Spoilers for Season Four

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.

This is a post Four Light Years Farther story. Spoilers for Season Four. Some strong language.

There were days when she hated Paris. This was one of them.

It was a gray windy day, bursting with the damp seep-into-your-bones cold that grabs one by the back of the neck and won't let go. Nikita pulled her collar higher, tucked her chin down to better protect her face from the bitter blast of frigid air, and shoved her gloved hands deep into her coat pockets.

A million places in the world to locate Section, and we have to be here.

Briefly she thought longingly – yes, she decided, longingly – for the bitter dry cold of a more northern climate. What did it matter when it was -20 degrees? Cold was cold. But this; this blustery, cold-but-not-freezing- nonsense… Section couldn't be located in Oslo? Stockholm? Or Bermuda…. She had never been to Bermuda, but certainly it had to be better than this. It was warmer than here, at least. Paris certainly was a cosmopolitan city, the kind of polyglot Tower of Babel where no one thought twice about her obvious Australian-accented French; but when one's days – and more often than not, one's nights – were spent 500 feet below ground, elegant restaurants and ancient Bourbon palaces were as attainable as the brilliant baubles secured behind the bullet-proof glass at Tiffany's boutique on the Champs-Elysées.

The street smelled strongly of urine; she stepped carefully, avoiding the occasional pile of dog waste and crumpled cigarette butts that littered the sidewalk. Each building was marred with some form of graffiti, most of them denouncing the policies of Jacques Chirac. The only good thing about the wind, she thought cynically, was that the smell of the car exhaust from the bumper-to-bumper traffic was quickly blown away.

Mechanically she glanced into the plate glass of the shop window as she passed, habitually ascertaining that she was not being followed. Stepping into the boulangerie, she purchased some bread, then stopped at a randomly selected green grocer and soon had enough food for the next few days.

She shifted the bag of groceries on her hip as her chilled fingers fumbled in her purse for her house keys. Once through the outer door of her building, she allowed her vigilance to drop slightly. Mick – Mr. Jones, she reminded herself firmly – was still holding onto his small apartment next door to hers, for reasons she couldn't fathom. He certainly had better accommodations at Centre; she'd been there daily for the first six months after the coup at Section One. But because he continued to occasionally stop in at his old apartment, Centre maintained a high level of security on the building.

There was nothing from the outside to indicate the ubiquitous presence of the guards; but slowly, one by one, the other apartments on her floor had become vacant as their occupants found other places to live. Various members of Section One and Centre replaced them. The fourth floor was now nearly as secure as Section itself. She had no personal interaction with anyone in the building, neither Centre nor Section. They moved in and out silently, like the ghosts they all were; not speaking or acknowledging each other as they occasionally passed in the halls.

She entered her apartment and closed the door with a sense of relief. She had her apartment swept regularly for surveillance; one of her demands from Mick - Mr. Jones she reiterated– as the price of her loyalty was the barest semblance of a normal life. She wanted to sleep, to dress and to conduct this small portion of her life in privacy.

Still, she scanned the apartment carefully. The caution and paranoia engendered by her Section experiences never left her. White walls, simple Danish-style furniture in pale white oak… any spark of personality or originality was long since erased from her living quarters. What that said about her soul and psyche, she preferred not to contemplate.

The anomaly was so small she nearly missed it. The kitchen countertop was a pale gray, nearly masking the silver hotel key that lay there. She reached out to touch it, drew it toward her, objectively noting the slight tremble in her fingers.

L'Université. Room 503.

She dropped the grocery bags heavily and stared at the key, as if waiting for it to explode in her face. There was no note, no indication who had left it in her kitchen so brazenly.

But she knew.

She knew.

**********

This is crazy, impossible and incredibly stupid, she thought, as she parked her car in the tiny hotel parking lot. L'Hotel Université was a converted 17th century nobleman's townhouse, set back slightly from the road and surrounded by lush gardens. The weathered red color of the aged bricks looked nearly black in the shadows thrown down by the ancient oaks towering above her, making the outline of the building look indistinct and inconspicuous.

