Come fly with me, come fly, come fly away.
If you could use
Some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay.
Come fly away, come on, let's fly away.

Maybe that's what I need, Nikita thought. Exotic booze. Or maybe Bombay.

Nikita sank lower into the bath water, trying to ease the tension headache that was threatening to rip her skull apart. Michael had left the CD after a dinner the week before and she'd put the volume on low to distract her from the pain. It wasn't really working. The hot water helped a little; she'd taken some muscle relaxants earlier and now she was trying to endure until they kicked in.

If Michael were here, he'd massage it away, she thought longingly.

Michael.

Her muscles tensed involuntarily and she methodically tried to relax them, imagining the tension seeping from her skin to the bathwater.

I have to tell him, she thought gloomily.

Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru.
In lama land,
There's a one-man band
He'll toot
His flute
For you.
It's perfect, for a flying honeymoon ...

Maybe this wasn't the best choice of music, Nikita thought. The only person she wanted to go anyplace with was Michael, and she was pretty sure that when she told him what she'd done, the last thing he'd want to do was fly away with her. Send her flying, maybe. With a good kick in the pants ...

She sighed, irritated with both herself and the pain that had settled in her head and shoulders. She flopped over in the bath stomach-down and carefully lowered her forehead into the hot water in an attempt to relax her forehead. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get her conversation with Jones out of her head.

He'd come by earlier today, all blustery as Mick, then when he'd seen she was alone, he'd turned serious. Even after three years it surprised Nikita how quickly he could turn it on and off -- and how quickly she could respond to either persona as if Mick and Mr. Jones were actually two people. Or just one, who has a personality disorder, Nikita thought wryly.

"It's going to be soon, Nikita," he'd said. "I'll let you know how soon in a day or two. Be ready."

Great, Mick, Nikita wanted to say. Hey, thanks for the little spread of cheer and optimism. But instead, she'd merely nodded and let him out of her apartment.

Soon.

Though the water was hot, Nikita shivered. She raised her dripping face out of the steamy water, turned over again and relaxed against the back of the tub.

I have to tell him.

Soon, she thought. What did that mean? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? And how would it end? Would they be able to pull it off? While she'd been at Center, she had run thousands of SIMs on every possible variable. Not because Jones liked SIMs. The truth was, the people at Center thought her somewhat peculiar about SIMs. But Nikita had been trained by Section first and old habits were hard to break. Even after she'd been with the Center for three years, she sometimes still reverted to Michael's training.

The problem was, Center wasn't like Section. Section dictated what operatives did. Center, taking a page from the corporate business bible, empowered people. At first, Nikita didn't understand what the difference was. Then, on her first mission for Center -- to get Jurgan out of the way -- she'd been given no instructions, no numbers, no advice, no SIMs. Just a directive: To remove him.

It had been up to her to figure out how to do it.

Once I get you up there,
Where the air is rarified
We'll just glide,
Starry-eyed.
Once I get you up there,
I'll be holding you so near
You may hear
Angels cheer
'Cause we're together ...

Nikita sighed again, then rubbed the heels of her hands fitfully over her eyes, trying to ease the pressure that still pounded in her head.

Lately, her life was beginning to resemble a long, complicated algebra problem. Quantities changed, variables shifted and mutated, things were multiplied and divided with dizzying speed and the equation seemed never-ending.

Nikita had never been much good with mathematics.

She'd been dreading telling Michael about Center, about Mick, about her perfidy, ever since she'd fallen in love with him. She'd always felt a certain closeness to Michael when he'd trained her, and she'd missed him terribly when he'd pushed her out of Section. At the time, she'd even thought she was in love with him. She couldn't be sure, because she'd never been in love before, but she couldn't stop thinking about him and when Mick showed up at the cafe ...

Nikita groaned and turned over again, shrugging her tight shoulders to ease the tension.

It was easy at first to not tell Michael about Center. He'd been fairly nasty to her when she came back, then he deceived her about some things, which, compared to her deception were paltry, but made it easy to keep her secret from him. Then keeping the secret became a habit.

Then, slowly, the habit became a burden. And it was doubly heavy because now, she'd kept it from him for too long. Being alone with him -- once something she craved and coveted -- was now painful, too. Because while he trusted her, she apparently didn't trust him. Not enough to tell him who and what she really was, anyway.

It's not that I don't trust him, she thought firmly, realizing the muscle relaxant had finally kicked in and the CD had finished. It's just that he was so angry and disappointed with the whole Adrian thing. And this is so much bigger. A thousand times bigger.

Nikita stood up in the bath, swaying slightly from the medication, and grabbed a towel. She dried off as quickly as she could, the relaxant making her hands feel too big and clumsy.

I want a little longer, she thought rebelliously. Just a little longer with Michael. I want a little longer to love him, to have him love me, without any of the hate that he's sure to feel when I tell him what I've done.

She got into bed, instinctively moving to her side even though Michael wasn't due back until tomorrow.

I want more time, she thought drowsily.

... fly away.
Come on, come on, come on, let's fly away ...

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

Michael woke slowly.

It was daytime. He could feel the sun warming the bed. A window was open somewhere, even though it was chilly outside. He could hear a bird, very faintly, from some distant perch.

His stomach still felt a little off. Not that there was anything left to throw up, not after last night. He'd come to Nikita's straight from Medical, where they'd given him an anti-toxicant, and proceeded to throw up for three hours straight. He felt a little cotton-woolish, his head a bit stuffy, his stomach completely empty, his muscles a bit weak from the drugs he'd been given. There are people, he reminded himself, who actually go into debt to feel this way.

He moved his head slightly, feeling the clean cotton sheets that smelled like Nikita's shampoo. Very cautiously, he opened one gritty eye.

And despite the bright room and his iffy stomach, he was jolted completely awake.

Nikita was slouched in a chair a few feet away. She was wearing black and she held a gun in her hands. The chair was placed so she could see both the front door and the window, and he noticed a mirror angled so she could keep an eye on the patio door as well.

"Nikita?"

She jerked in her chair, her gun coming up automatically and her eyes searching for a target. Then she relaxed. "Michael. Don't scare me like that."

"Are you guarding me?" he asked curiously, propped up on an elbow.

Instead of answering, she got up, ran a hand over his forehead and smiled. "How do you feel? Better?"

