This takes place after "Mercy." It's part one of the Safe As Houses story line.

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

Of all the pieces of advice Nikita had heard, she was extremely disappointed that it was Alec Chandler's which stuck in her head.

They had been talking about living on the streets. "Don't kid yourself," he said. "We all live on the edge."

She sighed. She was catching something -- probably a cold, or maybe the flu, no doubt from spending three days train hopping. She was chilled and it was raining. Perfect weather for the job she had to do, but to tell the truth, her heart just wasn't in it. She chose her targets carefully: people distracted by the weather, with purses or briefcases hanging open. By the time she reached the next block, she had pocketed three billfolds.

At least, she thought, trying to cheer herself up, I'm not relying on Section training. She'd picked pockets since she was ten, starting with her mother's. Though her mother hadn't been that difficult to pick; usually she was high or comatose. But it was good practice, and when she joined Section it was one of the few things she had not needed to learn.

During training, one of the lessons was surviving without the team. The theory was to be able to stay alive until Section found you and picked you up. She hadn't lived in the wilderness since childhood, and although she passed with very high marks, when it came to city survival, she scored over the top.

"Prostitution is dangerous," Michael warned, slowly walking around her while she stood at attention in Madeleine's office. "And the money is not good."

"So tell me something I don't know," Nikita frowned. He was making her dizzy, pacing around like that. She joined him in his walking.

"To get quick cash, learn to steal," Michael advised.

Nikita's frown reversed itself. "Are you telling me to start knocking off 7-11s?"

"No. Convenience stores have security systems, that while primitive, can still land you in trouble. Mom-and-Pop stores, smaller, privately-owned grocery stores ..."

"Simple armed robbery likewise is dangerous," Madeleine put in. "Remember, you never know your opponent, and he could be armed."

Nikita looked from one to the other. "I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself." Their silence was disapproving and heavy. "Really," she said, smiling. "I've been doing it for years, and I don't need help." Michael's temper was rising, and even Madeleine looked slightly put out. Relenting, Nikita dug in the waistband of her pants and produced a wallet and a Mont Blanc pen.

Madeleine smiled as she retrieved her pen. "Very good, Nikita," she praised. Even Michael smiled slightly, and he checked the cash. A little ashamed, Nikita handed him back the ten she pilfered.

Now, Nikita wiped the rain out of her eyes and ducked down the alley to count the take. From three wallets she got a little over two hundred. Not bad, she thought, tossing them into the trash and pocketing the money. On the train, she planned a way to establish an identity that involved only a little bit of espionage, but she didn't feel up to doing it tonight. Her chest was too tight and she felt too miserable. Maybe tomorrow. It would be too cold to sleep on the street, and she needed to find shelter. She wasn't crazy about staying in a hotel because she didn't have any identification; she couldn't use the credit cards she stole because they were too easy to trace. A shelter would be ideal, but she worried how long it would take Section to find out she wasn't dead. Shelters would be the first place they'd look.

Still thinking, she walked out of the alley and down the street, shivering. First things first, she thought, casting about for a second-hand shop. The first day out she stole a shirt from a drunk, but she was still in her mission attire and it was a bit conspicuous. She had to figure out a plan soon, though; she was very tired and she could feel her temperature start to rise. Her chest felt like it had rocks on it, and she tried to take a deep breath.

Free coats, the sign read, and Nikita stopped in front of the church.

Later, she thought it was providence. At the time, she simply took her good luck in stride.

The church was Catholic. Nikita paused in the back, dipped her finger in holy water and crossed herself, looking around curiously. It was old. Mid 1800s, she guessed, thinking of Gray. He'd like this place. The ceiling soared above her, and around the perimeter of the sanctuary there were saint cubbyholes. It reminded her, in a way, of St. Pat's in New York. She and Michael tailed someone to confession there once.

There wasn't a priest in evidence, but the church was busy. A low hum reverberated through the stone building, and Nikita quietly drifted down to the front of the church, dropping a quarter in an alms box and lighting a candle for Michael. She slid into a pew, kicked down the kneeler and sank down.

She hadn't been raised Catholic, not really. Her first ten years had been spent in a commune, and periodically, her grandparents took them to mass for Christmas and Easter pageants. When she moved and met Julie, she sometimes went to mass with her. But then she changed schools and got older, and church hadn't seemed too important. Besides, she had a hard time believing in God lately.

She put her hot forehead against the cold wood as a wave of nausea swamped her.

"Miss? Are you all right?" A quiet voice broke through, and Nikita looked up in confusion. The woman repeated the question in French, then tried German.

Nikita tried to answer, but instead, she closed her eyes and slid under the pew.

Walter frowned as he took inventory for the third time. Finally, sighing, he went over the log in sheet and matched the identification number of the communicator to the operative. Michael. Odd. Michael never lost anything, and he always was prompt with his returns. Walter frowned, tapping his pencil to his chin, then slowly went to Michael's office.

"Say, Michael, I'm looking for a communicator." He paused, hoping Michael would volunteer it. "It's one of the new ones, the ones that are dedicated," Walter continued. "It disappeared about a week ago on the last mission we went on." The one we lost Nikita on, he wanted to say, but didn't quite dare.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Michael said.

Walter showed him the sign-in sheet. "Isn't that your signature?"

Michael frowned. "Yes, it is ..." his face cleared. "I signed it out for Gibson," he said smoothly. "Who was never found."

