Since the fiasco in Guatemala, every morning started the same for Nikita: leglifts and introspection.

She'd been lucky. Five operatives died, it took 36 hours for Birkhoff to locate her, and she'd been shot so close to the knee the bullet had ricocheted, breaking her leg and causing extensive muscle damage.

On the positive side, she was alive.

Some days she wondered if that actually was a good thing. It had been a month since the cast was removed, and it still hurt.

The exercises helped. She walked with only a slight limp, and everyone remarked on her quick recuperation. She couldn't run long distances yet, and it hurt to move the leg in certain directions, but she was getting better.

The introspection took her mind off the pain. Besides, she had a lot of thinking to do. It had been six months since she rejoined Section, and during those six months, she discovered several unpleasant things about herself that warranted serious thought. Michael told her to "get over it," meaning, she supposed, to get over him. She started out angry, then jealous, then confused; gradually, she came to accept this was one game she couldn't win. He'd always given excellent advice in the past and she decided to follow it to the letter. It was difficult, but not impossible, and when Nikita was determined, she usually succeeded. And she was very determined.

She was also very tired. She'd never been one to internalize her feelings, but she discovered it was much easier to function without them. So, like a bad habit, she got rid of them, packing whatever emotions she had left into a tiny little space and closing the door firmly.

On top of everything else, her dreams were getting worse.

Normally a sound sleeper, she seldom remembered her dreams. She didn't remember them now, either, but she woke with her heart straining through her chest, her skin wet with fear, her mind screaming out with wordless terror. That's what it's like to feel, she reminded herself. Is that what you want?

Nikita sighed and changed position with a grimace. Leglifts and introspection. Every morning she did them, without fail.

_________________

Madeleine studied the two profiles on her desk, and as people are wont to do, she began comparing them.

Myers-Briggs was a rudimentary psychological test, she thought. It wasn't in depth, it was too short to really be useful, but sometimes, interesting things turned up.

Tapping her pencil against her teeth, Madeleine's eyes shifted from one profile to the other. She sat back finally and frowned, then she tapped a code on her computer, entering the database. She scrolled down, reading the entire table of contents before settling on three missions. She discarded first one, then another, finally settling on the last.

Yes, she thought. This would do nicely.

Madeleine dialed an extension. "Michael. I'd like to see you in my office, please."

Yes indeed, she thought satisfied. This should do the trick. And hopefully, in an expedient manner.

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

Nikita was silent, staring out the car window. They'd flown into National and were met with a car, a long, low black beast that Michael drove with the familiarity of an owner. In the distance, the rounded top of the Jefferson memorial glimmered in the mid-day heat; Nikita pushed her hair off her neck with a grimace. She was hot and her knee was throbbing from sitting too long.

She expected they'd stay at the Worthington again. It wasn't that she didn't like the Worthington. But hotel rooms in the District always seemed sad and small and confining to her. The windows seldom opened properly, and fresh air was a necessity for her; like a Gypsy, she didn't sleep well in enclosed places, she liked to be able to see the sky above her. It doesn't matter what you want, she thought sternly. Just do the job. That's all you have to do.

"Are you hungry?" Michael asked.

"No," she answered.

Instead of heading for the Worthington, he took the Parkway and headed for Alexandria.

"We aren't staying in the District?"

"Not the mission profile."

She didn't bother asking anything else, and he didn't elaborate. Traffic was getting heavier, and it was almost five by the time he pulled off King Street and onto St. Asaph. Nikita didn't wait for him to open her door; she staggered out, supporting herself on the car until her knee behaved properly. Michael removed their bags and climbed the stairs of the town house in front of them.

Old Town Alexandria had an almost cloistered feel to it. The streets were narrow, cobbled, and tree-shaded. The town houses dated from the late 1700s in some cases; the one Michael unlocked looked a little newer, perhaps mid-1800s.

Nikita stepped into a cool entrance hall. The floor was highly polished dark wood. An elegant stair wound down, wood so dark it looked like India ink. The furniture matched the house: antique Queen Anne chairs, heavy silk drapes, flowered throw rugs. The walls were painted in bright, old-fashioned colors: brilliant turquoise blue, a sunny mustard yellow, a deep coral rose.

She'd been in safe houses before. This wasn't one. "Michael."

"Yes."

"Whose house is this?"

Michael put her suitcase down carefully, so it wouldn't scratch the floor. "Mine," he said simply.

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

"There are two bedrooms upstairs," he continued. "Take the front one." Then he went back to the car to continue unloading.

While she waited for him to return, Nikita ticked off possibilities. She hadn't been told the entire mission profile, perhaps. Another test? For who? Her? When he strode back in, she was ready.

"Who lives here most of the time?" she asked.

"John." He deposited his pile and went back for another load.

When he reappeared, Nikita prompted, "And John is ..."

"A friend." Michael wiped his forearm across his forehead, and shut the door behind him. Then he headed through the dining room.

Nikita followed. "What kind of a friend?"

Michael opened the refrigerator door and almost smiled. "Not a very good one, apparently. We'll have to go grocery shopping. There's a Safeway not far from here."

She wasn't sure which surprised her more: the fact that Michael was a property owner, the fact that he had a friend, or the image of him grocery shopping. Her initial curiosity paled, and she shrugged. "Whatever."

She dragged her suitcase up the stairs. She had to pull out her dress for tonight or it would be wrinkled beyond belief.

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

Dancing with Michael, usually as second-nature as breathing, was proving to be somewhat more difficult tonight.

The embassy was crowded. People were still coming in, men dressed in formal attire, women in long swishy dresses. Nikita sighed as another waltz began, and leaned on Michael.

"Tired?"

"Knee," she answered, and he led her off the floor.

"An hour more," he said, and she nodded, stretching her leg out as much as she could without drawing attention. She took a leisurely look around and smiled. "Here he is," she said softly, and Michael offered his hand again. With a little moan she took it, and he swung her around, guiding them to Senator Julian. At exactly the right moment, Nikita sent the senator a dazzling smile, and within seconds, he was at her side.

He wasn't as good a dancer as Michael. But then, Michael had other gifts, and he would certainly get to use them tonight. Nikita placed her peach-colored tracker just under the senator's hairline. It was a new type that would dissolve within the hour, leaving behind a radioactive trace for Michael to follow. The dance ended, and when it was decently possible, Nikita made her exit.

"I don't know when I'll be home," Michael said, putting her in a cab.

"Happy hunting," Nikita returned.

