Okay, this is a *real* switch for me, but this story has just been bugging me constantly, demanding to be written. It's an alternative reality story, with many of the same characters (in one form or another) but minus Section. To put it mildly, I'm more than a little nervous about it, since it's so totally unlike anything else I've written. Oh, well. Here goes, I guess. :)

The following will be MA-14, for the most part, for language and adult discussions; there will also be some NC-17 parts later on, too. Please forgive me, as well, if my depictions of D.C. don't come across as well as they should; I do only know it from visiting.

I wanted to add a special thanks here. :) Kit served as my medical advisor for this story, which I appreciate desperately. :D She was very patient with me, as I bugged her time and again. :D To those of you in the know, then, anything medical here that makes sense is due entirely to her (and anything medical, conversely, which makes no sense at all is my own ill-informed fault). Thanks, Kit! :D

The poem I'm using as my epigraph here is my own, as well. I make no claims as to its quality, but it demanded inclusion, nonetheless. :)

Okay, onward. As usual, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following. :) Please send any comments or requests to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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

Beyond the Next Breath by Katherine Gilbert

Lifetime after lifetime, nothing can keep me from you.
You appear in my dreams, even before I know that you exist:

I hear your voice before I know sound;
I breathe your scent before I understand pleasure;
I feel your comfort with me before I am yet able to speak.
And--once we meet--my heart is found once more.

I know, too, that you wait for me just around the next turn,
     just beyond the next breath.
I feel you, even when I see no evidence and could call my
     senses foolish

But you are there--
And I am always waiting.

It was the seventh night in a row that she had been in here now. The beauty. The stunner. The green-eyed looker. Every night, too, she had simply sat at the bar, alone--giving a deathly, uninterested gaze to anyone who might approach her, while drinking something non-alcoholic. Last night it had even been milk. . . . He had wondered for a second--given the twinkle in her eye--whether she had just done that to see his reaction.

Nik watched her now, as she nursed a ginger ale with a twist of lime. God, she was gorgeous. The slightly longer than shoulder length auburn curls were drawn back artlessly behind one of her ears--but she was a woman who needed no art. Her features, too, were the sort which--if broadened slightly, if made only a little harsher--might have made her attractive as a man, but there was *no* doubt that she was very much the woman--the lady, in fact. She had an air, indeed, of someone who had been raised with money; only a woman who had been rich from birth could have quite that attitude of utter, unquestioned self-confidence, truly.

He sighed slightly, watching her. Everything about her was gorgeous; there was a tone to her muscles, indeed, which was evident in the way that the black dress fit to her curves. Still, they weren't the sort of muscles which were acquired just by a weekly workout--and it wasn't an obvious sort of dress, either. Nothing about her, in fact, was obvious. Everything about her was perfect.

He could tell, of course, that she was several years older than him--although it was impossible to tell her exact age. He was certain, however, that her age wouldn't really matter, in the long run. . . . How on earth could anyone that beautiful ever notice him, anyway?

He saw that those warm, green eyes had looked up at him again, and he realized he was staring once more. He just caught her slow smile, as he tucked a long strand of blond hair which had escaped from his pony tail back behind his ear and pretended, in embarrassment, to be cleaning a nearby glass.

He was rescued from this awkward situation soon, however, by one of the customers. No doubt this was another one who wanted to buy her a drink; pretty much every guy in the bar had tried to get her attention by this point--none of them successfully. The only man, the only person, she had talked to, in fact, was--well--himself. . . . He just wasn't ready, though, to admit that this might mean anything.

"What're you trying this time, Mick?" Nik asked the unctuous little man in front of him; the guy had a long history with the bar, not always a positive one, but he had promised to be good, so they had let him come back. Besides, every once in a long while, the guy could actually prove that he had a heart. . . . He just hid it really well.

"I was thinking a mimosa--y'know, something classy women like her tend to go for." Mick was half leaning over the bar in an almost conspiratorial manner. "Think she'll like that one?"