"Ah, that explains it," Walter said, making a little mark beside Michael's name. "I'll just run a search on it, make sure no one's picked it up."

Michael became suddenly still. "You put trackers on the communicators?"

"Yeah, sure, all the equipment has to be accounted for. The tracker won't work if the material is too heavily damaged, though," Walter said absently. "Well, thanks. I'll get this taken care of."

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

"Do you always depend on the kindness of strangers?" The voice was amused and warm, and Nikita found herself responding to the kind gray eyes with a smile.

"Why?" Nikita asked.

The other woman blushed a little. "Life has not been kind to you, I think."

Nikita looked down at herself. She was relatively clean -- certainly cleaner than when she arrived, and dressed in a white nightgown. But she knew all too well what was under her nightgown: bullet scars, a few knife wounds poorly healed, various scrapes and unhealed scabs from her brief sojourn on the road.

While the room looked like a hospital ward, there was something faintly quaint about it. The beds were iron and old-fashioned, and instead of sinks, there were washstands. But the most curious thing in the room was not the furniture. It was the woman standing before her. She was dressed in a light gray dress, very plain, with a white bib apron. Instead of a nurses' hat, she wore a sort of covering.

"You're a nun," Nikita guessed.

"A novice," the woman corrected, in softly French-accented English. "You can call me Ella." She busied herself with Nikita, taking her temperature, straightening her pillows. When she checked the thermometer, she smiled and settled down in a chair.

"So, Miss Mystery," she said. "Tell me a bit about yourself."

"If you'll tell me where I am," Nikita said promptly.

Ella tilted her head and smiled again. "This is the Mary and Martha convent. We're attached to the Church of St. Lazarus. Do you remember entering the sancuary?"

"Yes," Nikita said hesitatingly.

"Good," Ella approved. "Mary and Martha is a social services convent. That is, we provide healthcare and shelter for indigent people. Don't worry," she said quickly, seeing Nikita's sudden distress. "You're safe as houses here. No one will hurt you. Since you had no identification, and you collapsed on our doorstep as it were, it seemed provincial for us to take you in. But now you are awake, and able to be moved, so perhaps you would like to notify your family."

Nikita turned away. "I have no family," she said finally.

Ella nodded slowly.

Nikita frowned. "When may I leave?"

"Whenever you want to," Ella said, surprised. "But I think the doctor would prefer you to wait a week or so."

"What's wrong with me?" Nikita asked suspiciously.

"Pneumonia," Ella answered. "But you've been on antibiotics for a week, and ..."

The situation was quickly spinning out of control. "A week! How long have I been here?"

"Eight days."

The door opened, and an older woman appeared, smiling congenially all round. "So, back from the dead are you?" she said cheerfully, her French accent stronger than Ella's.

"I'm like a cat," Nikita said sourly. "I have more lives than are good for anyone."

Ella said quickly, "Her temperature has been normal for two days, Sister."

"Excellent. My name is Sister Paul. We've been calling you Miss Mystery, but I feel sure that you were blessed with something a bit more conventional."

"Maria," Nikita answered instantly, smiling. "Maria Brown."

"Well, Maria, Maria Brown," Sister Paul smiled, "Do you have any pressing duties that call to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Feel like hanging around here for a while?"

Nikita smiled at her word choice. "How long?"

"A week, maybe more." Sister Paul regarded Nikita, then lifted her nightgown sleeve, exposing an old bullet scar. She gently stroked it, then lifted the sleeve further, showing a jagged seared edge. Nikita sighed.

"This one is a bullet," she said, resigned. "This one from a knife."

"Yes, I know," Sister Paul smiled. She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around the arm, and proceeded to pump Nikita up. She watched the minute hand on the clock, then released the pressure.

"You've had good medical care," Sister Paul noted. "Your wounds, while extensive, have been well-taken care of. Are you in law enforcement?"

"Not exactly."

"Do you ... umm ... participate in illegal activities?"

"Not anymore," Nikita said shortly, unable to hide the relief in her eyes.

Sister Paul smiled. "A repented sinner?" she asked.

Nikita considered. "Could I have a confession?"

"Certainly," Sister Paul said promptly.

"Did you track the communicator?" Michael asked Walter, voice neutral.

Walter turned off the mini soldering tool and removed his glasses. "Funny you should ask."

"Why?"

"We did track it," he said slowly. "It sent a signal for about 24 hours after the mission was completed. Then, nothing."

Nikita destroyed it, Michael thought, relieved in more ways than one. Or maybe someone had destroyed it for her. He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Walter strolled over to Birkhoff's station. "Hey, kid, show Michael that file on the tracker."

"Sure," Birkhoff replied, switching off the computer game and booting up the file. "The weird thing was, it was moving. In this direction," he traced the map on the screen, then superimposed it with a topical map. "There's a railroad right along here. I don't know how it could've gotten there."

"Maybe housekeeping was sloppy and dropped something," Michael suggested. The other two looked at him in disgust.

"You know they never miss anything," Walter disagreed. "That's why they're housekeeping."

"Maybe someone got to Gibson before housekeeping," Michael said, voice strained.

"Maybe," Birkhoff remained unconvinced.

"Maybe," Operations interrupted, startling them all, "Gibson isn't really dead." The group was silent. "In my office," Operations barked. "Now."

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

Convent life suited Nikita. Being part of a family -- one that didn't kill people -- was a relief and a pleasant reminder of her childhood in New Zealand -- only this commune prayed instead of shooting up, and everyone had her own bed.

