January

Nikita sat in her favorite warm pajamas, legs crossed, wrists balanced on her knees, back ramrod straight, staring out her windows.

It was cold out. In a few more hours, it would be a new year. Snow fell quietly on her patio, gently covering the potted plants that were so lush last summer and fall. Now, they were dried tan sticks in cold clay pots. Nikita exhaled, then inhaled again, clearing her lungs, cleansing her mind.

Her apartment was cozy. Indirect light glowed on the walls, casting warm shadows on the floor. Her refrigerator hummed companionably, and the clock ticked, cheerfully marking time. The dishes were clean and air drying on the rack, and there was a subtle smell of roast in the air. She'd treated herself tonight. She'd ordered groceries up and made a warm, filling stew. The fire crackled quietly in the grate, warming the air and toasting her face. Her apartment was spotless and still smelt faintly of Ajax and alcohol, the result of an afternoon orgy of cleaning. Well, it needed it. She had let herself go lately, and today was actually the first day she'd felt like doing anything.

Gently, she probed her memories as one would probe a newly-healed cut. Still tender to the touch, but she could think about it now in a much more rational manner.

He doesn't love you.

The words didn't hurt as much now. Good. He doesn't love you, she repeated silently, and she knew it was the truth.

Michael's latest transgression had been devastating, but now, she was almost grateful for it. The culmination of a string of small, almost insignificant incidents she'd been able to explain away, this last mission had been a slap in the face for her.

Stunned by the outcome and raw from their fight, she'd debriefed and come home. She took off her shoes and went to bed. She stayed there for a week.

He doesn't love you.

She wondered vaguely why she ever thought he did. She felt foolish and a bit ashamed of herself -- after all, she wasn't really stupid. She ought to have recognized him for what he was. But Michael was an addiction -- like all addictions, he seemed innocent enough. It was only after she was in too deep that she realized how dangerous he was. Not physically. Mentally.

Like any addict, she'd hit rock bottom. There was no place to go but up, and though the struggle was painful, it was necessary. She allowed herself seven days to wallow in self-pity and have her version of a nervous breakdown. Tomorrow she'd go back into Section and get on with life.

Against her closed eyelids images of Michael flickered like an old home movie projector: Seduction. Betrayal. Lies without number.

Too bad there isn't a detox unit I could enroll in, she mused. Like Betty Ford, only for people like me. Anyone who'd been squashed by Michael could enroll. Now, that would be a therapy group I could really get in to, she thought, envisioning sitting in a room filled with earnest young women -- herself, Lisa Fanning, Angie, Viscano, Andrea ... And Michael. Always Michael.

Perhaps things would be easier if she could get even with him. But unlike Viscano or Andrea or even Lisa, Nikita couldn't seem to muster the energy for revenge. What would be the point? Would making him hurt as much as she did make her feel better?

Nikita lay back on the floor, contemplating her ceiling. The truth was, she didn't want to get even with Michael. She wanted to get over him.

The clock chimed midnight and Nikita sat up. A new year, a new woman, a new attitude. She pulled the drapes and turned off the lights, then turned off the gas fire. She slid between warm sheets and flicked off the light. Darkness enveloped her and she shut her eyes. And for the first time in a long time, his was not the face she lulled herself to sleep with.

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

February

Michael sat quietly, waiting for Madeleine to make her move. She bit her lip unconsciously, then slowly placed her tiles on the board.

Michael studied the effect. Drempt. Good choice. Not only did she rack up triple points, but she got bonus points for using an older form of the word. "That's an easy one, Madeleine. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are drempt of in your philosophy.'"

Madeleine and Michael's form of Scrabble was as unconventional as the players. No foreign words, except if they were playing in another language. No proper names. Double points for unusual spellings, if they were legitimate. And the next person had to use the word accurately in a quote. Sometimes they limited it to one specific category of quotes: Shakespeare, poets, Beatles songs, lines from movies, literature from the 1800s. Operations preferred chess or poker. But the small wooden tiles always helped Madeleine think, and Michael, who hated psych sessions, would have done almost anything to avoid being analyzed.

"What's my score?" she asked.

"210." Michael added the figures, then returned to the board. His fingers hovered for a moment over his tiles; then, deciding, he snapped four down, giving Madeleine a probing glance.

Madeleine smiled. "Well, you used up my ‘t.' Let's see ... ‘The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.'"

Michael's right eyebrow quirked up in amusement, and Madeleine smiled back at him. She drew more tiles from the bag, and considered them gravely. She pushed them around a bit, then finally placed her selection on the board. "Sword."

Michael leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking. Perhaps if he had not been reading Oscar Wilde lately, he would have come up with something less revealing, but almost unconsciously, he began to speak. "‘Each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword.'"

"Very good," Madeleine said softly, and Michael opened his eyes.

A faint grin flashed across his face. "Do I get double points?"

"For being clever? No." Madeleine pulled the score pad over and said, "You're gaining on me. 175."

"Maybe I'll win yet."

"Don't count on it."

Michael arranged his tiles tidily on the board. "Forget," he challenged.

Instantly she answered, "‘Women and elephants never forget an injury.'"

"You made that up."

"Did not. Saki. Look it up."

Michael sighed; he'd lose this round in more ways than one. Madeleine's egg timer buzzed, and Michael added up the scores. "You win. This time."

Madeleine rose from the table. She took a sip of tea and cleared her throat. "Now Michael, about Nikita," she began, and Michael, who had been clearing the board, realized the real game was just beginning. Scrabble was the appetizer; interrogation the main course.

"What about her?" he asked.

"Have you ... spoken with her?"

The last time he spoke with Nikita, she'd hurled accusations and shoes at him. The accusations he could take; the shoes were spiked heels and one grazed his temple. If he hadn't ducked, she would have put his eye out. Michael folded the board and placed it carefully in the box, centering the bag of tiles on top. "Not since I came back. Are her efficiency levels down?"

"No."

"Her performance indicators?"

"Steady and predictable."

"Then I see no reason for concern." Michael gently slid the top on the box, tapping it into place.

Madeleine tilted her head and said slowly, "She looks tired, Michael." She didn't say anything more, but she looked almost concerned. Michael sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his middle, waiting.

Madeleine frowned, looking at her bonsai rather than Michael.

With a slight feeling of dread, Michael stated, "You're pairing us again."

"Is there a problem with that?"

Before Christmas, he would have answered negatively, but now he looked directly into her eyes and said simply, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"And why not?"

"'Never trust the man who hath reason to suspect that you know he hath injured you.'" Michael quoted, and Madeleine tilted her head, considering the situation.

"'God forgive you, but I never can?'" she asked.

"Something like that," Michael admitted. "Though, I believe, she is not as interested in beheading as Queen Elizabeth. She's certainly a better shot, however."

"Mmmm," Madeleine agreed, studying him, "She's had a good teacher." Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Madeleine made a split decision. All business, she sat up in her chair, pushed away her tea cup and regarded him almost coldly.

"You've put yourself, and Section, in an awkward position, Michael. You've allowed your personal feelings to interfere with your professional ... career. I hoped that when Nikita returned, things would go easier for you. For awhile, they seemed to. Now, they aren't."

She paused, but Michael offered no encouragement or explanation, and Madeleine sighed. "As far as Section is concerned, Nikita is a good operative. Nothing more, nothing less. She is replaceable, as are most operatives. You, on the other hand, are far more valuable to us. As such, we are willing to accommodate any ... peculiarities ... you might exhibit." He wasn't responding, so Madeleine tried another tactic. "Do you remember the poem about the horse and the nail?"

Michael automatically answered. "'For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; For want of a shoe, the horse was lost; For want of a horse, the rider was lost; For want of a rider, the battle was lost; For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.'"

"'All for the want of a horse shoe nail,'" Madeleine finished. "It doesn't matter to me about Nikita. I don't know what went on between you, and frankly, I don't care. But Operations needs to know that Section will have a capable leader, should something happen. We don't want another ... hostile takeover."

"I was under the impression that you were next in line, then myself."

"'The heir and the spare'?" Madeleine smiled. "My particular strengths lie along a different path. I thought you knew that."

"What if I'm not ... prepared to take that responsibility?"

Madeleine held his gaze for a beat, then gave him a half-smile. Instead of answering, she said, "Make no mistake: this is a test, Michael. If she is necessary to your well-being, than I suggest you do something about it. To that end, you will be taking her with you tomorrow when you meet with Jared."

Madeleine handed Michael a CD and said briskly, "Here are the schematics. The mission profile is on there, as well. You'll leave tomorrow."

"How much will Nikita know?" he asked.

"We're leaving that up to you."

Michael turned to leave, but before he reached the door, Madeleine called him back. "Michael."

"Yes?" he turned, and was a little surprised that contrary to her usual schooled expression, there was something in her eyes that almost looked like curiosity.

"I was wondering," she said, "Whether it's harder now, knowing she doesn't care for you, or whether it was harder before, believing she was dead."

Speechless, Michael simply stared at her and Madeleine's eyes dropped. "Well, never mind," she said, almost to herself. "That's all, Michael."

Michael left, shaking his head slightly, chest tight with apprehension. If Madeleine was not Operation's successor, that meant Michael was. Hands balled into fists at his side, he wondered where that left Nikita.

Perhaps she was the spare, groomed in case something happened to Michael.

The thought didn't give him any measure of comfort.

**********

March

In a final burst of energy, Nikita rounded the bend in the track, then, as she passed her marker, she began slowing down, breathing heavily. She jogged to a stop and leaned over, hands on knees, lungs straining. She let out a whoosh of breath and stood up, doing a few quick toe-touches, then set off for a brisk cool-down walk.

It felt good to be outside and exercising. For the past few days she and Michael had been playing house on the Jarod mission, and now that it was over, Nikita felt relieved that it hadn't been harder. The worst part was, she couldn't bear for Michael to touch her. She'd tried to act natural, but when his hand went to her waist, or when he brushed her hair from her face, she automatically pulled away; her skin shrank from his touch and her muscles contracted when he reached for her. She'd played the part of housewife -- ironic, since the only role model she'd had growing up was June Cleaver, who was slightly out of date. Nikita imagined herself coming in the living room and saying to Michael, "Dear, I think there's something wrong with the Beaver." Michael would no doubt answer, "Cancel him, then."

Still chuckling, Nikita slowed her walk down a bit. Michael had asked her out twice before the mission and once after. After her first refusal, the second two came easily.

It had been raining for the past two weeks, a cold, dismal rain that occasionally mixed with snow, then froze overnight, making paths treacherous. But the air was warmer now, and the rain stopped this morning. Though the ground was still waterlogged, the paved paths were dry. The snow that was left was gray, but through the smutty snow, small green shafts poked up, searching for the warmth of spring.

Nikita took a deep breath of moist air, enjoying the scent of fresh dirt and the warm sunshine on her face. From across the park, someone called, "Nikita!"

She turned. A figure waved, and uncertainly, she waved back. The figure jogged closer and she recognized Edsel, a tall, red-headed operative she knew only marginally well.

