Her eyes were wide and fixed unblinkingly to his beautiful, hard shaft. Her breathing was ragged, her need for him shaking her, as she felt all of her desires running through her strongly. She wanted to taste him desperately, wanted to please him; that, truly, was the memory she wanted to leave here with--was what she wanted to store in her soul, the knowledge that she--and no one else--was the ultimate lover for him, that his desire would never roam for a second.

He saw the look of command enter her eyes, and his breathing snagged desperately--his shaft becoming even harder at the sight. God, yes--he wanted this. He knew he would please her in the end; he had no sense of self, indeed, if he couldn't--but he also wanted to accept her devotion completely, wanted to remember, when they were forced to leave, that she loved no other--that he was the only man to ever enter her fantasies.

"Come to me, Michael," she commanded softly. He began to walk toward her, and she backed up to stand on the mattress; the not-quite-dirty floor was a bit too hard for what she had planned.

When he reached her finally, he was met by her feral smile; her fingers ran lightly over his sides, teasing his skin with her whisper-like touch. "You want me, Michael?" she asked knowingly.

He nodded. The heat of her eyes had utterly robbed him of the power of speech.

"Good." She leaned into him further, her hands running up into his hair; she leaned in--holding her mouth just a breath from his. "Take your desire from me, my love." Her teeth ran lightly over his lower lip, her mouth catching his gasp a second later. "Feel the pleasure no one else can ever give you."

His low moan was caught in his throat then, as she pulled him into a deep, commanding kiss, her hands running through his hair. Her lips were proving ruthless. He held her in it, as well, needing her so desperately he could barely breathe. His shaft was practically screaming in his need for her.

She continued the commanding kiss, ravishing the depths of his mouth, for several long minutes. He was practically whimpering against her. Her hands, too, ran down his back, her nails tracing teasingly down till her fingers sunk lightly into his soft curves. He groaned loudly, and she held him to her, rubbed herself against him--commanding him with desire.

His moans were small and desperate; he wanted her so much. He was a slave to her, would do anything she desired--and, to his erotic torment, what she wanted was to please him absolutely; his hands ran down to her back, holding her close, meeting her kiss--begging her for more.

She pulled back from him finally, her teeth stroking gently over his lower lip; a deep groan rumbled in his throat. "Good," she told him with a small smile.

His wide eyes met hers for another heartbeat, before she leaned into him once more. Her mouth traced over his cheek, kissing the stubbled skin she so adored. He groaned, holding her to him, and she kissed along to his ear--her mouth tracing over it softly. When she caught his earlobe in her teeth, he moaned loudly. "Yes."

She continued to tease him here, as he moaned out for more. Just this simple touch made him *ache* for her; he wanted her so badly he could barely think.

She could feel his increasing surrender to her, his almost-maddening desire to have her touch him. She smiled to herself. "Lead me, Michael," she whispered in his ear.

He groaned loudly, giving in to her--to his heat for her, to her incredible ability to arouse his every sense--completely. "Yes," he moaned.

He led her, then, down his neck, before holding her to a tender spot. "Please," he groaned.

"Mmm," she murmured, before loving the sensitive place with her teeth. God, she loved it when he begged.

He gasped and held her closer. "Yes." Her mouth was sending an aching light into him, making his need for her sing in his blood; his shaft was huge and throbbing with his desire.

God, she loved this--loved his pleasure. Nothing could ever top it.

"Uhh," he groaned. He couldn't take much more here; he just wanted her so many other places, wanted to be able to revel in her almost unbelievable devotion to him.

He moved her further down him, and she willingly agreed, leaving a wet, loving trail upon his skin. He moaned loudly. No one else could ever feel so good. . . . No one else was real.

A little laugh sounded in her throat, as he led her over to a small erect nipple. "Please," he begged. She smiled at his desire and took the tiny, pleasure-giving spot in her teeth softly, her tongue loving over the end.

His breathing went incredibly shaky, as his shaft jumped against her; she groaned in response and increased her ministrations to him. God, she adored this--adored his desire for her. She wanted him insane with his need for her, wanted to make him ache with his longing.

He did--so desperately. He was letting out short little moans, his need boiling in him. He wanted this to continue, but he also wanted more.

He moved her to his other needy bud, and she loved it roughly, as well. He whimpered, holding her there strongly for one more heartbeat, before he began to move her lower. "More," he begged, as his hands led her perfect, pleasing mouth down his achingly aroused body.

Yes--this was what she wanted him to do; this was how she wanted him to feel. Her talented mouth left a trail of desire down his chest and abdomen, stopping for a second to tease his navel with her tongue, before he led her further down.

His eyes were closed, too overwhelmed with sensation to be able to watch her. Still, he could see her in his mind, could imagine her, as she lowered herself to her knees on the mattress, her mouth teasing down the dark line of hair which led to his aching need. "Yes," he moaned throatily.

He was holding her just at his desperate, throbbing length. She breathed a puff of hot air over him, and he trembled violently; the tip of her tongue then just stroked over the needy head. "Tell me what you want, Michael," she commanded softly.

"Oh God," he moaned. He held her a little closer. "Please," he panted, "please, `Kita--taste me."

She smiled up at his desperate face, at his trembling form above her. "Very good, my love," she whispered, just a second before she ran one intense suck over half of his length.

He screamed out in his quaking need. "Yes," he groaned, begging for more. "Yes."

He held her a little closer to himself, his breathing highly imperiled. She smiled and took pity on him. One hand took a firm, massaging hold of his sac, and she ran her tongue over the balls there for a second, before her mouth clasped over the head of his hard shaft; her other hand firmly grasped his hard length.

"Yes," his deep groan trembled. He began to move her--so willingly--along him, began to lead her pleadingly in an incredible rhythm over his shaft.

"Mmm," she moaned around him. Her mouth ran over him in intense, loving sucks, her hand following tightly behind them.

"Ahh-ahh," he moaned in half-screams. He led her faster, his desire for her singing in him. Her hand--her mouth felt so utterly amazing on him, massaged his length in so tender and perfect a way that he quaked against her. His blood was boiling in his need.

Her rhythm grew more intense, her grip upon him tightening further. She could see the desperation on his face, in the shaky breathing of his lungs, in the tension and definition of all of his muscles; his hands were deep in her hair, as he reveled in all the sensations she gave him so easily.

God, she loved this--loved being able to please him so. Nothing else could ever matter to her quite so much.

His eyes were teary now, his body still quaking. If he let her continue for more than a few more heartbeats, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold on; it would be an absolute physical impossibility. They didn't have enough time, either, for everything he desired.

His head lowered finally, his wet, loving eyes opening to focus on her. He let out a groan when he saw her, taking another few seconds, before he could speak. "`Kita, please," he begged, pulling her back slightly.

She agreed reluctantly, understanding their time constraints. She ran one more perfect little suck along him, her tongue running over the tip of him once more, as she released him; he quaked desperately against her.

She kissed the tip of him softly and put her hands on his waist, starting to lead him down to his knees, down to her. He agreed completely, lost to her gaze--his need for her tender and aching. "Yes," he breathed.

Once he was down on the mattress, then, she leaned him back on it gently, lying him flat upon it. His breathing was shaky, as she straddled over his thighs; she was so incredibly beautiful. He couldn't make a move to take control, though; he was her slave to do with as she would. "I want to touch you," he whispered desperately.

She smiled at him tenderly and leaned in to kiss him deeply, as he moaned. She led his hand over herself—down her neck and over a needy breast--her lovely, pink nipple erect for his touch.

He stopped there, as he returned her deep kiss--trying to express the depths of his devotion in it, shaking slightly from the taste of himself he found there, as well. His hand caressed her breast, his fingers teasing the sensitive nipple--stroking, pinching lightly, tugging at it softly until it pulled out of his hand once more.

She moaned at the singing sensation of it and kissed him more wildly. He was making her blood boil; she needed him so desperately she could barely breathe. . . . She had to have him now.

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

She continued the kiss, then, while she positioned herself over him. She led his other hand to her hip, giving him partial control.

He moaned, needing this--needing her. She contained his soul, was an angel meant only to bring him joy. . . . He just prayed that he could even halfway return it.

His hand left her lovely breast to run into her hair, holding her in the kiss. He could feel her heated desire just against his shaft, knew that she was more than ready for him--that she needed him almost as much as he did her; they both needed this union to truly be alive. He adjusted his hips just slightly, then, and they both began to lower her over him.

As soon as he had just entered her, though, they both broke from the kiss with a shared groan, their eyes closed. He raised his hips slightly, entering her further--needing more of the incredible sensation, as they both continued to lower her wet, hot, soft walls around his large, throbbing length. Another shuddering groan left their lungs.

They opened their eyes to watch each other completely, as she continued taking more of him. They could see their perfect lover's every emotion and need in the gaze; the intimacy of it shook them to their souls, made their need almost unbearable.

Both of his hands framed her hips now, as he brought her down upon him--filling her completely in one deep stroke. Her hands ran over his chest, as she panted. "Mmm, yes," she moaned, her eyes closing for one second, before they focused on his beautiful face once more. She knew, as perfectly as he filled her now, there was still some of his lovely shaft left.

