The following is a character study which will examine the events in the episodes from "Any Means Necessary" through "On Borrowed Time." It will include, then, major spoilers for both of these episodes as well as for "Three Eyed Turtle" and "Playing With Fire"; there will be, possibly more minor ones, as well, for: "Fuzzy Logic," "Noise," "Looking For Michael," "Gates of Hell," "Cat and Mouse," "Psychic Pilgrim," "Imitation of Death," "All Good Things," and "End Game." There will be (only) a few NC-17 chapters here, too, (which, of course, should not be read by the underage), although much of this story will be MA-14 for harsh language and adult discussions.

I should mention, furthermore, that I will be building on what I've already written, in "Heaven's Gate" (and a few other stories), about the season so far, although knowledge of those stories isn't particularly important to understanding what happens here. I should probably say, as well, that the major focus of this story will still frequently be Nikita and Michael, although the other characters will have a pretty major role in this, too. One more warning, as well--once again, I'm still writing this story, as it's being posted. If, therefore, there are additional spoilers later, I will tell you about them then. :) Oh, the total number of chapters, too, is still being determined. The number I'm using right now is a rough estimate; it might change. :)

Of course, as always--and even though there will be some dialogue and action from the episodes here, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following; I don't own these characters, etc. and am making no such claims by writing or posting this. Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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

The first time it happened was almost accidental--or, at least, it certainly hadn't been planned. The two of them had been sent in alone to infiltrate a compound, assassinate a husband and wife team, collect and download what they could and blow up the rest--and, because of the high level of technology they were facing, they were on dark approach until their pick-up. . . . If anything had gone wrong, then, they were on their own.

In many ways, of course, this was all pretty normal; neither Michael nor Nikita had been thinking about it particularly, in fact--or the opportunities it might grant them, when they had been briefed. They had only been planning--strategizing the best ways to achieve closure without any unpleasant anomalies. . . . They had never imagined where they would really end up.

Once they were in it, therefore, they had gone through their work efficiently, methodically--as usual. Since the two of them worked so perfectly as a pair, indeed, they had completed all their objectives in astoundingly quick fashion--with two hours to spare.

This, then, was how the two of them came to be sitting around in the upper apartment of a, now-abandoned, gatehouse, waiting for their transport out. Since the mission was over, as well, the "post-mission jitters," as some of the ops. referred to them, were beginning to set in; they were jumpy, tense--the adrenaline still coursing through them. . . . It didn't help, either, that they hadn't been alone together for quite sometime--and neither of them quite knew anything to say.

The silence between them, therefore, had continued to grow; they had both taken off their holsters and had now settled in for the wait. Nikita was posted by a window--more to give her something to focus on than for any other reason; she could see the remains of the large house they had set charges in burning in the distance.

She sighed. It had been two weeks since Michael had come by to promise her that they would be together--that nothing was over, but there had been nothing to show for those words since that day. There had only been . . . silence.

She was tapping her palm against her fisted hand slightly, unconsciously, as they sat there quietly--Michael sitting on the bed behind her. She could see his reflection, in fact, if she focused on the window the right way. . . . She was trying not to do that, though.

It wasn't that she blamed him for his distance, of course; she, after all, had been the one to split them up--the one to force him to let her go, however little she had wanted to do it. She had just been relieved, actually, that he hadn't been angry with her.

The fact that he hadn't discovered a way to keep his promise yet didn't surprise her much, either. She was stuck, really, between the thought that it would be difficult to impossible to actually fulfill his sweet words and the lingering concern that maybe time had taught him that he didn't want her as much as he had once believed. . . . And, even if that thought hurt her, she knew it was probably for the best--for him.

Still, the lack of words between them hadn't been positive; it had stifled them both. It was such a switch, indeed, from the incredibly open way they had approached one another in the few weeks before Section's "hard wedge." It had made her a little nervous and unsure around him, had started the train of thought which had led to her belief in his new attitude, . . . but it had increased his sadness, too, she could tell; even if he didn't want her as a lover, then, she knew that he still did need her as a partner.

They were, right now, therefore--she thought now, keeping their promise to Section, rather than to each other. . . . Right now, in fact--whatever the deeper emotional truths between them--all there seemed to be was regret and pain.

Michael could sense her anxiety--her caution about how to feel, about what to do. He watched her trying to be casual--saw her struggle to pretend to herself that nothing was wrong, but he knew it was a losing battle. They had spent two weeks catching one another in pain-filled, loving stares; had spent every day of it feeling lonely and sad. He watched the slight look of despair in the reflection of her lovely face. . . . It was time for all of that to end. His voice caught her off-guard. "`Kita." She startled just slightly, her nervous hand gestures ceasing; her eyes met his in the reflection from the window pane. "We're alone." He said quietly.

Her eyes were caught in his soft stare in the glass. Something inside her was frightened; she could feel it, even if she didn't consciously understand it. She took a deep breath and turned to him slowly, resting her arm on the back of the chair. She said nothing, not knowing how to begin--not really understanding where she was, emotionally.

He sighed slightly, deciding to just be as honest as possible. "We have two hours alone together." His eyes were so deep with love, his voice growing even softer. "I've missed you."

He made no move toward her, let her take the lead. She looked at the floor, though, her gaze a little upset. Her mouth half-opened for a few long seconds, before any words came out; when they did, they were very soft. "You still want me?"

His eyes took on a look of such pain. He rose quietly to approach her, stopping near her chair; her gaze was on his feet. He raised her chin to focus her on his face. "How can you ask that?" She said nothing. He sighed very slightly. "I've spent every day since you left me wanting you in my arms."

His thumb was running softly over her cheek. She swallowed heavily, fighting her tears. "I gave you up, Michael." She was unconsciously rubbing her face against his touch. "I didn't want to do it, but I did." She kissed his hand softly, still rubbing her head there, as her gaze went unfocused. "Why would you still want me after that?" Her words were incredibly soft, almost inaudible; she sounded more like she was asking the question of herself, instead of him.

He tilted her chin further toward his face to help regain her focus; she looked back at him completely. "I love you," he said softly; it was simply a tender statement of fact.

She closed her eyes tightly, turning her head to kiss his hand once more, before she pulled away, standing up. She went over to a window to stare out. She was silent for several more seconds; when she spoke, her voice held tears and self-recrimination. "Why?"

He closed his eyes, lowering his head. He hated it when she put herself down--hated to think of her *ever* seeing herself as anything other than the absolutely dazzling, holy creature that she was.

He raised his gaze again, as he walked toward her slowly. His hand stroked gently over her shoulder, when he got near; he was close enough to her to allow his presence to sink into her soul but not enough to make her feel pressured or pushed. "I love everything in you, Ni-ki-ta." The back of his fingers ran up to stroke over her hair. "There's nothing you could ever do which would make me adore you less."

She turned to him finally, swallowing heavily--tears in her eyes. "I didn't want to let you go." The tips of her fingers stroked just over his chest; she began to focus there, as well. "I've missed you every day," she whispered.

His heart ached to see her like this--even more so because he didn't understand quite why she seemed to feel so guilty. His hands framed her face, tilting it up to focus on him; his eyes--and voice--were soft and gentle. "I know." He shook his head slightly. "Why are you blaming yourself now?" He looked fairly confused. "Why second-guess what you felt you had to do?"

The fact that he hadn't wanted this path was too evident in his words, however--worked in too strongly to her guilt. She tried to pull away from him, her look upset.

He caught her in his arms and held her to him; she trembled a little. He kissed the side of her head. "I know why you did it," he assured her quietly.

Her arms were on his chest; she didn't feel she deserved his tender embrace. She hadn't realized--consciously, until now--just how angry she was at herself. "I couldn't see you hurt anymore." Her voice sounded like she was still trying to convince herself.

"I know," he soothed. He didn't think it was the whole reason, of course, but he felt the rest of it was his own fault.

She could sense his disagreement, though--not understanding its cause; she pulled back from him slightly, forcing him to hold her looser in his arms. "No, you don't." Her eyes weren't so much accusing as tormented; she shook her head, trying to understand him. "Do you think I wanted out? Is that why you haven't found a way?" She sighed. "Or is it just that there isn't one?"

His fingers caressed her cheek once more, his other arm still around her. "Are you angry at me?"

She shook her head, her answer honest. "No." She took in a deep, tortured breath. "I just want to know."

He pulled her toward him again, kissing her temple, before resting her against his shoulder. "I've been looking; I hadn't found one yet." He rested her there for another few seconds before pulling her back to focus on her once more. "I think this may be it."

She looked around them. "Here? On this mission?"

He sighed, his eyes unhappy. "On dark approach, whenever we can manage it."

She looked a little upset, as she turned her head away. Did he really just want to have sex with her--nothing more?