"Hey, Edsel."

"Hey, Nikita." He grinned a welcome to her. "You finishing up?"

"Just about. Thought I'd go around one more time, it's such a pretty day."

"Yeah, it is, isn't? Better than all the rain, that's for sure. Mind if I join you?"

"Course not," Nikita smiled back at him. "How was Nairobi?"

"Okay. Hot. Brushed up on my Swahili, though." When she looked surprised, he answered her unspoken question. "I grew up in Kenya, so it's been awhile since I spoke it. It was ... strange ... being back."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know how it is. I've got a new life now, but going home kinda made me homesick for the old one."

Nikita frowned. "Wasn't it risky sending you back? What if you'd met up with someone you knew?"

He laughed out loud. "It's a big country, Nikita. The chances of that happening are slim to none. Anyway, I run in a different crowd now."

"Oh." She didn't press him, but he gave her an amused glance.

"Come on, you know you want to know," he teased gently.

"I never said that," she said, immediately defensive, but one look at his face and she smiled uncertainly.

Edsel laughed again, but it was a friendly laugh, and after a moment, Nikita joined in. "I guess ... I'm a little rusty on social skills."

"Nah," Edsel said easily, loping along beside her. "You're just a little uptight, Nikita. No harm in that. But ... since you're dying to know ... I was born in Kenya, lived there till I was 12, then my folks moved us back to Canada so I could go to school. They thought about staying and sending my sister and I to boarding school, but my dad didn't want to split up the family."

"Sounds like a nice man."

"He was." They continued their walk.

It was early afternoon, and the sidewalks were beginning to be crowded with other walkers, nannies with prams and children, business people eating outside for the first time in a while and a myriad of dogs straining at leashes, longing to run. The park was bordered on one side by zoo, and as they passed the side entrance, Edsel nodded at the guard. "Hey, Sid."

"Hey, where're you been, Ed?" the guard asked, smiling.

Edsel halted. "Round and about. Busy. Out of town. You know how it is."

"Yeah, we've not seen you around lately. Thought maybe you'd moved or something."

"Nope, still here," Edsel said. "Sid, this is Nikita; Nikita, Sid."

Nikita shook Sid's hand, and he smiled at her. "Nice to meet you." Then he turned back to Edsel. "You know, Muriel had her baby."

"No! When?"

"Last week. You missed the excitement. Reporters, cameras, the whole works. It was -- pardon the expression -- a zoo."

Edsel laughed. "I'm sorry I missed it. What was it?"

"Girl. Named her Eunice."

"Healthy?"

"You betcha." Sid looked casually around, then motioned Edsel closer. "Go on, boy, pay her a call. You know she'll be glad to see you."

"Well ..."

"Come on, it's on the house," Sid joked, and Edsel laughed.

"All right. Just for a minute, though. Can Nikita --"

"Yeah, sure, both of you, go on in." Sid stood aside, and Edsel ushered Nikita through the gate.

"You don't mind, do you? It'll only take a minute." Edsel asked her, and Nikita shook her head no. The babble from the park faded instantly, and instead of automobiles, she heard the call of birds and an occasional animal grunt. Though it was daylight, in the shadows she could hear a few brave crickets chirping and the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker. They passed the bears: brown, black, polar, all of them in separate cages and all enjoying the fine day. Next were the lions, sleepily soaking up the sun like overgrown housecats. As they passed briskly by, one old lion raised a sleepy eye, regarded them solemnly, then yawned, licked his chops and lay his head down again.

"Who is Muriel? One of the workers?"

"Well, she makes the zoo a lot of money." Edsel led the way unhesitatingly down the walk, then made a sharp right turn and came to a halt before a big cage.

From her perch on a mammoth branch, large brown eyes stared curiously at them; the ape had her young securely latched onto her stomach.

"Hey, Muriel," Edsel called softly, and Muriel thudded to the ground, her swinging gate somewhat unbalanced by her baby clinging to her. She pried off the young one and turned it around to show it off, and Edsel laughed. "It's lovely, Muriel."

Muriel obviously agreed, and returned the baby to her belly. With her hands free, she made several motions, and Edsel nodded, making similar motions with his own hands, but speaking out loud for Nikita's benefit. "Sid said they named her Eunice. What do you think about that?" Edsel signed, and Muriel gave the ape equivalent of a shrug.

Edsel laughed and turned to Nikita. "She says Eunice is an all right name, but she calls her Evian."

"Like the water?"

"Yeah, she loves those plastic bottles." Edsel laughed again and turned back to the ape. "I'll bring you some next time. I'm here with my friend, Nikita. Nikita, Muriel."

Muriel made several other gestures, and Edsel laughed again. "She says your eyes are like the sky."

Since shaking hands was obviously impossible, Nikita waved and was rewarded with a toothy grin and an ear-splitting shriek, followed with a two-handed wave. In spite of herself, Nikita laughed.

The visit over, Muriel again turned her baby around so Edsel and Nikita could admire it once more, then Muriel gave Edsel a cheerful wave and lumbered off to the back of the cage, where the sun still shone brightly on the pavement.

"She wants to make the most of the day before it starts raining again. Well, you ready?" Edsel asked.

"For what?"

"To go," he said, surprised. He shrugged. "She always lets me know when it's time to leave."

"How --"

Edsel smiled. "So, now you want to ask questions?" he teased, leading her away from the primates. "Muriel and I are old friends. She's led an interesting life. You know about the communication studies scientists do with animals?" Nikita nodded, and he continued. "Muriel was part of one of those studies. She was taught to sign, but my folks studied her in her environment, rather than isolating her. They travel a lot, apes do, and so my parents would follow the tribe. One day, Muriel was injured, the tribe left her, and my parents brought her home. They intended to patch her up and reunite her with her pack, but it didn't work out that way."

"What happened?"

Edsel was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged. "Remember, this was in the ‘70s. People thought this kind of research was a waste of time and money. And you could get a lot of money for apes -- their heads are used as trophies, their skins .. Well. By the time Muriel was healed and my parents started looking for her pack, they discovered that poachers had gotten to it first. There weren't a lot of apes left, and the ones that were left were badly injured."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah, it was awful. They'd been considering coming back to Canada for some time, and that only made up their minds. They packed us, Muriel and the remaining apes up, and we moved back."

"So the zoo got Muriel?"

"She was pretty traumatized, and so were the other apes. They tried to get one zoo to take them all, but the Toronto zoo could only take two. So Muriel and one other moved in here, and the other two went to San Diego. I've been coming by whenever I can; Muriel gets a little lonely with no one to sign to. And she's been kind of depressed since Ronda died last spring -- Ronda was one of the apes from the pack, and they were pretty close."

"But she obviously made some friend."

"You mean the baby? Nah, she was artificially inseminated. She's not a real touchy-feely animal; she doesn't like people to get too close."

Nikita could certainly relate to that. They were quiet as they strolled toward the exit, and as they passed through the gates, Edsel said, "You know, if you're really interested ... there's a lecture at the university this week by Dr. Goodall. She's coming in special, and I have two tickets. She'll talk about recent research activities ... maybe you'd like to come."

Her first instinct was to say no. It sounded too much like a date, and she hadn't been on a date -- a real date -- in so long, she felt intimidated.

"It's just a lecture," Edsel said easily. "Don't feel like you have to go if you don't want to."

"But I do want to," Nikita said, surprising herself as much as him. "Very much. If I don't have to work."

"Great." He walked her to the parking lot, keeping at least two feet between them at all times. The day, which started so beautifully, was beginning to cloud up, and as he reached her car, a few fat drops of rain fell. "The lecture's on Thursday. James Hall. I'll meet you there."

"All right," said Nikita, pleased. Meeting there didn't seem as date-ish. "Till Thursday, then." A growl of thunder rumbled across the sky, and she dove into her car.

***********

April

Michael strode down damp sidewalks, eyes automatically scanning the sparse crowds. It was late in April, but the air still held a chill, and intermittent showers kept most people inside. Besides, it was after rush hour -- most people were home with their families, finishing up dinner, catching the end of a TV movie.

Michael didn't have TV. He had a radio and he had books. He'd gotten home early today, though, and foolishly finished the last of the book he was reading. In a peculiar mood, he'd stood in front of his bookshelves, looking for something else to start.

Nothing appealed to him. His hands wavered over the Shakspeare, but it was best enjoyed when one read it aloud, and his throat still hurt from a mild cold the week before. Poetry? Prose? Fiction? Nonfiction? Biography? Nothing caught his attention, so he considered the newspaper. Maybe a movie? He didn't feel like dressing for the theater, though realistically he could've gone in his work clothes: black was always right.

He missed Nikita. She didn't come by his office anymore. She didn't make excuses to see him. He saw flashes of her now and again, but unless they were on a mission together, he didn't see her. It had been four months. Four long, lonely months. He'd apologized for the mess back in November and December, and she'd said she forgave him, but ... and on top of his loneliness, Madeleine had warned him again about repairing the relationship.

Just remembering the whole conversation made him angry. In a foul mood, he'd thrown on his overcoat and went where he always went when he didn't know what he wanted: Louis's Used Books.

Maybe the name wasn't fancy. The store front was tiny, an old row house converted to a shop. It was narrow and deep, and instead of shiny copies of the latest books published, it had a bit of everything. Most importantly, it had a large foreign language section, and Michael, who was feeling tired and out-of-sorts, wanted something that was the equivilent of Trash TV: something in French, so he didn't have to think too hard, and something that was entertaining.

It started to rain in earnest, and Michael ducked in the shop door just before getting entirely soaked. He entered and took off his raincoat, hanging it on one of the hooks inside the entryway. He drew a deep breath of dust and old paper and used leather binding, mixed with the unmistakable smell of acrid coffee and wet cat. He heard a small commotion in the room beyond, and peering around the door, he saw the owner of the shop rubbing down the cat.

"It is your own fault, Paolo. Always insisting on going out, no matter what the weather man says. You are a stubborn cat ..."

"Everyone likes to be out and about sometimes," Michael said by way of greeting, and the owner looked up.

"Eh, Michael, what brings you to us today?"

"Nothing particular, Louis. Just ... something."

"Well, if Paolo or I can help you out ... give a yell. I got a new shipment in from Quebec -- maybe something you need. I just shelved them. Don't forget to tell me when you leave -- I don't want to lock you in again."

"I will." The first time he'd come to Louis's Used Books, he'd holed up in one of the upstairs bedrooms that served as the French Room. There was a couch, and Michael sat down to peruse the selection. The next thing he knew, it was night and he'd been asleep for hours. Somewhat embarrassed, he'd left via the fire escape so as not to damage the lock; later, he'd admitted his mistake and Louis got a good laugh at his expense.

Michael went upstairs. A new shipment from Quebec -- surely he could find something good.