He smiled at her knowingly--hungrily. His need to command, to make her his erotic captive, to show her the whole depth of his love began to boil through him once again. His hands captured her strongly, holding her above him, as he gave a rotating stroke deep into her--and more of his hard, thickened length disappeared into her sweet, caressing walls.

She whimpered, squirming blissfully over him; her eyes were closed. God, he felt so good, felt so *right*. There had never been another man born; Michael was everything there was in the world.

He smiled at her, loving the naked desire which shown from her face. "Look at me," he commanded softly. Her deep eyes opened to take him in once more, and his smile grew slightly, became more feral. "Yes," he stated simply.

His hands gripped her hips, as he gave her one more hard, rotating stroke--and the last of his incredible length disappeared deep inside her. Her eyes closed for one more second. "Oh--God," she moaned.

She forced herself to open her eyes once again, her gaze loving and desperate; her ache for him burned within her blood, singed her veins, as it ran through her. She wanted him so badly there were no words for it; she wanted to be his wife, his lover, his slave--anything which would mean that he would give himself to her completely, anything which meant that he would simply allow their bodies to communicate the flow of their souls, without the interference of consciousness.

He smiled at her, and she leaned down to him, capturing his face in her hands, her fingers caressing his cheeks. "Please, Michael," she begged softly. "Just take me." She closed her eyes and kissed over his lips blindly, her heated words flowing over him. "Use me for your own pleasure." Another kiss nipped there, before she opened her eyes once more. "Let me know how much you need me, how much you want this."

His hands stroked strongly over her back, his breathing almost as unsteady as hers. A growling moan rose from him at the honesty of the request that he saw in her eyes; she was asking him to turn her into the simple object of his desire, to ravish her without explanation or apology. . . . It scared him a little, but he wanted it *so* much.

His shaft jumped inside her walls at the request, and she moaned out for more. "Please," she begged.

His hands came up to frame her face. Her lovely, pleading sound had made him insane, had stripped him of his last shred of erotic conscience. All there was now was his need for her--his need for the two of them to form a whole which no one could ever break again.

"Yes," he growled. One hand held her shoulder, as he rolled the two of them over, catching her beneath him.

She moaned loudly, wanting more. "Yes," she pleaded, as well.

His shaft was deep within her, was hard up against her core. His eyes caught her then, a feral smile on his lips, as he began to move; he used the large head of his shaft to rub over her sensitive, needy core in deep, tiny strokes--making the area a hundred times more sensitized with every brush of his head against her.

His heated, knowing eyes watched her whimpering reaction; God, she made him feel so powerful--so good. "How does that feel?" he asked, desperately wanting her answer--wanting to surpass her every erotic fantasy, wanting to prove her imagination lacking.

She whimpered at the sensation, and her nails ran lightly down his back to grasp his soft curves. The heat he was creating within her was indescribable; it burned beautifully, sensually at her core, made it so needy and aroused it brought tears to her eyes. "More," her small voice pleaded.

His smile was feral, ruthless, as he traced down her arms to find her hands. He pushed them up and pressed them deep into the mattress on either side of her head, his fingers entwined with hers. He continued his teasing, achingly arousing motions. "You like it?"

His eyes were strong and wild. She felt a bit like a very small animal which had just been cornered by a very fierce and confident lion--but she was so desperate to be devoured by him. "More," she pleaded again.

There were no words to explain just how much he adored the look in her eyes right now. It pleaded with him, begged that he continue to approach her with his absolute need, with no thought to anything but his own desire, . . . but his own desire was and always would lie in pleasing her; the only thing which could ever exist for him without that was either boredom or despair.

His smile reflected the primal part of his soul--the part that mated without pity or apology; her teary look begged him to continue. He slowly stroked half out of her, then, before moving completely back in--holding himself deep. His eyes never left hers for a second, wouldn't allow her to look away, either.

She whimpered desperately, her mouth open, as she panted. "Yes, Michael, anything." Her fingers entwined with his more tightly, and he held her more firmly to the bed beneath him. She moaned loudly. "Do anything to me you want," she begged, her teary eyes wide and unblinking. "Just give yourself to me completely." She panted. "Let me know I'm yours."

He held her hands more firmly into the mattress, as he leaned down to her; he repeated his slowly-enticing stroke. His face was half an inch from hers, his eyes focused intensely on her gaze, his look refusing to be contradicted; his hot breath warmed her lips. "You *are* mine," he emphasized softly. He watched the teary need in her eyes for one more long heartbeat, before he lowered his head to hers and captured her mouth in a series of deep, twisting, commanding kisses.

She whimpered desperately beneath him. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her hips held up to him, begging him to command her depths, her soul. She had never felt more needy or more perfect.

He continued his strokes then, moving almost all the way out of her with each slow thrust before running the whole of his long shaft back into her each time. Each inward stroke became a little harder, as well.

She whimpered through the kiss once more; her hands clung to his, as he held her to the bed. Her depths clung to him, as well, begging for more. He was slowly, sensually stimulating every tiny measure of her tingling, trembling, needy depths, was playing her like a fine instrument of which he was the master musician.

She opened her mouth to him more, wanting him to fill her in every way there was. The light he was stoking within her was almost unbearable. She wanted her beloved's utter possession of her.

He growled just slightly, understanding her request. He was drunk with her now. He wasn't sure he could have done anything at the moment but just revel in her, enjoying the way her slick, tight depths clung to his long, hard shaft--begging for more of his love, as his strokes hit her more firmly; the way her body was supple and needy below his, the way it moved with and took part in every desire he showed her; the way her lovely, soft mouth opened to beg him for more, for his possession; the way her legs wrapped tight around his hips, her heels digging into his soft curves, pleading for more of his commanding love; the way her hands clung to his, as he held her in place for his desires; . . . the way her soul wrapped around him, held him soft and longingly in its embrace.

He was only capable of one thing anymore, indeed--sensation. All he could do was feel her body and soul as they begged him for his love and his desire; all he could do was feel her ever-increasing need for more of him. . . . God, he needed her *so* badly.

***********

He growled against her, then, and let go of her hands. His fingers ran deep into her soft hair, instead, as he held her in the increasingly-feral kiss. His long strokes were moving more quickly, more roughly within her. He wanted to make her the willing slave of the ecstasy he gave her.

She whimpered beneath him and held him to her, as well. Every sweet stroke beat hard against her core now, demanded her loyalty to his pleasure alone. Her hands ran into his hair, holding him in the kiss as well, aching for more of him; dear Lord, she loved him like this.

His long thrusts moved faster--knowing her total surrender; each one hit her core more roughly now. A little groan escaped him through the kiss with every thrust. God, no one else felt like her. . . . No one else could even come close. Angels, after all, made love like no other creature.

She whimpered beneath him again, her legs trying to hold him more deeply within herself. The singeing light he was stoking within her had left her half-crying. Every cell seemed to be ready to explode from need.

He broke from the kiss with her finally, leaning back to growl loudly, her need for him making him insane. His hands held onto her shoulders, as he held himself at arm's length above her, his eyes connecting solidly--demandingly with hers once more. His thrusts ran his long, hard length roughly through her each time, a little growl of approval meeting her whimper of need with each beautiful strike of her core.

Her hands held onto his arms, as her hips met his thrusts desperately. Tears ran from her eyes, as she trembled with her need for him; her eyes begged him for more.

He saw her request and let out a loud, half-growling howl. He lowered himself to her quickly again and held her incredibly close to him, his hot, panting breaths on her face--his commanding eyes boring into her soul; his thrusts were beating into her in short, brutally beautiful strokes, as she quaked beneath him.

She was letting out little whimpers, utterly lost to him. She couldn't stop the tears which began to flow from her; it was all just too indescribably perfect.

He moved his head and put his cheek near hers now, as he stroked more roughly into her. She gave teary groans each time he thrust into her--each time he connected solidly with her trembling core. He could feel her nails digging into his back, her heels pushing into him, desperate to force him deeper, wanting more.

He felt insane, felt as though he might just explode from sheer delight and need, as his growling moans rumbled from him. One hand was tangled in her hair, the other on her shoulder, as he kissed dementedly over her cheek, his stubble rasping against her.

She whimpered beneath him again. His perfect, brutal, ruthlessly deep thrusts within her were stroking her into a state of ecstasy she had never come close to before. . . . Had she had any conscious mind left at the moment, she truly would have wondered how that was even possible.

As it was, though, she was simply a quivering mass of sensation and emotion, as his mouth moved toward her ear-- his breath hot in it. "God, I love you," he whispered gruffly to her. His thrusts sped up even more, as he spent a second nibbling at her lobe.

She whimpered loudly, holding him more tightly. Her soft, grasping walls enclosed him further, clinging to him desperately, as well, as the tears of need and delight rolled down her cheeks.

He kissed her ear again. "I love how much you want me." He beat into her more solidly, as she trembled desperately around him. He growled.

His strokes within her became deep, even more intensely brutal, thrusts against her quakingly needy core. She was holding him to her as tightly as she could, as she sobbed in need and delight.