She went to confession twice a week, and after the first month, her sins consisted not of murders she had committed or acts of reverse terrorism, but of taking an extra piece of bread at dinnertime, or staying up past lights out.

It was true that Father Jeffrey avoided her outside of confession, and at times she saw a faint gleam of fear in his eyes, but after the first six months went by without a killing, he started to relax.

After she started feeling better, Ella allowed her to help in the garden. It had been years since Nikita planted anything. Now she took particular pride in the carrots and tomatoes that began to grow. She and Ella also worked in the day care center the convent ran. For the first time in a long time, Nikita was starting to feel happy.

But the best thing about the convent was Ella.

"Why do you want to be a nun?" Nikita asked one day, as they planted carrot seeds.

"Why not?"

"That doesn't seem enough, somehow," Nikita smiled.

"I want to do God's work, and this is the best place for me," Ella answered. "There is evil in the world, Maria. It is up to us to make the world bearable."

Nikita thoughtfully patted the dirt down and moved over six inches. "I don't believe in a God who can let such bad things happen."

"Bad things happen all the time," Ella said bluntly. "But with God on your side, anything is possible."

"If he loves you so, why do bad things happen?" Nikita persisted.

Ella sat back on her heels. "You aren't seeing the big picture, Maria."

Nikita had heard that often enough, and she didn't like it -- not from Operations, not from Michael and certainly not from Ella. "So ... what is the big picture?"

Ella smiled. "In the end, it will all come out right. Think about Jonah. Or Daniel. Or Esther."

Nikita looked at her blankly.

"Okay. How about Paul? Peter?" Still a blank look. Ella rose, brushed off her hands, and offered one to Nikita. "Come on. We'll find you a Bible and you can decide for yourself."

"I don't know ..."

"Don't be silly. It's just a book. It's not going to bite you."

Ella instructed her to read the Gospels first.

"Isn't that starting in the middle?" Nikita asked, fingering the onion-skin pages.

"Trust me," Ella said. "Read these first four books through, then we'll start on the really tough stuff."

A lot of it was familiar, like the birth of Jesus, and the crucifixion, but she found reading the books all the way through gave her a completely different understanding.

"I don't get this," Nikita said, Bible open in her hand one morning as she stood in the doorway of Ella's room.

Ella finished making her bed and turned. "Where are you?"

Nikita showed her. "Ummm... Matthew."

"What's happened so far?" Ella fastened her apron and patted her wavy brown hair under her covering.

"Everyone got together for a nice dinner, and Peter said he would never leave Jesus. Then, just a few hours later, he tells soldiers that he never knew him."

"What's the question?" Ella's gray eyes flickered like glass, and Nikita was momentarily distracted.

"Well, I thought they were friends. You know, loyal. I don't understand how God could let this happen, anyway, the whole thing about letting his son die. And why you would choose to follow him, when you know what he's like. But Peter ... he's turned into a slimy guy. I thought I liked him, but now ..."

"Maria." Ella drew her onto the bed, and took a seat beside her. "The point of the story -- of all the stories in the Bible -- is to show that no matter what your circumstance, God can work in your life. No matter what terrible thing happens, no matter how badly you've acted, God can use you for his purpose. And it will all turn right in the end. Bad things happen in everyone's life. But it's what you make of it that matters. Besides," she grinned, "Peter turns round, in the end."

Nikita fingered the pages uncertainly. "Does it have a happy ending?"

"Mostly," Ella smiled back.

"Maybe this isn't for me," Nikita said.

"Won't know till you finish," Ella grinned. "Give it a little longer."

So Nikita persevered. She continued to be confused, but after she got into it, she didn't want to stop reading. For one thing, she trusted Ella, who had decided to give her life to following the tenets in the book. For another, she was actually interested in the outcome. It was almost like a soap opera; and since the convent didn't have TV, she read for entertainment.

"You think the New Testament is like a soap opera, wait till you start with the old," Ella chuckled. "Rape, pillaging, illicit affairs ... whoever said the Bible was boring hasn't read it."

The garden was their favorite place for heart-to-heart talks. When Ella asked, Nikita gave her a bare bones outline of her own childhood. "My mum wasn't interested in me. So my dad and I lived in a commune in New Zealand. Then I went to live with my grandparents for awhile, and when they died, with my mum. But that didn't work out very well." Nikita stopped short of her recent escapades with Section; not for all the world would she expose Ella to that kind of potential danger.

"So, it wasn't a happy childhood?" Ella said, sympathetic.

"The commune was great," Nikita smiled. "And I loved my grandparents. But the rest of it wasn't so fun."

Ella didn't press, and Nikita didn't offer any more information. "It was a long time ago, though," Nikita shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

Sometimes, when she was dishing out soup, or tucking in an errant child, she thought about her life before. At first, her thoughts were colored with fear of being found, and what would happen to her new friends. But then, gradually, the fear began to fade, and if she felt anything at all, it was sadness. She even felt a tinge of pity for Operations.

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

"Who is your candle for?" Ella asked softly, and Nikita jumped.

"A friend of mine," Nikita answered, carefully putting the end of the lit stick in the sand provided. The light extinguished at once. "What about you?"

"My brother," Ella smiled, doing the same with her lit stick. "I like to light one under this window especially."

Nikita glanced up. The window was tall and Gothic, with swirls of angels cavorting over it.