_________________

Louis finished drying Paolo, who, rather than expressing his appreciation, blamed Louis for his ordeal. Normally a polite cat, Paolo gave Louis a dirty look and stomped off to his latest favorite napping place: on top of the shelves housing books about animals.

The shop bell jingled again, and Louis glanced up. "Can I help you with something?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Nikita looked around the crowded shop; the ceiling was high, and shelves reached all the way to the top. It gave one the feeling that the shelves might topple at any moment, and she bit her lip. "I'm looking for something on apes."

"Apes, or primates in general?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, let's see what we can find." Louis came out from behind his counter and led Nikita to Paolo's stack. Paolo intentionally let his tail dangle down and Louis snorted. "He is angry with me. Perhaps he will be nicer to you."

"Hey, cat," Nikita said, reaching up to gently scrub under his chin. Paolo studied her through half-shut eyes, and rewarded her with a rattly purr. He got up, stretched his damp body out, jumped to the ground and wrapped himself around Nikita's ankles. She laughed and picked him up, turning him over like a baby. He cast Louis a decidedly sultry glance, and Louis grinned.

"He's a terrible flirt. Look, try this section and I'll see what I've got in the back. You want some coffee? I'm gonna make a fresh pot."

"That sounds great." Nikita cradled the cat in one arm, peering along the ill-lit shelves, running a finger along the titles.

__________________

Michael found it. The perfect book. He wondered how he could have lived this long without reading it. It was sheer humor -- no redeeming value whatsoever, and it had first been given to Genevieve Glassier, for Christmas 1932.

He'd also found the missing volume of a six volume set he had and a biography of John Dos Passos, which had been mislabeled as French. Feeling much better, Michael followed the scent of fresh coffee down the stairs.

He halted on the landing. Below him, a familiar bright head nodded to Louis, a familiar voice called out, "Be good, Paolo," and a familiar figure with an all too familiar stride jauntily exited the shop.

Slowly, Michael descended and placed his books on the counter.

"Well, did you find something, then?" Louis asked.

"Yes, thanks." Michael waited while Louis added his purchases up, looked on his cheat sheet for the amount of tax, then gave the total to Michael. Michael pulled his billfold out and handed Louis the correct amount. "That woman that was in here ..."

"Ah, you saw her? Another one of Paolo's conquests, I'm sorry to say. You'll never guess what she was buying."

"What?"

"Guess." Louis opened he cash drawer and counted out Michael's change.

"Poetry."

"Wrong."

"How-to."

"No."

"Romance?" Michael guessed wildly.

"Nope. Apes."

"Excuse me?"

"Apes. She wanted to know about apes. I gave her a bio on Jane Goodall; you'd have thought I gave her the moon. Strange woman. Nice, though. Paolo certainly thought so."

Michael glanced at Paolo, and Paolo, realizing he was the topic of conversation, bathed his tail methodically.

"Apes?" Michael asked.

"Apes," Louis confirmed. He wrapped Michael's purchases in brown paper, tied it with a string and handed him the package. "Don't stay away so long, Michael."

Michael nodded and collected his coat. As he left, Louis heard him muttering to himself. "Apes. Apes?" Then Louis heard the door jangle shut and he watched Michael hunch his head against the rainy wind as he crossed the street.

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

May

The flowers were out and crocuses and tulips gently bobbed in the wind. Nikita's eyes continually strayed from the book in her lap; the park was full today, and it was so pretty out, children brought their kites and balls. Parts of school uniforms lay in abandoned little heaps throughout the park. At one end, an intense soccer practice was going on; at the other, a cluster of children knelt around the large gold fish pond, studying the fish in the murky depths.

"Nikita!"

She looked up and grinned. "Hey, Edsel."

"Been waiting long?"

"No, not too long."

"Good. Come on, she'll be angry if we're late." Edsel picked up Nikita's book, folding down a corner to save her place, and she fell into step beside him.

"Is this right?" she made a halting motion with her hand, and Edsel corrected her.

"Like this," he demonstrated, and she made the movement again. "Good," he approved. "Muriel will be so pleased."

They went directly to her cage, and Muriel beckoned to her child, who scampered up to the bars. "Hey, Muriel," Edsel said, signing to her, and Muriel signed back. Then Edsel pulled Nikita closer. "Go on," he encouraged, and biting her lip, Nikita complied.

Muriel's reaction was instantaneous. She let out a whoop and thwacked her chest in excitement. Then her hands flew so fast that even Edsel had to stop her. "Too fast, too fast," he signed, and Muriel slowed.

So happy, she signed. Blue Eyes talking to Muriel.

Yes, Nikita agreed.

I go slow so you follow, Muriel signed, and Nikita nodded.

Want to say something, Muriel began, and her audience of two (three, if you counted the baby), watched attentively. Muriel watch you a long time. Red Top bring Blue Eyes one day. Remember?

Yes, Nikita signed back, puzzled.

Blue Eyes so sad, Muriel signed, her own face drooping downward. But now Blue Eyes and Red Top friends, yes?

Yes, Nikita signed. Friends.

Friends good, Muriel noted. Muriel had friend. Ronda. Died. Now Muriel has Evian. Good baby. Muriel happy now. Blue Eyes happy?

Nikita bit her lip, and Muriel waited patiently. Then she signed again: happy?

I can't lie, not even to an ape, Nikita thought. Finally, she signed back: Happy to have friends like Red Top and Muriel.

They waited patiently for Nikita to complete her sentence -- something that would have taken Edsel a moment to do took ages for Nikita to complete, and she could have just said it out loud. Muriel understood the spoken word, but Nikita felt it was only polite to learn at least a few signs. When she was finished, they all drew a pleased breath -- even Muriel, who clapped her hands approvingly.

Good, Muriel signed. Friends good. Blue Eyes practice. Muriel talk more to Blue Eyes.

Muriel told Edsel about her week. They'd eaten bananas several days, and the keeper gave her one bottle of Evian water. One! Such stinginess. Edsel laughed and pulled out two liters from his backpack, tossing them to her; Muriel thanked him effusively, and when Edsel and Nikita left, she'd already popped the top and was guzzling the water joyously.

_____________________

Their session almost over, Nikita turned to Madeleine. "You told me once that you thought an affair between Michael and one of the profilers would be a good thing."

"Andrea. Yes, I did."

"You said it would be good for them and for me."

"That's right."

"I was wondering what Section's policy is about dating."

"It's different for every couple, you know that. Are you considering a relationship with Edsel?"

"He's nice," Nikita said slowly. "He's taught me a lot. I enjoy spending time with him, and since he's Section, it simplifies things."

"It complicates others."

"I guess." Nikita was quiet, gently pleating the hem of her skirt.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"No." Startled, her fingers let go of her hem and she folded her hands in her lap. "We're friends."

"And he'd like it to be something more?" Madeleine probed.

"No." Restless, Nikita rose and turned toward the topiary, studying the imprisoned flowers. "No," she said again, softly.

"But you'd like it to be?" Madeleine translated.

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Madeleine let Nikita think for a few moments, then she spoke again. "Are you asking permission to begin an affair?"

"Not exactly," Nikita said. She turned back to Madeleine, studying the older woman. "You seemed to have such definite ideas about other people I've seen, I wondered what your thoughts were concerning Edsel."

"It's true that in the past I've cautioned you about relationships ..."

"Madeleine, you've had something to say about all of them," Nikita said gently, scoring a hit.

Madeleine allowed her the point, and smiled. "From your psych profiles, I know you are evenly matched. I can't tell you much about Edsel that you don't already know, but you both have a sense of honor, of duty, of fair play. You're both loyal, and neither of you could be considered conventional. On a personal note ... I will say I like Edsel. He has a certain something about him that is likable. Do you agree?"

"Walter says he's in the Club."

"Walter should know." Madeleine nodded to Nikita in dismissal. "The cardinal rule about relationships in Section still holds true, though ..."

"Don't let it affect work. I know."

***********

June

Sitting across the Floyd's dining room table, his coffee near his elbow, Michael studied Nikita. Systematically, he mentally reviewed the past few missions they'd been on together as a couple. The one in February was tense. There was another in April and two in May; after the last chat with Madeleine, Michael could only assume that she was taking things into her own hands by pairing them as much as possible.

Well, he thought, at least we're still a good team. The work isn't suffering.

Chatting with Ola Floyd about pets, Nikita could have been any wealthy business man's wife. She had on the proper clothing: soft linen pants and a white linen shirt, open sandals and a floral scarf wrapped around her ponytail. She had on the proper jewelry: a heavy gold chain around her neck, a wide platinum wedding band, a two karat engagement ring and a $4,000 watch resting lightly on her wrist. Her make up was subtle and polished. She looked perfect. But there was something not quite right, and Michael struggled to pin point it.

"You know, they've discovered dolphins do the same thing, too," she was saying, "Scientists are recording their speech patterns -- if you can call it speech, it's actually more of a type of communication -- and they're studying them, trying to decide what they talk about."

"Probably they're saying, ‘Hey, did you see that big school of fish back there?'" Ola laughed, and Nikita, after a split second, joined her.

"Probably," she agreed, sipping her coffee. "That's kind of what the apes talk about. Or so I've read," she added quickly. "It's really a fascinating subject."

"It sounds like it," Ola said, smiling. She rose, and the rest of the table rose with her. "Nikita, would you like to see the garden? We'll leave the men to business."

"That'd be lovely," Nikita smiled, then, because it was expected, she gave Michael a peck on his cheek. "Be good," she advised, and he gave his version of a smile.

The gardens were exquisitely lit, and from the study, Michael observed the two women wandering along the paths. He and Floyd finished their business quickly, and spent an hour talking shop, considering all angles of the information business, trading gossip -- which was as good as gold in this environment -- about mutual enemies and friends.

The women came in, slightly chilled, and tea was ordered all round. Nikita sat down next to Michael, her leg and one arm resting against his. She didn't pull away, and Michael, somewhat uncomfortable, moved his leg a fraction of an inch. Nikita followed him, keeping contact.

Michael looked at her, a question plain in his eyes. Nikita simply smiled and gave his knee a little pat.

With her gentle touch, he knew he'd missed her. A lot. He knew she was seeing someone, but he suddenly realized the gossip mill had been quiet lately on the subject of Edsel and Nikita. Were they not together anymore? He could scarcely stand the thought of them, and had effectively blocked them out of his mind. Nikita didn't play the field, though -- if she were warming toward Michael, that meant (he hoped) that things were cooler with Edsel. Michael's arm crept around her shoulders, and Nikita didn't move away.

The couples discussed the weather, the gardens, which had just been relandscaped, and briefly touched on politics. The clock struck 10.30, and Ola rose again.

"It's been a delightful evening," she said warmly. "But I'm afraid I'm a little tired. You young ones stay up, if you like -- just ring if you need anything."

"We'll be fine," Nikita assured, standing. Michael stood, shook hands with the Floyds, then, somehow, Nikita stumbled. Whether Michael was too close or whether she was just clumsy, her ankle twisted and she gasped.

"Nikita?"

