The next few days were difficult for Nikita. She gradually weaned herself off the opiate pain killers, which meant that by dinnertime she was cranky and difficult. But her discomfort wasn’t entirely physical: this section was so different from One, she wondered if she’d ever fit in.

In Section One, she had a single goal: to survive. Here, the goals were indistinct, and changed depending on the circumstances. Nikita designed several profiles, tight, clean ones, that were rejected either by Evelyn or one of the other Level Four profilers as being politically incorrect. She had to redesign one three times before Evelyn accepted it, and then it called for variables Nikita wasn’t comfortable with.

“Nikita, no. We have to have the guards for collateral,” Evelyn said again. “We’re trading them to Britain, who will trade them to Egypt for some political prisoners.”

“But if we do that, it puts the operatives in danger,” Nikita argued. “Plus, you have to deal with transportation -- a lot can go wrong when you’re transporting hostages, and these will have to be trucked out 200 miles, then flown to Britain. Too many things can go wrong. You have innocent people to think about, too ...”

“The hostages are gold,” Evelyn tried to explain. “Just like currency. We can’t afford to kill them. Try it again.”

It was frustrating, and, in Nikita’s opinion, time consuming. She kept her opinions to herself, though, and did as she was told because if there was one thing Michael didn’t need right now, it was to hear her complain.

Michael was many things, but he was not the chameleon Nikita was. He would do well in this position, but he had a lot to learn. In addition, he was expected to network with an array of embassy employees, which meant every night he spent hours in front of the computer, reviewing data and statistics of various countries before meeting with their ambassadors.

Their first working weekend, they attended an embassy party and two political cocktail fund-raisers. Michael generally worked the room methodically and she, true to form, talked with whom she pleased. They were supposed to have Monday and Tuesday off, but Michael had some meetings scheduled on Monday and on Tuesday, Nikita was called in by the Secret Service as an extra.

Nikita wasn’t really sure what people in Section Five thought about her or Michael. After a few days, she decided they knew she and Michael were living together because no one invited her out after work. Michael’s position removed him from interested parties, but Nikita worked closely with the other profilers and even began to make some friends.

Michael’s duties kept him away from the day-to-day work Nikita did; often, they saw each other in the morning and at night, but there were some days they didn’t see each other at all. Some days they only times they saw each other was at scheduled meetings with various politicians. Michael would come home late; Nikita would go in early; someone called a meeting; she had to make a quick trip to Chicago or Nova Scotia which was interesting but not her idea of a good time.

Her idea of a good time was to take a weekend off -- with Michael -- and spend it all day in bed. She wanted to reacquaint herself with the man she’d fallen for; lately, she wasn’t sure who he was. She knew he was happy, in a way; he slept peacefully, they chatted about work and the different political objectives they were learning, but ... lying in bed beside him at night, Nikita really didn’t want to be discussing the president of Togo or the ambassador of Chile. She didn’t want to talk about arms negotiation with Bedouin tribes or Swiss bank funds for Holocaust survivors.

She wanted her strong, stubborn man back who would move heaven and earth for 24 hours alone with her. She wanted to see that half-insane look in his eye -- and know she was the cause of it. It was true she was never much one for indiscriminate touching, but now she craved the feel of his hand or the way his cheek brushed against hers. Now when he touched her, it was fleeting -- a hello or a goodbye. He wasn’t cold. He was just preoccupied.

This is a good thing, she tried to tell herself, as she watched Michael drift off to sleep. They’d had a long, involved conversation about a new agreement between Iran and Turkey. He’d wished her pleasant dreams, then closed his eyes. This is good: this means we can be friends, even after our ... whatever this is ... is over with. We can still work together without being lovers.

Right, Nikita thought, turning over. If this is such a good thing, why do I feel so lousy?

Her dreams weren’t helping any. She had wild, erotic dreams, scented with the smell of Michael lying beside her. She woke up half-crazy with desire. The first time it happened, she’d woken up at 5 a.m. and, unable to bear being in bed with him, she’d gone for a walk around the block. The second time it happened, she woke earlier. Maybe because he was talking in his sleep. She listened closely; he apparently was dreaming of a meeting with one of the Egyptians that had been in and out of his office for the past few days, because he was speaking in Arabic.

Nikita’s hand hovered over him. She longed to wake him up, just to feel his skin against hers. No, she thought. I won’t. He needs his rest.

But I need ...

No, she thought sternly, you don’t. He’s under a lot of stress ... you shouldn’t take advantage ...

While she was thinking, her hand, of it’s own volition, reached out and pulled the covers down. She watched it with a sick fascination. One inch: his shoulders were uncovered. Another few inches: his bare chest. She kept going till she reached his hips, then, finally, she snatched her hand back.

Nikita got out of bed. It was cold in their room: the house was old, the windows leaked, and Washington was going through a damp fall. She walked over to the window and lay her forehead against the icy glass. I need a cold shower, she thought, shifting uncomfortably. Or something ...

“Nikita?” Michael’s voice sounded sleepy and, in Nikita’s aroused state, incredibly sexy.

“What?”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“No ...”

“Come back to bed.”

Nikita slowly got back into bed. Michael snugged her in his arms, grumbling when her cold feet came into contact with his shins. “We have that meeting tomorrow ... with the guy from Jordan ... don’t forget ... it’s at three.”

“I won’t forget,” Nikita said quietly.

Michael fell to sleep almost instantly. Nikita waited a few minutes, then she moved his hand down to her hip.