"Your guardian angel, then?" Nikita guessed.

Ella chuckled. "You could say that."

Nikita waited for Ella to say a quick prayer, then accompanied her outside. "Where does he live?"

"Far away," Ella answered. "He comes to visit, though. I saw him last about six months ago, but he will come soon," she said certainly.

"You got a letter from him?" Nikita asked, knowing the phone was forbidden for novices.

"No," Ella laughed. "We don't need letters. I just know."

"How?"

"Do you believe in intuition?"

"Yes," Nikita said, a little grimly.

"Then, just call it intuition," Ella said slowly. "I know he will come. Probably within the week, but certainly within a fortnight."

"What about the rest of your family? Do they come visit?"

"No," Ella shook her head. "My parents are dead. It's just we two, now. And my brother ... he has a dangerous job with the government, so he can't see me often. He says the convent is safe for me, and it's the life I've always wanted."

"Always?"

"Ever since I was a little girl," Ella smiled. They were in the garden now, and Ella took two vegetable baskets and handed Nikita one. She started down one row of tomato plants, and Nikita started down the other.

"I had an aunt who was a nun here," Ella said. "My family visited her about once a month. You've heard the saying, happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are unhappy in their different ways? We were very happy as a family, and happiest here at the convent."

"What happened?" Nikita asked curiously, then immediately was sorry. "I apologize, Ella, I'm being nosy."

"No, it's ... all right." Ella thoughtfully took a tomato off a bush and rolled it in her hand. "My brother and I were spending the day with our aunt. My parents often left us here for hours at a time. But when it got dark, and they didn't come... they said there was something wrong with the brakes in the car... we were twelve, my brother and I. And we changed to an unhappy family."

"You're twins?"

"Yes," Ella smiled. The tomato went into the basket and she continued briskly. "My parents' money reverted to my aunt, who gave it to the convent. They arranged for our schooling. I went to Saint Catherine's, across town, and was a boarder. My brother went to Saint Francis', which was closer to Mary and Martha, but much farther from me. We had never been separated before, and it was very hard. But worse for my brother."

"Why?"

"Well, we knew English, but before, we only spoke French, and that was seen as very sissy for a boy. Then, he was small and rather scrappy. We both were, but for a girl, it is acceptable to be small. He didn't know things he was supposed to, like football, or soccer, or who won the World's Series. We were brought up on Chopin and Shakespeare. He stuck out in every way, and he was punished for it."

"What did they do to him?" Nikita asked.

"They beat him," Ella replied, matter-of-factly. "He lied and said it was from sports, but I knew better. After the first two years he adapted, but the first two years were .... awful. I would wake up in the night, suddenly hurting. I thought I would faint when his arm was broken ..."

"What?" Nikita asked, sure she had misunderstood.

Ella shrugged. "It's really not that unusual for twins to be abnormally close. And we were very close. Still are. My arm was bruised when his was broken, even."

"Does that still happen?"

"Mostly just when he's hurt," Ella replied. "That's why I know my brother has a dangerous job. He's never really said anything, just that he works for the government and travels a lot. But he gets hurt often, and sometimes I can't feel him at all. Then I get very frightened. I think ... I think I would know if he died, but I'm not sure."

"And does he feel you, as well?"

"Not as much as he used to."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure ..." Ella said slowly. She put down her basket and stretched. "He got his life turned around and for awhile he was quite happy. But then, the happiness left and it was very bad. A few years ago, he started being happy again, but lately ..."

"What happened?" Nikita hefted her basket on top of her head and started back to the garden gate.

"I don't know. Something so bad, he never told me."

The chapel bell chimed, and Ella hurriedly smoothed her skirt. "I'll be late for prayers. Have a good evening, Maria."

"You too, Ella." Nikita wondered back to the convent, carrying both baskets, one on her head and one on her hip. She thought about her own mother, peaceful only when she was stoned. She thought of her father, running away from the world and taking her with him. For her, the unhappy family had come earlier, but no less painfully. Happy families are alike, but unhappy families are unhappy in different ways.

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

"What about Gibson?" Operations asked. "Have we verified his demise?"

"I think so," Madeleine smiled, and opened up a small white envelope. A tooth slid out.

He fingered the tooth distastefully, then dropped it back in the envelope. "So if not Gibson, then who? Who had the communicator?"

"I don't know," Madeleine admitted. "But we'll find out."

"Michael could be lying," Operations offered.

"He could be," Madeleine agreed. "But the only person he would lie for on the team he was leading would be Nikita."

"We confirmed her death?"

"It's being done. We'll know within two days."

"Does Michael know what's going on?"

"I don't think so. I persuaded him to take a few days off."

Operations grunted. "Keep me posted on this."

"Of course."

Ella was obviously agitated the next morning. She and Nikita were teamed at the church to clean up after morning mass. Ella dropped the stack of prayer books she was holding and smashed her finger in a kneeler.

"Why don't you take a rest?" Nikita suggested. "I can finish up."

Ella dropped into a pew and wearily closed her gray eyes. "I'm just so tired," she murmured, rubbing her injured finger. "I didn't sleep last night. Such awful dreams ..."

"Want to talk about it?" Nikita stacked the books and put them on the end of the pew.

"The things I dreamed do not belong in a church."

"Ella," Nikita smiled, "God doesn't mind about circumstances ... you taught me that."

Ella frowned, but she wasn't truly cross. "You learn too quickly," she said. "All right, but let's go outside."