"I just stepped wrong," she said, recovering. With Michael's arm around her, she limped down the hall and up the stairs. "It's just wrenched, Michael, I'm fine."

"Yes," he agreed, but he didn't let go. "Good night," he called to the Floyds as they turned off the corridor to their room.

Nikita allowed Michael to lead her to their room, but instead of guiding her toward a chair, he kept his arm around her and very cautiously kissed her earlobe.

She didn't pull away.

Encouraged, Michael's mouth traveled gently around her neck. "Missed you," he breathed on her skin, "So much, Nikita." She moved her head a fraction to the left, and he nibbled his way up, pausing for a few moments at her mouth, then moving downward. Past her clavicle, with the little dip he so loved to watch when she talked or moved. Shaky hands begin unbuttoning her chemise, and his mouth moved lower still.

His breath came in gasps. How had he kept away from her for so long? He thought briefly of Edsel, no doubt touching Nikita in the same places, and he supposed he should feel angry. Instead, the only thing he felt was weak with desire. He was actually dizzy. Her skin was soft and compliant and cool, and he tried to not scrape her too roughly with his face. I should have shaved before dinner, he chastised himself, pulling her closer.

She wore drawstring pants. Michael paused and worked his way slowly back up her body, finally landing on her mouth, his hand creeping downward, past the drawstring, past the elastic of her underwear.

He froze.

Michael was well trained in the art of seduction. He didn't even know how many women he'd seduced, but in all his years of foreplay, this had never happened to him. Ever.

He removed his hand and took a step back, taking a good long look at the woman in front of him.

Face unflushed, eyes clear and not clouded with passion, she looked calmly back at him. Her pulse beat regularly and slowly at her neck, and though her shirt was open and her hair askew, she didn't look like a woman burning with desire.

"Nikita?" he asked slowly.

"Yes, Michael?" she tilted her head, studying him and obviously waiting for him to say something, but he was literally unable to form any rational thought, let alone the correct words. She gave him several minutes, and when he didn't answer, she took the initiative. Politely, she asked, "Are you done? Because I'm a little tired."

Was he done? Flabbergasted, Michael could only nod, numbly. Nikita gimped to the bathroom, shutting the door part way, and Michael stumbled to a chair.

Was he done? She made it sound like he was some sort of rapist or pimp. Was he done? What did that mean? Slowly, everything that Michael had thought about Nikita shifted like a kaleidoscope. With a twist of the wrist, the colors and shapes of the last few months reformed into a very different picture.

After their last argument, he'd imagined she was hurt and disillusioned, primarily because of the string of seductions he'd performed for Section. But he'd never imagined the depth of her injury -- an injury which he'd inflicted.

The bathroom door opened and Nikita came out, face clean of make up. She searched for her nightgown in the suitcase, and not bothering to turn away from him, she stripped and pulled the gown over her head. It wasn't a seductive move, and Michael watched her blankly.

"Michael? Is something wrong?"

"No," he denied slowly. He rose, took his turn in the bathroom, and when he got out, Nikita was under the covers. He joined her and turned out the light. "Nikita."

"Yes, Michael?" she shifted in bed, settling the blanket over her.

"I'm ... I'm so sorry," he said gruffly.

A cool hand reached out and patted his arm. "Don't be. It's just a wrench. I'll be fine in the morning."

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about her ankle. But when he opened his mouth to clarify, the even breathing from the other side of the bed warned him it would be futile.

______________________

A week later, still bothered by the whole incident, Michael was in his office staring at his computer screen. He'd just finished up another session with Madeleine -- this time, the Scrabble theme was Political Figures, which always gave him a headache -- and he was considering whether to start on another file or call it a night. Slowly, he brought out a pack of cards and lay a game of solitaire out on his desktop.

He'd asked Nikita why she'd allowed him to be familiar with her. She'd merely asked, "Wasn't it in the mission profile?" and without waiting for his answer, breezed away. The whole thing was very confusing and made him a little nauseous.

Michael studied the cards in front of him, then flipped over a card. Four of clubs. Good.

Part of the mission profile ... part of the mission profile ... a familiar phrase, one he'd heard often ... "It's all part of the mission profile, isn't it Michael? But then, I wouldn't know that, would I? I'm not even in the information loop!" Words spoken in anger, hurled at him, followed swiftly by those damned shoes, one of which had split his lip. Michael rubbed his lower lip, remembering.

Of course, his lip healed quickly. Too bad the rest of him hadn't.

With one quick movement, he gathered the cards, put them in the case and pulled up his schedule, making some annotations on it. Then, before he could regret his actions, he sent the whole thing to Nikita. He gave his computer a decisive nod, turned it off, and left his office.

***********

July

Nikita hurried to Louis's Used Books. The day was fine and hot, and normally she would have stopped at the corner for some iced tea or a lemon squash, but she was in too much of a hurry today.

"Louis!" she called, bursting through the front door.

"Back here," his voice floated toward her, and she sped through the shop to the tiny kitchen in back. "Nikita! Breakfast?" he waved a spatula at her congenially; Paolo crouched on the floor, prepared to gulp any bit of egg that came his way. The kitchen smelled of fried egg, buttery toast and hot coffee, and Nikita's stomach growled.

"I'd love to, but I can't. I'm in a rush. You said you had that snake book for me?"

"Yes, it's behind the front counter. It has lots of pictures."

"Perfect." She zipped out into the shop, found the book and came back to the kitchen, riffling through the pages. "Oh, Louis, this is great ... these pictures ... hey ... it's in German!"

"Yes, does that matter?"

"I can't read German!"

"I thought you just needed the pictures. That's the only edition Samuel had; you needed English?"

"Oh, I guess not. The pictures are what's most important ... nasty things, snakes."

"Then why the sudden interest?" Louis expertly flipped his egg, cutting off the edge and tossing it to Paolo, who caught it in mid-air with an appreciative, "Mrrph."

"You're welcome," Louis said, and Paolo smirked up at him.

"It's for the kids at the zoo," Nikita said. "I told you I'm volunteering, right?"

"Yeah, I think you mentioned it."

"For some reason, these kids are crazy about snakes." Nikita sat down in Louis's extra kitchen chair and Paolo, giving up on more egg, leapt onto her lap. Nikita absently stroked him, and he gently nibbled her wrist. "Behave, Paolo," she admonished, and he settled down. "Anyway, we had this great skeleton, but when they were repairing the snake cages, it got damaged. They had to send it away to be fixed, and I thought a picture of a snake would be just as good ... anyway, there's lots of snakes in here we don't have at the zoo ..."

"I see." Louis handed her his plate, and she absently began eating under the watchful gaze of Paolo. Louis cracked another egg into the skillet and pored himself another cup of coffee, since Nikita was drinking his. "A guy was asking about you yesterday."

Nikita choked on her egg, giving Paolo the opportunity to steal the last of it; Louis whacked her on the back. "Breathe, girl," he said, and Nikita, eyes watering, nodded.

"Who?" she finally managed.

"Who, what?"

"Who was asking about me?" She gulped some coffee, the acrid taste settling her.

"Just a guy I know. Probably wanted your number. Name's Michael, he comes here sometimes ..."

"Always wears black, doesn't talk much?"

"Yeah, you know him?"

"Sort of," Nikita said truthfully. "What did he want to know?"

Louis topped off her coffee and sat down at the table with his egg. Paolo sat near his feet, tail swishing in anticipation. "Mostly what you read. I don't think he knew what he wanted."

"Probably not," Nikita laughed. Two weeks ago, with no warning whatsoever, she'd received Michael's schedule in her e-mail. Not his usual schedule, but the annotated one, the one that had not only the bare-bones mission statistics, but the actual parameters, including the limits at which Section would stop. Several of them actually had ‘seduction if necessary.' She'd scanned it, then, supposing it had been routed to her accidentally, looked at the internal fingerprint to return it to the sender. It originated from Michael's computer. Probably a mistake, she thought; but the next week another one arrived. She didn't mention it to Michael and he didn't say anything to her.

Nikita sat her plate on the floor and Paolo begin licking the yolk from it, making appreciative little rrrow-rrrow noises deep in his throat. The cookoo clock struck the half hour, and Nikita jumped up. "I'm late. Thanks for the book, Louis -- okay if I settle up with you later?"

"Yeah, sure, go on," Louis waved her away with his fork. "Come by this evening, I got something else for you."

"Okay. Bye," she gave him a swift kiss on the top of his head, ran a quick hand over Paolo's hunched back, and shot through the store, the door jingling in her wake.

_______________________

Michael was going over weapons with Walter. "We'll need some of the new charges, Walter. How many can you give me?"

Instead of answering, Walter's mouth dropped open and he stared past Michael's shoulder. Michael twisted around to see what captured Walter's attention and nearly dropped the clipboard he was holding.

"So, what do you think?" Nikita's eyes slid past Michael and fastened on Walter. She was wearing a series of black spandex straps across her body -- none very wide, all exposing a good deal of flesh. The widest part of the dress started at her bikini line and continued for approximately five inches.

"Jesus, Nikita." Walter came toward her slowly, and she turned around. "Where's the other half of your dress?"

"Don't ask, Walter. Just fit me up with a gun."

"You want to tell me where you're going to hide a firearm in that -- that -- what the hell is it?"

"Come on. It's bad enough I have to wear it. I don't need commentary from you," Nikita sighed.

"Jesus." Walter turned back to his arsenal. "You look like a prostitute, for crying out loud."

"Walter, I am a prostitute," Nikita said in a bored tone. She swung her miniature purse by the strap.

"Come on, don't talk like that," he chastised her,

"Oh, please. We're all hookers here, Walter. You know it, I know it, even Michael here knows it."

"Nikita --" Walter protested.

"Just give me a gun, Walter. I want to get this over with as soon as possible. I can't even wear underwear with this thing."

"Stop right there, I don't want to know any more," Walter said firmly, finally handing her a gun that looked like a toy. "You're going to give an old man a heart attack, Sugar."

"Will this work?" she asked, skeptical.

"You betcha. But you can only chamber two bullets at a time, so make it count."

"Got it." She turned to leave, and Walter called her back.

"Nikita?"

"Yeah?" she turned.

"How are you going to get out of that thing?"

"The dress? Cut it off, I guess," she said. "I've got to chum it up with the wardrobe people. They're going to drive me to drink."

"You already drink."

"Shut up, Walter" She amiably shambled off, waving a hand at the men behind her. As she crossed Section's main floor, she caused a minor stir.

Walter looked at Michael, who still looked slightly stunned. "Breathe, Michael," Walter chuckled, and surprised, Michael looked at him.

"Where were we?"

"I don't know where you were, but I was going to give you some charges. Hey, next time, just take Nikita, she's enough to blow up any --"

"Walter." Michael's voice was icy, and Walter suppressed his smile.

"Here you go, Michael," he said, handing him the charges. "You be careful, now."

