your face once."

Nikita shook her head in glee, finally getting her laughter under control. "Are we receiving?" she asked, lowering her voice. Michael glanced around quickly, then withdrew a PDA from his coat pocket. A red light blinked steadily.

"He's transmitting fine," he responded. "Birkoff should be able to pick him up with GPS."

***

Michael was at the computer, updating Section on their progress. With his attention directed to the laptop, Nikita felt safe changing into her pajamas behind his back. She ducked into the small bathroom to brush her teeth and scrub off her makeup, then crawled across the bed and sat next to Michael. He adjusted the computer screen so she could read the latest information on the mission while he continued to talk to Operations. Thank God it's just an audio link, thought Nikita, smoothing her sleep shirt over her knees.

Michael reached up and tapped the computer screen, directing her attention to the change in their mission. Objective: Prevention of Bombing and Retrieval of Target the screen read. Retrieval? thought Nikita. They want us to bring this guy in? She moved back, away from Michael and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on her crossed arms, thinking. With a part of her mind, she listened to Michael's conversation.

Operations was gone, Birkoff was on the audio link now. "We're going to sign off for tonight, Birkoff," Michael said. "Who will be monitoring Mason's conversation?"

She could hear Birkoff stifle a yawn over the link. Poor kid, it's nearly morning at Section, and he's been up all night monitoring us, she thought.

"Andrew will be on watch while I'm down," Birkoff responded. Michael raised his eyes and stared blankly out the window. Nikita frowned, trying to remember exactly which of Birkoff's technical team was Andrew. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't bring up a face. Except for Birkoff, the technicians that inhabited Comm were all a geeky blur.

Michael appeared to be having the same difficulty. He glanced over at her and she shrugged. "Make sure he knows to call me immediately on my cellular phone if anything seems suspicious," Michael instructed. She could picture Birkoff's face at such redundant directions; a deep sigh, the rolling eyes.

"Yeah, Michael," Birkoff replied, "are we done now?" Michael signed off, shut down the computer and turned to look at her. His face and eyes were carefully blank, hiding his thoughts completely.

"They want us to retrieve him?" There was an undercurrent of disbelief in her voice. He nodded. "In the middle of a parade and street party, downtown, with thousands of people around?" He nodded again. She tipped her head back against the headboard and sighed. "Well, I guess it's better than killing him within those parameters. Are they sending in a backup team?"

He mouth twisted in a grimace. "They're sending a van and a team to contain him. But we're still going to be the only ones 'out'." He reached behind his ear and removed his communication disk, laying it on the bedside table next to hers. Now they had complete privacy from Section.

She laughed shortly. "Yeah, I suppose a team in mission gear would stand out a little bit," she retorted sarcastically. She rubbed her forehead, thinking through the possibilities. "Does Birkoff have a lock on him with GPS?" Michael nodded. "If Mason decides to plant a bomb, when do you think it would be placed?"

Michael quirked an eyebrow at her. "Assuming he plants it and not someone else in the group?" She groaned; she hadn't considered that option. He continued, answering her question. "Tomorrow, possibly. More likely Saturday. He won't want to chance discovery." He got up and hung his jacket up in the closet. He pulled out a T-shirt and his sweatpants and tossed them on the bed. She closed her eyes to give him privacy. Watching him undress seemed... too intimate. Even during the Armel mission, they had changed clothes in the bathroom. It was unspoken between them, but it was one of the lines they tried to draw to distinguish between life and mission.

She heard the fabric of his clothing rustling, and kept her eyes closed. "So how are we going to monitor everyone?"

The mattress tilted as he sat down next to her. She opened her eyes. He was in his pajamas, the T-shirt tight over his muscular shoulders. His eyes caressed her face. "Birkoff will monitor the GPS and inform us if Mason goes anywhere than his university classes. He can route the audio here to us. We'll stay in and listen. I'll have to leave for a while tomorrow and 'meet with officials' to maintain our cover."

She shifted slightly, becoming uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. "How will we coordinate?"

He answered her calmly, although his eyes were fixed on her lips. "I will have a comm-link to you, you will have the computer link to Birkoff. He will inform us if Mason appears to be on the move." His hand came up to stroke her face, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched at his touch and he pulled away immediately.

"Michael," she began, reaching out for him, but he stood up and walked across the room to the window. She paused for a moment, uncertain how to continue. How do I explain... where do I start... She got out of bed and crossed to him. "Michael," she began hesitantly, "I'm sorry."

