******

This takes place after Michael helps Nikita detox from those mind-control drugs.

***********

Nikita pulled her coat tightly around herself and stepped out on the windy sidewalk, blending into the foot traffic that bordered the street.

Apologizing to Birkhoff had been ... cathartic. Walter hadn't been bad, either, once she got started. They'd both been amazingly nice to her -- nicer than she suspected she deserved.

Nikita walked slowly along the street, staring sightlessly into the store fronts. A cafe. A dress shop. A pipe store. A junk emporium that took up two store fronts. A bookstore. She crossed the street and kept on going, her stride slower than the people around her. Of course, they all had someplace to go -- home, to see a lover or family member, maybe to another job.

Nikita's home would be cold and dark and she had no reason to hurry.

She passed a bakery. The windows showcased gay desserts and shiny fruit-glazed tarts. Nikita passed on.

Birkhoff and Walter weren't the only ones she owed apologies to. If only Michael had been in Section, she would have found him and told him how very sorry she was. Because if she'd been mean to her friends, she'd been absolutely volatile when Michael began retraining her.

No one deserves to be treated the way I treated Michael. No one.

Nikita waited for the light to change. Across the street was a park; though it was getting dark and it was cold, she headed for the serenity of the trees and tightly controlled flowerbeds that were banked with straw to protect the roots from winter.

Nikita's pace slowed even more and she halted by an empty park bench, then she sat down cautiously.

If only Michael had still been in Section this evening, she could have gotten all her apologies out of the way at once. Then maybe she'd be able to sleep tonight. What did her mother always say? Don't let the sun go down on your wrath. It was a nice concept; Nikita wondered if anyone actually followed that advice and she groaned and rested her forehead in her hands, looking down at the sidewalk.

Now that she wasn't moving, the cold seemed to settle in her bones. After a few minutes, Nikita rose and made her way through the park, coming out on a different boulevard not far from her apartment.

Tomorrow, she promised herself. I'll find Michael tomorrow and apologize. Not that any apology would be enough ...

No, she told herself firmly. I'll apologize. I will. And if he doesn't forgive me -- which he probably won't -- at least I'll know I tried.

The decision made, Nikita's thoughts turned to more practical matters. She knew she didn't have anything to eat at home and she was too tired to cook anyway. A fine mist begin to fall, not really rain but heavier than fog. She pulled up the hood of her coat and breathed in the cold wet air.

This was perfect weather for something hot and spicy. She'd spent two days the week before in Cuba. What she wouldn't give for a bowl of that goat stew she'd had at a little hole-in-the-wall, mom-and-pop cafe. Or a tortilla, steamy and floury and melt-in-your-mouth wonderful.

Nikita's mouth begin to water.

What was it about South American food? Cuban, Brazilian, Peruvian, she loved it all. Jerk chicken would be great right now. Or anything with cumin.

Did she even have any cumin? Nikita tried to think about her cupboards, but the most she could conjure up was a confused impression of dusty bottles of aging spices. I need an enchilada, she thought. Mmmm ... with lots of cheese and some chili ... she could almost smell the rich, spicy meat.

Nikita blinked and sniffed again. It wasn't her imagination. And as she got nearer, she could hear the steady beat of a brassy trumpet.

The sign on the window was bright and edged with neon. Cafe Brazil. Nikita hesitated, then the door opened and a laughing couple tumbled out on the sidewalk, bringing the sharp scent of cheese and onion and tortilla and -- yes -- cumin out onto the street, as well as an even louder ending note of a song.

She bit her lip, her stomach growling impatiently. She reached out for the door, but then the band started again.

Perfidia.

It took her a few moments to recognize the song because instead of being played as a love song, it was quick, up tempo, staccato and controlled.

Nikita jerked back her hand as if the door handle were on fire and backed up a few steps.

Though it was only an orchestrated song, the words jumbled around in her head, and once the words sorted themselves out, she stumbled back a bit more until she backed into a No Parking sign.

To you my heart cries out "Perfidia."
For I found you, the love of my life, in somebody else's arms.
Your eyes are echoing "Perfidia." Forgetful of our promise of love
You're sharing another's charms.

Nikita steadied herself and shut her eyes.

Michael.

Nikita's hands wrapped around the cold No Parking sign and she gasped as if she were running a race instead of just standing on the cold sidewalk. She shut her eyes, furiously blocking out the present, trying to remember, but as usual, nothing happened.

She ground her teeth together. Had they danced to this song? Heard it somewhere? Had it played an important part in a mission? The only thing she knew for certain was, Michael had been part of it somehow.

Damn it.

Nikita slowly straightened and took a few steps toward the restaurant. The door opened again, once more dispelling a group of warm, cheerful people. They weren't playing Perfidia anymore and if they'd segued into another love song, Nikita would have left. But they started playing Guantanamera, and it sounded like half the restaurant was singing along.