It was warm and breezy. Their skirts billowed in the breeze, and the leaves above their heads clattered invitingly. They went round the back, near the garden, where it was quieter.

"I dreamed of blood," Ella said, watching Nikita's face for revulsion. When there wasn't any, she continued, reassured. "And you were there. But you were ... different. Your face was cut up, and you were in a trap. Like an animal. But high up, like in a tree, but there were no trees ..." Ella struggled to remember the rest. "I was with you, and I kept begging you to tell, to tell something ... but I don't know what ..." Ella noticed Nikita's pale face, and instantly was apologetic. "Oh, Maria, I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you ... it was a horrible dream."

"I'm not frightened," Nikita lied. "But you are right, it was awful. Do you often have dreams like this?"

"Enough," Ella said, face tight. "Oh," she groaned, hands to her head. "If only my brother would come. I miss him so, surely he'll come soon ..."

"Come on," Nikita said sympathetically. "Let's go get something to eat." Still under the spell of Ella's dream, she had to blink a few times before she let herself believe the dark figure standing near the garden gate.

But Ella didn't hesitate. She gave a little choking sob and started running as fast as she could to the waiting figure. When she flung her arms around him, his arms tightened around her, but his eyes focused on Nikita, and she knew.

Of course, she thought miserably, turning away quickly so he wouldn't see her face. Of course, Michael is her brother. Who else would he be? All the same, she thought, I wish he had been someone else.

She thought about running away, and she thought about playing dumb, but when Ella led him over to where she was rooted, the only thing she could do was hold out a hand.

"Maria, this is my brother. Michel," Ella beamed, pronouncing it the French way. "Michel, Maria."

They shook hands, and if one was colder than the other, neither mentioned it. Michael's eyes were as flat and cold as steel, and Nikita shivered a little. They had the same eyes and hair, she noticed. Well, perhaps Ella's eyes were warmer, and her hair was certainly tidier. Not the same carriage; Michael was stiff and straight, Ella quick and sure. But they were definitely related.

"We know each other," Michael announced, and Ella's eyebrows shot up. Why had Nikita never noticed Ella's facial expressions? They were just like Michael's. "We worked together once," he said.

"Of course, I remember. Nice to see you," Nikita lied. "Ella, I'm going back inside. Let you two visit a bit." Maybe, if she was lucky, she could get to the train station before anyone noticed she was missing.

"Please don't go," Ella begged, catching Nikita's hand. "It's almost time for midmorning prayers, and it's not right to leave Michel alone, especially since you are old friends. Stay, do."

Resigned, Nikita smiled a little and nodded. "I'll be in the garden, then," she said, picking up a basket and heading for the plants.

It would have to be tonight, she thought sadly, looking around at the old stone walls, the straight, strong plants. Too bad. She had so wanted to stay until the leaves fell.

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

The chapel bells tolled, and Ella left Michael to Nikita. They strolled in the garden, Nikita picking beans rather half-heartedly.

"Gabrielle looks ... well," Michael said, hesitantly.

"She misses her brother," Nikita said tightly.

"And you?"

Nikita put a handful of beans in her basket. "I have no brother."

"Are you all right?" he revised his question.

"Safe as houses," Nikita said bitterly, adopting Ella's phrase.

Michael was quiet.

"Michael, how did you know I was here?" Nikita finally demanded. "How did you track me?"

"I didn't," he said simply.

"Do you mean to tell me you just dropped by to see your sister?"

"Yes."

Nikita continued to pick beans, slowly filling up her basket. "Any strange dreams lately, Michael?" she asked casually.

Something happened to his eyes, but when he looked at her, they were blank as always. "Why do you ask?"

Nikita didn't answer. She knew. Suddenly, she smiled. "And I thought you didn't believe in intuition," she teased, shaking a bean at him.

She continued down the row. "So, where are you staying?" she asked.

"Here."

"For how long?"

He studied her. "That depends."

Prayers were over. Ella sped toward them, laughing. "Maria's already put you to work, eh, Michel?"

Michael put a handful of beans in Nikita's basket, then took it from her. "She's not as bad a slave driver as you, Gabrielle," he said, and Nikita was surprised to see him smile.

"No one could be," Ella said with some pride. She looped her arm through Michael's free one. "One time when he came for a visit, we made him paint the inside of the dining room. Another time, it was plowing."

"What will it be this time?" Nikita asked curiously.

"I'm sure we can find something. How are your carpentry skills? We could use another bookshelf." Ella grinned up at Michael, and then said, "I almost forgot, Maria. Sister Mary needs you in the kitchen."

Nikita took her beans back from Michael and in a fluid motion, she balanced them on her head as was her custom. Michael's eyebrows raised and Ella laughed delightedly.

"She grew up in New Zealand," Ella explained. "In a commune. She knows how to do lots of unusual things."

"I'm sure she does," Michael smiled at Nikita, and she felt cold. Tonight, she thought. It had to be tonight.

Working at dinnertime was a definite plus. It was a snap to dose Michael's coffee with her own sleeping pills -- pills Sister Paul had given her when she first arrived. Knowing Michael's tolerance for all things chemical, she put a triple dose in. When he put down his empty coffee cup, she relaxed.

"Do you want some more?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

Did he know? She thought she detected a bit of amusement in his voice. But he continued his conversation with Ella and some of the other nuns, laughing at some of the things they said, listening seriously about some of the financial problems the convent was having. They talked like old friends -- which, she realized, they were.

