Prologue

She woke suddenly, and it took her a moment to still her hammering heart and slow her breathing.

They were getting worse, these dreams. It had been two weeks since Terry disappeared and Nikita hadn't slept through the night once.

It wasn't just Terry that was bothering her, though. It was everyone else. Michael, silent as always, was still recuperating in his quarters. Madeleine moved like a black shadow through Section, solemn and grave. Operations turned a little flintier, if that was possible: Nikita could've sworn that he'd become sharper and more abrupt in the past few days.

And whenever their eyes met hers, Nikita received the same message:

It could have been you.

She sat up in bed, unwilling to try sleeping just yet. Madeleine was the first to let Nikita know that she knew of the relationship between Nikita and Michael. Not in words: all it took was a look, and Nikita, who was paranoid anyway, stayed away from Section and especially from Michael for a week afterwards. But sooner or later Michael would be healed enough to head missions, and he would eventually request her, which would add fuel to the slow burn of gossip that permeated Section.

What a mess. The moment she realized she loved him, she knew one day she'd have to take the next inevitable step. Their relationship was just a reason for cancellation, and Nikita didn't think she could bear Section without Michael. She knew from Birkhoff and Walter that Michael went through an extremely difficult time after her escape. If she were canceled ... really canceled ... what would he do?

Nikita rubbed her forehead fitfully, then making the decision she knew was right, she lay back down again. She hated herself for what she was going to do; but the alternative was unacceptable.

She'd end it tomorrow. It was the only way.

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

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No, no, they can't take that away from me ...

Michael hated Med Lab more than anything. But therapy was a close second.

The therapist went through the routine again, though it was unnecessary: Michael knew it by heart. In fact, the therapist joked about Michael and his propensity to catch bullets in his leg until Michael silenced him with an icy look and a quiet, "I'm ready to begin."

He'd been at it for about an hour and was ready for whirlpool therapy when Nikita strolled in. She was wearing navy blue and a new crusher hat made of straw that smelt like warm hay when she got closer to him.

"Busy?" she asked mildly, taking in his sweat-stained shirt and scarcely-healed leg.

"Almost done." Michael nodded to the therapist, who melted away; briefly, Nikita wondered how she could learn that trick for the next time she was injured.

Later, Michael realized he wasn't sure what he expected Nikita to talk about, but it certainly wasn't the topic she presented.

"It can't last, Michael."

"The therapy?"

"Us."

He blinked, eyes automatically going to the cameras in the room, and Nikita smiled sadly. "I can't do it anymore. I'm sorry; I thought I could, but it's just too hard ... on both of us. Maybe if circumstances were different, if we were in other departments, it might work, but the way it is now ..." Her voice trailed off, and she focused on the ground, eyes filling. "Please say something," she whispered.

"Is this about Terry?" He didn't look at her, he couldn't. He focused on the clock on the wall, following the minute hand around the dial.

"No. Yes. I'm not sure. I'm just ... I don't want to have to go through that, ever. It's not fair to either of us and I ..." She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. "I won't do it. It's not worth it."

He simply stared at her, unable to speak.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His vocal cords were frozen. Even if he'd known what to say, he couldn't reply.

A flash of -- what? Longing? Regret? Sorrow? -- lit her face, and she swiftly kissed his cheek and abruptly left the room.

Michael stayed rooted to the floor, unable to move for several minutes. Then, slowly, unseeing, he went to the whirlpool and lowered himself into it.

______________________

Michael drifted through the next few days rather aimlessly, taking more Vicodin than he needed, but the drugs provided dreamless sleep, and after all, they'd been prescribed. No matter that he'd seldom taken what was prescribed in the past. This time he took them, all of them, and when the bottle was empty he briefly wondered if he should ask for a refill.

He knew that he ought to feel something: anger, perhaps, or grief that it had come to this. Truthfully, though, he didn't feel anything. Sometimes his leg hurt, but when the pain began, he simply tuned it out. It was easy to do: just focus on something else. A heartbeat. An element of the room. The voice of the therapist. The work he had waiting for him. The way Nikita held her coffee cup, inevitably filled with tea. The curve of her neck.