Nikita smiled shakily and reached for the door handle.

She'd order something to take home. And maybe while she was waiting, her memory would come back.

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

Perfidia.

Michael's insides clinched and he forced himself to relax and pay attention to what Mick was rattling on about.

"-- went well, I think," Mick was saying blithely. "I mean, who's to say what'll happen with the bloke, but if you want an in with Santilli, he's the one I'd choose."

Michael blinked. "I think he'll work out nicely."

"Good." Mick beamed and pushed the extra glass out of the way -- the contact had just left a few minutes ago -- and poured himself another glass of Sangria. "I know he's not exactly the sort of chap you usually like to work with, but he has good contacts --"

"He'll work out fine," Michael said shortly and Mick frowned.

"What's wrong, Michael? The music getting to you? I know, it's not my choice either, but, like you always say, let the contact choose the first meeting place. Puts 'em at ease. Right?"

"Right."

With a sad lament, my dreams have faded like a broken melody.
While the gods of love look down and laugh at what romantic fools we mortals be.
And now, I know my love was not for you.
And so I'll take it back with a sigh. Perfidious one, goodbye.

"This song reminds me of my grandmum." Mick took another long drink. "She was a wild one, I tell you. Loved to dance. Loved to mambo. She and my granddad went out every Saturday night ..." Then, casually, Mick said, "What about you? Who does this song remind you of?"

"Nikita." Michael snapped out her name and then was almost sorry he'd said anything.

"How's she doing?"

Michael relented a bit. "Better in some ways. Her retraining is going ... well."

Mick tapped his forehead. "And her noggin?"

Michael took his time in answering. When he'd first brought Nikita back into Section, everything had been fine. Immediately after they'd returned, he'd been sent out on a two-week mission; when he got back to Section, he'd been given responsibility for retraining Nikita.

Michael had been more than glad to retrain her. He'd been relieved.

He'd also been surprised. When he'd returned from his two-week mission, Operations immediately called him into his office and without giving him a chance to properly debrief, he'd assigned him a new task: Nikita.

"I doubt," Operations said icily, "That either of you will succeed. Nikita will either kill you or she'll kill herself and frankly, I don't like either of those outcomes. You trained her the first time. Train her again. And make sure you both come out of it alive and ready for duty."

"Of course," Michael agreed. At the time he'd dismissed Operations' fears; he'd merely thought he and Nikita would pick up where they'd left off. But he had been counting on Nikita remembering him -- or at the very least, remembering his staged kidnaping of her. But he discovered that wasn't the case.

She didn't remember him. Not really. He could tell from the way she looked at him that she didn't have a clue about their relationship. After their first session together, Michael immediately contacted Walter.

"I thought," Michael said patiently, "That once she was free from the drugs and stimulation, she'd return to normal."

"Nikita has never played by the rules, Michael, you know that," Walter sighed. "It took a long time before the drugs started working a hundred percent; maybe she's just going through some post-medication or something."

During their second session, Nikita had a seizure. And after that, things went progressively downhill. She'd been one of the most difficult and easiest to train the first time around, and retraining proved to be no different. She challenged him at every turn, took every opportunity to take advantage of him, and soaked up what he taught her like a sponge. Her mood swings were volatile and unpredictable. She was mean to everyone, but saved her worst moods for Michael. Maybe she didn't remember their relationship, but she remembered his hot buttons and she'd pressed every one. The only encouraging thing was, he thought they'd hit rock bottom about ten days ago, when Nikita had tried, once again, to kill him. There's no place for us to go but up, Michael thought, draining his glass of wine.

But Mick didn't need to know that, and Michael finally said only, "She's blocked out a lot of things."

"Ah, too painful, I guess," Mick nodded as if he understood; Michael suddenly wished he could be as certain as Mick. "Shouldn't worry about it too much, Michael."

"Why not?"

Mick shrugged. "She's what my grandmum used to call 'plucky.' You can't keep a good man down and all that. Or woman, I guess." He took another drink then looked seriously across the table at Michael. "She'll be fine. So what if she's blocked out some memories? Hell, I don't remember any of 1993 and not a lot of '94. Not what you would call a fine time in the life of Mick Stoeppel."

They were quiet for a moment while the band finished the song. Then Mick said abruptly, "Far be it from me to give you advice, Michael --"

"Then don't."

"But," Mick continued, "If I was you, I wouldn't beat myself up about it."

"About what?"

"You know. Detoxing her. Bringing her back. You had to do it."

"Thank you for understanding," Michael said, with a hint of sarcasm.

"It isn't your fault the detox didn't take hold quite like you thought it would."

Disgusted with the conversation, Michael took another drink. Mick poured the last of the Sangria in his glass and gave him a cheerful smile. "I'll go get us another pitcher."