He groaned, his need for her growing exponentially by the second. His hot breath played over her again. "Nothing makes me as happy as making you come," he growled in her ear.

She whimpered beneath him, her whole body shaking and alive. The light in her core was a supernova, was too bright to be described; it was sending shards of love and desire throughout her entire body, as his sweet, lovely length continued to conquer her whimperingly-needy walls and core. . . . It was all just too perfect to ever be able to voice.

She trembled around him entirely, the tears flowing down her cheeks. She wanted him so much she simply wasn't sure it was possible to fulfill her ravenous desire for him; she simply ached with her pleasure and need--with the experience which could only be her perfect lover and spiritual husband.

God, he ached with this--ached with his need for her alone. He could feel her desperation, her quaking need for him; he dipped his head to suckle at a sensitive spot on her neck. . . . He had to please her now, or he would go insane.

His hands ran down to grasp her soft curves, and he held the large head of his shaft hard against her. His hips gave her deep, rough, rotating strokes, making the tender area far within her so unspeakably sensitized that the desire was almost unbearable for her--and he knew it completely. . . . It was just how he wanted her.

She was screaming in need, holding him to her, whimpering. He kissed over her ear once more, his teeth grazing over her lobe for a second. "I need your joy, my one. I need it to live."

She moaned loudly, crying. His thrusts began to move halfway through her again, as his hands sunk into her curves, running his shaft hard against her core. She whimpered desperately, her tremors trebling, her breathing rattling in her lungs.

He began to intersperse these strokes with another kind, too--grinding the head of his huge shaft hard against her core, rubbing it there for several seconds, before repeating everything again. Her nails dug deeper into his back, as the light grew brighter within her. Soon, it would be blinding.

His tongue licked over her ear, as she whimpered; she was so close, he knew. He had to have her now--had to have her ecstasy, or he would die. "Come, my sweet, dear wife," his hot breath whispered. She whimpered. His hard shaft began giving quick, ruthless strikes against her nearly-transcendent core. He kissed her ear. "Come for me--let me join you."

Her eyes were closed, her head back; tears streamed down her face. Everything within her was molten and tender with her oncoming ecstasy. She couldn't last but another few heartbeats; Michael played her so well.

"That's it," he whispered. He turned his head to taste his way up the path of a tear on her cheek, before placing a soft kiss on her eyelid; her teary eyes focused on him finally, as her body trembled violently beneath him. His thumb stroked over her cheek tenderly; his eyes told her of his utter honesty, as he said the one thing they both needed to be voiced. "I love you, Nikita." He brushed a soft kiss over her trembling lips, as her body went still beneath his, her eyes wide. "I'll love you for eternity."

His eyes and words connected with her soul at the same time that his huge, achingly-hot, hard length rammed home into her desperately-tender, insanely-needy core. She closed her eyes; everything within her was balanced on an edge so beautiful and precarious that there was no way to keep her balance--but she did desperately need one more thing. Her whole body, indeed, seemed to be on hold, waiting for it.

She grabbed his head and kissed over his lips and around his face blindly. "Come for me, Michael," she begged. Her eyes opened, connecting completely with his soul. "Come for the woman who loves you more than life."

He closed his eyes, overcome, as he rocked against her instinctively for one long, final heartbeat. He felt her love for him in every part of his body--in every corner of his soul. His hard shaft throbbed with the risen heat of his adoration of her. . . . This was a union both of them had to have.

He opened his eyes to focus on her, as his hands framed her face. His lips were almost against hers. "Yes," he whispered shakily.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion for them then, as they took each other completely. Her hands held his beautiful face, as their lips met; their souls met and mingled, as they gave one another one more perfect thrust home.

Their eyes closed, as the light exploded through them both. They broke from the kiss to gasp for a second, as their rushing pleasure flooded all of their senses--trembled uncontrollably together, as the heat of their bliss overtook them. Her tight, soft, sweet walls caressed his length deep within her body, as his aching, needy shaft beat its heated comfort out to fill her core.

It was too much bliss to even be properly voiced. They couldn't make any sound except soft crying whimpers. Its heat ran through all of the veins in their bodies, melted them together as one.

Their lips found each other's again, and they held each other in a loving, perfect kiss. Their bodies trembled together, each one's ecstasy building upon the other's.

The kiss was soft and continuing; they broke from it from time to time to gasp, however--overcome by the delight of the moment, of each other. Their heated love made them feel so completely whole that the light was blinding; they had to keep their eyes closed in order to savor and understand its perfection completely.

Even several minutes later, then, they were still kissing softly, their hands running through one another's hair-- their bliss connecting them completely. Their love, their absolute ecstasy, indeed, had made them whole, had created a miracle. . . . For just a short space of time, they were each other's alone. Nothing outside of them existed at all. ***********

The last week and a half or so had--well, it sure as hell hadn't been anything he had ever expected. Up until then, after all, he had never been in the field before--not really. Yeah, he had killed someone before then--and, thanks to Nikita, he had survived all the emotional fallout of the experience, as well. But this, . . . no, this had been *much* different.

Birkoff sat at his computer in Comm. now, quietly going through his files. Hillinger, he knew, had set up the stunt which had led to the last week or so of Hell; he wanted to be certain, then, that that boy hadn't left anything else behind--or taken anything away, either. . . . He was not, he was determined, going to end up in this situation again.

He sighed, as he continued the long process of checking his directory, his mind working through, once again, all of the things he had faced these past couple of weeks--and the events which had led to them. He had known for some time, of course, that Operations wasn't exactly happy with him; from his protection of Nikita when they had had her targeted through his blackmail attempts of his leader and his unintentional security breach with Abby, there was a lot, in fact, for the older man to be taking his revenge for.

Some continuing sense of shock remained in him, though--sat heavily in his chest, as he thought into this further. Still, he supposed that he had never quite imagined that it would all lead to this; really, he had never quite thought that he could be replaced. Yeah, he knew Hillinger was a threat--the stupid kid had made that obvious for sometime, ever since he had taken out Tatyana, in fact--but he had just never quite thought that his leaders would assume that their new boy wonder could take his own place here. . . . He had never imagined that at all.

That, though, was precisely what these last few weeks had taught him, was what he had learned. His job was not as secure as he had always imagined; he would, indeed, have to learn to be very, very careful.

He stopped at a file which Hillinger had--apparently--tried to access, but he was relieved to see that the virtual seals he had placed on it seemed to be unbroken. He decided to check out the contents, though, just to be sure.

His mind, too, continued on its current paths while he did so. He was actually a little impressed--in a rather dazed, slightly frightened way--at how well he had survived his trial by fire. He had infiltrated Soldat de la Liberte', had downloaded all of their relevant files--had created a direct link into Red Cell data, and had somehow managed to get out again--despite Rousseau having spotted him as a member of Section. . . . He wasn't entirely certain how he had done it, but he was still proud that he had.

He went on pondering this. He had always known, of course, that field work of that sort would be hell, would be incredibly tricky. Hell, he had seen too many ops. in similar situations iced for a small slip. . . . He had never imagined, then, that he could handle it himself.

He smiled just slightly, before he repressed it--seeing, as well, that the file he was checking seemed untainted; he went on with his search. He was pretty damn confident of many of his skills in Section, really. He was a whiz with computers, could handle a gun without too many problems, had even managed to circumvent Ops. when he was trying to protect Nikita, . . . but this had been very different; he had never really thought it possible that he could go through it all unmarred.

Still--he pulled up another file to check--he had managed it, had survived, but it hadn't been even vaguely simple. For awhile, indeed, he had been certain that he wouldn't make it, that he was dead. He had even reached a point so low--in the couple of days when they had left him alone to rot in a room without any food--that he had never imagined he could come back, wasn't even certain that he wanted to. He had truly thought, for a little while, that it might be better if he would just die; he had really begun to believe, indeed, that the only place Section couldn't touch him would be in whatever sort of afterlife might be awaiting him.

He sighed a little. He had gotten over this, though--had lived through it, but it had made an incredible sense of rage burn in him toward Operations, for awhile. Part of him had wondered, in fact, whether he might not be better off just allying himself with Rousseau; maybe he could have a better future with the terrorist than he did in Section, indeed.

In the end, though--after very little thought, he had decided that he was wrong; Rousseau cared about, and for, him no more than Operations ever would. They were much the same, in fact--except that Ops. didn't even pretend to care for his subordinates. . . . At least Rousseau had known to put on the front.

He sighed once more, clearing another few files and moving on. The merits of his various leaders--temporary or otherwise, though--really didn't matter in the long run. He belonged to Section, he knew, so he had simply concentrated on attempting to return to it in one piece--had focused on trying to get Operations to *want* him back.

All of the plans he had come up with, however, had seemed ridiculously flawed, especially when he had discovered that Rousseau had known about his link to Section One. It had been, then, a concurrence of opportunity and planning which had finally led him back to what might loosely be called his home.

Rousseau, indeed, had suggested a show of his new recruit's loyalty by asking him to give up someone or something from Section; with luck and those words, therefore, Birkoff had realized a way out. . . . The only part of his desperate plan he had hated, truly, had been the fact that it required him to use one of the only two real friends he had in the world.