The evening wind must have disturbed the flowers; the walk was thick with fallen leaves and the heavy scents of late geraniums and hardy mums wafted around her as she wound her way on the uneven cobblestones of the garden path to the entrance.

The lobby was smelled of old wood, furniture polish and the stale scent of a long-extinguished cigar. Behind the desk, a young blond woman greeted her as Nikita crossed the foyer to the single small elevator.

"Bon soir, madame, " Nikita answered absently, lifting the silver key in her hand to forestall any further questions. The elevator had obviously been added much later; it was tucked into a small alcove and Nikita positioned herself carefully to maintain eye contact on the lobby behind her as she waited.

The dull silver doors opened slowly and she stepped into the car to find it blessedly empty. Leaning her back against the scuffed wooden interior, Nikita crossed her arms over her chest and attempted to regulate her breathing.

The fifth floor was the top floor of the building. It was obviously the most luxurious floor also; the walls were covered with gold-framed mirrors and elegant antiques lined the hallway.

Room 503 was at the end of the hall. There were only six rooms on this floor; probably all suites, she thought, eyeing the hallway cautiously. She stood outside the door for a long, long time; the key held tight in her hand, the cut edge pressing grooves into her palm as she gripped it.

What are you so afraid of?

The thought rose, unbidden, to her conscious mind and her back straightened immediately.

Nothing. The rolling sensation in her stomach told her she was lying; and if she couldn't deceive herself, how would she ever deceive him?

***

The tumblers of the lock were nearly soundless, she felt rather than heard them fall as she turned the key. On its well-oiled hinges, the door swung open invitingly and she stepped inside.

The interior was dim. A few lit candles were scattered on the table and beyond it, a large window looked out at the illuminated Eiffel Tower, dominating L'Avenue de la Bourdonnais below.

It was too dark; her hand lifted to locate the light switch.

"Don't."

She had known he had left the key, known that he would be here; yet the sound of that one simple word was like a blow to the stomach. Her knees buckled slightly and she leaned against the wall to disguise the sudden burst of fear and delicious adrenaline that swept through her. Nerve endings were suddenly, burningly alive. She thought her entire body must have been quivering slightly with each pounding heartbeat; the dull thud of her pulse echoed loudly in her ears.

He stepped out of the shadowy curtains into the wavering candlelight. No long dressed in black, he was clothed in a soft gray sweater and well-worn jeans, his hair longer than before and curling slightly at the ends.

Silence descended as she let her eyes drink in his appearance. He looked slimmer, but still fit, still dangerous.

The cuts on his cheekbone had healed well; she could barely see the faint lines that remained. His eyes were luminous in his face, reflecting the soft candlelight.

And there…

She was next to him before she realized she was moving. His nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent and his entire body became taut. She felt the tension radiating off him, enveloping both of them.

Extending her forefinger, she touched his eye, following the line of the scar beneath, the evidence of the pain she had inflicted. His head twitched; the impulse to pull away from her must have been incredibly strong to slip briefly out from his iron control.

Her lips parted, the words trembled on her tongue; yet she could not force the apology out.

Pale green eyes met hers, displaying nothing. She let her hand drop, feeling her fingertip burn where it had touched his face.

He was silent, the very stillness of his face a challenge to her unspoken regret.

He was too close; the heat of his body no longer comforting but threatening. The air became suddenly, suffocatingly thick, making it hard for her to breathe, slowing down her thought processes.

She stepped away, crossing the room to the window, deliberately turning her back to him.(tense) As the long silence stretched between them, she watched the dark shadows of the cars moving up the avenue and waited for his next move.

***

She had no idea how long they stood there in silence. Honed by too many years on too many missions, she could usually rely on her internal clock to estimate the passage of time. Now it was as if his mere presence was enough to blunt her senses.

The room was hushed, even the faint sounds of passing cars muffled and inconspicuous. His voice, as low and quiet as she remembered, cut easily through the enveloping stillness.

"How are you?"

How ironic, she thought, that his first question would be the one with which I pestered him for so many years. Or intentionally ironic: underscoring the reversal of their positions.

"I'm fine." She gave him back irony for irony.

"You said… you had a card left to play."

"Yes."