It didn’t exactly help her current problem. But lying there beside him, the remnants of her dream still vivid in her mind, she could almost believe the dream was real and the reason he was tired was because they’d spent half the night making love.

Almost, but not quite.

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

Nearing the end of her second week in Section Five, Nikita decided she was going crazy. Either that, or she was a nymphomaniac. Because now she wasn’t just dreaming about Michael at night. Now, she found herself drifting off in the middle of a briefing or a profile. When he walked by, preoccupied with a treaty negotiation between Kenya and Tanzania, her mouth actually watered.

“Nikita?” Evelyn looked at her, concern darkening her face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah ...”

“You look a little tired. You know, this’ll wait till Monday. Why don’t you start your weekend early? Operations surely won’t mind; you’ve put in a lot of extra hours this week.”

Only because he wasn’t at home, Nikita thought, feeling ridiculously silly and absurdly feminine.

“Go on,” Evelyn grinned at her. “Do something you enjoy. Bake a cake. Take a walk. Go to a museum. Get a life.”

“Thanks, Evelyn,” Nikita smiled back at her. “I guess ... maybe I am a little tired.”

“It’s hard working through the weekend,” Evelyn said, “but you’ll get used to it like the rest of us do. Me, I usually go home and sleep for 12 hours straight.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Nikita said. She stretched and tossed her panel on the table. “See you Monday.”

“Have a good weekend.”

It was early afternoon. Outside, the sky was a dove gray and the sidewalks were damp. Nikita wrapped her muffler around her neck and walked home, rather than taking the Metro. Maybe next week, her knee would be strong enough to run. She missed the exercise, especially since those crazy dreams had started.

Nikita opened their front gate and walked up the steps to the front door. She decided to take Evelyn’s advice. Maybe not bake a cake -- too Donna Reed for Nikita’s taste -- but she’d cooked a roast a few nights ago. Michael hadn’t eaten any, he’d been working, but it would make an excellent stew. But first, she needed a little nap.

Nikita went upstairs, took off her clothes and got into Michael’s side of the bed. She closed her eyes and was asleep within minutes. Then, she started to dream.

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

How is it possible, Michael wondered, that two weeks have already gone by?

He shut the front gate behind him, his feet crunching in the soggy leaves that littered the front walk. The front window upstairs was lit, but their bedroom was dark; Nikita must be in the living room or kitchen.

He liked living like this. It felt right to him. He liked falling asleep with someone he could actually talk to; unlike Elena, Nikita knew everything that happened during his day, and he enjoyed hearing her perceptions of the meetings and parties they attended. When he’d woken this morning, he discovered a truly amazing thing: he wasn’t angry anymore.

Maybe he was preoccupied. This job was more difficult than he’d thought possible. And maybe he was worried about next week’s meeting George called. But he didn’t wake up furious anymore, and it was such an odd feeling that at first, it took him a moment to realize what was missing.

Michael collected the mail, unlocked the front door and went upstairs. As he got closer to the kitchen, he could smell something rich and warm. Nikita was standing near the sink, her back to him. Barefoot and in a bathrobe, damp hair hung down her back, the dark blonde hairs lightening as it dried. She was humming under her breath; they hadn’t bought a stereo yet and the television was in the other room. A few tins peeked out of the garbage, and as he came closer, he saw she was slicing some cheese.

“What are you making?”

She jumped and spun around, knife clutched to her chest. “Michael.”

“I’m sorry I scared you.” He put his briefcase and laptop down, then walked over to investigate. He kissed her temple, and put an arm around her. She smelled of soap and shampoo and her skin was cool to his touch. “Soup?”

“Yes.”

Her voice sounded strained, and Michael looked at her, surprised. “Are you okay? I’m sorry -- does your shoulder still hurt?” He pulled away, but Nikita shook her head.

“It’s fine.”

“Is something else wrong?”

“No.” She went back to the cheese, and Michael began chatting about a conversation he’d had with one of the ambassadors to France.

“We ought to see him socially,” Michael said thoughtfully. “I’d like your opinion on him.”

“All right.” Nikita spooned soup into bowls, put a plate of cheese and bread on the table and Michael found spoons and glasses, which he filled with water.

“After you left the meeting yesterday, Tazan invited us to a cocktail party. It’s next week at the embassy.”

“What day?” Nikita asked.

“I think on Tuesday. I’ll have to check.”

“Okay.”

Nikita finished her soup and waited for Michael to finish his. She cleared the table and he put away the leftovers, then, though it was quite early, just 8 o’clock, they turned to go upstairs. But on the bottom step, Nikita turned and put a hand on Michael’s chest.

“I need to make a few rules, Michael. The first one is, I don’t want to talk about work upstairs.”

Michael blinked. “What do you mean?”

“All we ever talk about is work. Ambassador Whosis, Congressman Thing-a-ma-jig, who’s buying weapons from whom. It’s not normal.”

“It’s not?” Michael cocked an eyebrow at her, but Nikita plowed on.

“No. It’s not. At first I thought I was the crazy one. But it’s not me. It’s you. I lie beside you every night and all you talk about is arms deals and treaties.”

“And it’s damned uncomfortable, too,” Michael said, his eyes narrowed. “I’m running out of things to say.”

“What?”

“Why do you think I bring the stuff up?”

Nikita looked at him blankly, and he reached over and pulled the sleeve of her robe up to expose her wrists. The bruises were fading to a soft gray-brown, but they were still visible. Then, he hiked up the edge of her robe to look at her knees. They were still swollen and scabby. “Have you looked at yourself lately, Nikita? I’m afraid I’ll break you. Last week you were still coughing up blood.”

She crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “I know I’m not the most attractive person around --”

“Attractive?” Michael took hold of her arms and shook her slightly. “Nikita, I’ve been talking about congressmen and senators and ambassadors to distract myself from you. I have these dreams ... they’re driving me crazy. You’re driving me crazy. Oh, no ... no, Nikita, please don’t cry, I didn’t mean -- it doesn’t matter, we’ll wait -- another week -- or two --”

Nikita began to laugh through her sobs. “In another week,” she finally got out, “We’ll both be mental patients. I -- I -- actually had to take a cold shower today because of you.”

Michael reached up and kissed her lightly, but Nikita held on to him. Even if she’d wanted to she wouldn’t have been able to let go. Her fingers gripped his shirt and she pulled him close. “Nikita ...” Michael breathed, “Don’t start something we can’t finish ...”

“If we don’t finish,” she informed him, “Section Five’s going to be minus another operations. Because, I swear to God, Michael, I will kill you if you don’t take me upstairs right now. And if you start talking about ambassadors, I refuse to be responsible for my actions.”

“ ... ambassadors ...” Michael mumbled, completely focused on Nikita’s neck. He blindly reached behind him and turned off the downstairs light. Nikita slowly began backing up the stairs, Michael following her, still kissing her. They reached the top of the stairs, and once they were level, Michael pressed her gently against the wall and one warm hand crept through the folds of her robe.

“M-M-Michael ...”

He flipped off the upstairs light and as they made their way slowly to the bed, Nikita began unbuttoning his shirt, unlacing his belt ... her hands spanned his chest and he made a funny, rumbley sound in his chest.

“You said ...” he breathed against her, sending little shivers down her spine, “Rules ... more than one?”

His hands curved down her, his lips avoiding her scabby shoulder and her bruised ribs. “Nikita?” he prompted.

“Not important,” she mumbled, reaching out for him. “Something about ... toothpaste ... mmmm ... oh, Michael ...”

Her touch made him light-headed. During the past two weeks, he’d woken up from dreams, crazy dreams featuring Nikita, always unclothed. Once he’d woken and found she was completely under the covers, her head level with his ribcage. She was sound asleep and had an arm thrown over his hips. Michael was not a shy man. He seldom wore clothes to bed. But that night, he wished he’d worn something. He had to get out of bed and wait in the cold air until his body was under control and he thought he could go back to bed without waking Nikita.

He still wasn’t sure about hurting her. He couldn’t see the bruises in the dark, but he knew they were there. He hesitated.

“I wasn’t kidding about killing you, Michael,” Nikita said breathlessly. “It’s been too many months ...”

He kissed her neck, her cheek, her eyebrow. “Nikita ...”

“I ... mean it, Michael ...” she warned him, then she leaned up and began kissing him: throat, chest, working her way down, her legs twining around him, her body molding to his.

With a groan, Michael gave up.

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

Calm, cool and collected, Michael sat quietly, one of seven heads of operations, around the circular table. To his left was Section One. To his right was Section Three.

George went through the agenda quickly. There was minor debate between Section Four and Section Seven about the advisability of a mission involving contract labor. There was another minor fracas about security issues.

To Michael’s left, Operations immediately stiffened. “It’s been taken care of,” he said coldly. “And if you’ll take the time to read the report, though we did suffer casualties, the situation was contained and we continue to have high levels of functionality ...”

“A model to us all, I’m sure,” George said dryly, and Michael zeroed in on the older man. Sarcasm? That wasn’t George’s style, not really ... I wish Nikita were here, Michael thought.

The meeting adjourned. They stood and stretched stiff legs, breaking into smaller groups as they exited the conference room. Michael, who was scheduled to meet with George afterward, waited while Operations talked to George.

“ -- acceptable,” Operations was saying.

George shook his head. “ -- the only fish in the sea, Paul --”

Michael moved forward slightly, trying to hear more, but the conversation was over. The men shook hands and Operations, with a slight nod to Michael, left the room.

“Have a seat, Michael.”

Michael sat down next to George and folded his hands in his lap.

“You’ve had a busy month, I see,” George said. “I’ve been reading your reports.”

“It’s an interesting job.”

“What do you think so far?”

“Section Five needs to take more responsibility for some of the situations in North America. We should’ve handled the hostage situation in Mexico City, not Section One.”

“Are you sure that’s not resentment on your part?”

Michael thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t think it is. I have no feelings for Section One one way or another. But perhaps it would be better to get an outside opinion.”

“A mediator?”

“Something like that.”

“Well ... it’s a possibility. How much more do you think Five could take on?”

“Eventually, I’d like to see us handle all North American situations. Practically, that’s not feasible now.”

“Why not? Personnel? Budget?”

“That, and the fact that we are often called upon unexpectedly to perform ... menial functions.”

George absorbed this, then said, “I assume you mean the President.”

“We’re expending a lot of time and energy, not to mention personnel. The Secret Service should be handling these issues. Not Section Five. However, I don’t see that situation changing in our current location.”

“Have you given any thought to a feasible solution?”

“We’re working on something now. But for anything to work, we’ll need more people. And I know that until the budget is done, that’s not possible.”

“There’s a little extra money built in last year’s budget,” George said. “I would want to know how many extra people we’re talking about, though, and what level you want.”

“Of course,” Michael answered.

George changed the subject abruptly. “I understand you’ve also massaged a treaty between the United States and China?”