"Yes, but what --"

"Would you like something to eat? Or do you want to wait awhile?"

He narrowed his eyes, taking in the tightness around her eyes and her slightly furrowed forehead. "Do you have another headache?" he asked. "I think it might be time to see someone about that, Nikita. You're getting them more often."

"Someone in Section, you mean?" Nikita teased him, then shrugged. "I know why I get headaches, Michael. It's just tension."

Michael sat up in bed. "Come lay down. I'll rub your head for you."

"No," she said shortly. Then, looking even more pinched than before, she said, "I really need to talk to you about something, Michael."

"All right." Michael lay back down.

"This is really important, Michael." Nikita abandoned her gun on the night stand, then she picked up the remote control to the stereo, pointed it at the console and pressed play. Music filled the apartment, music Michael had left after an impromptu dinner a week ago.

Nikita ignored the music and started to pace. Without looking at him, she said, "I just ... I really need to say this, and I don't know if I can."

"All right," Michael said again.

"I know what my file says. I'm supposed to be Miss Emotional." Nikita frowned to herself, still not looking at Michael. She reached the half-way point of the room, pivoted, and came back toward Michael. "But both you and I know that's not exactly true." She pivoted again, pacing back across the room. Now it seemed she was talking more to herself than to Michael. "I don't know. I was always taught it was a weakness to let anyone know how you really feel. They use it against you. But I can't keep doing this. It's crazy. And it's not fair to you. Plus, it's dangerous."

This time she looked at Michael, and he looked at her expectantly.

She huffed, shook out her hands nervously, and, looking like she wished the earth would open up and swallow her, she said in a strained voice, "I love you, Michael."

"I know," he said gently.

"No, I mean, I love you. A lot. I never thought ... I mean, I sort of figured that part of me was turned off. You know? Like I had some kind of disability. Only it's easier to compensate for than other disabilities, I guess. Anyway," she said, shaking her head, looking even more pale than before, "I love you. I'd do anything in the world for you. I'd stay in Section forever if you wanted to. I'd do anything so we can be together. I know, it's a little creepy, but I can't help it. Maybe it's not the healthiest relationship in the world, huh? But I love you. I want you to know this, Michael. It isn't fair for you to think ... I mean, it's not right ... I just want you to know ..." She floundered, her face pinched so white that Michael thought it was entirely possible that she'd hyperventilate and faint.

"I know," he said, worriedly. "Nikita, why don't you come sit down by me? You look a little pale."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, and he tangled his hand in hers. She cradled his hand, tracing his fingers, studying the newly acquired scrapes across his knuckles, the blackened fingernails where his captors had smashed his fingers. "I love you, too," he said softly, curling his battered hand around hers. Two warm, wet drops splashed on their twined fingers, and Michael smoothed her tears away with his free hand. "Tell me what's wrong."

She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I just wanted you to know that I love you. I want you to be sure of the way I feel about you. You're everything to me. It scared me when I heard about your mission, about the stuff they'd drugged you with. It scares me every time when we have to go out. And it's never going to get any better, Michael."

"This is why you're getting tension headaches?"

"P-p-partly." She didn't meet his eyes, and Michael wrapped his hand around her hip, pulling her closer. Nikita didn't say anything else. She focused on her own hands, which were twisting with worry.

"Nikita, however bad it is, it will be easier if you share it with me."

"I-I-I'm not so sure of that."

"Trust me."

"I do," she said swiftly, her eyes meeting his finally.

"I know what this is about," Michael said slowly.

"You do?"

"Yes." His eyes narrowed, and he looked shrewdly at her. "You're scared about us living together."

"What?"

"Does this have anything to do with us moving in together?"

"Uh ... well, I guess it does, sort of, indirectly."

"What do you mean, indirectly?"

Nikita rose and walked toward the window, which was slightly raised. She leaned on the sash and looked out over the city, a good view, Michael knew. He'd often stood at the same window when he'd lived here long before Nikita moved in, watching the trees in the park across the way, the traffic in the coffee shop.

Softly, Nikita said, "You remember when we went to Vincennes?"

"Yes," Michael said, puzzled.

"I went there again other day. It was the first time I'd been there since we went together."

"That was a long time ago."

"It was only the second time I'd ever gone on a field trip with you." Nikita looked back at Michael, and he was relieved to see she seemed a bit more relaxed. Or maybe fatalistic, he thought. "And the first field trip was such a disaster, I was worried I'd have to kill someone else. I kept assessing the terrain, looking for the equivalent of a locked bathroom."

Michael was silent. He remembered their day trip to Vincennes vividly. Nikita had passed her first test but she had not performed as brilliantly as he knew she could. While he'd been training Nikita, Michael spent at least an hour with her every evening before going home to Elena. Nikita received adequate instruction from the other teachers, but like a concerned older brother, he'd quizzed her before he left for the day, trying to enforce the necessity of her classes. Until the restaurant and her first mission -- which hadn't even been a real mission, all the people in the restaurant were operatives -- she hadn't given him a lot of attention.

Now, Nikita crossed her arms, her back to the window. She tilted her head, a faint smile hovering around her lips. "You asked me if I knew who Mata Hari was."

"I remember," Michael said. He'd hoped to impress upon her the seriousness of Section's goals. During their pre-dinner conversations, he'd assessed her education and had sometimes thrown out various names and pieces of tantalizing information, then he'd just happen to leave something behind -- a book, a map, a notecard with even (he hoped) more intriguing information. It worked. Self-conscious about her ignorance, Nikita spent a lot of time in the library looking up little-known battles, strategies and people. She hadn't had a formal education. But Michael made up for her lack of knowledge by effectively cramming her with useful bits of information that, though she probably didn't realize it even now, had far better prepared her for Section than any Ivy League school could have.

He'd taken her to Vincennes where Mata Hari had been shot, and, in approximately the same spot that Mata Hari had been executed, he'd explained who she was, what she did, and how she died. "And that," he'd finished up the lesson, "Is what will happen to you if you are not smarter and tougher than the other side is. Mata Hari had great potential as a spy. But she let her emotions and feelings for her lover get in the way."

The late afternoon sun spilled through the apartment window, turning Nikita's hair to silver and her skin to pale apricot. She chewed on her lower lip, then said, "You told me to be smarter and tougher than she was."

"Yes," Michael agreed.