She continued keeping her back to him and could hear him as he slowly began to pace around the room. She stood still, looking out the window at the glowing taillights of the cars crossing the Pont D' Iéna toward Le Place du Trocadéro and the 16th Arrondissment.

"Did you use it for my freedom?"

She turned slowly, forcing herself to meet his eyes. You did this once, she thought fiercely, do it again. The goal is worth whatever pain it causes.

"Centre didn't look for your body," she conceded. "Confirmation of your death was deemed unnecessary and a waste of valuable resources. Mr. Jones… encouraged Section One to close your file. You are dead and buried in the rubble."

"No one's looking for me?"

"No. Not since you eluded detection after the mission. You're clear."

He was silent for a long heartbeat. "So you sacrificed yourself for my freedom."

"I –"

He didn't let her finish. "Freedom I didn't want."

She met him stare for stare. "Would you rather be dead?"

Echoes from a long-ago conversation reverberated around them. She remembered, in a cold, distant way, the righteous anger of having undesired protection provided for her, the rules bent and twisted to preserve her safety. Did he remember? She watched his eyes flicker at her retort. Oh, yes, he remembered as well.

***

"Tell me about Red Cell and Grenet."

In the extended silence that descended again between them, he had stepped away, turning his face from her intense scrutiny. She had returned to her perusal of the traffic outside the window, lit by the glow of the Eiffel Tower just across the Champs du Mars. There was a reason he had chosen this hotel; by virtue of its exclusivity, no one would ask any questions or volunteer any information about L'Université guests. It was the kind of hotel that publicity-shy movie stars or European royalty favored. Quiet. Discreet.

Now she turned back reluctantly. He deserved to hear this from her face-to-face; she owed him that much, for the torture he suffered at her behest. "May I sit down?"

A hand swung slightly, indicating the sofa. "Of course."

She moved slowly, crossing the room and perching on the edge of the damask-covered couch. Her stomach was in uproar, the acid roiling and burning. Part of her mind observed her physical reaction dispassionately. This mental dichotomy had been a long time coming, something she had only succeeded in obtaining in the past year. She wasn't convinced it was an improvement, only a necessity.

I live my life split in two. His voice echoed in her memory. At the time, she hadn't really understood. Later, she had thought he was referring obliquely to Elena and Adam. Now… now she understood. How she could feel the emotions with one part of her consciousness and analyze her reactions with the other. How she could love this man with every fiber of her being and still walk away from him.

This was who she was now. What Section had made her… what Michael had made her.

While she acknowledged and sympathized with the fact that he had molded her reluctantly, unwillingly; still she now knew she had imprinted herself on him, just as Operations and Madeline had planned, all those years ago. What they hadn't anticipated was that he would also imprint himself on her.

He prompted her gently. "Grenet?"

She focused suddenly; she had been staring blankly at her interlaced fingers, lost in her thoughts. "It was a Centre mission, of course. Designed to bring down Red Cell once and for all, and to expose Operations, Madeline and Section One for the soulless creatures they had become. To make it apparent to those who hold the financial strings of Centre and the Sections how far Section One had deviated from Adrian's ideals and principals."

He sat across from her, on the matching loveseat. "And me?" His voice was carefully neutral. What did you expect, Nikita? That he would rage at you? Michael was more threatening, more dangerous, when he was calm and in control.

"You were a necessary component. My behavior wouldn't be believable otherwise." She raised her gaze to his face and their eyes met. Locked. His face was carefully expressionless, all thoughts meticulously hidden behind opaque green eyes. She met his gaze unblinkingly, knowing her face was as inscrutable as his.

He blinked first; his eyes shifted to one side. "I'm sorry."

A spike of fury shot through her. "What? You're sorry?"

His eyes slowly drew back to her face, as if by sheer force of will. "For what I did to you. For what you have become. For… Section."

The spark erupted into a flame. "Shut up, Michael. Just shut up."

Suddenly suffused with anger, she jumped to her feet and began pacing around the room. "What you did… Did you have any choice, Michael? Did you have the option of refusing?" He was silent and she spun on him, leaning over the couch back to whisper harshly in his ear. "Did you?"

"No." His voice was hoarse, defeated.