Nik looked down and shook his head, laughing a little. "Mick, you've already tried offering her three kinds of daiquiris, a grasshopper, and some peach schnapps." He looked up at his customer again. "When are you going to learn to quit?"

The slightly drunken Englishman leaned across the bar further, poking his swizzle stick at the bartender's chest conversationally. "Let me tell you something, my young, Aussie friend. Women like persistence." He stuck the swizzle stick back in his mouth. "Learn that early, and things will go much better for you."

The bartender sighed. Mick's advice on women was the last thing he wanted. It was true that he wasn't exactly a hot stud, but most of the women he met did little for him anyway--and, even if they did, he still had grave doubts about the effectiveness of anything the older man said. . . . Besides, if all Mick could catch with his advice was the variety of one-day, empty-headed bimbos he tended to find--well, Nik wasn't much interested, anyway.

"I'll try her again, Mick--but don't hold your breath." He tossed his bar rag over his shoulder and returned to the woman in question; Julie's, after all, had a rule that any woman being sent a drink had to agree to it first. . . . The beauty, so far, had turned down all comers.

The subtle smile greeted him, as he approached her. "Which drink was it this time?" she asked him softly.

He hadn't quite figured out the accent yet, but it did sound French. He tried to act at least vaguely normal, despite the way being near her made his heart pound; the last thing the beauty needed was to have a bartender drooling all over her, too. He smiled. "A mimosa."

"Ah." She seemed to be laughing softly, as she stared down into her ginger ale. "He's becoming more creative."

Nik focused down on the counter at a vague spill, trying to avoid the overpowering sensations he experienced whenever he was near her. He wasn't really sure what it was about her that moved him so much; he knew other beautiful women, of course, and he didn't feel quite so asinine around them. Still, this one woman did something to him, awoke something that was sleeping deep within him, some half-repressed fluttering of emotional memory--a tenderness, an ache, . . . and it had nothing to do with his vaguely post-teenage hormones.

He began to wipe up the spill. "Mick's a handful," he admitted. He was silent for another few seconds, trying, subconsciously, to stretch out the time he was able to be near her--knowing he should probably move away to keep from annoying her. "I'm guessing that you're going to be turning him down again."

"Yes," the woman in front of him smiled.

Another second passed between them, Nik not quite able to pull himself away. He heard her sigh softly. A second later, his heart nearly ceased beating, as he felt her soft hand touch his own, stopping his unnecessary cleaning efforts. His shocked blue eyes met hers. "How many nights do I need to come in here before you at least ask me my name?" Her smoky green eyes glittered darkly at him.

His whole world seemed to be spinning; his heart was thumping in his chest. . . . Had she really just asked him that?

Her soft fingers stroked just over the back of his hand; even that seemed to send a heat straight into his veins. She smiled a little more broadly, as she spoke. "My name's Michelle--Michelle Samuelle."

His heart was beating faster by the second. He finally found his voice again, only to discover himself, to his dismay, saying exactly what he was thinking. "It suits you. It's beautiful."

She seemed to examine him for a second, determining just how truthful his words were--deciding whether or not they were just empty flattery. She smiled a second later, though--her determination proving to be a positive one.

He realized that he had been holding his breath during her quiet scrutiny; he let it out. "Uh, I'm Nik," he finally managed.

She continued stroking over his hand lightly. "So I gathered."

"Duh," he thought silently. "She's heard everyone in this place call me by now." He kicked himself a few more times mentally.

Her smile was unbroken, though. "What about your last name?"

"Um," he added first, as though he had forgotten it momentarily. "Wirth. Nik Wirth."

Her smile deepened. God, her eyes were so warm, he noticed again; they were so deep, too--seemed to pull him in, to hypnotize him--catching him in her beautiful spell. She still hadn't ceased stroking over his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Nicholas Worth."

"Um, ah, no," he was beginning to rally his senses just slightly. "Not Nicholas. And it's Wirth, with an `i.'"

