Rated R

---

Nikita awakened to butterfly kisses on her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her mouth. The kisses became more demanding as his tongue begged entrance through the pink petals. Happily, she complied. The kiss deepened sensuously as the lovers sought the very core of each other’s being. She moaned as his kiss left her lips and continued down her throat, coming to rest in the hollow of her neck and shoulder. His hand began its journey toward her breast, aching to tease the perfect bud beneath his fingers.

They were both jarred into reality by the shrill notes of Nikita’s cell phone, and they groaned as one in mutual displeasure.

“Yeah?” said Nikita, none too cheerfully.

“Josephine,” replied Madeline.

“Yes,” Nikita responded.

“Come in.” The communication was broken.

Nikita flopped back on her bed and closed her eyes in regret. “Duty calls,” she said sardonically.

She headed for the shower and, as the warm water ran in rivulets over her body, thought back to the previous night and sighed. It had been…stupendous. No, that wasn’t the word, but damn it, she was running out of superlatives.

When she emerged from her shower, the only signs of an overnight guest were a coffee cup in the sink and the tea kettle boiling on the stove. Smiling at his thoughtfulness, she poured herself a cup of the herbal tea she favored and let it cool while she dressed.

* * *

When she arrived at the briefing, Operations, Madeline, Michael, Birkoff and Walter were already there, along with two other operatives named Jenkins and Washington. Nikita took the chair as far as humanly possible away from Michael, and refused to look at him. Ever since their public fight six weeks ago, the air between them was definitely chilly.

“Illya Bayrnokov is a high-level drug dealer in the Ukraine. He is meeting with his contacts tonight. You are to bring him back, along with a copy of his hard-drive, and destroy the compound. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Good. The mission loads in three hours. You are all on close quarter standby until then.”

They left the table one by one, and Nikita drifted over to Birkoff’s station for a chat.

As Michael walked passed them, he said to Nikita, “I need to see you in my office in ten minutes.”

“Whatever,” Nikita muttered under her breath.

Madeline watched this interplay with interest. She was beginning to believe that Michael and Nikita actually had broken up. Michael still went by Nikita’s apartment once or twice a week for a debrief or profile change, but never stayed longer than twenty minutes. Michael’s face was, as usual, unreadable, but Nikita was visibly annoyed and standoffish when it came to Michael. This had been going on for too long. It had to be real.

* * *

Six Weeks Ago

Nikita dashed out of Michael’s office, her fury barely contained.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think!” she was shouting. “It’s none of your damn business. You are such a control freak—I swear!”

Michael emerged in the doorway.

“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned.

“Is this better?” she asked, her voice deeper but her volume the same. “Geez. Now you’re even telling me how to talk. How pathetic is that, Mr. Control Freak?”

Michael just looked at her, his expression almost sad, before his blank mask came down.

“Operations was right,” he intoned. “You lack discipline.”

“Oh, we are SO over,” said Nikita threateningly.

“Fine,” Michael answered quietly.

“Fine!” Nikita shouted almost victoriously.

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

Present Day

“You wanted to see me, sir? asked Nikita sarcastically.

“Sit down. Please,” returned Michael, indicating the chair.

Nikita glanced with distaste at what used to be “her” chair, then flopped down into it.

“I’ve made some changes to the profile. I wanted to discuss them with you.” He pushed the PDA over to her, indicating that she should pick it up.

With an exaggerated sigh, Nikita picked up the PDA and began to read. After a few moments, she looked at Michael quizzically. “You’re taking me off point and replacing me with Jenkins? Why am I in third position and not him? I run faster than he does.”

Michael countered, “He’s smaller than you, and his night vision is 3% better. Initial penetration will be quicker if we use Jenkins on point.”

“But he’s only a Level One. You need someone with experience on this type of mission.”

“It’s a simple retrieval, Nikita. Jenkins should be on point.”

“What’s the matter,” she spat, eyes narrowing. “Not good enough for you anymore?”

Michael looked at her for a few moments before responding.

“You’re an excellent team leader, Nikita. I’m not questioning your abilities. I’m simply reconfiguring the profile to obtain the highest POS.”

“Fine,” said Nikita, already bored with the conversation. She tossed the PDA back on Michael’s desk, where is began to hum.

“What’s that noise?” she asked curiously, forgetting that she wasn’t speaking to him.

“It needs to be adjusted.” He touched his intercom. “Birkoff, may I see you please?”

Nikita left Michael’s office as Birkoff entered. Michael handed him the PDA. “Please fix this humming noise.”

Birkoff took a look at the panel before deleting the text. “Sure—no problem. Have it ready in 10 minutes.”

In the perch, Operations nudged Madeline. “Did you see that? That’s how they’re doing it. They’re communication through PDAs.”

Before she could stop him, Operations flew down the stairs and over to Birkoff’s station.

“Is that Michael’s panel?” he asked breathlessly.

“Ah, yeah,” replied Birkoff, a bit confused.

“Give it to me,” commanded Operations.

He cursed silently when he saw that the screen was blank.

“Someone deleted the text,” he said accusingly.

“I did,” Birkoff replied. “The intel was obsolete.”

“What did it say?” demanded Operations, a feral gleam in his eye.

“Uh, I’m not really sure,” stammered Birkoff. “Something about Jenkins being on point instead of Nikita.”

Since this was exactly what their surveillance had recorded, Operations was deflated. He conceded that Madeline was right. The great Michael and Nikita romance was a thing of the past.

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

Michael rubbed his temples and looked for his bottle of Aleve. He felt a Nikita-sized headache coming on.

He reviewed their argument of a few minutes ago, and put his face in his hands. After a few moments, he permitted himself a small smile. Damn, she was good.

* * *

Willing herself not to skip, Nikita stalked to her office with a snarl on her face and a song in her heart. Michael’s PDA had said “JENKINS BEING MOVED TO POINT. ARGUE. I LOVE YOU ALWAYS AND FOREVER.” The rest of the panel was filled with heart icons.

Michael had initially been against letting Birkoff and Walter in on their plan, but he had soon seen how beneficial outside assistance could be. Between them, they had helped to circumvent security in Nikita’s apartment for so long that it had finally been removed.

Michael also thought Nikita’s demeanor should move from petulance to indifference. Both Walter and Birkoff agreed with Nikita that she could hold a grudge much longer than six weeks, so Michael had acquiesced.

* * *

Nikita and Jenkins, with cover from Washington and tactical help from Michael in the mission van, were able to capture their target alive, though the hard-drive had been damaged before they could get to it. Nikita and Washington lay the charges and, when they were a safe distance away, Michael pressed the plunger.

“We have closure,” intoned Nikita in her best Michael imitation.

The others, knowing how Michael and Nikita felt about each other, were determined not to laugh, so they stared at the floor instead.

They all debriefed, then headed to the elevator that would take them back up to the land of the living.

Once in the parking garage, Michael turned to Nikita and said, “You have two days downtime.”

“I know,” she responded warily.

“I wondered if you wanted to go get some coffee.”

Nikita just stared at him, while the others held their collective breath.

“I don’t think so,” she finally responded, and turned to walk to her Jaguar, shaking her head slowly.

Michael got into his Mercedes, and they both drove away into the night.

* * *

They spent most of the next two days in Nikita’s bed, emerging only for food and bathroom breaks. They played strip poker, which Nikita always lost, or won, depending on who was keeping score. They talked and they cuddled. They spun fantasy futures and they slept, always entwined with one another.

Nikita liked the Cubs. Michael preferred the Red Sox. Nikita backed the Predators. Michael was a diehard Canadiens fan. Nikita liked watching reruns of The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. Michael was content to watch CNN all day.

Nikita seldom wore bras. Michael never wore underwear. Nikita didn’t have a favorite color. Michael wore black for his “power suits,” but confessed that his favorite color was actually blue. Nikita told Michael he reminded her of a black panther. Michael told Nikita he saw her as a beautiful golden Labrador.