"But I did, Michael. I had the choice. And I chose this path. Stop playing the goddamn martyr and trying to take responsibility for me. I'm not your trainee and you're not my mentor."

He flinched, a brief loss of his control.

The anger drained away as suddenly as it had appeared. She exhaled, her shoulders slumping with the sudden emptiness within. Reseating herself on the couch, she again fixed her gaze on her fingertips and told him the plan.

It had been one of her first trips to the Centre. Mr. Jones' office was luxurious: carpeted in rich Turkish area rugs, mahogany furniture and cherry hardwood floors. The couches were covered in elegant silk and damask upholstery; velvet curtains over linen sheers framed the windows. A Steinway grand piano sat closed in one corner.

Mick – Mr. Jones – sat behind his desk, his feet casually propped up on the polished surface. He idly played with an unlit cigar as he eyed her, speculation clearly visible in his dark eyes.

Nikita had finished her recitation of the most recent destruction of the latest head of Red Cell. Hands folded in her lap, she sat unmoving on the settee. Raising her eyes to meet his, she struggled to keep her face expressionless. It was still bizarre, almost Twilight Zone-like, to see Mick behind that desk, planning and calculating and plotting as the head of Centre. The sight was enough to provoke the rise of near-hysterical giggles, immediately suppressed. There was a brief moment of confusion, of the room almost lurching surreally around her; slowly, deliberately she blinked her eyes to re-center herself.

"Red Cell seems to have an unlimited supply of candidates for the position of Cardinal," Mr. Jones observed blandly.

A response seemed unnecessary.

"Not very chatty today, Popsicle?" For a brief moment, Mr. Jones' voice melded into the familiar cadence of Mick Schtoppel. Rather than reassuring her, she found her sense of disorientation increased as he effortlessly changed personalities.

He sighed and shrugged at her continued silence. "Well then, we need to decapitate this Hydra once and for all. What does Red Cell want more than anything?"

The answer was obvious. "The destruction of Section One."

"Then let's give them exactly that."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

"We'll give them Section One. Or, rather, we'll give them a Section operative. One with the access they desire."

"You're joking, right?"

"Completely serious, love, completely serious. Think about it; what if you agree to give them some of Section One's access codes in exchange for your freedom?"

Her stomach hit the floor. She took a long, long moment to compose her thoughts and control the expression of shock that had crossed her face. "I don't have that kind of access. And there's no way you could arrange for it without raising Operations' suspicions."

"No, you don't, Popsicle. But Michael does. Give them Michael."

No! She needed to move, she needed to get fresh air. She needed to get away from this smug little man who used to be her friend. Who – she had thought once – had almost been Michael's friend. She was across the room and standing at the window in the blink of an eye. She wrapped her arms around herself, tight.

The minutes had ticked by. Cold, so cold. Slowly, painfully, she pushed down her emotional response and thought about the proposition. It made sense; it might even work.

But the cost…

"It worked, of course. Red Cell was destroyed. Section's inefficiency during your absence exposed Operations' weaknesses to Centre and to Oversight. Mission completed."

"And me?"

The one question she had dreaded. "I had – have – complete confidence in your abilities, Michael. I was sure you would escape."

The words came easily, but she couldn't meet his eyes. His hand was gentle but inexorable, raising her chin until their gazes locked.

The prickle behind her eyes shocked her. No tears, she commanded silently. No tears.

He waited, patient and taciturn as always.

"I told myself if anyone could escape, you could. I told myself that the ends justified the means, that the well being of innocents was more important that anyone, even you. I told myself that, over and over. And then I had my face reconstructed so I could be in Section, make sure of your safety, be as near to you as I dared."

***

His lips parted; for one brief breathless moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he released her chin and rose to his feet. He was still too close, too dangerously near for her. Taking the coward's way out, she retreated to the safety of the window, blindly staring out at the lights across the way.

His fingers brushed hers, ghost-like, as he pressed a wineglass into her hand. Still silent, she accepted the fluted glass and sipped the wine delicately. It was a fine French vintage, slightly dry, not too sweet. As in all things, Michael's taste was excellent. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him cross back and pick up his own glass.