She took a sip of her drink and leaned in a little, her eyes stroking into him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that the one other bartender--Carla--was having to pick up the slack he was allowing by being stuck here, enraptured, like a man listening to a siren call to him. "Hmm," she murmured. "I liked `Worth'--as in value or quality. It fits you." The warm smile continued, as he looked slightly flustered--but flattered. "So, if it's not Nicholas, how did you get to be Nick?"

He was breaking himself further from his stunned posture--hoping he wasn't making a total fool of himself, but he still had no desire to leave this conversation--however much he was going to get teased by Carla for it later. He managed to pick up her flirtatious air just slightly. "Oh, that's way too embarrassing to say."

She laughed a little. "Amuse me, then."

Her words, though, struck him with a sudden fear, a fear that that was all this was--an amusement for her, a few-minutes' flirtation with some boy, before she went home--laughing. His face reflected the emotions.

Her eyes grew less light, more serious; she seemed disturbed at having somehow upset him. "I'm sorry, if you don't want to tell me, . . ."

He shook his head, realizing from her contrite look that he had misread her. "No," he interrupted, "it's not that." He paused for another second, deciding whether he should admit the horror of his real name. "Um, well." He took a deep breath, bracing himself. "If you're desperate to know, it's," he rolled his eyes, "`Nikita.'"

Her look was amused once more but not mocking. One nail traced very lightly over the back of his hand. "You don't look like the sort of man who yells and beats his shoe on the table."

Nik laughed and looked down. "I can't say it's my favorite pastime, no."

She laughed lightly. "Then, may I ask how you got the name?"

He took a deep breath and looked back up at her. "My father was Russian." That is--his mind went on--if Mom even knew for certain who that was, but that was obviously not something to say at this point.

She nodded. "It's an attractive name, really," she went on. She looked him up and down--her eyes leaving a warm trail along his body, making him shudder a bit--pleasantly--with the look's intimacy. "It suits you."

"Oh--thanks," he joked lightly.

She laughed, meeting his eyes once more. "Do you really hate it that much?"

"I got beaten up for it practically every day of grade school. Tends to lessen my joy in it."

Her eyes grew more serious. "I hate to think of that happening to you."

He shook his head, shaking it off. "Doesn't really matter." He smiled back at her. "Besides, once I started hitting them back, they stopped."

"Good for you," her delicately-accented voice crooned. "Ni-ki-ta," she added softly, her accent loving every syllable.

Nik shivered slightly, pleasantly. His name had never sounded even half so good to him.

She noticed the reaction and looked down to where she was stroking his hand. "Would you like me to stop?"

"Not really," he said, once again before he had time to stop himself; Lord, why did this woman make him feel so totally open and unguarded? "Um, but I guess I would like to know what you want," he added truthfully.

Her eyes grew more critical. "What makes you think I want anything?"

He took a deep breath. God knows, he hadn't meant to offend her, but . . .

"You could have any guy in the place," he pointed out, looking around. "Most of them, in fact, have a lot more to offer." He looked back at her, his eyes truly lost. "Why me?"

She swallowed heavily, her eyes growing very serious; she took hold of his hand, stroking it gently still. "Why does that surprise you?" She sighed, her eyes gentle. "Don't you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

He looked surprised, not even beginning to believe her. "Me? I'm just some barely post-adolescent nobody." He shrugged. "I don't even have a degree past the tech. school I went to." He shook his head, his voice still soft and uncomprehending. "I work as a bloody bartender." He looked around once more, his thoughts a bit dark. "You can do a lot better than me."

She sighed and took hold of his chin firmly, turning his eyes back to her; she was slightly angry. "What makes you think I want to--and whose standards are you going by, anyway?"

He blinked at her--a little surprised by her strong reaction, and she let go of him, sighing once more, as she looked down at the table; she then met his eyes with ones which were determined and truthful. "I'm not promising you anything by talking to you now. You're not promising me anything in return." Her smile came back. "But if you'd like to get some coffee when your shift ends, I'd be happy to spend a few more hours just getting to know you."