Nikita took another deep breath, then said quietly, "In some ways, I have been."

Michael didn't move a muscle.

"Michael, I've been ... I've been working for Center. For a long time. Three years. I'm ... I'm a double agent, Michael." Her mouth snapped closed, and she stared at him, her face blanched white with strain and her mouth tight.

Michael wet his lips and said carefully, "Just a double agent, Nikita?"

Confusion flashed across her face. "Uh ... lately, I guess I've been a triple agent. Maybe even quadruple. It's been a little ... confusing at times."

"I see."

She swallowed hard, swayed once, then, before Michael could say anything, she sat down hard in the chair near the bed. "I'm working for Center," she said again, her eyes darting over his face. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I understand. Is that who is listening to us?" Michael nodded to the stereo, and Nikita nodded.

"Among others. Section, Center, probably Red Cell ..." she said quietly.

He remembered the countless times she'd ask him to turn on some music -- "Anything, Michael, I don't care what we hear" -- and how she always liked the sound level comfortable enough to talk over but not low enough to separate voices from music.

"I turn it on when I want us to be alone," she said. "I got Walter to teach me the principles of a sound diffuser. But mine, when I turn it on, works too well apparently. I have to have outside noise, otherwise Center -- not to mention everyone else -- gets suspicious."

"You made a sound diffuser?"

"Yeah." Nikita sounded depressed. She sighed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

"When --? Why --?"

"It's not what you think," Nikita said heavily. "I didn't get into it for the money or the power or any of that other stuff double agents get in it for. I ..." Nikita sighed, then finally said, "When you let me go ... I really liked being free. I liked working at the cafe. Not a great job, but it beat killing people. And it was a lot easier on the psyche."

"I can imagine," Michael said dryly. Nikita glanced at him, looking confused, then looked back down at her knees again.

"The only thing was ... I missed you. It was ... weird. It wasn't as if we had ... I mean, we were colleagues. I was your student. We weren't even really friends, Michael. But I couldn't stop thinking about you. Then I got paranoid, like if I was thinking about you, you'd hear me and come get me. Crazy, I know. But it was kind of a crazy time for me."

"For me, too," Michael said softly, and Nikita glanced at him again.

"I was missing part of myself," Nikita said. "Plus, I was really worried about Section. I didn't think they'd find me. But I kept getting those messages from you and that just made me miss you more, and then one day Mick came in to the cafe."

"Mick. Mick Stoeppel?"

"Uh, yeah. But he's not really Mick Stoeppel, Michael. I mean, he is, but he's also the head of Center. Mr. Jones."

"Mick Stoeppel is Mr. Jones," Michael repeated, feeling a little numb. "That's impossible."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. I freaked out when I saw him. Threw a plate of eggs in the air and was out the back door like a streak. Of course, he caught me."

"Mick Stoeppel caught you."

"He's faster than he looks," Nikita said wryly. "A terrible shot, but he can move fast. In any case, he offered me a job."

"You came back into Section because of Mick Stoeppel." Michael felt like he'd been blind sided.

"Uh ... no. I came back for you. Mr. Jones -- Mick -- gave me a deal I couldn't refuse. I guess, if I'd known then what I know now, I wouldn't have taken it. But I didn't know how bad it was going to be, Michael, for either of us."

"What do you mean?"

Nikita ticked off her fingers as she said, "First of all, he never told me you were married. If I'd known that, I would've stayed away. He also kept Adrian a secret until the last minute. Center doesn't work like Section, Michael. Management isn't exactly hands-on. No one, except for you, ever intervened when Madeleine did her mind-melt thing on me, not to mention the everyday scrapes and drama of Section. I could've saved myself a lot of aggravation if I'd simply trailed you, mucked up a mission, knocked you out, and stolen you."

"Seems a little pushy."

Nikita frowned at him. "This isn't funny, Michael. I would've stolen you, except I didn't have the training or resources to find you then. Now, it'd be a piece of cake."

Michael looked at her, his eyes running over her frame from the top of her head to her feet. "I can't believe you didn't trust me enough to tell me this before now."

She swallowed. "It wasn't a matter of trust, Michael --"

"Who came to your aid when you were kidnaped by that woman you thought was a school friend?"

"You did," Nikita whispered.

"Who arranged things so you could escape Section after the Shays mess?"

"You did."

"Who moved heaven and hell to get your brain back when Section stole it?"

"You did," Nikita said, exasperated. "Michael, this isn't about trust. Of course, I trust you. But your reactions to Section politics had to be believable. And I couldn't tell you about Center and risk losing that."

The silence stretched out between them, while jaunty music downstairs played on. Finally, Michael said, "So, why are you telling me this now?"

"I'm starting to get worried."

"Now you're worried? You've been doing this for three years, at high personal risk to yourself, and you're only now getting worried?"

"I'm worried about you."

"In what way?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "This project we're working on, it requires a lot of different resources from a lot of different places. It's sort of like an assembly line. I do my part, then the project passes on to the next person, and so on. We all bring some personal agenda to the job, something that doesn't concern the other players. My personal agenda happens to be you."

"I see."

"Mr. Jones says my undercover work is almost done. We're almost finished, Michael. I know it was wrong of me to keep it from you this long. I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice."

He raised one eyebrow, and she colored deep red. "Okay, maybe I did have a choice. But I didn't want to distract you, Michael. You've been up to your nose in problems with Section. Not to mention problems with me. And I had to depend on you to get me out of those messes Section put me in, Michael, because Center wouldn't have."

"You weren't valuable to them?"

"It's not that. They just don't work that way. They expect their operatives to take care of themselves, not to depend on others. Kind of a different kind of teamwork."

"I see."

"I couldn't tell you."

"But now you can?"

Nikita's eyes skittered away from him again, and she said softly, "It's going to get really bad, really soon. You have to know what's going on so you can protect yourself. You know what I said about personal agendas? The people I'm working with ... they aren't concerned for your welfare. You have to be forewarned, Michael, so you can at least be prepared for the unexpected. I need you, and I need you to be strong, healthy and safe. If ... if you don't love me anymore, I'll understand. This is a big thing to forgive, but I want you to know that I meant everything I said before. I'm still committed to getting us both out. But after this is all over, we don't have to be together if you don't want to be. I'll ... I'll let you know where I am, and if you want ... if you can forgive me, you can find me."