Before Michael could protest -- he'd met Mick's contact, he'd done his duty tonight and really would like to go home -- Mick was gone, the pitcher in his hand.

Michael sighed again and took another drink of the sweet wine.

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

Cafe Brazil was a smoky, loud, cheerful neighborhood restaurant. Nikita couldn't believe she'd missed it before. But then, she didn't often walk home through the park and this was actually a block out of the way.

She pushed her way to the bar and waited politely while the bartender served some people. Then he turned to her. "What'll it be?"

"Take-out?"

"Sure thing. Here's a menu --"

"Do you have goat?" Nikita said, not opening the menu. "What I really want is some goat, maybe some tortillas or some nice yellow rice. I want an enchilada."

The bartender snorted. "You sound like you don't know what you want."

Nikita sighed and began to open the menu.

"Tell you what: I'll bring you some of what we're having," he suggested.

"What do you mean?" Nikita asked.

"What the help's eating. It's good. I think you'll like it."

"Is there any cumin involved?"

"There is," the bartender said, his eyes smiling at her. "As well as goat meat."

"Then I'll take it," Nikita grinned back at him.

"It'll be a few minutes."

"I can wait."

Nikita hopped up on a barstool and propped her chin in her hands. At the far end of the room was a small stage and on it was a small band: a trumpet player, someone on keyboards, someone else on bongo drums, a sax player, all wearing bright red shirts. They started playing Ran Kan Kan, and the tables around the dance floor emptied. Gyrating bodies danced without a care in the world and Nikita shut her eyes. What was it about mambo music? Gently, she tried to probe her memory, searching for some kind of clue ...

And then, from behind her, she heard an unmistakable voice. A voice she heard too often. Damn it, she thought. Just when I was starting --

"Nikita!" Mick twisted her around and grinned at her. "Thought that was you, darling! What are you doing here? And why are you alone?"

"I --"

"Never mind, never mind --" Mick motioned to the bartender and sat down an empty pitcher with soggy fruit in the bottom of it. "Can we get another pitcher --" he waved in the general direction of a table, then said, "And whatever she's got -- just send it on over --" And before Nikita realized what was happening, Mick had her by the elbow and was pulling her across the restaurant.

"Mick -- I just wanted take-out --"

"Nonsense. Why take out when we're all right here? Come on, love, stay awhile with us --"

"No --"

"Please? For old Mick? Because I have to say, I haven't seen you around much. Been missing your pretty face --"

"Mick, I don't want --" Nikita stopped and dug her heels in, which was unfortunate because just then the band began playing Mambo Caliente and the dance floor, already shimmering with energy, was ratcheted up one more level. A dashing, smiling man danced into Nikita, swinging his partner wildly; Nikita stumbled back and Mick caught her hand.

"Come on, ducks, you'll get squashed out here --"

The next thing Nikita knew, she had been shoved down in a booth and she felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her.

Before Michael had taken over her retraining, what with the mood swings and the seizures, she'd tried a few times to kill herself or at least get herself killed in a mission. Not for the first time she wished she'd been successful, because right across the table from her, regarding her with calm, untroubled eyes, was Michael.

Nikita shut her eyes briefly, praying to a God she didn't really believe in to allow the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

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

"Hullo Michael, look who I found," Mick said cheerfully, thwacking Nikita hard on the back and sliding into his chair.

"Hello, Nikita," Michael said cordially. Her eyes were tightly closed and he wondered whether she was going to seize, but then her eyes opened and he watched as a dark flush crept up her neck and face. She mumbled a greeting and when the waitress slapped down a new pitcher of Sangria and a clean glass for Nikita, she immediately poured herself a drink and gulped down about half of it.

"Uh, Nikita -- might want to be a bit careful --" Mick cautioned.

Nikita shot him a look of pure venom and deliberately took another long swallow of the dark red liquid, impatiently moving wine-sodden bits of fruit out of the way so she didn't choke. She didn't even blanche at the sweetness, and Michael knew she didn't like sweet drinks.

The band finished the set, announced they'd take a break, and the dancers went back to their seats. The conversation level remained at a pleasant buzz and Nikita took a deep breath.

"Michael."

"Yes, Nikita?"

She glanced up, very quickly, her eyes flashing across his, then dropping down to her lap again. She took another drink of her rapidly-disappearing Sangria and cleared her throat. "I owe you an apology," she said firmly, sounding as if she were about to step off a cliff.

Michael didn't say anything, and Mick looked from one of them to the other, then abruptly rose, muttered something about the restroom, and vanished.

"I know you can't forgive me and I don't expect you to," she said in a rush. "But I just wanted you to know I'm sorry. Sorrier than I can say. I've behaved horribly and I'm truly ... I'm just so sorry."

Michael studied her for a moment longer. "It's okay."

