(After End Game)

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

Coda

There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle--
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

-- Dorothy Parker

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

She woke slowly. It was quiet, and from the light filtering through the partially opened window, she could tell it was still quite early.

Nikita felt an unaccustomed heaviness in her midsection; for one confused moment, she thought a cat had come in during the night and settled on top of her. But then she remembered: she wasn't at home, this wasn't her bed, and the hotel room was fourteen floors above ground.

The heaviness was Michael. He lay sprawled across her, his head resting in the space between her ribcage and her hipbone, his face toward her feet. His right arm curved along her side, and as she stretched quietly, he shifted, his hand coming to rest on her breast.

Nikita smiled slightly and moved his hand to a lower, much safer place. She glanced at the clock: she had almost an hour before the alarm rang, and she didn't want to wake Michael by moving. He was tired -- almost as tired as she was, and this was the first time in a month she'd slept longer than four hours.

She sighed and crossed an arm under her head. Only a month since things started truly going downhill ... sometimes it seemed like forever. She'd ping-ponged across the globe -- Jamaica to Philadelphia to Jakarta to Bombay to Barcelona to Miami to Rio to London to Mexico City. No rest in between trips; she'd crossed the dateline so many times she caught herself wondering if it really was today, or yesterday or tomorrow. In the end, it didn't matter what day it was: she got her orders, she carried them out, she went on to the next job.

One hand drifted down to Michael's head. She hadn't seen him in weeks. The last time they'd been on a mission together was Barcelona, and they'd been on different teams. This time they were paired.

Very gently, she ran her fingers through his hair. She wouldn't dream of commenting on his personal appearance, but the truth was, she liked it short. It showed off his neck, and with him unconscious, she leisurely examined the back of his head. Her fingers lightly explored a goose egg; she wondered who had been hitting him over the head this time. Soft as a whisper, she stroked the place where hair gave way to skin; Michael moved in his sleep again, and Nikita's fingers stilled.

It helped having him here. She grinned faintly as she looked down. By tacit agreement, they'd both worn lots of nightclothes as a sort of armor against impropriety. Nikita wore what she considered her ugliest: Long grandfather-looking navy pinstripe pajamas swathed her figure. Michael wore something similar, but in tan. Though the profile called for a married couple and they weren't being monitored this time, to make things easier, they had an unspoken hands-off agreement.

At least, they did when they were awake. She remembered briefly waking up when he came to bed last night; she'd been curled up on her side of the bed facing away from him, hugging a pillow, and he'd tucked the sheet around her back before sliding under the covers. They started out very properly, with Michael on Nikita's right; it was only in their sleep that they got tangled up in each other.

This mission would last two days -- three at the most. They'd set the stage last night at a dinner party, and though she'd performed flawlessly, as soon as they returned to the room, he'd asked, "When was the last time you slept?"

"On the plane."

"No, I mean -- really slept. For longer than a few hours."

"I don't know."

"Yesterday? The day before? This week?" he prompted, but she shrugged.

"Michael, I don't remember. My performance --"

"-- was impeccable," he said flatly. "But it won't continue to be unless you rest. Go to bed, Nikita."

"I have to finish a report --"

"I'll finish it. You sleep."

Too tired to argue, she fell into bed. It was nearly half-past nine when she went to sleep; it was barely seven now. Almost nine hours, she thought, feeling decadent. Then the euphoria faded, and she began thinking about her current problem.

Nikita wasn't stupid. In fact, she was ahead of the game -- or at least, she started out that way. Now, she felt like she was barely keeping up. They hadn't canceled her, despite her behavior. At first, she was genuinely puzzled, but the longer she thought about it, the more certain she became.

They wouldn't kill her. She'd die in action.

It was perfect, really. It gave Section an excuse; everyone else would think she was doing her job. Nikita knew she was well regarded, if not beloved, in Section. She had a few close friends, but she wasn't in the habit of indiscriminately befriending people. Some people in Section were: Gail, for instance. Liked by everyone, friendly to all, Gail was popular and gregarious, an almost polar opposite to Nikita.

On the other hand, while people loved Gail, they respected Nikita. Nikita was fair, loyal and had put her life on the line for fellow operatives too many times to count. If Gail were to die tomorrow (highly unlikely, considering her position in Section), people would be sad, heart-broken, even. But if Nikita was suddenly canceled, those same people would react differently. They'd be sad she was gone, of course, but more importantly, they'd be angry.

Nikita had very few illusions about herself anymore, and if it had been up to her, she would have chosen cancellation long ago. She was tired, and not just because of the constant travel. She was tired of not having any hope left.

Nikita sighed again. She'd run SIMs on her chances. Every week, the odds grew -- and not in her favor. It wasn't just the frequency of the missions, it was the locations.

With her stature and coloring, Nikita stood out. In Philadelphia, Miami or London she could blend in a little. Even in Rio and Mexico City, it wasn't too bad if she darkened her hair. But in Jamaica, Jakarta, Bombay and Barcelona she looked like an Amazon. Her next assignment placed her for several weeks in the middle of Africa -- not even South Africa, or any of the coastal towns where she might have had a chance, but inland. White people were the minority, and white women rarer still. Not for the first time, Nikita wished for a different skin color.

Nikita settled her hand back down on Michael's head, lazily running her fingers through his short hair. It was so short it didn't curl and her fingers slipped through the brief strands.