He paused his program and shut his eyes for a second, trying to push back the jumble of emotions which assaulted him, as he thought about it all again now. He had hated calling on Nikita, knowing that he was setting her up; he hated even more, though, that she didn't entirely seem to believe that it had only been his plan to escape. . . . That he might have caused her to lose her faith in him, indeed, hurt him like hell.

He opened his eyes once more and forced himself to focus. He knew he couldn't blame her for her doubt, however; he was pretty damn sure that he wouldn't have been all that thrilled about it, had the situation been reversed. . . . She *had* trusted him enough to convince Michael to let him get back to his computer, though, had believed that he had only been acting out of necessity--but that wasn't really much of a consolation.

He sighed, more pretending to focus on the files now than actually being able to. He knew, to an extent, then, that she believed him, that she didn't entirely believe that he had gone over, but that wasn't really enough; she was still a bit gun-shy around him, was still a little distrustful--a little hurt.

She had a right to feel this way, of course--he knew, but it still hurt--he still hated it. He supposed, however, that he was really lucky that he had survived to get to that point with her, was lucky that he had lived past the dangers massing around him. Never mind Rousseau or his dozens of armed teenage psychos, either--the real threat to his continued existence on this planet, he knew, had been Michael.

Of course--he thought once more, the older man had been part of his desperate plan from the beginning; he had always intended on the cold op. being sent in after him. The problem, though, had been in surviving long enough to explain what had happened--had been in getting the older man to listen. . . . Especially since he had apparently betrayed Nikita, too, he had been more than a little worried that his superior would be only too happy to execute him, before he got a chance to tell him the truth.

He sighed once again, beginning to check one of the final files; so far, they had all seemed okay, although it did appear that Greg had attempted to tamper with a few of them. His mind began to circle around thoughts of the future now, therefore, as he pondered the younger man further. It appeared, indeed, that he had become his “assistant’s” target. Just how, then, was he going to keep the annoying--and now dangerous--Hillinger away from him in the days to come? How was he going to keep him at bay?

He smiled slightly, thinking back. He was pleased, of course, that Nikita had still thought enough of him, after his dangerous manipulation of her, to try to threaten little "Greggy" into submission--but he knew it would never be effective. His smile faded. First, Greg never took women seriously, even when they were more than capable of killing him; second, he suspected that, despite her warning, Nikita was more benign than she appeared with the boy. It wasn't that she liked him so much, though; it was more that she still saw him as a slightly-sullied innocent, one whom she felt guilty for having helped bring in. . . . If anything was going to keep him safe from his nemesis, then, it would have to come from himself.

At the moment, though, he was at a loss in trying to form any effective plan. He supposed that he would just have to keep an eye out for anything the boy might get up to--would have to grow eyes in the back of his head to keep himself safe. He closed his eyes briefly once more. God, he hated it.

He refocused on his screen, as he entered the last file to check it. Part of his mind, indeed, couldn't quite forget the look of betrayal on Rousseau's face, as he had been led away to the white room. He had never, really, before, imagined quite what it would be like to have to get close to someone in order to turn on them--but this mission had shown him in too great detail. Both with Rousseau and Mia, even though he hadn't felt any true closeness with either of them, he still felt a lingering sense of shame at having misled them --regardless of their crimes. . . . It was a feeling, no matter how hard he tried, in fact, that he just couldn't shake.

He wasn't quite sure he understood any of this, however. Nikita--yeah, he definitely understood why he felt like hell about her, but his targets, . . . why the hell should he even care?

He shook his head slightly, as he completed his inventory, storing the last file away again. He supposed he couldn't really understand his own feelings--that he wouldn't be able to, no matter how hard he tried. They didn't really seem to be following any logic, anyway; he would have to, then, just learn to deal with them, regardless.

He sighed once more, his mind summing up all of his new knowledge. He felt an even deeper appreciation of what the cold ops. did now, of the problems they faced, even when they knew the right and wrong of it. He knew now, too, though, that he had what it took to survive living their lives, at least for a little while--had more confidence in himself, indeed. . . . No doubt, Operations wouldn't be happy to learn this, but it was still true--and he wouldn't let the hard-won knowledge go again.

He searched for and found something new to play with, then, letting himself get back to work. He was just too happy to be back in Comm.--back home, finally--to be able to get himself to leave too quickly.

He supposed, in some ways, therefore, that these horrible few weeks had been worth it, had given him something. What he needed to do now, however, was look after himself more, was pay more attention to what was happening around him, just to make certain that he didn't become so vulnerable again. If he could do that, indeed, then maybe it would all have meant something. Without it, though--well, without it, he had isolated himself from Nikita--had hurt her, had gone through hell himself, for nothing. . . . He wouldn't let that happen again.

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

He smiled to himself, as he lay back on the bed in his quarters. It had all gone rather well for him, had all gone better than he had even expected. He had found a way to get rid of Birkoff--at least temporarily--as well as accessing Gemstone. His smile grew. Soon, in return, George was going to make him a very happy man.

Greg, truly, was about as pleased with himself as he could get. He had been a total success this past week or so, had made everything happen just as he had imagined. True, it was sad that Birkoff was still alive--that had disappointed him a bit--but he was learning to live with it. . . . He wouldn't be around this place for much longer, after all, to worry about him, anyway.

He thought back once again over the past few hours. He had called George, as soon as he had been able to--had begun to arrange for his own escape from this place. Section One, indeed, was a little beneath him; he was capable of a *lot* more than this. . . . Soon, too, he would be able to prove it.

He had been surprised at first, however--he thought back again now, by his new leader's instructions on escape: "Get yourself canceled." Still, it had made sense, in the long run. . . . Now, all he had to do was find a way to get that to happen. His smile grew deeper again. He guessed, indeed, given the way he had screwed Birkoff recently, that his little "superior" wouldn't go too far to keep him alive, if he f---ed up. He just needed to find a way to do so that would put him on an abeyance team, as opposed to getting him stuck in a white room; that was really the only way out now.

His smile faded somewhat, thinking about this, but he shrugged off his worries mentally; they were useless, indeed. He was more than bright enough to get out of here--was a *hell* of a lot more intelligent than *Birkoff*. A small grin broke out on his face. Now, too, was his chance to prove it.

His mind ran, then, back over the past couple of weeks. Things had just been *so* simple with Birkoff gone, really; everything had been open and unprotected. He had even taken a leisurely walk through all of his once- superior's files and had then made it look as though he hadn't tampered with them--or, if he had, that he hadn't succeeded in reading them. His smile grew. Easy.

Getting access to Gemstone, too, had been deceptively simple. He tended to pile on the obnoxious act when he needed to, indeed, in order to keep people from examining him too closely; he had done the same thing at the university, in fact, back when he was a professor, whenever he wanted to make some department power play. It always worked, too--both then and now. . . . None of them even guessed, really, that it was just playacting.

Hillinger wouldn't admit to himself, of course, that much of the personality he used to deflect the world's attention belonged to him inherently. Still, he did know how to pile on the smugness or the insulting comments when he needed to, knew just how to do it. . . . There was no reason, then, for him to change.

He smiled even further, as well, as he thought back over another bonus of this last week; it had gotten him Nikita's attention again. Okay, so she had been threatening him--but so what? She had been paying attention, hadn't she? She was no longer just walking by him like he was barely there.

He knew--he admitted to himself--that he had had a thing for the Amazonian blonde ever since he had first met her, really. She was one *hell* of a looker, after all--was as hot as they came; given the footage from the Armel tape, too, she could obviously follow up on her looks when it came to the bedroom. He smiled further. She was, then, just the woman for him.

His smile faded a little, though, as he gave a light sigh. He supposed that the passion for him she hadn't entirely discovered yet would have to wait, however. He had to get out of here, for now. . . . Maybe in the future, though, he could return to see what she was like under the covers, first hand.

For now, however, his future was a little more cut and dried than that. He needed to get the right amount of the wrong kind of attention at just the correct time. It was a game of degrees, indeed--but he was born for that, was born for this sort of life. He regretted a little, in fact, that he had let his annoyingly-clingy mother keep him from doing military work in the past; had he been doing this longer, indeed, he might have *been* George by now.

His self-satisfied smile continued; he had plenty of reason for it, after all. He had already succeeded in obtaining the impossible when he had stolen Gemstone--which, of course, he had already committed parts of to memory and made a few back-up copies of, just in case. Nothing ahead of him would be half as hard, then. . . . All that was left now, indeed, was his curtain call.

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

She sat back in her office, her mind beginning to trail over what she had seen these past few weeks. Her various operatives, it seemed, had all been calling for additional study. . . . Now, she simply needed to tally up what she had discovered.

Madeline took a deep, calming breath, as she allowed her mind to begin her examination of Section. She supposed the most appropriate starting point in her mental inquiry, too, was Birkoff. While she had disliked sending him in after Rousseau, she had seen Operations' determination in his plan and had decided that to try to stop it would be meaningless and inefficient. . . . Besides, they had needed to see, someday, just what the young man was capable of in the field. She smiled slightly. Now they knew.