The cab pulled away, and Michael went back inside, secure in the knowledge that wherever Senator Julian went, he would be sure to follow.

_______________

The president was coming in from out of town, which meant Secret Service shut down several streets, which meant they spent an hour sitting in traffic. Then, when they finally got moving, they got stuck in another traffic jam in Old Town, which was packed on Friday night. The taxi slowly went up King Street, finally turning off on Asaph. Thank God, Nikita thought fervently. She had to go to the bathroom in the worst way, and her dress, which was strapless, was pinchy. She'd had some champagne at the Embassy, but not much food (the dress was too tight) and she was getting low-blood-sugar-grouchy. She practically threw the money at the driver and escaped indoors, automatically locking the front door behind her and speeding upstairs, unzipping her dress as she went.

Dress -- off. Shoes -- off. Hose -- off.

Ahhhh. She allowed herself a sigh of relief and contemplated her head. Her hair was piled up on top, a small coronet anchoring the mass of gold held together with nearly a whole package of bobby pins and half a can of hair spray. It would take at least twenty minutes to untangle it. Food first, she thought, and pulled on a white button-down shirt and black leggings.

Nikita started down the stairs, then halted, listening.

She wasn't alone.

Someone else was in the house.

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

Nikita quietly returned to her room and picked up her gun. She tucked an extra clip in the waistband of her leggings, and tiptoed down the stairs, being careful to ease her weight on each step to lessen the chance of creaking.

Slowly, slowly, she crept down the hall, clearing the living room, the parlor, the dining room.

A light shone under the swinging kitchen door, and taking a deep breath, Nikita exploded through it, gun drawn, and looked directly into the muzzle of a gun not unlike her own.

She raised her eyes from the gun to its owner. Tall. Muscular. Black, black hair and olive skin. Handsome, if he hadn't been pointing a gun at her. Her hand didn't waver, and neither did his.

"Put it down," he said, voice steely.

"You first," she said in a voice to match.

"I'm a damn good shot."

"So'm I," Nikita answered, hand steady and pointed at his chest.

He let out an annoyed breath, then slowly lowered his gun to the counter top. "All right. It's down."

"Turn around, please," Nikita requested, and slowly, he complied. She frisked him quickly, found no other weapons, and with the muzzle of her gun, urged him into a kitchen chair. "Do have a seat," she said, and he did, eyes sharp and hard. "Now. Please tell me why you are nosing about in my kitchen with a firearm."

"In the first place, it isn't your kitchen. In the second place, I have a permit. And in the third place, who the hell do you think you are? The Duchess of Bad Fashion?"

Nikita involuntarily put a hand to her crown and glanced down at her apparel. "Don't change the subject. Who are you?"

"The long version or the short version?"

Nikita cocked her gun and aimed it at him. "A word to the wise is sufficient: I'm hungry, I'm tired, and frankly, you are annoying me. Answer the question."

"John. I live here. And you are ..."

"Not easily taken in. Why didn't Michael mention you were in town?"

"How do I know what's in Michael's head? The guy's not exactly chatty." The back door opened, and Michael entered. "Speak of the devil," the man said, but Nikita didn't lower her gun.

"Jeez, Michael, can't you date normal women? Tell the Duchess here to ease up," he complained.

Michael looked from one to the other, and said, "Ease up, Nikita."

Nikita uncocked her gun, put the safety back on and tucked it in the back of her tights. Michael gave her a look, confiscated her weapon, unloaded it, and put it on the counter. "Nikita, this is John. He's CIA. John, Nikita. She's Section."

Nikita swallowed, then held out a hand. "Sorry for nearly killing you, John."

John stood and took her hand. "Sorry for surprising you, Duchess."

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

The only thing John had in the house was peanut butter, coffee and frozen peas, which Nikita immediately put on her aching knee.

"I'll call out," John said. "Armand's all right?"

"Sure," Michael answered.

John pointed at Michael. "You. Be a sport and start the coffee. And you," he pointed at Nikita and grinned, "Don't kill anyone while I'm gone."

John went into the hall to call in the pizza, and Michael began measuring the coffee.

"Food'll be here soon. So, how's life in the Big House?" John asked, entering the kitchen.

"The same," Michael said, smiling faintly. "And you?"

"The same," John replied. "Well, maybe not quite the same. We caught another mole last week. Sold information to the Soviets ten years ago and wished to continue the relationship."

"Did you persuade him otherwise?"

"In a manner of speaking. He'll be tried and sentenced. Not your type, Michael," John said quickly. "Not good enough for Section. And he'd never pass Madeleine's tests. So, what brings you to D.C.?"

"Senator Julian."

"What's he done now? His aide? Oh, no, wait -- that was last month's scandal. And surely Section wouldn't care about an indiscretion now and again?" John grinned.

"He's running a procurement business on the side."

"And he's procuring ...." John prompted.

"Guns. Semi-automatic."

"Hell, don't tell me you're going to abduct a senator. I don't think even Section could pull that off."

"We aren't abducting anyone. We're merely taking note of his contacts."

"I see," John grinned again, the smile transforming his face from merely a handsome man to one who was nearly irresistible. "What happened, you get demoted, Michael? Since when does Section's best operative get sent on a peon intel-gathering mission? And since when does Section care about gun runners, anyway?"

"Since these guns have been showing up on Glass Curtain operatives."

John turned serious. "How many?"

"Enough for concern." Michael turned on the coffee maker and leaned against the cabinet. "But it's our concern, John, not yours."

"Maybe, maybe not," John said slowly. "Glass Curtain has an outpost in Ukraine, yes?"

"Yes," Michael confirmed, suspiciously.

"Ukraine ...." John paused, apparently getting his thoughts in order. "There's been some recent drug-related activities that have caught the Agency's eye. That's where I've been for the past couple of weeks, and I planned on staying the rest of the month. But I was called in early."

"Why?"

"Don't know, yet. I have a meeting with the Big Cheese Monday. Was supposed to meet with him today, but I missed my connecting flight, and he's out of town this weekend, so I didn't catch him. Drugs and guns go together so nicely," John mused. "Don't they, Michael?"

"In many cases," Michael said slowly. "What's the political situation like nowadays?"

"Uneasy. No money. People haven't been paid in months. Worse than when the Soviets had control. Word is, civil war isn't unlikely. But I'm sure you know all that."

"I haven't been to Eastern Europe for some time now."

The doorbell rang, and John went to answer it; Michael quickly set the table and Nikita moved her leg so he could sit down. John came in not only with the pizza, but with the delivery boy, who had his arms full.