Wretchedly, she said, "I don't know how I can make it up to you. I guess I can't. I wish I could go back and do it all over again, Michael. I'm so sorry for all those nasty things I said ... and did. Not to mention trying to kill you a couple of times."

"It's okay."

"It was completely uncalled for. I'm so sor--"

"Sorry. I know. It's okay."

Nikita looked up and blinked. "What?"

"It's okay. These things happen."

"What?"

The waitress and Mick arrived at the same time. "Everything all right?" Mick asked, eyebrows raised.

"Fine," Michael said, moving his glass so the waitress could place a large platter in front of him.

"It's hot --" she warned, sliding Mick's plate over. She nodded to Nikita. "Yours will be up in a bit. Anything else?"

"Another fork," Michael requested, and the waitress reached into her apron and pulled one out. Michael waited until she turned away, then he nudged his plate nearer to the middle of the table and handed Nikita a fork.

"You feeling all right, ducks?" Mick squinted at her. "You look a little odd. Not going to throw up on us, are you?"

"N-no." She looked at the fork in her hand and the enormous plate of food which Michael was already working on. "What is it?"

"Roasted chicken with chilies."

Still she hesitated. Beside him, Mick was busy eating and eyeing a pretty girl at the table across the way. "It's fine, Nikita," Michael assured her, and finally she reached her fork out and delicately took a piece of meat. "Okay?" he asked, watching her chew.

"Okay," she nodded, her eyes on his.

Neither said anything else. The band came back so the silence wasn't oppressive, and just as they finished Michael's plate, Nikita's food came and they shared it.

Mick pushed his plate back, his eyes still on the pretty girl. "Must go," he murmured, sending the girl a cheerful smile. "I think someone wants to take a turn on the floor --"

Amused, Michael watched Mick approach the girl and lead her onto the floor.

"I like this music," Nikita said presently.

"The last time I listened to this type of music was when we were in Miami. Remember, Nikita?"

"No." Then, relaxed by either the wine or her confession, Nikita said, "I don't remember the music. But I remember that you were there."

"How do you know I was there if you can't remember the circumstances?" Michael asked curiously.

"I don't remember anything concrete," Nikita frowned. "I remember ... feelings. But not the actual event."

"Then, how do you know --?"

The waitress came by, deposited clean coffee cups on their table and filled them with fragrant, dark coffee. She slapped down a small pitcher of cream and left without saying anything and Nikita slowly picked up the cream and poured a generous dollop into her coffee. "It's like the coffee," she said, holding her mug under her nose and breathing deeply. "I don't even like coffee. Not really." She took a swallow and smiled a bit. "But I drink it. Somehow, it reminds me of you. I don't know why."

"How do you know it reminds you of me?"

"Because I feel the same way when you're working with me at Section."

"I see."

"I do remember some things," Nikita said, struggling to explain. "I remember things about you. I know what brand of coffee you like and that you don't squeeze the toothpaste in the middle. But other things ... I can't remember. It's like my mind is a computer that needs to be defragged."

"What?"

"You know how your hard drive looks before you defrag it?"Nikita asked. "There are all those little colored squares of memory with big gaps of black in between. Then you start defragging it and the black starts to disappear. That's a little like my memory is. I remember some things very clearly. And others I don't remember at all."

The song ended and the band began playing Perfidia again, but this time, it was the familiar version Nikita knew and Michael stood up abruptly. "Would you care to dance?"

The dance floor wasn't too crowded. It was getting late, and it was a week night. The restaurant was thinning out. Nikita rose and rather hesitantly put her hand in his and he led her to the dance floor.

"We danced to this song in Miami," Michael said.

"I don't remember dancing. But I remember what the words mean. Don't ask me how," Nikita said, anticipating his question. "Perfidia. I guess it could be our song, couldn't it, Michael? Perfidia. Faithless. Treacherous. That's me."

"Shut up, Nikita," Michael said amiably.

"It's true."

"No, it isn't."

Nikita fell silent, but a few moments later she burst out with, "I don't understand you."

"What do you mean?"

"How can you act like nothing's happened, Michael?"

"Would you prefer it if I was equally nasty to you?"

"No ... but I'd understand if you were." Nikita frowned as the song ended and Michael kept her hand in his. When the next song began, he waited a beat for her to decide whether to go or stay, and when she didn't move, he swung her close and continued to dance.

"It's very simple. I love you," he said.

"Michael, that's not the point," she said, sounding exasperated. "How do you know I'm on the level? Maybe I just apologized so you'd be off guard. Maybe I'm planning to kill you when we leave the restaurant. Maybe I've already drugged your drink. How do you know you can trust me?"

"I know." Michael pulled back a bit so she could see his face. "I knew the minute I saw you tonight."

"Nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense. You have your face back."

