When he'd lived with Elena, she used to wake him sometimes by sleep laughing.

The first time had been very early in their relationship. He'd woken up groggy with sleep and when he heard her altered breathing he'd immediately assumed she was choking. He'd flipped on the light and turned to her, prepared to do the Heimlich if necessary. That's when he realized she was chuckling, not choking.

Elena laughed like she did everything else -- gently, musically. Sound asleep, her lips curved upward and she laughed softly.

Michael wasn't with her often enough for this to annoy him. In fact, it was one of the things he liked best about Elena. She saw the best in everything; he generally saw the worst. She looked for happiness and goodness in life; Michael destroyed it. Many times he thought of waking her and asking her what she was dreaming, but he never did -- just knowing she was enjoying herself was enough for him. When Adam was still an infant, Michael passed by his room late at night and heard him doing the same thing -- laughing to himself in his sleep.

It was comforting. Both Adam and Elena could see the humorous side to life, and he knew that would help them when he was gone.

So, when he heard an odd gasping sound on his left, Michael didn't immediately wake. Instead, his own lips curved in a smile and he sleepily felt for Elena's hand.

She gave another shudder, and Michael woke fully.

He wasn't with Elena. He was with Nikita. And she wasn't laughing; she was crying.

Michael sat up gingerly and turned on the light. Nikita was sobbing in her sleep. Tears slowly ran down her cheeks and her breath jerked out of her chest.

"Nikita?" he whispered, but she didn't hear him. He smoothed a hand across her face, wiping off the tears; she didn't seem to notice, and thinking he might break her sleep pattern without waking her, he gently moved her to her side. She burrowed into her pillow, still crying, but quieter now. She reached out blindly, and Michael tucked her hand cozily underneath her and made sure the blanket covered her.

Michael turned off the lamp and slowly slid down in bed. Gradually, Nikita quieted too.

Their relationship had been a mutual decision, Michael thought. They went slow: they went out for coffee; then for lunch; then for dinner. Gradually they moved to evening activities. They went to the movies or a concert or, sometimes, dancing. Their nocturnal activities were interrupted by Section, which was not such a bad thing. It slowed a slow relationship down even further. There were times when Michael envied Alaskan ice flows or Maple syrup sap: at least these things had a destination and would eventually arrive at it. He had no guarantee. At any time during their courtship, Nikita could have called it quits, and in fact, there were several times when he'd expected her to. They'd had setbacks, sometimes at the fault of Section, sometimes at the fault of Michael, and sometimes because Nikita just needed a little time.

Maybe she still did, Michael thought. He'd always considered Nikita to be the outgoing one, the demonstrative one. To a certain extent she was. But deep down, was she really? She was always pestering him to tell her his feelings. What about her feelings? She told him what she thought, but not how she felt. If something was wrong, she ought to tell him. And something had to be wrong if she was crying in her sleep.

Michael turned over in bed, back to back with Nikita. He could feel the curve of her spine against his. Maybe I've done something wrong, Michael thought. Or maybe it's Section. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe ... maybe ...

Michael fell asleep, still puzzling over it.

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

Nikita woke early. She felt stiff and cranky, as if she were coming down with a cold or flu. She sat up slowly and Michael moved in his sleep. She smiled faintly and brushed a light hand over his head, then got out of bed without waking him.

He said he hadn't changed. Nikita rolled her eyes and padded into the bathroom. Right. And she was the Queen of England. Used to be, she wouldn't see him for weeks or even months at a time. But this week, he'd been over three times and it was only Thursday. Nikita smiled to herself and brushed her teeth, then hopped in the shower.

Nikita used to enjoy bathing. There was something about nice, new soap and a fresh sponge that appealed to her after being on the streets for so long. When Michael first set her up in the apartment, she'd bathed two, three times a day. Looking back on it, she supposed Section thought she was some kind of germ nut.

A few years ago when she'd been compromised, she stopped taking showers -- she couldn't relax and jumped at every imagined sound. She took baths instead and had a gun within arms' length at all times. Then, after a recent mission involving swimming pools and attacking females, she'd decided baths weren't all they were cracked up to be. So she was back to showers, but with Michael in the next room, she didn't feel as nervous as she normally did. She still kept a gun under the sink, though.

You just never know, she thought, stepping out of the shower and drying off. Michael's not going to be here forever.

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

A week passed. Then two. Nikita continued to sleep cry. But she seemed happy enough during the day, so Michael didn't bring it up. If we were normal people, he thought, I'd go to therapy with her. But we aren't, and she can't involve Section, they'll think she's hiding some deep dark secret. It would be more stressful, and if there's one thing Nikita doesn't need, it's stress.

"Morning," Nikita smiled at him over her coffee cup, and he smiled back. He kissed her on the forehead and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Did you sleep well?"

"All right." Nikita went back to the newspaper.

"How'd we do?" Michael sat down at the table with her. He tore off a piece of bread and slathered some butter on it.

"With the Ukraine thing? NATO's blaming Primakov, so I guess that's good." Nikita handed him the international news section and Michael read the public account of their last mission. She yawned, then, while he flipped through the rest of the articles, she bypassed the comics for the local news.

Michael read his paper, half of his mind on the news, the other half occupied with a conversation he'd had with Operations a few days before. It hadn't been a downright offer -- Operations was too canny for that -- but he suggested that if Michael and Nikita wanted a more permanent arrangement, perhaps one could be arranged. Michael considered it, and even casually brought it up to Nikita on a stakeout, but she hadn't given it any serious thought.

Should he push the issue? Ask her to think about it seriously? Or was it too soon? Too late? She hadn't been very enthusiastic about their temporary arrangement when they were training the new recruits. She was too focused on their mission to really take advantage of their position or relax. Of course, if they were living together on a permanent basis and not for a mission, it would be different. Probably.