"Michael!" The therapist's voice was sharp. "Watch it, you'll reinjure yourself. Go easier. And concentrate."

I was, he thought bleakly. Just on the wrong thing.

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

The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off-key
The way you haunt my dreams
No, they can't take that away from me ...

Michael returned to work. He seemed little quieter, a little more withdrawn, a little ... sadder.

It didn't help that his sleeping patterns were off. After becoming dependent on Vicadin to put him to sleep, he had to retrain his body to fall asleep naturally. And just as naturally, he dreamed of Nikita. He didn't mind the dreams, though -- he looked forward to them. It was the only time she was with him now, and he coveted the few unconscious hours he was allowed each night. He dreamt of her smile. Her laugh. The way she fell asleep on top of him, or curled up beside him. The way her hand reached for his when they were alone. Sometimes when he woke, for a few confused minutes before reality intruded, he believed she was still with him.

"Michael?" Madeleine looked at him expectantly. "What about the team?"

"I'll take Rubens, Alex, Marco."

"Very well." Madeleine made a notation in her laptop, then looked up with a brief smile. "Nikita will return in a few days. That will be in time for the meet with Henri."

"I won't be taking her to the meet."

"Oh?" Madeleine went back to her laptop. "And why is that?"

"We will be working together less in the future."

"I see." Madeleine's eyes met his and her hands stilled. "I think that's a mistake."

Michael studied her bonsai trees and didn't reply for a moment, thinking of all the times she tried to take them away from one another. Finally, still paying more attention to the trees than to Madeleine, he said, "Why the sudden change in philosophy?"

"You work well together," Madeleine said. "Which is only right, since you trained her. You did a very good job with her. Wykroby has been very pleased with her performance, and he is seldom pleased about anything." A hint of a smile shadowed her face, and Michael returned it in kind.

"It's for the best, Madeleine."

"Does this have anything to do with a ... personal relationship?"

Michael regarded her thoughtfully. "Whatever ... relationship we had is over. So, no, it does not."

"In that case, you won't have any problems taking her to the meet, then," Madeleine responded.

Michael hesitated, then gave a brief nod and left, heart heavy. He was hoping for a little more time, and he instinctively knew Nikita was, too. Now they were being pushed, once again, into a situation neither was quite prepared for.

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

We may never, ever meet again on that bumpy road to love. Yet I'll always, always keep the memory of ...

Michael intended to meet the transport bearing Nikita to Section, if for no other reason than to warn her about their upcoming mission.

But he didn't get a chance. She was ushered to debriefing, then Michael was called away for a small crisis in Cuba involving one of their contacts and a cocaine deal gone bad, and by the time he was free, he caught a glimpse of her leaving with Fielding, a pilot. Michael's eyes followed them across the main floor, and when Fielding swung an arm around Nikita's shoulders and she flashed him a welcoming smile, Michael swallowed.

Birkhoff shifted nervously in his chair, and Michael suddenly became aware that not only was Birkhoff watching him, but Birkhoff's support staff was holding its collective breath as well. Michael frowned. "I'd like the report by midnight, please," he said in a low voice, and Birkhoff nodded.

"Sure thing, Michael."

Michael swung on his heels and went to his office, hands in his pockets, head bowed.
_____________________

The meet with Henri was wildly successful. Not only did they achieve their objective, but they were able to bring Operations back something extra.

"Henri's become acquainted with a Johnson Riders," Michael announced during debriefing, saving the plum for last.

"And Johnson Riders is ..." Operations prompted.

"A double agent," Michael answered, drawing it out for as long as he could. "For Freedom League and Red Cell. Trusted by both groups, well-liked and, as far as they are concerned, clean."

"Is he willing to work with us?"

Nikita looked straight into Operations eyes and said coolly, "He's willing to work with me and Michael. He is under the impression that we are free agents."

"Oh?" Operations leaned forward, and even Madeleine seemed interested. "And how did he come by that impression?"