She scowled at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"When a person has no hope or no reason to survive, it shows in his eyes. And the opposite is also true."

"So, just like that, you can trust me again?"

"I never didn't trust you. I just ... was a little reticent."

"Oh, is that what you were?" Nikita asked sarcastically.

"You're you," Michael said certainly. "You're not a hundred percent, but you're improving. And I can tell. Does that bother you?"

"No," Nikita said, but she sounded uncertain.

"I know you inside and out, Nikita. Everything about you."

"That's not true," Nikita denied.

"Maybe not," Michael admitted. "But I know the important things." As an afterthought, he said, "I wish you remembered more."

"Well, join the club." The dance ended and Nikita headed back to the table, Michael following in her wake.

The table was cleared of their dishes and in Michael's place was a napkin with a note scribbled on it. Michael picked it up, raised an eyebrow and said, "Apparently Mick has met someone new."

"Mick is always meeting someone new." Nikita sat down and picked up the bill to figure her share.

"I'll get it," Michael said, flicking it out of her hand. Anticipating her protest, he said, "It was a business meal. Mick and I met someone before you came."

Michael neatly counted out the correct amount, leaving a generous tip, and as they walked to the door, he glanced at Nikita. "Can I walk you to your car?"

"It's in the shop. I walked."

"Then may I offer you a ride home?"

"It's really not necess --" Nikita opened the door and was hit with a face full of snowflakes and frigid air that nearly knocked the breath out of her.

"Come on," Michael said, tucking her arm in his. "The car's over here."

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

In the few hours they'd been in the restaurant, the temperature had plunged. It had rained earlier in the day and so the streets were beginning to freeze. The snow made driving treacherous. Michael drove carefully, patiently waiting for more hurried drivers to slide across intersections and he finally pulled in front of Nikita's apartment.

She didn't ask him to come up, but he got out of the car as if it were a matter of course and ushered her in out of the cold. "Would you like something hot? Tea? Coffee?" Nikita asked.

"That sounds good."

"You can't stay long, though. I'm really tired."

"All right," Michael agreed.

She made him tea and they chatted about nothing, then, just as Nikita was beginning to droop, he said good night and left.

Nikita rinsed their cups, turned off the lights, washed her face and teeth and put on her pajamas. In ten minutes she was snuggled in bed, shivering slightly because her apartment tended to be chilly in the winter. Gradually she warmed up and she was sleepily listening to the muffled thuds of cars bumping into one another and the far-away wail of sirens rushing to accident scenes when her apartment door opened.

For a split second, she was baffled. Then, Section training kicked in and she lay completely still, her hand searching under her pillow for her gun. Her fingers closed around the metal and very, very slowly, she drew out her weapon.

Someone turned on a lamp downstairs, casting light and shadows across her bed. The stairs to her bedroom creaked and she got ready to fire.

"Nikita? Are you still awake? It's me."

"Michael?" Nikita's fingers relaxed and she sat up, confused. "What's wrong?"

"Someone slid into my car." He came into her bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Did I wake you up?"

"No ... is anyone hurt?"

"It was a hit and run." Michael shrugged. "But the car's too damaged to drive. I called for a cab, but it'll take them awhile to get here because of the weather."

"Well, you can wait here," Nikita said, moving over a bit.

"I could call Section for a pickup, but I don't like to bother them for something like this," Michael said, and Nikita nodded sleepily. Using Section transport when you needed it was not a big deal, but using it for convenience was considered bad form.

Nikita shut her eyes and yawned. "How bad is it?"

"The driver's side door is smashed in and the front wheel is bent out of shape. The back end looks okay. I called a tow truck, but with the ice, they're all busy. It'll be tomorrow probably before they can get here. They've closed down the Metro stop, too. A water line broke or something and the station flooded."

"Mmmm ..."

Michael stretched out on his side of the bed and Nikita roused enough to say, "Take off your shoes," but then she shut her eyes again. "How do you know it wasn't Section related?" she asked sleepily.

"No one tried to kill me when I came out of your apartment," Michael replied.

"Mmmm ..." Nikita mumbled again, then yawned, turned over and curled up. "That's always a good sign."

After a few minutes, Michael sighed. "Stop thinking about it, Nikita. I told you, it's okay."

Her eyes popped open again. "How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"I know. What I don't know is why you keep thinking about it."

Nikita was quiet, then finally said, "I can't help it. I was awful. I'm ashamed of how mean I was to you."

"But it's all right, Nikita."

Nikita rolled over onto her back, one arm thrown over her eyes. "I always promised myself I'd never be that kind of person."

"What? Mean?"

"Faithless." She smiled slightly. "Perfidious." She yawned, then turned back on her side facing him. "When I was a kid I went to private school for awhile."

Michael didn't appear to be startled by the change of subject. "How?"