Michael turned the page, his eyes scanning the headlines, listening to Nikita eat her toast.

Maybe it was a little too soon to think of living together, he decided. He'd brought it up once; maybe he should wait until Nikita was ready to broach the topic herself. Clearly, Nikita was not quite herself, but if she was under some kind of stress it wouldn't be a good idea to add to it by changing living arrangements, too.

Michael turned the page again, folding the newspaper so he could surreptitiously observe Nikita. She looked all right, but she'd also woken him up crying last night. When he'd moved closer, she'd clamped onto his arm and hadn't let go.

Stress. That had to be it. What did normal people do to alleviate stress? Exercise, a good diet ...

"Nikita. Would you like a vacation?" Michael kept his voice casual and his eyes on the paper.

"Vacation? What do you mean?"

"It's slow now. You could take a week off if you wanted. I'd approve your requisition."

"Would you come, too?"

"Theoretically I could -- we still have the time the Operations gave us. But I won't be able to take off for awhile. There are a couple of missions that I need to monitor," Michael said mildly. He folded up the paper and took another sip of coffee. "But if you wanted to go somewhere, now would be a good time."

She looked at him suspiciously. "Are you trying to get rid of me? You have a hot Valentine mission lined up you don't want me to know about?"

"Nikita, no." He leaned over and kissed her and she relaxed a bit. "I just thought," he said softly, pulling gently on her hair, "That you might like to take a break."

"From you?"

"From Section," Michael corrected. "We've been under some stress lately --"

In a tight voice, Nikita said, "Please don't send me away."

"I'm not sending you away --"

"I don't want to go." She got up from her own chair and slid into Michael's lap, putting her face against his and her arms around his neck. "Let's wait until we can both go."

Instead of telling her that might never happen, Michael nodded. Then he turned her face towards his and kissed her again, a long, melting kiss. She tasted like strawberry jam and coffee and as his hand wandered up her side, she shivered against him. "M-M-Michael ..." Nikita moaned low in her throat, her hands already plucking at the buttons that held his shirt closed. Wordlessly, Michael stood, picked her up, and took her back to bed.

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

"Hiya, Sugar," Walter grinned at Nikita, and she smiled faintly back.

"Hey, Walter." She slid her gun across the worktable, and Walter automatically checked it for ammunition, even though all operatives knew better than to carry loaded weapons around in Section. Nikita handed him her spare clip and dug around in her pockets for other weapons: a knife in a sheath, a long twist of wire, some pliers, a screwdriver. She yawned and turned to go.

"Say, what's this?" Walter poked through the pile and held out a foil-wrapped rectangle.

"Oh." Nikita blushed and reached for it. "Chocolate. Sorry. I always take a little something along ..."

"... in case you need a snack?" Walter grinned at her. "You always do this?"

"Yeah," Nikita said sheepishly. "I don't ever eat in the field -- who has time to snack? -- but sometimes, coming back in the van, I get hungry."

"So," Walter said, amused, "What else you got in there?" He eyed her mission blacks and Nikita bit her lip.

"N-nothing."

"Don't lie, Sugar. It's a bad habit."

"Oh, all right." Nikita sighed and proceeded to unload her pockets.

A rubber band. Another tight coil of wire. A pencil flashlight. A small vial of white powder. "It's baking soda," Nikita explained. "Toothpaste is too messy."

"I see."

An alcohol towelette. A tin with aspirin and mild pain killer. A packet of antibiotic ointment. And lastly, a tiny ball of synthetic shiny material. Nikita blushed bright red and Walter picked it up silently.

"What exactly were you planning to do on this mission that required another pair of underpants?" he asked, handing her underwear back to her.

"You never know how long you'll be out sometimes," she said defensively. She stuffed them back in her pocket and gathered the rest of her things. "And nylon dries faster than cotton if you're traveling and have to wash things out in the sink."

"Were you planning on being left behind?"

"You never know, Walter," Nikita repeated, not looking at him. "I just don't want to be unprepared."

"That's what the first aid kits are for, Nikita. You shouldn't be weighing yourself down with this stuff." Walter checked in her weapons and began putting them away.

"You know how it is in the field, Walter. You don't always have a first aid kit handy. Things go wrong out there. One of these days, something's going to happen and they'll have to leave me."

Walter snorted. "Don't be foolish, Nikita. Michael would never leave you alone --"

"He might not be there. Or he might not have a choice."

"Nikita --"

"If there's one thing Section's taught me, it's to prepare for the worst case," Nikita said stubbornly.

"Is that so?" Walter changed the subject abruptly, and asked, "You feeling okay?"

"Just a little tired."

"You aren't sleeping well, huh? Full moon, I bet." Walter cleared off some space and began getting out his tools: wire, needle-nosed pliers, goggles. "When I was about your age, I never could sleep when the moon was out. Then I hit 40 and I've been sleeping ever since. Go figure."

"It's not the moon." Nikita sat down on a work stool and propped her chin in her hands, idly watching Walter. "I've been fighting a cold or something for a couple of weeks."

"Couple of weeks? You sure it's just a cold? Maybe you ought to get a checkup --"

"I had my six month one the other day. I'm fine. Just tired."

"I know what it is." Walter strapped on his glasses and reached for his little blowtorch. "It's that boyfriend of yours."

"Oh, Walter."

"I'm serious. Keeping you up half the night ... with nocturnal activities ... at least, I hope he does ..."

Nikita was silent, and Walter began working. "You know, I never ..."

"Never what, Sugar?" Walter turned off the torch and frowned at his handiwork, then picked up a metal file.