Nikita didn't say anything, but her eyebrows elevated, and John grinned.

"Hey, I've eaten with Michael before. Bottomless pit." John directed the delivery boy to put the bags down, and dug in his pocket for his billfold. Nikita began unwrapping food. Large pizza, half spinach garlic, half works; a six pack and a liter of cola; two salads; three kinds of cake.

They ate quietly, conversation consisting of requests for pepper or Parmesan, and by the time Nikita was halfway through her pizza, she was feeling much better.

"So, Duchess, what happened to the knee?" John asked.

"Shot."

"Where?"

"Above my kneecap."

"No, I mean ... where?"

"Oh. Guatemala."

John grimaced, popping a fork full of salad in his mouth. "Nasty medical facilities in Guatemala."

"I'm healing fine," Nikita said mildly. She finished eating, took another drink of water, and excused herself. "I'm also tired. See you boys tomorrow."

"Ummm ... Nikita," John called her back.

"Yes?"

"Sleep well."

They waited for her to leave, and John didn't speak until he heard the stairs creaking. "Spill it, Michael."

Michael sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Nikita. Ice Duchess. Who is she, what's her function, how long have you two been --"

Michael interrupted. "All you need to know is, she's Section and she's off-limits."

"To you, to me, or to anyone?"

Unoffended, Michael began finishing up Nikita's cake. "Section complicates life, you know that...."

"Answer the question, Michael." John took another swallow of coffee and began putting left overs in the refrigerator. When Michael didn't speak, John topped off both their coffee cups and sat down again. "Well, looks like you've got it bad, my friend," he sighed. "Though why, I can't imagine."

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

"It's unnecessary to lie to me," John said, grinning. "We're two of a kind, Michael. Just because Section traded me in for a better model doesn't mean I don't know what you're going through. How is my counterpart, anyway?"

"Dead."

John shook his head. "Somehow, I think I should feel bad about that, but then, I am still alive."

"Certainly counts for something."

"So, let me get this straight: you are in love with the Duchess, God knows why, and she doesn't care for you."

"Would you?"

"You're not exactly my type," John admitted. "You know me, I go for small blonde women. But I should think you'd make some woman ecstatically happy." He knew better to bring up Simone; they'd always disagreed about her, but as Michael held his gaze, John knew Michael was thinking along the same lines. "So, what is it that Nikita doesn't like about you?"

"You name it."

"She's pretty cold. For a minute when she was holding that gun on me ..."

"That's a recent development. Before, she was ... different."

"Before what?" Getting Michael to talk was like pulling teeth, John thought.

"She was gone. I helped her get away from Section. I don't know how much Madeleine knows about that, but I suspect more than she's letting on. It'll be good leverage against me if she ever needs it." Michael took another drink of coffee, and John felt a stab of sympathy. God, he looks old, John thought. And he's younger than I am. Not much, but still... Section aged him, and not well.

"I doubt she will. You're the original Company Man, Michael. So, Nikita came back?" John prompted. "Or did you bring her back?"

"A little of both." Michael paused, but John was too persistent to let it rest. "I ran across her and we ... that is, she ..."

John got a vivid picture of what happened; it wasn't difficult, Michael had always been closed-mouth about his romantic affairs. "She thought you could be together in Section?" he clarified.

"Yes." Michael sat down his empty cup with a snap.

"You're a selfish pig, Michael," John said mildly. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Wasn't. Then Jurgan ..."

"Oh, well, hell, Michael!" John got up in disgust. "Jesus! Of all people, you should know --"

"A scolding isn't necessary."

"Yeah, well, I'd try to knock some sense into you, if I thought I could win." John glowered at Michael. "What do you love about her?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is it that you love? Name five things, quick."

"Compassion. Optimism. Good shot. Quick learner. Fair sport."

John shook his head. "I thought Madeleine trained you to be some super Romeo. Damn, Michael, you're about as romantic as ... cold pizza. Come on, you can do better than that. Hell, even I can, and I don't even know her."

"All right, Mr. Romance --"

"Smart. Beautiful. Great legs, my God. Great eyes ... when they thaw out a bit."

"That's only four."

"Well, Jesus, I don't know her. Give me a few days. Hey, can't legs count as two?"

Michael gave him a withering glance, and rose. "I'll take the sofa."

"Nah, I'll take it. I've been sleeping in a train for two nights and a plane for one. As long as I'm still, I'll feel like I'm in the lap o' luxury. What's up for tomorrow?"

"I have a meeting early, then I'm with Julian the rest of the day."

"Taking Nikita?"

"Wasn't planning on it. She can't stay still for long periods, her knee holds her up."

"Good."

"What?" Michael turned, but John merely smiled mildly at him.

"Nothing. We'll see you tomorrow night, then?"

Michael nodded. Satisfied, John waited till the kitchen door swung shut before allowing himself another smile. Nikita hadn't made a good impression on him. Cold, aloof and silent, he'd automatically labeled her a trophy woman. But Michael had never been easily taken in, and if the attributes he'd named were true ... well, John would just have to see. He owed Michael a lot ... whistling under his breath, he went upstairs to sleep on the hall sofa.

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

Run. Farther. Nikita's lungs strained, her breath came in frantic gasps. He was gaining on her. Faster, faster, she thought frantically. She put on an extra burst of speed, but her pursuer caught up with her easily. Just as he reached out for her collar, she awoke, sitting bolt upright in bed, shaking and sweaty.

She stared directly into John's warm brown eyes.

"Juice?" he offered her a glass of orange, and Nikita shakily drew a hand across her forehead.

"Time?" she asked when her voice was steady.

"A little before eight." He handed her the juice, and she gulped it down, the sugar hitting her blood and calming her down. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks. How long have you--"

"Just walked in." He studied her. She didn't look icy now, he thought. She held her hands so he wouldn't see them tremble, and drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Except for her hair, she looked quite nice in the morning. The crown and most of the hairpins were gone, but between the sweat from her dream and the hair spray, she looked rather like a cat had tried to clean her -- hair every which way, tangled beyond belief. "It's a pretty day out," he remarked, and Nikita looked toward the window, which she'd left open. "How long will it take for you to get ready?"

"For what?"

John gave her another look. Her eyes looked tired, almost as if she'd slept only a few hours instead of eight. "I have to run errands and Michael said you needed the exercise."

At the mention of his name, she scowled and got out of bed. It was a precipitous move, for she staggered back and would have fallen if John hadn't steadied her.