He lifted her chin again, capturing her eyes once more. "It's not what I want; it's not even close," he assured her. He sighed quietly. "But it is something." His thumb stroked her cheek. "It's more than we can have inside Section."

She swallowed heavily, still looking upset; she had to focus away from him. Her voice was very small. "I want whole nights with you, Michael--not an hour or so," she shook her head, "not just a casual encounter."

He turned her chin back to him slightly more roughly than he had intended. His eyes burned her; his arm held her to him more tightly. "*Nothing* with you will ever be casual, Nikita." He shook his head. "Nothing."

She closed her eyes, the truth of his gravelly, tormented tone getting through to her. She put her arms around him and leaned in toward him, resting her cheek against his. She sighed slightly, as she felt him hold her closer; she swallowed heavily again. "I've missed you, Michael." She shook her head a little, kissing his cheek. "I've just missed you so much."

His heart seemed to shudder within him--at her words, at the feeling of her in his arms, . . . at the touch of her soul to his own. He closed his eyes, kissing her cheek before moving her back enough to be able to look at her. "I've told you before, and nothing's changed." His eyes held hers completely. "You're my wife; you're my heart." His thumb stroked her cheek. "I want a lifetime with you--not just a few hours." He sighed, his focus resting on her lips for a few seconds, before he looked back up to her eyes. "But I'll take whatever time I can get--whatever time I can steal to be with you, to love you."

He saw that she was about to speak and shook his head, stopping her--his gaze revealing the honesty of his soul. "It's not enough, and it never will be--but I want to be with you, whatever it takes." He sighed once more, his gaze going back to her lips. "So long as I know that there'll be another night with you somewhere, sometime, I can go on." He looked back at her. "Without that," his gaze pierced her soul, "*nothing* else could ever be real."

She closed her eyes tightly, a tear escaping down her cheek. She adored him so deeply. She lowered her head to place her cheek on his chest, listening to the quickened beat of his heart. "Do you think there'll ever be more than this?" Another tear escaped her. "Do you think we'll ever be able to just love each other like we want?"

He kissed the top of her head and held her much closer to him. She could feel the intense heat of his gaze. "*Yes.*" He kissed her head again. "I'll see to it, someday." He held her closer. "It's why I'm surviving."

"Michael," she murmured. She buried her face in his chest, holding him close.

"Ssh, my love," he whispered softly. "Don't cry." He kissed her head again. "We're together, if you want it."

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

She raised her head to him, her eyes determined now; the feeling of him close to her, of his arms around her, had awakened all of her sensual needs--all of the ones only he truly commanded. "I want it." Her look softened, her love for him flowing through her. "I want you."

He closed his eyes, his heart pounding within him. "Yes," he breathed.

Her hands came up to frame his face, and he focused on her for one long second, before she pulled him toward her. They shared a deep, soft, loving kiss then--all of their devotion mingling together, making both of them feel whole and needed.

A moan rose from them both. Being here, in the soft kiss, in the strong embrace, gave them a strength neither had really felt in the two weeks before it. This wasn't, of course, exactly what either of them wanted, but they knew they couldn't afford to question it. It may not be for the entire night; it might not be forever, but they were together, anyway--were whole for just a few hours. . . . This--and the promise of it--would just have to be enough for them, for now.

The embrace continued, their hands framing one another's faces, keeping them in the soul-stirring, deep kiss. They moaned in it. Just the sensation of being this close was so intense. Neither of them had quite realized before just how lonely they had been in the past two weeks; they had known it then, yes--but, when seen in contrast to this--to this subtle mingling of souls, the heartbreak of their enforced isolation made them tremble, made them need each other insanely.

Nikita broke from the kiss for a second; tears were still on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Michael--I'm so sorry for what I di--."

He broke off her apology by giving her a brief, hard, deep kiss. He then pulled her back from it, as she moaned. His hands caressed her face strongly; his voice was a little harsh. "Don't apologize to me ever again--for anything." His eyes burned into her; he couldn't stand to ever hear another self-recrimination from her again.

He met her soft eyes fiercely for one more second, before he pulled her into a deep, commanding kiss—practically bruising her lips with the force of his need; he was suddenly desperate to show her how much she meant to him. She whimpered and held him toward her, her hands in his hair.

They were both trembling with emotion. All of the pent-up desire, love, need, sorrow, fear, and pain were exploding within them--were demanding to be let out. The ruthless kiss was unlocking all of these feelings, and the flood was about to follow it. . . . Both of them, too, were more than ready to have it carry them away.

Her hands began to run over his chest, but she was frustrated at the reminder that he was still clothed. He, too, seemed to have remembered the same thing about her simultaneously. He growled in the kiss, and she broke from it with a moan.

They both, then, began to undress one another quickly. Her hands ran under his jacket, and she pushed it off of his shoulders; he did the same with hers, a second later. They each found the bottom of the other's shirt and began to roam their hands underneath it, lifting the material, until they both had to return to their own garment--discarding them from themselves.

They were caught for a few seconds after that, though, by the sheer sight of one another. Their breathing became increasingly unsteady, as their hands began to roam each other's chests--their gazes caught there.

They both let out moans, as she leaned forward to nip at his shoulder--wanting to taste him again. He took the opportunity, as well, to suckle just under her jaw.

The groans they let out from these small ministrations were immense. They returned to gaze at each other, after a few seconds spent tasting the other's skin. . . . They couldn't wait much longer.

She started to take off her boots, and he shook his head at her, dropping to his knees. His eyes stayed with hers, as he ran his hands down her leg; she balanced her hand on his shoulder--her other running softly through his hair, as he loosened her boot gently, removing it and her sock, before pushing them to the side. His hand caressed her foot, stroking lovingly over the arch.

She closed her eyes finally, his gaze too intense for her. He moved to her other boot and removed it and her sock in the same, gentle way.

He looked back up to see her eyes still closed. He smiled slightly and leaned in, pulling her toward him by her waist, and began to suckle at the navel he so loved to taste, his tongue teasing into it.

"Michael," she whimpered, her hands in his hair. It felt so good, . . . and it had been so long.

He moaned against her skin. It had been forever since he had last tasted her. A day was too long to wait to touch her--but two weeks had been an unspeakable torture. He had thought of her every night, had dreamed of her in his arms, of her scent filling his senses. Now that they were finally together again, he was desperate to please her--wanted so terribly to hear her moans.

She obliged him without knowing it, her head back, as the warm sound rose from her throat. She loved the way he touched her--loved everything about him. . . . Lord, she wanted more.

He sensed her growing hunger--knew his own--and moved his hands to begin to remove her pants. "Yes," she sighed, and a slight tremor ran through him in anticipation of being able to taste her desire.

His hands lowered the rest of her clothing, and he leaned back to help her to step out of them. He smiled at her incredible body, as it was revealed. His hands played around her naked hips; his mouth hung open at her beautiful form--at the lovely curls which hid her treasures. "`Kita," his reverential voice breathed.

She was barely breathing--was utterly captured by the look on his face, by the desire and worship in his eyes. Dear God, she wanted him to taste her.

She pulled him toward her just slightly, reminding him of what she needed. He looked back up to capture her eyes again, as he leaned forward and caught her tender bud in his mouth, suckling her strongly.

"Uhhhh," she moaned loudly, her head falling back. God, he felt so good when he did that. She was trembling--the sensation spiraling deep inside her, making her weak with need.

He saw all of this, understood how desperate she was. He ran his teeth over the incredibly-delicate and aroused bud softly, and she let out a screaming moan--trembling strongly against him.

Oh God, this felt too good. Everything inside of her was quaking for him, the joy in her more intense than she could have imagined, the pleasure in her started just by his gentle touch. . . . How did he always do this to her? How could he always bring her such release so quickly?

He saw her small ecstasy and gave her one last lick here, moving down her. His thumb began to stroke the neglected bud in just the rhythm she needed in order to build her pleasure even further.

"Mi-chael," she moaned out for him, a second before she screamed out in desire. His tongue had trailed its way inside her--was working down one shaking wall, stroking along her in a warm, aching rhythm.

She was moaning deep in her throat. God, this felt right. She held him to her more intensely, adoring everything he did to her. She had missed him so much these last two weeks, had ached with the separation. Now, though--now her beloved was back with her, was working her desire in the way only he ever could. . . . She loved him so much.

Her breathing was rattling in her lungs. He used her hips to pull her further toward himself, and she groaned. "Yes." The feeling of his lovely, talented tongue stroking a heated trail along her needy inner wall made her tremble for him--made her quake.

She was still shaking slightly from her last, small release. Now the combination of his thumb circling her bud and his tongue blazing a path only he ever could inside of her made her feel absolutely insane--made her moan with the ecstasy which was approaching her.

He saw all of this, of course--and he was insane for it, as well. Her pleasure was a drug for him--had addicted him completely. . . . He had to have more.