“It involves,” Michael said, a note of satisfaction in his voice, “A panda. If the United States gets a panda from China, they will loosen the current trade embargoes. This, in turn, boosts the economy of China, which we hope will flush out some of the black market dealers we’ve had our eye on for some time.”

“Highly speculative.”

“Yes.”

“Who thought of the panda?”

Michael paused, then said, “Nikita. She had an assignment at the National Zoo a week ago and learned about the problems they’ve been having. One panda died and the other is sick; China is the only place to get one, apparently.”

“Imaginative,” George commented. He glanced down at some figures, then said, “I know your numbers are down. It takes a year to be accustomed to a job; I expect your numbers to stay fairly static for the next six months, then begin to rise. Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.” The men rose, and Michael extended his hand. “Our next scheduled meeting is in a month.”

“Yes,” Michael said.

“I’ll see you then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me know about the extra personnel,” George reminded Michael. “If it’s not over the top, we can approve any additional expenditures.”

“Of course.”

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

Nikita didn’t like it when Michael met with George. The meetings were always in Europe, which meant at least one overnight stay for him and two days of jet lag afterwards.

It was Saturday afternoon. She had the weekend off and was raking up the leaves in their tiny front yard. The day was sharp and sunny, a perfect late fall day. She’d gone to Eastern Market in the morning and sitting on the front stoop was a huge pumpkin, ready for carving. In a few days it would be Halloween; she didn’t know how many children lived in her neighborhood, but surely she’d get a few trick-or-treaters.

She finished raking the last of the leaves up and began stuffing them in bags, ready for pickup on Tuesday. Late sun slanted across the yard; her shadow looked long and spidery as she worked. She tied one bag securely, then straightened up.

Stretched out on the ground next to her shadow was another tall, spidery figure, and Nikita turned around. “Michael!”

“Hi.”

She dropped the bag and hugged him. “How was the meeting?”

“I think it was okay.”

“How is Operations?”

“The same.” Michael lay his briefcase and computer on the bottom step and helped Nikita bag the rest of the leaves. “George is interested in the proposal for personnel.”

“We’ve got to do something, Michael.” Nikita pushed the leaves down and Michael tied the bag. “Yesterday, we got a call to go to Malaysia. On guard duty.”

“Was it necessary?”

“Well ... yes, this time it was. Unsecured area, crowds like you wouldn’t believe, security minimum. But that’s the third time this month.”

“We’ll work on it.” Michael tied the last bag and took them out to the street; Nikita propped the rake up under the stairs and gathered her pumpkin. Michael picked up his bags and opened the door. “Nice pumpkin.”

“Thanks.” She smiled cheerfully at him, and when they reached the top of the stairs, she carefully set the pumpkin down. Then she took his briefcase and laptop from him and leaned them against the hall wall. “I’m glad you’re back.” She linked her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

“So am I.” Michael leaned in and kissed Nikita back, but when she would have moved away, he held on to her and kissed her again. Then, he kissed her a little harder.

“Michael?”

He rested his forehead on hers and held on to her. “Section One has been having some problems.”

Nikita stayed very still, and finally asked, “What kind?”

“They’ve had a few breaches of security lately. Another mole. This one killed three operatives before he was discovered.”

Nikita closed her eyes. “Anyone we know?”

“They were new. Level One.” Michael gathered her closer so they rested cheek to cheek. “I know you hear from Birkhoff from time to time.”

Nikita bit her lip. Michael wasn’t supposed to know that; on the other hand, maybe it was a guess on his part.

“I don’t want you to communicate with him anymore, Nikita.”

“Why not?” Nikita pulled back, confused.

“With the political situation the way it is ... it’s best to have no contact with One. At least, for now. That means anyone from One: Birkhoff, Walter, anyone.”

Nikita thought about this for a minute, then asked, “Did Operations say something to you?”

“He didn’t have to.” Michael sighed and let go of Nikita. He ran a hand through his hair, and Nikita noticed how tired he looked. “He wants me back at One. Their mission success rate has deteriorated since we’ve left.”

“Are you saying one of us should have stayed behind?”

“I’m saying ...” Michael closed his eyes and exhaled. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m too tired.”

“Go to bed,” Nikita said gently. “There’s still some of that casserole you made the other night; would you like some, first?”

Michael’s head lowered and he studied his feet. “Okay,” he said softly.

“Okay? Good.” Nikita padded into the kitchen and put a good portion of casserole in the microwave. She poured Michael some milk and as he ate, she quietly updated her panel from Section and finished up a report on her laptop.

Michael took his plate to the sink. From the corner of her eye, Nikita saw his plate was empty, and she smiled. He put the dishes in the dishwasher, then hesitated. “Are you ... are you coming, too?”

Nikita had three hours’ of research to do for a project Michael wanted on Tuesday. She also needed to put in a load of laundry and she’d planned on painting her toenails sometime this evening. But one look at Michael’s face, and she said, “Of course, I am.”

Nikita flipped off the computer and turned off the kitchen lights. Michael followed her up the stairs and into their bedroom. Nikita drew the blinds and bent down to light the fire she’d laid earlier today.

“Nikita.”

“Hmmm ...?” Nikita gazed into the flames as the wood began to catch.

“I don’t want to give us up.”

She looked back at him, and stood up. “Give us up? What are you talking about?”

Michael stood awkwardly in the middle of the small bedroom, his shirt off and his hands at the waist of his pants.