"I just ... Michael's the first ... I never thought it would be this way."

"What way?" Walter asked absently, turning his new gadget over to apply an adhesive backing.

"I love him so much," Nikita said quietly. "I worry about what will happen when it's over."

"Over?" Walter looked up, surprised. "I thought you just got started."

"Well, yeah, but what happens at the end? I never worried about that before," Nikita said thoughtfully. "I mean, I've gone out with men before. I liked some of them, too. But I never wondered what would happen when we broke up. It never occurred to me. I guess I figured, once it's over, it's over. End of story. But with Michael, it's different."

"Why? Why can't you just be happy for what you've got?"

"I don't know. I just ... I don't want to let go. Ever. But everything has to end sometime and I don't know what I'll do without him. Not just the way we are now ... I'll miss the friendship, the partnership. And it's hard to make a contingency plan when you don't know ..."

"Nikita, listen to an old man who's seen a lot of people come and go in this place," Walter said seriously. "Life is short. Especially around here. We could be infiltrated and blown up together. You could die in the field. Michael could get caught in crossfire. Maybe you'll step out in front of a bus or he'll get blind-sided by someone running a red light. Nobody knows how the end is going to be. So, if you're lucky enough to find a little happiness, you should grab it. Understand?"

Nikita nodded. Then, remembering an old conversation they'd had about two other operatives, she said, "I thought you said relationships always ended badly here."

"Doesn't mean you can't change the status. Especially if you're miserable otherwise."

"Maybe."

"Stop thinking of ways to sabotage a good thing." Walter went back to work, but he looked up briefly and winked at Nikita.

"I shouldn't be talking about this with you," Nikita said abruptly.

"Then who? Madeleine?" Walter put down his project and looked at Nikita seriously. "Honey, you can tell me anything."

"I don't want to get you into trouble," Nikita said, studying the tabletop.

"Trouble? Please," Walter snorted. "I tell you what you can do for me, though ..."

"What?"

"I want you to promise me you won't end up like half the people that come through munitions."

"How's that?"

"Dead already. Just going through the motions. They eat, they drink, they talk, and you look at them, and I swear it's like looking into a dead person's eyes. They're not paying attention to the here and now -- they're already so prepared for death, they can't even live anymore. Don't end up like that."

Trying to lighten the mood, Nikita said, "And I thought preparation was a good thing."

"Hey, you want a dependable future, invest in a Roth IRA. That's safe and it won't do anyone any harm."

"Do you have a Roth IRA?" Nikita asked curiously.

"Hell, no." Walter smiled cheerfully. "I get my paycheck, give half to the Sisters of Mercy and squander the rest. What do I care? Section feeds me, clothes me and gives me a great job with benefits," he teased. "It's a living. Remember that, Nikita."

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

Another week passed. Sometimes Michael caught her looking at him, measuring him. She still didn't trust him, and really, he couldn't blame her. Regardless of how slowly they'd progressed in their relationship, where they were now was light years away from where they'd been a year ago.

He tried to talk to her about it. "Michael, of course, I trust you," she said, smiling. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I can think of many reasons --"

"Oh, stop it." She leaned forward and kissed his nose, a quick, surprisingly erotic gesture. "I trust you."

"I just want to make sure you know this isn't a mission or .... or anything."

"It's purely personal?" Her eyebrows raised.

"Exactly," he affirmed.

Other times, she looked at him with such a sad expression in her eyes, he felt ashamed. Of what, he wasn't sure. And sometimes he couldn't tell what she was thinking, only that it was probably about him.

Then again, sometimes her eyes turned to blue fire and he knew exactly what she was thinking: Take me home. Now.

That was a feeling he could relate to. Sometimes he wasn't sure they'd make it home, and each time they did, he was grateful they hadn't resorted to making love in a car or an abandoned building or any other hiding places on the route from Section to her apartment or his. Most of the time they made it through the door, but many times when he came into the kitchen in the morning, their clothes lay scattered across the wooden floor, a tangible reminder of exactly how much self control they had.

None.

Well, that wasn't true, Michael thought, gathering up discarded garments. At least we made it home. And Nikita's behavior at Section was faultless. She didn't initiate anything with him; when she spoke to him, it was colleague to colleague and she never asked him anything personal at work. And Michael, for the most part, kept his feelings clamped down and under control.

At least, until they got home. Then ... well, all bets were off.

Michael hung up his trousers and Nikita's skirt on the same hanger. He folded his sweater.

"Michael?" A very sleepy Nikita stumbled out of her bedroom; Michael smiled at her.

"Good morning."

"Coffee?"

"It's brewing." The hot smell of coffee drifted through the kitchen, and Nikita leaned against the door jamb.

She yawned. "My head feels stuffy again. Maybe I'm allergic to something. Or maybe I really am getting a cold."

Maybe you were crying half the night, Michael wanted to say, but instead, he remained quiet.

"Do I have a thermometer?" Nikita asked.

"I haven't seen one," Michael answered. She stretched and got a coffee cup out of the cabinet, waiting for the coffee to finish, and Michael leaned over and put his lips against her forehead. "You feel normal to me," he said. "Maybe a bit warm."

Nikita snorted. "That could be because I'm standing next to you." She yawned again, looping her arms around his waist, resting her tousled head on his shoulder, sleepily watching the coffee maker.

The coffee finished and Michael poured them each a cup, still keeping an arm around Nikita. "Will you call in sick?"

"No," Nikita said thoughtfully. "No. I'll take a nice hot shower, clear out my head, and feel just fine."

"You could take the day off, sleep in ..."

"I'm not an invalid, Michael," Nikita said sharply. "Unless there's something you haven't told me. Is there? Are they doing any weird medical experiments on me?"