He turned to her, his face blank. "There's no reason to apologize, Nikita." His voice was cool.

She reached out to touch his arm. He was as still as a statue, and as responsive. "Michael... I don't know what is mission and what is real. You touch me, you say things to me, and I don't know if you're talking to me or performing the mission profile. I can't keep them separate." She glanced up at his face. Seeing his eyes thaw a little, she took a chance and leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. His arms rose to slide around her back and she let her breath out in a shuddering sigh. She had reached him; he wouldn't withdraw from her... this time. Progress, of a sort...

"I understand." His voice was low. His arms tightened around her and he kissed the top of her head. "You're right to be careful. I would do anything, say anything to keep you safe."

She placed a finger on his lips. "I need your honesty, Michael," she said softly. "I'm trying, I'm really trying to trust you when you can't tell me everything. To depend on you to do what is best for you, me, the mission... us. But when you tell me something, I need it to be the truth." His hand stroked her hair and ran down her back soothingly.

They stood together in silence for several minutes. "Why did you kiss me today?" he asked, his voice rough, almost harsh.

She didn't respond immediately, sorting through her emotions to express herself correctly. "Because," she began slowly, "because, for a moment there, we were us, not the mission. Because I miss that connection with you, I miss being with you, I miss touching you..." She took a deep breath. "I know how careful we have to be. I know how dangerous our relationship, any relationship is within Section." She tipped her head up to look into his face. His eyes were soft and unguarded. She felt the tingle of tears in her eyes and forced them back. Tears were a luxury she could not afford. "I miss you. I miss your kiss," she reached up and kissed him gently. "I miss you in bed with me. But I don't know who's here. The real Michael, or the mission Michael?"

His eyes closed for a moment, leaving the question hanging between them. Then he opened them again, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones and his fingers gently entwining in her hair. "The Armel mission." She nodded, wondering what his point was. "We had entire conversations on two levels, one within the mission and one between us. This is the same. When I tell you are beautiful, you are..." he kissed her lightly, "beautiful." He kissed her again, a little deeper. "When I say we should enjoy our time together," he bent down for another kiss; his arms sliding down her body, pulling her closer to him, "we should."

She relaxed into his embrace, her curves melting into his. His lips moved past her jaw and caressed her neck. The stubble of his beard scratched her slightly and she shivered at the sensation.

Time stopped. She stood enfolded in his embrace, letting the feel of him, the smell of him overwhelm her senses. His kisses became urgent, more demanding. She put her hands on his face and brought his mouth back to hers. His hands slipped under her shirt, stroking her bare back and pulling her hips closer to his. She felt his arousal pressing against her abdomen and her body responded, desire flooding her mind. Her hands slid down his arms, seeking and catching his hands. She broke their kiss and took a half step back. His eyes flickered over her face, and she caught the brief flash of pain that passed over his features. She gave him a small, seductive smile and took another step back, pulling him with her. She held their joined hands between their bodies and he visibly relaxed, letting her direct his movements. Two more steps and the bed was at the back of her knees. She gave a small pull on his hands, and he moved closer to her. Bending her arms behind her, she placed his hands on the small of her back and pressed her mouth and body to his. She released his hands and he clasped her tightly to him, his mouth possessing hers. He slowly bent her backwards until the bed was beneath her shoulders. He leaned over her, his hair tumbling around his face in disorganized curls. She reached up and stroked his high cheekbones, encouraging him to come down to her. Her eyes were locked on his, seeing his desire burning in the peridot depths. Slowly he lowered himself and she rejoiced in the warmth and feel of his muscular body on hers.

His mouth moved to cover hers and she stopped him. "I missed you, Michael," she murmured softly. He didn't respond, only shifted his weight to one arm so he could stroke her face with his roughened fingertips. His eyes were a lucid, luminous green, exposing his emotions more than his words ever could. She gazed at him, committing his expression to her memory, knowing in the blackest part of her mind that this connection was too tender, too all-consuming for Section to allow it to exist for long. She closed her eyes before he could read the pain the thought of losing him caused her. Seize the day, seize the moment, she reminded herself silently.

"Nikita?" His voice was just a whisper, but his concern was easy to hear. She opened her eyes to see him gazing worriedly down at her.

She gave him a tremulous smile. "Love me, Michael. Just love me." He held her eyes for a moment more and she feared he would push for more answers from her, answers she did not want to discuss, not here, not now. Instead, he lowered his head and kissed her with all the passion and power that she desired from him. She closed her eyes and let the sensations sweep over her, wiping out coherent thought.