Michael liked pasta with lots of garlic. Nikita was crazy in love with shellfish. They both wanted to live on a deserted island, where no one could find them, and Section was a word that did not exist in their vocabulary.

They both relished every moment of their time together, and their passion was hot and desperate, slow and sweet, rushed and languid. When they were not making love, they held on to each other as if they never wanted to let go.

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

“I’ve been going over Birkoff’s files,” Madeline began, watching Operation flick the last few drops of tea off of his upper lip with his tongue. She had long ago learned to stifle the inclination to shudder, and continued to smile pleasantly. God, he so often resembled a lizard. She reminded herself to focus.

“Why?” answered Operations, bemused. “Are his test scores falling?” He had never really cared for the prodigy, but conceded reluctantly that he was best suited for the job. However, if the boy genius was failing, and this was the opportunity to move Hillinger into Birkoff’s spot, he intended to take full advantage of it.

Madeline smiled serenely at Christopher as he came to remove the dishes and the unfinished portions of their late evening supper, a ritual she decided she would end very soon. Operations might get the idea he was entitled to sex again, and that decision would be on her terms alone, and only if she deemed it essential and advantageous.

She arose gracefully and lifted the Bonsai she had been working on earlier that afternoon. “Not at all,” she replied smoothly, eyeing her latest creation critically. “In fact, his Skills and Performance Assessment numbers are the highest they’ve been since the unfortunate business in the van at the art gallery.

“Then why pull Birkoff’s file now?” asked Operations, not bothering to mask his impatience.

Madeline continued to study the miniature tree, holding it up to the bright artificial light, pleased with the way she had forced her will against its natural inclination. “Birkoff’s social and psychological profiles need expansion. He needs to enroll in some university courses--mix with people his own age--interact with his peers.”

“Peers!” snorted Operations. “Birkoff doesn’t have any peers. At least, none on this planet!”

Madeline was not amused. “I believe Nikita benefited from the Philosophy course she audited last year. It gave me an idea.”

“Nikita,” Operations ground out, rubbing his temples. “I should have known.”

“Michael and Nikita are going under deep cover in Indiana as a college professor and his artist wife,” Madeline continued undeterred. “Birkoff can live with them as Nikita’s younger brother and actually take some classes while saving us the trouble and expense of having to set up in-house surveillance.”

Operations looked up, interest piqued. “So the sim did show that the leak does originate within the campus? With ties to Red Cell, of course.”

“Of course. And most likely within the Science department, which is where Michael--“

“--and Nikita--“ Operations breathed heavily.

“--and Nikita--“ Madeline echoed smoothly, “come in. The university is private, the town conservative. I think all three of them should blend in nicely there.”

“Where is this town in Indiana, again?” questioned Operations resignedly.

“Evansville.”

* * *

Michael was on his was to the briefing when he was stopped by Jurgen, who wanted to discuss his latest material, a potential profiler named Suzanne.

"What's the problem?" asked Michael, looking past Jurgen at the clock behind him. Almost seven.

"She keeps coming on to me," Jurgen said bluntly.

Michael wasn't sure how exactly he was expected to reply. Jurgen was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and good looking. Women came on to him. This was not news.

"She's not focusing," Jurgen continued. "Madeline won't allow her to work with anyone else. If I can't convince Suzanne that I'm some sort of disgusting slime, I'm supposed to have her cancelled."

Michael pretended to think for a moment. "Sleep with her," he said as he spun on his heel and walked away. "Problem solved."

* * *

Birkoff stood in Madeline's office, both confused and a little upset. "But I don't do deep cover," he repeated for Operations’ benefit, who had just entered the room. "I'm needed here. I can't possibly be gone for four months."

Madeline took her time, then measured her words carefully. "Are you saying that you've not adequately trained Gail and Mr. Hillinger to take over for you in your absence?"

"No. Of course not," he protested quickly. "It's just that I'm needed--"

"You're needed on this mission, Mr. Birkoff," Operations stated dismissively. "Walter has his panel," he continued, speaking to Madeline, then turned back to Birkoff. "You leave in twelve hours. I suggest you study your panel and stop annoying us with your petty little whining." Then he stared directly at the younger man, shooting him a look with those icy blue eyes that could freeze a flame-thrower. "You have exactly twelve seconds to adjust your attitude."

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

Birkoff was in Weapons, bitching and moaning to Walter, who was getting a kick out of the entire situation and didn't care that Birkoff knew it.

"College Algebra? C'mon! I was doing Calculus in my head when I was seven. This is such a joke. I can't believe this. And Intro to French? Hell, we've spent the last twenty years in and around Paris! Who here doesn't speak at least high school level French?

Walter tucked his ponytail down the back of his shirt and picked up a jewelers loupe to examine the circuitry he was working on more closely. Even with his face inches from the board, Birkoff could see the grin on Walter's face, and he was not amused.

"Stop laughing," he scolded when the humor of the Birkoff's dilemma got the better of Walter and he let loose with a genuine chuckle.

"Look, kid," he said consolingly. "I'm sure there's a reason you're being sent into the field. Even money says you're there to baby-sit Michael and Nikita."

"Baby-sit? I don't--"

"Keep them from gettin' down and dirty. No hanky-panky. No horizontal mambo. No--"

"Oh, that's just gross," sputtered Birkoff. "No way am I going to spy on Nikita and Michael and report to Operations about their sex life." He lowered his voice. “We both know what’s going on in that department. They’re doing it like bunnies.”

“But you and I are the only ones who know that,” he replied in a gravelly whisper. Then, in his normal voice, said "That's not what the betting pool says," a grin nearly splitting his face in two.

"Birkoff, I'd like to see you in Madeline's office in five minutes," said Operations, who had materialized behind Birkoff.

Birkoff turned ashen and started to shake.

"I'd stop by MedLab first if I were you," said Walter, winking conspiratorially. "You're lookin' a little pasty."

* * *

Operations opened the door for Madeline to lead the way as they descended from the Perch. "You still have time to change your mind about Nikita," he warned her. He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she preceded him down the stairs. "Teaming them for this mission could be a big mistake. You know what can of worms you'll be opening by throwing them together for several months."

"The can was opened once," she responded. "Let's just see how this worm turns."

She and Operations took their places at the consul, where Michael, Nikita, Birkoff and Walter were already seated.

"Except for Nikita, you've all seen your panels," said Operations without preamble. "Red Cell has infiltrated the University of Evansville Campus, and is transferring sensitive information about satellite positions regarding certain nuclear reactors to Afghanistan. Our job is to ferret out the source and method of communication, contain and interrogate, and then eliminate the problem once and for all.

Madeline continued. "We've narrowed the source to the Science and Health departments, and the following campus personnel.

Two holographs appeared on the screen before them, with Operations giving each a name and condensed bio as he paced opposite them.

"Larry McCoy." The group studied the small, thin face with bleached-blond hair, jug ears and pointed chin. "Head of the Science department since December 2000." Nikita disliked him on sight.

Another picture followed. "Bobbi Browne," continued Operations. "On staff at the student hospital as a chiropractor since 1998." The picture showed an attractive woman in her forties with short reddish-blonde hair and blue eyes. Her expression showed that she would rather be anywhere else but where she was when this particular photo was snapped.

"Our primary focus is McCoy, though both will be under surveillance. As this change of staffing is so sudden, there is a good possibility that your house is under surveillance as well.”

Madeline turned to Nikita. “You understand what that means. Remember the Armel mission.”

Nikita managed to look disgusted, while Michael simply looked at Madeline with his patented blank stare.

Operations continued. “Nikita, stop by MedLab before you pick up your panel. You all leave in one hour."

With that, Madeline arose from her chair gracefully, and Operations waited impatiently as Nikita touched his arm, asking him to stay for a moment. She gave him a perplexed look. "Why MedLab? I feel fine."

"It's on your panel," he snapped, shrugging off her hand and striding away. "Just do it."

"Why can't I have my panel before I go to MedLab?" Nikita insisted, turning to Michael.