He held her to him more firmly, his tongue stroking her deep, while his thumb's ministrations grew more intense. She let out a long, whimpering moan--everything inside her starting to shake. He drew his nail very lightly over her bud, while he licked devotedly at one desperate little spot.

She screamed against him, shaking insanely. The tremors within her were nearly savage, caused her entire body to shake, as she held him to her strongly. The feeling heated everything within her, made her long for them to be together--to be a whole--for eternity.

He held her close to him and drank deep of the honey of her desire. His eyes were closed, as he savored her. Nothing--no one--could ever arouse him more; no one else could arouse him at all. Nikita was every definition of desire and love he would ever understand. Nothing outside of her could ever quite matter to him.

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

They stayed like that for some time, as her little moans continued to echo through her. She could never get over the aching joy he alone gave her. . . . She could never even imagine wanting anyone else.

He finally pulled back from her here--not really wanting to but knowing that he needed more of her, as well. She moaned, her eyes still closed--lost in her joy, as he began to kiss his way back up her again.

God, he loved her. He was savoring every tender patch of skin he encountered, as he went--was adoring the little moans which rose from her with each one. He stopped for a few long heartbeats, too, to suckle strongly at a lovely nipple--savoring her, lost to her taste--to the desire she alone could bring him.

Her hands ran deep in his hair. God, he felt so good, but she needed more of him. "Michael," she called to him, desperate for him to return to her.

He licked the nipple he was loving goodbye and nipped over its twin slightly, before he began to move warm, wet kisses up the exposed line of her throat. She moaned, trembling.

He reached her face finally, and they opened their eyes to gaze deep into each other's. "`Kita," he begged for her. She smiled and drew him into a deep, searching kiss--loving him desperately.

His hands stroked up her back into her hair, and he took out the band which held it back, dropping it on the pile of her clothes behind her. His fingers twined in the strands, loving all of the beautiful sensations she gave him.

She moaned and continued the kiss for another minute or so. The love which flowed from him made her tremble; she wanted him so much. She could feel his huge, throbbing arousal beating against its confines, and she groaned loudly. . . . She had to touch him now.

She broke from the kiss finally, her teeth running softly over his lower lip. His eyes flashed at her, as they refocused on one another, and her hands stroked sensually down his chest. "`Kita," he moaned again.

Her smile deepened, and she lowered herself slowly to her knees before him; his widened eyes followed her every move. She then returned his earlier favor--holding his eyes, while she carefully removed his boots and socks. One nail traced lightly over his arch and he trembled, closing his eyes.

She smiled at him even more teasingly at his lovely reaction. She adored that she could do this to him--that, with the smallest touch, this beautiful man could be hers.

She repeated her action with the other foot, then, as she leaned in to lick into his navel, and he let out a small groan. He looked at her again, his eyes pleading with her--loving her.

His boots and socks discarded, she leaned in to his still-covered arousal and breathed a hot kiss over it. He let out a desperate groan, as his shaft grew yet further--now painful against its confinement. "Please," he begged. He looked back at her.

She smiled and unbuttoned his pants before slowly--carefully--unzipping them. Her gaze didn't leave his.

His breathing was imperiled, as she continued. He closed his eyes for another second, as she finally lowered away the rest of his clothes and helped him step out of them.

He was so aroused already, but her next move made him gasp--brought back his desperate focus to her: she ran the tip of her tongue up the vein on the back of his shaft. His groan grew wild, as he looked down at her, his eyes pleading.

She smiled at him deeply, seductively. "I've missed you," she stated simply, before she began to run the tip of her tongue in a circle around the head of his hard, throbbing length.

"Oh God--`Kita," he moaned. "Yes." He closed his eyes once more, his head hanging back.

Her smile grew deeper, just before she opened her mouth to take him in. She ran one long suck along him, and he trembled desperately against her.

God, she had missed this, she realized once again. Her hand began to caress the balls of his sac; the broad side of her tongue stroked over the head of his shaft. He let out something like a whimper. She loved making him desperate with his need for her--loved that she could give him such desire, such pleasure.

"Uhhh," he groaned hoarsely, as her hand and mouth began to move on him slowly. His hands stroked through her hair, his head back. He had missed this so much. The desire she gave him like this made him quake for her. His shaft was so hard it felt like stone; he knew she couldn't even understand how good she was.

He forced himself to open his eyes once more, looking at her again; his breath was coming in little pants. "`Kita," he called for her. He wanted to take the pleasure she gave him here, of course, but there just wasn't time--and he so desperately wanted to please her, to be one with her. . . . He wouldn't survive without that again.

She let out a protesting groan, as he pulled her away from his beautiful shaft. She gave the head a final lick, her eyes on him heated.

"Please," he begged, pulling her back to her feet. He adored everything she did with him, but he knew he wouldn't survive for much longer, if she continued to taste him; he just didn't have that much stamina--no man did, for her.

She agreed, reluctantly--understanding. She began to taste her way up his body, then--licking at all the spots she knew made him quake.

He moaned at her ascent, his hands in her hair once more. She smiled and nipped her teeth over a small, erect nipple, her tongue teasing it, as well. His groan rumbled through him. She repeated the move once here and once on its twin, feeling his hard shaft jump against her.

He closed his eyes, lost to the feeling of her mouth upon him, as she kissed her way up his throat. She was such a goddess, was so divine. He wasn't sure how he ever withstood a single day without her.

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

She smiled at the look of abandon and need on his face, as she came back fully to her feet. She captured his lips, loving him--possessing his mouth as her own.

He moaned wildly and pulled her further toward himself, his hands deep in her hair. Her hands held onto his shoulders, as she delved all the beauty that lay behind his warm, willing lips.

God, he was desperate for her now; he needed her so much. He pulled her deeper into the kiss, as he lifted her--holding her above him.

She moaned and wrapped her legs around him, and he carried her over to the bed. Slowly, he moved both of them onto it and positioned them, until he was lying beneath her. They both moaned deeply.

She was kneeling above him, as she held him up to herself slightly in the kiss. She loved all of the feelings of this--loved his total devotion and abandonment to her, loved his obvious desire to be possessed by her, to be loved by her.

His large, hard length throbbed beneath her, desperate to be one--to connect them. She moaned and rubbed her wet depths over him, moaning more loudly, when he twitched.

She broke from the kiss with a groan to look at him, then. Both of their mouths were open, panting, as their eyes connected them completely. Her hands held onto--massaged his shoulders, as she teased them both by rubbing herself along him.

He closed his eyes finally, unable to take anymore. "`Ki-ta," he begged. He looked back at her, his hands framing her hips, positioning her; he groaned, as the tip of his shaft just touched her entrance. "Now," he pleaded softly. "Take me now."

She let out a soul-deep groan at his request, shaking slightly. She moved her hips down just enough to take in his head and then closed her eyes, shuddering with the sensation. "You feel *so* good," she moaned.

Her eyes opened once more to lock with his, and his groan grew loud and intense. He was so lost to her, was so completely devoted to anything she wanted.

He continued to help move her down his huge, hard shaft, while she lowered herself onto him slowly. Every inch seemed to shudder through them both, made their need to join even more intense.

She shuddered with every advance, as he began to fill her, penetrating deep. She could feel his large head sinking further and further into her depths. . . . God, she loved it.

She bit her lower lip, letting out a whimper of joy and desire and moved down on him even more. Her eyes were closed once more, as she savored the sensations.

He could feel her slight tremors, as they joined, and he moaned with each one. Her wet, velvet depths closed around him so perfectly--held him like nothing else. . . . God, he had been without her for so long, for longer than he ever wanted to be bereft of her again. He needed all of her now.

She let out a loud moan, as his entry became more constant, more steady--as he lifted his hips up off the bed to begin to fill her deeper, running far inside of her tight, wet walls. Her eyes opened to look at him, her gaze giving and intense; they were both moaning.

She rested herself on her knees and moved her hands down to his hips; her nails sank into his soft curves slightly, encouraging his entry into her--pulling him deeper, further. "Yes," she whispered brokenly, as his large head began to enter far into her, nudging against her core.

He closed his eyes, so utterly lost in her that he was no longer certain where the lines between them were; he was moaning deep in his chest. His grasp on her hips became firmer, as he drew her down more insistently upon him.

She moaned deeply, as he filled her depths completely. She too closed her eyes, lost in her sensations of him. She knew, though, that there was still more of him--and she wanted the rest of his beautiful length very, very badly.

She opened her eyes again, focusing on his perfect face. "Yes," she begged.

He felt her heated, loving gaze on him and opened his eyes. He moaned and held her gaze completely, as he gave her a circling thrust, stroking more of himself deep inside her.

"Uhh," she moaned, her eyes closing momentarily. Lord, she had missed that feeling--had missed *him*. She looked back at him, her look a little feral; her nails sunk deeper into his soft curves, not willing to let him back off. "More, my love," her rich voice teased.