*** (NC-17, as requested! You've been warned....)

It had been several months since Nikita had felt Michael's hands on her; endless weeks of near-daily interaction with him: missions and the resultant close quarters; briefings sitting next to him, sometimes so close she could feel his body heat. For her sanity (and his) she had made every attempt to refrain from touching him, only to discover that instead of easing the ache she felt, the enforced distance had made her crave his touch more.

Frantic for the feel of him now, her hands pulled his T-shirt off impatiently, her nails scratching his back lightly in her haste. The caress of his mouth, the warmth of his body pressing on her, and especially the knowledge that they were together in complete privacy from Section, that this was Michael-and-Nikita not Michael-and-Nikita-on-a-mission, all combined to drive her desire to a fever pitch. Once free of his shirt, Michael's arms wrapped around her tightly, pulling her close. His kisses were deep and demanding and she sensed how desperately close he was to losing his vaunted control. He sat back suddenly, and pulled her up to sit facing him. His hair was a glorious tangle around his face, his eyes dark and intense, his breathing harsh and ragged. He pulled her shirt off roughly and she shivered, both at the implied violence of his action and at the surge of lust that ran through her belly. His eyes met hers and she thought she almost saw fear in the green depths.

His voice was low and husky. "I want you too much," he said. He swallowed hard and her stomach clenched with the rush of longing his voice triggered. "I don't know if I can- if I can be gentle."

She reached over and pushed his hair back, letting the thick strands slip through her fingers. "I don't want you to be gentle. I've missed you Michael, and I want to make up for the time gone by."

"I don't want to hurt you." His voice was raw, the pain easily heard.

"You won't hurt me." How many times had they had this conversation? "I trust you, Michael." Instead of easing, his pain seemed to increase. There was a brief flash of agony in his eyes before he closed them. "Michael," she moved forward, nearly into his lap, "please, let's not think about Section. Not now. Just concentrate on right now. Please." His eyes opened slowly and met her gaze. She placed her hand on his cheek and leaned closer to him. "I want you to be mine. Make me yours. Make me forget there is anything else besides us, right here, right now. Please, Michael." Keeping her eyes locked on his, she slowly kissed him. The kiss was soft and tentative. His lips softened under hers and he held her close when she began to withdraw. His lips traveled to her cheeks, to her eyes and forehead before returning to her mouth.

His kisses became deeper, more demanding and she responded by molding her body to his, clinging tightly to his shoulders. He pressed her back to the bed, leaning over her. He lowered his mouth to kiss her neck, moving slowly and seductively to her breasts. He found and caught a nipple in his mouth, biting it gently and her back arched upwards in response. Her hands crept up and her fingers threaded through his hair, encouraging him to continue. He moved to her other breast, teasing and tormenting her nipple as his hands sensuously slid down her rib cage, over her stomach and began to slide her panties off. Her breath came unevenly as her body reacted to his handling. His hands felt hot, as if he would burn her when he touched her skin.

He broke off their contact suddenly, pulling back and getting to his feet. She uttered a low cry, her body turning instinctively to follow his. His eyes were fixed on hers and any fear or pain he might have felt earlier was completely superseded by the fire of desire she saw in his eyes now. She lay still and watched him finish undressing. Completely naked now, he stood for a moment, letting her admire him and running his eyes appreciatively over her body.

It was hard to breathe; Nikita felt as if she were teetering on a precipice. Her desire was a thick lump in her throat. She reached one hand out to him, begging him wordlessly to come back to her. He took her hand and captured her other hand, stretching them up over her head as he lay down on her, the warmth of his body scalding hers. He rested his weight on his elbows to avoid crushing her, but the press of his body and his grip on her hands effectively pinned her.

He lowered his head, his mouth a fraction of an inch above hers. "What do you want?" he murmured, his voice low and hoarse.

She strained upwards slightly, pressing her body closer to his. "You. Just you," she replied.

He slipped his knees between her legs, pressed his hips lower against her. She felt his hard arousal teasing her, taunting her with its nearness and she tried to twist, to position herself against him. His hands tightened on hers, preventing her movement and she gave a low cry of frustration. His eyes flickered over her face, seeking and finding assurance that he was neither hurting nor frightening her. She lifted her head and captured his mouth; she opened her lips to him, encouraging him to continue his torment. He adjusted his position slightly; his erection slipped between her legs and they both sighed quietly at the resultant sensations.