Her smile deepened, as she thought into this further--was almost warm. She had seen Birkoff grow, had watched his progression and his integration into Section life. In his many years here, too, he had become an essential--had become a fixture. Her smile faded slightly, remembering. She hadn't, then--she admitted, been particularly ready to see that fixture eliminated.

The look of slight pleasure returned to her face a few seconds later, however. Still, he had come through this recent, unexpected test rather well--had succeeded even where she had found it possible he would not. . . . He had grown up rather well, indeed.

She thought into this further now--into what she had learned both from his own debrief and from Rousseau's interrogation. He had been tested, truly, far more than even she had suspected. Not only had he passed through the basic cold op. tests--lack of food and water, isolation--the basic, fairly crude, brainwashing techniques--but he had also managed to maneuver his way through a minefield of unexpected twists: from Rousseau's knowledge of his organizational ties to his perceived abandonment by Section. . . . And he had done quite remarkably with them all.

Her mind continued to ponder this first difficulty for a moment, then. He had told Rousseau--so she had discovered from them both--that he had been in Section for 4 years. She smiled. Had she herself instructed him on how to answer this question, she couldn't have taught him better. Anything more, after all, would have made him seem too intrinsically a part of the organization--which he was; anything less would have brought on suspicion that he was lying--that he was hiding his true loyalty. How, indeed--as well, would he have been able to get out, if he were still just barely out of the recruit stage?

She sighed contentedly once more. This hadn't been all of his small triumphs, however. His actions with Nikita, as well, had been remarkable. While she was still rather disappointed to learn that he had kept up his ties with the frequently-problematic operative, she was pleased that he had been able to use it to such an advantage. . . . Maybe, too, if they were fortunate, his actions might have taught Nikita once again that she couldn't trust her fellow ops. . . . It was a lesson, after all, which she still dearly needed to learn.

Her mind focused vaguely on this woman for another few seconds, before she returned it to Birkoff once more, wanting to finish up her evaluation here before moving on. She had been suspicious, of course, that he might have turned, at first, but she was quite convinced now that this had never been the case. . . . Even if Operations was not happy with this, then, it was still all for the best, in the long run.

Her musings on the young man having satisfied her now, she returned her thoughts once more to the young woman whom he had used--and the man she had been forced to give up. Apparently, the bond between the woman and her former trainer was being held at bay, indeed--but she still wasn't entirely certain. When the recalcitrant op. had feared for Birkoff's safety, in fact, she had run directly to Michael--had ignored all else in her rush to get to him. She sighed. Whatever the appearances between them, then, they still merited closer examination in the future.

She didn't, however, have the time to devote to them now. What was coming, indeed, would put all else out of her mind temporarily. It would have to. The outcome was simply too important, after all, to merit anything less than her entire focus.

She took a deep breath, as she tried to prepare herself once more. She and Operations had agreed, recently, that they needed to move on their plans against George; he was simply too much of a variable to be left in play any longer. Soon, then, things between herself and Section's chief would appear to change--soon they would work on deepening the supposed rift between them, the one they had been setting up for about two years.

There was a slight look of disgust on her face, as she pondered this further; she knew it wouldn't be pleasant, however--there was no way it could be. It would mean, for her, reentering a several-year-old relationship with the man which she had had no particular desire, truly, to ever revisit.

Still, it couldn't be helped. Operations had to appear to be coercing her into bed, had to appear to be abusing her in the most intense and personal ways, or her new alliance to George would seem unrealistic. . . . She would just, then, have to put up with his physical company once more in order to be able to reach those ends.

She stared down at her desk, as she began to ponder the reasons that Paul had chosen this particular path. She knew, of course, that he liked to claim to himself that there had never been anything real between them, but that was a lie--at least on his part. For several years, in fact, he had been utterly dependent on her--emotionally and sexually; he had grown stronger since he had taken over the role of Section's chief, but he hadn't outgrown her. . . . That, she knew, would never happen.

Given his predilection for her, then, she understood that this path they were undertaking was dangerous in some ways. It was possible, indeed, that--during their pretense of a relationship for the benefit of George's cameras--Paul would come to believe it on some level himself, and--truly--she wanted no part in that again. Yes, she wanted to keep her present position, so for that she was pleased with his slight obsession, but they couldn't let it go too far; they had simply gone through too much to regress to that point once again.

She took a deep breath once more, calming herself further. Still, she wouldn't allow this to happen. She would get through the renewal of the physical side of their relationship, which had been dead for many years--would keep her mind focused on their goal with George. And then, in the end, they would have more power than they had ever before dreamed possible. . . . For that end, indeed, any sacrifice was worthwhile.

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

She sighed, as she was leaving Section for the night. The past several days had been awful. She had been manipulated by a friend and led straight into an ambush. And, while she understood the reasons for Birkoff's actions, she was finding it rather difficult to get past them, nonetheless, emotionally.

Nikita passed by a glass wall on her way toward the exit to the building and caught sight of the physical scars these past few days had left upon her. Her left cheek and the left side of her forehead, indeed, were still marred by having been seriously scraped, as she had barely escaped Red Cell's former substation once again.

She sighed once more and looked straight ahead, not wanting the reminder. It wasn't so much that she felt the marks made her ugly--or anything so potentially shallow as that; it was more that they were too great a reminder of her feelings. . . . And, right now, she truly wasn't sure that she wanted any of those.

She passed through the area, then, which proved to practically be a gauntlet of emotion for her, at the moment; Comm. was on her left, Michael's office on her right. She cast a quick look at Birkoff, who caught her eye with a, still slightly desperate, look of apology. She smiled briefly in return, before she focused instead on the office where her beloved one worked late into the night; she knew he felt her presence, as well--although he didn't look up--by the slight pause he took in his typing, as though his fingers had seized suddenly for a second, at her approach. She could feel the love he seemed to be sending her silently, too, before his fingers resumed their constant movement, his beloved ostensibly forgotten once more.

She took a deep breath, as she began to make her way out. She supposed, in many ways--really, that Birkoff wasn't actually the biggest of her problems from the past few weeks. Yes, she was still hurt by his actions--had been half-convinced, before he had been brought back in, indeed, that he had turned, but she understood the reasons for his manipulation only too well. She stared at the floor, a sadness in her eyes, as she remembered; she had been forced to do much the same too often herself to be able to judge him for that.

She swallowed slightly, trying to hold back her pain. Of course, this didn't really make anything that much better. He had still hurt her, had still manipulated her, had still practically gotten her killed.

She sighed, trying to keep back her hard feelings toward him. He had also been doing his best to protect her, as well, though--she knew: he had chosen a bar with an easy escape, one they both knew about--had tried to lure her over to the area where the trap door lay, quickly, in fact, in order to assure her safety.

Her heart ached slightly, as she thought through it all once more. It was a hard contradiction to feel her way around, of course, but her mind understood it, nonetheless; it forgave him, indeed. . . . Hopefully, her heart would follow suit soon.

She took another deep breath, then, her mind changing tracks. This, really, wasn't where most of her pain lay of late, anyway. No. That particular prize lay entirely with her beloved--or, rather, with her enforced distance from him.

She thought further into this again now, her heart still aching. They had been together just a week or so ago, of course--had been able to share another few hours of communion in order to remind themselves that they were still real, that they were still whole. But none of that, really, was quite enough. . . . What they both needed, indeed, was a lifetime.

She ordered her eyes not to tear, as she made her way toward the elevator which would lead to her car. Of course, the way things looked at the moment, their chances of that weren't all that great. They were still, in all likelihood, going to be forced to spend the rest of this existence in separation.

She swallowed heavily, as she got in and began to ride up to the parking lot. God, she hated this--hated being forced to live apart from him, when they had finally found a way to live together. It had taken him so long, after all, to come to her, to be able to work himself to a point where he could open himself to their shared needs; that he had been forced away again--that she had been forced to push him away--after that just seemed tremendously cruel.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep her pain within herself. The things she wished for, really, seemed so simple; all she wanted was the ability to choose her mate--to choose her partner, to be able to share with him both good and bad, to be able to comfort and be comforted when things went wrong. It just hurt that they were both being forced to stay so distant. . . . It made all of the emotions they always felt from one another just seem unbearably strong, indeed.

She opened her eyes once more, as she arrived at the lot, taking in a deep, steadying breath. She knew, though, that there was no way around this; she had to just face it. . . . Maybe sometime in the future, however, things could be different once again.

She swallowed heavily, as she forced herself toward her car--forced herself to move away from him; she had actually stayed about an hour later than she needed to here just to be in the same building with him, regardless of their physical distance. Still, it was a poor substitute for true intimacy.

For now, though, she did have one bit of hope--one form of consolation. He had found a mission for them to share themselves on not so long ago, indeed; maybe, if they were lucky, they might be able to find another soon. . . . Then, at least, they could remember what it was to feel a sense of true comfort once more.

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

He had been spending much more time, of late, in his office--had been staying late at Section far more than was truly necessary for him. . . . He couldn't help it, though. Without his beloved to go home to, there really was no reason to leave.