"Sorry. My wonky knee. I forget about it."

"It's all right." He helped her to the floor, and she began her stretches. He squatted down beside her.

"So, what do you say, Duchess? You up for a fun-filled day with me?"

"What about him?"

"Michael? He said he'd meet us later. As far as I can tell, you're merely decoration on this mission."

She raised one pajama-clad leg, grunting. John sat down cross-legged and took her foot in his hands. "Push. Harder."

Nikita pushed.

"Not that hard, don't want to hurt it again," he cautioned. "Straight up, now. Come on, straight." He gently swatted her leg, and she straightened it. "Again. Come on, Duchess, you can do better than that."

"... Worse ... than ... Michael ..." she gasped.

"Damn straight, I am. Come on, I thought you were some hot-shot secret agent chick. Show me what you got, Duchess."

Nikita's eyes narrowed, and with her good leg, she shot out, catching him mid-section. They each toppled over in the opposite direction, John because he'd been unprepared, and Nikita because she'd pushed harder than she thought.

"Damn, Duchess," he grumbled, and after a shocked silence, Nikita began to giggle.

"You're bent on trying to kill me, is that it?" he continued, watching her face out of the corner of his eye. She was trying not to laugh, but not succeeding, and John had a sudden flash of what exactly Michael saw in her. Maybe she's worth it after all, he thought. "Next time, use a gun. Oh, wait, you tried that one already. Knife? Geez, make it quick, at least."

Nikita snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. John grinned at her. "Okay, get cleaned up. Then we're going out. I'm leaving a note, so if we don't return, Michael will know to start combing the District for my body. You, of course, will be far from the scene of the crime. Most likely in Switzerland, or some other cushy hide-out."

"Rio," she choked out. "I'll be in Rio."

John hauled himself up and offered a hand to her. "I'm giving you one hour, sister. Get hopping."

Nikita grinned back and accepted his hand. "Are you buying breakfast?"

"Absolutely not. Hey, I was Section, I know the per diems you guys get. You're buying, and I get to choose where."

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

John and Nikita drove into the District, stopping at Eastern Market for an exceptionally filling and cholesterol-laden breakfast, and wandered through the three dozen stalls. People sold hippie-tie-died garments, crafty hairclips, books -- used and new, flowers, beads, vegetables. Nikita bought a bag of fruit and veggies and considered a hairclip.

"Wonder what Walter could do with that?" John asked, and she grinned.

"You read my mind." She bought two, then purchased some earthenware jars with cinnamon candles inside. John glanced at his watch. "Sorry, do we have a schedule?" she asked.

"We should probably get going," he answered. "We have important things to do today."

Nikita nodded and completed her transactions, then they headed to the car, which was parked in front of the YMCA, a low, brown, somewhat derelict building whose sidewalk was littered with used syringes and deflated condoms. Nikita kicked a few in the gutter as she passed.

John headed down Independence, and the scenery changed from dark red bricked Victorian row houses to open ground. He cut up Second, and turned left on Constitution. The capitol was to their left now, and John unexpectedly pulled into the Justice Department's basement parking lot.

"It's free for me," he shrugged. "And you won't have to walk as far." He showed his identification, and Nikita handed him her driver's licence. To his credit, John didn't look at it as he passed it to the guard; they were entered into the visitor's book, and in no time, they were out on the street.

"John, where are we going?"

He looked at the sky and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then he turned to her and smiled. "I've spent the last few weeks in Russia. I need to see some good old American sites. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, will involve the most American site of them all. Are you prepared to meet the challenge?"

Nikita nodded, a smile quirking her lips, and they set off, John matching his pace to Nikita's. They crossed the street and passed the Natural History Museum, not stopping to admire the ivy-covered dinosaur in front. They crossed Twelfth Street, and John gripped her elbow. "Almost there, Duchess."

They entered the American History museum, and John immediately steered her through a myriad of exhibits, past the great pendulum in the middle of the floor, past the original stars-and-stripes protected by a large wooden scrim, past Edith and Archie Bunker's chairs.

"There they are," he said reverently. Nikita stared at the glittery pieces of Americana.

"Shoes?" she asked, puzzled.

"These shoes," he said, voice still hushed, "Are one of five pairs worn in ‘The Wizard of Oz.' This, Duchess, is America. This is what it's all about."

Nikita bit her lip and looked at him sideways. He stared transfixed at the exhibit, then one arm drew her closer. "God bless America," he said. "I almost feel like I should sing something patriotic."

"‘We're Off to see the Wizard?'" Nikita suggested. "‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road?'"

"Laugh if you want, but I'm telling you, this is America. You have a plucky girl. You have three sidekicks, all with parts missing. You have the eternal search for the dream. Along the way, things happen, sometimes fortunate, sometimes not. You've got your munchkins, your Emerald City folk, your flying monkeys, your Wicked Witch. You've got the magical slippers. You think, hey, if I can make it to the Wizard, he'll grant our wishes. Then you find out, no, it was in your power all the time." John grinned, breaking the spell.

"And then you find out it was all a bad dream," Nikita finished.

"No, you find out that what you were seeking was under your nose all the while."

Nikita frowned, but John was already pulling her away. "Come on. It's almost eleven. They'll show the flag on the hour, and it's one of my favorite things."

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

It had been a good day, Nikita realized, sitting back on the worn booth seat. They were at a bar, a favorite of John's, called The Tune Inn, a mixture of bad country-western and simple grime. John fed three dollars worth of quarters in the juke box, treating Nikita to a limited selection of Tammy Wynette and Patsy Cline. He also sang along -- loudly. This wasn't noticed by the other patrons, however, because everyone else was being just as loud as he was -- louder, in some cases. Nikita, who was facing the door, began to relax in the cigarette smoke-filled environment.

They were at the back of the bar, near the restrooms, so she got a chance to look everyone over. Some were aides letting off steam after working on Saturday; some were college kids; some were older couples, enjoying the neighborhood bar; there was a table of black-leather clad motorcycle types, and at another table, a mini baby shower was going on.

And then Michael walked in.

From her vantage point, Nikita noticed three men gave him the once-over, one woman pinched him, and when he placed his order at the bar, two animated girls attempted to engage him in conversation. He politely extracted himself and carried his drink to the table.

"Michael!" John greeted him, then finished out his verse with Patsy, "Crazy ... for lovin' .... yewww...."

"John." Michael sipped his drink and nodded at Nikita, and Nikita felt herself tensing up again. She took another drink, then recklessly waved at the waitress for another.

