Birkoff wanted a glass of water.

He sat in the booth of a restaurant in Chicago, the window on his right, Dave Griffin on the left, Nikita directly across the table from him. Outside, people walked by, most staring at the gray sidewalk as they hurried, coats clutched at the throat against a hungry wind. The restaurant was warm but just as dry as the van had been, and his thirst gave up on the polite requests to begin yelling for something to drink.

A server approached the table. As he set coasters in front of each patron, he asked, “What can I get you to drink today?” He glanced inquiringly to Nikita first.

“Ice water. Big one,” Birkoff interrupted, holding his hand so high over the table to indicate just how big a glass he wanted.

“Hey, wait’cha turn, let the lady go first,” snapped Griffin, digging his elbow into Birkoff’s arm.

“Actually, water sounds fine,” Nikita smiled, and healed the moment.

“A Coke. Please,” Griffin said.

The waiter left.

“Sorry,” Birkoff slurred. He glanced up at Nikita, his gaze flicking no higher than her chin, an apology.

“You oughta be, you oaf.”

“’Oaf’?” Nikita arched an eyebrow at Griffin.

“Shut up, Griffin.”

“Lighten up, guys,” Nikita admonished. “We don’t get opportunities like this very often. Make the most of it.”

Birkoff knew she was right but that didn’t help his black mood. The team had been called to Chicago, Illinois to investigate an organized crime network whose bosses showed evidence of arms trading with Red Cell. For two days, Birkoff had spent long hours listening through taps and bugs while Nikita and Griffin posed as possible new clients for the main suspect, Anthony Giarusso. Michael had run dark, penetrating Giarusso’s offices and plundering his databases while he and his family had been distracted. Michael quickly discovered they had nothing to do with Red Cell, and Section ordered them to pull out as soon as he reported his conclusion. The entire team had been working most the night when the call came to withdraw; now lunchtime, they waited for a late afternoon flight back to Section…and they were all hungry.

“No shit,” Griffin agreed amicably with Nikita’s sentiment as he perused the menu. “But I still think we should’ve gone to the steakhouse.”

Birkoff stared through his menu. He didn’t want to be there, but had allowed Nikita to browbeat him into accompanying her out to lunch. Since her return to Section from Red Cell’s clutches he could barely look at her -- let alone argue with her -- so the battle had been forgone. Because his idiotic behavior caused a major security breach, Operations and Madeline had taken away all his free time for the past two weeks; in fact, this was the first chance he’d had to eat out in days and days. He should be thankful for the opportunity, but he wasn’t. Worse, he was sitting next to Griffin, whom he found annoying to the point of violent action. Most upsetting was the fact that Madison remained active in an off-site assignment that showed no signs of closure in the near future. She’d been gone for almost a month. He missed her terribly and clutched his melancholy selfishly, unwilling to share it with anyone.

“Oh, this place seems very nice,” Nikita replied to Griffin’s disappointment. She glanced around at the tidy servers, the gleam of dark wood and understated décor. The savory aroma of food penetrated even Birkoff’s funk and he began to focus on the words in his menu. Griffin banished all thought of food with his next comment, however.

“Nicer than hanging out in Red Cell’s dungeon, I’m sure, although Birkoff might disagree.”

“What are you getting at, Griffin?” Nikita’s bold eyes accused him.

“Well, y’know,” he shrugged. “You must have heard how your double raised a few, ah, eyebrows around HQ while you were gone. If not, ask Birkoff here. Everyone knows he got first class treatment from her.”

“Are you trying to be a dick or what?” Nikita frowned, her voice hard. Birkoff wanted to sink under the table.

“Hey, everybody knows about it!” he said defensively.

“Knows what?” Birkoff turned on the bench seat. His spine stiffened; anger overcame his embarrassment.

“What d’ya mean, ‘knows what?’ You and that Red Cell op did it in the Ready Room!”

Three women in the booth down the aisle glanced curiously at them. Nikita glared at Griffin. “You’re attracting attention. And you don’t know a damned thing. Nothing happened,” she said.

“That’s not what I heard…”

“You weren’t there, were you?”