Without a word, Michael turned and left. Walter shook his head, still chuckling. He would have laughed even harder if he'd noticed Michael's gait was a trifle unsteady -- and it wasn't because he was carrying a lot of equipment.

________________________

Nikita was covered in blood and gore from head to foot, and looking at her, it wasn't hard to see why no one wanted to sit next to her on the transport plane.

The engines were a dull roar. Most of the other operatives were either asleep or almost there; Nikita fell asleep before take off. She'd washed most of the blood from her face, but the rest of her -- from the top of her head to her black mission boots -- looked as if she'd been dipped in blood. The sickly sweet smell of charred human clung to her.

Michael didn't look or smell a lot better. Neither of them had been injured, but the massive mutilations they'd witnessed in the past few days left them exhausted and worn. Not to mention unsanitary.

There wasn't another seat in the plane. Michael sighed and sat down beside Nikita. As always when he saw her, he mentally replayed their last fight in his head. No matter that it was eight months ago; the wounds obviously hadn't healed. Besides, their fight held the key: if he could just figure out what when wrong, maybe he could fix it. He'd continued sending her his schedules, and gradually, they'd become more detailed. But even that didn't seem to help the situation any.

Nikita sighed in her sleep, and Michael was surprised to see a faint smile on her face. After what they'd just been through, he would have thought nightmares were more in order.

"Mmmmm."

Uncertainly, Michael looked at her. She didn't look as if she were in pain. "Nikita?" he said in a low voice.

"Mmmmm ... more ...." she sighed.

Michael froze. No, he thought desperately, tell me this isn't happening. It's not enough that she's sleeping with Edsel; now I have to hear her dreaming about him.

"Ooohhh ...."

Michael looked around the plane. He was relieved to see except for himself, the team was asleep. He reached out to shake her awake, then paused. From personal experience he knew she remembered the dreams she woke from. If she slept, she wouldn't remember.

Of course, he would.

"Mmmmm..." he sighed again, face warm and seductive. The plane dipped, then shuddered; Nikita slumped toward Michael, coming to rest on his shoulder. "Mmmmm ... Michael ... oh ..."

Michael's mouth went dry. He swallowed hard and tilted his ear toward her mouth. Damp breath tickled his ear lobe, and he felt a familiar warmth rush through him. Almost too softly for him to hear, she whispered, "Don't stop ... Michael ..."

He wanted to wake her up. He wanted to rip her clothes off and make love to her right there. He didn't care about the blood and he didn't care about the oily residue from the burned bodies that covered them both. He wanted to kiss her, hard, to feel her next to him ...

"Michael ..."

He pulled away, shaking, and very gently shifted Nikita so she rested on the window instead of him. The movement didn't wake her, but she subsided, drifting into dreamless sleep.

It's just a dream, he told himself firmly. Maybe she still cares? No. Impossible. It was me she was dreaming of. Not Edsel. She still has some feelings for me. Doesn't she? Does she?

Michael swore softly.

_____________________

When Nikita woke, Michael was looking at her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, voice scratchy with disuse. Gingerly, she rolled the kinks out of her stiff neck.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked politely.

"Yeah, I guess ..." she said. The past few months, his eyes had been cold as glass when he looked at her. Now, she detected a bit of warmth. She was immediately suspicious. "What's wrong?" she repeated.

"Nothing, Nikita." He broke the gaze and studied his hands. The nails were stained with blood, and he knew from previous experience that no matter how long he soaked in a bath, it would be days before it wore off. He sighed. "When we get to Section, don't forget to have the lab analyze the residue on you."

"Yeah, yeah, I don't know where these people have been ..." Nikita waved his concern away, looking down at herself with disgust. "Ick." She looked around the plane, quickly assessing their privacy. "I've been meaning to thank you."

Thank him? She'd just spent several days in a virtual war zone. "For what?" he managed to choke out.

"The schedules." Her voice lowered. "It's made things easier."

"It makes it easier knowing these kinds of things beforehand?" he asked skeptically, indicating their present condition. The original mission -- or rather, the published version of the mission -- was a search and retrieve. The bloodbath had been secondary, but obviously planned with Michael's input.

"I don't like surprises," she said vaguely, then she stood up and stretched. "I'm going to get something to drink. You want anything?"

"Whatever you're having."

She nodded and went to the small galley kitchen that held a few snack supplies -- a limited selection of soft drinks, a few varieties of cookies or chips. Michael leaned his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes. I don't understand her, he thought tiredly. I probably never will. She doesn't think like other women. Mostly, that was a good quality for her to have -- enemies didn't expect her to act the way she did. Trouble was, he wasn't any better at gauging her reactions than they were.

Michael sighed again and checked his watch. They had another hour before landing. He hoped he could make it through with a minimum of contact with Nikita. It was getting harder and harder for him to be close to her.

***********

August

In August, Edsel was sent to Mbosa. It wasn't an indefinite tour, but it would not be a quick trip, either.

"Can you visit Muriel for me?" he asked. "She really likes Big Band music. And Rudy Vallee. And I'll send you letters for her. She worries when I'm away."

"Edsel, yes, of course I will," Nikita said, linking her arm through his as she walked him to the exit. "And what about Pilar?" she asked casually.

"If you get in trouble, I'll never forgive myself," he warned.

"Then I'll be careful to not get caught," she grinned.

Edsel met Pilar on a mission to Mexico City in June. The mission lasted almost six weeks -- he'd trained two team leaders, and Pilar had been one of them. He'd been terribly busy, but not too busy to fall for Pilar, and he still held out hope that she'd be transferred to Toronto. He tried to communicate with her fairly regularly, and every day he scanned the wounded and mortality reports.

"She's good," Edsel frowned, "But ..."

"Edsel, you worry too much," Nikita said. "Besides, we both know it's easier to burrow into Section's computers at Section -- not in the field."

A frown still furrowed his forehead, and Nikita smoothed her hand over the wrinkles. "I'll notify you if something happens, okay?"

"Okay. But be careful, you hear me?"

"You know me, ‘safety first,'" Nikita smiled. "I'll practice up on my signing while you're gone. Who knows what I'll have learned by then?"

"Who, indeed?" Edsel grinned, shouldered his gun and gave Nikita's arm a friendly squeeze. "Take care of yourself."

"You too." She watched him get on the transport, and wondered when he'd return.

______________________

Summer was coming to an end: it was still hot out, but the days were getting slightly shorter and now the evenings were chilly. Nikita hurried across the park, glancing at the children in their last weeks of freedom before school started, waving at some of them who knew her from the zoo. It was a good day and Nikita had recent e-mail from Edsel. She talked a bit with Sid, then went directly to Muriel's cage. "Hey, Muriel."

Hi, Blue Eyes, Muriel signed happily back. She grunted to Evian, who politely waved to Nikita. Nikita grinned and waved back.

"Brought you something. Guess what?" Nikita asked.

Evian water? Banana? Mango? Treats?

"Not food," Nikita laughed. "Guess again."

Red Top?

"Close. He sent you a letter. See?" Nikita held up the paper and Muriel thwacked her chest in delight. "You ready?"

Yes. Start.

"‘Dear Muriel and Evian,'" Nikita began, then looked over the top of the paper. Muriel was watching her intently, and even Evian looked slightly interested. "‘You'll never guess where I am.'" Nikita paused and raised an eyebrow.

On the sea? In the air? Where? Muriel signed quickly.

"‘In Mbosa. Not far from home. I haven't seen any friends, and am stuck in the city.'" Privately, Nikita wondered how much of that Muriel caught -- she didn't understand everything that was said to her, and in fact could only sign about 270 words, but Nikita decided Muriel still looked interested, so she continued. Ah, here was something that Muriel would like. "‘Today we had bananas for breakfast, lunch and dinner.'" Poor Edsel, Nikita thought -- he's probably got a terrible stomachache.

Muriel apparently thought otherwise: Lucky Red Top, she signed, a little envious.

"Yes, indeed," Nikita agreed wryly. "Shall I go on?"

Muriel nodded.

"‘Tomorrow we set out for the mountains. The trees will be very high. Almost as high as the sky. I miss you. Love, Red Top.'"

That's all?

"That's it," Nikita confirmed, folding the letter up and putting it back in her vest.

Miss him, Muriel signed.

"Me, too," Nikita sighed. "But I brought something to cheer us both up. Want to guess what it is?"

Watermelon?

"Nope, afraid not. Something loud. Something happy."

Is it -- can it be -- Rudy Vallee?

"Not Rudy, but someone you'll like just as well, I bet. I just bought it the other day." Nikita took the portable CD player out of her rucksack and turned it so it faced the apes. Then she punched play, and the rollicking sounds of Squirrel Nut Zippers filled the air.

Muriel's eyes grew large and she whooped. She bounced to the rhythm of the music, singing along in grunts and an occasional "Wheeee!"

Even Evian got excited. Scampering around in the cage, emitting shrill "E-E-E-Es," Muriel finally corralled her wayward child.

"‘Anywhere old Prince Nez goes, that's where I go too,'" Nikita sang along off-key -- but then, there was so much noise, who could tell? "‘He clears up the stormy skies, whenever he's by my side. Everything's easy, everything's breezy, everything's so divine ...'"

Muriel let out another happy shriek, and Nikita laughed out loud.

***********

September

The weather was getting cooler, and Muriel was getting friskier.

Nikita was visiting every day she could. Sometimes she had to work, but on her days off -- or just on a meal break -- she'd go to the zoo. At the end of the first week in October, she stopped by with a sack lunch. Muriel was alone.

"Hey, Muriel," Nikita called out, and Muriel only looked up briefly. "Muriel?"

Slowly, Muriel came to the front of the cage. She was the picture of depression, and Nikita's heart sank. "What's wrong, Muriel?" Nikita asked, signing.

After a few half-hearted attempts, Muriel signed back: Baby sick. Doctor took.

"When?" asked Nikita.

Long time ago, Muriel signed.

Nikita hadn't been by for two days -- she'd been in Cambodia. "Why?"

Muriel placed a paw on her chest. Evian hurts. Here.

Unable to bear any more communication, Muriel sat down with a thump, her head lowered.

"I'll talk to the doctors," Nikita said, finishing the last of her sandwich. She jogged toward the medical building.

It turned out that Evian, a.k.a. Eunice, had a touch of pneumonia. She'd be fine, Nikita assured Muriel, but she'd have to stay in the animal hospital for a week. Right now, Evian was asleep, but Nikita had patted her furry head and told her Muriel missed her. Muriel wasn't allowed to visit.

"I could," Nikita said. "I could visit."

You'd see Evian? Muriel asked.

"Sure, I miss her too," Nikita answered. "I'll come by tomorrow and let you know how she is."

______________________

A week later, Michael stopped dead in his tracks. All summer Nikita had been wearing bright colors: never red or purple, because they reminded her of blood, but she wore bright blues and greens and pinks.

Today she was dressed in black.

"Nikita? Is something wrong?" he caught her arm, for she would have passed him by otherwise.

"No. Nothing's wrong." Her face was set and closed, her eyes blank.