"That doesn't work here," John said. "You have to do this." He stood up, waving his arms wildly, and called out, "Hey, Laurette! Can we get another over here!"

The waitress nodded back, and John sat down. "And how was your day, Michael?"

"Julian has a meeting with his source tomorrow night, at Arlington Cemetery."

"Damn. I hate the cemetery at night. Creepy."

"You aren't going," Michael said simply. "So it doesn't matter."

"Yes, I am," John said.

"No, you're not."

Laurette brought Nikita's drink -- it wasn't what she'd started out with, but at this point, she didn't care. Michael waited till she finished it, paid the bill and they left, the men still arguing.

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

"Betcha didn't think you were going to see so many sites, did you?" John asked softly, and Nikita stifled a laugh. She crept silently toward him, pausing in the shadows of headstones and trees, quietly making her way to Taft's tomb.

Michael was coming up from the other direction; she could hear him breathing in her communicator. "No chatter," he whispered, and John fell silent.

Michael was coming from the north; Nikita had south-west, John south-east. With her night vision goggles on, Nikita could identify two bodies in position. They all faced Taft's miniature Washington monument headstone. She couldn't see anyone else.

Part of the problem was she was down in a hollow of sorts. There were several trees off to her left, and she flexed her knee, considering. "Michael. Anything?"

"No."

"John?" she asked.

"Negative."

She waited a little longer. Then she waited some more. Finally, Michael's voice said, "He's not showing. Take your alternative routes home. Meet you back in one hour."

Nikita sighed and quietly made her way to her exit point. She left through Fort Myer, which butted up against the cemetery, and in about half an hour, she was home. She made coffee and had left-over pizza while she waited.

An hour passed. Nikita tried not to watch the clock, and tried not to imagine what was keeping them. She played a game of solitaire. She did a load of wash. She flipped through the channels on TV. She checked her watch again. They were an hour and a half late, and the communicators didn't work this far apart. She tried calling Michael's cell phone, but no one picked up.

That decided her. She picked up the car keys and had just reached for the doorknob when it turned in her hand, and John, supporting Michael, staggered in.

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

She didn't say anything, but she stood back, eyes wide and accusing.

"It's not as bad as it looks," John said quickly. "I already checked."

"What --"

"They showed right as we were leaving. One of them winged Michael."

"Did the senator see you?"

"He already left. Just the shooters saw us."

"Casualties?"

"Just Michael," John answered.

"I'm fine," Michael assured her seriously, then promptly passed out.

"Of course, you are," she replied, then rolled her eyes at John. "Take him upstairs." John shifted him so Michael lay across his shoulders, fireman-style. Nikita locked the door, put a kettle on to boil, and followed them.

Nikita's room was closest, and she had twin beds, so she wasn't surprised to find Michael laying on one. John stripped Michael down to his waist, and cocked an eyebrow at Nikita. "All the way," she said, resigned. "Let's see how bad it really is."

The rest of Michael's black attire followed, and Nikita clinically eyed him. One knee was bruised, or would be by morning, but the rest of the damage was further up. His left shoulder was dislocated, and the right one was still bleeding. "Hold him down," John requested, and Nikita did while John twisted the shoulder back into socket with a grinding pop. John grimaced. "Good thing he wasn't conscious."

Nikita collected supplies from the bathroom: alcohol, towels, gauze. "I put water on for tea. Would you mind fetching it for me, please?"

"What are you going to do?"

Nikita cleaned off most of the blood and felt of Michael's arm, frowning. "It's still in there. Unless you want to, I have to take it out. Now, while he's still unconscious."

"I've never been one much for surgery on the fly."

"Come and hold his arm, then. If he wakes up, he'll hit me," Nikita said calmly. She wiped a pair of forceps on her pants, then ran alcohol over them and waved them in the air to dry. The wound began bleeding again, and she efficiently wiped it up, took a deep breath, and began rooting around for the bullet.

Michael groaned, and she sat on his right arm. John held the left, looking away from Nikita's grisly treasure hunt. Finally, just as Michael began fighting them, she came up with a piece of metal. "Got it!" she exclaimed, rolling off Michael's arm. He immediately attempted to slug John, who hopped nimbly out of the way and left to get the tea.

Nikita turned around and fished for a pain pill in her first-aid kit. "I know you don't want to take it, but you have to, Michael," she said, turning back to him. He gave her an icy look, and Nikita shrugged. "Either that, or feel every stitch I take. Your choice. But if you hit me, John'll finish it up, and I bet he's not as good a sewer as I am."

"He's not," Michael admitted.

"All right, then." She handed him a glass of water and the pill, and he took it.

"Was it necessary to completely disrobe me?"

"I had to be sure, Michael."

She waited for the drug to kick in and washed the blood off his chest and arm. A pleasant numbness settled over Michael, and the last thing he remembered was seeing Nikita pick out some aqua blue plastic thread.

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

"Is it done?" John asked, and Nikita, studying her handiwork, nodded. She'd placed a small white bandage on Michael's wound; it looked so insignificant, all covered up. She took the cuppa he handed her and took a sip, then grimaced.

"What'd you put in here?"

"Bit of brandy. You look a little jittery."

She gave him a dirty look, then nodded to the other bed. "Help me move it closer to him." They pulled the bed closer so it was within a foot of Michael's, and she flopped down on it.

"You think he needs to be watched?" John asked.

"Probably not," Nikita said slowly, "But I can't sleep now, so I may as well."

"You want I should take the next shift?"

"If you like, but it's probably not necessary." She rolled over on her side, watching Michael, and John sat down on the foot of the bed. Nikita absently stretched her leg, and John caught it, gently massaging her knee.

"You did better than I would have," he said.

"More practice," she muttered. "John, we need a new plan. This whole job feels wrong," Nikita said, sitting up. "All we're doing is watching the Senator, we're not supposed to kidnap anyone, kill anyone ..."

"Life's just no damn fun unless you're doing something border-line illegal," John agreed, grinning. "Come on, accept the fact that sometimes, even in Section, you get lucky."

"I don't call getting wounded ‘lucky.'" Nikita was silent, picking at the bedspread. "All right, then," she said slowly. "Section wants surveillance, they've got it. But we're sharpening our focus to just Julian. Are you tired?"

"Ahh... what did you have in mind?"

"Never mind." She rose, put her shoes back on and crammed first her gun, then Michael's, in her waistband. She rummaged around in her suitcase and pocketed a mini digital camera and, for good measure, took her night vision glasses with the transmitter in them. "I'm off to tail the Senator. How often do you want me to report in to you?"