He felt a little stunned. It wasn't that he had never been asked out before; it wasn't that he was unused to assertive women--all of the ones he knew seemed to fit into that category. But he had never quite expected, when he had come to work tonight, that the beautiful woman he had found in his dreams for the last week would actually be asking him out.

"What do you say?" she asked in her quiet, accented voice, still waiting.

He blinked; his voice answered softly--stunned but happy. "Do I look like a fool? Yes, I'd love to." He smiled back at her deeply, showing off several of his--surprisingly, given their years of neglect--even, white teeth.

She did the same, the beautiful warmth back in her eyes. There were little laugh lines beside them when she did that, he noticed, but they only added tremendously to her beauty; the small bird which seemed to have replaced his heart fluttered its wings excitedly. "Good," she whispered.

He was broken rudely from his spell a second later, however. "Hey, lover boy!" he heard behind him, a moment before his butt got whapped with a bar rag. "Stop flirting with the customers and come help me out."

"Um, yeah." He turned back to look at his bright-eyed tormentor. "Coming, Carla."

Michelle caught his hand once more before he moved away. "By the way, you can tell--Mick, is it?--no. Also remind him that the mimosa should be a flower, not a drink." She smiled and then tilted her head toward a corner of the bar behind her. "And if the `gentleman' in the back wants to offer me a 'long, slow, screw against the wall,' 'sex on the beach'--or whatever else, remind him that I have a black belt, and I'm not afraid to show it off a bit." Her smile was slightly wicked.

Nik grinned, his heart still twittering. "I'll do that." He ran his thumb over her hand slightly before he moved away, a permanent grin on his face.

Carla looked back at the woman he had been talking to for so long, a second later, and then stopped near her, wanting to make sure she didn't have the wrong idea; Nik, after all--while unfailingly friendly, *never* flirted with the customers. "Don't listen to me with that `lover boy' stuff, either. He's one of the good ones."

Michelle's eyes ran over the man in question again; her smile was warm, her gaze deep. "Yes, I think I realized that," she whispered softly.

*********

It was 2 a.m. before the bar closed--and about 2:30 before Nik was able to get free. Even that, however, was a gift from Carla, who had long been trying to set up her gorgeous, long-haired male friend with the right woman; she had always figured, indeed, that--if she couldn't have him--somebody good should get him. Now that the right woman had apparently, so to speak, fallen into his lap, as well, she wasn't about to let him wriggle free.

Nik and Michelle, then, walked--rather silently--a few streets over to an all-night coffee house. Its clientele, especially at this hour, was an odd jumble of students and politicos, all either looking for a place to study or meet.

By the time they were tucked into a booth in the corner of the, rather cozy, building, too, Nik had finally thought of *something* to say; Michelle had been giving him rather amused, but warm, looks up until then. Still, there was just something about being near her, was some sense of both recognition and soul-deep desire which took away all attempts at conscious thought. Whatever it was within himself which knew her, after all, it was buried way too deep to be able to access adequately with his rational mind.

Once some part of his mind started working, however, he decided to voice it; he was a little concerned about what he was asking, truly. "Wouldn't you have preferred to drive over--or take a cab? Would've given you a quick getaway, if you decided you wanted it. Now, it's the middle of the night, and I'm about your only protection, walking back." Of course, he had noticed, once they had started walking, that she was at least six feet tall--was almost his height, in fact; he suspected that she could be a little intimidating, too, if she wanted to be--but that might not always keep her safe.

She smiled down at her cup of black coffee, her heart warming to him further, understanding the concern behind his words; still, it was more comfortable for her to continue being flirtatious with him, was less revealing than simple honesty. "Not feeling trustworthy, Mr. Ni-ki-ta Wirth?" Her bright eyes smiled back up at him.

He flushed slightly, a fact only half hidden by the dim lighting of the room. "Um, well, I am, but you don't know that, do you?"