"That won't be necessary."

"Oh." Nikita's head was bowed, but he could see tears dripping steadily onto her pants.

"I will be with you; therefore, there's no reason tell me where you'll be."

Nikita choked, then swiped at her eyes. She looked up at him, nose and eyes runny, face blotchy. "You're not angry with me?"

"I'm very angry with you. I want you to promise me -- promise me, Nikita -- that you'll never do something of this magnitude without at least telling me about it first."

"And you promise the same?"

"Yes."

She stared at him for a few seconds, then she nodded. "Okay," she said.

"I think you should tell me what the plan is."

"It's really pretty simple, so far," Nikita said carefully. "All you have to concentrate on is staying alive."

"What about you?"

"That's pretty much what I'm concentrating on, too," Nikita said slowly. "Things aren't as clearly defined in Center as they are in Section. We work with some ... unconventional sources at times."

"Unconventional? In what way?"

Nikita licked her lips nervously and said cautiously, "Liberty France. Glass Curtain, once or twice. Lately it's been a lot of Red Cell."

"I see."

"I really ... struggled with this, Michael. Whether to tell you or not. I have to be able to depend on you for day-to-day support. Your reactions for what I'm going to be doing in the next few weeks have to be genuine," she said slowly, "and I almost talked myself out of telling you what was going on. But ... like I said before: I'm concerned about your welfare. I'm not sure what's going to be happening, but I do know I have to manage to get out of Section and make it look like I took advantage of you. I have to have you in the clear. You have to react the way Section would expect you to react. No helping me, understand?"

"Nikita, I --"

"I'm serious, Michael."

"Does Section have any more ... rogue agents?"

"You mean turn-coats, like me?" Nikita's mouth twisted and she shook her head. "Over the past few years there have been a few, but I'm the last one left. Center's got a plant in other top organizations, though. We'll be meeting one of them pretty soon, I think -- Grenet. He's supposed to be the Cardinal for Red Cell. He's really Center, though."

"You were guarding me because you don't trust your allies."

Nikita sighed and closed her eyes. "I trust them to an extent. But I've gotten to the point where I don't trust anyone with your safety. Or mine."

"I see," Michael said. "Just so we're clear on this: the goal is getting out of Section, correct?"

"That's right."

"Getting out in such a way that it's believable?"

"Right."

"And never having anything to do with Section again?"

"Yes."

He looked at sharply. "Did you cook this up after that mission in Tennessee?"

"Uh ... before." She brightened. "But remember what you said? That you thought of being free sometimes, too? Of finding someplace safe, where normal people lived boring lives and worried about car payments and mortgages and whether the school's were any good?"

"I don't remember mentioning schools or mortgages. We aren't going to end up in Tennessee, are we?"

Nikita grinned, relaxing for the first time. "I don't know. Is that where you want to be? Because I really don't care. As long as you're there, anyplace is fine with me."

"When are we going to know --"

Through the music, they heard a knock on the door. Michael grabbed the remote, pushed the off switch, and sudden silence blanketed the apartment. He looked at Nikita, and she silently rose, tucked her gun in her waistband at the small of her back, and went to the kitchen.

Another knock. Nikita calmly filled the tea kettle, waited for another knock, then finally answered the door.

"Hi --" Mr. Jones came in, but when he spotted Michael upstairs on the bed, he turned into Mick. "Listen, Nikita -- I really need a favor --"

"Mick -- it's not really a good time --"

"I know, I can see that, but you've got to help me out -- dance lessons -- impress a girl --"

Michael nodded curtly at Mick like he usually did. Mr. Jones was Mick Stoeppel. Unbelievable. Michael had heard tales of Mr. Jones; he knew Madeleine and Operations were afraid of him; and to know that all this time, Mr. Jones, a man that Section wouldn't have minded taking out at any time during the last few years, was living next door to Nikita and doing a good job impersonating a gigolo (or worse) was mind-boggling. Michael listened as Nikita stumbled her way through the rest of the conversation. She said yes to everything Mick told her, ushered him out, then turned back to Michael.

"What did he say?" Michael asked, though he'd heard the entire conversation.

Nikita slowly went upstairs, stood by the bed and bit her lip. "Soon," she whispered. "Within 24 hours it'll be in motion."

"All right."

Silence. Nikita sat on the edge of the bed, and Michael sat up, swung his legs over, and rubbed his eyes.

"What are you thinking?" Nikita asked.

"A couple of things."

She waited. Finally, Michael said, "I threw him out of a moving vehicle once."

Nikita grinned. "He deserved it."

"Maybe."

"What else?"

He put an arm around Nikita. "I was thinking about our cohabitation."

"Oh."

"Yes. Oh." He leaned closer, gave her a warm kiss, and said tenderly, "Is there visual in your apartment?"

"Not that I know of," Nikita answered, her hand automatically moving to stroke his cheek.

"But there's audio," Michael said, giving her another melting kiss.

"Uh ... yeah ..."

"We'll have to resort to our old code."

"I hate that code, Michael." Her face buried in his neck, she whispered breathlessly, "Mick's is easier. All dance terms, girls' names ... Michael..."

"Ummm ...." Michael responded thickly. "Yes means no, remember, Nikita?"

"I hate that code. It always confused me."

"From here on out ..."

"All right," Nikita agreed -- but by that time, she would have agreed to anything. "Whatever you say."

"There's a change," he muttered. "Now you do as I say, but in two hours you'll be back to your own --"

"Michael."

"Here? Or ... here?"

"No," she said dreamily.

"No?"

"I thought we were talking in code," Nikita said, her eyes glowing at him and her arms around his neck. "I don't love you, Michael, and I never have," she said softly.

"You don't mean a thing to me," he replied, his hands sliding under her shirt, gently gliding on her skin.

"I better not," Nikita sighed, arching into his hands. "Mmmm ... Michael ..."

Michael stared at her for a moment, before kissing her again. "Where's the damn remote?"

"It's under --" Nikita lifted herself up, felt Michael's hand groping her backside, then settled back down as he wildly punched the remote and the apartment once again filled with music.

Weather-wise, it's such a lovely day,
Just say the words
And we'll beat the birds
To Acapulco Bay.
It's perfect, for a flying honeymoon:
Come fly with me, come fly, let's fly away.