"Every hour?" John guessed, and Nikita nodded.

"On the quarter hour," she specified, and the next thing he knew, he heard the front door shut.

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

Michael slept until the sun came up, then he woke up grouchy.

"What are you doing here?"

John jerked awake. "Watching your sorry carcass."

"Well, where's Nikita?"

"Tailing Julius."

"By herself?"

"Yes." John began to feel uncomfortable. Maybe he should have gone, after all.

"Any movement?"

"No." The communicator beeped, and John turned up the volume and held it out so Michael could hear too.

Nikita's voice came through loud and clear. "We're going for a jog. He just put out the trash. Remind me to never get on Madeleine's bad side again, this really ..." she tempered her language, "...is frustrating. Are you going to be ready to follow him to work?"

Practically apoplectic, Michael said, "That's unnecessary, Nikita. Come in."

They could hear her breathing become more labored, and Michael, unable to hide his concern, asked, "Your knee, Nikita?"

"I'm....fine ..." she huffed.

"Nikita, come in," Michael repeated, and was rewarded with only puffs of breath.

"John," she gasped, and John took the receiver.

"Hey, Duchess, you okay?"

Her breathing slowed, then stopped, and they heard a rustling sound, then Nikita's voice, very quiet. "The Wizard apparently does, occasionally, still answer wishes. This is great."

"Nikita?" Both men spoke at the same time.

Nikita chuckled gleefully. "If Michael's able, have him begin his tail in an hour, outside the old executive building. I'll be home soon, I just need to drop this off for Walter. This is great. Better than great, this is super ..." They heard the soft whirr of her digital.

Nikita put away her camera and started jogging again, following at a safe distance. As she ran, she hummed "We're Off to see the Wizard" until she didn't have enough breath.

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

The next few days were busy. They tapped his office and his home, his wife's office, and the phones of his girlfriend and his neighbors. All were routed to Section.

Burkhoff was learning to dread the daily mail. Each delivery brought at least a half-dozen disks, audio tapes by the score, and, to his intense horror, hand-written notes. "They never take their laptops with them?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He thought it was bad enough when he received the first shipment. Nikita's morning jog netted images of the senator spraying an over-zealous dog with pepper spray, waving to various neighbors, and sitting down on the curb to remove his shoe. Nikita had even sent the object he had discarded: a piece of glass. Green.

Nikita took the early morning shift, Michael the morning and early afternoon shift, Nikita the late afternoon shift, and John the evening shift. The senator was a busy man, and they attended every event with him.

"Well, hell, Duchess, he may be a senator, but he's going to notice one of us is always trailing him," John protested, standing in the doorway of Nikita's room.

"No, he won't. The first time he saw me I was wearing an evening gown and a crown, for God's sake. Turn around, please."

John did so, and heard some rustling sounds. "All finished," Nikita said brightly, and he turned to see her scrabbling her hair into a ponytail. She wore cut-offs and a blue button-down, and as he watched, she pulled on hiking boots. She grabbed a baseball cap and crammed it on her head, then smeared Chap-Stick on her lips. "The trick is, no flashy clothes, muted colors, nothing to draw the eye. You should know that, you're Agency."

"Well, yeah, but ..." he trailed off, and she grinned.

"You didn't think I could do it, did you?"

"You aren't exactly ... I mean, in your natural state, you're a little ... noticeable."

"Wait'll tomorrow," she grinned, then brushed by him. "I'm off to relieve Michael. See you later."

John tried to have breakfast for Nikita and Michael in the mornings. Michael followed the senator to work, which meant Michael left the house at about 7:30; Nikita made it in around eight, and John usually left for work around 8:30.

As she zipped through the kitchen, John wondered how he could have ever thought her cold. She was sweaty for one thing, and her hair, which had been so neatly tucked under a black headband, now had little pieces of tree in it. A leaf fluttered to the linoleum as she plopped herself down at the table, and he noticed bits of fresh cut grass clung to her boots and pants legs.

"That looks good. For me?"

"You bet, Duchess." He spooned scrambled eggs beside some bacon and handed her a cup of coffee. "Watching is hard work."

"Tell me about it."

"Michael'll be gone all day, most likely. Then you and I get to ride on the Senator's coat tails to the theater tonight."

"Ooo-la-la. What are we seeing?"

"I don't know, something at Ford's." He watched her face; when he mentioned Michael's name, some of the sparkle left her eyes, and she played with her bacon.

"He loves you very much."

Nikita snorted and spread jam on her toast. "Michael doesn't love anything. The closest thing he feels is loyalty, and he's loyal only to Section."

"He's loyal to you."

"I don't think so."

Changing his point of attack, John said, "You love him, too."

Nikita abruptly took her dirty dishes to the sink. "I'm not allowed to love anyone. Section rules, John, you ought to know that."

"Section's rules or Michael's rules?"

"Is there a difference? Michael is Section."

"You don't strike me as the kind of woman to do exactly what someone tells you to."

"Let's just say I'm learning to take advice," she said.

"What's that mean?"

Nikita sighed; she really did not want to get into this right now, but as Michael discovered years ago, the easiest way to appease John was to tell him what he wanted to know. "How much do you know about me?"

"I know Michael helped you get out of Section and that you came back in," John said promptly, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "But I don't know why."

"Let's just say I ran across Michael inadvertently, we ... discussed matters, and agreed it would be better if I came in."

"Was the choice yours, or Michael?"

Nikita shrugged. "It wasn't much of a choice. Section let me go, John," she said, putting her dishes in the dishwasher. "They had me followed from the time I ‘escaped' till Michael supposedly brought me in. It was only a matter of time before someone abducted me, and when that happened, regardless of when or by whom, it was to Section's advantage."

"How so?"

"I couldn't tell any current information, but I also had the cache of being an operative. Sort of like a product with inflated value." She turned toward John and sighed. "I'm going to take a bath, then a nap. See you tonight?"

"You've got the run of the house," John said, standing. "I'll be home by dinnertime."

She gave his face an affectionate pat, then a little kiss. "Have a good day."

"You too, Duchess." He heard her go upstairs, and grinned to himself. Yes, he could definitely see the attraction.

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

Towards the end of Michael's shift, he was feeling tired, sweaty and not a little grouchy. His wound itched, and the senator was on a shopping spree.

