With a bag of groceries in his arms, the man fished in his pocket for his keys and unlocked the security door leading into his building, letting the door close behind him.

Hefting the bag of groceries he mounted the stairs and headed for the second floor, stopping at the first apartment off to the right of the stairs, using his keys again to unlock it. Once inside he pushed the door shut with his foot and set the bag of groceries briefly down to throw the padlock and draw the chain across the door, bending over to pick up the bag once again.

    "Lilly, I'm back!" he called with a smile as he walked down the narrow hallway leading into the living room and when there was no immediate answer the smile vanished from his face. Odd, she'd been here when he left and hadn't planned on going anywhere, had looked like she and little Jeff were settled in for the afternoon--he frowned as he continued slowly into the living room, calling again, "Lily?"

    And froze where he was standing at seeing Lily seated down on the couch, Jeff held in her lap, eyes wide and frightened, standing behind the couch three men, all wearing black leather coats that ill-concealed the guns they wore tucked into waistbands or shoulder holsters, according to their preference. Lily lifted her eyes to meet his, her mouth trembling and eyes begging for him to help her, even if she was too frightened to speak, and the man took a step toward her, hand outstretched, only to halt as one of the men drew his gun and placed the muzzle against the back of her head in a warning gesture.

    "Hello, Harry."

    Slowly Harry turned to face the woman that emerged from the bedroom, leaning casually against the doorjamb, blond hair tucked up under the beret she wore, a black leather jacket over black turtleneck and jeans, a gun held in one gloved hand. She pushed off from the doorjamb, the gun down at her side, and gave him a smile of greeting that didn't reach hazel eyes, eyes that watched him with the cold merciless gaze of a snake, awaiting the slightest wrong movement so that she could strike.

    Wetting his lips and swallowing hard against a tightness in his throat, Harry managed a sickly smile as he said, "Isabelle. It's been a long time." His eyes passed uneasily over her companions, hard men, and then went back to the woman. "This isn't your usual stomping grounds."

    "No, it is not." agreed Isabelle with a small smile. "But I am here on strictly...personal business." The smile became razor-edged, eyes cold and brittle. "I understand that you've had dealings with Rene...Rene Dian." Said casually, almost off hand, Isabelle moving forward to stand behind Lily, one hand going out to touch her on the head. "And that you might know who betrayed him." As Harry stood mute, she caressed the top of Lily's head, hand tightening in her hair as Lily tried to pull away. "Such a beautiful family, Harry, you can be proud of them. And they love you too, don't they?" She leaned over the couch to touch Jeff on the head as well, fingers lingering on his hair.

    "Please." whispered Harry wretchedly, unable to stand seeing the fear in Lily's eyes, the way she trembled. "Not my family..."

    "A name, Harry. That is what I desire." said Isabelle flatly, straightening to stare hard at him. "A name and I shall not tell Pierre to splatter your wife's lovely head on the wall."

A whimper from Lily and her arms tightened around Jeff as she buried her face in her son's hair, tears rolling down her cheeks. Pierre cocked his gun and aimed it again at Lily's head as Isabelle said inexorably, "A name, Harry." Agonized Harry remained silent and Pierre's finger tightened on the trigger, Jeff starting to cry.

    "Michael...you knew him as Michel. That's all I have, I swear, just his name!"

    Isabelle frowned at him, eyes glittering. "Michel is dead." And nodded curtly at Pierre.

    Desperately Harry lunged forward, arms extended, recoiling as Pierre brought the gun up to point at him. "He didn't die in prison, it was a set-up, he works for this agency now! It's the truth, I swear to God I wouldn't lie to you, not when you're holding a gun on my family--"

    "Michel...alive." said Isabelle slowly and gestured for Pierre to lower his gun as she moved around the couch. "He is the one that is responsible for Rene?" There was a note of incredulity in her voice, as if she couldn't believe that the Michel she had known would be capable of doing such a thing...but then she had not seen the changes wrought in him over the years...not as Harry had.

    Once he had said the name, the rest came spilling out of Harry in a torrent. "He came to me, two weeks ago, he knew Rene was in town and active, he wanted to know where he was. I didn't have a choice, I had a family to protect--" He had said as much to Michael when they had met and all Michael had said was for him to take the money, asking where Rene was...knowing what Michael had become, Harry had been certain that when he went up against Rene one of them would fall...and it wasn't likely to be Michael.

    "And so you gave him Rene." said Isabelle flatly.

    Tears filled Harry's eyes. "I swear, I didn't know he would kill him--Christ, they used to be thick once, I didn't think he was capable of killing Rene--"

    "And yet he did." Softly said, Isabelle's eyes darkening with pain and grief, clearing when they lifted to fix on Harry. "Contact him. Set up a meet...and we will spare your family. Fail me in this and I will cut them to pieces. Do you understand?"

    Wretchedly Harry nodded and Isabelle drew a cell phone from inside her coat, passing it to him. "Make the call. Tell him exactly what I say...and you and yours will live for a long time."

    Automatically taking the phone Harry hesitated, torn between duty and fear, only the sound of Lily's whispered plea making him lift the phone to dial the number he knew by heart.

    Walking down the hall of the Section and passing by Michael's office, Nikita glanced at the door, as she had every day for the last two weeks, and to her surprise found that this time the blinds were up and there was the familiar figure of Michael sitting behind his desk. Two weeks had passed since Rene Dian's death at her hands, since Michael had walked out of that apartment stinking of blood and death, leaving her behind as he left the scene--two weeks since Michael had stood there, ready to let Rene shoot him, to pay penance for his betrayal of his old friend, his soft words echoing endlessly through her mind over those two weeks he had been gone. You should have let him do it, he had said to her, the walls around him cracking and trembling, and all she had been able to do was stand still, watch him as he went to kneel over his friend's body and close his eyes.

    Where he had been for those two weeks, she did not know. No use asking Madeline for that would only open her to the older woman's scrutiny, to an examination of her motives for asking the information. Birkhoff had been no help, just shrugging at her question before returning to his beloved computers, and from Walter all she had gotten was that Michael was on "downtime"...whatever the hell that meant. She had tried not to worry but that scene in the apartment had played endlessly through her mind, Rene with the gun pointed at Michael's head and Michael with his hands at his sides, unmoving, no intention at all to defend himself or evade attack.