Nikita shrugged slightly. "My mother had a really nice boyfriend once. He paid for private school. It sounds dumb to say it, but he took really good care of us. We had a nice apartment with heating that worked, we had clothes that nobody else had worn. He was ... nice. To both of us. But the kids at school ..." Nikita hesitated.

"They weren't so nice?" Michael guessed.

"At first, some of them were. Then, the teacher ... I know she meant well, but one of the other kids heard her asking me if I got enough to eat at home. I guess because I was so skinny. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I started to be the one."

"The one what?"

"You know, the one everyone picks on. I was too tall. Too skinny. I stuck out. And when you're 11 years old, you don't want to stick out, trust me. The girls I thought were my friends wouldn't talk to me."

"What did you do?"

Nikita shrugged again. "What could I do? They said I was dumb, and I figured they were right. I'd been put back a year in school already. I tried everything to get them to like me again. I brought candy to school, new hair clips, stickers, all the stuff girls like, but they wouldn't even take it. Not because they didn't want it, but because it was from me."

"You didn't tell your mother?"

"Her advice was to be stronger than they were and not let them get to me. I think she was so focused on me getting into the school, she didn't see how miserable I was."

"So, what happened?"

Nikita smiled. "This isn't a fairy tale, Michael. There's not an end. I was at the school for two awful years, then my mother's boyfriend was killed in a car accident. No money, no school. Mama was disappointed I couldn't stay, but I wasn't. I'd already learned enough."

"What did you learn?"

"To never make anyone feel as bad as they made me feel." Nikita paused, then said slowly, "I know I have a lot of faults. I have a rotten temper and I'm too picky about a lot of things. But until recently, I thought I was loyal to my friends."

Michael yawned and his eyes slid shut. "Nikita, that wasn't you. They drugged and brainwashed you."

"That's no excuse."

"It doesn't matter, Nikita. It's over."

"Maybe," she said quietly, snuggling down in the covers. "But they took almost a year away from me. I can't remember a lot of stuff still. That's a whole year I won't get back. They just took it."

Michael didn't respond, and she glanced over at him. He was asleep. Nikita sat up and reached for the blanket at the end of the bed, then eased it over him. Then she curled up and shut her eyes.

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

About an hour later, Michael woke up disoriented and uncomfortable. He stumbled to Nikita's bathroom. On his way back, he glanced out the window just in time to see the taxi pull away from the curb and slowly drive away from Nikita's apartment.

Michael muttered a curse.

He'd never get another cab. Not on a night like tonight. The snow was falling faster now and the streets were slick.

Michael glanced at the bed. Nikita was lumped up on her side, sound asleep. Michael went downstairs to turn off the lights and raise the thermostat, then he came back upstairs.

He paused at the bed and slowly untucked his shirt.

When he'd been with Simone, he'd always worn pajama bottoms for the simple reason that Simone liked to tuck her fingers under the waistband when she went to sleep. Just her fingertips, and she liked to stay on her own side of the bed so she didn't touch him anywhere else. When he'd married Elena, to help him keep his distance from her, he wore his underclothes to bed. Except when they made love, he always had on his undershirt and underwear.

But with Nikita, things were more complicated. Or perhaps, simpler. He wasn't comfortable wearing anything to bed with her, even if all they were going to do was sleep. It made him tense. Edgy. He couldn't sleep well, which even to him didn't make any sense, because for a lot of years he'd managed to go to sleep perfectly well wearing underwear and pajama bottoms with both his wives.

I'll wake up first, he told himself, stripping off his shirt. He set his alarm on his wristwatch just to make sure he'd get up before she did and stepped out of his socks. I'll wake up first, dress and be out of here before Nikita even knows I spent the whole night, he decided.

He pulled the covers up, turned on his side and tangled one naked leg with Nikita's, then he reached over and put his palm flat on her stomach. Finally comfortable, he closed his eyes and slept dreamlessly.

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

Nikita woke slowly, registering only the fact that her feet were blissfully warm. She wriggled her toes and felt something warm and pliant at the foot of her bed.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes and blinked.

Across the bed from her, laying on his stomach, was Michael. And he didn't have a stitch on.

He doesn't like to wear clothes to bed.

Nikita blinked again, less surprised by Michael's lack of attire than the sudden knowledge that Michael preferred to sleep naked.

She shut her eyes, trying to remember something else, but nothing came.

Nikita sighed and opened her eyes again, glancing over at Michael. The sheet was down around his hips and one arm was hanging off the side of the bed. The other hand was tucked under his ribcage. He was totally relaxed and Nikita smiled a bit, then, hesitantly, she reached out.

He doesn't like to be touched.

Her hand stopped and she bit her lip, then, very softly, she touched Michael's back. He had a nice back: Nikita couldn't remember ever seeing it bare, and now she felt his warm skin, the hard knobs on his backbone, the muscle holding it all together. It felt ... familiar.