Miserable, Michael was unable to answer or even look her in the face. Finally, he said, "Not that I know of."

"Oh, Michael." Nikita melted. She put her coffee down and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry I was snappy. I'm sorry. I'm a little ... tired, I guess. We were up late last night."

Michael kissed her temple and Nikita turned toward him, eyes closed, lips seeking his. "I'm sorry," she whispered again, and he brushed his lips across hers.

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

Nikita went on a short, three-day mission and when she returned, she learned Michael had been sent out on a long-term assignment. Well, not really long term, but it would last for three weeks.

She felt an odd feeling of relief, which she quickly squashed. Three weeks, she thought. That's a long time. If he comes back and wants us to separate, maybe it'll be easier.

She dreamed of him at night. She imagined he'd been eliminated in the field and she hadn't even told him she loved him. Then she dreamed that he came back, but didn't want to see her. Then she dreamed that he came back, but years had passed. He acted like he'd left the day before. Like Rip Van Winkle, only with an uzi.

He wrote her little short e-mails that said nothing overtly personal but conveyed a wealth of feeling. For some reason, they irritated her.

Maybe it was because lately, Nikita woke up exhausted. Or maybe it was the conversation she'd had with Walter weeks before. In her head, she knew Walter was right, but no matter what she told herself, her heart wouldn't listen. Whatever it was, it seemed like Michael couldn't do anything right. When he was gone, she felt lonely; when he was home, she felt smothered.

"It's not working, is it?" Michael asked her quietly one night after dinner. He'd just come back from his mission. They were at a small neighborhood restaurant and Michael had already paid the bill. They were dawdling over coffee and Nikita, rather than eating her dessert, was moving pieces of it around on her plate.

"What isn't?" Nikita asked absently.

"Us."

"What?" Her head snapped up. "What are you talking about?"

"Let's go," Michael suggested. "We'll talk about it in the car."

"No. Let's talk about it now."

"All right." Michael settled back in his chair. "I don't understand what's wrong."

"Me, either," Nikita said miserably.

"Do you even like me just a little?"

"I love you," she said wretchedly.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Sometimes I don't know who you are," she said, her eyes on her dessert plate. "When you're here, I wake up in the morning and I see you lying there just like you belong there, but ... Michael, it's strange. It's strange to be like this, going out to dinner like we're normal people."

"We are normal people."

"Come on, Michael," Nikita scoffed, finally looking at him. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"When I'm with you, I do."

Nikita's eyes filled with tears. "I think you were right. We should leave."

They got up from the table and Michael led the way to the parking lot. They both did a quick scan, Nikita wiping off tale-tell tears with the back of her hand. "This is what I'm talking about, Michael. Normal people don't do this. They don't look around for hostiles. They think the word 'cancel' is something that happens to a credit card, not as a euphemism for 'kill.' "

Michael didn't comment. He opened her car door for her and went around to his side. "It's not just our relationship that isn't normal. You aren't, either. You never used to open doors for me before. You never used to want to be with me in public."

"That's not true. I've always wanted to be with you. But our circumstances didn't allow it."

"And now they do?"

"To a certain extent, yes." Michael started the car and slowly drove out of the parking lot. "I'm still the same person, Nikita. It's the environment that's changed."

"The thing is ..." Nikita said slowly. "I was never allowed to know this part of you before. So to me, you are a different person. I don't even know what I am anymore. I have these feelings ... but I don't know if they're really mine or if Section put them there. And I just need a little time to adjust to that, to figure out me and to get used to you."

Michael pulled up in front of her apartment building. "How much time?"

"I don't know."

Michael cut off the engine and they sat there for a few minutes. Occasional cars passed by, but it was nearly half-past ten, so there weren't a lot of people out. Finally, Michael said, "Shall I walk you to the door?"

"No," Nikita choked out.

"Nikita ..." Michael took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "Does this mean that we're over?"

Looking a little frantic, Nikita jerked the door open. "I don't know. I'm sorry, Michael. I just ... I don't know."

Michael blinked, and watched her practically run to the front door of her apartment building. In a few minutes the lights in her apartment blinked on. And a few minutes after that, he was able to turn the engine on and slowly drive away.

But he didn't go home. He went to Section.

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

Nikita woke up the next morning feeling, if possible, worse than she had the night before.

Her head ached. Her eyes were scratchy and swollen. Her throat was raw. And her nose was stuffed up.

That's what you get, she thought severely, for falling asleep crying.

She got out of bed and made some coffee; it was too acrid and she poured it down the sink. There wasn't anything to eat in her icebox except a withered bunch of carrots, some mustard and a container of Chinese takeout. Her stomach turned over when she smelled the contents.

Contenting herself with a small bowl of ice cream, Nikita slowly took stock of the day. She was due into Section in the afternoon. Maybe she'd clean house.

Maybe I ought to clean me she thought, absently scratching her scalp. She'd worn her hair up yesterday because it was a little dirty and stayed put better. Now it was past dirty: catching a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the oven door, Nikita grimaced. Yuck.

She put her bowl in the dishwasher and, trying to delay bathing, cleaned the kitchen. Then she vacuumed the living room. She stripped her bed, started a load of laundry, and finally mopped the floor. Then, when she had no more excuses, she ended up in the bathroom.

It's not like you have to spend all day in here, she told herself sternly. It's just a bath. Ten minutes, tops.

She started the water. Then, in a fit of paranoia, she checked her security system, made sure all her windows were locked, and on the edge of the tub she lined up a bottle of bath salts and some shampoo, as well as a gun, a knife and her cell phone programmed to Birkhoff's work station.