“What did you hear?” Birkoff demanded. “Who’s saying it?” A sudden and alien fear dissolved his stomach floor. What if this gets around to Madison…and she believes it?

~~~~

The Gdansk mission stuck out at odd angles. Ties to Red Cell were ironclad; the reverse trail was less obvious. A middleman popped through an intense data-sift, but it was only one link in a longer chain. Nevertheless, Birkoff dug hard for intel on the guy, and found his apartment outside Berlin after an exhaustive search. He sent the pertinent facts to Data Retrieval and Verification, then settled back in his chair and sighed heavily, tired. His eyelids settled down softly and his thoughts thinned until a sharp blip from his computer jerked him awake.

Processed, the information was ready for profiling. Time was the limiting factor. Birkoff had to move on it as soon as the profile was finished. He decided he could nap in the Ready Room while he waited rather than nod off at his desk, so he loaded his PDA and left Comm, trudging to the Ready Room.

Austere beds lined up, empty. Birkoff didn’t care about the census or the lack of bedclothes; he was too damned tired. He plugged in his pad with a click. Black, functional foam felt heavenly under his knee. He dutifully reported his location, then shed his shirt and lay down to sleep as the PDA fed its guts to the Profiling team. He closed his eyes, and it seemed to be a signal to his brain to start speeding up despite his fatigue.

It bothered him how the mission went sour in Gdansk. Relaxed, eyes closed, he had no distractions; the puzzle floated on the surface of his thoughts and started riding his brain, hard. Crawling numbers of statistics, the team roster, the sequence…and that damned anomaly at the end. Air ducts! It was obvious; why hadn’t it been in the profile to start with?

The mistake stung. And people had died because of it.

He heard small sounds. Someone entered, unusual for this time of day, but with people on close quarters standby, he wasn’t surprised. A whiff of something clean and sweet hit his nose just as Nikita appeared next to his bunk.

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t asleep.”

More quiet rustlings whispered; a zipper hasped. “You’re working too hard.”

Birkoff sighed. “Too hard, not very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those operatives we lost on your mission…that was my fault.”

“Or mine.”

“You were surprised in the field. I’m supposed to prevent that.” He felt the stab of guilt afresh. Nikita said nothing in reply at first; he could hear her settle onto the bunk adjacent his, and the small noises stilled momentarily.

“You’re a good man, Birkoff.” Her voice sounded odd, breathy. Birkoff opened his eyes, pleased, but puzzled by her words.

“Roll over.”

Birkoff held still. The request could have been spoken in ancient Latin for all it meant to him. “Roll over”? The metal creaked minutely as she got out of her bed; a moment later, she was sitting on the side of his.

“Roll over,” she repeated. Birkoff wondered briefly if fatigue hadn’t overcome his good sense. Nikita cocked an eyebrow at him and glowered, mock-angry. “Now.”

He rolled over, relieved. It was just Nikita being Nikita -- insistent, impulsive, and irresistible. She was just being nice. Her weight settled onto his buttocks, and surprise jabbed him again as strong hands dug into his shoulders, working out tension.

“Oh, yeah. That feels great.” Drowsy lassitude dulled the flickering alarm of surprise in his head. Since he’d known her, Nikita had kissed him on the cheek, rested her hand on his shoulder, stolen his junk food, and teased him unmercifully when the mood hit her; it seemed she wanted to rub his back now…and his shoulders hurt. He sighed, and sleep began to win him over again.

Nikita’s weight shifted forward. Warm breath teased his ear, then lips. Birkoff instantly shot up through several layers of consciousness from where he’d drifted next to sleep. Was that a kiss? Soft warmth clutched his earlobe again, then moved forward to his cheek. His eyes snapped open, and he licked his lips, working hard to sound casual. “What was that for?”

“I told you. You’re a good man.”

She leaned back and shifted, so Birkoff turned over. He reclined back on his elbows, his brain careening around what seemed to be happening. Nikita’s weight on his lap felt strange…and electric. She ran her hands up his chest.

“You, uh, really think so?”

“Yes, I do.” She looped her arms around his neck and drew him up. There seemed no way Birkoff could construe her intentions as anything else but carnal, so he leaned forward to meet her kiss.

Eyes closed, he felt her lips acutely. Her mouth was warm, and softer than he had imagined in the past. It twitched under his; he ran with the encouragement and kissed her back, harder. Her scent swamped him, rousing prickles of sensual awareness to run up his nerves. He opened his eyes.

Light hair, not a dark cap. No fine line of brow over black lashes like wings; no sparking, mercury eyes. Madison…

He ended the kiss and slumped, resting his head on the scant curve of Nikita’s breast. The hours he had fantasized about this moment dispersed, bittersweet smoky memory. He knew in the marrow of his bones that he and Nikita could never fulfill those daydreams, not in any meaningful way. The way he and Madison clicked, and the way he and Nikita had never clicked before, were all the evidence he needed to know why all he felt regret fill his mind.

Funny thing was, his body didn’t care.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Nikita.

“Nothing. I…I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be the romance of the century, Birkoff. In this place, we should take whatever pleasure we can. When we can.” Her hips ground into his, and lust shoved all emotional conclusions to the aft of his awareness.

Ironically, it was his longing for Madison that fed this sudden flame now. She’d been gone on a mission for two weeks. He missed her, and his body missed the regular sex. He reached for Nikita’s face and drew it to his; as his lips covered hers once more, the heat of the forbidden ignited a firestorm.

Nikita wound her hands around the straps of his tank top and pulled him closer. The skin of his chest fairly crackled where her hands brushed, energizing him further. He surged up and turned them both around so she lay in his spot, looking up as he arched over her, and urged him on with her legs riding his hips. Birkoff buried his face into the mass of her hair and worked his mouth onto her neck.

“Yess…” hissed Nikita. “You’re so good.”

He drew back. Her voice, it called him out of his haze. Breathy. Tight.

It wasn’t Nikita. It wasn’t her at all.

Perhaps stress had brought her to this strange juncture. Past months had brought terrible changes for Michael. Birkoff had dimly sensed some of the turmoil through Nikita; he had seen the sad looks and circled eyes. She’d been shot not long ago during an intense, breached mission in Pennsylvania. Mission frequency had spiked these past weeks. And just hours ago, Nikita had come close to dying with those other operatives.

It wasn’t right.

“Nikita, I -- I’m sorry.” Birkoff rolled off her and drew his legs up, sitting with his back against the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

He wasn’t sure, not entirely. Guilt was the root, and it branched out into betrayal, writhing like Medusa’s hair. Madison. Michael. Nikita….himself. He knew this would hurt Madison. Their relationship evolved day by day, but they were beyond mere dating. He knew this would hurt her. He also knew Michael had some relationship with his material, something intense and invisible that he’d defended in the past; Birkoff felt a sliver of unease at the thought of being the target of such defense from Michael. And he felt as though he betrayed Nikita, taking advantage of this strange funk.

She’s not herself…

“This isn’t…” he hesitated. “We shouldn’t…”

“Why?”

“It’d hurt…her.”

Nikita’s eyes shifted to a point on the wall behind him, her face thoughtful as though listening to her inner voice. She looked at him again. “Are you and Madison so close now?”

“Yeah. We are.” He looked down. “Maybe…maybe you should go.”

She reached out and traced a random track on his chest, her finger rasping over the cloth of his tee shirt. “Maybe. I don’t want us to part like this, though.”

“Like what?”

“I want to be sure we’re still friends.” She smiled.

“Yes, yes, we’re still friends,” he assured her. A memory insisted, but he didn’t know how to share his bewilderment. In a throbbing bar, Nikita had confessed she felt sisterly towards him, long ago; the more he thought about it, the more this manic fumble on the foam confused him completely. “You just, ah…gotta stop that. Or we won’t be friends. We’ll be something else.”

“Is it so bad?” The finger continued tracing.

“No, of course not!” He slouched, chagrinned at how vehement he sounded. “I just…I’ve got a girlfriend. And you, you and Michael… Right?”

Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. The soft, melting expression she’d worn was gone, as though a switch just flicked from one to zero. “Yes. Yes, that’s true. I…” She leaned over him, reaching for the niche, and plucked up the glasses she’d taken to wearing lately, smoothly sliding them on her face. To Birkoff, the room felt instantly ten degrees colder. “You’re right. I should go.”

Nikita flowed off the bed, lifted her skirt from its hook, picked up her shoes, and left.