She chuckled to herself again and stared back at her drink, deciding that maybe a bit of honesty might be called for now. "I think I do." She was smiling. "Would you like to know why I first came into the bar, Nik?"

He had to remind himself not to get too caught up in that lovely accent, had to remind himself to listen to her words. Her voice, indeed, seemed to run warm waves through him; he could so easily have lost himself to it. "Okay."

She looked up at him truthfully, staring deeply into his eyes; it was better to tell him this now than to possibly freak him out later. "It was for you." His eyes narrowed a bit, worried, and she laughed lightly again. "I'm not a stalker," she assured him. "I saw you first the other day, when I came out of a meeting with a client. You were helping up some child who had had a small bike accident in front of the bar; I think you might even have taken him home to his mother, didn't you?"

His blue eyes widened slightly; he had never expected this. "How . . . why?"

She shook her head again, once more looking into her drink; he was just too beautiful to watch, sometimes. "If I didn't suspect you of being almost entirely guileless, Mr. Wirth, I might think you had done it just to win a passing woman's heart." Her eyes met his once more. "Puppies and children--both are very good at capturing a woman's attention, so I hear."

He still looked amazed; his heart was pounding a little. "So you started coming into the bar just because you saw me help up Emilio?" He shook his head; the reality she had presented was a bit too wonderful for him to accept. "So, you've really just been coming in to try to get my attention?"

Her smile grew. The longer she was around him, the further her heart seemed to warm to him--and it had been *so* long since it had done that, with anyone. Her words were still light, however; she wasn't willing to admit just how deeply he seemed to touch her. "Don't undersell yourself. You're quite the looker. I would guess that I'm not the first to do it."

Nik looked thoughtful for a minute. There was that group of college girls who Julie called, not always charitably, "Nik's Fan Club." Still, he had never quite taken her seriously. His eyes met his companion's for a second again, still amazed.

She laughed slightly, once more, amused by his utter lack of egotism; that was a rare trait, in any man. A second later, however, her face grew more serious, as her thoughts turned slightly. "You know, though, that you shouldn't really have helped the boy, don't you?"

His eyes narrowed, as he worried at her words. Was he deluding himself about her? Was she some sort of weird Neo-Nazi type? "What do you mean?"

She sighed and leaned toward him, giving him the knowledge she seemed to have had for so long. "I mean that a hurt child, or a hurt person of any sort, on the street can be the lead-in for robbery, kidnapping, or any number of other crimes." He looked a little hard now; she hated that. She tried to get him to see her point. "You do live in the murder capital of America; you should probably take that more seriously."

He laughed slightly, incredulous. "Look, I'm not saying I'm invincible, but he was just a hurt little kid. Besides, he was, what?, an 11-year-old boy? I'm six-foot-two. I think I'd have had a better chance."

Her eyes were still serious. "Not against a gun."

He was looking at her suspiciously; a deep fear had started in his heart. "Who are you, anyway?"

She laughed again lightly, shaking her head a little, as she looked down at the table. "I'm a woman who's also a security consultant." She looked back up at him, her eyes probing into him more deeply than she had really intended. "A woman who doesn't often meet men who appeal to her." Her eyes softened further. "I'd just like you to be safe."

He still seemed confused, however--even if a little of the fear had dissipated. "You're not looking for a sale, are you? I mean, I'm broke, and Julie's got Davenport to look after things." She looked slightly unsure of his meaning. "The bouncer," he explained.

"Ah," she nodded. "No, I'm not looking for a sale or a client," she seemed to be seeing into his thoughts, "and I wasn't just doing a good deed by giving a little free consulting to a bartender on my spare time." Her eyes were still warm. "I just thought I'd give you a bit of safety advice, since we have a little time together here."

He shook his head, still trying to really take her in. He could see that she was serious, that she did seem to be concerned for his safety, even if he couldn't quite imagine why; he couldn't quite get, either, why she would have come into the bar just to see him. . . . It was, so far, a very strange way to spend an evening.

His eyes were very warm, when he finally spoke, his words sincere, but said with a slight smile. "I think you're the oddest woman I've ever met." His heart, however, was still fluttering slightly.