He tensed and before she could snatch her hand away, Michael muttered, "What are you doing?"

Nikita bit her lip and jerked her hand back. Michael stretched, yawned and blinked sleepily at her. "What are you doing?" he asked again.

"I don't remember you, Michael," Nikita said softly, staring at the blanket that covered them both.

"What do you mean?"

"Every time I try, I can't. I can't remember what we used to be, exactly."

"Yet, you wanted to apologize to me last night."

"Just because I can't remember the details doesn't mean I shouldn't apologize," Nikita said, finally meeting his eyes. "I remember some things. Like, I know you don't like to be touched much."

"It depends on who's doing the touching," Michael said.

Nikita's eyes dropped again, and she flushed.

"I don't mind if it's you," Michael said flatly, and closed his eyes again.

Unsure whether Michael had issued an invitation or not, Nikita sat quietly for a moment. Then, very slowly, she reached out.

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

Michael lay perfectly still under Nikita's hand. He felt her fingers skim slowly over his back, touching his ribs, his backbone, his shoulders. He shifted a bit and the sheet slid lower, but Nikita didn't go below his waist.

She didn't have to. She scooted closer to Michael and he felt her move his hair away from his neck. For one agonizing moment he thought she was going to kiss him, but she leaned down, her hands braced on his shoulders. He could feel her breath on his skin, and then he realized what she was doing: she was smelling him.

Strange, but then again, one whiff of Nikita's shampoo and Michael was a gone man. Perhaps it was the same for her, too. Michael felt her hands growing bolder, and finally she took one of his hands in hers. "I don't remember," she said sadly. "I thought ... maybe I would, but I can't."

"I remember everything," Michael said, curling his fingers around hers. He brought her hand closer to his mouth and opened his eyes; Nikita stared at him and he gently kissed her fingers. "I remember it all."

Nikita jerked her head from side to side, still staring at him. "But I don't."

Michael turned around, never taking his eyes from hers, and he sat up. He slowly brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, then, very slowly, he ran a finger from her thumb all the way up her shoulder and her neck. "I remember the way your skin feels."

Nikita's eyes slid shut and she bit her lip. Michael stroked her neck and traced the neckline of her pajama top.

"I remember how warm you are when you first take off your clothes. And then your skin starts to cool off, not much, just a bit." Michael reached under the sheets and unfolded one of her legs, palming her foot. "I remember the first time I did this ..." he leaned over and very gently kissed Nikita's ankle and she gasped. "And I remember the first time I did this ..." Michael rubbed the sole of Nikita's foot and she groaned. Michael massaged the arch of her foot and, just as he knew she would, she flopped back in bed, completely relaxed.

"I don't remember any of it," she managed to get out, and Michael grinned when she thrust her other foot at him.

Michael worked his way slowly up Nikita's body, rubbing her feet, then her calves, then he stretched out on top of her, balancing his weight on his arms. "What are you doing to me?" Nikita mumbled.

"Stop trying so hard, Nikita." Michael leaned down, brushing a kiss across her mouth. He felt her intake of breath, then, very tentatively, she kissed him back. Michael waited a heartbeat, then he kissed her again. Nikita clenched her eyes shut and Michael said softly, "The first time we made love was on a filthy mattress in a boat that wouldn't make it across the English Channel."

"What?" Nikita's eyes flew open.

"The second time was on a mission. I think I finally destroyed all the tapes of it. But it took me forever to track them all down."

"We were monitored?"

Michael kissed her. "There are some things about our relationship I would give anything to forget."

"How can you say that?" Nikita wriggled out from under him and stared at him.

"Things were different then. We had to be different." Michael put his hand on her ribcage and kissed her again. "You said before that you didn't remember specific events, but you remembered feelings."

"Yes?"

Michael kissed her softly, then pulled back a bit. Her eyes were closed now and she was frowning. "Tell me what you feel," Michael requested.

Nikita hesitated, then, with her eyes still closed, she said softly, "I feel ... comfortable. Warm."

Michael waited for a minute. "Anything else?"

"I should feel intimidated," she said slowly, "but I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I know you love me." Her eyes opened and she looked surprised. "Don't you?"

"Very much." He still didn't reach out for her, and after a moment, Nikita slowly touched his face, her palm open and her fingertips searching. She lay back, feeling the crevasses and protrusions of Michael's cheekbones, eyebrows, lips.

"I love you, too," she said, then she put her arms around him and pulled him close.

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

Two weeks later, Nikita stood in a smoky bar nursing a dark beer and watching the man she'd been entertaining all evening get picked up by Section.

As pickups went, this one was easy. It was too easy for someone of Nikita's experience, but flu was going around Section and they were short-staffed.

