Nikita strode quickly into Walter's station and smiled. "I need a favor."

"Anything, anytime, anywhere," he returned, grinning. "What'll it be?"

Nikita grinned again. "Give it up, Walter. Something weird happened yesterday, and I need some help."

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly serious.

"Someone sent me flowers."

"Well, I can see why you'd worry," he said sarcastically.

"Lilies. There wasn't a card, and I don't know who sent them," Nikita said. "But there was a theater ticket -- one, for a show tonight. I think it's probably a trap."

"What's the play?"

"'The Importance of Being Ernest,'" Nikita answered. "I've never seen it, have you?"

Walter grinned. "It's a comedy. Sugar, I think you've been in Section too long. Chances are, it's just someone who wants to cheer you up."

"What do you mean?"

Walter picked up a screw driver and applied it to a transformer. "You've been pretty down for the last few weeks, ever since Jurgan ... well, Sugar, I don't think I'd worry too much about it. Someone probably had an extra ticket and thought you'd like to go, but didn't think you'd go if you knew who sent it."

Nikita suddenly felt very foolish. It was Walter. He had sent the flowers and ticket, obviously. She'd never pegged him for the kind to send lilies -- he seemed more the roses or maybe gardenia type, but perhaps he had hidden depths. She almost felt like crying, she was so grateful to him. Sweet man, she'd have to do something extra-special for him. She smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're probably right," she said. "I was being silly."

"You gonna go?"

"Course. I've never had a really fun Valentine's date."

"If I were you, I'd go hungry. He'll probably take you out for dinner, after."

"Good advice," Nikita smiled. "Thanks. I'll see you ... ummm .... later."

She had been feeling low ever since she came back to Section. First there was the tension with Michael, then the crazy thing with Jurgan ... not that it mattered anymore, she thought sadly. Jurgan was gone and Michael made it quite plain that he didn't love her, and for the past few weeks she had been sinking into a slow depression. Walter was a darling and a true friend for noticing, and as she walked briskly home, she decided to cook dinner for him. Why not? He was a single man, he probably never ate right, and she was a proficient cook. She learned early out of necessity, and although she couldn't do anything very fancy, she made excellent pot roast. Everyone liked roast, and she could make those cute little potatoes. Perfect. Maybe she'd even stop by for a nice dessert at the bakery.

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

Nikita dressed carefully for the evening. Black was always safe, and the more skin that was covered, the better. Not only was it cold out, but she didn't want Walter to get any inappropriate ideas. She was grateful, but not that grateful. Her hair was up, a shiny blonde mass anchored firmly with gold bobby pins, and her dress was long and slightly fuller than she usually wore. When she bought it, she'd named it "the Grace Kelly dress." She'd actually purchased it with Michael in mind, but ... well, Walter would certainly be appreciative. More than Michael would have been, anyway; Michael seldom noticed what she wore, unless she was falling out of it. And then he only looked uncomfortable.

In any case, she looked very nice tonight. The bodice was black velvet with silver leaves threaded through, and the full, ankle-length skirt was satin with black illusion over it. She put on silver button earrings and a silver bracelet, checked the timer on the stove, and left ten minutes early, so they'd have time to chat before the performance.

She had been to the Majestic only once, and it was for work. She and Michael had taken out a French diplomat, and consequently missed most of the performance. She wanted to come back later and see the rest of the play, but with one thing and another, had never made it. Tonight would be fun, she thought, unable to suppress a happy smile. She handed her ticket to the usher and accepted a program, and eagerly looked over the sea of people for Walter's grizzled head.

The seat next to hers was empty. Swallowing her disappointment, Nikita sat down. He'd be here, she thought firmly; she was just early. She checked her watch. The curtain would go up at eight; he had fifteen minutes. Plenty of time.

She twisted around in her seat, searching the back for him. As the theater filled up, she could feel her excitement ebb, replaced by another feeling.

Maybe she had been right all along. Maybe it was a trap. Nikita quickly scanned the few rows in front of her, then glanced behind her, running her eyes over the chatting crowd. Like Walter said, she had been in Section too long; she had a gun strapped to her thigh, and another in her handbag. With a sick feeling, she sincerely hoped she wouldn't have to use either.

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

The lights dimmed and the curtain rose. Feeling very exposed in her seat, Nikita scootched down a little, looking first to her right, where the empty seat was, then to her left. An elderly woman smiled politely at her, and Nikita smiled automatically back. She was near the middle of the row; excellent for watching a play, but limiting her escape route considerably. There was no way out, except over other people. She nervously opened her program, her eyes darting toward the box seats. From experience, she knew you could get a perfect shot from them. Nikita licked her lips, the lipstick taste making her slightly nauseous.

She told herself she was overreacting. Of course, it was Walter she was meeting. He was just hung up at work. That had to be it. As the first act continued and no one tried to abduct or kill her, she gradually relaxed and was pulled in by the action on stage.