Michael looked away. "It's not part of the profile," hating himself at that moment. When Nikita didn't move, he looked back into her bemused face, into those blue eyes that could see straight into the soul he now knew he still had. As they were relatively alone, his voice softened. "Nikita, just go, okay? We'll have time alone to talk later."

This was true. For once, Nikita agreed, and headed off to MedLab.

Michael hated deceiving her, and despaired of their new-found trust being ripped apart at the seams.

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

It was a silent trio that deplaned at Evansville's Dress Regional airport.

After claiming their luggage, Michael rented their vehicles: a Miata convertible for himself and Nikita, and a Jeep Wrangler for Birkoff. It wasn't until the vehicles were brought to the pick-up area that Birkoff hesitantly confessed that he didn't "exactly" know how to drive a 5-speed, and would it be too much trouble to rent a Honda or Toyota instead. As it turns out it was, because the Car Rental clerk (there was only one) had just gone on break. Nikita noted that the Miata was an automatic, and suggested that they just swap vehicles for the time being. Seeing no other way out, Michael and Birkoff agreed.

The condo where they were to reside was a much more pleasant surprise. The building was a story and a half, with the master suite upstairs, a den/2nd bedroom downstairs, and a the large sun porch to be used as Nikita's studio connected to a spacious eat-in kitchen.

Nikita made no effort to help unload any luggage, and when their bags had been brought into the house, turned all the charm on Birkoff. "Could you pretty please take my things upstairs, little bro? I'd be ever so grateful." Birkoff rolled his eyes at Michael, but did as he was asked.

When he was out of earshot, Michael asked Nikita, "Is the pain that bad?"

Charm disappearing in a heartbeat, her head swiveled toward Michael as she snapped, "You could have told me. You could've given me some kind of warning."

Michael started to answer but Nikita beat him to it, even mocking his soft French accent. "'It wasn't in the profile.' I know. Do you know how sick and tired I am of hearing that?" No play-acting was necessary this time. Nikita was pissed, and they both knew why.

No answer seemed to be required, so Michael didn't attempt one. Instead, he picked up his bags and followed Birkoff upstairs to the master bedroom, but came back down looking rather ticked off.

"We need to go shopping," he announced flatly. "Apparently, "Fully Furnished" means furniture only, no bed linens, no towels--"

"No dishes, no flatware, no dishcloths--," Nikita picked up, having made her own survey of the living area downstairs. "Here," she said, handing a list to Birkoff as he emerged from the sun porch after unloading her art supplies. "I've started a list. I saw a Bed, Bath, and Beyond on the way into town. You and Michael can go pick up what we need."

"Why do I have to go?" said Birkoff with some surprise in his voice. "I don't know anything about table linens. Besides, you haven't done a thing since we got here. Why don't you and Michael go, and I'll sit down and have a nice, cold drink of water?"

"Birkoff," Michael warned, but Nikita jumped in before he could finish.

"I need to sign those canvases you’re going to uncrate for the viewing next week, and the only way you're getting a cold drink is by hanging your head over the sink until we have some glasses to drink from," she said sweetly.

Not finding fault with her logic, Birkoff worked quickly to uncrate her paintings before jamming his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants and following Michael to the Jeep.

While they were gone, Nikita took a hot steamy shower, refusing to use the pain medication Madeline had given her to dull the ache in her back. In lieu of a towel, she wrapped herself in Michael's big terrycloth robe, and picked up the phone to order a couple of pizzas. Dishes or no dishes, they were eating gourmet tonight.

* * *

As it happened, JC Penney's was having a white sale, and Michael and Birkoff actually did a pretty good job of accessorizing the house. Except for the master bedroom. Nikita did not know what possessed Michael to buy dark brown sheets, pillow cases and duvet, with cranberry glass lamps, a cranberry glass floor lamp, and dark pink pillow shams. Against the stark white walls, the room looked like a giant carton of Neapolitan ice cream.

She waited for some sort of explanation but, as none was forthcoming, Nikita gave up and wandered into Birkoff's room. What she saw here was no surprise--a futon for a bed, a naked bulb for a lamp and every conceivable extra space filled with audio, digital and computer equipment. She thought she'd better remind him to eat before his pizza got cold, forgetting for the moment that he preferred it that way.

Michael was already on his third slice when she found him in the kitchen, eating off sunny yellow dishes that actually matched rather than clashed with the sunny yellow walls.

"You'd better hurry up if you want to eat tonight," he cautioned with mock seriousness. "Shopping is hard work."

Nikita snagged a piece of the pepperoni and sausage pie, dragging the stringy cheese about two feet from the box before it finally snapped off.

"Here. Why don't you sit down?" asked Michael, using chivalry to make up for his earlier deception.

"It feels better when I stand," Nikita answered truthfully.

"Did you take your pill?"

"Yes," Nikita lied smoothly, smiling wryly as she remembered how she had flushed it down the toilet in case he'd been ordered to count them. "Maybe it takes a while to kick in, and the flight was long."

"Yes," Michael agreed, chewing absently. "Oh,” he added, as if just remembering. "I put dessert in the freezer."

Thinking *since when do they have dessert at Penney's,* Nikita walked somewhat stiffly over to the side-by-side unit and opened the left door. She laughed. So did Michael. They both laughed so long and hard that Birkoff finally tore himself away from his toys to see what was so funny.

He came to Nikita's side to look in the freezer.

"Cool! Neapolitan ice cream! I love this stuff." He got miffed when neither Nikita nor Michael could catch his breath long enough to let him in on the joke.

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

Michael seemed to be the only one who was settling in well. His teaching schedule was relatively light; he was well-liked by his students, well thought of by his peers, and just conceited enough to report this to Birkoff and Nikita on almost a daily basis.

Things were not going so smoothly for Birkoff. He discovered that life without a Comm unit in his ear was a bit unsettling to say the least, and the easiest of choices was becoming overwhelming.

He had avoided the bookstore crush for the first two days of classes but knew that eventually, to maintain his cover, he would have to turn in homework. He stalled the better part of the morning, then, giving himself a silent pep talk, entered the store. He bypassed the front desk and headed to the back of the room, schedule in hand, to pick out the books listed on the crumpled piece of paper. Piece of cake. He turned and saw folders and notebooks to the right, which he carefully color coordinated with his textbooks: red for Sociology, green for French, blue for Algebra, and yellow for Chemistry. His Psychology text was multicolored, so he chose to accessorize that course in purple. He was pleased to be able to find a TI85 calculator; these people may be primitive, but at least he wouldn't be working completely in the stone ages.

He immediately bypassed the selection of purple University of Evansville sweatshirts and t-shirts; he was not a complete dork. He pondered a while at the selection of tote bags and satchels. The satchel might blow his cover by giving away his true age, but the tote bag looked, well, a little feminine. He opted for the cordovan satchel, picked up a handful of highlighters and pens, and made his way back to the cash registers at the front of the store. After waiting in line until his arms had completely cramped up, he was greeted by a cashier who looked to be about 14 and was wearing a "Hi! My Name is Michelle!" name tag pinned to an impossibly small white halter top.

"That's pretty heavy-duty hardware for Algebra 101," she said, indicating the calculator. "Are you a math major?" She knew full well he wasn't if he was starting with beginning level math.

"Oh, uh, no," Birkoff stuttered. "I'm picking that up for Mich--, uh, my brother-in-law. He teaches in the Physics department. I've got a TI80 at home."

"So, what's your major?" pressed the elfin blonde, continuing to flirt. "Something in Econ or Accounting?"

"I'm, uh, Undeclared, officially," returned Birkoff, flattered at the attention, but growing a little uneasy at the barrage of questions.

"Then you really won't want this," Michelle said as she lifted the satchel with some difficulty and placed it behind the counter. "The cool freshman guys all carry backpacks. Black, of course. I knew you were cool the minute you walked in here." She stepped from behind the counter to the nearby backpack display and pulled off one that even Birkoff, were he not too cool to be cool, had to admit was, well, cool.

"Do you have a SCRIP card, or will this be cash?"