~~~~~~~

Nothing happened. Birkoff mentally chanted the word nothing several times.

“What did I hear? Just what I said! You and her clone stained the foam.” Griffin chuckled at his pun. “And it’s Carl that says so.”

“Carl? From housekeeping?” Birkoff frowned.

“He said he saw Nikita leave the Ready Room, wearing only a slip.”

The waiter returned with the drinks. Griffin turned his shoulder to Birkoff and took a drink. Birkoff smoldered, his ire hindered by the server’s presence.

“Are you ready to order, or would you like a few minutes?”

Nikita smiled and took his attention. “Just give us a minute, would you? Thanks.” The man left.

As soon as he stepped away from the table, Birkoff insisted, “Nothing happened!”

“Carl’s a stand up guy -- if he says he saw it, he saw it.”

“Seeing that - that woman in her slip doesn’t prove anything happened, Griff,” said Nikita.

“Yeah, well, he saw Birkoff come out ten minutes later, looking just as mussed up as she was. Ten minutes, just long enough for a post-nookie nap.” Griffin gulped more Coke. “Look, don’t kill me; I’m just the messenger. I’m just repeating what Carl said.”

“Carl’s an idiot!” exclaimed Birkoff.

“Carl’s a friend of mine,” retorted Griffin, coolly turning his attention from Nikita to Birkoff.

Nikita’s hand hit the table in front of him, smack! Griffin’s attention instantly returned to Nikita.

“And Birkoff’s a friend of mine,” snapped Nikita. “I don’t want you or any of your cronies spreading rumors about him. Or me.”

Griffin spread his hands and shrugged. “Hey, messenger, remember?”

Nikita shook her head. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” He looked puzzled.

Birkoff unclenched fists he’d never noticed until now, and shot a disgusted look at the other man’s clueless face and orange-streaked hair. His eyes crinkled at the corners -- probably from all the smirking he’d done in his life, Birkoff supposed. Griffin was years older than him, yet he acted like he was years younger. Birkoff wondered why he hadn’t been cancelled long ago on principal.

Nikita glared at Griffin, refusing to answer his question. She raised her hand and flagged the waiter to return.

“Can I take your order now?”

“Yes, please.” Nikita scanned her menu once more. “I’ll have the, um…primavera.”