    Drawing in a deep breath, she fixed a smile on her face and knocked once on the door before opening it, slipping inside even as Michael lifted his head to regard her with quiet gray eyes. The mask was once more firmly in place but he did look a little...tired, as if he had not been sleeping well. It says here that you're subject to dreams, nightmares--the words echoed through her mind, words spoken by the Red Cell interrogator, the PDA with Michael's file held in his hands, a mocking solicitousness in his voice. A tiny tidbit, a minor revelation next to the one about his dead son, but it had been filed away in her mind to be reviewed later, when she had the time to think about it. If he suffered from bad dreams then there was hope yet that some part of him lived, some part of his soul, the romantic side of her argued.

    "How've you been?" she asked brightly as she perched a hip on his desk.

    Michael leaned back a little in his chair, creating a physical distance between them to match the emotional one evident in his expression, his voice. "Fine." he responded, eyes cool as he gazed back at her. When Nikita lowered her head, one hand trailing across his desk, he shifted in his chair, something almost like impatience flickering in his eyes, his expression. "Is there something you wanted?"

    Sliding off the desk Nikita faced him, folding arms over her chest. "What I want from you, Michael, is for you to be consistent. Two weeks ago you showed up on my doorstep, pouring your heart out to me...and now here you are the Ice Prince once again. As if nothing ever happened, as if what happened means nothing to you at all. As if you didn't--" She broke off abruptly, aghast at what she was about to say.

    Michael smiled brittlely at her. "As if I didn't betray my friend? Put the Section before my old loyalties? As if I didn't kill him?" he asked, tone soft but with an undercurrent of pain and self-loathing, barely discernible.

    "You didn't kill him, Michael. I did." said Nikita softly, compassionately.

    Michael's eyes shifted away from hers, refusing that comfort, that out. "I led the Section to him and his people--I might as well have pulled the trigger myself."

    "Michael--" Helplessly Nikita slapped her palms against the desk, wanting to shout at him, rail at him, anything to break him out of the cycle of guilt and recrimination but knowing that nothing she said would change how he saw himself. Only he could do that...

    The ringing of his phone broke the tension between and Michael picked it up, all but snapping into it. "Yes." His jaw tightened briefly as he listened to the voice on the other line and then he relaxed, giving a curt nod. "Alright. I'll be there in about an hour." And hung up the phone, rising from his chair to grab his coat and pull it on.

    "Michael--" Nikita extended a hand to touch him but he evaded her, pulling his coat closed and straightening the cuffs, not meeting her eyes.

    "I have work to do." he said curtly and left the office.

    Sighing Nikita drew her hand back and let herself slumping briefly back against his desk before pushing away and striding out of his office.

    Harry stood in the cold, stomping his feet and rubbing hands together, trying not to look at the nearby tables outside the cafe that held Isabelle's comrades. Tried not to think of what he was about to do, what it might mean to himself and his family if his betrayal was discovered...because right now he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And if everything went the way Isabelle planned then no one would know what he'd done, whispered a coldly practical voice in his head.

    Lifting his head he saw Michael come striding down the sidewalk and for one brief moment considered ignoring him, just passing him by, not point him out to Isabelle's goons...but the voice of reason penetrated. Isabelle sat in his apartment with a gun to the heads of the two people most dear in the world to him and if she didn't get the phone call saying that Michael was secured, then she would put that gun to their heads and end their lives.

    And so Harry played the role of Judas, going forward to greet Michael and identifying him to the waiting men. Served as the distraction as the two came up behind Michael, one stabbing the needle into his throat and the other catching him when he slumped. Swallowing hard, Harry looked down at the still form slumped in the man's arms and then tore his eyes away, leading the way to the car.

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

    As Harry stood look-out, two of Isabelle's men wrestled Michael's limp form into the backseat, shoving him into the corner and one sitting beside him to bind wrists and ankles, even though he was still obviously unconscious. At a curt gesture from one of the others Harry slid into the front seat and shut the door, deliberately turning his attention from the backseat, looking instead out through the passenger window. Just another hour or so and he was done with this...

    The driver flipped open a cell phone as he started the car and punched in a series of numbers, pulling away from the curb as he waited for an answer. "Nous avons le. Ou nous voulez-vous le prendre?" Silence as he listened to the reply and then said, "Bien."

Disconnecting he shoved the phone back into his pocket and took a right at the next corner, heading away from downtown and to the industrial district. Not once did the man volunteer where they were going and Harry didn't ask, preferring to keep his involvement in this at the minimum. Soon as it was done, he would make plans to get his family out of the city, away from this madness, finally make his break with the community.

    They came up to an old factory, with a FOR LEASE sign hanging next to a broken second-floor window, the other windows thick enough with dust and grim to prevent the casual onlooker from seeing inside. Along the east side of the building was an alley and it was down there that the driver guided the car, underneath rusted fire escapes and past a dumpster, turning abruptly left once past the dumpster and into a small parking lot tucked against the side of the building.

    Turning off the car's engine, the driver glanced over at Harry and ordered curtly, "Out."

Swallowing Harry did as he was ordered, standing to the side as the backseat was shoved up and the two men in the back dragged their captive out, up to the short ramp that led to the loading dock. Following behind them as the driver opened a door and held it open, Harry went through first, shoving hands into the pockets of his coat and shivering in the chill of the factory, glancing around the interior.

    From behind him he heard the footsteps of the other two men and the odd scuffing sound of boots dragging on the cement floor as they carried the unconscious Michael inside and then let him drop to the cement, Harry wincing at the sound of the impact as he slumped to the cement floor. But thankfully that was all they did, just stepped back to wait, keeping an eye on both Harry and the still Michael as they waited for their leader.

    Finally there came the sound of a car and one of the men went out to meet it, returning just a few moments later with Isabelle trailing behind him. Immediately Isabelle went to the figure lying slumped on its back, stripping a glove from her right hand and laying it on Michael's cheek to turn his head so that she could see him better, fingers gripping his chin.

    She sat still for a long moment, staring down at him, and closed her eyes tightly as she knelt over him, remembering her last sight of him all those years ago. Standing across the street from the flat, frozen with fear at seeing the police vehicles in front of it, and then two policemen dragging Michel out, hands cuffed behind him. Over the roof of the police car his eyes had met hers, he had to have seen her, but he had said nothing as he was shoved into the police car. A martyr for the cause, Rene had proclaimed after they had learned of his death in prison...if only Rene had known then--

    Pushing up to her feet, she extended her hand to the driver and he gave her his cell phone, Isabelle casting a brief glance at Harry as she dialed a number. "Nous avons ce que nous voulouns. Permettre aller." And to Harry she said, as she closed the cell phone, "Go back to your family." Slowly Harry took a step back, then another, keeping them in sight till he came to the door and then slipped quickly out of it.