"I want something from you, Nikita."

Michael's voice drifted across the room, dissecting thickening quiet. Of course you do, she thought, her mouth twisting in weary disenchantment. She smoothed away the trace of emotion before turning to face him.

"If I can." She took another sip and waited.

"Elena and Adam. I want their location."

It was fortunate she had her face under tight control. "They've disappeared, Michael, you know that. Gone without a trace. Probably dead."

His eyes were as clear as glass as he met her gaze. "No, they're not. You removed them from the house, you hid them somewhere. I'm assuming you're also the one in charge of their surveillance."

She swallowed her surprise along with her wine and put her glass down on the table. "I underestimated you again, Michael. How did you know?"

"I've known since it happened. But I would have endangered them had I continued to search for them. At that point, they were in greater danger from Section then from the remnants of Vacek's organization. I trusted to you to take care of them."

His trust was a gift: a poisonous plant wrapped in beautiful ribbons. Sweet and bitter simultaneously. Her self-disgust rose momentarily; ruthlessly she shoved it aside. All her attention needed to be focused right here, right now, on this sparring match. "They're still in danger, Michael. If you're seen anywhere near them… you'll destroy all of the past year's work."

"You think I don't know that?" His tone was dry. But the steel determination still ran under his tone. "Tell me where they are. I deserve to know that." He paused. "You owe me that much, at least."

There was no arguing with his logic. She reached into her purse, withdrew her PDA and pulled up the information. In a sudden burst of generosity she pulled up another file and handed the PDA over to him. "Here. This is the latest surveillance video of them."

Setting his glass down, Michael took the offered computer wordlessly. She watched his face as he viewed the screen, seeing the small twitches around his eyes that implied his carefully veiled reactions. As the video wound down, she spoke again. "Michael, there's something you should know." He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the computer screen. "I'm in the process of drawing up a black operation. Elena and Adam will die in a car crash in approximately three months."

That got his attention. Every muscle in his body went tense at once. His eyes snapped to her face, the irises black in the dim light. She waved her hand dismissively. "Their aliases will die, I mean. Even though their file has been transferred to Centre and theoretically I'm the only one with access to it, it'd be best if they disappeared again."

He snapped the cover of the PDA closed and handed it back to her. "It won't work. If someone is aware of their existence, the accident will seem too convenient and your hypothetical mole will simply continue to dig until the new identities are unearthed."

"You forget what a good liar I've become. I'll be properly grief-stricken. No one will think to look further for them."

He stepped away, crossing the room in renewed silence. That brilliant tactical mind, she thought, God, what an asset we lost when we lost him. He finally half-turned, looking back at her over his shoulder.

"You're not that good of a liar."

She was silent for a moment, considering that statement. His meaning became suddenly crystal-clear. "You son of a bitch!" Half-furious, half-incredulous, she stalked across the room, grabbed his shoulder and spun him around so she could see him face-on. "You knew all along!" He didn't resist her, simply stood passively and looked at her with those dark, haunted eyes. Her jumbled emotions retreated leaving her filled only with regret and sorrow. "Then what," she gently touched the scar below his eye, "what the hell was this?"

He didn't recoil from her this time. Instead, his right hand came up, captured hers and brought it to his lips. He laid a gentle kiss on her palm before answering her.

"After all this time, after all we've been through, you still needed to lie to me. You wouldn't tell me the truth."

"I couldn't – "

He silenced her with a finger on her lips. "I know. I had thought we were beyond the lies, past the manipulations. To find out that we weren't, after all, able to escape them…" He shrugged, a small Gallic movement that illustrated to her again how different this man before her was from the Michael of Section. A small warmth filled her. He is reintegrating into the real world, she thought. Although she always had faith in his abilities, it was still a pleasant discovery.

"There is no blame here, Nikita, no fault. It just is."

(Author's note: A public credit to my friend Cygnet here. When discussing my difficulty with understanding the motivation behind the 'blood tear' – Michael's too smart to believe Nikita's lie - she encouraged me to turn my interpretation upside down and look at it again. If you like my explanation, please give the credit to her.)

***

"How long?"

"How long… what?"