"Where are you going?" He dropped her arm, but blocked her way.

"Nowhere special."

Michael didn't move.

"If you must know, a funeral," Nikita snapped, a little life coming back into her face. "Now, do you mind? I don't want to be late. It's bad enough that Edsel's --" she choked to a stop. Until now, she'd never talked about Edsel to Michael.

"Bad enough that Edsel's not what?"

"It's bad enough he's not here. I have to go, Michael. Call me if you need me, but it better be an emergency." And with that, she stalked out of Section.

_______________________

Despite her career, Nikita hadn't been to many funerals. This, though, was surely one of the more strange memorials ever given.

Muriel had to stay in her cage. The keepers were afraid she'd do something drastic, and her depression was so deep, they even considered placing her on suicide watch. The whole thing was so surreal, Nikita would have found it laughable if it wern't so tragic.

The ceremony was performed after hours. Sid was there, as were the doctors from the hospital. Everyone loved Muriel, and Eunice was a favorite, too. The body had already been cremated, but each person said something to comfort the grieving mother. At the end, Muriel expressed her thanks, then she turned to Nikita.

Where is Red Top?

"He's ... still gone. I'm so sorry, Muriel," Nikita answered. "As soon as he's back, he'll come. I know he will."

Maybe he won't come back, Muriel signed.

Edsel's mission had a very high success rate and a very low mortality rate. "I think he will," Nikita comforted Muriel. "I don't know when, but I hope soon."

Miss him, Muriel signed, then, exhausted, she wondered back to the end of her cage and lumbered onto her bed, turning her back to Nikita.

"I do, too," Nikita said softly.

____________________________

"I need something happy," Nikita announced, coming into Louis's Used Books.

Paolo twined around her ankles, and Nikita picked him up, but he bit her gently on her wrist and hopped back to the ground, giving her an indignant, "Mmmurph."

"What's with Paolo?" she asked, examining her wrist.

"Paolo has been a busy cat," Louis said. "He's got something to show you."

"It's not another rat, is it?" Nikita asked, dreading the answer. One day last summer, Paolo presented Nikita with a rodent and though she knew it was a token of his esteem, she was unable to suppress a shudder. Paolo had been very offended.

Louis laughed. "Come upstairs and see."

They made an odd procession going up the narrow stairs: first Paolo, then Louis, and lastly, Nikita. They crowded into the French Room, and Paolo stood proudly off to the side, giving them a good view.

"Kittens," Nikita said blankly. "Where --?"

"I don't know the details," Louis admitted. "All I know for sure is, one day when I came to work, here was a cat on my front door. No right ear, tail in a mess, cut up pretty badly. I took her to the vet, he stitched her up, and I brought her home. Never thought she'd make it. Paolo made a terrible fuss over it -- he's used to being in charge, you know -- but eventually they became friends. As you can see."

Paolo sniffed around the cardboard box; the mother cat briefly touched noses with him, then went back to nursing her young. "What's her name?" Nikita asked.

"I've always been a big fan of Dorothy Parker," Louis mused. "But we haven't named the kittens yet. You want one, put your name in the empty fishbowl on the front desk. We'll have a drawing in four weeks, when their eyes are open."

"I have a friend that needs a cat," Nikita said slowly. "She'd be a very good ... ummm ... parent."

"Put her name in," Louis said. "Now, what was it you came in for?"

"Something happy," Nikita reminded him.

Louis thought. "What you need is some Thurber. Come on. He's with 1920s New York."

**********

October

Nikita crouched in the underbrush, listening intently. Softly, she spoke into her com unit. "Edsel. Anything?"

"Not yet, Nikita."

"Well, hurry up and get a reading, will you?" She lay lower in the dirt, willing Edsel to contact her, and thought about the past 12 hours.

She'd returned from a mission in Washington only to find Michael missing. "What do you mean, missing?" she demanded. His mission had been simple, with no secondary objectives, and he should've been back days ago.

"Technically, he's been taken," Operations clarified. "And since we're stretched thin, you'll be going in alone."

"So, is this a rescue mission or a suicide mission?" she'd asked sarcastically.

"Just go. Before I change my mind," Operations snapped, and she'd obeyed. It was only through Madeleine's intervention that Nikita was able to get Edsel -- and then only because he was relatively near El Minya.

"All right, Blue Eyes, I've got something."

"How many?"

"One."

"Repeat?"

"One. Looks like they either pulled out or did the suicide thing."

Nikita's stomach turned. "Let's hope not. I don't know if I can take it. Where?"

"Southwest corner of the compound. Start moving and I'll give you directions."

"Can you tell if --"

"I don't know, Nikita."

Nikita swallowed hard. Heat sensors didn't work well in hot climates, and so there was no way of telling whether the information was accurate, or even if the sensor was picking up a human form. It could be a large animal. She moved toward her target, wishing the moon were a little brighter.

She stumbled over a mound of dirt. She lost her grip on her flashlight, which went arcing out behind her, and she fell headlong into a hole. Instead of landing on earth, she landed on a person.

Nikita scrambled to a sitting position, hands quick to find his face. They'd blindfolded him. He fingers moved to his neck, searching for a pulse.

"Got him," she breathed into her link. "Michael. Michael, can you hear me?"

He muttered, then subsided. The hole they were in wasn't deep, but it was deep enough to cut out the moonlight; Nikita's damp fingers struggled with the blindfold, then, trusting good luck, she got out her knife. "Don't move, Michael. I don't want to catch your ear."

He didn't move a muscle. In fact, he'd passed out. Nikita gave him a mighty pull, trying to sit him upright.

"Hey, Blue Eyes, what's going on?" Edsel asked through her communicator.

"I could use a little help, Edsel. Can you -- ummph -- bring the car around?"

"On my way."

A moment later, she heard the quiet purr of the Land Rover, and then Edsel's face peered down at her. "What's up?"

"He's out and I can't move him. I can barely fit in here myself, and there's water or something down here, I can hardly stand up without slipping. Give me a hand, will you?"

Edsel reached down and Nikita, with a great deal of struggling, managed to get Michael standing. His hand clutched her shoulder, and he gasped in pain. "Michael. Michael, tell me where it hurts, I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to."

"Everywhere."

"Well, I need you to stay conscience for two more minutes. Can you do that, Michael?"

He groaned, but with his help, she managed to turn him toward Edsel, who pulled. Nikita pushed from behind, and finally Michael collapsed on Edsel. Edsel untangled himself and offered a hand to Nikita, who took it and promptly fell back.

"What is that all over you?" he asked, wiping off his hand.

"Water. It's wet down here. Let's try again."

The flashlight danced above her as Edsel briefly inspected Michael. "Don't think it's water down there, Nikita. He's been shot up pretty badly."

The second time was more successful. Nikita lay gasping on the edge of the hole, eyes level with a shovel.

It was only then that she realized she'd been in Michael's grave. And in all likelihood, he'd dug it himself.

______________________

The doors to the van opened, and Nikita was the first off. As was usual tonight, Madeleine met them at the door and automatically inventoried the operatives. Under the blood and dirt, Nikita's face was pinched with weariness and Michael was supported by Edsel.

"What happened to him?" Madeleine asked.

"They used him for target practice," Nikita answered briefly. "He needs to be sent to Med Lab."

"Is it bad?"

"No, but he lost a lot of blood," Nikita said.

Michael roused briefly. "I'm fine."

"Shut up, Michael," Nikita shot over her shoulder, and Michael passed out again. Grunting, Edsel hoisted him on a shoulder, staggering a bit till he gained his balance.

"Take him to Med Lab, Edsel," Madeleine decided. "Then go to your quarters. We're all being confined for the duration."

"Duration of what?" Nikita asked.

"The substation in Mexico City is under quarantine -- there's been an outbreak of Legionnaires' Disease, so all their operatives are based out of here now. They've been having some other problems in the region as well ... also, we've had an agent compromised, so we're on Close Quarters tonight. We're a little crowded."

"So I see." Nikita followed Madeleine down the corridor. The main floor of Section was busy, but in offices there were cots set up, and the babble of Spanish and English echoed off the concrete. Pilar, Nikita thought, immediately thinking of Edsel. Please, please, let Pilar be all right, she willed silently.

"Space is at a premium, and I'm busy. So let's debrief quickly."

"Sure. Edsel and I arrived, there were no guards on the perimeter, the compound was deserted."

"Except for Michael," Madeleine prompted. "Why did they leave him?"

"Well, they didn't, exactly," Nikita said uncomfortably. "They thought he was dead."

"And you know this because ....?"

"Because I found him in his grave," Nikita said simply. "I don't know why they didn't cover him up. I guess maybe they were in a hurry. Can I go now?"

"Yes, you may." Madeleine allowed Nikita to turn away from her, but then added, "There's another agent in your quarters. We're full up, and she had to go somewhere. You could sleep with her, but I wouldn't advise it. She's had a difficult week."

A difficult week could mean almost anything in Section, so Nikita nodded. "That's okay. I'll use Michael's. He won't be there, anyway."

"I'm afraid he will. Med Lab's full too. Agents have been coming in all night, some in worse shape than others. He'll most likely get his blood, get a few stitches and be released. Why don't you bunk with him tonight, anyway -- he'll need to be watched for the next hour or so in case he reacts to the blood."

"Whatever. There are still cots left in supply, right?"

"Should be."

_______________

Nikita got Burkhoff to manipulate Michael's lock to admit her, then stopped by supply. She was able to get one of the last cots left, and on her way to living quarters, she poked her head in the gym. Cots lined the walls, most of the occupants hooked up to IVs. It looked like the fallout from a battle, and Nikita frowned, wondering exactly what happened in Mexico City. If Pilar were here, Edsel would be with her, she thought, and instead of looking for the pair, Nikita headed for Michael.

Michael's quarters were almost directly above her own. Nikita typed in Burkhoff's new code and put her hand on the plate, and the door clicked open.

The room was dim and Michael was asleep. Various parts of his clothing had been cut off to accommodate his wounds. He'd removed one shoe, but otherwise was just as she'd left him -- except for the gauze wrapped around his upper arm. His thigh was bandaged, too, but the wound she was most concerned about was his shoulder. There was a smaller bandage in the crook of his other arm, where the blood had gone in. Bits of duct tape still clung to his chest -- she'd had to stop the bleeding, and normal bandage tape didn't stick, he was so slippery with blood.

Nikita quietly put the cot down and went to him, looking for signs of reaction to the blood, but his skin, though dirty, was an even, healthy tone, and his breathing was normal. She put a careful hand on his face, but he had no fever. Relieved, she removed his other shoe and arranged his body in a more comfortable looking position, then covered him up with a blanket. She turned on the bathroom light and left the door open a crack, so that if one of them got up in the night, they wouldn't stumble over the other one. As quietly as she could, she set up her cot, took off her own shoes, and lay down, ignoring the bloody mud caked on her clothes. She set her alarm for 30 minutes to check him again, and was asleep almost immediately.