The talk continued long after dinner, since Ella was excused from any more duties. Nikita finished her chores, bid them goodnight and went to her room. It was only 9:30, but she had things to do.

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

She waited till after midnight. Then, slowly, silently, she crept fully dressed out of bed. She was not wearing her mission clothes -- those had been burned, not that there was much left of them anyway. She had on a pair of mens' blue jeans that were too big, a thick flannel shirt, and a dark colored coat, which had been the best she could do under the circumstances. The poor box was running low, and she had been lucky to find a belt that fit her. She put on rubber-soled shoes, hitched up her pants, and, steadying herself with a deep breath, eased her door open and silently drifted down the hall.

First, she had to check on Michael. Guests were usually housed in the wing she was in; several open doors yawned darkly before her, but one was closed.

She lightly leaned against the wooden door, straining to hear any movement. Nothing stirred, and she stepped back, satisfied. Either he was drugged, or possibly (and she felt a twinge of guilt) dead. Or, he could be out and waiting for her. She ought to check his bed. But she hesitated, loath to risk waking him. The pills should have worked, and this was too important to jeopardize. Finally she left, quickly and quietly making her way to the outside door, then to the garden. The outside wall was lowest there, and it would be a cinch to climb. She was half-way over when something caught her leg and pulled; startled, she tumbled backwards and probably would have hurt herself if Michael had not been prepared. He caught her neatly in his arms, and she immediately pushed him away.

"What are you doing here?" she asked crossly, brushing herself off.

"Waiting for you."

The moon skittered out from behind the clouds, casting a pale glow. In its light, she could see Michael's head was inexplicably wet, and his eyes were pinholes.

"So I guess the sleeping pills worked, then?" she asked. "What did you do, pour a pitcher of water over yourself?"

"How many did you slip me?" he asked mildly.

"Obviously not enough," she spat out.

"Perhaps if I had not been expecting it, it would have worked," Michael said.

"If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't."

"Where were you planning on going?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'm sorry, Nikita," Michael said, with real regret in his voice.

"For ....?"

"For finding you here. For taking you back."

"You wouldn't," Nikita said, voice brittle and eyes sharp. "Michael, please ... don't. Pretend you never saw me. I'll leave here, I'll go someplace you won't find me ... please."

"Nikita, they know you are alive."

"You told them," she said, outraged.

"No. The communicator."

"But ... I destroyed it."

"Not soon enough. They tracked it to the train, and now they are verifying the status of all the operatives. I told them Gibson had it, but they found what was left of him. Now they are running all the bone fragments they can, and when they don't find yours, they will come for you. And this time, I won't be able to save you. I am sorry," he said. "So sorry."

Nikita looked at him, suspicious. "Are you telling the truth?"

Michael's eyebrows raised a bit. "Yes."

"I don't trust you," Nikita said bluntly. "If I go back, it's a death sentence."

"Not necessarily."

"What do you mean?"

"It's been almost a year, which isn't in our favor," Michael said quietly, leaning against the wall, arms folded. "The longer you are gone, the more it looks like escape, instead of hiding."

"Who am I hiding from?" Nikita asked, guardedly.

"Me," Michael said.

"And how is this going to help me?"

"You will say you knew it was a suicide mission. That you were afraid I would kill you. That you saw your chance and took it, and have been waiting until you thought it was safe to return."

"They will know I am not afraid of you," Nikita scoffed. "It's a weak plan, Michael."

"I can make you afraid," Michael said coldly, and his gray eyes glimmered eerily in the moonlight.

"I'd rather you didn't," Nikita said quickly. "Can't I have just have a nervous breakdown? That's closer to the truth, anyway."

"And your motivation for returning?" Michael prompted.

Nikita bit her lip, and looked at him through her lashes.

"It's a weak plan, Nikita," Michael said, but gently. "And besides, it would bring more trouble on both of us."

"I don't see why," Nikita said crossly. "Half of the people there think the worst anyway. This would only confirm their suspicions and the worst that would happen to us is, we would be split up."

"Or canceled," Michael reminded.

"Then I won't come in," Nikita decided. "You can cancel me yourself. Or, I'll let them come for me, and kill me outright. That way, you're left out of it, I get a little more time, and everyone's happy."

"I'm not."

"How can you tell?" Nikita asked, curious. "Oh, never mind. This is a ridiculous conversation, anyway."

"You know the way they come for people," Michael said quietly. "It would be a shame to put the people who live here through that."

"Stop trying to be my conscious," Nikita snapped. "You don't realize what you're asking me to give up."

Michael sighed, and carefully rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What do you want, more than anything?"

"Freedom."

"Besides that. If you were living in Section again, what would make life bearable for you?"

"What makes life bearable for you?" Nikita asked curiously.

"Coming here," Michael answered shortly, and Nikita knew better than to press him.

She thought, chewing her bottom lip. "Anything?" she asked, cautiously.

"Yes. Time off, a bigger apartment, your own office ..."

"I'm thinking a little bigger than that," Nikita admitted.

"Vacation?" Michael suggested hopefully.

"I want a deal," she said slowly.

"What kind of deal?"

"I want your word that you will stop lying to me. I want your promise that no matter what happens in the future, you'll tell me truth."

Michael's eyebrows raised, and a smile quirked at his lips. "What makes you think I would keep such a promise?"