Griffin ordered a medium rare steak. Despite time spent on salad and soup choices, when it was Birkoff’s turn, he wasn’t prepared.

“Uh, whatever. The special.”

“The fish or the chicken?”

“Huh?”

“Our specials today are grilled swordfish or chicken scampi.”

“Uh…” He swallowed with a dry throat. He’d forgotten about his water. He picked up the glass -- it was small -- took a too-big mouthful, and gulped it painfully down. “Um.” He cleared his throat. He didn’t care for either. “Do you have hamburgers?”

“How would you like that cooked?”

Birkoff looked up at him, pained. What part of ‘hamburger’ was so difficult? A tall man, the server looked down from his height, pen ready, waiting with infinite patience. Birkoff felt like an idiot.

“Medium. And I want fries.” He drank more water; the icy refreshment cooled him on many levels.

“Ahem…?”

Puzzled, Birkoff looked up. The server held out his hand. Griffin jerked the menu from under Birkoff’s elbow and passed it to the waiter.

~~~~~

Birkoff sat staring at crawling lights for what seemed like hours after Nikita left. Uploading from his PDA to the mainframe, shot straight to the heart of the profilers’ directory, data flickered and shone. The actual upload was finished; now he waited for the download reply. And for his sanity to return.

The panel beeped: finished. Time, time was the critical component; he had no luxury of hiding in the Ready Room forever. He slid on his shirt and took the PDA back to Comm, going through the motions of his responsibilities. Her smell clung to him. That breathy voice remained in memory and raised the small hairs on his neck. The profile was finished, but his confusion still ran rampant, gleefully chasing logic ‘round his brain. He needed to dump it like his PDA dumped the profile. He went to Walter.

“Walter, I’ve got to talk to you.”

The old man remained focused on his work. “I’m listening.”

“I think…Nikita…” He stopped. “I, um…well, in the, ah,” he faltered. “Nikita...” He stopped again.

Walter’s eyes remained down. “Cut to the chase, amigo. What about Nikita?”

“I love her, you know.” That came out easy. It was true; he did love her.

“Yeah, everyone loves Nikita,” said Walter. His voice was warm and matter-of-fact all at once; it summed up Birkoff’s feelings better than he could.

“She came on to me in the Ready Room.”

Walter glanced up quickly. His expression was clear; he thought Birkoff had lost his mind. “What? Stroked your hair?”

Birkoff leaned his crossed arms on the workbench and drew close. “We made out. She rubbed my back, then we made out.”

“Made out? I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Walter. He set his tools down.

“Neither do I, but it happened, I swear it.”

“She came on to you?” Walter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So why aren’t you grinning like the cat with the cream?”

“C’mon, Walter! If Nikita had come on to you, would you really…? Never mind; you probably would.” He shook his head. “No, I told her to leave. I—.” He almost said I’ve got a conscience, but stopped. It seemed too hard to explain: her forceful come-on, her sudden coldness, his guilt, the feeling of betrayal and how her voice raised a feeling of discomfort. And he had a more compelling reason to offer, anyhow. “I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Yeah. You’ve got a point.” He skewered Birkoff with another incredulous stare. “You’ve got Madison eating out of your hand, and now…Nikita?”

“Walter, I’m not sure what I’m going to say to her when I see her again.”

“Nikita, or Madison?”

“I don’t know!” He hesitated. “Maybe I should just play it cool, see how it goes?”

“Two beautiful woman following you around? I think you don’t really need any advice from me. You seem to be doing fine on your own. Just follow your instincts.”

Birkoff shot him a sour look. “That’s not real helpful, Walter.”

He shrugged. “I’m serious. Do what feels right.” The amused glint returned to his eyes. “Do whatever it is you’ve been doing, and you’ll have more mares in your stable.”

Birkoff closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head, resigned, before walking away.

~~~~~

The glass stood empty. It had only teased his dry mouth. He was still thirsty. And the waiter had disappeared, leaving Birkoff sitting stiffly next to Griffin, still uncomfortable meeting Nikita’s direct blue eyes staring at him from across the table. No one spoke; the lull was painful. Talking would only resume the argument and the embarrassment.

Birkoff prayed for a refill on his water, his hamburger, and a quick return to Section.

Nikita sat up straight. She looked at something over his shoulder; Birkoff turned on the bench to see. By the door, Michael spoke with the hostess. He gestured to the booth, and walked over.

“Michael, I didn’t expect you,” said Nikita. She slid aside on the bench to give him room. He sat.

“The arrangements went smoothly. We leave in two hours.”

The waiter returned and quietly handed Michael a menu before taking his drink order. Michael asked for water and the fish special. The server was polite to Michael, but looked peeved when Birkoff asked for a refill. Birkoff wondered if he was being sensitive, or if the guy was that much of a jerk. He stared out the window.

“Gay Pair-ree,” said Griffin in a bored tone. “Why can’t H.Q. be stateside?”

“And what’s wrong with Paris?” accused Nikita.