"Uhhhh," he echoed her, giving two deep, circling thrusts in succession into her lovely core. The second sunk him into her to his base.

She closed her eyes, licking her lips, at the move. "Ahh!" she moaned. His perfect entry had stoked the fire in her into a raging heat; the only thing which could ever assuage it was more of him--much more of him.

She looked back at him to see his gaze of lost, total devotion--of rapturous worship. Her feral little smile shone back at him, as she moved her hands to his shoulders once more. She gave him a small, circling thrust just to tease him.

He moaned out wildly, wanting so much more of her. His hands began to help her stroke along him then--long, slow strokes which landed his large head every time deep within her sensitive core.

A throaty, laughing, moan broke from her, and she leaned down to him; her hands framed his face, as she licked over his lips. "Do it rough, Michael." Her tongue circled his open lips again, evading his attempts to catch it with his own. "I want my body to have the sweet memory of you for days to come."

He moaned desperately below her. He wasn't even sure he could speak anymore. His tongue caught hers finally, and they played with each other's--their lips just back from one another's--for several long, lovely heartbeats.

His thrusts were deep, and she was taking each of them with a happy, laughing moan. He groaned in his throat. Dear God, she was so beautiful. Her soft, tight depths felt so good around his hard, aching length. . . . He needed more of her *so* badly.

His hands ran into her hair, then, and he rolled them both over with a moan--catching her in a deep, commanding kiss. "Mmm," she moaned against him, loving it all.

A growl rumbled in his throat. He needed her so badly he was trembling.

He pulled his shaft half out of her and then gave a stroke deep into her core. She moaned out desperately through the kiss, holding him closer, and he repeated the lovely thrust again.

Her desperate moans continued, as her hands ran deep in his hair, pulling him further into the kiss. Her legs wrapped tightly around him, wanting so much more of this lovely feeling of need.

He groaned and gave it to her. His strokes moved halfway through her, hitting her core in a constant, insistent rhythm. He could never grow used to how perfect she was, how perfect she felt; even if he were fortunate enough to have her with him constantly, even if they were lovers every day, he could never get anywhere near enough of her perfection, could never grow even mildly used to her.

She was whimpering beneath him slightly, as he continued his long, perfect strokes. He was bringing into life every millimeter of her soft depths, had molded her just to his large, lovely measurements; his thrusts against her core made her tremble. . . . God, she adored him.

He growled again and trapped her head firmly in his hands. He moved his strokes further into her, his thrusts short and deep--slightly rougher. His mouth had moved back from her a little, his tongue and teeth taking turns playing perfectly with her soft lips.

She whimpered again, trembling slightly beneath him, and his strokes grew rougher, each one hitting her core hard. . . . Dear Lord, he needed her.

She broke from his lovely toying with her lips and groaned loudly at the sensation; her nails sunk into his shoulders slightly, her eyes closing. "Yes," she moaned, meeting his strokes devotedly. "More."

He stroked his thumb near her temple gently, and she opened her eyes again. When she did, she saw the tender, loving look in his. She whimpered, her legs holding him tighter--begging for more.

His strokes continued their rough, perfect assault on her core. His face, however--the gentle strokes of his hand over her temple--were just the opposite, were tender, loving. "I've missed you, `Kita," he whispered.

A thrust moved further in, and she arched into him, moaning wildly. She was so close now--her depths had closed on him so tightly, were begging for more of the wonderful friction only he could truly give her--the one which always brought her to such shuddering heights of light and joy.

He smiled tenderly at her. One hand moved down to her hip, holding her deep on him, as he stroked incredibly roughly at the spot which was most making her moan out in pleasure. His other hand stroked gently along her cheek. "I've missed you, my wife."

Her head went back sharply, her breath coming in little gasps. She was arched into his thrusts, was begging for his rough devotion; her cheek rubbed against his hand, as well. The combination of all his tender and feral desires made her ache for him desperately.

His smile continued. He could feel her nails sinking into his shoulders in her pleasure, and he closed his eyes, adoring her.

He leaned down to kiss along her cheek tenderly. He adored her so much--was mad for her pleasure. . . . That she loved him like this in return made him weak with his desire.

She shook beneath him. Every thrust to her core shuddered through her, made the light within her tremble. He was playing her desires with such expertise that she could barely even comprehend her own sensations. . . . She wasn't sure how much more she could take.

She was giving a series of desperate whimpers beneath him with every wonderful, rough thrust--with his every sweetly-brutal strike to her incredibly-sensitized core. "Mmm," he moaned happily above her.

She felt him kissing softly along her cheek; their hardened nipples rubbed over each other, as his body moved above her. She whimpered, tears flowing down her cheeks.

His strokes grew far more brutal--beating home into her core in a rhythm which left her gasping, but his lips were even more gentle, at the same time. "Ssh," he whispered to her shuddering form beneath him. His hard, giant length hit her in a way which made her quake. He kissed away the tears from her cheek, tasting them softly, bringing them into himself. "Come."

She let out a loud whimper, as he connected with her core in a way which made her shudder wildly--in a way which sent echoing tremors deep within her. He kissed her cheek gently again.

She arched into him, screaming. Her nails tore down his back, as her depths clasped desperately around him, the tremors of light filling her entire body.

"Mmm," he murmured, at all of these sensations; he kissed her cheek softly again. God, he did adore her. She was giving desperate, crying whimpers beneath him, as she clung, arching into him. No one else could ever feel this right--no one else could ever make him this happy when he pleased her.

She was clinging to him, crying. She buried her face in his neck finally, as she shuddered beneath him. She gave a moaning, "Ohhh," each time a shudder of her ecstasy echoed inside her.

He adored her so much; she was absolutely everything to him. He smiled and buried his face in her hair, taking in her scents, letting himself revel in her constant, beautiful sounds. To know--to feel--that he had given both her body and her soul such joy gave him a feeling of purpose, of meaning unlike any other he had ever known.

She was whimpering into his neck, as she trembled below him; he was kissing tenderly around her ear. She couldn't stop weeping with the ecstasy of this; it was all so right--was all so perfect. He completed her--both the side of her which needed him feral and wild and the one which wanted him tender and loving. He gave her everything she could ever need. . . . There could never be anyone else.

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

He felt her tears flow down his neck, and he kissed her ear again. "Ssh," he murmured once more. "Don't cry, my sweet one." He kissed the shell once more. "I love you."

She moaned loudly; that particular, beautiful revelation hadn't exactly stopped her tears. He moved her back from his shoulder to focus on her, at the same time that his hard, lovely length began to give long strokes through the whole of her tight, perfect depths once more.

"Oh," she moaned, whimpering slightly. Her eyes were wide. She was *so* lost to him, was so in love. Her hands framed his face. "Michael," she moaned.

He smiled gently at her and softly invaded her mouth, kissing her deeply, tenderly. His strokes were long and slow, were adoring every tiny millimeter of her depths, as they moved through her--were stroking just along her entrance with each one.

She shuddered beneath him, completely lost to this man she adored--and to all of the beautiful feelings he gifted her with. He was her partner, her husband, her lover, her life, her joy; their gentle kiss teased all the softness’ of each other's mouths. "Mmm," she moaned, wanting more.

He let out a low moan, understanding her desires. He pulled her up toward himself, then, still kissing her deeply--tenderly, until she was sitting on his lap--his hard length buried deep within her core.

She moaned loudly, kissing him more deeply. God, he felt so good. His incredible length was braced just against her most tender spot; their hips moved together in a small, undulating motion--rubbing the large head of his wonderful shaft over the lovely place of need.

"Mmm," he moaned through the kiss. She felt so right, felt so perfect wrapped around his length, enclosing the ever-increasing, aching warmth of his hard shaft within her soft, soft depths--their small movements creating a friction like no other within her tightly-caressing walls.

He was ravishing her mouth more deeply, as she moaned above him. Her hands were buried in his hair, as she held him in the kiss; her legs surrounded him tightly, as she rode over him more intensely. . . . She wasn't sure anything had ever felt as good.

They were both rubbing the head of his aching length over the tremblingly-tender surface of her core more desperately--the lovely friction between their bodies making them both tremble with the nearness of their release. Their kiss searched each other's softness’ more intensely, exploring all the beauty of the other's depths.

They were both moaning, their hands deep in one another's hair. Their kiss was growing wilder, slightly more brutal--their moans growing desperate. Her heels were buried against his soft curves, their thrusts into each other brutal and deep.

God, it felt too good; the sensations were just too much, finally. She broke from the kiss to scream out, her breath coming in short little gasping, "Ahh-ahh"s. Her eyes were wide and focused on him pleadingly. Her core was so tremblingly close to release that her whole body shook with it--the shards of light from it beginning to penetrate her soul.