She hated to do it, it was such a dirty trick. But it was the only weapon she had, and if nothing else, Section had taught her to use what was available. "Ella."

"You wouldn't. You've become fond of her," Michael said.

"Yes, very fond," Nikita agreed. "But this is something that I want very much. And it's something you can give me. You do what you have to do, isn't that right, Michael?"

Michael pulled at his turtleneck, considering Nikita in new light.

"I bet," Nikita went on in a hard voice, "Section doesn't know about her. If they did, they'd never let you come visit her. You've been sneaking out here whenever you could manage. But if Section knew, chances are they would have killed her long ago. And if they find out, she will be marked."

"Yes," Michael agreed, faintly. "And that's the only thing you want?"

"There are a lot of things I'd like," Nikita admitted. "I'd like to not have to kill anyone. I'd like to live like a normal person, whatever that means. But if I have to come back, your honesty would be enough. Although a long vacation someplace warm wouldn't hurt either."

"Alone?" Michael raised one eyebrow slightly.

Instead of answering, Nikita spit on her hand and held it out. "So, do we have a deal?"

Michael looked at her damp hand, resigned. "All right," he agreed, shaking her hand cautiously. "It's a deal."

She raised her face and gave him a quick kiss. "I'm glad I didn't over dose you. I missed you, Michael," she said frankly in an even voice, not moving away.

"You did?" he looked at her warily. She was uncomfortably close, but he didn't push her away.

"I lit candles for you."

"How many?"

"One a day. Did they make a difference?"

Clouds drifted over the moon again. A night owl muttered in a tree, startling Nikita, who shifted and lost her balance. Michael wrapped his arms around her reflexively. She stretched her arms loosely around him, rested her chin on his shoulder, and sighed, breath making dim clouds in the cold air.

"So?" she prompted softly, her breath gentle on his ear.

"They made a difference for you," he replied diplomatically.

"Ummm," she agreed, noncommittally. Neither moved a muscle. "Michael."

"Yes?" he whispered.

The words were almost out, but she managed to snatch them back. Instead, she said, "I'm sorry about Saint Francis's."

"It doesn't matter," he said mildly. "It was a long time ago. Anyway, Gabrielle had it worse than I did."

Nikita smiled and gently, so she wouldn't frighten him, kissed him very softly on the mouth. She would not have been surprised if he had stood stoically by; in fact, she expected him to not react at all. But very hesitatingly, he responded. She smoothed his hair away, and lay the back of her hand on his cheek. "Funny," she said. "That's what she said about you."

Michael kissed her forehead, still holding her close. "We aren't telling them you came back for me," he said firmly.

"Agreed," Nikita said, a little sorry she had initiated the whole thing. She would agree to almost anything now. Jump off a bridge? Sure, not a problem.

"You may have to have another nervous breakdown." His mouth traveled slowly down her neck, and she tried to remember how to breathe normally.

"Agreed," Nikita murmured again. "Hey." She pulled away from him suddenly, giving herself a little shake. "Is this some kind of a trick?" she asked suspiciously. "Because if you think I'm going to let Ella go, think again. She's the only thing I have to bargain with."

"I thought it was worth a try," he said blandly.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Nikita nodded.

"And you did start it," he pointed out.

"Yes, I did," Nikita said, suddenly not angry anymore. She linked her arm through his and led him through the garden. "Don't do that again, though. Not unless you mean it."

"Agreed," he replied. Nikita shook her head slightly.

"You seem different, somehow," she said.

"You did sedate me," he reminded.

"That's right," Nikita smiled. "Don't hold it against me, though, will you?"

He stopped by the green peppers. "I am relieved that you are safe ... safe as houses," he said finally, then he resumed his pace.

"You will have to lie convincingly," he said, changing the subject. "I'll practice with you."

"It shouldn't be a problem," Nikita said, comfortingly. "I'll just think about Esther, and I'll be fine."

"Esther?"

"It's a wonderful story, Michael," Nikita said, enthusiastically. "Esther is an orphan and her uncle raises her. One day the king kills the queen, mostly because she talks back to him, and he calls for all the pretty girls to try out for the position. Esther is pimped for the king. But he falls in love with her and decides to marry her. So they get married, but Esther is still afraid of him a little. Then she find out an evil man is trying to kill her people. She's Jewish, you know."

"I remember," Michael said in an odd tone. Nikita gave him a quick look, then continued.

"She just wants to lie low, naturally. But her uncle tells her, no, you have to help your people. He's seeing the big picture, you understand. So Esther has a big dinner party and uncovers the evil man's intentions, and he gets canceled. The uncle gets a promotion, and Esther and the king are happy."

"And how is this going to help you lie convincingly?"

Nikita looked at him as if he were either a small child or very stupid. "Esther had to be devious to get what she knew was right, even if she didn't want to at first. And so will I."

Michael wondered if the church would agree with her interpretation. He rather thought not. But he put his hand on the small of her back and was rewarded with a bright smile.

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

"What is today?" Madeleine asked.

"Sunday," Nikita said quickly. "The twenty-second."

"Tell me what you remember."

"I don't know what happened exactly," Nikita said, clearly confused. "I do remember waking up ..."

Madeleine frowned. "I have your chart right here," she indicated the thick folder. "You don't remember anything before you woke up?"

"I remember the mission."

"What about the mission?"

"Millovich wanted us," Nikita answered. "Me, especially. The rat. He raped that girl, and destroyed her village, and he lied about it. And because of him, I had to kill her father, who was only trying to find justice for his daughter."