"Nikita? Report." Birkhoff's voice sounded cloudy in her com unit, but he was intelligible.

"Reece made his move," Nikita murmured, watching Reece, gesturing wildly and pointing toward the door.

The mark hesitated, shooting Nikita a quick look. She waved reassuringly at him and he pointed at his watch and held up his hand, pantomiming five minutes. She smiled and nodded and watched while Reece led the mark out the door to examine a make-believe wreck involving the mark's car.

"He's out the door," Nikita said. She hesitated. "I'm standing by."

She waited for a few minutes, and when Birkhoff didn't call for her to back up Reece, she relaxed.

"Stand down," Birkhoff said finally. "Reece got him in the van. They're on their way in."

"Great." Nikita slid off her barstool and dug around in her purse for some money. "I'm out of here, then."

"Uh, that's a negative, Nikita," Birkhoff said.

"What do you mean? The profile says --"

"I know what it says, but I just got orders that you're to stay put."

"What for?" Nikita asked, aggravated.

"We just got direct orders from Operations --" Birkhoff suddenly sneezed in Nikita's ear so loudly she jumped.

"Are you okay?" she demanded.

"I think I'm getting the flu," Birkhoff sniffed.

"You sound miserable."

"Yeah, and I'm going to be even more miserable tomorrow. Operations just sent down a directive: we're under quarantine."

"What?"

"No one in and no one out until people start getting well. Damn it," Birkhoff groaned. "That means I'm not going to get any relief."

"So ... what do you want me to do? Go back to the hotel? Come home?"

"Wait. I'll contact you in a few minutes."

Nikita sighed and focused her attention on the band. Polka wasn't something she went out of her way to listen to, but she enjoyed something different every now and then and she never said no to a chance to watch men in leather pants, even if they were reminiscent of little boys' playsuits. The music was loud enough to cover her conversation to Birkhoff, but not deafening.

The song ended. The leader called something out -- Nikita couldn't tell what -- and, perhaps to give the polka dancers a bit of a rest, began to lead the band in a waltz with a slower tempo. Nikita sat back and enjoyed it for a few moments before Birkhoff interrupted her.

"Nikita?" Birkhoff's voice sounded stuffier and Nikita felt sorry for him.

"I'm here."

"Look, we're going to run things from Section, but we'll need you on the outside. There's another mission we need you on. Two operatives are en route and the third --"

Nikita -- along with the rest of the bar crowd -- was momentarily distracted when the band began playing a perfectly straight version of Perfidia . It sounded so odd coming from the lederhosen-clad polka players that Nikita's mouth dropped open.

She swung around, searching, then her eyes lit on Michael. "He's here," Nikita said, trying not to smile too big and attract too much attention.

Birkhoff sneezed again in her ear. "Great. Listen, if you're all right, I'm going to go."

"I'm fine," Nikita said.

Michael reached her and smiled slightly. "I'm happy to hear it."

Nikita took off her com unit and discretely put the disk in her handbag. "And you will also be happy to know, I'm just as faithless as usual," she said lightly.

"Faithless to everyone else," Michael clarified, holding out his hand.

"Well, of course," she smiled and looped her arm through his. "How much did you pay them to play this song?"

"Too much." Michael stood very close to her and continued, "You and I are the second team and we're scheduled to be on-site in 14 hours. Birkhoff will upload our panels as information becomes available, but initial intel shows one assassination and a possible kidnaping. There are from five to seven innocent people involved; they are acceptable collateral. Two of them are children. Depending on the intel Birkhoff feeds us, you may need to run point."

"Okay," Nikita said amiably.

Michael blinked, then laced her fingers through his tightly and tugged her toward the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Michael turned back around and raised his eyebrows. "I told you. We have to be on-site in --"

"Fourteen hours. I know. If we have 14 hours in which to save the world, I think surely we can spare a few minutes to finish out the dance."

Michael's eyes narrowed and, without uttering a complaint, he led her onto the dance floor.

Nikita had never heard Perfidia sung in German; she was a little disappointed when she realized they weren't going to sing any words at all and since Michael didn't seem to want to talk, she amused herself by trying to translate the English words, which had been taken from Spanish, into German.

Michael was silent. But she knew him well enough now to know he wasn't angry with her. Maybe he was a bit put out, but he wasn't truly irritated. The song ended and the band, looking somewhat relieved, began another polka.

"May we leave now?" Michael asked, his voice betraying nothing.

Nikita smiled at him, then held his face in her hands and, heedless of anyone that might have been watching her with her mark earlier in the evening, gave him a very thorough and loving kiss. He sighed against her mouth and Nikita counseled softly, "When a faithless woman asks you to dance --"

His head came up and he gave her a slight smile. "I never say no to the faithless ones," he assured her.

"Good." Nikita smiled at him. "Let's go, then."

-end-