"Uhhh," he groaned out. The aching heat of his shaft was rising almost uncontrollably; he could only hold on for another few seconds. . . . She was just too perfect to delay any longer than that.

His hands ran down that incredible body he worshiped for its housing of her even-more-divine soul to grab onto her hips tightly. Their eyes were locked completely; they seemed to be seeing into each other's souls, . . . and they both moaned lovingly with the sight.

His look became more desperate, became slightly feral, as he pulled halfway out of her. "I love you," his passion-hoarse voice whispered to her, his eyes not allowing her to question the words' absolute truth. Then, his hands pulled her hips down onto him roughly--stroking her tight, wet, trembling walls over the whole of his huge, aching length--burying the large head of it deep, roughly, within her core.

She let out a shaking scream, the light exploding within her. Tears ran down her cheeks; her nails sank into his shoulders, as her eyes connected with him completely--desperately. "I love you, Michael," she moaned in a rough whisper.

He gave a heartbreakingly beautiful little smile at her for just a second, before his eyes closed, his head falling back. "Unnhhhhhh," he groaned out from his soul; he managed to open his eyes for her half a second before he arched at her more fully--the aching warmth of his release barreling deep within her core, spreading throughout her entire body in its honeyed, throbbing, perfect effect.

She saw the beauty of his honest, completely devoted, look and closed her eyes--overwhelmed, feeling the gift of his joy absolutely as it connected with her. Her tight, shuddering, pleasure-filled walls stroked him of his warmth--brought it into herself like salvation.

The small smile didn't leave his lips, as he pulled her close in his total embrace. His cheek rested against hers, as he sighed, shuddering slightly in ecstasy.

He panted there for a second, trying to catch his breath, as she moaned against him. "I love you so much," he whispered, after another heartbeat or two of ecstasy. He kissed her ear. "Please don't ever forget," his warm words breathed softly in the shell.

She whimpered, holding him close, burying her face in his neck. Her whole body trembled in the rapture of both her body and her soul. "I love you, Michael," she whimpered softly. She kissed lightly over his collarbone, loving his taste. "I love you; I love you."

He smiled and held her closer still, while she shuddered in her absolute joy in him. There would never be another soul he ever felt so completely connected to--would never be another he would ever want to be part of. All that mattered was Nikita; all that mattered was this moment.

He understood the truth of this now: whatever may come was irrelevant; they had now, and there would be other missions--he would make sure--where they would be with one another again. . . . Even an hour together would be a miracle they would cherish.

He smiled, kissing the side of her head. Section would never exist in these times--only each other. That was all that could ever truly matter now.

He held her closer, their joy warming them both. So long as that was possible, too, nothing else in life would be as important. So long as there was Nikita, there *was* life. . . . Anything beyond that was--could only ever be--a pale afterthought.

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

A beautiful, still sort of silence enveloped them both in the aftermath of their passion. Their breaths still mingled, as their respiration finally began to calm; the comfort of their love continued to spread through them both. They felt completely fulfilled, utterly joyous. . . . What on earth, indeed, could ever be more beautiful than this?

Michael kissed the side of her head lightly, while Nikita sighed happily. They were allowing themselves several minutes of blissful relaxation in each other's arms, after their early shudders had passed; it was several, contented minutes, indeed, before either of them spoke.

Finally, though, a small smile appeared on her lips, a few heartbeats before she pressed them warmly to his chest. "I never expected this mission to end like this," her husky voice whispered.

He returned her smile, kissing her temple once more. "Neither did I."

The silence enveloped them comfortingly for another few minutes, before she spoke again--her mood shifting slightly; she sighed, a little unhappily. "We need to move, don't we?"

His sigh joined hers, as his arms tightened around her; he didn't want this to end. "In a few minutes."

She nodded slightly, resting there for another few seconds, before she forced herself to move, looking up at him--her chin propped on a hand which was laid on his chest; she had questions which needed answers. "How do we get this to work again in the future?"

His eyes stroked over her--gentle, loving; his thumb caressed past her temple. He loved that she wanted this to continue. "I'll handle it."

She shook her head just slightly, not dislodging his hand; she really needed details--needed to know for certain that this would work. "How?"

He kissed her lips gently. "I'll find a way," he assured her in a whisper. She sighed softly, quiet but not quite seeming to believe. "Do you not trust me, because I didn't plan this?"

Her eyes were loving. "It's not a matter of trust, Michael." She sighed slightly again. "I just don't want you to promise anything you can't do." She shook her head a little, her gaze asking him to understand her feelings, her voice becoming softer. "I don't want false hope."

His eyes were sad, a little hurt. "I won't give it to you." She nodded slightly and seemed about to rest her cheek back on his chest, but he stopped her, holding her gaze. "I won't lie to you, Nikita. It may take a few weeks; I may find an opportunity in a few days. I don't know." He sighed softly, needing so much for her to understand. "But, whichever it is, we *will* be together; I'll see to that."

It hurt him when she couldn't believe him, but he tried to hold in his pain. His heart ached a little, however, as he finished; his eyes begged for her comfort. "I just need you to believe in me." His thumb continued to brush softly over her temple; his voice was now barely audible. "I need that more than I can say."

She smiled gently at him and leaned up to kiss him softly. Her fingers lightly traced over his cheek. "I believe in you, Michael." Her eyes were truthful, as she explained. "I fear Section."

He nodded, understanding; his gaze was very strong. "We *will* get around them. I promise."

She returned the gesture and then repositioned her head on his chest, her arms holding him close. . . . God, she hoped he was right.

He kissed her temple, his hand stroking over her hair. He loved her so much; he refused to fail her. "I promise," he whispered again. It was a vow.

*****

It was only a few hours later, however, that the recently-blissful couple were once more in the grasp of Section One. They had not let their remaining time together go to waste, though; they had had a long discussion, once they had finally moved to get dressed again, and had agreed on many things.

Chief among these, of course, was the need to hide their love--their relationship--from their masters. To do that, too, they knew they would be forced to be as far away from each other as possible, outside of missions. No look, no action, no appearance of worry or dismay could cross their expressions to give them away; they had to prove to be complete stoics with and about each other, or their plan could not succeed.

Neither of them liked this fact, of course, but they both realized its absolute importance. The fact that it hurt them to be so separate would have to be hidden away deep within them--only let out in those stolen moments when they were truly alone. The rest of the time, they were both simply operatives, nothing more. . . . The more they could get people to believe this, indeed, the better off they would both be.

This wasn't all they had discussed, however. They had agreed, as well, during those moments when they had been preparing to return to their half-lives in Section, on many small things: details of this last mission, for instance, which would make the time taken to complete it seem longer, would make their time alone seem brief enough to be inconsequential. They had both decided, too, that--if a mission would allow them to be alone together for less than an hour--it wasn't really worth it; a half hour or so near one another, indeed, would just cause them more frustration than joy. Also, while Michael would search for a way to provide her with details on their personal sub-missions, some way which was unlikely to be overheard, they would still agree to meet in the lower levels of Section, if they needed to discuss something more urgent.

All of this, then, had settled some of the dilemmas their future path seemed to hold out for them. . . . The item, however, which would make their decisions work today had actually only been brought on the mission by Michael for very different reasons.

While they could do their best to bury their satiation and fulfilled love from view deep inside themselves, indeed, they would still need help in covering any physical signs which this day might have left. It had been with a bit of surprise, then, that Nikita had discovered that her partner had brought along Section's healing oil with his mission gear--but, siince they had been profiled to be away from help for so long, since they had been on their own in case any emergency had occurred--it had only made sense. . . . Still, in the future, its inclusion in Michael's provisions would not be an accident.

Because of this little invention, then, the two of them were able to return to Section without all of the little marks which might otherwise have been dead giveaways to their earlier activities. No one, indeed, was any the wiser to what had happened between them; no one guessed that the rift which most of Section didn't quite understand had in any way been healed.

*****

Walter, too, was among these less-informed souls. He, though, knew why his Sugar and the man who loved her weren't together anymore, . . . and he hated Section deeply for this decision, for their short-sighted action.

He sighed now, as he examined them; they had just returned. This separation didn't make any sense to him, truly. Why would anyone, what decent reason could there be to, separate a pair who were Section's best, who did the job better than anyone else? . . . What reason could there ever be besides sheer malevolence?

He shook his head, as he watched the pair return their gear silently; he could feel his anger simmering. There were no justifications for pushing them apart, he knew--and he hated to see them so distant; it ate away at him terribly to see two lovers forced apart for no even halfway decent reason. He sighed slightly. . . . When were their leaders--who were so strongly bonded themselves--ever going to learn that connections between operatives could be an asset?