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

Michael sat calmly through the wedding of the daughter of the interim Red Cell Cardinal. When the ceremony was over, he rose with the other guests, trying to look congenial and as if he belonged. Weddings always made him a little gloomy, and this one was positively depressing.

He studied the bride and groom, the friends gathered around, then the perimeter. He heard, very faintly, the hum of machinery. Then he heard Nikita's report that the Cardinal -- or the man Section assumed was the Cardinal -- had arrived.

Then, he heard nothing. Except Quinn, sounding a bit frantic, as she called for Nikita.

Seemingly without intent, Michael made his way through the guests to Nikita's last mark. She lay sprawled on the roof, blood everywhere, and the first thing Michael thought was, something has gone wrong.

"Nikita?"

Her eyes flickered open. He couldn't say anything, couldn't ask, for both of them were wired for sound -- Section was getting and recording everything, and Michael had a hunch that Red Cell had tapped into Nikita somehow. So instead of asking her anything or even bothering with their code, he called for assistance.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity. Michael reported in to Operations about the mission status and the fact Grenet was still alive. Operations wasn't happy, but then, neither was Michael. Nikita had lost quite a bit of blood, and by the time she was stabilized, the rest of the team was already on their way to Section.

Michael checked Nikita out of the local fly-by-night medical facility and called Section for transport. While they waited, Nikita dozed against him, tired from her transfusion and the mission. Michael had turned off his and Nikita's communicators hours before, but he wasn't sure who still had a line open on her. Instead of speaking, he nudged her awake and raised his eyebrows.

Nikita yawned and fumbled with a snap on her jacket. She screwed it around and Michael heard a faint click. "It's off," she said quietly. "You?"

"As far as I know, no one's monitoring us."

"Good." She settled back again. "This may be the last chance we'll get for a private conversation, Michael. Got any hot topics you want to discuss?"

"Grenet got away and Operations is not happy."

"Operations is never happy. We'll not get another chance at Grenet for awhile. It went perfectly."

"You got shot," Michael pointed out.

"A flesh wound. It's nothing serious."

"What's the next step?"

Nikita yawned again and leaned against him, wincing a bit as her bandage pulled. "Things are going to get more complicated. I've worked a deal with Grenet and I'm going to be leaving Section for awhile."

"Nikita, Section isn't a job. You can't take a leave of absence."

"Michael, trust me."

"I don't think --"

"Michael, who came to Russia to fetch you home three years ago?"

"You did."

"Who pulled you out of a Red Cell bunker when you'd just as soon stayed?"

He frowned at her.

"Who guarded you day and night when you were missing Adam and Elena?"

"You did," he muttered.

"Who saved you from that nutty friend of yours, Rene?"

"You did."

"Who broke at least three laws and a half-dozen Section mandates to get Elena and Adam out of Section's reach?"

"You did," he said grudgingly.

"Then, please, trust me on this one. Okay? I can't do this without your support, Michael. I need you to make sure our day-to-day activities go on as normally as possible. That way I can concentrate on my job."

He frowned at her again. Across the room, the double doors opened and two Section personnel quickly scanned the area, then started for Michael and Nikita to escort them back home.

"You are a very bossy and difficult woman, Nikita."

"I know." Nikita sighed and prepared to move her sore body. "And I promise, after this, you can make all the long-term plans. I never want to do this kind of thing again."

One of the black-clad figures stood at attention in front of them. "Ready for transport, sir?"

"It's about time you got here," Nikita grumbled. Michael gave her a gentle shove up and she stumbled into the other operative's arms; looking slightly ruffled, he offered her his arm and, trailing after them, Michael and the other transport operative brought up the rear.

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

Nikita let herself into her apartment slowly, being careful not to irritate her wound. As gunshots went, it wasn't too bad, but she was sore and tired.

And she really wasn't in the mood to talk to Mr. Jones.

She glared at him as she closed the door. "What are you doing here?"

"Heard you were injured, cupcake," Mick replied, smiling at her. "Not too much damage, I hope?"

"Enough," Nikita said shortly.

"Well, I brought something to cheer you up." With a flourish, he presented her with a square, flat package.

"I'm not in the mood for music," Nikita frowned, returning the CD to him.

"But you'll like this, Nikita. I promise."

With a sigh, Nikita waited for him to put on the recording. He turned the level up a bit, high enough so Section wouldn't listen in to their conversation, and quickly turned serious. "Grenet is very pleased both he and his daughter escaped injury the other day. He expressed his sympathy for your ... mishap."

"Yeah, I bet he did."

Mr. Jones cocked his head to one side. "You'll meet with him tonight."

"Okay."

He nodded, pleased, then paused. "How's Michael?"

"How do you think he is? He's irritated at me, and he's going to be even more put out when he realizes this --" she waved a hand at her midriff -- "was self-inflicted."

"He'll mellow a bit when he realizes he's out for good."

"What I'm doing is a small price to pay for his freedom."

"Going all noble on me, Nikita?" Mr. Jones smiled affably, and Nikita smiled faintly back. "Remember," Jones said, "You still have to do an evaluation on him. The records have to be perfect and I won't have anyone -- especially Operations or Madeleine -- questioning anything having to do with you or him."

"I understand. I can evaluate him anywhere, right?"

"That's right."

"While we're out of Section?"

"If you like. Make it a working vacation."

"Right," Nikita sighed. "The next few days are not going to be easy. And after that, it's just going to get more difficult."

"I have all the faith in the world that you'll succeed." Mr. Jones smiled at her. "You usually do."

***********

Oh, well, hell, Michael thought savagely.

He didn't often swear, even in his head, but he was extremely provoked and physically uncomfortable. His head was still a little fuzzy from the drugs Nikita had given him, he was wet and cold and, if he wasn't mistaken, things were just going to get worse. She hadn't even let him get through dinner before she drugged him.

This is what she meant when she said things would get bad?

Michael hung limply from his shackles looking weaker and more pathetic than he felt. Mostly, what he felt was anger. He was angry at Section, because he was always angry at Section. He was angry at Mick -- Mr. Jones -- whoever -- because he had a feeling that somehow, he had something to do with Michael's current position. He was angry at Red Cell because he was pretty sure he was a guest of theirs. And he was angry at Nikita for drugging him in the first place.

She should have just knocked him out.

On the other hand, maybe that wasn't realistic enough.