Twenty minutes into the play, a dark figure slid down the row. Absorbed in the story line, Nikita didn't pay any attention until he settled in next to her. Then she turned with a brilliant smile, cheeks pink with excitement. "Walter --" she whispered, then froze.

It wasn't Walter.

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

The color drained from her face and every muscle in her body tensed. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"It isn't polite to talk during a performance," Michael murmured in her ear, his breath stirring a wisp of hair that refused to stay up.

Nikita swallowed and faced forward, stonily ignoring him. What a dirty trick, she thought angrily. She was so furious she felt like crying, and she probably would have if it had been easier to get out and to the ladies' room; she'd be damned if he'd see her cry. She straightened up in her seat, back stiff and head high, and focused on the performance. By concentrating hard enough, she was almost able to forget the man that sat beside her.

She couldn't forget him completely, though. His elbow brushed hers, and she jerked her arm back, cursing herself for the tingle that ran up her sleeve. She wasn't going through this again. Not with Michael, not with anyone.

Concentrate, Nikita, she thought, and gradually the people around her melted away until she was only aware of the characters on stage. When intermission came, she excused herself and went to the ladies' room to wait out the fifteen minutes.

Michael sighed. This wasn't working. Why had he thought that it would? He had allowed too much time to pass.

Miserable, he waited for Nikita to come back. The lights blinked and he prepared himself for another icy act. But as the curtain rose and the action started again, the seat next to him remained empty.

Undecided about his next course of action, Michael stayed for the next act. The audience around him laughed, completely captivated by the show, but he wasn't thinking about the characters on stage. Abruptly, he rose and stalked out of the theater.

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

By the time Michael reached the fourth floor, he could feel a steady beat emanating from someone's apartment. Halfway down the hall, it was clear whose apartment it was; the door fairly vibrated, it was so loud. He knocked, a futile gesture, then unlocked the door and went in, breathing the heady scent of garlic, carrots and turpentine.

Nikita had almost finished her wall. Since she hadn't been sleeping, her remodeling had gone quicker than she planned, and all that was left to do was the mural, so that's what she was working on. Her hair, for the most part, was still pinned up, but her evening clothes were replaced with a vibrant orange and yellow konga that reached to her knees. She purchased it in Tanzania sometime last year; it was crossed over her chest and tied around her neck halter-style, leaving her upper back bare. Michael could see her lips moving to the music, but it was too loud to hear her voice. African war songs. He should have known.

Michael studied her work. It was going to be a seascape, and she was beginning to paint in the waves. The sky was finished, a wild deep blue with a rakish brilliant sun shining in the corner. A rough pencil outline showed what the rest of the scene would be, and he moved closer to see.

His ears were ringing the music was so loud, but the CD player was beyond Nikita, so he couldn't turn it off. He touched her briefly on the shoulder.

She whirled around and the paint brush went flying. She automatically swung up and out, fist connecting solidly with Michael's chin. Her right foot flashed out, hooking neatly under his knees. Not expecting a full-frontal assault, he stumbled backwards; somehow, she got tangled in his feet and fell after him.

Michael landed with a thump on his back that knocked the breath out of him. Nikita tumbled after him, landing on top of him with a bone-jarring thud. She put out her forearm so she wouldn't smash into his face, but instead of landing on his chest, her arm landed on his windpipe, choking what little breath he had left. The unexpected motion dislodged her precarious hair-do, and it promptly tumbled down, scattering gold hairpins on the hardwood floor. The African war dance finished, and a blessed quiet descended on the apartment.

Breathing raggedly, Nikita regarded him calmly, fully expecting him to complete the maneuver. It was a trick he taught her the first month she was in Section. All he had to do was twist and roll, and he'd be free. But the muscles under her didn't tense as she predicted; instead, she felt him relax. He kept his eyes focused on hers, and as the skin around his mouth begin going gray, she angrily pressed down firmer on his neck.

A turn to the right, and she could kill him. The thought was not entirely unpleasant to her.

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

Michael lay calmly under Nikita, his peripheral vision slowly turning gray around the edges, then a sparkily black. He had always supposed he'd die in an explosion or have some other violent, messy end, most likely involving torture or at least amputation; the irony of being choked to death by someone he loved was not lost on him, and if he'd been able, he would have smiled.

He blinked in an attempt to get the haze in front of his eyes to disappear, then, slowly, his eyes unfocused and began to close. Abruptly, Nikita rolled off him, and unable to help himself, he gasped in sweet air. Nikita sat, head bowed over bent knees, arms tight around her legs. She didn't say anything or make a sound, but her shoulders jerked a bit, and when he had his breath back, he scooted over to her, wrapping his legs around her and pulling her back against him. It was a vulnerable position; it wouldn't take much for Nikita to disable him in a variety of ways. Every muscle in her body tensed.

He had to be very, very careful.