"MasterCard," said Birkoff, handing her his brand new bankcard with the Section approved spending limit. Michelle checked out his name, and Birkoff winced, waiting for her to say something. She didn't. He signed his name, S Birkoff, and it was then that she made her move.

"I'm in your French class this afternoon. See ya later, Birkoff."

Birkoff looked up and smiled, brown eyes peering into blue. "Yeah. See ya."

He left the store feeling carrying 10 pounds of books yet feeling 20 pounds lighter. This college thing might just be okay.

* * *

Nikita's resolve broke by the afternoon of the third day of classes, and she took one of the pills Madeline had given her, washing it down with a Pepsi. To her surprise, the pain was alleviated almost instantly, but the muscles in her back still seemed locked firmly into place. Not even a hot bath or heating pad helped. She discussed the situation with Michael when he came home for dinner before an evening class.

"So you actually took one of the pills," he said, without a hint of surprise in his voice. Nikita thought about bluffing him but, knowing how much she hated when he did it to her, remained mute. "You're not supposed to be in agony, Nikita. Just enough discomfort to see a chiropractor."

"I'll go tomorrow," promised Nikita, chastened. She swirled the ice around in her tea glass.

Michael laid his salad fork on the side of his plate and picked up her left hand with his right, drawing it to his cheek. "You have to follow profile on this, Nikita. Mandatory Refusal on any phase is not an option. Besides, the pills are part of the protocol. What if you get pregnant?"

Nikita's mind blanked. Of course--no Section meant no monthly shots, and with Michael and her living as husband and wife--well, duh. "I see what you mean," she answered when she had found her voice again.

Michael released her hand and went back to his salad. I know we’re supposed to have “intimate relations” twice a week, and if you want to--relax," he said, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face, "I can help. But you've been in so much pain I didn't want to force the issue."

Nikita filched a crouton from his salad. "And here I thought it was Birkoff interfering with our hot-and-heavy sex life," she responded in a voice raised just loudly enough for Birkoff to hear as he walked in through the front door. She and Michael both chuckled as they heard his bedroom door slam and the pulsing throb of Keoki emanating from the room loudly enough to rattle the silver.

Nikita started to get up to get the baked spaghetti from the oven, but Michael waved her back into her seat. This stiff back thing could be worth it after all, she thought with a smile. * * *

Nikita found that going to see a chiropractor and getting to see one were two different matters entirely. For one, she had to see Dr. Browne--that was part of the mission profile. The problem was that Dr. Browne wasn't taking any new patients, particularly not spouses of staff members who could afford to see "real" doctors. Dr. Browne's calling, it seemed, made her and her colleagues the servants of the student poor.

Nikita filled out the necessary paperwork anyway, but declined the invitation to wait in the lounge for the next GP; if she hadn't been ill going into the student hospital, she surely would be by the time she came out with all the hacking and coughing going on in the waiting room.

Birkoff was just leaving for an afternoon class when Nikita arrived back home. "French or Sociology?" she asked.

“Soc," answered Birkoff, rolling his eyes. "I've figured out if I read the book and show up for the midterm and the final, I'll ace the class."

"What about the lectures? Won't the tests cover them as well?"

"The professor wrote the textbook," Birkoff explained. "Everyday, he reads aloud from his book while we do homework for other classes. It's a total joke." He took a few steps toward the more masculine Corolla he was now driving, then turned back as if just remembering something. "I won't be home for dinner. I have a, uh, study session for the French quiz tomorrow."

Nikita was puzzled. "Michael could help you with French if you need it, Birkoff. You know that."

"Yeah," he grinned, ducking his head shyly, "but Michael isn't five feet tall with wispy blonde curls and a face like an angel."

"Gotcha," said Nikita, grinning broadly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Birkoff tucked his head further into the collar of his flannel shirt as he drove off, but refused to dignify her with an answer.

* * *

Michael had plans for that evening as well--he had accepted an invitation to dinner at the home of the Dean and his wife for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

"Several members of my department, as well as some of the medical staff will be there tonight. I can get closer to Dr. McCoy, and you can talk to Dr. Browne about your back. Don't take any aspirin or anti-inflammatory drugs before dinner."

"Does the Flintstone vitamin I took with breakfast count?" Nikita countered sweetly.

Michael just blinked, then said, "Wear something sexy. I want you to create an impression." With that, he went upstairs to shave, leaving Nikita feeling a bit miffed.

Okay, the checked flannel shorts and paint splattered t-shirt she was wearing was not one of her better ensembles, but she did remember how to do ‘sexy.’ In fact, she was pretty sure she remembered how to knock his socks off.

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

Oh, yes, breathed Michael. Nikita did sexy *quite* well. In fact, the two-piece turquoise number she was wearing covered just enough skin to keep his mind on the job, and had every female's claws out, according to the ladies room scuttlebutt he overheard later from their husbands. Nikita was ignoring most of the male glances, and all of the female ones, and had zeroed in on Bobbi Browne.

"Don't you hate these things?" she said, having cornered the good doctor at the punch bowl. "My husband insisted I come so he could get more money for a research grant. Which one is yours?" She pretended to scan the room.

"Which one is my what?" asked the doctor politely, ready to move on.

"Your husband. You look about as willing to be here as I am."

"Maybe so," Dr. Browne replied a little stiffly, "but I'm here on my own. I'm on staff at the hospital."

"Oh, God," said Nikita clumsily, holding out her hand. "How stupid of me. I'm Nikita Samuelle. Michael, my husband, is in the Science department. I really didn't want to come at all--my back has been so stiff lately--and I thought I recognized a kindred spirit. I never meant to imply..."

"No harm done," said the doctor, softening a little. "Bobbi Browne. And you're right--I hate these things, too, but the Dean insists."

"Browne," said Nikita, pretending to muse. "Of course. I tried to get in to see you today! You're the famous chiropractor."

"Hardly famous," Bobbi said, forcing a chuckle, "But a chiropractor nonetheless."

"Well, I'm sure you don't want to talk shop at a party, particularly one neither one of wants to be at. But it was lovely meeting you all the same, and I'll keep trying you down at hospital."

"Here," said Bobbi, reluctantly handing Nikita one of her cards. "You'll have better luck calling my number directly. If it's just stiffness you're having, try sleeping on your side with a pillow between your knees, or on your back with a pillow under them."

"Thank you," said Nikita, truly grateful. "How much do I owe you for the consultation?"

"Just tell everyone I was here for hours and had a marvelous time, and cover for me as I sneak away," she said conspiratorially.

"Deal," promised Nikita solemnly, as she watched her new best friend leave the party through the back door.

* * *

Upstairs, Michael was listening to the pompous jackass Larry McCoy spout off on his theories about the Big Bang, black holes, super novas, and Judas Priest. There didn't seem to be anything Dr. McCoy didn't know about, and wasn't willing to lecture about at the drop of a hat. Michael was glad no one there that evening was wearing a hat.

He also noticed that Dr. McCoy kept his keys, and his right hand, in his right pants pocket at all times, though he gestured wildly and drank freely with his left hand. Picking his pocket might be a problem, unless Michael could drug him or get him drunk. They would have to invite him and his wife, Jerri, over for dinner.

Nikita chose that moment to walk into the room, and caught his eye, asking if they could please leave. He knew she was in pain, but signaled her to come to him. He slid his arm around her bare waist and, for once, Larry McCoy fell silent.

"Larry, Jerri, Megan, Jon," nodding to the others in the group, "I'd like you to meet my wife, Nikita." Jerri and Megan sheathed their claws immediately, noting the joined-at-the-hip claim Michael and Nikita seemed to have on each other. Jon nodded in pure admiration. Larry was his boorish self.

"Quite a piece of work you got there, eh, Mike?"

Neither Michael nor Nikita pretended to understand the question, and stood quietly with eyebrows raised until Larry's skin turned pink beneath the orange of his fake-and-bake tan. Jon and Megan faded quietly away, and Michael spoke. "We'd like to have you and your lovely wife for dinner sometime, wouldn't we, Nikita?"