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

Nikita expected her funk to last a week, maybe. After all, Michael was gone. She'd driven him away. They'd not really broken up, but they were certainly on the edge of it, and he didn't come around.

It took her a few days to realize he didn't come around because he was on high frequency rotation. This meant he got a maximum of 12 hours between missions.

He'll get killed, she thought, with a pang of consciousness. And it's all my fault.

Was their relationship so bad, really? Why couldn't she take Walter's advice and follow her heart rather than thinking every little thing through?

It must be that I am a freak, Nikita reasoned. In that case, he's well rid of me.

To enforce her opinion, her body began acting up on her. She woke up with terrible headaches that wouldn't go away. She tried everything: cutting caffeine, banning alcohol, eating only protein, not eating protein, exercising, not exercising. Nothing helped. It wasn't only headaches, either. Her stomach was in nervous knots, but she wasn't sure what she was nervous about.

And moody! She'd never been so cranky before: everyone noticed, even though she tried to hide it.

"Geez, Nikita, get a grip," Birkhoff groused one evening. She'd invited him to dinner on the spur of the moment; after she checked the security for the third time in one evening, Birkhoff chastised her. "Nothing's going to happen."

"How can you say that?"

"Because your building is under surveillance. Because there is no activity in this sector of the city. Because of all the operatives, you have about the most secure location of all, thanks to Michael."

"What do you mean?"

"Every operative has parameters on living quarters. Some people have to live in a neighborhood. Some have to live in the slums. Some have to live next to certain types of businesses."

"So what are my perameters?"

"No trees. No children for neighbors. You have to be out of rifle sight -- he doesn't want someone from another building close by targeting you. All of your neighbors have been documented and we've put cameras on the ones we feel are marginal. Trust me: you're safe. Michael's given you the most protection he can ... and then some."

"I do not want to talk about Michael."

Birkoff's eyes narrowed at her sharp tone, and he said, "Look, I hate to even ask this, but you're not pregnant, are you?"

"Birkhoff! Of course not." Nikita scowled and crossed her arms over her middle.

"You're sure?"

"Without getting too personal, yes, I'm sure. Absolutely."

Birkhoff sighed and put down his glass. "I have to go."

"But --"

"I have to check on something at Section before I go to bed. Don't take this the wrong way, Nikita, but you aren't exactly great company. Did you guys have a fight or something? -- No, don't tell me, I don't want to know." Birkhoff rose and then gave Nikita a friendly hug. "I'm sorry you feel rotten. I'll see you tomorrow."

There, Nikita thought, shutting the door behind him. Not only have I driven Michael away, but Birkhoff's mad at me.

She attacked the dirty dishes with gusto, cleaned up her kitchen and flounced into bed. I can't stand this.

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

Nikita lay stomach down on top of a building in the business section of Vancouver. It was a mild, breezy night, and if it hadn't been for the drizzly rain, it might have been pleasant. To her left was the bay and to her right, the gaslight district. During the daytime, it was usually filled with tourists taking advantage of the strong U.S. dollar, but at night, the shops closed up and the streets were littered with the indigent. Vancouver had more than it's share of homeless because of the gentle climate and this part of town was a haven for those without homes. At night, it was fairly quiet, there weren't any tourists and the heroin district was right next door.

Nikita sighed and took another sight on the entrance of a restaurant that Milos Andes and his bodyguards were in.

Milos exited the restaurant. "Target sighted," Nikita murmured.

On the building across the way, she saw something. It was such a small thing, she almost didn't register it. Moonlight glancing off something metallic, or maybe a piece of glass. But there wasn't any glass a minute ago, she thought.

A bullet zinged into the pavement at her feet, and Nikita dropped.

"Birkhoff, there's an anomaly."

"What kind?"

"The kind with a gun."

Another bullet struck the rooftop, and Nikita immediately poked her head up, aimed, and fired.

The problem was, the other person had a silencer. She didn't. Down in the street, the target glanced up, saw Nikita, and all hell broke loose.

Between getting shot at, jumping across roofs, trying to locate the other team members and falling down a flight of fire escape steps, it occurred to Nikita she might very well die on this Mickey Mouse mission that was swiftly turning sour. And she hadn't even seen Michael in weeks.

She made it into an alley, stumbled over a drunk man, and crouched behind a dumpster. Another bullet struck the side of the bin.

Something's got to change, Nikita decided. She stepped out and shot her enemy, who folded and fell in a puddle. Not one to do a job half-way, Nikita checked his pulse, made sure he was dead, took his weapons and called housekeeping.

Nikita trudged back to the rendezvous point. I'm a fool, she thought. A fool and a nut. I had an okay thing with Michael and just because we're in Section doesn't mean it can't work. Especially if he's willing. What have I done?

The street was very dark; moonlight didn't really reach the ground. To her left she heard a shuffling sound. She tensed, drew her gun and startled a homeless man, who immediately put his hands up.

"I'm just looking for something to eat," he said defensively. "I didn't see nothing."

Feeling embarrassed, Nikita dug in her pocket. "Here."

A chocolate bar. A tin of aspirin. A moist towellette in foil. A piece of wire. She kept the underwear, not because she wanted them but because she didn't want to embarrass the man.

"What's this?" the man asked, clearly confused.

"I don't need it anymore," Nikita said, feeling suddenly lighthearted. Then she continued down the street, her step considerably bouncier than before.

"Weird," the man murmured. He munched on the candy bar and turned back into the alley.

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

Michael's apartment was silent except for the steady sound of a knife slicing through potatoes.

His mother always advised onion soup for melancholy. The truth was, Michael didn't think his stomach could take it. So instead, he was making potato.