Michael continued typing a report quietly, as he let his mind roam over her. She was still here, he knew, if only just--he could feel her. They had both had to, indeed, hone their sense of unspoken perception--their finely-tuned awareness of one another--to a fine art these past few weeks. . . . It was, truly, the only way to get through it all while still holding onto any sense of sanity, of self.

He felt her spirit recede from him finally, however, and he closed his eyes for just a second, taking in a deep breath. There it was--she was gone for the night. . . . Even if it would only be a few hours before he saw her again, he would miss her.

He opened his eyes once more and tried to focus on his report. He was, more and more, finding their days--and nights--without each other torturous; he found himself more frequently focusing on his fantasies of a life with her, on his memories of their shared love. He sighed quietly. It just wasn't, indeed, something he could put away in himself--and, even if it had been, he would refuse. . . . Nikita was absolutely precious to him, after all; he refused to just pretend that she didn't exist.

He tried to fix his concentration on the report once again, but he knew it was a futile effort. Nothing else he ever did truly distracted him from her entirely; no other goal ever seemed quite so real. With her with him, his life--his soul was complete. Without her now, though, everything around him was simply an empty shadow--a pale imitation of life. . . . Nothing else, to him, would ever quite exist again.

His heart still ached with the distance between them. He wished so much that they could still be together, could still be whole.

He knew, though, that it wouldn't happen. Their love had made their overlords jealous. . . . Now they were being forced to pay.

He tried to guide his mind onto another path, then, knowing that to continue to allow himself to focus solely on his despair would only bring him more pain; he traced back through the last week or so--traced over the time he had been surviving through since their last few hours together--their latest few hours of life. He knew that the events of this past week had hurt her; he understood that she had felt betrayed by Birkoff--and he could understand her reaction, as well. He, in fact, had been half-tempted to shoot the younger man simply because he had brought her pain; seeing the visible signs of her encounter with the ambushing members of Soldat de la Liberte', indeed, had made him want to destroy the other man. . . . No one, to his mind, should ever be able to harm her and live.

In the end, however, he hadn't followed through on this instinct. He had, instead, listened to her plea to look after the young man, before he had left to retrieve the strayed computer expert. . . . Her words, indeed, were what had done it, as well; they were what had made him decide to give the younger man a chance to explain.

He sighed, thinking over this further. He supposed he was pleased that Birkoff had managed to make it through his mission relatively unscathed, but, in truth, his major focus during the entire week--as usual--had been only on his beloved. It was for her, more than anything else, that he had worried somewhat for the young man; it was for her that he had tried to work himself past his stoic training enough to wonder what was truly happening to him. . . . But, in the end, Section's main computer expert had still not been his true focus; that distinction, indeed, would only ever belong to Nikita.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself again, as he continued to think over the last week; he sent off the report he had just finished and began to scan a new mission profile. He wished he had been able to comfort his beloved more, wished he had been able to tell her that Birkoff would be alright and mean it--wished, even more, that he had been able to take her in his arms, when she had returned looking so battered from her encounter with Rousseau's small army. He didn't in any way, of course, feel that her beauty was lessened by her temporary scars, but he did wish that he could salve her pain; it was the role he deserved, after all. Husbands should be able to comfort their wives.

He sighed, his heart clutching slightly. He needed now, he knew, to find another opportunity to be together with her--needed *desperately* to be able to hold the beautiful angel he loved so dearly in his arms, needed the opportunity to be able to make love to her--to remind her of his adoration. . . . He just wasn't going to be able to stand the separation between them that much longer, otherwise.

His eyes were sad, as he continued to try to plan. He could feel himself diminishing lately, could feel himself disappearing without her touch. In many ways, he supposed, he was still as dead as Section had always claimed; it was only through the miracle of love she gave to him that his heart could ever live once more.

His eyes scanned this next profile more closely, then. He had gotten lucky in the last one, really; it, much like the first one they had tried this with, had rather fallen in his lap. Soon, though, he suspected that he would be creating scenarios which would go much further to achieve his off-profile ends. Whatever it took, he needed to love her once more to be alive. Nothing, after all, could survive in him without her. . . . Section be damned. *************

A week and a half--he had been forced to spend a week and a half away from her, a week and a half pretending that she meant nothing to him, that she was only another operative, nothing more. He had suffered through knowing that she had been nearly killed when he hadn't been there to rescue her, had been forced to view the visible reminder of her trials which the marks on her beautiful skin brought to him. . . . And, through it all, he had survived, existing for this one moment alone.

Michael was waiting for her now, was waiting in the reverse of their positions the last time they had been fortunate enough to be together--the last time they had been fortunate enough to truly be alive. She was due here in about five minutes now, should everything go to plan. . . . God, he had missed her.

He was a little worried, however, since today was one of the boldest of their assignations so far. Before now, they had managed to be on missions alone, had arranged to meet--or had ended up meeting--in deserted buildings, after their mission was complete. . . . Today, though--today was a little different.

He looked around himself, evaluating the room which would be witness to their love. He was, indeed, leaning back against a desk in a darkened and meagerly-furnished, if comfortable, office, in a slightly less-used part of the building. He sighed. It wasn't what he wanted for them--wasn't what he had dreamed of.

He felt his heart clutch slightly, as he thought about his dreams further. No. He wanted to give her roses and moonlight, a river or ocean lapping against a shore or perhaps gentle mountain breezes coming in by a window. He swallowed heavily. But not this. . . . No, never this.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, before forcing them open once more--keeping himself on the alert. He hated what had happened to them, what had been done to their relationship. He hated that he had to treat her as though she were a mistress, as though theirs was merely some cheap affair or some street corner meeting--or, today, as though this were simply some valentine op. where he had to distract a bored secretary. . . . This wasn't what he wanted with her at all.

His heart ached, as he thought through it all again. No, this was cruel--was a painful corner to have been forced into by their masters. Nikita wasn't, and never would be, a mistress, a whore, or a target. . . . No. She was an angel--was the woman he loved far more than anything as transitory as life. She was the woman he wished to God he could spend a lifetime with--could spend *every* lifetime with--devoting himself to her completely, worshiping her with his body, his mind, his heart, and his soul. She was the woman whose image he longed to see in the face of his children, whose beauty of mind, body, and soul could provide the light to a life which would otherwise be lacking. . . . She deserved, then, *so* much more than this.

He swallowed heavily once more, trying to repress his sorrow, as he focused dimly on the utilitarianly carpeted floor. Still, he had to try to accept this, for now. If this was all that they could have in Section, at the moment, then he would have to take it. . . . He just couldn't live without her again.

He took a deep breath and focused on the door once more, waiting. He wondered now how he had managed to live apart from her for so long before now; why, indeed, had he taken so many lonely years before he came to her, before he asked her for the love she, miraculously, seemed to have for him? What sort of fool had he been to force them both to live in such agony apart, when he had known for so long that she contained his only source of strength and comfort?

He shook his head, focusing on the floor once more. There were reasons for his inaction, of course--he knew; he had, in the past, sometimes repeated them to himself insistently--endlessly. There had been Elena and the fears of discovery she had brought him--had been his years of denial, as well, when he had pretended that his unshakable devotion to Nikita was temporary, was passing--as foolish as those thoughts had been. He had, as well--though, so often hurt her in the past that he had sometimes feared that he had destroyed all hope of her love, all hope of tenderness toward him. . . . God, it hurt to think about it now.

He sighed deeply again, however, as he realized suddenly that none of these things had really mattered, in his decision making. What had held him back the most, truly, had simply been his own, deep-rooted, fear of happiness.

His heart ached more strongly at the thought; he didn't want to let himself ponder it too much, didn't want to allow himself to feel so depressed. His angel was coming soon, after all, and she didn't deserve to see him morbid and dismally reflective, when she was going to so much trouble so that they could be together.

Still--his mind continued to worry with the idea he had tried to dismiss, he did know that one of the primary reasons he hadn't allowed himself to be with her in the years before was because he had felt so deeply unworthy of either love or life. He still felt this way to an extent, too, still knew it was true, but he had come to realize-- Nikita had come to teach him--that there was more to penitence than regret; indeed, sometimes the best way to make amends was simply to strive to be better. . . . And Nikita, indeed, would always represent the most holy, the most inherently redeemable, parts of himself.

His heart ached once again in his love for her, as he waited in silent impatience for her arrival. He looked back up to the door. She should be here soon, but he knew that there was a small time variable in their plans; what she had had to do wasn't easy. He needed, then, to try to be patient.

He thought back over the mission, and sub-mission, he had created this time, then--to the arrangements he had made when nothing so convenient as their last assignation appeared to save them; it was a way to fill time, until she appeared. They weren't, sadly, alone on the mission this time; they had been more than fortunate, really, to have had two such missions in close proximity, given their leaders' current attitude toward them. The three other ops. on this one, though, were spread throughout the building they were in, had come in today as "temporary workers"--had been assigned to different, supposedly individual, businesses in the complex in order to retrieve the four, separated parts of the document they sought. . . . But all of them, himself included, had had it easy compared to his beloved.