He repressed a snort, as he signed in Michael's gun; the young man put down the last of his gear in front of Section's armorer and then left, without even a backward glance at the woman he adored. No, Walter thought again, Section's commanders weren't going to learn this lesson, he knew; they weren't capable of it--or maybe they just feared its ramifications too much, feared the power it could give to those they preferred to leave powerless. He sighed and examined the purposely-blank look on his Sugar's face. . . . All that was left, then, was to help the pair he was so fond of in whatever way he could.

It was about an hour and a half later, therefore, after Nikita had been debriefed, that Walter and she were sitting in the corner of one of the bars he liked to frequent. She had just seemed so expressionless when she had returned from the mission that he had worried about her--and, to his relief, she had accepted his invitation. She seemed to need the outlet, after all.

"So, what's new?" he asked her, trying to drag her out of her shell.

She tried not to laugh out loud, her mind immediately thinking over the most amazing events after this last mission; her face seemed blank, as she answered, however. "Nothing much."

His eyes bored into her slightly, and he took out a small scanner--one which could detect any sort of bug within a good radius around the table; he held it just where she could see it, where she could know what he was up to. It showed that they were safe--and no one was close enough to overhear or read their lips. He put the scanner back in his pocket. "So, what about the truth now?"

She looked up at him; a little smile played on her lips for a second, before she repressed it. "There are some things it's safer for you not to know, Walter."

"Bullshit," his tenderly-gruff voice replied. "I'm old." He grinned at her. "Give me a little pleasure, before I die."

She focused on the table; the smile was threatening to emerge far more strongly now. She said nothing.

He read the look, however, and reality dawned finally. "Hmmm," he growled softly. "I'd say someone did a little more than was profiled on this last one."

She grinned softly back up at him before looking back at the table; he continued to work her for details. "So how'd he manage it?"

She shook her head slightly, her look still rather happy. "It wasn't intentional. We just finished the mission early, were someplace safe and warm, and were still on dark approach." She shrugged, glancing up at him briefly. "It just happened." She went back to toying with her mostly-untasted drink, a slight smile still on her lips.

Walter, in full confidant mode, leaned in to her, speaking softly. "But he's planning to make this happen again, right?"

She smiled up at him. "If he can manage it."

His gaze was curious. "Whadda you mean?"

She cocked her head slightly, her look resigned. "He hasn't thought of a way to tell me about any sub-mission plans safely yet."

Walter smiled at her then--a huge "have I got a present for you" smile. "Sugar, how do you meet with him when you have something you need to say quickly?" His smile, impossibly, broadened. "I think I have the answer to your prayers."

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

The promise of happiness which Nikita and Michael faced, however, didn't apply to the prospects of everyone in Section. Indeed, only about 36 hours later, Birkoff found himself in a position he had only within this past year come to truly think might be possible. . . . He was facing an unspoken abeyance.

He was sitting on his bed in his room now, was leaning back against a wall. He just could not force himself to accept what was happening--could barely think it was real. Hillinger had outmaneuvered him, even though he had been on watch for his betrayals. He drew his knees up in front of him on the bed and rested his elbows on them. Evidently, he had lost focus somehow, indeed--and now he was going to be forced to pay with his life.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head against the wall, still barely able to take this all in. Of course, Operations wasn't calling it abeyance; he wasn't even admitting what he was going to do to him. He swallowed heavily. The older man was going to force him to go out on a mission which would undoubtedly spell his death, but he was being too duplicitous--or maybe too chickenshit--to even admit what he was up to. . . . Bastard.

He could feel all of his emotions warring inside him. His fear, his anger, his disgust--all of them fought within him for control.

He knew, though, that he couldn't let them win; he couldn't afford to give his feelings the upper hand. If any of them got it, indeed, then he didn't have a chance. . . . His only hope of success came in trying to face this as calmly as possible--and, maybe, in recruiting Nikita, as well, as his protector.

He opened his eyes again finally, as his mind continued to run through all of this. He knew, of course, that she would do what she could; she always had for him, but he wondered, too, just what she could actually accomplish here. Yes, she would be there if he needed her, but he couldn't exactly ask her to form a one-woman assault team to rescue him, if things got bad. . . . No. If things got bad, indeed, he was on his own.

He sighed, thinking further about his friend. He loved Nikita, of course--trusted her, but she hadn't even seemed to take the whole situation he was about to face seriously, when he had first told her about it. Maybe, really, she had just been trying to calm his fears, but it hadn't worked--and he didn't want comforting lies. He wanted help--wanted to be believed, wanted the danger he was about to face to be taken seriously by someone. . . . That, indeed, was the only way he might be able to survive it.

He took a deep breath, trying to force his mind to focus. He needed to form some sort of plan to get through this, he knew, . . . but there just wasn't one to form. He was being sent in to do a cold op.'s job, was being sent in without a script or guidance. Hell, half the time he would even be on dark approach, would be utterly without resources. . . . How the hell did anyone survive that?

He shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. This, really, was what cold ops. did all the time, though--he knew. But he wasn't a cold op; he dealt with data and technical oversight--watched computer screens and warned ops. about the dangers they might face around the next corner. . . . He wasn't supposed to be--he wasn't *trained* to be--the one going around that next corner, especially without any oversight himself. . . . How on earth would he get through it alive?

Not knowing any immediate answer to this question, however, except to face one day at a time and pray, his mind decided to jump to another track--decided to focus on the man who had set all of this up, his "assistant": Hillinger. That man--hell, that *boy*--was slime. How he had allowed him to get this far, he had no idea.

He thought back, with a pained sigh, over all the time he had known the younger man for. He had hated the little snot, of course, from his very introduction into Section--and his first impression hadn't been helped, either, by the fact that his rival computer whiz had soon thereafter introduced a virus he couldn't figure out or stop. . . . And he hadn't gotten any better after that.

No, Hillinger was not someone who improved upon acquaintance. He was a snotty little brat, no matter how you looked at him--worse, though, he was a *dangerous* snotty little brat. . . . It was amazing, then, that he had gotten this far.

One of the things Birkoff couldn't understand here, truly, was why no one else in Section quite seemed to understand this. Why, indeed, didn't Operations or Madeline just cancel *him*? Why couldn't they see that this kid had set up the whole team from the beginning, only to rush in at the end and save them. . . . Why couldn't they see his plans?

He shook his head slightly. He truly didn't know the answer to this one, though--didn't know how to approach telling them, either, especially now. If he hadn't been able to convince them in the past, indeed, then he had no chance anymore; he was in the doghouse, and Hillinger was the golden boy--and, sadly, he could just see no remedy for this injustice in the near future.

He supposed, then, that the only thing he could do would be to go in there and do his best, would be to go in there and show his masters that he was not only good--he was indispensable. Maybe, indeed, if he could bring them some necessary information--if he could infiltrate enough to be able to learn their ways, they would bring him back out as they supposedly planned to, would rescue him on time. . . . Right now, truly, it seemed like his only way out.

****

Greg smiled, as he sat at the terminal which had once been Birkoff's. Everything, indeed, was going just as he had planned. . . . Everything, truly, was perfect.

He loved this. He had been waiting for it, for this opportunity, for quite some time, in fact--and his sense of satisfaction over this latest coup, truly, couldn't be overstated, now that it had come to pass. . . . Now, all he needed to do was find Gemstone, and his upward mobility would be completely secure.

He scrolled randomly through some sim. or another, as his mind worked on other things. All the missions were pretty interchangeable to him, really; he was only half-faking it, indeed, when he seemed uninterested in their outcomes. Aside from their effect on him, after all, they--and the people who took part in them--were pretty much meaningless.

His mind, then, focused instead on something he found much more fascinating: himself--or, more specifically, the assignment he had found himself to be on, several months ago. It had been a twist, indeed, which he hadn't expected; he had barely even known who George was, in fact, before he had found himself recruited by him--yet again, against his will.

Still, he didn't regret this now--just like he didn't regret his recruitment into Section as a whole. Oversight's leader had actually given him a new avenue for his easily-bored mind to explore--a new challenge to try out. Now, indeed, he was a double-agent.

He smiled slightly at the sound of it, as his mind continued to ponder; it sounded good, like something out of one of the spy novels he had read as a young boy. It made him feel dangerous--formidable, . . . and powerful as hell. He liked it.

He pushed a couple of buttons quickly to send off the sim. the computer had just finished to Michael and started on another one; it was something to do, even if it was unspeakably dull. His mind just wasn't happy, after all, unless it had several places to focus at once.

He supposed, really, that this was what George had seen in him--was the reason the older man had chosen him for this mission. But--well, really, he thought again--who *wouldn't* want a genius? What kind of idiot would not choose him as an ally, if they were looking for someone who could outsmart any person or thing? He grinned slightly. No one was that big a moron.

Still, he supposed he ought to give the older man some credit, as well; he had, indeed, given him some focus, some direction beyond just displacing Birkoff. That, really, he thought--looking back now, had been *way* too simple a goal for him. He had needed the slight prod, therefore, to remember to look higher.