They were at Union Station, which had a mall in it. First they had lunch at Pizza Uno, which gave Michael a stomach ache, then they went to Ann Taylor. The senator purchased a dress for his girlfriend and a scarf for his wife. Michael noted each purchase scrupulously. Next was White House, which only sold white clothing. Reminds me of Section, he thought. Then down one level to Mrs. Fields. Chocolate chip with nuts.

Maybe John was right, Michael mused. Maybe he wasn't romantic. He supposed he'd forgotten how to be.

The senator went down another level and stopped at Movable Feast to purchase some pumpernickel and some overpriced fancy cheese. Then he made his way to one of the last stores before the metro entrance.

A gift, Michael thought, inspired. I should buy her a gift.

Michael entered with his prey, and when the senator checked out, Michael was right behind him, purchase in hand.

_____________________

"What's this?" Nikita asked him, circling the kitchen table. Michael's present lay in it's plastic bag, and he wondered suddenly if he ought to have wrapped it.

"For you."

She looked first at him, then at the package. Tentatively, she reached out. "Is it something you use to kill people with?"

"Not intentionally."

She gave him another look, then slowly opened the bag and drew it out.

The package screamed, "Three Speeds! As Seen On TV!" and Nikita slowly opened the box. She stared at the contents and wondered what on earth she could say.

"Thank you, Michael. I don't have a heating pad," she said slowly, and hoped she wouldn't laugh.

"For your knee," Michael explained, his cheeks slightly pink. "I thought ..."

"Of course. It's perfect," she said, and flashed him a brilliant smile. "Thanks. I think ... I think I'll try it out right now." She escaped up the stairs and finally made it into her room before giggling. Terrified Michael would hear her, she held a pillow over her face and let go.

When she finally settled down, she wiped her eyes, still giggling a little, and plugged it in, adjusting it on her sore knee. Gentle warmth seeped through her. Not bad, she thought. She yawned, scooted down in bed and wrapped the pad around her leg.

________________________

Over the next week, Section was flooded with information, so much so that when the Senator's daughter was in the school play, not only did Section have live audio and video courtesy of Michael and Nikita, but Burkhoff almost felt as if he should send flowers or something. She made quite a good Puck, he thought. And when the senator's son's soccer team won all-district championships, Walter went around with a smile on his face for a whole day. "I knew he could do it," he kept saying.

Madeleine was pleased. No, she was beyond pleased, she thought. Not only did they have enough on the Senator, but Nikita and Michael seemed to be functioning quite well as a team again.

She punched in a code, then typed a communique. All in all, a successful mission, and, from their reports, an enjoyable one.

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

"We finish out tomorrow," Michael told John and Nikita, "We get Wednesday off, and Thursday, we're back in Section." They were having one of their brief staff meetings, which could only be conducted when the senator was asleep. It was 2 a.m., and they were all a little punchy.

"Great. Where's Julian going tomorrow?" Nikita asked.

"Work. I'll take the early shift. He gets off early to attend his son's final soccer match. The family will have a celebratory dinner at America in Union Station, then they plan to go home. John, you take the game. Nikita and I will take the evening."

"Good," said John. "I have a date."

"Hey," Nikita said, "I thought we were going to watch movies tomorrow night."

"Let's see," John mused, hands held as if he were Justice, "Watching movies with the Duchess..." his left hand went down, "Or going on a date with Kimberly ...." his right hand went up. "Such a difficult decision...."

_____________________

Nikita liked America. It was to the left of the main entrance, and from their table, which was upstairs, they could see not only the Julians, but the traffic through the main hall of Union Station. The rolls weren't all that great, but the food was good, and there was a lot of it. She could only eat half of hers, and, thinking of John's (still bare) refrigerator, she asked the waiter to wrap the rest. "And you?" he asked Michael, and Michael nodded.

"Just put them together, we're going to the same place," Nikita said absently, watching the Julians. They were having a good time; the son couldn't stop smiling, and the daughter and one of her friends giggled and whispered. Michael ordered coffee; they waited till the senator's family finally got up to leave, then Michael paid the bill, and Nikita let out a sigh of relief.

"We're off the clock," she said unnecessarily, and they walked outside and across the street, where their car waited on Louisiana. They got in, but before turning the engine over, Michael said, "You've seen quite a lot while we were here this time."

Puzzled, Nikita answered, "I guess. Ford's Theater. The Washington Monument. The Constitution. The Jefferson Memorial. Some of the Smithsonian. John and I went to the Old Ebbitt Grill with Julian, that was fun. And of course, Arlington Cemetery."

Michael started the car. "You haven't mentioned my favorite."

She stared at him. "I didn't know you had one."

He turned the car down Louisiana, made a right on Constitution, and drove past the Archives building, then the White House and the Washington Monument. A large park lay to their left, and Michael made a sudden turn on 22nd Street. He got out and opened her door, and led her up the sidewalk.

"Michael, what --"

"Close your eyes."

She did, and he guided her across the walk. "Now, open."

"Oh, my."

Before her sat an enormous Mr. Albert Einstein. Sculpted of bronze, or some other dark, heavy metal, hair askew as in life, sandals dangling on his feet, he sat on large stone steps, and in his lap was a huge tablet. Nikita circled him and read "E=mc2." She didn't say anything, but she studied him for several minutes, then she gingerly crawled into Einstein's lap.

Eventually, she hopped down and came to stand next to Michael. "What's your favorite part?" she asked.

"I think ... the expression on his face. His work wasn't always used for good, but at this moment -- at this time -- he's found it. The answer. All that time working and wondering, and there it is."

"Under your nose all the time," Nikita murmured, a smile quirking at her mouth. She turned to him and said, "Thanks for bringing me here." Then she gave him a quick kiss -- at least, it started out that way, but somehow, it ended up being quite different, and when she finally broke away, she was finding it difficult to breathe. Michael gave her a long, steady look, and she suddenly threw her arms around him, kissing him hard. She could feel his pulse quicken, and this time, he broke away. Right here, she thought, I want to throw him down and do shameful things to him in public.

"We're 30 minutes from home," he reminded her.

"Drive fast," she suggested.

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

They made it to Old Town in 20 minutes and somehow, made it into the house. Michael was finding it increasingly difficult to move -- no matter what direction he started off, Nikita was there, her arms around his neck, her mouth moving over him. He got the door shut, then propelled her up the stairs, hands on her hips.

At the landing, she shoved him against the wall, kisses becoming even more demanding. She pulled his shirt out of his pants, hands trailing on his chest. "Michael ..." she breathed, and he pulled her close, mouth moving down her jawline, down her neck ...