"That's unimportant," Michael decided. "Do we want to use him?"

"By all means. If he's amiable, we certainly are. How much will he cost us?"

"A hundred thousand down. There's no contract yet, but he wants us to free-lance for him," Michael answered.

"As long as our objectives don't interfere with his, I see no reason to not accommodate him," Operations decided. "Draw up the contract."

"I already did." Nikita pulled a red-marked proof out of her pocket. "I need to make these changes, but I think this will be acceptable to all parties."

Operations looked over the contract and gave a brisk nod. "Good work. Get it to him tonight."

"Yes, sir." Nikita left, taking her much-edited contract with her, and Michael followed. From her position in Operations' office, Madeleine watched as Michael went toward his office and Nikita went in the opposite direction. Someone grabbed her arm, and Madeleine tilted her head to get a better view.

"Is that Fielding?" she asked, and Operations nodded.

"Looks like it."

They watched as Nikita and Fielding talked, then apparently decided on something. Nikita gave his arm a quick squeeze, and there was no mistaking the look that he gave her.

"He's hooked," Operations grinned, and Madeleine smiled.

"So it would seem. Shall I put a stop to it?"

"If you think it's necessary."

"Do you think it's necessary?"

Operations activated his computer, downloading files to read at home tonight. "No, I don't. My only objection to Nikita's love life was that it interfered with Michael's performance."

"Well, I'm not sure it ever compromised their efficiency."

"I don't want to discuss this again. Besides, it's a moot point now. You saw how well they performed with Henri."

Madeleine's attention was divided between Operations and Kelly, a young operative who was heading for Michael's office. She was young and pretty, and Madeleine wondered what kind of welcome she'd receive. Madeleine waited a few minutes, watching: when Kelly didn't reappear, Madeleine's eyebrows raised. "I'm not sure --"

"Madeleine." He looked up, clearly irritated. "Section One should be focused on terrorist activities, not bedroom romances. Maybe now we can cancel the surveillance on Nikita. We can use the manpower other places."

Pragmatically, Madeleine gave a small shrug. "You're right, of course. So, what's on our schedule for tomorrow?"

**********

The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No, they can't take that away from me ...

When Michael came into Section on Thursday, the emergency lighting was on and a definite chill was in the air. Instead of the normal hustle-bustle of the evening crew, a skeleton staff was operating the systems.

"What's wrong?" he asked Madeleine, who met the transport.

"Storm last night. Knocked off all the power around town. We're operating off the generators, so most everyone else is at home," Madeleine answered, leading the way to Operations' office. "Debrief, then you're free to go as well. If you're needed, we'll call."

"All right."

Debriefing was, for once, brief. Michael finished and quickly scanned his e-mails, returning a couple, forwarding a few, discarding the bulk.

"Michael." Birkhoff poked his head in his office. "You're using power that we need. What are you doing?"

"Just catching up --"

"Can you do it tomorrow? I wouldn't ask, but --"

"It's all right." Michael shut down the system and loaded his battery pack and laptop up. "I'll finish at home. How is Kelly doing?"

"Don't know." Birkhoff paused; he was savvy to Section ways, but Michael's seemingly speedy reversal of affection for Nikita bothered him. But then, Michael was Michael; who was Birkhoff to question him? Besides, Nikita didn't seem to mind too much. The stories circulating in Section about her and the pilot were entertaining to say the least. "Kelly should be fine. Her section of town still has power. It's the south side that was hit worst."

"I see."

"I hear it's pretty nasty out there," Birkhoff continued. "Might want to plan for blocked roads. And if you're going home, you better do it soon: they're enforcing a midnight curfew till they can get the power back on."

"Thanks." Michael left Section, laptop slung across his shoulder.
___________________________

After the chill of Section, being outside was like stepping into a hothouse. The rain hadn't cooled things off. In fact, temperatures were in the 90s. If people had been able to watch television, they would have learned the heat wave was the hottest in 50 years.