Michael was not a timid man. He had often faced death calmly; but then, death was a certainly and something he could definitely count on. Nikita wasn't. One wrong word -- one wrong move -- and she'd be gone forever. At least to him, anyway, and staring down at her disheveled hair, an shiny hair pin sticking erratically skyward, he realized once again how shaky his position was and how unwilling he was to consider the possibility of a Nikita-less existence. Clearing his throat, which was already beginning to bruise, he prepared to utter the three most difficult words to say in the English language.

"I was wrong."

Nikita didn't move. Michael tried again, voice still hoarse, arms loose around her. "I left you alone because I thought once things calmed down at Section, it would be easier for us. But I didn't think about it being so hard on you." Nikita didn't answer, and Michael took a deep breath, voice becoming a little stronger. "Do you still want to know why I brought you back?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "Because you are a part of me that I can't live without. It's like trying to live with one lung or one kidney. It's possible, but never comfortable, and certainly not preferable to being whole."

Nikita still didn't say anything. A little desperate, Michael continued. "Not a lot scares me, Nikita. Like you, I'm a survivor; we have to be, to do what we do. But the possibility of continuing to work beside you without being with you is something I don't want to think about. And to be successful with this, we are going to have to work together. That's not something we've excelled at recently." He was rambling now, just enjoying the feel of her against him. He gently dislodged a few hairpins and rested his cheek on her head, breathing in the scent of shampoo and paint. "You deserve better. I can't promise that we'll always be happy. We both know a normal life isn't possible and I'd be lying to you if I told you it was. There won't be a little picket-fenced house and there won't be car pools to little league and there won't be ballet recitals with children dressed up like trees or animals. I won't be around to help you get the oil changed in the car. The chances that we'll grow old together are slim to none. But I ... I do love you, very much. Nikita, I'll try every way I know how to keep you safe -- to keep us safe -- but you have to trust me, and for now, anyway, you have to do as I ask. Will you?"

Nikita turned around to face him and brought his chin up sharply so she could see his eyes. Michael waited, and as the minutes ticked by and she said nothing, the little optimism that he had waned.

Indian-style, Nikita sat quietly between his legs. She rubbed one red toenail and looked up at him through her lashes.

"If I wanted a guarantee," she said softly, "I'd buy a refrigerator."

"You already have a refrigerator," he said, confused.

Nikita smiled. "Exactly."

Slowly, she leaned forward until her mouth was a fraction away from his. He held his breath. Then, very carefully, she kissed him. It wasn't a wild, passionate kiss, but it wasn't scared or uncertain either. It lay somewhere between friend and lover, and Nikita unfolded her legs and stretched them over his left thigh, modestly arranging her konga over her knees. She looped her arms around him and rested her head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. She could feel the steady thump of his heart and the in-and-out of his chest, and with an almost audible click, her world snapped into focus.

"Michael," Nikita muttered against his neck.

"Yes?"

"I can change the oil in my car by myself."

"What?" He pulled away from her and looked at her closely.

"I can change the oil myself. And I don't need you to keep me safe. It's a big enough job just keeping yourself safe, it's not fair to ask you to keep up with me, too. I just want to be sure that you are on my side."

Michael said ruefully, "That may be the only thing you can be sure of."

"Then it will have to be enough."

She lay back down on his chest and they were quiet for a moment. "I brought you something," Michael remembered.

She raised an eyebrow. "Awful sure of yourself, were you?"

"Not sure. Just hoping. Right breast pocket."

Nikita slid a hand past his tuxedo jacket. She fumbled for a moment, then came up with a tight wad of tissue. Sitting up, she unwound the paper, and a ring fell out.

Nikita bit her lip and studied the silver-colored circle. There was a black square opaque stone set flush in the wide, flat band. The light flashed off the rim, and she squinted. "Is there writing inside?"

Michael couldn't breathe. He couldn't even look at her. He focused on the ring, and kept silent. Nikita held it up to the light, her voice stumbling over the words. "‘Vous et nul autre.' What's it mean?"

Michael swallowed, his throat tight. "Oh, wait," Nikita said, turning the ring all the way around. "‘You and no other,'" she read the English translation slowly.

She hesitated, turning the ring in her fingers, watching the light play on the silver. "Is ... is that true, Michael?"

For the second time that night, he felt strangled. Michael took a deep breath. Nikita waited, finally looking up at him. "Michael?"

"Yes," he said -- or rather, gasped. "You and no other," he affirmed.

Nikita searched his eyes, and what she saw apparently satisfied her. She slipped the ring on her right middle finger and Michael, who hadn't realized he was holding his breath, let it out in a whoosh. "I think that may have been the hardest thing I've ever done," he confessed.

"Well, the night is young," Nikita said lightly. The buzzer on her oven sounded, indicating dinner was ready, and she got up and offered a hand to him. After a moment, he reached up and took it, but instead of letting go, he pulled her towards him, arms tight around her, lips warm and slow.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he murmured against her neck, pulling gently on an earlobe. Nikita smiled. The roast could wait.