“Michael,” Nikita went to Michael and her hands reached for his belt. “No one’s giving anything up. You’re new to this position; it’ll take you awhile to be in top form.”

Michael gazed at her, and she unfastened his belt.

“We’re making this work,” Nikita said, her hands working at the buttons of his pants now. “We’re together. Just like you said. We’re both relatively safe. But it’s going to take some time to figure out what this job is, and what the most efficient way is to operate at Five.”

Michael frowned at her.

“What?” Nikita asked, her hands stopping.

“I thought you said we weren’t supposed to talk about work upstairs.”

Nikita grinned faintly. “So I did.”

“Does this mean I can squeeze the toothpaste from the middle?”

Nikita’s grin blossomed into a full smile. She linked her arms around her nearly-naked man, and said, “I tell you what: you can do anything you want to.” She leaned in and gave him a slow, seductive kiss. “What do you think about that?”

“I think ... I think the things I want to do require you to have fewer clothes on,” Michael decided. And as his mouth nibbled down her neck, his hands helped her off with her clothes.

Nikita meant to set the alarm so she could get up early and finish her report. She meant to take a bath before bed. But instead, she ended up making love to Michael by the light of the fireplace. She fell asleep, half under the covers and half on top of Michael. And neither of them woke up until the ashes were cold in the fireplace and long, pale morning sunlight slanted across their bed.

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

Michael asked for ten more operatives; he received five, but they were all Level Three, so he was content. This meant he could dedicate two low-level operatives to the President, which irked him but was necessary.

He’d tried to talk with the head of the Secret Service. Then, he tried the head of the CIA. Both agreed it was a shame for the President to request Section Five operatives, but there wasn’t anything they could do.

Michael seriously doubted that, but he kept his own council and chose two operatives suitable for guard duty. Nikita trained them and went on several assignments with them, and when Michael and Nikita were satisfied with their performance, the operatives were sent out whenever the Secret Service called.

The months passed. Michael spent Christmas weekend at Section Five, directing two missions, one of which included Nikita. For New Years’, Nikita was called to New York to head off a bomb threat in Times Square. In January, Section Five -- not Section One -- was responsible for corralling a high-traffic drug cartel based in Indiana, and in February, after months of research, Section Five found a mail bomber that had been underground.

In the spring, Michael began to think about budgets. He spent long hours working figures, bouncing ideas off of Nikita and finally coming up with what he wanted. Then, he took a realistic look at the whole thing and slashed it in half.

“Michael,” Nikita said, looking over the new budget, “This isn’t right. If you want to do a good job, you need the funds. It’s necessary. George will understand that. Go with the first one.”

“It’s double last year’s. And that doesn’t count new equipment.”

“So what? We’ve been doing good work. I did some research.” Nikita moved her laptop next to his and pushed her dinner plate out of the way. They were in the kitchen; outside, gentle spring rain pattered down. “Here’s the fiscal year last year.” She punched up a spread sheet, then minimized it. “And here’s Section One’s involvement in North America. Now ...” she opened another file. “Here’s this year ... their involvement is down nearly 45 percent. And isn’t that what George wants? For us to be self-sufficient?”

“Yes.”

Nikita looked at him, then finally shrugged. “Submit what you want. But I say, go with the first one.”

Michael thought about it, and took her advice. It was approved with minor changes.

Nikita worked hard throughout the summer. In June, there was an unsuccessful attempt on the President’s life when he went to Hong Kong; one of the section operatives was shot and killed, so another Level Two operative was transferred in and Nikita began working with him. Because of the Hong Kong incident, though, the President -- or rather, his wife -- became far more nervous than she had been and encouraged Section to send a team whenever they went out of the country.

“Michael, it’s ridiculous,” Nikita said. “She wants a full team -- I don’t even think she knows what that means -- and now the Secret Service is breathing down our neck. We don’t provide this kind of coverage for Mexico or Canada. It’s crazy.”

“As long as we’re in D.C., this will happen,” Michael said absently, reviewing a profile.

“Well, maybe we should think about moving.”

“What do you mean?” Michael’s head came up and he gave her his undivided attention.

“It would make sense. The U.N.’s in New York. That’s where we should be, not here.”

“The United States provides a lot of funding for Section.” “We’re supposed to be nonpartisan. We aren’t supposed to show favoritism to any country. But we’re at the President’s beck and call. It’s not right.”

“It’s not in the budget.”

“Well, maybe we should think about putting it in the budget.” Nikita paused, then said, “I could do some research ...?”

“All right.”

The hot, muggy summer finally graduated into fall. Nikita put away her summer clothes and got out the winter ones.

A year. We’ve been here a whole year, she thought. We’ve been here long enough for our closets to fill up with junk and for us to have too much of everything.

The living room that had been so bare a year ago now had a comfortable couch and handy coffee table. There were pretty pictures on the walls and the windows were framed with drapes. They’d spent one weekend last winter painting; now, there were faint smudgy marks on the door frames from newspaper-inky fingers. They’d changed all the light bulbs at least once in the house and already they’d bought an extra bookcase to hold the overflow of books that seemed to perch everywhere: the kitchen table, the floor, any flat surface.

A whole year.

Nikita unfolded musty-smelling sweaters and woolen skirts from the top of a closet. A cashmere sweater dropped down -- Michael’s, but it was stretched out from when she’d worn it when she was injured.

Nikita felt of her shoulder. It seemed so long ago ...