"Oh, absolutely," Nikita agreed enthusiastically. On the hibachi. "Early next week? We'll call you."

"It's settled then," said Michael, and rescued Nikita from the party before any blood was shed.

* * *

Birkoff was trying to focus on his part of the mission, but it was difficult to try to remember how to speak as if he didn't know French, to play the part of a typical college student, and to hit on his study partner all at the same time. He gave up on objectives two and three for the moment, and forced himself back to the object at hand. So to speak.

"Marie est une fille, et Jacques est un fil," he droned dutifully without a hint of a French accent.

"Marie est une...une...une," coaxed Michelle, making the proper sound that Birkoff pretended not to hear. "’Jacques est un...un.’ Hear the difference?"

"I can when you say it, but it doesn't come out right for me," complained Birkoff. "Let's go over the vocabulary list again." They shuffled through their notes, Birkoff pulling his green folder from his black backpack.

For want of something better to say, he asked about their instructor. "What do you think of Professor Sartre?"

"Her teaching style or her legs?" Michelle shot back, teasingly.

"No," replied Birkoff, blushing, "I mean, in general. Do the kids like her? Is she fair?"

Michelle looked around the Commons, then back at Birkoff. "You know as much about her as I do. Check it out."

Birkoff looked around in the same direction as Michelle had and saw about half of the kids studying French text books.

"A lot of second-year students are cramming as well, so I'd say her exams are pretty tough. On the other hand, a lot of second year students are Econ and Accounting majors--notice the satchels--and are taking French as an elective, so she must be fair."

Birkoff had to agree with her assessment, and gave her extremely high marks for her powers of observation.

He would include this in his report to Section this evening.

* * *

Nikita and Michael came home to find Birkoff in his room, headphones on and music blaring--"Gun" by Gus Gus.

"Michael," Nikita said wearily, "Just tell him we're not having sex tonight before he goes completely deaf. I'm going upstairs to take another pill and a hot bath. My back is killing me."

"You shouldn't have worn heels tonight," he replied, then, nuzzling her neck, "but I'm glad you did. You looked amazing. I apologize for my previous remark."

"Yeah, yeah. Talk is cheap. Say something to Birkoff," she repeated as she made her way stiffly upstairs.

"Try a warm shower," Michael called up after her, toying with, then dismissing, the idea of joining her there. "It’s better for stiffness than a bath."

He walked into Birkoff's room without knocking, since he wouldn't have been heard, anyway. He walked over to the stereo and turned it down to a manageable level before unplugging the headphones.

"Hey," protested Birkoff. "I give you guys your privacy. What about mine?"

"That's my point," replied Michael smoothly. "We don't need privacy. You know we have sex on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the benefit of Section’s surveillance. Don't try to drown out what isn't there. You're damaging your hearing and giving Nikita a headache."

Birkoff sat slack-jawed, too stunned to answer. Well, that's what I get for being subtle, he thought.

As Michael was leaving, he paused, giving Birkoff one more thought to ponder, "But if the bedroom door is locked, don't even think about knocking." He grinned to himself as he walked up the stairs.

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

Operations had wrangled another meal with Madeline, breakfast this time, and she elegantly spooned her fresh melon as he went over the reports from Indiana.

"So the three of them have gotten absolutely nowhere after one full week," he grumbled, chewing a slightly charred piece of bacon. "Explain to me again why this was a good idea?"

Madeline put down her silverware, wiped her hands and mouth daintily, sipped her tea, and then spoke. "They are each establishing contacts. You realize this will take some time if they are to gain trust within the campus community. In the meantime, the latest sim shows an 84% probability that the leak lies within the campus. Last week the numbers were closer to 78%. The probability of Red Cell involvement has risen from 65% to 86%."

"What about McCoy?"

"Michael and Nikita are having him to dinner next week. In the meantime, Birkoff has established a relationship with a fellow student, a Michelle McCauley, who seems to have extremely impressive powers of observation. We're running a background check on her now but, oddly enough, she doesn't seem to have one."

Operations stopped mid-chew. "What do you mean, she doesn't have one? And why do we care?"

Madeline continued patiently. "Miss McCauley has attached herself to Mr. Birkoff, and she has no existence other than her present status as a university student. I think that's worth looking into, don't you agree?"

Operations waved dismissively. "Let's move on. I want to take another look at the situation in the Balkans, and I'm concerned about Jurgen's new profiler."

"Yes. Well. There is good news and not so good news on that front. Let's discuss the Balkans first, shall we?"

* * *

Jurgen saw only bad news for his material, Suzanne. Walter gave her high marks in Weaponry; she was at 79% in physical tactics, and her profiling abilities were off the charts. She had even beaten him twice playing Go. The problem was, she wouldn't stay focused on Section business. She flirted shamelessly with everything in pants, and had been caught on surveillance tape trying to seduce Simon from Comm, her long, lithe body practically wrapped around his, in workout room G5. But it was worse with Jurgen.

He knew that her behavior was designed to make him jealous, and it was getting more than a little annoying. Though he knew it might not actually be possible, he had just about decided to take Michael's advice and sleep with her himself, just so he could then treat her like crap so she would stop the childish games she was playing to get him into her bed. He checked her scores again. It would be a shame to cancel someone with potential this good just because of an itch.

Okay, he'd ask her out, anyway. Easy enough

Or not.

"I'm busy tonight," the redhead had rebuffed him, running her fingers through her spiked hair, when he suggested dinner after their karate session. "But thanks anyway. Maybe another time?"

Could he have misread her that badly? He would have to talk to Madeline.

* * *

Birkoff managed to score a B- on his French test, much to his disgust, since he had known every answer cold. His mood hadn't improved any when his Psych class consisted of watching pigeons pecking for pellets when a light turned on--Birkoff was way too familiar with conditioned response to find this fascinating. Instead of watching the screen, he did all the even numbered problems in Chapter 3 of his Math book, as he knew this would be the assignment for the following Monday, and schemed for a way to ask Michelle out this weekend.

He decided to risk bringing her home for a real meal to entice her out of her dorm room, and Nikita could actually cook. He would clear it with Michael this evening.

He had not yet seen the reports Madeline had emailed to Michael and Nikita regarding Michelle's status or, rather, lack thereof, as a citizen of Evansville. He did know that she had been evasive at his few attempts to make idle chatter but, as his own background would not stand up to heavy investigation, he had never pressed the issue.

When he got home from class, Birkoff found a note from Nikita telling him she was at the clinic and Michael was attending a lecture, so he would have to fend for himself. Great. Now he had no choice. God, he hated this part of his life.

He removed his boots and carefully walked upstairs, making sure to leave no footprints. He looked around Michael and Nikita's bedroom for something, anything, that would tell him whether or not they were being "intimate." How would he know? It looked like a bedroom. Michael had some National Geographic magazines on his side of the bed; Nikita had the TV remote and the remains of a bowl of ice cream on hers. He checked the bathroom. Nothing hinky in the medicine chest or under the sink. He held his breath and looked in the waste basket--cotton balls the color of Nikita's make up and a couple of Q-tips.

He crept thoughtfully back to his room, feeling like the biggest perv on the planet. He emailed Operations dutifully: no porn magazines or tapes, no condoms (new or used) or other birth control devices, nothing he could think of to indicate any sexual activity of any kind. He did not mention Michael's comment about the bedroom door, or that he would have lied if they had sex on any day other than the monitored Tuesday and Thursday. He did ask if Operations could please give him a clue as to exactly why he was here?

Birkoff would have been even more humiliated if he had seen Madeline's face when she intercepted his email. First, her mouth compressed, then twisted into what almost passed for a grin. Then, as she was completely alone, she laughed. Not a dainty twitter, but a full-out belly laugh. It was not a pretty sight.

She emailed back that Operations was redirecting Birkoff’s primary focus to getting to know more about his new young friend, Michelle McCauley.

After the initial embarrassment that his man-to-man email had been read by Madeline, Birkoff was relieved that he was able to concentrate more on the only thing he liked about Evansville so far, Michelle.