This was his first time home in about a month. He'd lived at Section or been on assignment. When he'd walked in the front door today, his apartment definitely looked neglected and the air smelled funny. It took him a moment, but then he recognized the scent of Nikita's shampoo. The last time he'd been here, she'd slept over and taken a shower.

He used the bathroom and noticed two long blonde hairs in his sink. He carefully plucked them out and dropped them in the toilet, but then he noticed several more in the bathtub. It made him so sad, he'd left and shut the door behind him.

Food, he thought. I'll eat first, then I'll clean.

He put the potatoes on to boil. He deliberately sat down at the kitchen table and began going through his mail that accumulated over the weeks. Most of it was advertisements and he couldn't help noticing all the happy couples. Why did all the women have blonde hair?

He checked the potatoes, drained part of the liquid, added some milk and butter and gently smashed the potatoes. When it was hot enough, he added some parsley, some pepper and some salt and served himself.

He'd made too much. There was enough for two. Never mind, Michael thought firmly. I'll eat the rest tomorrow.

He'd taken two bites when he heard something at the door. He paused, the spoon half-way to his mouth, then he slowly lowered the spoon, silently rose from the table and quietly glided to the door. He checked the scope and, after a few seconds, opened the door.

"Nikita?"

She stood before him, damp and shivering. "Can I come in?"

"Where have you been? Is it raining outside?"

"Just started." She slipped through the door and took off her wet shoes and socks, then gave a mighty sneeze. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Go take a hot shower," Michael advised, nodding to the bathroom.

"But I want --" Nikita began, then interrupted herself with another sneeze. Instead of finishing her sentence, she went to the bathroom and he heard the water start.

By the time Michael finished his soup, Nikita was done with her bath. She padded into the kitchen dressed in his sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, her hair tucked up in a towel turban. Without saying anything, Michael gave her the rest of the soup and she sat down and ate.

When she was done, she pushed the bowl away and lay her head down on the table. Her turban loosened and strands of damp, dark blonde hair worked their way out of the folds of the towel. "I was worried about you on that long mission."

"Why?" Michael stood up and came behind Nikita's chair, forced her to sit up, and began to towel her hair dry. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

"I thought you might not come back. And then I'd be alone. Then I realized I already was alone. And it was all my fault. Dumb, huh?"

Michael finished with her hair and left the room for a moment, coming back with a comb, which he handed her. She began working through her hair and he sat back down across from her. "I'm really sorry I've been so crazy," she said, not looking at him.

"Everything is crazy," Michael said. "Our lives; our situation; why should we be any different?"

"I guess I just thought we ought to be," she muttered, frowning at the knots in her hair. She was silent for a few minutes, working her way through the tangled strands. Then, sounding a little cross, she said, "I don't like this apartment."

Michael looked around. The warehouse he lived in had several apartments; his was on the second floor and looked out over a busy street and a parking lot. Not exactly picturesque, but he liked being able to see people coming and going. There were a lot of windows, but they were mostly high up and the light they let in was murky. He didn't have a lot of furniture and what he had was minimalist: brown sofa, pale armchairs, exposed brick, bare floor. The kitchen was black -- black appliances, gray painted floor, black cabinets, stainless sink. Not a lot of color. No pictures on the walls, no little knick-knacks strewn about. It was ... functional. Nothing more and nothing less.

"Let's look for something new," Nikita suggested, finally finishing her hair and putting the comb down with a snap on the table. She looked at him, her blue eyes determined and her mouth set. He'd seen the same look on her face when she got ready to do something dangerous that she'd never done before: repelling off a building, jumping from a moving vehicle, participating in the infinite training exercises Section required of recruits and operatives.

"I should get a new apartment?" Michael asked, giving his home another careful look.

"No, we should."

Michael froze, just for a minute, then very carefully said, "We? As in, both of us together?"

"Yes," Nikita nodded. "Together. If ..." she looked a little uncertain for the first time, and Michael prompted her.

"If ... what?"

"If Section will allow it." Her eyes dropped down the comb for a moment, then, still looking uncertain, she glanced back up at Michael. "Do you think they would?"

Michael regarded her thoughtfully. "It's possible."

"How possible?"

"Fairly."

She licked her lips, still watching him warily, as if he were going to do something out of character. What she had in mind, Michael couldn't imagine. He felt as if he should say something, but he wasn't sure what, so instead he kept silent.

"Do you ... do you still want us to be together?" she asked.

"Yes."

She waited a moment, then said, "Yes? That's it?"

"Yes," Michael said. Then he gave her a rare smile, rose from the table and pulled her to her feet. His hands went under the shirt she wore -- his shirt -- smoothed across her back, and he kissed her. "Yes," he said against her mouth, and he felt her smile back at him.

"Yes," Nikita agreed. But whether she was assuring him or herself, Michael didn't know. "Can you ask him about it soon?"

He kissed her again, and felt her melting into his arms. "Yes."

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

Madeleine frowned again and looked up at the self-assured man standing in her office. "Explain to me why you think this is a good idea," she said, rising from her desk so she'd be at less of a disadvantage.

"Explain to me why you think it's such a bad one," Operations countered.

"This is a business. An odd one to some people, but essentially we provide a service to others. As a business, we should follow certain rules of conduct."

"Perhaps." Operations glanced at her large light boxes, wondering what she was growing now. They were just seedlings; tiny green leaves littered the black dirt. Apparently tired of orchids, she was starting something else -- and this time from scratch. "But, as you mentioned, it's an odd line of work. To some people."

Madeleine tilted her head, studying him closely. "You identify too much with Michael. Or is it perhaps Nikita that you empathize with?"

"I don't identify or empathize with either of them," Operations said, his voice neutral but with a trace of steel behind it. "They are a product, like everyone else in Section."