A lot of things have changed, she thought seriously. She slowly folded her summer clothes and began packing them in the top of the closet. A light nightgown ... a short sundress ... a breezy summer formal ... the first time she’d worn it had been to a dinner party for the ambassador of Burundi. It was a long meal and a long evening; they didn’t get home till 1 a.m. The minute they stepped in their front door, Michael unzipped her and had his hands on her waist and his lips at her neck. They almost didn’t make it upstairs -- they wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t broken away from him and raced him upstairs.

Nikita smiled faintly and packed the dress carefully in tissue before putting it in a box.

It’s an ideal situation, she thought. We’re together. We are making a difference -- maybe not to section overall, but to Section Five. Our numbers are up; our retention is high; our mortality is low. We have interesting duties. We meet interesting people. It’s ideal.

So, why am I unhappy?

Nikita’s hands stilled and she sat in the hall floor, surrounded by warm winter clothing.

Yesterday, she and Evelyn had been talking about men. Specifically, they were talking about Evelyn’s former boyfriend, someone she’d broken up with a week or so before. Nikita invited Evelyn and her boyfriend over for dinner -- something they sometimes did -- and Evelyn told her that she’d be happy to come, but the boyfriend wasn’t in the picture anymore.

“Why not?” Nikita asked.

“It just wasn’t working out.” Evelyn shrugged. “It’s for the best, anyway. He’s got a lot to learn about life and it’s not stuff I can teach him. He has to learn it himself.”

“Like what?”

“Oh ... you know ... he just wasn’t real considerate of me. If he worked late, it was okay; but if I worked late, it was this big problem, like I’d made up the whole thing just because I didn’t want to be with him. And I didn’t like the way he lost his temper. That’s always a bad thing.”

“That’s true,” Nikita said thoughtfully.

“Really,” Evelyn stretched and grinned, “It came down to something my mom always used to say. ‘You cannot share what you do not have.’ You ever hear that?”

“My mother wasn’t much on advice,” Nikita said, smiling. “Or at least, not that kind.”

“It means you have to take care of yourself first. Then, you have enough to share with others. Like, if you don’t love yourself, how are you supposed to love anyone else, you know?”

Now, sitting in the hall surrounded by black clothing, Nikita thought about Evelyn’s mother. You cannot share what you do not have.

I love him, she thought furiously. I love him. This is what I wanted. So, why can’t I be happy?

Nikita leaned back against the bannister railing. Ever since she’d been in Section One, she’d wanted out. Now she was out, she was doing something she actually liked, and she’d given herself, body and soul, to Michael.

But, she realized, I don’t own my body. Or my soul, for that matter. Section does. And I’ll never get away. I don’t even want to, really -- because Michael won’t be there. And he’s everything.

Somehow, she thought, something is wrong with this picture.

You cannot share what you do not have.

Okay, Nikita thought rationally. If it’s not Michael, then what is it I want?

The answers weren’t really thoughts, they were feelings: a family. She wanted a family. She wanted a husband who worked normal hours and took her on long horrid vacations in a Suburban. She wanted children. Maybe two. Maybe more. And a dog. She’d like a house, a real house with a mortgage and bad plumbing that she and her husband argued over. On New Years’, she wanted her in-laws to come over and watch the children. Her children. Children that she didn’t have to worry about getting kidnaped or killed by Section because, in this perfect world, Section wouldn’t exist. She’d live in her little house with the bad plumbing and be one of those people she protected: an innocent, naive woman living an innocent, naive life with a man who loved her to distraction.

Right, Nikita thought, a little surprised at her bitterness. And I’d like a new mother, if you please, and, while you’re at it, a father. People who care about me and spoil my imaginary children so much Michael and I argue over it.

Nikita reached out and picked up a sweater. It was Michael’s and hadn’t been laundered after he’d worn it last. It still retained a faint scent of him. Nikita wiped her eyes with it, then slowly began picking up the clothes to put in their bedroom.

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

Late one night, Michael was awakened by an odd sound.

Their house was old. The floorboards creaked. The windows rattled when there was a breeze. The radiators moaned faintly. But this sounded different.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes, trying to locate the sound, then he realized it was coming from Nikita.

She was crying in her sleep.

Michael frowned and tucked her closer to him, thinking that would calm her down, but instead, the sobs jerked out of her. Finally, he shook her gently, interrupting her sleep. “Nikita. Wake up. It’s a dream.”

“M-Michael?”

“Shush ...” he held her close and yawned again, and in a few minutes he was asleep.

He didn’t know that lying beside him, Nikita stayed awake for a long time afterwards. And he didn’t feel her leave his arms and curl up on her own side of the bed.

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

“Nikita!”

From downstairs, Michael called up to her, and he saw her head lean over the bannister, long hair dangling down. “What?”

“We did it.” He was unable to keep the happiness from his voice, and Nikita smiled back down at him.

“Great! What did we do?”

“The proposal for Section Five’s relocation.” Michael pounded up the stairs and hugged her tightly. “Next month, Section Five goes to New York.”

“Michael, that’s great.” Nikita hugged him back, careful to keep her spatula from getting frosting on his coat. She leaned back and kissed him. “How was the rest of the meeting?”

A shadow passed over Michael’s face and he pulled away. “Interesting.” He noticed the spatula and his eyebrows raised.

“Tomorrow’s Evelyn’s birthday,” Nikita smiled. “So I’m doing a cake for her. Homemade.”

“Really?” Michael eyed the spatula, and Nikita gave it to him.

“I’m finished with the frosting,” she said, and he began to lick the chocolatey goo off the spatula. “So,” she said over her shoulder, going back to the kitchen, “What was so interesting about the rest of the meeting?”