He had stepped away once more, as if being near her was physically painful. She had returned to the couch, watching him walk casually around the room, admiring his graceful progress. It struck her that she had rarely seen Michael move without a specific purpose; his economy of movement and near-Zen-like stillness were legendary within the Section cadre.

Now, however, he wandered around, dragging his fingertips on the table, replacing their discarded glasses next to the wine bottle.

Hiding in plain sight. Of course Michael would need to assume small mannerisms. It was one way of melding into the land of the living. Which was the real Michael? Had he now returned to his natural tendencies, long sublimated under the necessary control within Section, or were these tiny fidgets the act?

She suspected she would never know the answer.

His voice drew her back to their conversation. "How long were you a mole for Centre? When did you learn Mr. Jones' identity?"

"Three years and only a few months before Red Cell was brought down."

He nodded, as if she was only confirming something he already knew. Again she marveled at the intricacies of his mind, at the brilliant leaps of logic only he could achieve. For a brief moment she ached with loss. She squelched the feeling immediately.

"Why." It was a statement, rather than a question, but she answered him all the same.

"I was approached during my sabbatical, after Jurgen died. I… I was bitter, hurt and resentful." She gave a short, harsh laugh. "Prime candidate. Give Centre their due, they certainly know when, where and how to approach targets. I was… invited," she allowed a heavy layer of sarcasm to enter her voice, "to share my interpretations of certain Section personnel and operations with my contact at Centre. Which, as you can imagine, I was more than happy to do."

Midway through her response he had stopped moving and had turned to watch her, hands tucked into his jeans pockets. She realized with a small shock that she had shown more emotion in those few seconds than she had in the past several months.

Be careful, Nikita, don't let him become your weakness again…

The old reckless feeling enveloped her, startling her. She hadn't felt so… spontaneous, so unrestrained in so long. So very, very long.

She grasped at the impulse like a surfer catching the wave, riding the swell of emotion.

"Michael."

He waited.

"You need to know… I… There was one bit of truth that day."

She saw the shadow cross his face as he remembered. "In all the lies, all the half truths, all the manipulations and agendas… I did tell you the truth. You can live without me a lot better than I can live without you."

"No." His tone was the same as before: final and immutable.

"I wanted to die, Michael. I was ready to and, except for Mr. Jones' bad timing, I would be dead now." She stepped close to him, so near her breasts brushed his chest. "The only thing that makes my life bearable is the knowledge that you're out there, alive." She reached up and brushed her mouth against his. "Live for me, Michael."

His lips parted under hers and they kissed with desperate passion. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly. A tear trickled down her cheek as she threaded her fingers into his thick curls and pulled him closer, ever closer to her.

***

In the end, she kissed him: once with passion, love and desire. And once in gentle friendship. Then walked to the door, feeling her heart shatter into a hundred pieces with each step. So much for his not becoming my weakness again…

"Goodbye, Michael." She turned to take a final view of him, silhouetted against the lights of the Eiffel Tower and the glow of Paris.

"Not goodbye," he corrected softly. "Au revoir."

It was a promise, a holy vow.

The touch of his lips, the taste of him, still lingered on her mouth. For now, it would be enough. It was hard - much harder than she had expected - to leave. His peridot eyes were locked on hers and the moment stretched into forever.

"Go." It was half-command, half-imploration. It took every ounce of strength she had to open the door and close it again behind her.

Once in the hall, she looked at her watch, and waited. In five minutes' time she used her key to re-enter the room.

He was gone, of course.

The living area was empty, all the glasses carefully washed, the tables dusted. The bedroom was equally cleaned, even the wastebaskets emptied and the chrome of the faucet wiped clear. There was no evidence that either of them had ever set foot in the suite.

For one brief, crazy moment, she wondered if they had really been in that room, made love in that bed.

Ghosts, that's all we are. There was nothing more to find here. She left, the door closing silently behind her.

***

She returned home to find Mr. Jones ensconced on her couch.

Dropping her purse on the counter, she withdrew the PDA and began to wipe it down carefully with a napkin.

"So, how is the famous Michael, Popsicle?" Mr. Jones called from the couch. She didn't respond, only opened the cover and began to run the cloth over the computer screen within.