"Do you remember Stanley Shays?"

Nikita's brow wrinkled. "What does he look like?"

"Thin, red hair, very smart."

"An operative?" Nikita guessed wildly.

Madeleine thunked a dedicated communicator on the table. "Have you ever seen one of these before?"

Nikita fingered it. "No." Nikita's blue eyes were honest and empty. Madeleine sighed.

"How do you feel, Nikita?"

"Compared to what?" Nikita countered.

"Compared to when you shot the girl's father."

Nikita considered. "Better."

"In what way?"

"Just ... better. I'm still sorry I shot him. But I had no other choice," she said glibly.

Madeleine got up from the desk and came around to Nikita's chair. She tilted Nikita's face up and gazed into her innocent eyes. "Either you have improved one hundred percent in your lying," Madeleine mused, "Or you are telling the truth. Tell me, how do you feel about Michael?"

Nikita lowered her gaze and allowed a gentle flush to creep up her neck. "How do you mean?" she asked guardedly.

Madeleine's hand dropped, and she smiled again. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Take a couple of weeks off, and report back here on ... let's see, the sixth."

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

Nikita made her way to Michael's office.

"How did it go?" he asked neutrally, not looking up from his computer screen.

"I," Nikita said proudly, "Have improved one hundred percent in my lying."

"Congratulations," Michael said promptly, amusement coloring his voice. Making an obvious effort, he asked, "Did she tell you about the time off?"

"I'm to have two weeks."

"That's in addition to a regular vacation," he said absently, returning to the screen, "I think two months a year."

Nikita slumped down in a chair. "No kidding. You did that for me?"

"I suggested it, yes."

Quietly, Nikita said, "You didn't have to do that. Thank you, Michael."

"You are welcome." He continued with his work, and she watched him for a minute.

"You almost finished?" she asked.

"Yes."

She waited a bit longer, then when he snapped off the computer, she stood up quickly. "You sure you want to do this?" she asked. "No lying, now. I'm the only one who is sanctioned to do that. And I'm already dreading my penance."

Michael straightened his tie, and Nikita held his jacket for him to slip into. "They say confession is good for the soul," he offered.

"So they do," Nikita agreed. She put her hand in her pocket to make sure her rosary was still there, and smiled. "Shall we?"

"By all means."

They walked briskly out, not touching or speaking, but from her perch in the glass box, Madeleine smiled and entertained herself with thoughts of what was obviously a date. Brunch? Trip to the zoo? Walk in the park? Lunch and a matinee?

Nikita turned suddenly, catching Madeleine's eye, and gave her a little wave and a smile.

"Something's going on with those two," Operations growled.

Madeleine observed Michael and Nikita. They were both bent over Burkhoff, gazing at the computer screen. Michael said something and Nikita nodded. Then, he straightened and put his hand on Nikita's arm, obviously giving her directions. She nodded again, and set off across the Section floor.

"What do you mean?" Madeleine said mildly.

"Are they ... involved?"

"With each other? Not to my knowledge."

"Find out, will you?"

"Why?"

He stared at her and said deliberately, "Because ... if they are, we'll have to reassign them. Or move Nikita. Michael has to stay here for obvious reasons."

"So, you don't care if they are seeing each other if they aren't working together?"

"Partners don't get emotionally involved," he stated flatly. "You know that. Better than anyone."

Madeleine nodded. "I'll talk with Michael."

"Do that," Operations smiled.

"Since our wandering sheep has returned, I've noticed a difference," Madeleine said, handing Michael a glass of water. She sat down at her desk.

"What kind of a difference?" Michael took a cautious sip, and waited.

"She's more relaxed, she follows orders better, she has performed her tasks well. She is working well with you. She seems happy."

"Why is that a problem?"

"Because she never used to be," Madeleine said. "And I'm wondering what you think the change can be attributed to?"

Michael sat his glass down with a quiet snap on the table. "If you are asking whether we are ... intimate ... the answer is no."

"Is there someone else I need to know about?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Than what is responsible for the change?"

Michael frowned, then sighed. "Let's just say we have reached an understanding that is beneficial to everyone. Including Section."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"No," he said frankly. "And it doesn't matter. We have both performed up to standard."

"Actually, above, in some cases," Madeleine smiled. "But you know that ... intimacy ... is frowned upon. You can date only people in other departments."

"I know."

"So, unless one of you wants to be reassigned ..." She let the sentence dangle. "Nikita would most likely stay a cold op. We could move her to Switzerland, perhaps. Or keep her here, but under someone else."

Michael took another sip of water. "I will mention it to her, if you like," he offered, voice neutral.

"As you see best," Madeleine smiled.

"So?" Operations demanded, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"They aren't sleeping together," Madeleine said flatly. "And both seem satisfied with the status quo. My advice is to let them be. They've obviously reached some sort of agreement."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"To reach an agreement, you must have something to bargain with."

"In most cases, yes," Madeleine confirmed. "But in this case, I think the simple explanation is best."

"And what might that be?"

Madeleine shrugged and smiled, then smoothed a hand over his shoulder. "They're friends. Maybe later, they'll be more, but for now, we have no cause for worry. And if Nikita has found some inner peace, then more power to her." Her hand dropped, and she turned away. "All the same, it might be wise to teach her how to ski. And learning Italian wouldn't be a bad idea either."

END