He jerked as the first volt of electricity sizzled through him. It wasn't too strong, but it wasn't a real comfortable experience and it took him a few moments to gather his scattered thoughts.

"Michael Samuelle," taunted one of his captures, "The mighty Section operative ..."

Oh, shut up, Michael thought, irritated. I'm trying to think.

One trick to get through torture was to keep an active mind. In order to do that, though, Michael found it was always most efficient to keep thinking through the torture rather than shutting down during the unpleasant parts and then trying to refocus during the lulls. Michael had whole pieces of prose and poetry memorized just for such occasions and from previous experience he knew that poetry worked best with electric shock.

Come fly with me, come fly, come fly away.
If you could use
Some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay.
Come fly away, come on, let's fly away.

He focused his mind on the lyrics to the last thing he'd been listening to at Nikita's apartment, thinking through the next electric shock, and as his body quivered, he let go of the poetry and concentrated on more important matters.

He had to give Nikita enough time to do whatever it was that she was doing. How long had he been out? As one of his captures came closer with the paddles, he craned his head sideways to see his watch. Two hours. Surely that was long enough for Nikita to ...

Another jolt of lightening seared him. Stronger than the first, or was he just weaker?

Weatherwise, it's such a lovely day.
Say the word
And we'll beat the birds
To Acapulco Bay ...

Michael sagged further.

Nikita had said his reactions had to be realistic.

More electric shock; his body jerked with the voltage.

... fly ... fly ...
Fly away ...

Try this for realistic, he thought bitterly, once his brain was functioning.

Realistic. Realistic. Realistic.

Zzzztttt ...

He gasped, hearing, rather than feeling the electricity.

Well, he decided. That's enough of that. Two hours is enough time to do a lot of things, and if she's not finished by now, she's not using her time effectively.

He gathered his strength and suddenly sagged against his bindings. He heard his two jailers come close ... closer ...

Michael lashed out, and in a few minutes he was free. The men who had such fun at his expense lay dead on the floor, and more irritated that he had been in a long time, Michael stalked out of Red Cell, intent on one thing only: getting back to Section and showing just how realistic he could be.

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

She wiped her files.

She walked out of Section.

She went directly to Craft.

And now, knowing that Section was still searching for her, knowing that Michael must be both angry and worried for her, and knowing that Jones was waiting (impatiently) for her to make the next move in their convoluted scheme, Nikita was having a minor personal crisis.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Weird. She felt more like a ghost than ever. She looked at what should have been her reflection, and Kate Quinn stared back.

Like everyone else, Nikita had from time to time indulged in silly fantasies about changing identities. She'd always hoped to be a few inches shorter, maybe with dark skin like Carla's, and she'd have dark, thick, curly hair. She always had wanted curly hair.

Well, she got the dark hair, all right.

It wasn't that she disliked Quinn. She didn't know her well enough to like her or not like her. Nikita was glad that Quinn was tall enough for Nikita to pass as her, and she appreciated the fact that not only did Quinn have a good job in Section -- being the head of Comm meant that Nikita could be in the thick of things and that made her contact with Michael easier -- but Quinn apparently minded the rules. She was such a good Section employee that Section hadn't even installed surveillance in her apartment.

"Quinn," Nikita said softly, "You're a goody-two-shoes. After this is all over, I really hope you decide to break out a little more. Live on the edge. Believe me, it'll help your psyche. Don't get me wrong, though -- I'm really glad you didn't make it all the way through training. I'm not in the mood for a real fight."

Maybe Quinn was good with Com. But she was a lousy fighter.

Now, Quinn lay trussed up and drugged on her bed. Nikita straightened her -- Quinn's -- jacket, checked her handbag, and said quietly, "Sleep well, Quinn. I'll come back tonight."

As Nikita turned to go out the door, she caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror and involuntarily jumped.

Weird.

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

Nikita was gone.

Michael wasn't sure how he felt about it. On one hand, he was glad that she'd gotten what she needed from Grenet. She'd pulled a fast one on Section, and he couldn't help but be proud.

On the other hand, he had a terrible suspicion that something had gone really, really wrong.

He wasn't sure whether his suspicions were baseless or not. Maybe it was just that for the first time, rather than leading the team, Michael was relegated to backup, a position he'd often held in Section but had never held with Nikita. It was disconcerting.

Or maybe it was the conversation he had with Operations after Michael discovered Grenet had been interrogated.

"Where is he now?" Michael asked, wondering if Center had managed to somehow extract him.

Operations gave him a slightly puzzled look. "Where do you think he is, Michael? He's been canceled, of course."

Of course. Michael felt cold inside. If Center allowed Grenet to be canceled -- Grenet, who was heading up Red Cell -- what would they do if Section caught Nikita, who was only a mid-level operative? Nikita said Center didn't operate the way Section did, and that employees were expected to take care of themselves. Grenet obviously hadn't been able to take care of himself, despite his position with Red Cell. Would Nikita be all right without the constant backup Michael had been providing?

And now, adding to his discomfort, he was being made to work with Quinn.

He couldn't stand Quinn.

Actually, that wasn't quite true. He had no reason to dislike her. She'd made a couple of cracks about him and Nikita, but then, so had everyone else at some time. Maybe it was just that she rubbed him the wrong way. Or maybe it was just that she wasn't Birkhoff. Or even Jason.

She was ... irritating.

Michael stood behind Quinn, answering her questions about Nikita politely, not really paying much attention to her. But then, something made him pause and look -- really look -- at her.

Dark hair. Wide eyes. Graceful bearing. And yet ... yet ...

"You'll have to give me everything you can," she said, her eyes wide and inquisitive. "I'll run the data and come up with several scenarios about her location."

"Fine," Michael said, still studying her.

"I've read her file and factored in her personality. I'm weighing in the fact that she's highly emotional."

Nikita? Emotional? Maybe some, Michael thought, but he considered her to be one of the strongest tactical personnel in Section. Surely those skills would be more important in trying to trace her, rather than her emotional makeup.

"Is there anything you can remember --?" Quinn asked.

They talked about various places Nikita would or would not go, and all the while, Michael listened, watched, studied Quinn. He cursed himself for not paying more attention to her a week ago or a month ago.

She looked like Quinn.

She sounded like Quinn.

But ...