His original plans, then--he thought back now, had been less long-range. All he had known had been that he wanted the security--and maybe even the occasional half-challenge--which his current boss's job offered, but he had had no idea of what to do with it, after that. Now, though, he knew--and he had finally made his move.

He couldn't claim total credit for this new path in his life, then--and he couldn't quite force himself to claim, indeed, that he hadn't been surprised by George's offer. Well, who wouldn't be a little confused when two huge steroid cases came to drag you away--down into some part of Section nobody has ever seen before, telling you simply that--if you made it seem, to anyone watching, like going with them wasn't your own plan, you would be dead before you had time to process the thought? . . . No one--not even a genius.

This second abduction, then--a far less pleasant one than being brought in by a truly hot woman like Nikita--was how he had met the man with the plan. Well, no--he corrected his memories--he hadn't actually met George, but he had met his image on a small screen. . . . Meeting the man himself was an event which would have to wait until he had found Gemstone.

He smiled again, flicking the last, completed sim. Off his screen and bringing up a new one to half play with. He had liked George, too, he had found--although he hadn't necessarily known that at first. He wasn't exactly "fun"--but, still, he wasn't as much of a dildo as Operations--or the crazy prig who worked beside him; those two, indeed, had never offered him the sort of things which George had--had never even considered it. They had only threatened. . . . Oversight's leader had done this, as well, of course--who the hell didn't do that here?--but he had also made it known that "Mr. Hillinger" would have a future with him, would have somewhere up to go, as soon as he finished this first, small task.

He smiled to himself, thinking back. The older man had, then, promised that the coming days might hold the promise of something besides running a bunch of dumb sims.--had promised things no one here had ever even talked about; he had even given him a chance to try out a few spy muscles, as well--to prove that this covert stuff wasn't as hard as all the cold ops. tried to claim. . . . And "young Mr. Hillinger" had jumped at the chance. He wasn't idiot enough, after all, to turn down an opportunity like this one.

He smiled happily. Now, too, part of his plan had finally come to fruition--the part he had planned out from the beginning: replacing Birkoff.

He had actually, though, thought about abandoning this intention for awhile, after George had recruited him; the older man, in fact, had asked that--if possible, while making this mission a success--Section's supposed computer "expert" not be harmed. . . . Still, he had made it clear that, if the choice came down to either Birkoff or Gemstone, the kid was toast. Greg grinned. And that, indeed, was just how he had wanted it to begin with.

Of course, he hadn't entirely ignored George's request about the guy; he had tried, really, to maneuver his former boss, instead, into a position where Operations would do something to punish him which would hopefully include getting him out of Greg's hair for awhile. That was all he needed, indeed; he just needed Birkoff to stop watching him so constantly so that he had a real chance to search for the object he had been assigned to find.

It all made sense to him, of course; it was, in his mind, in his predecessor's hands now. If the guy survived the mission which Section's leader had sent him on, then he would be okay. If not, so be it; they would find someone else to do his work. . . . It *really* didn't matter to him.

Greg smiled, unable--unwilling--to overcome the feeling of utter superiority his latest triumph had instilled in him. Now he had his chance; he could look for Gemstone unharassed, could start on the road to his brilliant future as a powerful spy. . . . And then no one could ever stand in his way again.

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

To say that it had been a confusing and, occasionally, uncomfortable several days would have been an understatement; sometimes during it, indeed, she had begun to worry for everyone's safety. It hadn't been caused, though, by a change which might seem huge to some people, but it was titanic, nonetheless. . . . By just changing one person, indeed, Operations had made Section a--if that were even possible--far less comfortable place.

Nikita sighed, as she waited for Michael to arrive. This was the first mission where they had been able to implement his recent plan, where they had been able to arrange some time alone--and, while she was looking forward to it, of course, her mind was, truly, still on other things, at the moment.

She sat down on an uncovered mattress--which was more clean than she had hoped, while she waited for him to arrive, her thoughts continuing to work through this past week. She had tried to tell herself, when Birkoff had first been sent on the mission against Soldat de la Liberte' that nothing was too out of place--that Operations didn't have it in for him--but now she suspected that she had just been wishful thinking. Indeed, in the past several days, their leader had seemed all too pleased with Hillinger's abilities. . . . He hadn't even seemed too interested in getting Birkoff back.

She took a deep breath, as she rubbed her hands nervously up and down the legs of her mission pants. She wanted to believe, of course, that Birkoff would be okay, that this mission would go by quickly for him and he would return to them, soon and unharmed, . . . but there was a nagging suspicion in the back of her mind which said that to believe this would be an extraordinary mistake.

She let out a deep sigh, as her mind continued to circle on this subject. It was possible, of course, that her fears had misled her; maybe, in a few days he would be back with them all, . . . but she just wasn't sure.

She rubbed her hand over her face tiredly. She just wished, too, that he would call--that he would contact her; if he did, then maybe she could help him, maybe there was *something* she could do. She hated feeling so helpless.

She sighed once more. Until he contacted her, though, she was in the dark--about everything. Indeed, she wasn't particularly sure about anything within Section One at the moment. . . . Birkoff's disappearance had changed everything, had truly left all the things she normally took for granted just a fraction off.

It wasn't that Hillinger was bad at technical oversight, though--she continued to ponder, just slightly more blase' about it. And, while she suspected that it was his lackadaisical attitude which was affording herself and Michael this most recent chance to be together, it still tended to make everything a bit more tense than it should be.

Her mind thought back once more to her first meeting with the new--hopefully only temporary--head of Comm., now. She had had an odd relationship with Hillinger ever since he had first been brought in--hell, she had been the one to bring him in. She shook her head. She had tried to warn him, of course, that he shouldn't take Section lightly, that he should do what was asked of him and get out while he could, but--in the pride and ignorance of adolescence--he had ignored her. . . . Now, he was one of them.

She swallowed a little. It wasn't, really--however, that she and Greg had ever gotten on very well; in fact, besides anxiety for his safety as both an innocent and a child--however arrogant, her main emotion with him had always been, at best, simple annoyance.

She let out a short, snorting little breath. Now, too, it appeared that he might be working against Birkoff, that he might be trying to get his superior canceled in order to take his place--and, sadly, she really didn't know what to do about this. Yes, she could threaten him, but Greg was, in some ways, threat-proof; he was just too damn certain of his own superiority to be convinced easily that he could be hurt.

She looked at her watch nervously, her mind finally switching tracks. Michael should have been here by now. She closed her eyes for a second, her fear running through her for a moment. . . . God, she hated this. Of course, she was *adoring* the opportunity to be close to him once again--and only about 5 days since their last such chance--but she *despised* having to sneak around to be with him; she hated the temporary quality of their present assignations more than she could express.

Her eyes opened to focus on the door once more, as she thought again about what she wished for with him. She wanted their encounters, indeed, to last all night; she wanted to wake the next morning with him in her arms, with his scent in her senses, with his warm, loving hands stroking her back. She wanted to be able to love him openly, not on the sly in the middle of some mission, not when she was still half-sweaty and unshowered, not when she had spent the past several hours assassinating terrorists and stealing files. She shook her head. Not--like--this.

A deep, heartfelt sigh rose from her. This time, too, was a bit different from the last one. Their meeting place was a low-rent room in a supposedly-deserted building; it had simply been a place to crash for the group they had just spent about a half hour disposing of.

She had been surprised, really--she looked back around it again, when she had discovered that this mission had even been profiled as a dark approach--had been even more surprised when only she and Michael had been chosen to run it. . . . Still, once again, their enemy had been more high-tech. than high-class--and more than two people sent in to crawl through the duct work might have been a highly-unnecessary distraction.

The building, and the organization they had targeted, though, had been fairly sprawling, so they had been given two hours to carry out their work. They had split up to do it, of course--and she had managed hers in a half hour, somehow--mostly because Michael had given himself a slightly harder job, a slightly longer way to come back in order to reach her again.

She sighed worriedly once more. Not having com. links made their assignation possible, of course, but it also made her more nervous. It had been 40 minutes now, indeed, and she was beginning to worry slightly--both for Michael's safety and for the security of their plans. They had agreed that they wouldn't even try this if they had less than an hour together, after all; if Michael didn't get here fairly soon, then . . .

Just as she was thinking this, though, she heard a small noise outside the door--a very careful footstep which had just found a creaky floorboard. She stood up, gun at the ready, just to be sure.

Michael opened the door cautiously, ready to fire if anything were wrong. It was with an intense relief, then, that they both saw each other; they let out their held breaths in a mutual sigh, their guns lowering.

Neither one could move for several minutes. They both just stood there, caught wholly in one another's loving and needy gaze; neither of them could quite take in the vision before them. It had only been 5 days--had been, probably, a far shorter time than they would be forced to be apart in the future--but they still just needed each other so much.