She let out a laugh which warmed him further, as she felt another bit of frost beginning to melt away slightly from the heart she had begun trying to ignore so long ago. "Thank you. I don't get called that too often."

He leaned his elbow onto the table and rested his chin on his hand, shaking his head a little; his eyes were utterly captivated. "So, I'm guessing that the thing about you being a black belt was probably true, then?"

She nodded, falling into his line of conversation with more comfort than she would have expected. "Pretty much. Black belts are karate, though; I actually work more in a combination of martial arts."

He smiled a little. His heart was still thumping along; he had always appreciated women with strength. "I guess I didn't need to worry about you possibly having to walk back to your car--or a cab--on your own, then."

Her pleased smile met his; she was beginning to hope that there might be other reasons he wouldn't have to worry about this. "No. But I appreciate the thought, nonetheless." They were silent for a minute, before she continued on with this thread. "Do you walk the women who work with you to their cars often?" She wanted to ask more about his relationships with the women in the bar, as well, really--they all seemed to be at least half in love with him--but she decided not to frighten him away too soon.

He nodded but also laughed slightly, not picking up on her other questions. "You're playing the security consultant again."

She looked down at the table once more, a smile still on her lips, giving up on this thread for now. "Sorry." She took another sip of her coffee.

The conversation lagged for a second. "How can you drink that stuff?" he wondered finally; she looked back up at him. "I've never quite understood why anyone would want to drink something that tastes that foul, if they don't have to."

She looked down at his cappuccino. "You're drinking it, too."

He shook his head. "They didn't have any tea. Besides, mine's got tons of cream, sugar, and flavoring." He looked at hers just slightly askance. "Yours, though . . ."

She laughed slightly, pleased to see that he was warming to her enough to tease her slightly. "Just habit, I suppose."

He nodded. "Fair enough."

The silence came up between them again; he looked down at the table a little nervously, while her eyes ran warmly along his face. He was so beautiful, truly, she thought again. He was young, yes, but he was far more than the average man his age. He seemed to have been through a lot, to know more than most of the--even much older--men she had met; it was just there in the depth of his eyes, seemed to exist somewhere in his every look. She wanted to find a way to tap into that, too, wanted to explore him. She had wanted to, in fact, from the first moment she had seen him; it had been so unusual a reaction in her, to anyone, that she had felt the need to follow through on it, as well. . . . He was far too perfect, awoke some small spark of life within her far too much, to just let him wander away from her.

A minute later, then, her eyes were still taking him in, considering him deeply, trying to figure him out--trying to figure out her own reaction to him. "How did you get here?"

He looked up, a little surprised. He had been wondering if coming here had been a mistake, if this beautiful woman had already discovered that there was nothing in him to interest her; she had broken into his, slightly morbid, train of thoughts. "Huh?" he said dumbly.

She laughed, but just slightly, tenderly. "How did you get to the U.S.?" His eyes were still taking her in. "With your accent, you obviously aren't an Iowa farm boy."

He took a deep breath and looked down at the table again. How much should he tell her? She was beautiful and had a professional career--obviously had some money, as well. How would she react if she found out that he had spent most of his youth homeless? Would she be disgusted, like almost every other rich person he had ever met?

She saw the sorrow in his face and was immediately sorry that she had asked the question; she hated to bring unhappiness to those beautiful eyes. "If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to."

He shook his head a little, shaking off his fears slightly. "No, no." He looked back up at her, deciding to tell her the simple version. "My uncle Walter lives here; he and my mother are both American." He shrugged slightly. "He helped me come over."

She suspected there was much more to it than that, but she left it as it was. Everyone, after all, had their secrets. She couldn't imagine, whatever his were--as well, that they would tell her anything bad about him--even if they might say something bad about his past. She let it go, then.

He looked up at her, having shaken off his temporary depression. "What about you?" He seemed to look into her, truly curious. "Where are you from?"