    Giving the still body before her a nudge with her foot, Isabelle said to the driver, "Prendre en haute." And turned away from the sight of them hauling Michael up to his feet, striving to harden her heart. No matter what he had been to her once--friend, comrade--now he was only the enemy...and the killer of one of the few people she had loved in this world.

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

As she came into the briefing room, Nikita's eyes automatically flicked around the table, seeking a familiar brown head, the calm prescence that always seemed to defuse just a little of the pre-mission tension, but oddly enough there was no sign of Michael. She dropped into a chair beside Emerson, giving the man a nod of greeting and receiving one in turn, and let her eyes roam the table again. Five other cold ops beside herself and Emerson, three of which she knew by name...there had to be something serious on the board for this kind of response.

Swinging her chair to face Emerson, Nikita asked quietly, "What's up?"

Emerson stroked his beard, a nervous gesture of his she knew well from previous missions, and leaned a little towards her. "Scuttlebutt says that we've got a potentially heavy situation developing. A man big in the European economic community--Edmund Janus--is in town, wheeling and dealing...and he's got some...detractors on his trail." At the sound of footsteps, he straightened in his chair, facing forward, and Nikita turned her chair as well to face Operations as he came into the room.

Shoving hands into the pockets of his blazer, Operations' pale eyes scanned the table, his gaze sharpening as he came on a conspicuously empty seat. Eyebrows raised, he turned a razor-thin smile on the cold ops gathered around the table and said in a deceptively bland tone, "We seem to be missing someone."

Around the table some heads were lowered in a sudden intense study of the table's surface while others looked to the side, anywhere that would not draw Operations' scrutiny and potential wrath. At last, Emerson stirred in his chair, lifting his head to meet Operations' steely glare. "I've put calls through to Michael's home phone and his cell phone...he hasn't answered either."

A heavy silence followed his statement and casting a quick glance around the table Nikita felt like she was once again in school, watching her fellow classmates squirm under the gimlet eye of authority. Not even she was foolish enough to draw Operations' attention when he was in this kind of mood...

"Emerson--you're team leader." Emerson gave a quick nod of assent and Operations turned to Nikita, placing hands on the edge of the table and leaning forward a little. "You...find him." At the cold order, Nikita swallowed the retort that came to her lips and merely gave a nod, rising from her chair to leave the room, hearing Operations' voice echo through the room behind her but focusing now on the problem before her.

It was not like Michael at all to miss a briefing, no matter what kind of emotional state he was in...no matter that two weeks grace had done nothing towards resolving his guilt over his part in his friend Rene's death. That he had confided in her at all had surprised her...and yet had not surprised her--of anyone in the Section, she was no doubt the person he would most consider a friend. Not to mention that she would be the only one that could understand the emotional quandry he found himself in, the struggle to reconcile his loyalties to the Section and that to his old friend. It was ironic that she had been the one to urge him to disengage himself from it, to let Section handle it...and to remind him of who--and what--Rene was.

As she left the debriefing room, the sound of Birkhoff's voice distracted her from her reverie...and brought back to her the brief meeting with Michael the day before. A phone call that had interrupted them...

Striding up behind his chair, she laid her hands on the back of it to give it a little nudge, draw Birkhoff's attention. He gave her a sharp look and then focused again on his screen before him, tapping at his keyboard. "What?"

"Michael had an incoming call here yesterday--I want to know who it was and where it came from."

Birkhoff gave a snort and shook his head. "Do I look like the Section's switchboard? I'm busy." And proceeded to reach for a handful of Oreos, popping one into his mouth as he leaned back in his chair.

Grasping his chair, Nikita turned it so that he faced her and smiled sweetly. "Birkhoff... we're chums, right? And chums do each other favors...like I didn't tell Gail the real reason why you cancelled on her last week. So that you and the other...boys...could play..." Birkhoff's eyes widened a little behind his glasses and Nikita gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Of course, if we aren't chums, then woman to woman, I feel obligated to tell her that you found it far more interesting to play Doom with a bunch of overgrown little boys than to have dinner with her."

"You wouldn't..." Birkhoff trailed off as Nikita gave him another smile and swallowed hard, turning his chair back to his monitor. "Umm...what time was the call?"

"About 512 PM." Nikita didn't hide the victorious smile that curved her lips. "I'd appreciate a tape of it while you're at it." She leaned over his shoulder to watch the monitor's screen and the information rapidly scrolling across it. "You're a true chum, Seymour." she said, patting him on the head.

Consciousness returned to Michael. Not slowly but with a sudden, almost painful jolt, the finely honed survival instinct dragging him up into awareness. His body's first impulse was to sit upright, to take in his surroundings, an impulse that intellect brutally suppressed. He let himself remain slumped, relying on his other senses to determine his situation--hands were drawn behind him and encased in the familiar cold rings of handcuffs, a hard wooden chair at his back and feet tied to the legs of it. A sense of a prescence somewhere nearby...

Slitting eyes he gazed through the curtain of brown hair, seeing an empty room before him, dust filming floors and the one window, and heard the distinctive sound of boots crossing the wooden floor. Some movement, some twitch of the body, must have betrayed him for a hand came into his field of vision, fingers digging into his chin and lifting his head, forcing him to meet the gaze of the figure that stood before him.

Blinking to clear vision, he stared for a long moment at the blond haired woman that stood before him, a mind still a little fuddled from the drug he'd been given slow to place the face...but once the connection was made it rocked him to his core, though it did not show in his voice or his eyes.

"Isabelle...you've dyed your hair." he said inanely. To see her again here...so soon after Rene... "I heard you were dead."

Isabelle gave him a cool smile. "As I heard of you. And yet here we both are..." She released his chin and drew back to give him a long considering look. "The years have treated you well." She extended a hand to brush hair back from his forehead, the touch of her fingers surprisingly gentle. "We mourned you, Michel, all of us, when we learned of your death--if we had known what you would become, we would have cursed your name."

Michael returned her gaze levelly, head tilted a little back and expression inscrutably polite, as if they were strangers speaking of nothing more than polite trivialities. "Do you expect me to beg you to spare my life?"

