you set fire to me that night, you lit and left me burning; out of my mind, but in my sights, I saw the tables turning

Maybe I’ve been through more painful debriefings than this one. Maybe I haven’t. At this point in time, I can’t remember a single one and - after having spent the last hour having a cosy chat with both Madeline and Operations in the close confines of Madeline’s office - I can safely say that I may never be able to recall one ever again.

I press my lips into a tight line as Madeline finishes her litany of Jurgen’s better qualities, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me weep for him, for myself, for Michael. When she finishes speaking, I look at her steadily. “Is that all?”

“Not quite.” She smiles at me, her face a picture of welcoming, motherly warmth. Luckily, I know better. “You've had to endure a number of difficult things since you've come back to us. We all have to come to terms with our personal losses. Look into our souls, find a way to cope.”

I very badly want to fling something – anything – across the room, but I merely twist my fingers around the metal armrest of my chair. “We can't help you with that,” she goes on smoothly. “But I know you.” Another smile, this time of encouragement. “And I know you'll be able to find that inner strength. “

I nod, praying silently that this remarkable piece of touchy-feely bullshit will bring an end to this meeting, then Operations clears his throat. “Although we rarely do this with such a young Operative, we're willing to make an exception in your case. “ He’s smiling at me, genuinely smiling, and despite my every hard-learned instinct, I want to smile back.

I don’t.

“We want you to take some time for yourself,” he announces smugly, as though bestowing an unexpected wish on an undeserving child. Perhaps, in his eyes, this is precisely what he is doing. “Anywhere in the world you'd like to go.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I stare at him, then at Madeline, only just managing to stop myself from saying the words out loud.

Madeline smiles. “That will be all, Nikita.”

~*~*~

“Nikita.”

Michael makes his way slowly toward me. He’s on crutches, an indignity I've never before seen him suffer, so his progress is rather painful to watch. The sight of his injured leg makes my stomach clench, and I have to look away. Why today, when I want so desperately to despise him, does he have to look as though he might actually be human?

He doesn’t waste any time on chit chat, and for once I am grateful. “Some of the things I said about Jurgen are not true. I tell you this in case you have any doubt as to what kind of man he was.” He looks at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. When I say nothing, he goes on, managing to sound concerned and detached at the same time. “I'm sure you don't.”

My throat tight with the words I still want to scream at him, I look down at my hands, noting vaguely that my knuckles are still battered from my home renovation efforts.

Home. What a joke.

“Jurgen trained me when I first came to Section.” There’s a catch in his voice, a ghost of some dark emotion that makes me want to reach out a hand to him, in spite of everything. “I'll miss him.”

I look at him and my heart breaks all over again. It’s all too easy to remember the touch of his hands, the taste of his mouth. The words he said to me. He stands there, looking at me as though he’s nothing more than a caring friend, one who says all the right things, makes all the right gestures. How is it possible, I wonder, that so much passion can be hidden with such ease? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he’s a better liar than I thought.

With hands that are surprisingly steady, I pull my hat – the one that was the victim of so many of Jurgen’s teasing jokes – onto my head, then give him a curt nod. “So will I.” But not as much as I’m going to miss you, Michael.

I feel his eyes on me the whole length of the main floor of Section, but I don’t look back. It’s much too late for that.

~*~*~

“This is the last call for Flight 47 to Barbados.”

I hand my ticket to the woman at the first class check-in desk, and she smiles at me as though I’ve just handed her a sack of money. “We hope you enjoy flying with us, Ms Smith.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Smith. Good grief. “I’m sure I will.”

Five minutes later I’m in my seat, pointedly ignoring the in-flight magazines. For the next four days, I don’t want to have to summon enough brain power to even have to read. All I want to do is to feel the sun on my skin and drink overpriced drinks with suspect names. All I want is – My musing comes to an abrupt halt as an almost physical pain twists deep inside my chest. The view outside the small window blurs with my tears, and I wipe an angry hand across my face.

Being with Jurgen – sleeping with him, sharing myself with him - wouldn’t have been meaningless. Far from it. But it still wouldn’t have been enough. Because, in the end, it would have come down to one thing. He wasn’t Michael.

By the time the plane has been in the air fifteen minutes, I am cradling a large vodka rocks, having decided to try my hand at drowning my sorrows rather facing them. There is no one else seated in this section of the plane, and I give silent thanks for the power of the Section expense account. The last thing I want to do is make inane conversation with a travelling businessman looking for a distraction.

The alcohol is doing a thorough job of warming the chill in my bones when I hear a voice that strips my nerves bare.

“Well, fancy meeting you here!”

This time, I do say the words out loud. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mick Schtoppel gives me an offended look as he pauses beside my seat. “Nice to see you too, Popsicle.”

I stare at him. This is unbelievable. This low-life almost got my head literally blown up the last time Section engaged his services. He should not be here in first class, wearing his purple suit and reeking of aftershave. He should be far, far away from me, preferably lying somewhere in a ditch. In great pain, I add with a mental snarl.

“Get away from me, Schtoppel.” I look around for the air steward, only to realise with cold certainty that we are absolutely – and quite possibly deliberately - alone.

He eases himself into the seat across from me, folds his hands in his lap, and gives me a smile. When he speaks again, there isn’t the slightest trace of the Cockney accent I’ve already come to loathe. “I’m so sorry to disturb your holiday, Nikita, but I have a proposition for you.”

~*~*~

Send suggestions and comments to Genevieve