* * *

As they were getting ready for bed that night, Michael quietly asked Nikita, "Why was Birkoff in our room today?"

"I don't know. He was in our bathroom as well. Looking for clues?"

"About what? And for whom?" Michael countered, accessing Birkoff's email account from his laptop. "Ah. Apparently, we are not having sex."

"We're not?" said Nikita through a mouthful of toothpaste.

"No, replied Michael thoughtfully, "safe or otherwise."

"Why does Madeline need to know that? God, Michael! She is so perverted. I swear she watches the Armel tapes daily just for a little joy ride."

"No, apparently, this directive came from Operations," said Michael, equally puzzled, and annoyed. "Apparently he doesn't want Madeline, to know what Birkoff's true status is on this mission."

"It is Thursday,” she reminded him. “Showtime.

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

An initial scan of the house had revealed Section-issue surveillance cameras in the bedroom, dining room, and sun porch. Fortunately, they were video only, so Michael and Nikita could stop sniping at each other. An occasional scowl would do.

Nikita slipped off her robe and slid nude under the brown satin sheets. "I feel incredible after my session with Dr. Browne. Now, if only I could relax everything would be fine."

"Nikita," Michael warned, "I can’t make love to you in here. This is pure Valentine sex for the cameras only.”

"There’s no camera in the shower, so lock the door and come to bed, Dr. Samuelle. Your wife wants you to make mad passionate love to her before the adjustment wears off, and time’s a-wastin’.”

Michael pulled off his boots and socks, then lifted his t-shirt over his head. With his eyes focused on Nikita, he peeled off his jeans and swiftly joined her under the covers. After a few perfunctory kisses and the correct amount of foreplay, they had quick and quiet missionary sex. When they were through, they pulled up the covers and rolled to opposite sides of the bed, pretending to sleep.

* * *

After a sufficient amount of time had past, Nikita “awoke” and went to take a shower. Michael heard the water running and buried his grin in his pillow. In a few minutes, she came out wearing his terry robe, and walked across the room to sit on her side of the bed. Her motions “awakened” Michael, who went to take his own shower.

After a few minutes, Nikita knocked on the door, telling Michael that she wanted to come in and brush her hair. After getting no response, she walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Dropping the robe, Nikita stepped into the shower, and Michael slipped his soapy body against hers, capturing her mouth with his and teasing her peaks with his broad chest. It had been so long. He was ready to take things slowly, but Nikita had other plans. She wanted him, and she couldn't take slow for an answer. She practically jumped, him, impaling herself on his turgid manhood—a moan escaping from both their lips. It was as it as always been, from their first time to the last. Their need for each other was too strong. They both climaxed too soon.

Michael backed Nikita into the wall, and slid his hand down her body to her golden mound, inserting one, then two fingers into her core. He suckled her right breast, while she arched her back and cried out in pleasant abandon. He slowly removed his fingers and used her own juices to play with the nub that stood as sentry to her womanly treasures. He kissed her deeply, than drew the neglected left breast into his mouth, slowly, steadily, causing Nikita such exquisite pain. She rubbed against him in earnest until she came in his hand, and collapsed against him with a sigh.

For a few minutes, they just stood holding each other, breathing in each others essence; letting the warm water mingle with the after effects of their love.

Michael turned the water off, and gently laid Nikita on the terry robe she had abandoned. He settled himself on top of her, his velvet shaft hard and throbbing between their two bellies. He took her hands in his and, interlocking their fingers, raised her arms above her head, effectively pinning her to the ground.

He moved his rod slowly against her nub; first slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. Nikita whimpered. “I need you, Michael. I need you inside me now!”

He teased her opening with his tip, and then pulled away, making her crazy with desire. Finally he entered her, bit by agonizing bit, until the full length of him was buried inside her. He began to move, not as slowly as he would have liked, but he was close to the edge himself. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed home. He did this again, and Nikita cried out with pleasure. She began to climax again, and with a few quick thrusts, Michael spilled his essence into her, his breathing ragged, his hair hanging in wild disarray over his face.

Michael pulled himself to the side of her, and gathered Nikita into his arms. Nikita heard Michael’s heart beat rapidly beneath his chest as his breathing returned to normal. She caressed his chest, and turned to suckle one of his nipples. Michael began to turn her back to the robe, but this time Nikita was in charge.

She straddled him, bending over to kiss him while teasing his chest with her aroused peaks. She slid back and forth over his manhood, eliciting a low moan from Michael. Nikita chuckled as she moved herself down his body to lick the underside of his shaft, then gently suck on the sensitive head. Michael held her buttocks as she gently lowered herself on to him, and closed his eyes as she began to rock back and forth.

“Look at me, Michael,” she commanded, and he opened his eyes to see utter bliss on her features. His hands reached out to caress her breasts as the rocking became more rhythmic--back and forth, up and down, in and out.

Michael couldn’t take is any longer. He flipped her over on her back and began to drive himself into her. Nikita was bucking wildly now, and within seconds, they climaxed together.

Michael went back to the bedroom first, a towel wrapped around his lean hips. He dropped his towel and got in bed, facing the bathroom door. Nikita followed a few minutes later, brushing out her hair, and lay down on her side of the bed. They were both asleep in minutes, mentally holding each other tightly.

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

Nikita awakened before dawn, the by now familiar stiffness cramping her lower back, and she carefully maneuvered the pillows down under her knees to relieve some of the pressure. Michael lay facing her, his right arm thrown protectively over her even in his deep sleep. She longed to caress the unruly, chestnut curls and thought, poor baby, you really didn't get much sleep last night. She didn't regret one moment.

Instead, for the benefit of the camera, she lifted his arm with a faintly annoyed expression and placed it back at his side. She got out of bed, heading for a hot, hot shower before returning to bed.

* * *

Madeline, to Jurgen's surprise and dismay, thought his sleeping with Suzanne would be a marvelous idea. I bet you do, you perv, thought Jurgen, and you'll want the tapes as “part of the profile.”

"But, the accident," began Jurgen, red-faced. The total loss of his masculinity was one conversation he did not want to have with this horny bitch.

"Statistics show that an accident of the nature of yours is sexually debilitating only 44% of the time. Your inability to have an erection has not been proven to be a physical problem so much as a psychological one. Perhaps a date with Suzanne and the opportunity to have sexual intercourse is what you need to get you motivated," She laid aside the papers she had been looking through and looked directly at him then, dark eyes unblinking.

"We have a considerable amount of time invested in you as a Valentine Op. I would hate to think that you are unable, or worse, unwilling, to perform your duties for Section." She smiled sweetly at a dumbstruck Jurgen. "That will be all, Jurgen. You may go."

Get it up or get cancelled. No pressure at all, he thought as he made his way shakily back to his office. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his throbbing temples. He needed a guy's opinion on this. He needed to talk to Walter.

* * *

Michael lie awake, his eyes closed, and thought about the first time that he and Nikita had made love on that filthy barge in Lyons. He was sure before their passion had fully ignited that what they had was not sex, but something far beyond. Their lovemaking demolished all walls between them. He had wondered then how her body that he had never seen, fit his so well and pleased him so perfectly, and that it was exactly the same for her. What they had felt then was a primitive hunger, a hunger that awakened again during the Armel mission. He had reviewed the mission tapes himself and, despite his attempts to 'play to the camera,' what was caught on film was not Valentine sex; it was lovemaking in its purest form. Section could not be allowed to use their love against them. Section would exploit their relationship, the same way they had exploited his marriage to Simone. Section made surveillance tapes of their wedding night, for Christ's sake! They grew test-tube babies! Only one survived, and had died shortly after birth, but Michael would not jump through sexual hoops for Section again. He would not allow Nikita to be used the way Simone had. Simone was, had been, different. Tough. World-weary. She had sold her soul to the devil long before meeting Michael. Nikita had a chance to be saved, and Michael would not be the reason that chance was lost to her.