Nikita, indeed--he reflected again now, had been given the behind-the-scenes part of this mission, had been given the task of retrieving the hidden key to the document they all sought. She, then, had been skulking in basements and dark passageways, had been trying to make her way to the secured safe in the hidden vault of the building; it was, in many ways, tougher work, then, even if it didn't include the necessity of working around a pair of, possibly prying, eyes.

He sighed, thinking again now to the reason why his beloved hadn't been given an in-office assignment, on this mission. Her face, certainly, had healed dramatically from her run-in with Birkoff's trap--had recovered quickly enough to be hidden by makeup if you weren't close for very long--but her wounds hadn't yet disappeared completely enough to allow her to blend in easily on this sort of assignment for any length of time. Yes, she could dress in office clothes legitimately enough to be able to walk out of the building with everyone else at its closing time--since she wasn't likely to allow anyone to stop and engage her in prolonged conversation, but that was the limit of the healing thus far of her temporary scars.

He could feel the tension within him, as his mind tried to consider further, once again, the whole situation Birkoff had put her in. He clenched his jaw slightly, however, as he tried not to think into this any more; it might drive him crazy, if he did.

He looked down at his watch to distract himself. He had purposely factored in more time for her than she should need and had then taken his own one-day employer out of play around lunch, after retrieving the files; the body shouldn't be discovered for awhile, if it ever was. He, and all of the other Section office workers, too, would leave the building at five, whatever time they might complete their assignment. . . . Now, it was just down to Nikita.

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

Just as he was beginning to worry about her slightly, though--just as he was beginning to worry that she may have been unable to avoid the alarms and traps of her part of the mission, she finally, tentatively opened the door. She took in a sigh of relief at seeing him through the darkly-lit room and closed out the hallway light behind her. She looked up at the ceiling worriedly, though.

He walked toward her. "We're safe. They aren't monitoring the unused areas."

She smiled, her Section instincts kicking in. "That's not very bright of them." She put down the briefcase which held her assigned goal for this mission.

He stopped just in front of her and reached over to lock the door behind her, as their eyes began to connect them completely. "No, it isn't." He took a deep breath, as his hand reached up to stroke over the cosmetically-concealed, marred flesh of her cheek and forehead; their last topic of conversation was forgotten for him. His eyes focused on her face. "Does it hurt?"

She smiled at him. After all the cuts, scrapes, bruises --and assorted, far more serious, wounds--which Michael had had over the years, she understood that he probably already knew the answer--but she loved him for asking, for worrying, nonetheless. "No," her eyes shone just slightly at him, "it's fine."

His eyes focused back on hers quickly. "No, it isn't," he stated, more firmly than she had expected. He took a deep breath, calming himself. "It shouldn't have happened, `Kita." His gaze was apologetic. "I'm sorry."

She reached up to take hold of the hand which stroked her face gently. "It wasn't your fault, Michael--it had nothing to do with you."

He shook his head, his eyes determined. "Everything in your life has something to do with me."

Her look was just slightly ironic, partly trying to joke him out of his serious--and self-accusing--mood. "Is that so?"

He didn't share her sense of irony, refusing to be joked out of his feelings. "Yes." He knew, of course, that the opposite was true, as well, but he hoped that she understood that already. He caressed her hand gently, bringing it down further to their side. "Don't forget that."

She smiled slightly, knowing that she couldn't talk him out of his need to look after her--not entirely sure that she really wanted to, on some levels, indeed--loving the protectiveness he felt; she decided, then, simply to change the subject. "How long do we have?"

He sighed softly, seeing her plan. He didn't like that she couldn't just accept his words, but he allowed her to switch their focus, anyway; they both needed this time together, after all. "An hour."

He looked saddened; she understood, sighing--shaking her head slightly, her mood darkening. "I hate this, Michael." Her eyes were slightly tormented. "I hate having to plan out my time with you, having it rationed."

"I know," he replied softly. He let go of her hand, as both of his came up to frame her face gently. "Do you regret this?" His eyes looked deep into her soul; he needed to know.

She stroked over his slightly-stubbled jaw lightly with her fingers, her focus entangled there for a heartbeat or two; she was aroused just by this smallest hint of him. "You know I don't." She looked back to his eyes. "I just want more."

He nodded slightly. "I know." He sighed. "So do I."

She nodded, as well, knowing there was really little they could say on this; they knew it all already, truly. Besides, now wasn't the time to waste precious minutes with words; now was their one moment alone--and they both needed its comfort too much to spend it simply talking.

He read her thoughts. "I wish we had time for everything, `Kita." His voice grew much softer. "I wish we had time for a life."

She smiled gently at him. "I know, my love." She shook her head. "But let's not discuss it now." She leaned in closer to him, her lips breathing softly over his own. "Let's appreciate what we have, instead."

He moaned softly in agreement, as her lips came down upon his own in a gentle, slightly teasing kiss. His mouth opened to her exploration, and her hand ran back into his hair to hold him close to her, to allow her to search out all of the lovely desire she found there.

He moaned deeply, as his arms surrounded her, holding her in the kiss passionately, tenderly. He had missed her so much, had been so lonely without her. Now, though, her sweet mouth was gifting him with her love, was reminding him why he was alive. . . . Dear God, she was magical, was life-giving.

He could only stand a few lovely heartbeats of this delicate approach, however. He needed to make love to her--needed to use their one hour together to be able to remind her how much he adored her, to remind them both that they were still alive.

The kiss became more intense, therefore, as he took control of it. He trembled slightly in his desire, as well, as Nikita moaned against him. He just needed her so much.

He pulled back to look at her finally, giving up the wonderful kiss reluctantly. His eyes were pleading and needy, were begging for her permission; had they had spare clothes, he might simply have ripped the ones they wore from them both and begun to make intense, needy love to her just where she was, against the office door. . . . As it was, though, he did know he needed to be more careful.

Before any of this, however--as always, he needed her permission for his desires; he had to be sure. His thumb stroked gently over her temple. "`Kita," he whispered.

She moaned slightly at the heat in his eyes. They shone at her, begged for her permission, asked her whether she were in as deep need as himself. She swallowed heavily, her love for him choking her slightly; her eyes showed her utter devotion to him, her complete desire for his passionate love.

Although she knew that both of them would have liked the opportunity to go more slowly, to simply savor each other for hours, they were no longer given this option. The less frequently they were allowed to be together, indeed, the more desperately their need built within them; by the time they were one, then, their desire tended to border on the fierce.

She knew all of this as well as he did. She gave her complete permission, then--needing to experience his desire for her once again, needing to feel the almost savage love he held for her alone. Her hands stroked over the sides of his face. "Yes, my Michael." She smiled softly. "Anything."

A slightly feral smile broke out on his lips; a growl rumbled in his chest. His hands were stroking over her sides now, as he tried to control the urge to rip open her blouse. "You have no idea just how far `anything' can go, my love," he warned.

Her own wild little smile reflected his. Lord, would she love to find out. "Don't I?" she challenged.

His eyes sparked at her, as he waited happily to see where her desire would lead them. "Show me," his deep voice growled lightly.

She stepped back from him a little and licked over her lips with sensual intent, as her eyes ran a heated line down his strong, beautiful body. Her hand, meanwhile, reached up to take the clip out of her hair; she shook the long locks free, as she spoke. "Did you ever think what it might be like if we worked in a real office together, Michael?" She smiled at him enticingly once again and then circled around him, crossing the room slowly. She began to remove her jacket, leaving it on the floor in her wake.

She could feel his eyes on her, drinking her in heatedly. She stopped at the desk and turned back to him; her eyes were alive with suggestion. "Did you ever think what we might be able to do with each other, once the work was done for the day?"

His breathing was becoming highly erratic, his desire pounding all of his blood into his shaft, making it beat heavily against its confinement. "Why wait till then?" his sensual voice rumbled.

Her teasing smile widened. "My thoughts exactly, my love."

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

He watched her, spellbound, as her hands came up to begin to slowly unbutton her shirt; his attention was riveted to the small hints of skin her work revealed. . . . Dear God, she was beautiful. "Yes," he whispered, his arousal throbbing for her.

Her smile continued. As she unhooked the last button, she untucked the light material and moved it back to reveal a lacy bra. "Do you like what you see, Monsieur Samuelle?"

His eyes focused back on hers with an inferno behind them; his shaft ached in its hidden, beating arousal. She smiled back at his look, and he began to stalk toward her slowly--approaching the woman who held his soul.

When he reached her, he traced his hand under the parted shirt, over the skin of her side, until he was cupping her breast softly; he ran his thumb lightly over the pebbled nipple the thin bra covered. "Will there be anything else I can do for you today, Madame Samuelle?"

Her breathing snagged, and a little moaned, "Oh," rose from her at his choice of names. A tenderness came into his eyes, mixing with the overwhelming desire there, and he kissed at her lips softly, briefly, before pulling back to let her answer; he could feel her heart pounding beneath his hand.

"Michael," she whispered. Dear God, did she love him.

His eyes continued to meet hers, but his thumb moved the material of her bra down enough to be able to caress the pink bud it hid. Her breathing grew more erratic. His fingers enclosed her bud lightly, rubbing it between them with a delightful, perfect pressure.