As Quinn input data, Michael stood back and closed his eyes, listening to her voice as she asked him questions about Nikita. Discounting the timbre and sound of her voice -- which was Quinn's, he was sure -- there was something in the way she put her sentences together. The expressions -- or lack thereof -- she used.

There was something that just wasn't ... right.

"I understood that you were in love," Quinn was saying.

Michael threw out a piece of bait. "I never loved Nikita."

She looked a little taken aback; a reaction that anyone would have, but there was a tiny flicker of something in her eyes. He'd seen that same look hundreds of times before when he'd suddenly began talking to Nikita in code -- initial shock, then grim determination to keep up her end of the deal.

"I thought it was common knowledge," Quinn said, finally.

"That's what we wanted them to think," Michael said, improvising quickly, studying Quinn's face for any hint, any anomaly ...

"'We'?"

"Madeleine. Operations. Myself." Michael spun the story -- implausible to anyone who had been in Section longer than a few months -- and, rather than reacting with disbelief, as any normal person would have, Quinn simply nodded.

"I see," she murmured, going back to her computer.

Do you really, Michael wondered. His eyes narrowed. Very clever, Nikita. And very, very dangerous.

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

Michael allowed Nikita -- or rather, Quinn -- to work the rest of the day, while he wondered what his next step was supposed to be.

Turn in Quinn?

See what Nikita did next?

Try to figure out what the devil she was still doing in Section?

What was the realistic thing to do?

Finally, after considering all his options, he did what he would have done normally under the circumstances -- he pulled her into his office, verified that it really was Nikita under the Quinn costume, and let her take the lead.

But he wasn't at all happy about it. He was angry, and he didn't bother hiding it from Nikita. "Return to your post," he told her, and after a brief hesitation, she left his office.

Fine, he thought. The ball is in your court, Nikita. But if you think I'm going to sit around and wait for the next opportunity to leave Section, you've got another thing coming.

He had no doubt she had a plan for wiping his files and getting them both out. But it didn't hurt to have a back up plan, and Michael made excellent back up plans.

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

One week later, Michael lay on his back on the deck of a small boat, staring up at the gray sky. If Nikita had her way, they would have been on a hellish road trip across Europe, ditching cars right and left and no doubt camping.

A boat was better. Michael congratulated himself again for having the foresight to buy the sloop the day before their last mission. As back up plans went, it was excellent. And it was a whole lot more comfortable than backpacking through Romania or wherever Nikita thought they might go.

"Michael?" Nikita's head popped up from under the deck and she raised her eyebrows at him. Her hair was still a little funny, but it was her natural color, and the eyes that stared inquisitively at him were bright blue. They'd spent most of a day getting her back to herself; now all their white towels were dyed a rusty pink from the hair colorant she'd used and she had several little nicks and seams on her face from the prosthetics. They'd heal up soon and the towels could be bleached, though. Most importantly, she was Nikita again. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Aren't you cold out here?" she asked.

"I'm fine." Overhead the sky was a murky gray color. They were far enough away from land so there were no birds -- just endless, dark green seawater and a wide stretch of sky.

It was ... peaceful.

Michael felt the gentle rocking of the boat, heard the slap of the water against the hull, the pull of rigging as the wind drove the boat along.

Nikita came up, ducking under the sail.

"Careful," Michael said, "Watch your head --"

She stretched out beside him. "So, what do you think?"

"Just wondering how long it'll last."

She turned her head toward him. "Think of it as a vacation, Michael."

"All vacations end."

"This one will, too, but maybe not for awhile. I hope not, anyway. Mr. Jones said he'd give me as much time as he could."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm hoping for six months."

"Really?" Michael studied her. "You think that long?"

"I hope. Then I'll go back in, and you'll have some time to establish yourself on the outside. Then a few more months, and it'll be all over." She reached across and folded her hand in his, and they were quiet for a moment.

"I like you better in your own skin," Michael said finally.

"Does that mean you won't love me when I'm old and wrinkly and ugly?" Nikita teased.

"I will if it's you," Michael said. "But growing old with Quinn might be a little ... confusing."

Nikita chuckled. "It's a funny idea, growing old with you."

Michael raised his eyebrow at her.

"But I like it," Nikita said, smiling at him.

"Good."

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

For the first time in their relationship, Michael and Nikita began talking about the future in a real way -- not what they would do tomorrow or the next day or the next week, but what their plans were for the next few years, and even further. And finally, Michael began to feel like he was part of the planning process rather than just back up.

They used their computer sparingly. It was new and had never been in Section, but the types of things they accessed were enough to send up a red flag if anyone thought to look for them. Nikita, through her work at Comm, had picked up a few tricks and Michael had always been fairly crafty with a computer. Between them, they were able to monitor Section's progress on their retrieval.

Luckily, Section seemed to be stymied.

Michael and Nikita drifted. They'd started out in the Bay of Biscay, then followed the Continent, skirting the British Isles, docking when they needed fuel or supplies but not staying anywhere very long. The North Sea was calm in the summers and, without a definite destination in mind, they went from one port to the next.

"When are you doing your report for Center?" Michael asked idly one evening as they finished dinner.

"What report?" Nikita took the last piece of bread -- they'd docked the day before so they had fresh ingredients for their meal.

"Well ... the one on me," Michael said, a little uncomfortable. Nikita blushed a little, then she grinned. "I'm doing an evaluation, Michael," she corrected, sounding a bit chagrined. "Not a report. I'm not in contact with Center. They'll find me when it's time for me to come in, I'm sure."

"Unless Section finds us first." He'd woken up that morning certain that Section had found them and operatives were on the boat, getting ready to take them in. And though Nikita had treated the whole thing like a bad dream, something that could be soothed away, he still worried about it.

"Michael, don't worry about it." Nikita finished the bread and sat back with a sigh. "In the first place, there's nothing we can do about it. In the second place ... I don't think Section will find us first."

"I suppose if they did, there would always be another way out," Michael mused, and Nikita, a smile tugging at her lips, studied him. "What?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing."

Nikita got up from their tiny table and took the dishes to the tiny sink. She stopped up the sink, filled it with water and soap and begin doing the dishes. After a few minutes, Michael rose, brought the rest of the things over and silently began to dry what she'd washed.

They worked in silence, then, the last glass washed and dried, Nikita let the water out of the sink and turned to Michael, putting her arms around his neck. "It pleases me that you're able to do this, Michael."