_______________________

When Michael awoke, he was surprised to see Nikita sprawled on her stomach on an Army cot beside him. One long black-clad leg, ending in a black sock with the heel scootched around to the top of her foot extended from her bed; one arm dangled off the edge, the other curled around her head. Her hair, which normally looked like cornsilk, now resembled dirty, matted hay. The ends on one side of her hair were tinged rusty brown, which he mistook for mud at first. But then he looked closer, and realized the substance in her hair was blood -- his, most likely, since she appeared uninjured. He stretched cautiously and was rewarded with protesting muscles and dull pain in a variety of body parts.

Nikita heard him and without waking up, she automatically reached over, fumbled for his wrist and felt his pulse.

"I'm fine, Nikita," he said softly, and she woke up all the way and withdrew her arm.

"What time is it?" she asked scratchily, stretching her head up and squinting at him.

"Before seven."

"Can we leave yet?"

Even in Section, she didn't want to be alone with him, Michael thought. "I don't know. I just woke up."

She absorbed this information silently and rubbed her eyes. "You look better," she noted.

Michael was unable to return the compliment. Nikita's eyes were still dark and smudged and her hair was tangled and wild. Her cot had dry pieces of bloody mud on it from her clothes, and a fine layer of dust clung to her.

"How did you get in?" Michael asked instead.

"Burkhoff. Someone else is in my room."

Michael nodded, and slowly pivoted his legs to the edge of the bed. "Come on," Nikita said, fitting his good arm around her shoulders. She helped him to the bathroom, then turned to leave. "Will you be okay?"

"Yes," he said briefly.

"Sure?" Nikita was itching to go. She was worried about Pilar, and she was worried about Edsel. If Pilar wasn't here, she was most likely quarantined or dead. In addition, Nikita hadn't talked to Edsel yet about Muriel -- there simply hadn't been time. All the way back, they were working over Michael, making sure he didn't loose too much blood, and now ... what if he went to the zoo without knowing about Evian?

"Yes. Go."

She almost hated to leave him, but the fierce expression on his face convinced her. "I'll see you later. Heal clean."

Michael watched her leave, a whirlwind of dirty person and energy. He rested on the doorjamb to the bathroom and wondered if he could make it to the shower without collapsing.

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

November

Michael healed clean. It was remarkable, in a way: he didn't even know how long he'd lain in his grave, but surely something like that couldn't be healthy.

First the arm healed. Then his leg could bear his weight. Last of all, his shoulder was deemed ready for rehab.

Michael took walks. Not long ones -- his leg wasn't that predictable. But within a few weeks, he was able to walk the few blocks to Louis's Used Books. It was a long overdue trip. He didn't have anything new in the house to read, and it was necessary to distract himself from the pain he still suffered late at night. In the morning he was fine. But at the end of the day he felt like his body was giving up on him.

Slowly, Michael walked the last block. Louis's was in sight, and he kept his eyes on his target. The door to the shop opened, and a familiar figure darted out, bright hair caught in a cold draft of wind.

Nikita shook her hair out of her face, then bent down and gently adjusted her jacket. She almost seemed to be talking to herself. Frowning, Michael moved a bit to his left.

That's when he saw two pointed ears and an inquisitive little face peering up at Nikita. A paw reached out and batted at her hair, and Nikita laughed and brushed her hair back, a quick, familiar gesture that twisted his heart.

How many times had he told her: No pets. Not only were they a distraction, but she wasn't home often enough to care for an animal. At one point she'd kept goldfish, but after being away for three weeks, she came home to find them all belly up. Michael ground his teeth. How was it that someone so innocuous could make him so angry?

Michael frowned. The pain in his leg forgotten, he slowly followed her up the street.

______________________

Things were different now that Edsel was back in Section. He spent a lot of time with Pilar. Nikita couldn't be jealous. For one thing, she'd never had any claim to him; for another, he was joyful. Not happy -- one really couldn't be happy in Section -- but he was optimistic, and oddly, at peace. Pilar hadn't been transferred yet, but Nikita expected the paperwork to be pushed through eventually, and she hoped things would work out for them.

The cat stuffed in her coat, Nikita trotted quickly through the park. Edsel and Pilar were in Cairo this week, and she envied them the warm weather they were no doubt having. It wasn't really cold, not if you were moving, but it was chilly out and smelled like snow. Nikita looked at the sky apprehensively. She hadn't brought an umbrella, and her shoes weren't waterproof.

Needle-like claws pierced her jersey and she let out an involuntary squeak as the kitten tried to climb her torso. She was so involved in extracting the cat, she didn't notice a dark figure hobbling behind her.

________________________

Nikita stopped in front of the ape cage. She looked around quickly; Michael melted into the shadows, praying she wouldn't see him. Apparently satisfied, Nikita quickly climbed over the low fence that separated the people from the apes. She approached the cage, hands on the bars.

Michael nearly choked. He fumbled in his pocket for his gun. What the devil was she doing?

The ape approached. In Michael's uneducated opinion, it didn't look well. But it was huge -- in one quick snap, it could rip off Nikita's arm. Michael raised his gun carefully.

Nikita moved, coming between Michael and the ape. Michael lowered his gun, waiting.

Nikita seemed to be talking to the animal. What nonsense, Michael raged, mentally sending her the same message over and over: Get away from the cage.

Nikita wasn't receiving. She put her hands on top of the ape's -- they looked like absurdly small white stars against the black, leathery gorilla skin. Then, gently, Nikita brought out the kitten and presented it to the animal.

Michael forgot to breathe. He froze. All he could do was watch, horrified, as the ape took the helpless kitten in it's huge hands. The gorilla brought the cat to it's face, and all Michael could do was wait for the inevitable.

The gorilla sat down, cradling the kitten in it's hands. Gently, one large finger stroked the kitten's back; the cat swatted playfully at her captor. Then, the ape put the kitten down and approached Nikita, waving its hands in the air.

From where he was, Michael could hear Nikita laugh. What was she saying? Michael strained to hear. Happy Thanksgiving? Who on earth wished a gorilla Happy Thanksgiving?

Nikita gave the gorilla's hands another friendly stroke, then to Michael's relief, she climbed back over the low barrier, perching on the top rail, facing the ape's cage. Michael pocketed his gun, and after a few more moments, he turned and left the zoo. As he walked away from the cage, he thought he heard singing, but glancing behind him quickly, he realized he must have been mistaken.

_____________________

Since it was a special occasion -- after all, it wasn't everyday that one received a kitten -- Muriel asked for a song.

"I don't have the CD player," Nikita said. She'd thought about bringing it, but she didn't think she could handle the machine and the cat.

You sing, Muriel signed hopefully, and Nikita laughed.

"Don't make fun, now," Nikita warned, and Muriel gave her an encouraging snort. Nikita thought for a moment, running over Muriel's favorites in her mind. Muriel cradled the baby kitten carefully in her hand; the cat, tiring quickly as kittens do, turned around three times and folded itself up into a small furry ball and promptly went to sleep.

"‘My baby don't care for clothes,'" Nikita sang softly, "‘My baby don't care for shows ... my baby just cares for me ... my baby don't care for furs and laces ... my baby don't care for high-toned places ... Liberace's not her style, and even Frank Sinatra's smile ... is something she just can't see ... my baby don't care who knows it ... my baby just cares for me ...'"

Muriel made soft hoo-hoo noises, singing along with Nikita.

"‘My baby's no Crosby fan ... Dick Tracy is not her man ... my baby just cares for me ... my baby don't care for ... Broadway tickets.... she'd rather have me take her to the movies ... Liberace's not her style, and even Frank Sinatra's smile ...is something she just can't see ... I wonder what's wrong with my baby ... my baby just cares for me ...'"

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

December

The club was overcrowded, overheated, overly loud, and the dance floor was like the first day of a Macy's sale: completely packed.

Michael and Nikita were sandwiched between teenagers and young 20-somethings gyrating to the beat of something incredibly hip -- it had to be hip to be this loud, Nikita thought, irritated, wondering when she'd gotten so old. She peered over Michael's shoulder and wished again she had a drink -- a real drink, not one of those micro-brewery things everyone seemed to be guzzling down. Since it was the Christmas season, they were actually serving them with tiny Santa hats. Nikita shuddered. "Target sighted," she said in a normal voice, for even if she yelled, no one would have paid any attention to her. "Thank God," she added.

"Anderson, move in," Michael instructed, swinging Nikita around so he could get a visual. As ordered, Anderson approached the target, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the pay phone in the back. Startled, the young man nodded and ambled off, Anderson following at a discrete distance. Through the dim light, Nikita could see Anderson's arm raise briefly and come down hard on the mark; in a few seconds, Anderson drug him out the back and Nikita, with undisguised relief, said, "He's out. Let's go."

"Finish the dance ..." Michael said, licking his finger and removing her comlink. He removed his own and placed them both in his back pants pocket.

Someone bumped into Nikita; she turned and watched a man pass out, sliding on the floor in a boneless heap, his beer falling from his hand.

"Are you insane?" she asked, turning back to Michael. "This place is ..." She couldn't even think of a word strong enough to express her feelings; instead, she simply stared at Michael, hands on her hips, while people pushed her from all sides.

He muttered something -- at least, Nikita assumed he did. The noise level was deafening, and even if he'd spoken in a normal voice, she still wouldn't have been able to hear him. But from the way he was standing, she knew that if he'd been a man given to cursing, he would have been cursing now. Instead, his mouth compressed into one white line, and he tucked her arm firmly through his. "Come on."

"Where --"

Michael parted the sea of people like a shark. In a few quick steps they were past the bar, past the kitchen, past the bathrooms, past the pay phone. Michael opened an inconspicuous door and shoved Nikita into a cleaning closet.

She nearly stepped in a bucket. Swaying, she automatically reached out to steady herself. "Michael --"

"Move," Michael ordered curtly, and Nikita, still gripping a mop handle, stood aside. Her heart began to sink: after all this time, Michael was reverting to his old habit of keeping her in the dark. Nothing about a secondary mission had been on his annotated schedule, and the more she thought about it, the angrier she got.

"Michael. What's the secondary mission?"

Hearing the coldness in her voice, he twisted around, momentarily distracted. "Didn't you get my schedule?"

"Yes, I did," she said, voice icy. "And there wasn't anything about this on it."

"Precisely," Michael said, turning back around. At the back of the closet was another door. Michael quickly picked the lock and propelled Nikita out.

She blinked.

This club was different in every way. The room was dim, but not dark. A pleasant murmur filled the place, and there was a medium-sized dance floor, blissfully uncrowded, where couples swayed to music. No juke box here: an zoot-suited crooner stood in the spotlight, and as Nikita looked closer, she realized all ages frequented the establishment. The clientele included everyone from women with blue hair and men with no hair to college kids dressed in old-fashioned ‘40s outfits.

Nikita blinked again as she recognized the song. It was one of Muriel's favorites.