He arose to find Nikita beside him again and noted, with some irritation, that she had placed both pillows under her knees, and he cursed Section heartily under his breath. He had hogged all the covers as usual, so he covered her with his robe slipped downstairs to make coffee.

He was surprised to see Birkoff wander into the kitchen, dressed in sweats, at such an early hour; it was just past seven. Birkoff was equally surprised to find Michael in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of cut-offs. Michael decided the opening move was his.

"Nikita is having a bad morning," he said, indicating his lower back. "It helps if I'm not up there moving around." Birkoff nodded hesitantly. Michael poured water into the top of the coffee maker. "What are you doing up so early on a Saturday?"

"I, uh, didn't sleep that well," Birkoff admitted, his ears reddening. He felt like such a creep. Maybe he should just confess.

"Ah. Feeling guilty about having gone through our room?" queried Michael, not looking at Birkoff, who was praying for the floor to swallow him.

I don't do field work. I don't do field work. I told them. I told them.

"I know the directive came from Operations, but don't do it again, okay?"

Birkoff nodded inanely, like a bobble-headed doll. He was so relieved he forgot to ask Michael about having Michelle over for dinner, and returned to his room to shower and dress for the day.

* * *

Nikita didn't come downstairs until nearly ten and, when she did, it was obvious she was in a great deal of pain. Birkoff chose that moment to venture into the kitchen again and, seeing Nikita in Michael's robe, almost left again when Nikita called out to him.

"Birkoff," she said, almost pleading, "I need you to go upstairs and bring me one of my pills. I remembered it half way down the stairs, but I didn't have the fortitude to go back up and get it. They're in my medicine chest. Please?"

Birkoff took a closer look at Nikita, the pink in his ears fading away. My God, she was really sick. Her hair was matted with sweat, and her face was almost grey. "Sure," he stuttered, and took off on his mission, his initial thoughts of asking her to cook a gourmet meal for Michelle pushed way to the back burner.

Michael, now dressed in tan dockers and a navy polo shirt, walked in from the dining room. He blamed himself for the look on her face and the obvious pain she was in. Before he could say a word, she took his hand in hers and pulled it to her cheek.

"Don't," she ordered. "Don't say it--don't think it. Last night was lovely. I was feeling so good last night after my adjustment that I forgot to take my pill--that's why I'm so stiff this morning. It has nothing to do with you.

Michael pulled a chair close so he could sit down and look directly into her eyes. She wasn't lying. At least, she didn't believe she was lying. He felt a little relief.

"Nikita," he began, "I still think--"

"If you say that last night 'was a mistake,' I will clobber you, so help me God." She waited for Michael to smile. He didn't.

He stroked the side of her face, and was still doing so when Birkoff walked into the middle of a scene which sent out vibes so strong even he could feel it. He placed the pill next to Nikita, left her a glass of juice, then quietly faded out of the picture.

Michael stood. "Take your pill, then another warm shower, then try the pillow thing some more," he instructed. "I've got to finish grading these papers, then I'll come check on you."

"Sounds like a plan." Nikita swallowed her pill, and drank the rest of her juice before rising awkwardly from her chair. She passed the cookie canister on the way out of the kitchen, and Michael shook his head in amusement. Only Nikita would consider orange juice and Oreos a complete and balanced breakfast. Even Birkoff had eaten a bagel.

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

Nikita visited Doctor Browne's office first thing Monday morning. She wasn't going to let a little thing like torturous pain keep her from another night like she had experienced the previous Thursday.

"Call me Bobbi," were the doctor's first instructions, then she showed Nikita where to disrobe. "Any chance you could be pregnant?"

"Wha-? Why do you ask?" stuttered Nikita, totally confused. She thought with panic about the missed pills.

"I'll be taking some x-rays," Bobbi explained patiently. "It's a standard question we ask all women of childbearing age."

"Yes. Of course," agreed Nikita, relieved. "I mean, no, I'm not," she continued hurriedly, blushing a little. "I wanted to thank you for seeing me on such short notice Thursday. The adjustment you gave me worked wonders, for a little while."

"Oh, that was just a massage," corrected the doctor. "I can't give you an adjustment, or really any kind of treatment, until we find out what's causing the pain and stiffness. We don't want to make it worse by doing any more damage."

"Yes, I see," said Nikita, nodding. She stepped out from the changing cubicle in a medical gown, and Bobbi guided her to the x-ray screen.

"Can you show me exactly where the pain is?" asked the doctor. Nikita indicated most of her lower back from the top of the hips down.

"It hurts most along the spine, but the stiffness radiates from there," she added helpfully.

"What caused this last episode?" Bobbi asked, concerned.

Nikita's answered honestly. "I had sex with my husband." She paused and smiled, thinking back. "Great sex, I might add."

"Well, if your husband was the gorgeous, dark-haired one with the accent, then I understand completely," returned Bobbi cheerfully. "There shouldn't be any reason you shouldn't be able to continue to have sex with your husband, as long as you're careful." She paused. "And no, I'm not going to define 'careful.' You're on your own, there."

Dr. Browne performed the standard tests, bending the spine backwards and to the right and left. With Nikita lying on her back, she raised each leg in the air to check the inflammation of the sciatic nerve. A ValSalva test indicated a possibly herniated disc.

Nothing was revealed by the x-rays, though something definitely was interfering with full range of motion, particularly in Nikita's lower back. Nikita knew that the plastique Section had inserted would be undetectable by conventional x-ray or MRI. Bobbi scheduled her for a session of adjustments three times a week, advised her to keep taking the medicine her previous physician had prescribed, and hopefully they could work through this together to bring her some relief.

* * *

Michael sat in his office going over the test scores from the quiz he had administered last Friday. If he graded on a straight scale, over half his class would fail. He decided to grade on a curve, and to allow more time for question and answer sessions after each unit. The material he covered was not that difficult, but he was not the best of Physics teachers, and he knew it.

While he changed the scores in his grade book, breathing a heavy sigh of resignation, Larry McCoy chose that moment to strut into Michael's office. "What's doin', Mikey?"

"Michael," came the reply, "my name is Michael, and I'm grading papers."

"Touchy, aren't we," teased McCoy in mock fear. "And how's that gorgeous wife of yours, Ni-ki-ta?"

"She's fine," came the terse reply. Thinking of the mission, Michael put on his amicable face and smiled up at Larry. "Her paintings are going to be shown at the museum Wednesday night. We were wondering if you and Jerri might join us for dinner before the exhibition."

"Uh, sure," replied McCoy, certainly not expecting a social invitation. "Of course, I'll have to check with the old ball and chain, but go ahead and pencil us in."

"The presentation is at 8:00. Why don't we say 6:45 at our house, if that's not too early?"

"We'll be there," promised Larry, still bemused at Michael's sudden change in attitude.

"Then we'll see you Wednesday," said Michael, who went back to his paperwork. It wasn't until McCoy was back in the hallway that he realized he had just been dismissed by an underling. An underling with an attitude, at that. Yep, Wednesday night should be interesting.

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

Birkoff hated Monday morning Psych classes. Instead of the lecture hall, the class met in smaller study groups called Recitations. Michelle was in his group, which was a plus. The minus was that the teaching assistant insisted on calling him Seymour. Twenty percent of his grade from Recitation came from participation, and Birkoff refused to raise his hand knowing that a “Yes, Seymour?” would follow. So he sat and sulked, and waited until class was over before he broached the dinner thing with Michelle.

"I'd have to ask my sister first, of course, but she's a great cook, and I'd like you to meet her and my brother-in-law."

Her answer surprised him. "I don't think so, Birkoff. I mean, it's a sweet thought and everything, but I really don't do families."

Birkoff was crestfallen.

"I'd love to have dinner with you," she added quickly, "just not with your family, okay?"

Taking what he could get, Birkoff nodded mutely.

Michelle stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Hey. Cheer up. I'll see you in French this afternoon. Au revoir, mon ami."

"Hasta la bagel," he joked back, feeling much better, as he watched her walk away.