________________

John unlocked the door and nearly stepped into the hall when his attention was caught by the action on the landing. Nikita's hands were under Michael's shirt, and Michael's were creeping up her skirt, and their mouths ... momentarily frozen, he gaped at the pair, then, almost blushing, he quietly shut the door, locking it with his key from the outside.

He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, looking first up and then down the street. Well. About time. He'd certainly been working on them long enough. He checked his watch. Only 11 o'clock, there should be a bar open somewhere ...

John set off down St. Asaph, whistling "We're Off to See the Wizard" in a minor key.

________________

Somehow, someway, they made it to the bedroom. Nikita's was the closest, and Michael kicked the door shut, arms full of Nikita, who was nibbling at his neck, her hands roving over his back. Michael groaned, and with a mighty tug, tried to free himself of his shirt.

"Michael. Michael, hold on," Nikita said, standing back as he struggled. All the buttons were undone except the neck and the cuffs. He pulled futilely, and finally, one cuff came undone. Nikita deftly undid the other one, and he pulled his arms free. She started to giggle. "You look like you have a cape on. Here ... let me ..."

He submitted, and soon the shirt lay on the floor. The next thing Nikita knew, she was on the bed, and Michael lay on top of her, still partially clothed, only one shoe off, his face in the crook between her shoulder and neck. She felt him relax.

"Michael--"

He lifted his head from her shoulder. "I didn't think we were going to make it," he said, sounding a little surprised. Nikita smiled, took his face in her hands, and kissed him, a long, slow kiss, that stopped abruptly. "What about John?"

"I don't want to invite him," Michael decided, hands moving slowly up her legs, tracing a line up her back, searching for the zipper. There wasn't one. How --?

"On the side," Nikita breathed, and relieved, Michael found the sneaky zip and pulled it down.

"Nikita ..."

Then she forgot about John, forgot about Section, forgot about everything except Michael.

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

"Michael."

"Yes," he whispered.

She pulled herself up on an elbow, and looked down at him. He had a very odd look on his face. Almost like he was sorry for something.

Here we go again, she thought, and her skin shrank from his. This is what it's going to be like for us: chemistry, but nothing else.

Well, she had to know for certain. "Michael. Do you have any ... regrets?" She couldn't even look at him, she focused on his bare chest instead of his eyes.

"One."

She began to move away, feeling almost ashamed.

Michael apparently thought she was about to fall, for his arm looped her back close to him. "The bed's too small."

Dumbfounded, Nikita's eyes snapped to his face. "Next time, let's use a bigger one," he continued conversationally, and she started to laugh.

The more she laughed, the funnier it became. She couldn't help it. The look on his face was priceless: slightly confused, but willing to go along with her. She laughed so hard, tears leaked out of her eyes, and she rested her forehead on his chest, still heaving. Just as she thought she was over it, she'd start again.

Michael smiled, the tips of his mouth tilting up. The bed was small; Nikita pressed against him, and he could feel her laughter jerking through him. It was almost as good as laughing himself.

__________________

John cautiously opened the front door and peeked around the corner. Good. All clear.

He crept quietly in, turning off lights and checking the doors, then very slowly, climbed the stairs.

He tiptoed past Nikita's room and froze.

Was that laughter? He didn't move, but strained his ears. Nikita let out a yelp. Yes, she was definitely laughing. That wasn't really surprising, she was, basically, a happy person.

The surprising thing was, someone else was laughing with her.

John smiled, a slow rippling of muscles across his face. Now, that was a sound he hadn't heard in a very long time. Michael laughing.

Humming a little, John went into Michael's room and lay down on the empty bed. He was still smiling when he drifted off to sleep.

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

"Ready?" Michael asked, and Nikita, after sweeping the bedroom once more with her eyes, nodded.

"Do we have time to go by John's office? I want to give him something."

"Yes." Michael took her suitcase in one hand and allowed her to proceed him down the staircase. "Nikita."

She turned to him, and he put down the suitcase, opening his arms. In two steps she stood within them, and she loosely pulled him to her. He was warm and solid and, resting her head on his shoulder, she could feel the twitch of muscles under his clothes and the thud of his heart. He kissed her lightly on her temple, and she stepped away. "It's time," she said, and he nodded.

John's office was on the third floor, and Michael led the way. Nikita smiled to the cubicle dwellers, and Michael stopped at a door and stepped aside.

"Hullo, John," she said cheerfully.

"Hey, Duchess. You crazy kids off?" he asked, rising from his desk, which took up most of the room.

"Yes, in an hour. But we wanted to say good bye."

John ushered them in and closed the door. Nikita took the only chair, Michael leaned against the wall, and John perched on the desk. "So, Mad Madeleine is pleased?" John asked.

"I guess so," Nikita answered. "I'm back on full status, and Michael is supposed to go to Columbia next week."

John grinned. "Be a sport and bring me back some coffee?"

Michael nodded, shaking John's hand, and Nikita gave John a kiss on the cheek. "I have something for you," she remembered, taking her bag from Michael. She fished around in it, then came up triumphantly with a rhinestone covered crown. She smiled brightly and placed it on his head. "A king among men," she said fondly, and he grinned back.

"I've needed a crown for some time now," John said. "Thank you very much, Duchess."

"You're very welcome."

Michael and Nikita left, walking side by side down the hall. John watched them go, still smiling, then called out, "You two stay out of trouble, now."

Nikita turned to wave, then she laced her fingers through Michael's.

From the other end of the hall, a slight, dark blonde girl stopped abruptly. She'd had an okay time with John, but he really was too handsome for her taste. She hated other women looking lustfully at the man she was with, and almost decided she wanted someone short and ugly.

But staring at the crowned, smiling young man, Kimberly began reconsidering. She continued down the hall, and as John saw her, his smile grew larger.

"Nice crown," she commented.

"Thanks," he said cheerfully.

"Proclaiming your royal status?"

"If you want to be treated with the proper respect, you must wear the proper headgear," he grinned.

"I'll remember that." A happy man, she thought. And obviously not afraid of what people thought about him. Her last boyfriend had been homophobic, and she found it too much of a strain. He wouldn't even wear pastel shirts.

"Would you ... maybe like to go to dinner tonight? If you don't already have plans, that is. Your choice, but I only have $30," John admitted.

Kimberly considered. "Can I wear the crown?"

"Absolutely. What do you say?"

"All right," she grinned, then turned to go back to her office. As she walked down the hall, she distinctly heard someone whistling "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

-end-