Isabelle bared her teeth in a smile. "Oh, no, Michel, you are too proud for that--you always were. What I want from you is a confession...and retribution." She placed both hands on the arms of his chair and leaned forward. "You betrayed Rene...and killed him."

"Yes." he said simply, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. He had not pulled the trigger...but Rene's death was laid at his door all the same. Every time when he closed his eyes at night he could see Rene's accusing face before him, hear again those words Rene had spoken, the words that had cut deeply into him...all the more so because they were true. He had given his soul to the Section long ago...

"Why?" Though she had meant the single word to come out as a hard demand, there was a plainitive note in her voice, a mute plea in her eyes for understanding. Before his eyes the years were stripped away from her, showing the idealisitic girl of her youth, so passionate and eager to devote her all to the cause...

Why? The question was one he had posed to himself, as he'd fought between his loyalty to Rene and his loyalty to the Section--and the answer was as clear to him now as it had been then. "Because it had to be done." he said woodenly.

Isabelle drew back and straightened, all emotion wiped away from her, leaving only grim purpose. "As I have to do this...avenge Rene." And from behind her back she drew a gun, jacking the slide to chamber a round as she stepped forward to extend the gun. As he had done with Rene, Michael closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He had severed the ties to his past with Rene's death...and severed as well the connection he had to the only human part of himself left. The last breath of that which was human in him...for her to kill him now would be a kindness... Consciousness returned to Michael.

Not the slow, dawning rise of awareness but with a sudden, almost painful jolt, the finely honed survival instinct dragging him up from the void of oblivion. His body's first impulse was to sit upright, to take in his surroundings, an impulse that intellect brutally repressed. With awareness came the memory of what had occured, images flicking through his mind--Harry coming towards him, offering the distraction that enabled capture, and then...nothing.

He let himself remain slumped, relying on his other senses to determine his situation--hands were drawn behind him and encased in the familiar cold rings of handcuffs, a hard wooden chair at his back and feet tied to the legs of it. Gone was the familiar, comforting weight of his gun--not a surprise, that--and coat was gone as well. A dull ache in his temples, remnant of the drug he had been given, but it was only a minor discomfort, easily set aside. Somewhere nearby he had the sense of a prescence and muscles tightened in response, requiring a supreme act of will to stay as he was.

Slitting eyes he gazed through the curtain of brown hair, seeing an empty room before him, dust filming floors and the one window, and heard the distinctive sound of boots crossing the wooden floor. Some movement, some twitch of the body, must have betrayed him for a hand came into his field of vision, fingers digging into his chin and lifting his head, forcing him to meet the gaze of the figure that stood before him.

Blinking to clear vision, he stared for a long moment at the blond haired woman that stood before him, a mind still a little fuddled from the drug he'd been given slow to place the face...age and circumstance had hardened the face, stripping away innocence, the idealism of youth faded before the fanaticism experience had molded. In another life, another time, they had been friends and sometime lovers, sharing a vision of the future and a desire for change...and with Rene they had made up the core of the Bloody Hour.

"Isabelle." So calm he sounded, a facade successfully maintained--but underneath was a roiling mass of emotion, threatening to careen out of control. To see Rene again, after all these years, had been hard--forcing him to remember the person he had been so long ago, the dreams he'd had for his future...dreams turned to ashes. And to place his duty to the Section over his friend of old, the man that had sheltered and cared for his sister, out of memory for their friendship. To know the truth of Rene's words, that he was a man without a soul, just an automaton for the Section...

"It's been a long time, Michel." A crooked smile curved her lips, a smile that he knew so very well, but it did not touch her eyes. Her hand released his chin and she brushed hair back from his forehead, fingers surprisingly gentle but the touch sending a sharp jab of pain through him all the same. He could remember with sharp clarity lying in bed with her, Isabelle over him, hand stroking hair out of his eyes, smiling in lazy contentment, and he jerked back from her touch. Better a blow than this tenderness...

Isabelle drew back, rubbing her fingers together, and gave him a long considering look.

"I mourned you--we mourned you--when we learned of your death. Rene most of all, I think...you were like a brother to him. But here you are--one of the those that we have fought so long and hard against." For a moment the mask cracked, showing underneath it the girl she had been, confusion and a soft plea for understanding in her eyes. "How? How have you fallen so far...that you would murder Rene?"

He wanted to look away, to not see the accusation in her eyes, but he would not spare himself. He had made the choice, had rejected the out that Madeline offered him, and led Rene to his death. And so had extinguished the last breath in him that was human...

"It had to be done." Over and over the cool voice of reason had said those words, overriding the smaller voice that cried out against this betrayal...and, as always with him, he had chosen reason over emotion, even knowing that the logical act was inherently wrong.

"Well." Isabelle's mouth thinned, the momentary softness replaced by grim purpose. "No words in your defense? Just that...it had to be done?" Fury sparked now in her eyes, an anger he understood all too well...for he had directed it at himself these last two weeks, that and loathing for what he had done. "All the answer you have for me, is it, Michel? Very well..." From under her coat she drew a gun and jacked the slide to chamber a round, striding forward to press the muzzle against his forehead.

As he had done with Rene, Michael closed his eyes, the weight of guilt and self-loathing so heavy that he no longer cared if he lived or died...

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

Nikita sat sprawled in a chair, booted feet up on the console, headphones perched precariously on her head and the Sony Walkman laying in her lap, listening to a tape of the phone call Michael had received. All calls were sent through a relay to their intended recepients and--unless precautions were taken--were taped for future review...a blessing in this case.

Hitting the play button she listened to the tape, hearing first a click as the tape was activated and then Michael's voice, sounding curt. "Yes."

A pause and then a voice that she vaguely recognized but couldn't immediately place.

"It's Harry. I have some...information for you on Janus--Edmund Janus. Can you meet me? The cafe on Front Street?"

A moment of silence from Michael and then his flat reply. "Alright. I'll be there in about an hour." And then a click to signify disconnection of the call.

Harry...she rewound the tape to listen to it again and remembered when she had heard that voice before. Harry had been the one Michael had met, the one that had given him Rene Dian's location. The overheard conversation flitted through her mind, Harry saying, I changed my mind...I have a family now...and Michael saying brusquely, Take the money, Harry. A source that he had used more than once before...and was possibly the last person to see him.