“It’s not the good old US of A, that’s what’s wrong with it.”

“Not very specific.”

“The food.” Griffin paused. “Okay, not all the food. The people are rude. It’s just boring.”

“If you learned to speak French, you’d enjoy it more,” said Michael. Birkoff looked up at him from his study of the traffic outside the window.

“I don’t think so. I don’t need to know French to, you know.” He mimed a rifle and squeezed off several imaginary rounds. “I don’t need it with the ladies, either. I get along just fine in that department. Don’t need a French accent to get lucky.”

Birkoff’s astonished look leapt from Griffin to Michael to see the reaction. His eyebrows reached for his hairline -- Michael was smiling.

“Your salads,” said the waiter. He set salads in front of Michael, Nikita, and Griffin. Birkoff picked up his empty water glass and held it up. The man took it without a word. The others began eating.

“I’m sorry, Birkoff. We should wait,” said Nikita.

“No, no, go on.” He waved his hand. “There’s no reason why everyone has to starve.”

“God, you’re pathetic. Here, have my roll. I can’t stand the thought of you pining away to nothing,” said Griffin. He shoved his bread plate over.

“I don’t want it.” Birkoff pushed the bread plate back.

“Man, you just turn down everything, don’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Griffin shot a glance at Michael. “Would you turn down a romp in the Ready Room with Nikita?”

The rare smile had left just after the salads had arrived; Michael’s expression held its usual calm. It never flickered when he said, “No.”

Nikita choked on her drink.

“Ah, ha ha! See?” Griffin slapped Birkoff on the back. “You gotta learn how to live.”

~~~~

I’m gonna die. And it’s gonna hurt, he thought. He stood outside Madeline’s office.

Nikita was not Nikita; she was a Red Cell mole, surgically altered and trained to look and sound exactly like Nikita. She had wrought all sorts of havoc throughout Section, but Birkoff did the worst damage by letting her capture restricted data from his PDA in the Ready Room. Documented, tagged, filed, now the evidence waited only to accuse him with Madeline’s voice.

The doors opened. Nikita stepped out.

“What do they want with you?”

“What do you think?” Birkoff found it hard to quell his bitterness. He’d already heard how Nikita directed the mole’s every move, including the move on him.

“Birkoff, I’m sorry. I…didn’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked at the open door. Madeline and Operations waited.

“Well, I don’t think it’s going to go too badly. They seem to be in a forgiving mood,” she said close to his ear. She chucked him on the arm.

“I hope so.” He moved for the door. Behind him, he heard Nikita’s voice -- her normal, affectionate voice -- say:

“Good luck.”

The door shut behind him.

“Mr. Birkoff. It seems we had a security breach…”

~~~~~

Thirsty. Hungry. Tired. And now, skewered by Michael’s pale, inhuman gaze.

Birkoff was beyond misery. He didn’t care about the guilt, or how he could explain to Madison about this mess; he just wanted to see her. She’d find some way to make him laugh it off, pour him a huge glass of ice water, and take him to a favorite café, and later, she’d make him forget all about an enemy operative…and a black foam mattress.

Assuming, of course, he would live that long. He didn’t think Michael would kill him over this, but then again, he had threatened Birkoff’s life over Nikita’s well-being before. Crap, I’ve got to leave off the theatrics. This will blow over. Eventually. He avoided everyone’s gaze and stared out the window again.

“You sulk pretty, Birkoff,” Griffin said, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow. Birkoff turned around, surprised that his clenched fist came up of its own accord. He moved his hand to his lap slowly.

“Griffin,” said Nikita, her tone full of sharp disapproval.

“Suffering is good for you. Builds character.”

“And you love dishing it out, don’t you?” retorted Birkoff. Fury made his ears roar; after all the frustrations of the past two weeks, he felt like exploding. He put his back to the window and faced Griffin square on. “Maybe you’d like to dish it outside!”

“Birkoff,” Michael said chidingly.

“He--!” Birkoff shut his mouth abruptly. He almost said He made me do it! The sudden immaturity mortified him. “Look, where’s the van? I’ll just take my burger there.”

“The van is parked in the basement of the Hilton,” Michael said.

“Fine. You can catch up…”

“Birkoff!” Michael said again, voice sharp with warning.

“It’s no big--.”

“Hey!” shouted Griffin.

All three of his companions stared at him, faces reflecting various degrees of surprise. For a fraction of a second, Birkoff felt as though he had landed on another planet where nobody reacted in predicable ways; the small hairs on his body snapped to attention in reaction to his alarm. They’re not looking at me, they’re looking behind me.

Time slowed. Michael stood up, gun magically in his hands as Nikita leapt onto her bench, ready to dive for the floor behind him. Birkoff turned to look out the window and found himself staring up the muzzle of an automatic rifle, the thin pane of glass all that separated him from sudden death. His eyes flicked up; he saw a non-descript businessman wielding the weapon, then the glass shattered amid an explosion of gunfire and he was suddenly hurled backwards, shards of glass hitting his face.