Her moan rumbled in her throat, as her feral look returned--stronger this time. "I believe there is still something you can do for me today," she told him with a smile.

He moved in to her enough to press his thickened arousal against her through their clothes--teasing her. "Would you like to show me what that is?" His words were a hot breath on her lips.

She moaned and caught his free hand, moving it to her naked side. "I think you know everything I need very well by now."

He smiled against her lips, as his fingers tugged softly at her nipple. She whimpered in desire and nipped at his lower lip. His smile deepened. "Not well enough," he growled slightly.

One hand ran into her hair, then, holding her close, as he caught her in a deep, slightly rough kiss. She moaned desperately.

He pulled back from it a second later, though, before she could catch him in it entirely. "But I'm willing to learn."

She moaned loudly again, her need overtaking her ability to concentrate on their playful banter. "Touch me, Michael," she breathed against his lips, before she caught him in a kiss for a second; he pulled back from it with a soft caress of her lower lip with his teeth. "Take me, my love," she added softly.

He nodded, his look commanding her, making her weak. "Yes," he whispered confidently, a second before he drew her into a deep, conquering kiss.

She moaned against him, her need for him sharp and desperate. Both of her hands were in his hair.

He let out a pleased moan at her desire. One of his hands continued to tease her aroused breast; the other now ran slowly down her side.

She whimpered, as his touch traced down her body. She followed him in the kiss, as he moved further down, his hand finally finding the hem of her skirt; his fingers moved under it, beginning to stroke upward.

She broke the kiss to gasp at the sensation. As often as she might be fortunate enough to feel them, she would still never grow used to the talented warmth his fingers always managed to give her, could never quite believe how incredible they were. Her hands began to unbutton his shirt, needing to feel his flesh against her own.

He smiled more widely at her, loving her desire. Both of his hands, then, began to push her skirt up, tracing lightly up the stockings and over her outer thighs.

His own breathing snagged, however, when he realized that it wasn't pantyhose she was wearing but gartered stockings --without underwear. His smile then grew deeper. He had never had a particular fetish for them or anything--but they did make things so much easier here. . . . Besides, there was something oddly erotic about the illicitness implied by the two of them beginning to seduce each other, half-dressed, in a darkened office. While he would have infinitely preferred being able to love her without deceptions, of course, he was not a man who was immune to a little fantasy.

She finished revealing his chest finally, and her hands began to stroke over him, as she allowed herself to refamiliarize herself with his beautiful body. Her smile was slightly feral, as she felt his hands stroking over her outer thighs; her skirt was bunched around her waist. Generally, she tended to view garters as a nuisance, but here she was sure they would serve their purpose. "You like that?" her throaty voice whispered knowingly.

His smile in return was pleased and taunting. His hands began to caress her soft curves, as he moved against her--teased her--with his hidden arousal. He leaned back in to breathe his words over her lips. "Sometimes, my love, you're too tempting for my own good." His teeth teased lightly over her lower lip. "And I love it," he whispered.

His lips pressed warmly to hers for a heartbeat, as she moaned. His eyes then connected with hers once more, his look honest and absolute. "I love you."

She moaned, as he finally captured her mouth deeply, taking possession of her completely. She whimpered against his lips, and he lifted her by her soft curves, holding her tightly to his arousal; she whimpered more wildly, a moan mixing into it, and held him tightly in the kiss.

God, he needed her. One of his hands stayed where it was, caressing her; the other moved slightly up her back, under her blouse. She took his cue and wrapped her legs around him, as he moved them over to a wall, propping her against it.

She moaned desperately, her kiss more intense. Dear Lord, she wanted him so much; her desire for him never died, never waned, never even flickered. If they lived a hundred lifetimes together, she could never get enough of him, could never stop needing him--stop loving him.

He moaned through the kiss, as well. Everything about her made him insane--her taste, her scent, the feel of her soft skin, her beautiful sounds of desire and pleasure; to know, too, that the soul he adored so deeply, the one he longed for so desperately, longed for him in return made him practically want to weep with need.

His hand came up to cradle her head, as he pushed her more firmly against the wall, in the kiss. He hated how short their time here was, hated that he couldn't love her as she deserved, couldn't love her the way he needed to. He was still happy, however, just to be with her here, so he knew he shouldn't complain; their brief meetings were never enough for him, but--so long as there would be another on another day--he would survive. . . . If anything ever took that away, though, he had no hope of life.

He repressed this dour thought for now, however, needing his beautiful angel desperately. If he couldn't have the time with her that he so achingly wanted, then he would compress all of the urgency of his need into the short time they did have; he would show her all of his love and desire for her--would remind her that those emotions lived in him solely for, and because of, her. He would make certain that, when they parted, she would be able to live off of this memory for days to come, would be sure that she knew without doubt that the feral need for pleasure which he loved to show to her could never exist in him for another. . . . He would make certain that she couldn't forget.

She moaned against him. Her desire was shooting through her wildly, was practically making her lightheaded with sheer need. . . . She had to have him *now*.

She pulled back from the kiss finally, her eyes desperate, as they connected with his own. "I want you, Michael. I need you." His body had her propped against the wall. She took his hand from her soft curves and ran it up between them, toward her breast; he continued on his own, while she moved her hands to the clasp on her bra.

His eyes fixed to her breasts, as she revealed them for him. Their small, beautifully aroused, perfection made him insane for her; her throaty voice continued to caress over him. "My body's yours, my love. Anything you want of me, I give you freely, happily." Her hands were stroking along his face; he refocused on her eyes. "Just take me, make me your own without apology." She held her lips closer to his, her breath hot on his face. "I want you so bad I can taste it."

He moaned wildly, as she possessed his mouth, her lips uncompromising--the kiss nearly savage. Her hands were in his hair, as she held him to her. His shaft was throbbing so hard he was afraid of injuring himself with its confinement. Dear God, he needed her.

He took control of the kiss, then, giving up on any pretense of going slow. She had awoken the savage in him, as she had blatantly intended--and, if that was what she wanted, she was going to get it.

She moaned against him through the kiss, small whimpers breaking through from her, as well. Her desire for him was so intense she was half afraid she might break apart from it; it sang through her whole body, warmed her to a fierce extent.

He growled, feeling all of her need, and broke from the kiss finally. His eyes singed her, when their gaze connected again. "You asked for it," he warned. Her feral smile met his challenge, and she licked her lips-- enticing him further.

The growl he responded with wasn't even human. His teeth began to nibble down her neck, erotically assaulting all of her tender places of need.

She held him to her desperately. "Yes," she moaned.

He removed her legs from around himself--returning her to her feet, as his mouth trailed further down her body. He moved wet kisses down the line of her throat and then between her breasts.

She whimpered and moved him over to a needy nipple, wanting him desperately. "Please," she begged.

His growl was deep, as his teeth captured her; they and his tongue tormented her in a way so arousing it made her tremble with need. "Yessss," she groaned. Her head was back against the wall, as she lost herself in his erotic skills.

He half-groaned at her need for him, in return, as his hand began to trail up her slick inner thigh, moving steadily toward her depths. That she was already so filled with desire made him feel half insane.

She was moaning, wanting him terribly. "Oh God, yes," she cried. He growled at her breast in response.

A few seconds later, three of his fingers had moved deep inside her tight inner walls, were exploring her heated silk in a lovely, intense rhythm. She gave a whimpering cry, as her hips thrust at him constantly, her perfect depths clinging to him insanely.

He smiled ferally, as his eyes connected with hers once more. Her hands were on his shoulders, as she met his rhythm desperately, her little cries escaping her ceaselessly.

He growled at the sight of her need and sped up his hand's devotions. He was teasing a heated trail along a sensitive inner wall, as she whimpered; his tongue was licking over her nipple. She moaned deeply, and his smile grew deeper; he began to lightly tease her nether bud with the nail of his thumb.

She cried out, her whole body on the very edge. He was keeping her there purposely, was controlling her every need, as his fingers just teased at a deep, tender inner spot. . . . God, it felt good.

His eyes sparked at her desperate tears of need, as he pulled back from her breast; his voice was deep and ruthless. "I love the way you come for me," he growled. He gave her a rough stroke with his hand, as his thumb flicked at her quivering bud in just the right way.

Her insane little cry of ecstasy made him tremble with need. Her head was back, her eyes closed in her shivering joy; the look of aching release on her face made him want to explode. "Yes," he moaned ferally.

He dropped to his knees before her then, his fingers running along a wall, as they moved out of her, before he grabbed her soft curves. Her scent called to him in a way which seemed to be imprinted on his soul; the feel of her body trembling for him made him mad. God, he had to taste her.

He was shaking, as he buried his face in her slick treasures, his tongue stroking along inside her, as he drank deep of his beloved's ecstasy. She cried out more desperately with the feeling, holding him to her; dear Lord, he made her *insane*--made her lose all conscious thought in her sheer need for him. . . . If she didn't have him deep inside her soon, she might die.

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

She surprised him, then, by pushing him back from her. He growled, not wanting to leave the beauty of the treasure he had found, but he half-willingly yielded to her insistence, waiting to see her plan.