“You know we’ve been here over a year.”

“Yeah ... 14 months.” Nikita smiled at him.

“Do you like it here?”

Nikita hesitated. “Mostly. It’s better than some places we could be.”

Michael was quiet, and Nikita frowned at him. “Michael? What happened?”

“There’s a transfer,” he said slowly.

“Oh?”

“To Section Seven.”

Nikita turned back around and began washing the dishes. “And you’ve been offered this transfer?”

“Yes. I have.”

Nikita nodded, her back still to him. “You’re going to take it.”

“Yes. I am.”

Nikita bit her lip, then took a deep breath. “So,” she asked with pretend cheerfulness, “What do the cards hold in store for me?”

Michael was quiet for a moment, and Nikita turned to him. “Michael?” she prompted.

“They’ve lost a lot of operatives recently.”

Nikita waited, silent.

“Their numbers are down. Way down.”

Still, Nikita didn’t speak.

“They are at the top of the chain, Nikita. If One fails, we all fail. No matter how much George wants to make all sections stand-alone, it’s not happening yet. And One is in trouble.”

“So, why aren’t you going back there?”

“Because Seven’s in no better shape than One. And right now, they both need help.” He didn’t say anything else, but his heart was in his eyes. Nikita nodded.

“You’re sending me back to One, aren’t you?”

“It’s temporary.”

“How temporary? A week? A month? A year?” Suddenly, Nikita stopped. A sick look flooded her face. “Oh, my God, Michael. You bartered me, didn’t you? What did you say? ‘Move Five to New York, I’ll take over Seven and Nikita’ll go back to One’ -- is that what happened?”

“No, it’s not.” Michael’s eyes narrowed. “How could you think a thing like that?”

“Because it’s something you’d do.” She slapped down a dish towel and walked away, staring out the kitchen window into the cool night. “You’d do it for the good of the sections, Michael. You know you would.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t even say you’d go to One. I said I’d talk to you about it and give my answer to George in the morning.”

“But it’s your decision.” Nikita felt as if she were far away, watching herself and Michael fight; she felt numb and cold and dead inside. “It’s your decision.”

“I’m not making it without you,” Michael said stubbornly. “I count on you too much.”

Nikita kept staring out the window; she could see her reflection in the dark glass, and suddenly, over her shoulder, the reflection of Michael. He turned her around and held her by the shoulders. “Nikita. I’m not deciding this without you.”

“Okay,” Nikita said, hot tears coursing down her cheeks. “Then tell me I don’t have to go. Tell me you’ll take me with you to Seven or Four or wherever the hell George decides to send you. Tell me --”

“I’ll tell you their mortality rate is up 47 percent,” Michael said quietly. “And I’ll tell you the injury rate isn’t much better. In the past six months, they’ve had profiles fall apart in the middle of missions more times than I can count. I could fix it for you so you’d be in One for a limited time. Very limited, Nikita. And as Level Four. You’re almost at Four now, if we work hard in the next month, you could make status.”

“You promised,” Nikita said, her hand on his chest, “You promised we’d be together.”

“We will be.” Michael pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Nikita, this could win us a lot of points with George.”

“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”

“Everything to do with section is a game. It’s all political, it’s all give-and-take. If you can get Section One’s numbers up -- even a few percentage points -- and I can get Section Seven into shape ...”

“Something could go wrong. Something always does.”

“Nikita ...”

“Michael, I don’t want to be without you, damn it.” Nikita pulled away from him and hit him, not terribly hard, in the solar plexus. “It’s too hard.”

“It won’t be for long.” He took her hands in his. “Think about it, Nikita. Please.”

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

She’d let him clean up the kitchen and she’d stomped upstairs to take a bath. By the time Michael came up, Nikita had cooled off considerably. He’d laid a fire, even though it wasn’t really cold enough for one, and they’d made love the way they used to, in the very early days of their relationship: fast, desperate, no words, no sounds. They communicated by touch only.

And eyes. Michael had always been very good with his eyes.

Those eyes were closed now. Michael was sound asleep in their bed, the covers tucked around him. They’d made love again, this time very slowly and tenderly. Nikita found herself running the tips of her fingers and her lips over his chest, his jaw, his ears, memorizing the feel of him, the temperature of his skin, the way he tasted after they made love. Remember, she told herself. Remember this. Remember the way his legs rest against yours. Remember the way his mouth feels on your neck. The way his hands touch your hips. Remember. Remember.

Nikita shivered and pulled her robe around her tighter. The fire was very low, now; the fireplace let out a faint glow, and she tucked her feet under her. She’d pulled an armchair close to the window and was looking out on the quiet street below.

The trees were losing their leaves. Next week -- if she was here -- she’d rake them up. Through the almost-bare branches of the big tree in their front yard, Nikita saw the glow of a streetlight. Somewhere up there in the dark were stars, millions of them, but in the city, it was too light to see them.

But they’re there, she thought. I know they’re up there.

You cannot share what you do not have.

Nikita shook her head slightly. Maybe ... maybe this forced separation would be good for them. Maybe during the next few weeks (or months) she could figure out how to reconcile her position in life with what she wanted from life. Oh, it was hard to let go of that dream, and she didn’t understand why, after all this time, she was still denying the fact that she was in section. Whether it was Section Five or Section One, and whether she was with Michael or not, this was something she had to get used to and accept.

Until I can do this, Nikita thought, I can’t be happy. Not with Michael and not without him.