He let the door close behind him finally, as he came further into the room. They could both feel it; they were being drawn together by simple natural and spiritual law.

They put down their guns and came toward one another--their eyes still locked. He opened his arms and drew her in to him, as she drew near--holding her close, feeling her arms embracing him tightly, as well. She sighed against him happily.

He took out the band which held back her hair and buried his face in the silky locks, allowing himself to finally, beautifully drown in her scent. It had been so hard to keep away.

"Michael," she sighed, her cheek against his. She held him closer, her hand in his hair.

So long--it had been so long. The logical number of days was unimportant; what mattered was that they had been apart, had been forced to exist separately. . . . They never wanted to have to survive that again.

He pulled his head back a little to kiss her cheek, his hand still in her hair. "I missed you," he whispered.

Oh God, it was too much; she couldn't be stoic anymore. She hadn't let herself consciously face just how tormented the last few days without him had made her until now.

She held him closer, a few tears running down her cheeks. "Michael," her broken voice moaned.

He held her more tightly, letting her know that he was there, that he adored her. "Ssh." He kissed her temple soothingly. "It's alright." His hand stroked warmly over her back. "We're together, my love."

They were both still entirely clothed; Michael was, indeed, still wearing gloves. . . . None of that mattered, though; they could feel each other, could sense each other's loving warmth, regardless of the material which separated them.

They held one another very close, very tenderly, in silence, for at least another minute. Their eyes were closed, as they let the bond between them speak for itself, as they allowed it to finally wrap around and through one another once again.

Finally, though, she broke the silence, needing him to hear the words from her. "I've missed you, too," she sobbed, very quietly.

God, he couldn't stand her pain--couldn't stand to know that she had been unhappy. His arms tightened around her further, as he began to kiss over her cheek heatedly; his arousal had woken into full, throbbing life--was beating against its painful confinement. He wanted *so* much to let her see how much he adored her, needed to show her through sensual worship how much she would always mean to him.

She sensed this change in him, sensed--felt--his need. Her nails clawed into his shoulders a bit through his jacket. "Michael, yes." Her tears had stopped suddenly, had evaporated in the sudden, but ever-present, heat of their love and desire.

His kisses moved in front of her now, the wet trail of them moving down her throat and further down to the upper edge of her tank top. He moaned, in fact, when he hit the cloth and raised his head to hers, pulling her forward into a deep, passionate, adoring kiss--needing the contact desperately.

She let out a small whimper through it, needing--wanting him terribly. Her soul felt like it was moaning out for him, as though it was calling out to remind itself that it hadn't been left bereft.

He moaned loudly and erotically assaulted her mouth further, more wildly. God, he needed her so much. He could hear her soul's call, could sense her need for the comfort that both of them only felt as their bodies joined in passion and love. He wanted to worship her so thoroughly that she could no longer remember, if only for an hour or so, that there was a world outside of the two of them; he needed her to remember his love in the future, indeed, no matter how many days might separate them then.

He pulled back from her willing, adoring mouth finally to take hold of her beautiful face, his gaze intense. He needed her to hear just a few things before they began their complete possession of one another--needed her to know some things, needed to know some things himself, before they became one once more.

His eyes searched into hers deeply, his gaze explaining these needs. Her eyes gave him her devotion--and her approval for this brief interlude before they allowed the tender storm to overtake them.

He took a deep breath, hating what he was admitting. "We may not get another chance again this quickly, `Kita." His thumb stroked over her cheek. "We got lucky with this one."

She nodded, hating it but understanding. "I know." She smiled at him softly--reassuring, wondering something new. "Did you set this up--create this profile?"

His eyes were devoted to her soul alone; he just adored her so much. "Partly," he smiled at her gently, his thumb still stroking her cheek, "but it was chance too."

His smile faded slightly, as he went on, however--as his mind continued to ponder their situation. "It may take much longer before the next one, . . ." he began.

"Ssh," she stopped him. Her hands captured his face as well, stroking it gently; her eyes were incredibly honest. She needed him to hear her next words, needed him to know. "I'll wait, Michael--no matter how long it takes," she promised.

He let out a deep, desperate breath; he hadn't even consciously realized that this was what he had been asking for from her. He smiled tenderly at her, while his thumb traced gently down her face. "You figured out Walter's sub-channel encryption alright?" He knew it was asking the obvious, since she was here, but he wanted to make sure she hadn't had any problems.

She nodded. "Fine." She smiled, but her gaze was a little worried. "But do you think we really should be bringing him into this? If we're caught, . . ."

He shook his head, breaking off her fears. "I won't let that happen." He kissed her lips softly, needing the contact, if only for a second. "He wants to help," he reminded her, as well.

She nodded once more, taking in a deep breath; there was only one more thing she really needed to know. "About Birkoff, . . ."

He smiled slightly. He had known that this would be bothering her; she was just too tender-hearted for it not to. He told her what he knew, interrupting her. "I'm picking him up tomorrow."

She took in a deep, calming breath, those fears soothed somewhat. "What about Hillinger? Can we trust him?"

His look was a little ironic. "We can trust him not to notice anything we do, so long as we don't take too many risks." He sighed sadly; in some ways, really, he knew that the annoying, young operative could be a better unwitting ally in their meetings than the far more observant Birkoff.

She smiled, a little determinedly, knowing he was right--however little she liked the whole situation. Her mind, therefore, changed tracks, no longer able to keep away from her need for him. Her hands were running down his sides, were tracing over the beautiful, if still clothed, body she adored so much. Her smile took on a teasing light, as she asked him rhetorically, "How much longer do we have, Michael?"

His smile in return was slightly feral. God, he adored her; he wanted to, once more, place the memory of his adoration of her so deep within her soul--wanted to singe it there so tenderly--that she could never forget it again.

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

His breathing had sped up considerably, just looking at her, his hands simply stroking her face. His eyes were sparking at her; his arousal was almost pained in its confinement. He wanted to tear off her clothes almost violently and then make love to her for hours--but he didn't have either of those options right now.

He gave her a brief, hard kiss, then, and pushed her back from him slightly. His eyes were commanding. "Take your clothes off--now."

She licked her lips slightly at the fire in his gaze. Mmm, she adored it when he looked at her like that; it *always* meant that he would make her burn in the most beautiful ways.

Her eyes and smile had a beautiful, teasing quality. Her hand brushed over his throbbing, tightly-enclosed arousal, as she moved back further. "You too," she smiled playfully.

He groaned at her touch, and a small, animalistic smile appeared on his lips, as he growled at her words. He tugged off his jacket quickly, dropping it on the floor; she did the same, the smile still on her lips.

He reached down next to unhook his utility belt. She followed suit, the smile on her lips growing. "Mmm," she teased him. "Do take that off, yes. You've got all the equipment we'll need without any outside help."

The responding growl rumbled deep in his throat, as his look became even more wild; from anyone else, the words would have seemed rather silly to him, but from her, . . . Mmm. He placed the belt on top of his jacket and removed his boots with his feet, leaning over to follow the pattern with his socks. "You shouldn't tease me, my love," he warned, his eyes never leaving hers. "You might not like where it leads."

"Mmm," she moaned hoarsely back to him; her belt, shoes, and socks were gone now, as well. "I bet I will."

The smile continued to play on her lips, then, as she reached for the bottom of her tank top. The wild look in her eyes was covered for only a second, as she removed the garment, dropping it behind herself.

A low growl broke from him, as he took in the breasts he so adored tasting. He loved the feel of them, loved all their sweet sensations--but, even more than this, he adored the joy and desire he could give her there, the sweet, desperate need--the need which made her wild for him.

He sped up his unveiling, needing to be near her soon. It wasn't just the time constraints they were under, either; it was, too, how desperate he became without her--the aching, intense need which built in him whenever he was bereft of her. It turned him into an animal, made him wild with desire--and, while part of him wondered whether he would ever be able to make love to her gently again, most of him had *absolutely* no regrets. She, after all, was always an erotic feast--and he had starved for far too long.

His hands tugged off his shirt, dropping it on the pile beside him. He smiled as her eyes heated further, as they stroked sensually over the lines of his chest. "D'you like seeing me?" he teased; he adored it when she admitted her desire for him.

Her eyes had run down him, were fixed now where his hands played at his zipper, were locked on the definite bulge the pants did nothing to hide. A growl rumbled in her throat, as she tugged off the rest of her clothing quickly.

He began to reveal himself slowly, as a low, sensual laugh rumbled in his chest. "Is that an answer?"

She licked her lips involuntarily, as he slowly revealed his hard, aching length. "Show me," she demanded, her attention fixed on nothing else.

His smile was pleased and feral. He finally revealed himself and then lowered and stepped out of the rest of his clothes. He would reward her for her desire for him later. "Good."