Things were slightly cooler now that the sun was down. The moon was full, and with the city lights extinguished, shadows loomed blacker, the sky looked closer, and, because of the curfew, the streets that were navigational were mostly empty save for barricades and blinking yellow lights.

Funny how different everything looked in the dark. There were portable emergency lanterns in the hallways of her building, but Michael was glad he'd thought to bring a flashlight. A few people had their doors open for companionship and air, but most were asleep.

She probably was, too. Before Birkhoff interrupted him, Michael scanned the mission reports. She'd been sent to Jerusalem for a week, then to Pakistan, grueling back-to-back missions that were mostly successful. Without knocking, he unlocked the door with the air of a man coming home, and stepped inside.

The darkness of the apartment closed in on him, and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. The windows were open for a bit of breeze, and instinctively he moved toward the patio.

She was lying on the mattress from her sleeper sofa, sound asleep, skimpy nightgown bunched around her hips, hair braided to keep it off her neck. He squatted down, placing a gentle hand on her back, brushing her head with a kiss.

"Michael?" she started awake, and his eyes smiled at hers.

"Sorry I woke you," he said, voice low. "Try to go back to sleep."

"I tried to wait up ..." Nikita sleepily yawned, patting his face clumsily. "When did you get in?"

"About an hour ago."

Nikita sat up and stretched, trying to wake up. "It's too hot to sleep indoors," she said. "So I took the couch apart."

"Good idea." Nikita patted the mattress beside her and he sat down. She looped her arms around his neck, hesitating just a moment before lowering her lips to his, because she knew the value of anticipation. Her mouth brushed his, lips soft and wondering; Michael caressed her face, drawing her toward him, nibbling at her lips, then, as her mouth opened a fraction, going a little further, then withdrawing as gradually as he approached. He rested his forehead on hers and then said softly, "Johnson Riders has a job for us."

"Good! When?" Nikita asked, drawing back and helping him unlace his boots.

"He wants us in two days. We can do the job in an afternoon, then have the weekend to ourselves. I thought you could go on ahead tomorrow if you want, take a little time off ..."

"Good, better, best," Nikita grinned. "Can you come, too?"

"You know I can't. I'll have to meet you there."

"This whole break up thing has definite disadvantages," Nikita grumbled good-naturedly, folding up his shirt.

"Yes." Michael took off his pants, finally laying back with a sigh. "On the other hand, it has certain advantages."

Nikita lay back as well, head beside his on the pillow, arm over his stomach. "True. They can't take you away from me." Whether the words were a plea, a prayer or a promise wasn't clear, but Michael kissed her temple and maneuvered an arm underneath her, drawing her closer. They studied the stars, bright in the black sky, and Michael sighed.

"Maybe not yet, anyway. But we both know this isn't a permanent solution. How's Fielding?"

Nikita made a noncommittal sound, wriggling around so she half lay on top of him, fitting her leg between his where it belonged. Then, "Truthfully, he's having problems with his boyfriend. It's very depressing; we sit in dark bars and talk about unfaithful men. Kelly?"

Michael shrugged. "Fine, I guess. She talks too much."

The night was quiet; normal traffic was nonexistent, any voices that came from other apartments around them were muffled. A slight breeze drew across the patio and Nikita gave an involuntary shudder. "I think it's getting cooler. Finally."

Michael shifted her up a little so she rested on his ribs, and she twisted her head up to give him a long, possessive kiss. "Should I get a blanket?"

"There's a sheet," she said, sounding sleepy. "But all I need is you." Her fingers curled around his neck, warm digits that made lazy circles under his ear. He turned his head and gave her hand a kiss, and felt her smile against his chest.

Gradually, the fingers stopped their aimless tracing. Her hand fell lightly to his shoulder and her body became heavier. Well, there were worse things in the world than falling asleep under the woman you loved with the stars glittering in the sky, he thought philosophically.

He stared up at the stars, brilliant pinpricks of light that played hide-and-seek with his vision. When she was finally asleep, breath even and warm against his skin, he allowed his own eyes to close.

-end-