He had two hours before Algebra, so he drove home to see if Nikita had whipped up anything more spectacular than peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. She hadn't, but she gave him a great idea on how to get Michelle over to the house for dinner.

She would make enough extra lasagna for him and Michelle, and he would invite her over at 8:00, when the guests were gone and he had cleared the table. Nikita agreed as long as Michael did.

Michael didn't.

He decided to get the McCoys oiled up at dinner, pick Larry’s pocket, and have Birkoff search his office while they were at the exhibit. Birkoff had to agree that Michael's plan made more sense in terms of the mission, and shelved his idea of asking Michelle anywhere for the time being.

* * *

It was lunchtime in Evansville, but it was 7:00 in Europe. Jurgen and Suzanne had just finished their Tai-Chi work out in room G7, and Jurgen had decided to strike again. Again, Suzanne rebuffed him. He was confused. "Why do you keep leading me on, and playing the world's biggest flirt, if you have no intention of following through?" he asked her pointedly before they could leave for their respective locker rooms.

Suzanne had the courtesy to look a little embarrassed. "Look, Jurgen. I like you. I really do." She paused, weighing her next words. "You're--safe. Someone I can flirt with without, um, consequences." She hung her head, feeling miserable, and missed the tinge of pink that spread across Jurgen's face then quickly disappeared.

"You know about the accident," Jurgen stated softly. It wasn't a question.

Suzanne nodded, still not looking up.

"Then you also know not all rumors around here are true. If you find me attractive enough to flirt with me, to the neglect of your job and proposed cancellation--" at this her head jerked up in shock, "--then be prepared to follow through. Otherwise, focus on your work, and only on your work, and leave me out of your little mind games."

He strode off the mat to the men’s locker room and shut the door behind him.

Suzanne was truly shaken. She did like Jurgen, she even had a bit of a crush on him, but she had not considered him as dating material because of the rumor regarding his masculinity since his accident. Woah. If she was close to cancellation just for flirting, she had some serious soul-searching to do.

* * *

Birkoff looked with disgust at the ‘C’ he received on his French homework. Madame Sartre, catching the look on his face, smiled encouragingly.

"You’re doing fine, Monsieur Birkoff. Just take the time to double-check your work. The mistakes you make are careless errors--your class work tells me you know the material."

"Yeah. I get it." Birkoff replied, then, seeing her mock frown, changed his answer to "Oui, Madame."

"Please initial your papers and return them to me," said Madame as the clock signaled the end of class. "I've not recorded all the grades yet. And don't think you can fool me by changing an F to an A. I'm not that gullible."

The class laughed politely.

Birkoff looked at Michelle's paper, an A, of course, with initials MB written in the upper right corner. "Who's MB?" he asked as they headed to the commons together to grab a bite to eat.

"I give up," replied Michelle. "Who is MB?"

"You should know. You wrote it on your paper."

"Oh, that," Michelle giggled. "It's not a B, it's a 3, like cubed." Birkoff was totally lost. They found an empty table and sat down, balancing backpacks, Pepsis and soft pretzels. "My real name is Madeline."

Birkoff nearly spewed Pepsi out his nose.

"I know," said Michelle empathetically. "Not quite as bad as Seymour, but right up there. My middle name is Michelle. Madeline Michelle McCauley. M3. Get it?"

Michelle spread a napkin delicately over the teeny black stretchy material she called shorts, and began the process of dismantling her pretzel.

Needing desperately to change the subject, Birkoff brought up the subject of Madame Sartre's husband, who headed the Psych department. Neither of them had met him personally; their classes were taught by Associate professors and teaching assistants.

“Michael said he looks like a carp, and has the personality to match,” offered Birkoff.

“I can’t imagine Madame Satre with anyone like that,” replied Michelle, wrinkling her nose. “She’s more suited to, say, your brother-in-law.”

“When did you see Michael?” Birkoff asked in surprise.

“I’m taking Intro to Physics, duh, and he is in the same building and, well, kind of hard to miss. All that great, curly hair and those eyes! Who wouldn’t go after him?”

“Michael can handle himself around woman,” boasted Birkoff, thumping his chest. “Taught him everything he knows.”

Michelle was not impressed.

“I heard that whoever Sharon Satre wants, Sharon Satre gets. Did you know she had an affair with Professor McCoy last semester?

Birkoff was stunned, but filed this tidbit away to share with Michael and Nikita later.

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

It was Tuesday morning, and Birkoff was at his Chemistry class, Michael had office hours until noon, and Nikita was bored. She had had a chiropractic adjustment at 8:30 that morning, and was feeling a bit frisky. She decided to pay an unscheduled visit to Michael.

Michael, unfortunately, had a visitor, one Dr. Larry McCoy. It was apparent at once to Nikita that Larry was cruising way too close to the edge of Michael's temper, and she stepped in at once to defuse the situation.

"Why, Dr. McCoy," she gushed, "what a pleasant surprise to find you here." She touched his arm, then his shoulder. "Do you spend this much time with all your Associate professors, or should Michael feel especially flattered?" She made a point of picking some lint off his lapel, then brushing against him as she came to stand by Michael's side.

"Your husband just can't function without me," brayed McCoy, and he and Nikita laughed, while Michael smiled politely. "Looking forward to dinner and the museum thing tomorrow, Mikey," McCoy added as he turned to leave.

"We'll look forward to seeing you then," Nikita called sweetly after him.

When the door had closed behind him, Michael turned to look at Nikita. "What did you get?"

Nikita unloaded her stash. "Two pens--one blue, one black; a pack of gum; and a business card from a Lexus dealership."

"The trousers will be more difficult," mused Michael, "and he will definitely miss his keys, even if he's been drinking. We'll have to switch them out with another set so he doesn't notice their absence."

"I've already taken care of that," said Nikita as she perched on the edge of his desk. She produced a key chain similar in shape and size to the one McCoy constantly jingled, attached to an assortment of keys. "I went to see Bobbi again today," she added as he returned to his chair.

"She doesn't suspect anything?"

"No, Section was thorough," Nikita said bitterly. "Nothing at all shows up in the x-ray. But--I do feel pretty, um, relaxed, right now, if you can take a couple hours off."

Michael smiled. "I have office hours here till noon, then class till four o'clock. How long will your adjustment last?"

"I don't know. I never timed it before. I thought we might test it together."

Michael took Nikita's hand and looked directly into her sky-blue eyes. "Nikita, I know these adjustments mean a lot to you, but--"

Oh, God, thought Nikita, here comes the 'this isn’t making love, it’s Valentine sex’ speech.

"--remember that Dr. Browne is still under suspicion as a Red Cell operative until proven otherwise."

"Oh. Of course." In her blissful state of tranquility, she had almost managed to overlook that minor detail. "I'm at her office three days a week. I'll check her computer then, and after we become best friends, search her home."

"Just don't lose perspective, okay?"

"Of course not.”

* * *

Operations had not received any more intel from Birkoff regarding Michael's and Nikita's mating habits outside of the twice weekly obligatory couplings, which was just as well--Madeline had spurned him again in her oh-so-polite way, so he really wasn't in the mood to read about people who were getting some while he was not. He had also not yet read the growing file on Birkoff's little friend, Michelle...McCall, McCallum, McCauley...what the devil was her name?

He picked up that file, turned to the first page, and the name that he read kicked him in the stomach.

Michelle Marie Markali. Age 15. Daughter of Corrine Markali, former wife of Paul Wolfe--MIA since 1967. He scanned the file. Raised primarily in foster care due to mother's unstable mental health--extremely high IQ--gifted student at St. Francis School For Girls in Cincinnati, where she had last been seen in March of 2003 before surfacing at the university and calling herself McCauley. Apparently, she had hacked into the university's mainframe and created her own background file and transcripts. She had also siphoned money from her stepfather's accounts to pay for her education. At this, Operations had to laugh. Good for her.

Operations grew thoughtful. Section didn't generally recruit operatives this young, but there was always the odd exception. He would speak to Madeline. He was due for another dinner date.