Tugging the headphones done off her ears, Nikita swiveled in her chair to face Birkhoff, hunched over his keyboard. "Birkhoff." One hand reached for the nearby bag of Corn nuts to pop a handful in his mouth, eyes never leaving the monitor, and Nikita lowered a foot to give the arm of his chair a kick. "Birkhoff!"

"What?" snapped Birkhoff, shooting her a glare as he hurriedly hit the back space on his keyboard.

"I need to get a location on a man named Harry."

"Harry." repeated Birkhoff and gave a small shake of his head as he looked at her incredulously. "You have an idea how many Harrys there are in the database?"

Letting her other leg slide off the console, Nikita moved her chair closer to Birkhoff's and said quietly, "He's a source of Michael's--Michael went to him for a location on Rene Dian."

Slowly Birkhoff nodded and turned his attention to the monitor, typing rapidly on his keyboard. "That should help narrow it down." Nikita scooted her chair closer, looking over Birkhoff's shoulder as he entered the information, both watching the screen as images flicked quickly across it, settling at last on one in particular. A man in his early thirties, with dark blond hair and an open, affable face, very ordinary looking. Just another face in the crowd, completely unworthy of note...

"Harry Eberhard. Has connections to various radical groups...and a tie to an...old group that's now defunct."

"L'heure sanguine." said Nikita softly, eyes scanning the information recorded there.

Birkhoff nodded. "He's a facilitator, doesn't have any direct involvement--links groups, helps people get the things they need. Arms, equipment, you name it...he was picked up in '94 during an arms deal and Section cut him loose, with the provision that he provide info on the people he dealt with."

"Have a location on him?"

"1167 Polk Street...apartment F."

"Thanks, Birkhoff." Giving him a pat on the shoulder, Nikita pushed up out of her chair and went to pay a brief visit to Walter, securing a few items she might need in her search for Michael.

It took longer to find a place to park then it did to arrive at Harry Eberhard's apartment building, a renovated brownstone, and once she'd parked, Nikita set off for the building, one hand in her pocket and fingers clasped around her gun as she jogged up the steps.

Faced with a security door and a board of numbers to ring, she pressed buttons until she was answered by a male voice. All it took was a throaty "It's me" purred into the tinny speaker to get buzzed in and she slipped quickly inside.

Apartment F was on the second floor and off to the right of the stairs, two quick strides and she was standing in front of it. With one hand in her pocket, Nikita knocked on the door, facing the small peephole with a sunny smile on her face. On the other side she heard footsteps and then the sound of a chain being drawn, the door opening a crack so that she could get a glimpse of the man she'd seen on Birkhoff's monitor screen.

"Yes?"

"Harry?" asked Nikita with a bright smile.

Reluctantly the man nodded, suspicion showing in his eyes. "What do you--" Raising her foot, Nikita planted it on the door and gave it a hard kick, Harry stumbling back as the door was torn from his fingers and flew open with a sharp crack, chain dangling from it. Yanking her gun out of her pocket, she strode through the door and kicked it closed behind her, wagging her gun at Harry when he started for the living room.

"Ah-ah...I want you to stay where I can see you. Against the wall." She directed with a jerk of her head and Harry complied, pressing palms against the wall and turning his back to her. He was stiff but unresisting as she quickly patted him down and once she had found no weapon, Nikita spun him around and pushed him against the wall.

"Now...you met a friend of mine for a little...talk yesterday. Michael...you remember?"

Harry swallowed hard and gave an abrupt nod, fear flickering in his eyes. "And now no one seems to know where he is. You wouldn't happen to know, would you, Harry?" asked Nikita conversationally.

"If I...I tell you...they'll kill me." whispered Harry hoarsely.

Nikita grabbed a handful of his shirt and gave it a twist, pushing the muzzle of her gun up under his chin. "And if you don't tell me, I'll kill you. How's that for a quandry, Harry?" She gave his shirt a tug. "Where?"

From her left she heard the door open and she immediately swung her gun to cover the person that came through the door, finger tightening instinctively on the trigger. A petite dark-haired woman stood there, eyes wide as she saw the gun in Nikita's hand, and at her side was a little boy, no more than five. The woman dropped to a crouch, gathering her child in her arms and turning her body so that she shielded him, and Harry made an inarticulate sound, drawing Nikita's attention back to him.

"Don't hurt them...I'll tell you--"

Nikita lowered the gun, ashamed of her own actions, and released him, Harry casting his wife and son a quick, anxious look before he turned back to Nikita. "Old factory in the industrial district...corner of 17th Avenue and Division. I don't know where exactly they're holding him...or if they've moved him. Four of them, maybe five...I don't know for sure..." As Nikita continued to look at him, he raised his hands helplessly. "I didn't have any choice, they were holding my family--"

"Names?" She hated herself for it, using Harry's fear for his family's safety to gain the information she needed, but for Michael time would be running out...and she had to do what she had to do.

"Isabelle...that's the only one I know. She was in L'heure Sanguine--Bloody Hour--with Michael and Rene, back in the old days...it's all I have..." he added pleadingly.

Nikita nodded and stuffed her gun back in her pocket, moving slowly past the woman as she huddled against the wall, her child still held protectively in her arms, and her eyes went from mother and son to Harry. "Take them away from this, Harry. It's no way to raise a family." Slipping past the door, she shut it softly behind her and stood for a moment, shoulders slumping, before she moved to the stairs and back outside.

The cold muzzle of the gun pressed against his forehead and Michael sat unmoving in the chair. There was no trepidation at his impending demise, no regret, just...acceptance and a vague relief that it had come at last...

"Isabelle."

At the sound of a man's voice Isabelle drew the gun back and the sound of footsteps moving up beside them brought Michael's eyes open, to see the man that circled around them. Tall and lean, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his long black coat,  he was in his early thirties, blond hair cut very close to his head, a neatly trimmed beard accentuating a strong jaw, intense blue eyes studying Michael in turn as he tilted his head a little.

"Old friend of yours, Isabelle?" asked the man dryly. An accent colored his pronounciation, German most likely...noted the analytical part of Michael's mind.

"This doesn't concern you, Christian." said Isabelle sharply, fingers tightening around the gun now held down by her side.

"Isabelle...we are partners in this...venture. Until the deed is done, everything you do concerns me." responded Christian chidingly, ignoring Isabelle's angry and turning once again to a leisurely study of Michael. "Who is this?" A slight smile curved his lips as Michael returned his stare, remaining silent.