Screams and the wooden sound of chairs hitting the floor confused the scene. Something continued to haul Birkoff backwards, he couldn’t breath and tore at his collar, but the rain of glass and a sudden cold wind blinded him; his face stung, and he couldn’t get his arms to work properly as he came off the bench and hit the floor, hard. It hurt; he grunted on the impact, but he could breathe and move again.

Nikita’s voice cut through the noise. “Stay down!”

Birkoff brushed a hail of glass bits from his face. He looked up. Griffin stood facing the ruined window, arms out stiffly in front of him, gun barking. Nikita waved her arms at the restaurant customers, urging them desperately to stay down and stop panicking. He turned, searching for Michael; he saw the cold op climb the bench, then hurtle over the table and through the window, a dark streak. The gunfire abruptly stilled.

His limbs shook. Birkoff stood awkwardly, muscles still trembling with a surfeit of adrenalin. Nikita came up to him.

“Are you okay?”

“I…think so.”

“Giarusso! That bastard!” exclaimed Griffin. “He put a hit on us!”

Edgy, armed, Griffin spooked the patrons of the restaurant. Birkoff heard weeping and excited voices around them amid the occasional tinkle of glass from odd pieces falling out of the top of the window frame, and the hushed hubbub of a gathering crowed outside. He could just see Michael kneeling by the body of the businessman, hand slipping quickly through the corpse’s pockets.

“We’ve got to go. Now.” Nikita’s eyes darted around. She stepped up on the bench, intent on leaving through the broken window.

“Hey! You! You-you put down the gun!” Their waiter edged forward. He held an ancient .22 pistol out in front of him in one hand. It shook and dipped erratically, and suddenly went off with a huge bang!

“Ungh!” A guttural sound was forced from Griffin and he dropped his gun.

“Hold it! Hands up, now!” He didn’t look haughty now. He looked nearly green with fright. Birkoff almost sympathized; he remembered feeling that sort of fear before, but anger collided with all that unused adrenalin, and obliterated any empathy.

The waiter stood close to Nikita. Unarmed, she complied with his order and raised her hands to shoulder height. Her eyes slid to the window, looking for Michael, so she missed what Birkoff and the waiter saw: Griffin, fumbling for his gun on the floor.

“I mean it!” High-pitched, the man’s voice wavered, but he stepped closer and his gun zeroed in on Griffin. “D-don’t do it! I’ll shoot!”

Nikita turned her head, and shouted, “No!” At the same time, Birkoff launched forward. Void of coherent thought, he was moved only by a chemical dump and frustrated rage. He hit the waiter with his right shoulder. The gun exploded again; they went down in a tangle. Acute pain speared him just above the clavicle.

He heard Nikita cry out his name. “Birkoff!”

~~~~~

After Operations and Madeline took turns reaming him out, Birkoff left them and returned to Comm, his shoulders slumped. Bad enough they took away downtime for the next month, the smug innuendos coming from Operations made him want to shrivel up and crawl under a rock. Birkoff winced as he mentally tripped on the word ‘shrivel’; it didn’t take much to imagine how Operations would have nailed him with that metaphor, too.

Chong hailed him. “I thought you left for the day.” He obligingly vacated the chair in front of the main station in Comm.

“I thought I did, too,” replied Birkoff sourly. “No downtime for a while. I’m on until midnight.”

“That’s bad. What did you do to deserve that?”

“Ha!” Birkoff landed in his chair and swiveled it around. “Like I’d tell. Since I’m here, go finish that update you were working on. I’ll handle tracking duty.”

Chong nodded and left, curiosity unsatisfied. It’d stay that way if Birkoff had anything to say about it. He had no desire for the details of what happened in the Ready Room to be made public knowledge around Section. It was an agony that Nikita knew, and she had to know. She’d listened in on what was said, the noises made, and directed that woman to say what she told her to say.

He hoped he hadn’t made a complete idiot of himself, then winced. Of course he had been a total idiot -- he’d fallen for a basic Valentine ruse and let spill intel to the enemy. That was a fact that would not go away. It was most likely now on his permanent record. But maybe, maybe he kissed well, moved right. Not that he’d ever know about that -- the Red Cell operative was gone, probably dead.

He shivered at the thought.

He knew of a certainty that he ended it right, even if it had felt awkward at the time, even if it really had been Nikita. He had a girlfriend that he cared about, a lot, and he was glad he did the right thing, and stopped the encounter before it went further.

Well, mostly. There was that prolonged lip-locking, and petting, and…

God, he hoped the details didn’t get out. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him how Madison might feel about all this. He opened his desk drawer and reached in the back for his special stash. It was empty. Madison had been gone over two weeks; she hadn’t had the chance to buy him something sweet before she’d left. He shut the drawer and mooned about Comm, doing the minimum to look busy.

At eleven, his phone buzzed. He carried it in his pocket on silent mode when in Section. Few people would call him on that phone when he was on duty. He got up and quickly strode to a rack of servers in the back before he took it out of his pocket and opened it.

“Hello?”

”Hi. Can you talk?” It was Madison, sounding sleepy.

“Mm, yeah. A bit.” He leaned against the rack and tucked his chin low, eyes closed, drinking in her voice.

”What time is it there?”

“About eleven. What are you doing?”

”Just got a relief come in. I was on almost twenty-four hours. God, I could sleep for a week.” She nattered on about how she knew the woman who took her place, how the weather was so much nicer down south in the winter, how much she missed him.

“Yeah, I know. I miss you, too.”

The conversation was an oasis in the desert.