"‘You made me love you, I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it. You made me love you, and all the time you knew it, I guess you always knew it ...'" The singer had a lovely voice, mellow and warm, and Nikita relaxed.

"Now," Michael said, holding out his arms. "Can we please finish the dance?" He still looked very irritated and Nikita smiled.

"All right," she agreed, stepping into Michael's arms. She instinctively knew he wasn't irritated with her -- he was irritated at the situation, at the job and at the calendar. It was Christmas Eve, and they'd spent most of the night getting their brains vibrated next door. He held her loosely, and they danced on the peripheral of the dance floor, out of the light. So familiar, she thought, her right hand fitting perfectly in Michael's.

This time last year they hadn't even been talking.

From across the floor, the song continued. "‘You made me happy sometimes, you made me glad. But there were times, dear ... you made me feel so bad ...'"

Michael held Nikita carefully. First of all, he'd never completely recovered from their summer mission. Her rebuttal of his attentions had affected him deeper than he cared to admit. Secondly, the dress she was wearing was a little ... seductive. It was a creamy camel color, almost the color of her skin. It was satin. It fit her like a glove. Better, actually, because there were no wrinkles. His hand rested lightly on her back.

She didn't notice when the first song ended and the next began. The singer sang two measures and Nikita giggled.

"What?" Michael asked.

"I have a friend that likes this song," Nikita said.

"Who?"

"No one you know." Unable to help herself, she sang along softly, her chin resting on Michael's shoulder. "‘I've never been to Paris, France ... never learned how to ball room dance ... but she's still giving me a chance ... how lucky can one guy be ...'" She hummed along, singing the words when she knew them. "‘All the boyfriends and the hopeful men call her on the telephone ... but at the end of the night, she's holding me tight ... I'm the one who's taking her home ... I've never made a load of dough ... never been to a Broadway show ... but to her, I'm original Romeo ... how lucky can one guy be ...'"

"I never knew you liked this kind of music," Michael remarked.

"You know a lot about me, Michael," Nikita parroted, "But you don't know everything."

Michael's hand inched down her hip, fingers feather-light and resting on the spot the elastic of her underwear should have been. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But I know you're not wearing underwear." His hand stayed for a moment at her hip, then reluctantly retreated to a more suitable place.

"Watch it, Mister," Nikita said, smiling. "I may not be wearing underwear, but I am wearing a gun."

"I was curious about that," Michael said, mouth close to her ear. "If you'd had to use it tonight, how exactly did you plan on getting it out without exposing yourself to the whole room?"

"Dead men tell no tales, Michael," Nikita murmured. It was perhaps an unfortunate choice of words, though, for they both remembered their last mission together.

"I never said thank you," he remembered.

Nikita pulled back a little and looked in his eyes expectantly.

"Thank you," he said simply. He put his forehead to hers, still holding her to him, still swaying to the music.

"... welcome," Nikita whispered against his mouth.

Still, Michael hesitated. His hand moved slowly down Nikita's bare back, and she moved a fraction closer to him, folding her arms around his neck, her cheek smooth against his. Neither were really bothering with dancing now; they were in a dim corner of the room and since the club wasn't crowded they were relatively alone. Michael swallowed, then turned Nikita so her back was to the light; it filtered around her in a dusty pink cloak, casting her face into shadow.

But the side of her neck was perfectly lit.

Not realizing what he was doing, she tilted her head, further illuminating her neck. "Michael?"

Even without touching her, he could see her pulse was erratic and fast. He felt relief flood him, and he reached out a careful hand, gently brushing her jawline and tilting her head up even more, fingers light on her neck.

"Are you taking my pulse?" She asked, voice lazy and smooth.

"Yes," he agreed, bending his head to hers, lips light against her mouth. Under his hand, he felt her pulse jerk in her neck. Or was that him? Disregarding numerous hairpins, he laced his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, and was gratified to hear her moan softly against him, her body fusing into his, her fingers gripping his lapels.

"M ... Michael ..."

"I'm seducing the an ambassador's daughter next week," he murmured against her mouth, then leisurely moved down her neck, careful to not leave marks other than chill bumps in his wake.

He's learning, Nikita thought, pleased. It certainly took him long enough. "I know," Nikita reminded him. "You sent me your schedule ..."

He didn't detect any anger or disappointment in her voice. She's learning, he thought, relieved. Maybe she doesn't like it, but she's learning to work within the parameters. Though not given to emotional excesses, Michael felt an odd, tense feeling in his chest, and he pulled her closer, kissing her temple and wrapping his arms around her protectively.

"Michael ... promise me ..."

"Yes?" he prompted softly, hands moving down her back, coming to rest on her hips.

"Promise me," Nikita said, leaning back so she could look him in the eyes. Her voice was a little stronger now.

"Promise you'll come home to me. If you don't, I promise you, Michael, I'll come after you."

"I promise." He pulled her close, giving her another dazzling kiss that left her weak-kneed and breathless.

"Maybe ... we should go there now ..." Nikita finally got out.

"What, home? You don't like the music?" Michael teased, arms tight around her. Somehow she found herself dancing with him again, his body warm and strong against hers.

"I have the album," she smiled, and turning his face toward her, she unobtrusively wiped her lipstick off his face. He kissed her hand as it passed his mouth and nearly laughed out loud when she blushed.

"Then let's go," Michael said, glancing around the quiet club. "It's too crowded in here."

"I agree," Nikita sighed, sweeping her eyes over the partially-filled room. "And it's a little warm, don't you think?"

Michael followed her out, hand low on her hip. They used the front door this time, and as Michael held it open for her, she turned her face around, cupped his chin in her hand, and gave him another kiss, this one pleasantly possessive. "Don't forget ... you promised ..." she reminded him.

"So did you," he replied. Then he laced his fingers through hers and pulled her close.

_______________________

For the third time in as many minutes, Michael checked his watch. He was late.

Michael wasn't given to swearing. Like Booth Tarkington, he agreed that violent language is the result of a meager mind unstocked in vocabulary and thus unable otherwise to seek to be impressive. That didn't mean he didn't think swear words, though, and as he strode through the long halls of Section, he cursed silently to himself, raging at the time. He'd arrived at 10 o'clock, which was plenty of time. But debriefing took longer than usual, then Birkhoff needed him to look at some things, and Madeleine waylaid him about another operative ...

Now the minute hand on his watch was creeping past 11.30. If he got to her past midnight, he'd be too late.

Not that Nikita would mind, probably, he thought. She understood the demands on his time, and he thought she understood the place she held in his life. At least, he hoped she did.

Michael picked up his pace a bit. If he could get out of Section, he might make it in time. ___________________________

The holidays were always busy. Terrorists seemed to take perverse pleasure in ruining what ought to have been a joyous occasion. Nikita hadn't even been by to see Muriel. Tomorrow, she promised herself. She was due time off, and Madeleine was giving her nearly a week. Nikita planned to do the domestic, stick close to home and spend some time at the zoo. Baby pandas were born a few weeks before Christmas, and Muriel, who could see the bear cages from her little spot in the zoo, was very interested in them. In fact, if things progressed, Sid said they might consider another pregnancy for Muriel. Nikita wondered how Muriel felt about that, but it would be a few months before they would be able to actually proceed. In any case, Muriel and the kitten, whom she'd named Blue, were getting along just fine. Edsel had good reports about the pair, and Nikita couldn't wait to see how things were going for herself.

It was cold out, and snow swirled like confetti, covering the old, smutty snow with a pristine white blanket. Nikita sipped her wine and leaned her forehead on the cold windowpane, watching the snow dance in front of the streetlights. Tomorrow morning it would be slick and messy, but now, it was a pretty picture. It almost made up for Michael not being here.

Almost, but not quite. New Year's always made her a little blue, anyway. He was due in tonight, and she knew the mission was completed because he'd sent her an electronic message. But something obviously held him up, and she wondered if she ought to just climb into bed and talk to him tomorrow.

She looked out once more on the still night. It was so quiet. The snow muffled ordinary sounds, and she almost felt like she was the only one alive in the city. Somewhere, far away, she could dimly hear a church bell toll 12 times.

The key rattled in her lock, and surprised, Nikita turned around to see Michael come through the door. His hair was wet with snow, his face was pale with cold, and he looked rushed.

"Michael!" She smiled at him and would have hugged him, but he pushed her away.

"I haven't washed yet."

"There's a clean towel laid out for you in the bath. Are you hungry?"

He wasn't, but he needed something to take the taste away of the other woman he'd been with, so he said, "Yes. Can I --"

"Help yourself," she nodded to the bathroom. "I'll heat you up something."

She heard the shower start, and she took out the stew she'd made earlier in the day, arranging crackers and cheese on a small plate. A lot can change in 12 months, she mused. Look how Michael's changed.... maybe not as much as I'd like, but he's doing the best he can. So am I, now that we aren't at sixes-and-sevens all the time. This year will be better, she promised herself. It has to be.

When Michael came out of the shower, Nikita was frowning into the soup. He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. He smelled of clean soap and her toothpaste, and she was touched to see he'd shaved. She leaned her head back on his shoulder. "It looks good," he commented, glancing at the soup. "Not as good as you do, though."

Nikita grinned. "How was the mission, anyway?"

His mark was young, lonely and overprotected -- and the only way into the ambassador's house. If he'd taken another route, he'd still be in Chile. Even Nikita advised him to go ahead with the seduction.

"I'm glad it's over. We have closure."

"Good." She twisted around to kiss him, but he pushed her gently away. He'd used her toothbrush, but he still tasted of the other woman, and Nikita smiled as he quickly spooned up some soup and swallowed it, then pulled her close, giving her an overdue kiss.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I tried to get here earlier --"

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," she said, pouring him a glass of wine and topping off her own. "I waited for you. Are you ready?"

"Yes." He looked at the clear red liquid in his glass and said flatly, "I resolve to tell you as much as I can," he said.

"I resolve to be more patient," Nikita said, and he raised his eyebrows. "I may need a little help," she admitted.

"So may I." They clinked their glasses and sipped, and for the first time in hours, Michael drew a long, deep breath, his surroundings relaxing him more than the wine.

"I'm glad you're home," Nikita said, breaking away from him and filling two bowls with stew.

"I'm glad you waited for me."

"I always will," she said, matter-of-fact. "And if you don't show up, I'll come and find you."

"Promise?" He put the crackers on the table and sat down.

Amused, Nikita smiled at him. He was a very difficult man. For someone not given to communication, his would be a hard resolution to keep, for it went beyond sharing schedules. It touched on reasons behind actions as well as strategies. But she loved him -- even when she didn't like him, she loved him. She'd try to help him as much as she could and she'd never give up. She'd tried to last year, and it had been a mistake. She was connected to this man -- this factory reject of a human being -- and no matter what, she'd always come back for him. "Promise."

"Good. Let's eat."

Still grinning, Nikita took her place across the table from him, and they began their meal, not talking much, for it was late and they were both tired.

Neither of them noticed when the snow stopped.

--End--