"A traitor to the cause--he works for the enemy now--" Isabelle lifted the gun to aim it once again but Christian grasped her wrist and pushed the gun away.

"Let us not be hasty here. If--as you say--he works for the...enemy...then he might have something...interesting to tell us. Wouldn't you?" He directed the last at Michael, taking  a step forward and placing his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning a little in to stare at Michael, showing white teeth in a smile. Michael tilted his head back to meet the other man's eyes, his own blank, empty of expression, the turn of his head lending him an attitude of insolence.

"He will tell you nothing." There was an almost grudging admiration in Isabelle's words as she took a step back, physically and mentally seperating herself from what would come. She would kill with little or no remorse...but she would not torture.

Christian shrugged. "And maybe that is so--but what is there to be lost in the trying? There will be enough left of him for you to exact your justice." The glance Isabelle turned on Michael was almost that of pity...but not quite. Flicking on the safety of her gun, she tucked it into the small of her back and turned to stride out of the room, the echo of the door shutting hard behind her ringing through the sudden silence of the room.

Straightening, Christian stepped back and then moved around the chair, heading for the door. Opening it, he called to someone out in the hall and there came a second set of footsteps, heavier ones, Christian's companion moving with him to stand before Michael's chair. Taller than Christian and weighing half again as much, all of it hard muscle, shaved head gleaming in the light of a dangling bulb, a cruel grin twisting hard features as he handed a bag to Christian.

"Shall we begin?" said Christian lightly and nodded to the skinhead. Grin widening, he drew back a fist and delivered a hard blow to Michael's chin.

From the second floor of a run-down warehouse across the street from the factory, Nikita watched the factory through binoculars, sweeping the binoculars in vain across the windows only to find that grime had darkened them too much to allow her to see inside. She had marked the arrival of a car, a late model sedan of a non-descript blue, and watched as it went into the alley on the east side of the factory, then sat and waited for it to depart. And waited and waited...

She had no idea of how many there might be inside...or even if Michael was in there. Or if he was alive, added a grim little voice in her mind. That, she would not allow herself to contemplate. For now...she had to find a way inside, a way to know if Michael was being held inside...and where.

Lowering the binoculars, she kneeled beside the backpack on the floor at her feet and unzipped it, dropping the binoculars inside and removing a small kit. She had dressed for the excursion in her scruffiest attire, an old Army coat worn over T-shirt and faded, torn jeans, a look that would allow her to blend in, to seem like one among the dozens of homeless that squatted in the abandoned buildings of the area. Even after years of polish and training she found it easy to tap into that old personna, the streetwise girl she had been, to project the attitude she'd worn as a shield then...and now.

Unzipping the small kit, she checked the contents tracker, bug, comset to monitor the bug and PDA to monitor the tracker. Tucking it into a pocket of her coat, she slung the backpack over her shoulder and went out into the street, for a stroll down the sidewalk and maybe a closer look at the factory...

Lounging against the wall, Eric shifted position as Bernard came down the hallway, pushing away from the wall. Bernard nodded to him in greeting and tilted his head sideways at the door in silent question.

"Still at it. He's stubborn, that one." At Isabelle's brusque order, Eric had stood guard over the door and not once all day had Christian or his thug Gunther emerge. One could almost feel sorry for the man they worked on...almost. "Your turn." he said to Bernard and gave him a pat on the shoulder as he passed him.

Down the stairs he went and out through the back, walking back up the alley and out onto the street. Isabelle had taken the car, off to finalize some preparations for the upcoming visit of Janus, and so he'd walk a few blocks, till he found a phone booth and could call a taxi. Not much longer would they be here and he planned to take advantage of the time here...

Whistling as he came out onto the sidewalk, the flash of sunlight blinded him for a moment, so that he didn't see the figure that came down the sidewalk, not until he felt it collide hard enough with him to send him rocking back on his heels. Hands slid over him as the person sought to recover its balance and Eric reflexively grasped wrists to hold them still. He grimaced in disgust, seeing what looked like a street person before him, but light blue eyes caught his gaze and held it, long golden hair framing a lovely face, not marred at all by the sneer she wore.

"Get off me!" she snarled, yanking to free her wrists, and Eric grinned at her as he raked her body with his eyes. Hard to tell under those clothes but she looked like a pretty one indeed...

"Hey, be a little friendly."

She went still and gave him a slow smile, licking her lips as she met his eyes. "You want friendly?" she asked huskily, hands relaxing in his grip as she took a step closer.

Eric grinned in anticipation, letting her come in closer, and gave a yell of pain as she kicked him in the knee, shoving him away from her.

"Asshole." she tossed over her shoulder as she stalked away with a toss of her head.

"Bitch!" snarled Eric, rubbing his knee and glowering after her as she crossed the street.

In return she made an obscene gesture then disappeared from view. Limping a little, Eric continued down the street, muttering all the while, and once he had gone from sight, Nikita emerged to examine the PDA in her hands, a small smile curving her lips as she saw that she'd managed to place the tracker perfectly. She didn't even need to be too close to keep tabs on him...

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

"Has anyone told you what beautiful eyes you have?"

Sitting at a table not far from the bar where Eric stood, Nikita rolled her eyes as his voice came over the comset, sipping her coffee as she listened to him use that line for the umpteenth time that night. From the factory she had followed him discreetly as he'd meandered through restaurant and then nightclub after nightclub, waiting patiently for him to return to the factory. For the last two hours he had been unsuccessful in his attempt to find a woman gullible enough to fall for such a sad come-on and she was beginning to develop a headache from the pounding beat of the music.

"Really? You think my eyes are beautiful?" came a breathy voice through the comset.

Bingo! thought Nikita with relief, glancing surreptiously at the bar to see the young woman in a skin tight black mini bat eyelashes at Eric, one hand flicking curly golden hair away from her shoulder in a practised gesture. Thank God for the vapid, she thought fervently.

"Like the sea at midnight..." cooed Eric and the young woman giggled as Eric leaned forward to blow in her ear. Forget the foreplay, just drag her out of here...thought Nikita irritably, rubbing at aching temples with her fingers. As much as she would like to go into the factory on her own and find Michael, the cool, more rational part of her mind argued that such an act could be tantamount to suicide...and getting herself killed would be no help to Michael. Eric was her way in...and she would stick with him till he went back.