"If you believed that, no one would live on the outside. We'd all be under close quarter standby, all the time," Madeleine said mildly.

"Maybe." Operations sat down, elbows on the armrests of the chair, fingers templed.

"If you can give me a list of valid arguments to this unorthodox living arrangement, perhaps I could support you," Madeleine suggested after a few moments.

He stared at her thoughtfully. "There is a chance that the Sections -- all of them -- will, at some time in the future, be disbanded. Conventional wisdom says that should that occur, we will all be exterminated."

"That won't happen in your lifetime or mine."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Conventional wisdom also says that Oversite likes to have solid research to support any change to policy."

"Yes," Madeleine agreed slowly.

Operations fell silent again, then, for perhaps the first time in their entire association, his defenses dropped. "I was always taught two things: love your country. Watch out for your men. I think that when Oversight's judgment day comes -- and it will come -- I can say with a clear conscious that Section One has done everything within its power to better mankind. Sometimes we've lost people for the greater good, but I believe -- I truly believe -- that what we are doing is right."

Madeleine's eyes didn't waver from him, and she didn't say anything to break his concentration.

"However, I'm not sure the same holds true of my people," Operations added.

His people. Of course, he would think of operatives as his -- they were under his control. He took credit for their successes and he bore the brunt of Oversight's disapproval when they failed.

"When I took this job," Operations said, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I knew what the outcome would be. I'd do my best work, and in the end, my reward would be to die in the service of Section. It was part of the job. My duty. An honor, in a way. But not everyone feels the same way."

Madeleine thought of a particularly troublesome first-year operative that she suspected would end up in abeyance before the month was out. Then she thought of all the operatives throughout the years, the stages they went through adapting to Section. "You were recruited just like everyone else," she reminded him.

"No," he said, "I volunteered, essentially. I already was a soldier. When I was recruited, I'd already started considering some kind of intelligence work, perhaps Secret Service, maybe something more. Section wasn't all that big of a jump -- the goals are the same, it's just that we're a little more secret than the Secret Service. In some circles, anyway."

"So," Madeleine said, trying to get him back to the topic at hand, "How does this relate to Michael and Nikita's living arrangement?"

"If we can show that operatives can be rehabilitated into normal life --"

"We already tried that little experiment with Nikita --"

"No. We never expected her to succeed," Operations corrected, and Madeleine's mouth snapped shut. "But she could have. She might have, had we gone about it in a different way. Her failure does set us back, but she's one of the reasons I would like to experiment with this. If we can have several test couples -- and a good success rate -- it might be possible that instead of terminating everyone, we would be gradually allowed to assimilate into the public sector."

Madeleine's eyes narrowed, and finally she said, "It's an admirable plan, Paul. But somehow I don't think you've got the simple good of our operatives at heart."

"There's always the possibility that disbanding the Sections would be premature."

Madeleine's eyebrows raised. "Meaning ...?"

"When Section is no more, who will monitor terrorist activities? The CIA? What if they can't do the job? What if everything I've worked for -- everything you've worked for -- ends up being worthless?" He shook his head. "I can accept giving my life for Section. I can even accept sacrificing the lives of my operatives for the greater good. What I cannot accept is that everything we've accomplished will be erased."

"So you think that having assimilated operatives essentially at the ready in case they're needed would be a good plan?"

"I think it's better than anything I can come up with right now to ensure we leave something behind that's worth something."

She was quiet for a moment, considering the angles, then said slowly, "It might work."

"If ...?"

"If we choose the couples carefully. If they are successful. If we can provide enough variety to suit the closest scrutiny Oversight will initiate. Because they will scrutinize it, Paul, and they won't be open to changing policy."

"I know."

"All right, then." Madeleine sat back down at her desk, tilting the monitor so Operations could see it. "We'll have to have a variety of operatives in a variety of situations. No loners, agreed?"

"No. Only pairs. At first, anyway. Maybe later we could let them mingle more closely with the public."

"Maybe," Madeleine said reluctantly. "Still, from everything we learned from Michael and Elena's relationship, I wouldn't advise it."

"We want only upper level operatives. Those with good psychological exams. Healthy. Well-adjusted in Section. I don't want only romantic partners."

"Agreed. Roommates or house mates will be accepted into the program as well." She hesitated, then asked, "Perhaps we should make this a optional program?"

"See who signs up for it?" He considered. "I'd like to start out with a few test subjects who we know are a sure thing before we allow other variables."

Madeleine made out a list, altering it with Operation's suggestions, and when they were nearly finished, he said abruptly, "We'll have to have group therapy sessions, won't we?"

"You sound like you're dreading that possibility," Madeleine said lightly.

"We'll have to monitor them," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "This is going to end up like some kind of twisted AA program, isn't it?"

"'My name is Madeleine, and I used to be an operative'?" Madeleine quipped.

He gave her a dirty look and prepared to leave. "Just be sure these are the best candidates for the test program."

"Of course."

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

"What do you think?" Nikita asked, looking at Michael carefully while the realtor stood outside on the porch.

Michael wondered through the rooms again, opening closet doors, noting which floors were even and which were not, tallying up the expense of redoing the aquamarine bathroom as well as updating the kitchen. Then he turned his attention to Nikita.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I like it," she said slowly, her eyes traveling from the worn carpet to the grimy paint. "I like the space."

"It needs a lot of work."

"Yes."

"I like the neighborhood."

"Me, too."

Quiet. They made their way back to the front bathroom. It featured all aqua fixtures -- toilet, sink and tub -- as well as turquoise blue floor tile. One wall was all mirror, and etched on the mirror was a flock of geese. At the bottom were hunters, taking aim at the hapless birds. But the mirror wasn't the strangest thing in the bathroom. The bright red urinal was. It was an instant focal point, perhaps because it was red or perhaps because it was strange to have a urinal in a private house. "The urinal would have to go."