Michael murmured in his sleep and turned over, taking a good portion of the blankets with him.

Nikita smiled faintly and wondered if she could really do what he wanted her to do. She loved him. Maybe she wasn’t one hundred percent happy; was anyone? Wasn’t it enough to know she loved him?

And he loved her, too. She knew he did. She heard it in the way his heart beat over hers and in the way he called her name no matter where they were -- in Section, in bed, eating dinner, in a crowded party. He loved her.

She looked away from Michael and back up at the sky. She couldn’t see them, but the stars were hanging in their proper order. Just like Michael would always be there for her. They were both as dependable as the day was long.

Nikita lay her head on her raised knees and watched the wind shake the bare branches of the tree. Down below on the sidewalk, the moonlight shivered and broke into separate shadows as the tree branches danced above.

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

Michael woke early. It was nearly dawn; their shades were up and he could see Nikita silhouetted against a lightening sky. “What are you thinking about?” he asked softly, and her head turned.

After a moment, she said quietly, “I was thinking about Stanley Shays.”

“What about him?” Michael got out of bed and put on his robe, then sat on the arm of Nikita’s chair. She got up and he slid down into the seat, and Nikita sat on his lap. She leaned back, bracing her feet against the window sill.

“I was thinking of when I saw you in Lyon. When you sent me that message on the PDA.”

“What about it?” Michael wrapped warm arms around her and Nikita sighed.

“I was wondering what I would have done if I had known how it was going to turn out. How we were going to turn out. Would I have answered the message? Let it go? Relocated?”

“Well?” Michael prompted, his voice warm and encouraging.

“I don’t know,” Nikita said, and hesitated. “If I had disappeared, I think I would always wonder about you ... whether we ever had a chance or not. You know, you scared me to death when you found me. I thought something terrible had happened to you; you were crazy. I’d never seen you like that before.”

“I was crazy.” Michael’s mouth moved to her neck and he felt her smile. “Crazy without you.” He tasted her skin, slightly salty and sweet, then moved a hand inside her robe. “I’ll call George and tell him no.”

“No,” Nikita said thoughtfully. “I think you should tell him yes.”

Michael’s hand stopped. “What?”

“I think you should tell him yes. It’s for a limited time, right?”

“Yes,” Michael answered.

“And you’ll come fetch me when you can?”

“The very minute it’s possible.”

Nikita twisted around in his lap and looked seriously into his eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Michael leaned forward and kissed her gently on her nose, then, a heartbeat later, on her lips. Nikita opened her mouth and Michael kissed her again. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Nikita rested her forehead against Michael’s and yawned.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

“Couldn’t.” Nikita got up and stretched. Michael reached up and his hands went around her waist; she looked down and smiled.

“You should stay home this morning,” Michael said.

“I’ll be fine ...”

Michael rose and pulled Nikita close. He kissed her ear, then her jaw, then her mouth. “Are you hungry?”

“No ...”

He kissed her to bed, somehow working off her robe in the process and stretched out beside her. Nikita yawned again and smiled. “Are you coming in?” she asked, holding up a corner of the blanket.

“I can’t ...”

Nikita reached up and turned his face toward hers, and Michael found himself under the blanket, his robe on the floor. “Just for a few minutes,” she murmured against his mouth. She circled her arms around him, pulling him close to her so they lay skin-to-skin from their lips to their knees.

“Nikita ...”

She slid her hands down to his lower back, then, very slowly, around to his hips. Then, slower still, a little lower. “I think ... you’re going to have to be a little bit late,” Nikita whispered.

Michael let out a strangled sound, something between a sigh and a groan. “You’re right,” he choked out.

Nikita smiled, and kissed him again.

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

Exactly three weeks later, Nikita stood at the front door of their house. Michael stood on the step below her, and she leaned in to his embrace.

“It won’t be long,” he said.

Nikita rested her head on his, her fingers curling in the short hair at his neck.

“A few weeks. Maybe a few months.”

“Okay,” Nikita agreed faintly.

“It’s for the best, Nikita.”

“I said okay,” Nikita said, voice tinged with annoyance. She leaned back and studied his face, then her eyes softened and she pressed her lips to his.

He wanted to tell her something, something important. Some magic words to make the worry fade from her eyes, but whatever those words were, Michael didn’t know them. Instead he kissed her again, committing to memory the feel of her lips, her hands, her breath.

A car horn honked, and Michael let her go. “It’s time.”

Nikita kissed him again, a quick, searing kiss, and grabbed her bag. He took it from her and walked her to the cab, opened the door, and leaned in for another kiss. “Have a good trip,” he whispered.

“You, too.”

The cab did a U-turn in the middle of the street, and Michael headed down the sidewalk, his eyes watching Nikita. She turned around in the back seat for one more look, and Michael nodded at her. Then the cab turned the corner and she was gone from his sight.

I’ll never see her again.

Michael stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Now, where had that come from? Of course, he’d see her again. There were some odd things happening in section, and it was true that he didn’t exactly know how much trouble Section Seven was in, but he knew, without any doubt, within a few weeks or, at the longest, a few months, he’d be able to bring Nikita in.

A gust of chill wind shook the branches overhead, and a handful of dead leaves drifted down. One fell on Michael’s shoe, and he stood stock still, looking at it. A car sped by and splashed muddy water on the sidewalk and Michael shook his head, trying to clear it. Then, ignoring the leaves on the sidewalk, he walked to work.

But he was unable to shake the feeling that something, somewhere was wrong.

******end*******