"Want to go someplace a little more...private?" offered the young woman with a lick of her lips, reaching out to stroke long nails through his hair.

Eric's fervent agreement was an echo of Nikita's.

Two hours later Eric was cursing as he left the young woman's apartment, hastily pulling on shoes and rearranging rumpled clothing, a steady stream of French that--from Nikita's limited vocabulary--seemed to suggest the young woman was of dubious parentage and loose morals. Trust Romeo to pick up a pro, thought Nikita derisisvely as she watched him emerge from the front lobby, pulling on his coat.

Flagging down a cab, Eric climbed inside and Nikita eased her car away from the curb, following at a distance. Relief swept through her as she saw that the cab headed back towards the industrial district, letting Eric out a few blocks from the factory. Cutting her headlights, she pulled into an alley and sat listening to Eric's footsteps and breathing over the comset, an occassional curse muttered as he made his way back to the factory, grabbing her pack and slinging it over her shoulder as she got out of her car to follow.

Standing against the side of the factory, she looked for a way in and found one of the windows on the ground floor unsealed. Easing it up, she winced at the groan it made and slipped quickly inside, dropping down to a crouch underneath it and fumbling in her pack for night-vision goggles. Slipping them on she moved slowly through the darkness of the storeroom, pausing when she heard a voice over the comset.

"Back so soon?" asked a man's voice, roughly teasing.

Eric cursed him in answer and, from the scuff of shoes, gave the man a shove, a door creaking as it was pushed open. Nikita walked to the stairs, one hand to the comset as she made her way up to the second floor, listening as the two men walked into a room.

"Said anything?" Eric's voice came over the link, along with the sound of a hand striking flesh, and Nikita tensed as she came up onto the second floor, listening intently. "Well?" demanded Eric but for reply there was only the sound of labored breathing, not a word or sound made, then the sound of another, harder blow and a gasp accompanying it.

Opening her pack, Nikita removed her gun and screwed the silencer on it, slipping both arms through the straps to settle it more evenly on her back. Up here there was light and she slid the goggles down, allowing them to lay against her collarbone by their strap, drawing in a deep breath and pushing back all anxiety and fear, seeking a point of calm.

In three quick strides she was to the door and pushing it open with one hand, moving quickly inside even as Eric's companion turned to look at her. The man frowned, hesitating for one fatal moment, and even as he started to reach for the gun under his coat, Nikita's shot sent him sprawling backwards, just a soft pfft of sound, barely registered by Eric, only the sound of the other man's body striking the ground drawing his attention.

"What...?" Eric turned slowly, eyes focusing on her and widening at seeing the gun, hastily stumbling back even as she shot him. The bullet went through his shoulder, spinning him around and sending him down to his knees, and she moved quickly around the chair as Eric crawled to his companion, managing to pull the other man's gun free as she reached him and rolling onto his back to aim up at her.

Before he could squeeze the trigger she had her own gun aimed at him. "Don't." she warned him flatly. Grimacing in pain, he stared up at her and then started to tighten his finger on the trigger, from the contemptuous gleam in his eyes believing she would not shoot him. His body jerked with the impact of a single bullet to the heart and his hand fell limply to his side, the gun clattering to the floor.

Bending over to retrieve the gun, she flicked the safety on and shoved it into her pocket, moving quickly to the chair and the figure bound to it. "Michael..." she breathed in relief at seeing his familiar brown head, slumped so that his chin nearly touched his chest, and lifted his chin, wincing at seeing the damage done to that beautiful face. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, a nasty looking cut high on his left cheekbone that had trailed blood down his cheek, lower lip puffy and cut as well.

"Let's get you out of here--" Touching him reassuringly on the cheek, Nikita moved to the back of the chair and slipped off her pack, digging in it for a picklock to work patiently at the handcuffs. They came open and she pulled them loose of his wrists, laying them on the floor and picking a knife out of her bag to cut his feet loose as well.

She rose to support him when he slumped, hands gripping his shoulders. "Michael, we have to go--" Hadn't taken the time to check the factory for others here, had just acted impulsively, consumed with the need to free him...and she didn't know how much time they had. Just that they needed to be gone quick...

Nikita reached for his arm, to help him to his feet, but he evaded her touch, shaking his head wearily. "Go..." he whispered hoarsely.

Shaking her head, Nikita placed her palms on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. Swallowed hard as she saw resignation and pain in his eyes, a dull acceptance of his fate here...and knew that he'd offered them no resistance. That he was prepared to die here...as he'd been prepared to die at Rene's hands...because he deserved it.

Anger rose in her, bitter and scathing, anger and frustration. She wanted to shout at him, shake him until his head rattled, curse him for being such a stubborn pig-headed fool...that he could so blindly accept the image that the Section had made for him, accept that he deserved no better than the life they had given him.

"Michael." His eyes opened again to look at her, dull with pain and self-loathing, and she spoke slowly and clearly, biting off each word. "If you stay here, so will I. If you die here...then so will I. Because I am *not* going to leave you here. Do you understand me?"

He closed his eyes briefly, features spasming in pain, and then reached out a shaky hand to her, allowing her to draw him up, a groan escaping him with the movement. Slinging his arm over her shoulders, she pulled him up to his feet, her other arm sliding around his waist to better support him as they moved out of the room.

***********

With Michael's arm around her shoulders, Nikita moved down the corridor, gun held in her free hand. It was slow going at first, Michael leaning heavily on her, but as they went he seemed to find a reservoir of strength, managing to take most of the weight off her.

Yanking the door to the stairwell open, she guided Michael inside and pulled the door shut behind her, giving Michael a moment to lean back against the wall, an arm curled against his ribs as he breathed deeply, head lowered. Taking his arm, she drew it around her shoulders and he leaned on her again as they made their way down the stairs, one careful step at at time.

At the bottom she hauled the door open and stuck her head out to scan the immediate area, pulling Michael out with her. He stumbled, his weight dragging at her arm, and when she turned to help him, he had already slid down the wall, shaking his head. "Go..."

She knelt before him, one hand knotting in his shirt, preparing to drag him to his feet if necessary, but it was obvious that he'd reached the limits of his endurance. Slumped back against the wall, he was breathing heavily, eyes closed, and Nikita laid her hand on his cheek, her other hand dipping into her coat pocket to remove the gun she'd taken from Eric.

"Here." She took his hand and folded his fingers over the butt of the gun, forcing him to take it. "I'm going to get the car...I'll be right back." He nodded wearily in acknowledgement and Nikita rose to her feet, taking a step back and turning to go the nearest exit.