"I trust your reunion was suitably… ah, climatic?" His bald head peaked up over the back of the couch.

"Shut up, Mick," she responded irritably, unthinking.

He was on his feet and in her face in a second, a broad grin creasing his face. "Oh, there you are, Pumpkin! I've been looking and looking for you. Where have you been all this time, hiding under all this Section One impassiveness?"

Satisfied the PDA was clean of fingerprints, Nikita replaced it in her purse and went to put the kettle on the stove, turning her back on Mr. Jones and not deigning to respond to his jocularity.

"So, you haven't said: how is the illustrious Monsieur Michael Samuelle?"

"He's fine."

"And how is he adjusting to his freedom?" He tossed the question over his shoulder as he returned to the uncertain comfort of her couch.

"Fine."

"Fine, fine, fine. Everything's fine. C'mon Nikita, give us a little more feedback here. Does he suspect your meeting was anticipated?"

She flashed him a sharp look. "You promised me no one else is to know he's alive but you and me."

"And no one does, duckie, no one but you and moi. And it'll stay that way, I promise you, so long as Michael behaves himself."

The kettle whistled. Nikita made two cups of jasmine tea, added several sugar cubes to Mr. Jones' cup and set it on the table in front of him. She remained standing, drinking her tea, seemingly at ease.

"What do you want?"

"Did Michael give you any indication of what he's doing with all his new-found free time?"

"No." She sipped her tea before adding dryly, "The subject didn't come up."

"Well, well, as long as other things came up, I'm sure your meeting was most satisfactory." She shot him another cold glare and he raised his hands defensively. "OK, OK, subject dropped. The reason I'm asking, Nikita, is that Michael is a very dangerous person. A very awkward situation, this is. For a man to be walking around, with the information he has in his head… "

"That was the price, sir. And I expect you to keep your end of the bargain."

"Dealing with the devil, yes, yes, I know. The thing is, Nikita," he leaned forward, placing his teacup on the coffee table, "the thing is, you need to guarantee that Michael isn't … well… freelancing, if you will?"

"He's not." Her voice was hard, her face rigid.

"Well, well, I know you want to believe that, Popsicle. You'll keep in touch with him? And keep me posted? That's a good girl, I knew you would." He rose to his feet. "I'll see myself out now. See you tomorrow at the office."

"Good night, sir."

The door closed and she shut her eyes in relief.

Restless, she walked to the window. She pulled the gauzy curtain aside and stared out into the inky night. Somewhere out there, she thought, he is standing at a window, thinking of me. For god's sake, Michael, run. Run far and never contact me again. In her heart she knew it was a vain wish. He would reach out for her again. And she – the more fool she – would not be able to resist going to him. She feared for his safety, desired his touch, and ached for his company. And God help her, somehow she would keep him safe. Or die trying.

And what if he is 'freelancing', as Mick suggested? She shut her eyes and tried to ignore the pain the swept over her. Then God help us both.

Epilogue

Hidden in the shadows of the night, he watched her. Backlit by the dimmed lights in her apartment, she stood in silhouette in the window, one forearm pressed against the glass, her forehead resting on the arm. Every line in her body screamed tension.

How long he stood there, he didn't know. The temperature continued to drop; his breath steamed around his head, his fingers ached with cold and his feet were numb. Unmindful of the discomfort, still he remained. At long last she stepped back, and one by one her lamps were extinguished as she prepared for bed.

It is time, and long past time, to go. Retreating down the alleys and narrow winding streets, he eventually made his way to the Gare de L'Est, purchased his ticket and caught the last RER train to Reims.

His mind whirled: plans, strategies, tactics, and maneuvers. Slowly, Michael, slowly. There's plenty of time. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small spiral notebook and began to make notes of their conversation, while it was still fresh in his mind. Not as efficient as the PDAs and laptops of Section, perhaps, but something inside him was uniquely satisfied by the sensation of setting down intel with pen and paper.

Her voice echoed in his head: Live for me.

He raised his eyes from the paper and stared into the black night, the lights of small towns briefly piercing the darkness as the train rolled by.

FIN

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