~~~~~

He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing hard at the pain.

“Come on, get up!” Nikita grabbed his arm and pulled. Michael yanked at the other; he was up before his feet knew what to do, and stumbled. Nikita steadied him but never let him stop as she led him to the door behind Michael, avoiding terrified people, tumbled tables and chairs and broken crockery. He looked back; Griffin staggered along behind them.

The hostess cringed behind her podium. Michael paused, reached in his pocket, and handed her a wad of American currency. “Sorry about the mess,” he said softly. They walked away from the restaurant, going against a flow of curious pedestrians. Faint wails promised the police would be there soon; they all quickened their pace.

“How far is it?” asked Griffin.

“Far enough. Walk faster,” retorted Nikita. She still had a firm grip on Birkoff’s arm, just above the elbow. She looked at him, her face concerned. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay; you can let go,” he said, embarrassed.

She let go. “You’re bleeding, though.”

He tried to look at where his shoulder hurt, but couldn’t quite get his chin low enough to see. Dressed in mission standard, his black, wool sweater showed nothing, but he could tell it was wet around the collar. Nikita held up her hand. It was bright red with his blood.

“Oh…uh…you’re right.” He started to experience that same distanced feeling of unreality; this was a world where things just didn’t go the way he expected them to.

“This way,” said Michael, and led them through an alley. When they came out from between tall buildings once more, the sun broke though winter clouds to shine down wanly on the hotel’s front. “Wait here. I’ll get the van.”

“Griffin, how bad is it?” Nikita turned to Griffin where he leaned against a brick wall, resting and quiet. Few people braved the wind and the cold here; those that did rushed by, intent on finding someplace warm again. No one spared them a second look.

“Had worse. Passed through, I think.” His right hand clamped hard on his left arm. Red leaked through his fingers. Nikita gestured and he allowed her to look. She probed just a little. His face paled, an unbecoming shade under the orange streaked hair.

“I think you’re right. But you’ll be fine.” She returned to Birkoff’s side. “Let me see yours.”

“My what?”

“Just hold still,” she said, smiling. She tugged at his collar to better see where the blood came from. Birkoff howled, and jerked back, banging into the brick wall of the building opposite the one Griffin leaned against. Something had stabbed him, and grated against his collarbone. Nikita blanched. “Oh, Birkoff, I’m sorry!”

She reached for him, but he warded her off with his hand. He gently felt around the pain, and his fingers discovered something thin and hard. He grasped it. “Here, here it is. Can you see it?”

Nikita came closer. She looked, then walked her fingers over his to the sharp edge. “It’s glass. It’s a piece of glass. Hold on.” This time, her hands worked slowly and carefully. Slippery with blood, camouflaged and buried in the black sweater, a shard of glass had penetrated the skin just above his clavicle. Birkoff felt a sudden, sharp tug, and grunted in surprise.

“There it is,” said Nikita. She held up the offender; a spike of glass almost four inches long and completely red. She dropped it; it landed with a musical ping!

“Ew.” Faint bells rang in Birkoff’s ears. He wanted to sit down, badly. The van glided up and stopped in front of the alley, answer to his prayer. They climbed in out of the cold, and Birkoff collapsed onto the nearest seat.