"I agree," Michael said. He laced his fingers through hers, leaned on the doorjamb and turned his attention to Nikita rather than the awful bathroom. "You like it."

"Yeah," she nodded slowly, "I do."

"You can see us living here."

"Yeah." She brought his hand around, kissed his knuckles, and leaned against him. "What do you think?" she asked again.

"I think it looks like a good place to start."

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

Three weeks later, Michael was sitting in his office profiling a mission and wondering when he could go home when Madeleine strolled in.

"Hello, Michael."

He looked up, saved his profile and gave her his undivided attention. "Can I help you?"

Madeleine hesitated, then said, "How is the new house?"

Michael rolled his neck, shaking out a cramp. "I hurt in places I didn't know existed."

Madeleine blinked. "I don't understand --"

"Have you ever ripped out a bathroom?"

"I don't believe I have."

"It involves a sledge hammer." He didn't say anything else, and Madeleine smiled.

"You could hire someone --"

"We could," he acknowledged, but his tone clearly said they wouldn't.

Instead of asking why, Madeleine settled herself in his extra chair and said, "How do you like your neighbors?"

"I am beginning to reassess my opinion." He sighed again and said, "When our next-door neighbor saw we were working on the bathroom, he came over and offered to buy the mirror."

"What was wrong with it?"

"It was etched glass. A hunting scene. With ducks. Or maybe geese, it was hard to tell. I would have paid him to take it."

"Did you give it to him?"

"Of course." Michael paused, then said thoughtfully, "It's a good thing we'd already taken out the urinal. He'd probably have wanted to buy that, too."

"Urinal?"

"Don't ask."

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

Two months after they closed on the house, Michael and Nikita moved in.

The kitchen and bathroom were finished -- to Nikita's disappointment, she hadn't able to lay the tile herself because she had to go on a mission, so they'd hired someone. There was still a strong smell of new carpeting, grout and paint.

It was their third night in the house. Michael had a mission the next day, and Nikita had been informed she had a week-long mission to prepare for at the end of the week. They lay in bed, discussing their travel schedules, possible problems on their respective missions, and, at the end, whether it was practical to get a pet.

"A cat wouldn't be a lot of trouble," Nikita said, turning on her side to face Michael. "We could put a cat door in. It could be mostly an outdoor cat."

"Which will bring in fleas," Michael said.

"Well, we'd have the same problem with a dog and a dog's just not practical. Not with our schedules. A cat at least can fend for itself."

"If it's a wild cat," Michael pointed out.

"We could get the neighbors to feed him when we're gone."

"Him? Do you already have a name picked out for this imaginary cat?"

"Of course not, I haven't even met him yet," Nikita huffed.

"What about fish? They're no trouble at all."

"I have an extreme aversion to fish after that white slavery mission. And don't even think about hamsters. They're just like little rats."

Silence. Then, unexpectedly, Nikita laughed. It was such an odd sound to hear from her, for a moment Michael panicked. "What's so funny?"

"This is normal, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Lying in bed, arguing over what kind of pet to get," she gurgled, "We've become normal."

Michael wouldn't exactly call them that. After all, they were each going on regular missions. He'd spent the day interrogating a terrorist they'd been after for nine months. Nikita had been informed that morning that it was time for her continued ed class, which in this case happened to be about modern nuclear weapons. "Maybe," he said, "We're normal for Section."

"I'm even wearing a nightgown," Nikita giggled. "We're in bed together, not being monitored, and I'm wearing clothes. I can't stand it," she laughed, shaking the bed.

"I can't, either," Michael decided. Then he reached across and with one quick movement, disrobed Nikita and pulled her close, giving her a great smacking kiss.

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

Much later that night, Michael woke.

He lay very still, ears straining for an out-of-place sound, eyes searching the shadows that lined the walls of their bedroom. Beside him, Nikita's breathing was deep and even.

Because of the paint smell, they'd gone to sleep with their upstairs windows open. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. He could hear the hum of crickets, an occasional car passing, the breeze that rustled the leafy trees and billowed the curtains inward.

Nikita sighed in her sleep, and with sudden misgiving, Michael rolled her over. Was she crying ...?

But no tears dampened her face. She sighed again and a smile drifted across her face. He propped himself up on an elbow, watching her until his eyes grew heavy. Then he lay his head down, curving his arm around Nikita and letting his eyes drift closed.

He had no words for the sense of relief he felt. He'd been afraid that as soon as things settled down, Nikita would go back to her old nocturnal activity of sleep crying. Michael had hoped that she'd resolved whatever it was that kept her unhappy and away from him, but he'd not asked her about it and he didn't know what he'd do if she was still caught up in her unhappiness. So knowing that she could sleep peacefully -- and even smile while doing it -- comforted him more than anything. He hadn't expected a miracle. She wouldn't laugh in her sleep, like Elena used to. Other than her earlier attack of giggles, Nikita rarely laughed even when awake.

But somehow, she was able to smile.

Michael brought her bare body closer, and Nikita sighed again in her sleep, her hand creeping down to rest on his hip, one knee nudging between his.

So, Michael thought sleepily, this is normal.

Outside, a dog barked again, then a second dog let loose a long, lonely howl.

Michael turned over in bed and wondered if it was too much trouble to get up and shut the window. The dog howled again, and groaning, Michael got out of bed, shut the window and returned to Nikita.

I don't care how normal we are, he thought, climbing back into bed. We are not getting a dog.

Nikita smiled against him, and thinking of the different arguments he could use against having either a cat or a dog, Michael fell asleep.

_end_