The sound of voices brought Michael up into full awareness. For one long disoriented moment he had no idea of where he was...but the familiar cadence of French reached him, spoken in a voice he knew too well. Isabelle...and another with her...Christian--he had heard that voice often enough to recognize it now, to know it intimately. That voice had been with him for the last day, alternating between soft entreaties to hard demands, accentuated by pain.

Reflexively his hand tightened on the gun Nikita had given him...and as he looked down at it, blinking to clear blurred vision, a chill went through him. Nikita was out there, she would be returning...and walk right into them. Biting back a groan he forced himself up to his feet and staggered a step to the wall, pressing his back against it. The movement woke pain in bruised ribs and he pressed his arm against his ribs, forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly.

Flicking off the safety, he drew in a single breath and pushed away from the wall, moving from its shelter and out into sight. No thought in him, just instinct taking over, mind automatically noting the position of the five facing him Isabelle on the left and Christian next to her, behind him a towering figure--Gunther most likely--and two more flanking him.

Holding the gun two-handed he placed one bullet squarely between the eyes of the last one on the right and shifted his aim to the second of the two, the bullet tearing through the man's throat. Christian had dropped reflexively at the sound of the gunshots, leaving him an open target in Gunther. Even as Gunther stumbled back, hand fumbling inside his coat for his gun, Michael put a bullet in his chest, taking a step forward to shoot him again, this time in the head.

A bullet grazed his arm and he turned in the direction of the shot, gun shifting and finger tightening on the trigger...only to freeze as he saw that it was Isabelle before him. A flash and it was Rene standing there, gun aimed at him, Rene falling back with the hard impact of a bullet to his chest, the breath leaving him in a long, rattling sigh.

"Michael!"

Nikita's voice tore him from his paralysis and he looked to see her standing just a few feet away, gun pointed at Isabelle, even as Isabelle pointed her gun at Michael. Where Christian was, he did not know, his eyes only for Nikita. As Isabelle's finger started to pull on the trigger, Nikita fired, hitting her in the shoulder, spinning her half around. With a grimace Isabelle raised her gun and fired even as Nikita did; Nikita's bullet took her in the chest, sending her down onto her back, and Isabelle's bullet struck Nikita in the shoulder, Nikita collapsing with a soft cry of pain.

"Nikita--" Without realizing it, he was at Nikita's side, dropping down beside her, one shaking hand touching her on the cheek. Her eyes focused on him briefly, a tremulous smile curving her lip, and then eyes slid closed as she went limp.

From behind him he heard a scrabbling sound and rose, turning to see that Isabelle was struggling to sit up, to bring her gun to bear. Any emotion, any connection, he had felt for her was gone, burned away by the cold fire of fury that swept through him. He strode over to her and extended the gun, watching her as her eyes lifted to meet his, and then shot her once in the head.

As the last echoes of the shot faded, he let his arm slump as he stared down at Isabelle's now still body. Slowly he turned away and went to Nikita, kneeling to slide his arms under her, lifting her with a grunt of effort. Though legs trembled with the strain, he would not allow them to fail, forcing them to move step by step, until they were out of the factory.

In the darkness there was peace, the comfort of oblivion and escape from the world...but all the same Nikita left it behind, pushing up to consciousness and breaking the surface with a small gasp. Blinking eyes against the blinding whiteness of the room, she started to roll to her side but the small movement reminded her sharply of where she was...and why she was here. Left shoulder was bandaged under the thin gown she wore and protested vigorously at being moved, so much so that she closed her eyes, waiting until the pain had subsided before she attempted once again to look around her.

Lifting her right hand she raked blond hair out of her eyes and turned her head on the pillow, blinking in surprise as she saw Michael curled up in a chair beside her bed, arm cushioning his head. Carefully she raised herself a little in the bed, a smile curving her lips as she gazed on him. Sleep softened the hard edges, making him seem a little more vulnerable and approachable, and she wanted to reach out to him, to brush the hair back from his face.

Instead she settled for saying his name. "Michael."

He came awake with a start, head jerking up off his folded arm, blinking rapidly as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. One hand went to pull hair back from his eyes and he focused on her, a deep, giddy relief showing briefly in his eyes before they shuttered. Rising he went to her, taking the hand she reached out and clasping it in his, his other hand going to touch her on the cheek. She rubbed her cheek against his hand, experiencing her own relief at seeing him alive, not caring that they might be monitored. It was enough to know that he was safe...

"Why?" he asked quietly.

Nikita blinked, mind a little woozy still from the sedatives trying to decipher the meaning behind that one-word question, and then let out her breath in a sigh, squeezing his hand. "Someone has to care...about whether or not you live."

"Why?" Michael frowned as he repeated the word, for this moment in time allowing the barriers down, to let her see his confusion and pain. That he could genuinely not see why she had risked herself for him...

"Someone has to protect you...from them...and from yourself." she said quietly.

Michael stiffened, eyes hooding as he laid her hand gently down at her side, drawing away from her physically and mentally. "I don't need you to protect me."

"I didn't ask for your protection either...and yet you gave it." Nikita gave him a cool smile, tilting her head a little to look at him as he stood over her. "Quite a pair, aren't we? Each determined to save the other from their own selves. And both of us resisting the other with all our might. And if we'd just accept it...that would make everything so much easier, wouldn't it?"

Slowly Michael moved back to the bed, reaching out to smooth the hair back from her face, an odd, almost gentle expression softening his features. "I don't want you to die for me." Unspoken went the mention of the other that had died because of him, the other that he had loved...a memory that at once encouraged and maddened Nikita. Encouraged her because it showed that there was indeed a part of him that could love... and maddened her because that loss prevented him from opening himself again.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, Michael." she responded, eyes glinting with a good-natured challenge, eliciting the smallest of smiles from him. "Sit down if you're going to stay--you're going to give me a crick in the neck. I am wounded, you know..." she added with a melancholy sigh, fluttering her eyelashes at him, trying to look small and vulnerable.

Michael's lips twitched but he reached behind him to pull the chair closer, sinking down into it with a weary sigh of his own. Nikita extended her hand, eyes watching him steadily, half-expecting for him to not take her hand, but after a long moment his fingers folded over hers and she let her eyes close, falling back into sleep, content to have him beside her...even if the moment was brief.

The End

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