He was still thirsty.

~~~~~

The ride blurred into a miserable state of semi-consciousness. Misery upon misery stacked up high. Madison, gone. Duped by a woman who looked like Nikita. Punished by Operations and Madeline. Stuck on this hateful mission in a wintry Chicago. No sleep in more than a day. Tormented by Griffin.

Injured.

Hungry.

Thirsty.

It took him almost half an hour to remember there was water in the van. He fetched it, and drank. After that, he rummaged until he found a supply of energy bars, and ate two.

“Gimme one of those.” Griffin’s voice came from where he lay supine on the bench, out of sight. Birkoff had thought he was asleep. He obliged, and tossed a bar over the seat back. He heard it smack; Griffin said, “Ow. Watch it.”

Birkoff smiled.

Wrapper paper crinkled. “God, this stuff tastes like shit. Why couldn’t that jerk wait until after my steak before putting a hit on us?”

“Giarusso had us followed,” Nikita interjected. “That isn’t good.”

“He just had more initiative than he should have,” replied Griffin. “He was probably ticked that we walked when he thought he had a sale. Or maybe he didn’t like my crack about his mother.”

“They’ll want an accounting.”

“Nothing new there, huh?” The silver wrapper from the energy bar popped up over the seat, a crumpled ball that bounced off a ledge, hit the floor, and rolled out of sight. “What do you say, Birkoff? How would you rate your performance?”

“Communications were fine. I gave you guys what you needed,” he said wearily. He cast his good arm over his eyes, wishing the concentrated food didn’t sit so heavy in his gut.

“I’m sure Operations’ll pin a gold star on you for sitting on your duff like you always do,” Griffin said sarcastically. His head popped up over the seatback long enough to add, “You should thank me for saving your bytes back there in the restaurant. If I hadn’t dragged your ass out of that booth, we’d be bringing back Birkoff burgers.”

His head disappeared behind the seat back again. Birkoff could see Nikita’s glare at Griffin, though. She shook her head, and snorted. “Burgers? How about some crow? That waiter almost took you out with an old twenty-two. Think you’ll get any gold stars for that? Birkoff saved your butt, too; you should be thanking him.”

“I don’t think so!” Griffin laughed, then fell silent. After a pause, he said, “I guess it would’ve been embarrassing to get popped by a scared-shitless waiter. Not nearly as dramatic as getting pumped by an Uzi.”

“You’re welcome,” said Birkoff. “Next time we go out on a mission, don’t forget to pack your Ritalin.”

“Ha. Keep it up, and I might come to like you, Birk-burger.”

“Don’t hold your breath, pal.”

Nikita looked at the ceiling, searching for tolerance.

The van slowed and took a corner, thumping over a speed bump. Griffin complained. “Ow. This hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. Nikita, I don’t suppose you’d kiss it, make it all better?”

Birkoff met her amused gaze from where she sat across from him.

“I don’t think so, Griffin.”

“Damn. Why couldn’t I have been on that Red Cell mole’s hit list? I wouldn’t have turned her down.”

“Not this again…” Birkoff complained.

“Who says Birkoff turned me down?” Nikita said. Birkoff’s eyes snapped back to hers.

“Nothing happened between us, Nikita.”

“It did in a way,” she countered. “I mean, you were on one end, talking to her, while I was talking through her, and listening to you, right?”

Griffin sat up, his face nakedly interested in the conversation. He grinned, and said, “So, did he make a complete ass out of himself?”

“Well,” said Nikita, her expression warm and thoughtful, “From what I could tell, he was pretty delicious.”

~~~~~

The van eventually stopped at the military air base outside the city where it came from. Griffin moved slowly as he climbed out of the van. Birkoff felt as stiff and tired as Griffin looked, but he wanted to put a better face on his discomfort, and swung down with near-normal energy.

“We’ll have to wait for the transport,” Michael said.

“What? Damn, I just want to get the hell home!” complained Griffin.

“I thought you didn’t like Paris,” said Birkoff.

“Oh, screw you. You want to get home as bad as I do.”

“What’s the hold up?” asked Nikita.

“We’re waiting on a connection. Another operative. It’ll only be a few hours.”

Griffin bitched until Michael ordered him to the base infirmary. His wound was mild, but at least now, he was out of the room. The others found a chance to rest in a wing of a building kept secure for Section use. Birkoff fell asleep as soon as he was horizontal, and dreamed fretful dreams.

Slippery imagery roiled in his subconscious. The discomforts of pain and an empty belly penetrated the membrane between waking and REM sleep. Soon, he fell into nightmare, and willed himself awake with a jerk.

Dim light illuminated empty cots around him. Michael and Nikita were out of sight, but he heard low voices in the next room. His shoulder hurt worse, but it was the kind of pain that told him it was as bad as it was going to get -- and he could bear it; it would only get better from here. He might need stitches, but he felt lucky. What the hell had he thought, tackling that nervy waiter? He could’ve gotten his head blown off!

The voices in the next room got louder, but he couldn’t make out what they said beyond the odd word.

“Hey…worth the wait,” said Griffin. “…wouldn’t believe the crap…”

Low murmurs continued, then Nikita’s voice neared; her shadow darkened the doorway. “He’s in there.”

Birkoff rolled over. Someone entered the room and approached his cot. Short, wispy hair; short, graceful figure.

“Birkoff, you awake?”

Madison.

“Yeah, hi!” He struggled to sitting, trying to pat the cot and invite her to sit next to him. Like a bullet, it hit him how completely delighted he was to see her. She sat and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head in the crook of his good shoulder.

She pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “You need a shower. And you’ve got stuff all over your sweater.”

“I need stitches.”

“What?”

“Never mind. It’s nothing, really.”

She canted a doubtful look at him, but it melted. He realized that she melted because she looked at him. “Your hair, it grew while I was gone.” She paused. “It looks good; I like it. You ought to let it grow more.”

“Sure, yeah,” he said. He knew he was grinning foolishly.

He felt completely happy.

“I missed you,” he said.

~~~~

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