She was going to have to prepare him. She'd run analysis of her survival three different ways, and the outcome was always the same. If she was very, very lucky, she might make it six months. Lately, the way her luck was running, she wondered if six months was realistic. She thought four was a more accurate estimate, and she wouldn't be surprised if she were dead within two.

She could feel Michael waking up. So he wouldn't be embarrassed, she nimbly slipped out from under him and headed for the bathroom.

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

"You look better," Michael noted, glancing at Nikita in the mirror. He ran his razor over his jawline, then rinsed the blade in the stopped-up basin.

"Thanks." Nikita, dressed in a white sleeveless shirt and half-slip, spat toothpaste into the bathtub, then leaned over and rinsed it out, slurping water in her cupped hands. She wiped her mouth on the tail end of a towel, then came to stand by Michael. Nikita took a deep breath and studied her face. "All right then," she said, more to herself than Michael, and like someone preparing for surgery, she laid out an array of cosmetics on the counter top and set to work.

Michael moved over a bit, and Nikita smoothed moisturizer over her face, then wet her fingers and applied base. "They're sending me to Africa next, you know."

"Where?" Michael carefully shaved his upper lip, sluicing off shaving cream.

"Maybe the Congo. Possibly Angola." With the eye of a perfectionist, Nikita studied her face, then selected some eyeliner.

"A quick job?"

"Long term." Nikita leaned forward, carefully applying the liner, then she unscrewed the mascara, dabbing a little on her lashes and lightly combing through her eyebrows.

Michael finished his face, rinsed, and dried off. "That doesn't make sense, Nikita."

Instead of answering, Nikita frowned at the three lipsticks that she had to choose from, finally selected one, and painted on a quick smile.

"Who chose you for the mission?"

"Madeleine." Nikita tossed her makeup in her overnight bag and zipped it up. "Madeleine is choosing all my missions now. Unless Operations does."

Michael followed her thoughtfully out of the bathroom, and from the corner of her eye, Nikita watched him put on his shirt, absently buttoning it up wrong. He came up with an extra hole, and Nikita moved to help him, rebuttoning his shirt and smoothing the material over his chest. She grabbed a tie from the back of the chair and looped it around his neck. "You know," she murmured, concentrating on the knot, "It's a good thing you can do this yourself. I'm not going to be around forever."

She glanced into his eyes and quickly looked away. "How long?" he asked.

"I think an accurate guess is two to six months," she answered quietly.

"Did Birkhoff --"

"No, Michael, I ran the analysis. No use in getting him upset."

"I'll think of something," Michael said gruffly.

"Please ..." Nikita lightly touched his arm; he stared at her hand like it was a foreign creature. "Michael, please ... I've gone over it and over it, and there isn't a way out. Not this time."

"Are you sorry ...?"

"About Operations? No." She removed her hand and went to the closet, unclipping the skirt and stepping into it. "I had to know if what we do actually means anything," she said simply, buttoning the skirt and twisting it around so it fit properly. "Anyway, it only speeded things up a bit. Everyone knows I'm not exactly Section material. Frankly, I'm surprised I lasted this long." Catching sight of his face in the mirror, she hastened to add, "Michael, it doesn't matter. You've said it yourself: I was dead a long time ago."

They finished dressing in silence; in silence, they boarded the elevator. Taking up her role, Nikita looped an arm through Michael's, and they walked across the lobby arm-in-arm, looking for all the world like a couple in the city on business.

"Nikita." He halted half-way across the lobby, and curious, Nikita waited. "Can you give me a little time to figure out a way?"

"Michael, there isn't one."

Trying another tactic, he asked, "Will you promise me you'll be as careful as you can? Stay alive for two months ... maybe by then ..."

"I won't make promises I can't keep," Nikita said quietly. "And there's no way I can promise something like that. You know I can't."

"Please."

How often had he said please' to her? Such a little thing to do ... and yet ... "Under one condition," Nikita said. "If by the end of two months, neither of us can think of anything, you'll let it go. Let me go. Up here, I mean," she said, tapping his temple, then cupping his face in her hand. "Don't you dare pull a Wagner."

That earned her a small smile. Wagner, a class four operative, was legend in Section for one thing: falling in love with a class three operative and committing suicide when she died on a mission. He'd been a good operative and was publicly blasted and privately mourned. Operatives in general had a macabre sense of humor, and whenever someone began exhibiting signs of a crush, Wagner's name was always mentioned. He'd turned into a sort of Section saint. It was said that some petitioned him in times of romantic distress, and the operative that had his old quarters kept a small alter in a corner of the room dedicated to him.

"Promise, Michael?"

He closed his eyes, briefly acknowledging her foresight, and nodded. "Two months," he warned.

"I'll do my best," Nikita sighed and they pushed through the revolving doors.

Nikita flipped on some shades, squinting against the sun. It was already hot out, but Michael, eyes narrowed against the light, felt as if he were imbedded in ice. Two months. Surely, he could come up with something by then.

A cab screeched to a stop, and Nikita got in. "Michael?" She held out her hand, and Michael, still cold clear through, joined her, tucking her arm firmly through his. He leaned forward, gave the address, and looked at Nikita long and hard.

"Two months," he reminded. "You promised."

"So did you," she returned, and breaking their unspoken agreement, she kissed him lightly on the mouth.

His fingers laced through hers, tight. They didn't speak for the rest of the ride.

--End--