"Dry dishes?" Michael put the dishtowel on the hook and wrapped his arms around her.

"No. Though that's a major plus. I meant that you're able to look at Section in a more realistic light."

"What do you mean?"

"There's always a way out, Michael. It's just that you needed a little time away to get a new perspective on things."

"You think so?" Michael leaned his head on hers, and they swayed as the boat rocked slightly from side to side.

"Yeah, I do."

"Does this mean you're giving me full points on my evaluation?"

"Trust me." Nikita pulled away from him a bit, cupping his face in her hands. "You're off the charts." She brushed a kiss across his lips. "Is that good?" Michael mumbled against her mouth.

"Very good." She kissed him again, and slowly they melted into one another.

"I like this," Michael said presently, and Nikita chuckled.

"Kissing?"

"No. I mean, yes." He kissed her, his arms tightening a little around her, and Nikita's hands ruffled the back of his hair. "I like being alone with you. I like being unmonitored." He kissed her again, this time very carefully on the side of her neck. "I like being out of Section."

"Would you still like it if I weren't here?" Nikita rested her head against his shoulder, her hand cupping his neck.

Michael thought for a moment. He knew what she was asking, and it was important to answer honestly. "It would be all right," he said finally, "But lonely."

"You might find someone else, Michael."

"No," he said thoughtfully, "I like you best."

Nikita snorted and gave him a great smacking kiss on his chin. "You're impossible, Michael."

"Can we go to bed now?"

Nikita glanced down. Her shirt was all the way unbuttoned and the top button of her pants was undone. She shrugged and grinned at Michael. "We might as well. I'm almost undressed as it is."

Michael smiled at her, then leaned forward and kissed her. It would have been chaste, except he kissed her between her breasts and when he pulled away, his eyes gleamed. He didn't say anything, but he held out his hand and Nikita, still smiling, took it.

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

They decided to get more money in Reykjavik since it was fairly close to Faeroe Islands, which was where they were. Besides, it had been a long time since Michael had been in Iceland and Nikita had a sudden urge to see more islands.

But something about it made Michael uneasy. In fact, on the way to the bank, he brought up their next move. "An island," Nikita said promptly, and Michael, who was getting a little tired of chilly weather, nodded.

"How about Rhodes?" It was far from where they'd started out; it was a fairly temperate climate; and it was pretty. Besides, he knew Rhodes -- not well, but well enough.

They found the bank and Nikita hopped out to fetch some money. Michael told himself he was uneasy because what they were doing was, technically, illegal. I'll have to remember to tell Nikita, he thought. She'll be pleased that I can tell the difference between legal and illegal activities.

But no ... no, that wasn't it. Michael frowned and wished Nikita would hurry up. He glanced around, and realized the town square, which was across from him, was suddenly, eerily, empty.

Nikita came back to the car, looking almost as worried as Michael felt. "They didn't even ask for ID --"

Michael studied their surroundings, trying to see how many Section operatives had been assigned to bring them in. If he'd been planning the mission, he would have sent as many as possible. At least two teams of three.

"Michael?"

"We're surrounded." He knew it wasn't supposed to be this way. He knew that Nikita was counting on going into Section without him. "There'll be another day," he said quietly, trying to reassure her.

They got out of the car, arms wide so Section would see they were not a threat. And like roaches, Section surrounded them.

The last free thought Michael had was, They sent four teams out for us.

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

Michael and Nikita's conversation in Containment had been easy enough. They were aware that Section was listening, and anyway, Nikita was so very disappointed at the recent turn of events it wasn't hard for her to fake despair.

It wasn't an act. She was feeling pretty desperate.

Besides, Center had never stepped in before to save her. Would they now? If they didn't, then this really was good-bye. Michael said he could manage without her on the boat, and Nikita knew it was true. He wouldn't have a good time, but he'd manage, and, she hoped, he'd make another pass at freedom.

At least we had a month together, Nikita thought, keeping her face expressionless as she was strapped into a chair. I wouldn't give up that month for anything. Not even to save my own skin.

Not that anyone was giving her that option.

She resolutely said good-bye to Walter, wishing once again that things had worked out differently. Then, she thought of Michael.

At one time, she'd been afraid that if she thought about him, he would find her and bring her back to Section. Now she only wanted him to be assured that her last thoughts were of him. She wasn't sure if she really believed in ESP, but she didn't have anything to lose. And anyway, she wanted to go out with her last thoughts being of Michael.

She shut her eyes, remembering ... remembering ... remembering ...

It was only when she realized that she'd been sitting there for a good quarter hour that she knew something was wrong. She should be dead by now.

An operative stalked in, and Nikita raised her eyebrows. "Is there a problem?"

"No power." He unstraped her and Nikita rose, stretching stiff muscles. Section didn't run out of power; she knew that from her time in Comm.

"What do you mean?"

"It's none of your business," he said, not unkindly, "But, seeing as how you've got yourself a reprieve, Section's power has been overridden."

"By whom?"

"Center. Come on. You're supposed to wait in Containment."

Well, Nikita thought. There's a first for everything, apparently. Even getting saved by Center.

Nikita wasn't surprised that on the way to Containment, orders came through for her to be diverted to the tower office. She made her way quickly to the door, where Mr. Jones was waiting. "Ready?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Sure?"

"Yes. Let's get on with it."

"All right then." He paused with his hand on the door, and turned back around. "Michael?"

"As far as I know, he's still all right."

"Good."

They walked into the room, Nikita taking standard guard position behind Mr. Jones.

She'd dreamed of this day: when she could enter Section with Mr. Jones, look Operations and Madeleine in the eye and let them know their game was finished. She knew what would happen, for she'd run SIMMs on it thousands of times. Operations would be dumbfounded. Madeleine would be working on her next move. They'd both be angry with her but angrier with themselves for being hoodwinked.

She always thought that when this moment came, she'd feel good. Happy that it was over. Excited because now Section would be what it was supposed to be, rather than a murky little fiefdom of Operations. Glad that she was finally getting out.

Instead, all she felt was tired.

She wasn't physically tired. She'd spent a month resting. But mentally, coming back into Section, having to deal with Operations and Madeleine and the whole unholy mathematic problem that was her life, was ... exhausting. Soon, she thought. Soon it'll all be over. Soon.