She took in a deep breath, bracing herself internally, as she always did when asked about her past; whatever his secrets were, after all, they had to be nothing to hers. She, too, told him the simple version, therefore. "I'm from France." She took a deep, quiet breath, drawing strength again. "I came over to," she shrugged slightly--not sure how to explain it without explaining, "just to be somewhere different."

He nodded, seeing what she was doing--letting her keep her secrets, as well; everyone had a right to them, he figured. He fell back on old phrases, therefore, to try to steer them away from their memories. "Well, they always said America was a place to start over, didn't they--a land of new opportunities?"

He had let her off the hook, she knew; more of the ice which had so long encased her heart began to heat, to melt slowly away. She let her past drift away from her, as well, let it go, as she smiled. "I suppose it is."

Their eyes continued to meet for another few seconds, until he looked away once more; he was a little upset, was feeling like a very adolescent bore. Why wasn't he able to just talk to her like anyone else? "Are you regretting asking me here?" he asked softly, after a second. "I'm not exactly making a great showing of myself tonight."

She shook her head. "I didn't ask you to entertain me," she replied softly.

He smiled a little, his gaze still on the table, as her eyes continued to take him in deeply. Dear God, he was beautiful, she thought again; he touched something within her which she had half-forgotten had ever existed--which had seemed a long-ago dream, until now. "Besides," she went on, then--her mind suddenly made up--filled with images of his touch and his tenderness, "I was really wondering what you'd do, if I asked you to come home with me tonight." He looked back up at her, slightly amazed. "Ah, now I've shocked you," she smiled, a little ruefully.

He nodded slightly. "A little, yes. I mean, . . ."

He was about to go on, but she stopped him, placing her hand over his once more, stroking along it softly. "Don't. You don't need to." She smiled again. Her eyes fell to his lips, tracing over them, and his heart jumped at the look's sensual insinuations. "I don't do this often, if you're wondering." Her eyes were sincere, as they looked back to his. "I just haven't felt this way in awhile," she said truthfully, barely audibly.

He swallowed heavily, his heart thumping loudly, a magical warmth he had never experienced before running through his blood. This, he had *never* imagined happening. It almost scared him a little, too, because he knew *exactly* how she felt--could too easily envision the two of them tangled together in a love and passion deeper than anything he had ever come within light years of finding in this life; he had seen it already in his dreams, in fact. "Will it frighten you, if I tell you the reason why I won't go home with you?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I doubt it."

He took in a deep breath, thinking very much that he suspected otherwise; he looked deep into her eyes, continuing to try to read her look. "If I did, it would just be one night, wouldn't it?" The thought hurt him, but he felt sure it was true. "You could let me go."

She started to pull her hand back, feeling as though he had seen too much within her. She was used to being a mystery to every man she met; she cultivated their complete lack of comprehension, in fact. To be looked into this deeply was unspeakably intimate, was frightening.

He put his own over hers, catching it gently; he needed her to understand. "I think I'd like more than that with you--or at least a chance for it."

She was still looking a little unsure, almost looked as though she had been caught, cornered by a larger, more experienced animal. He hated that fear, though; he wanted to take it away. "You said it before," he went on gently, his hand still stroking hers softly. "Neither of us is making any promises." He took in a deep breath, drawing together all the courage he could muster; there had never been another woman whose rejection, he was sure, could potentially hurt him so deeply. "How about lunch, though, or a museum--something?" He smiled again, praying he hadn't frightened her off permanently. "Just something which will give us a chance to talk again."

She thought about it for a minute, her heartrate slowing slightly once more, though still thumping deeply. A slow smile took over her face, as well, as she abandoned her fear. She had an idea--one which would test him; if he accepted, they might have a chance together--he might be able to prove that she wasn't just imagining the emotions she felt around him. Most men she had known, after all, weren't particularly attracted to tough women--not after a certain point, anyway.

Her thumb began caressing his hand, as well. "How about if I give you a self-defense lesson?" She looked him up and down slowly. "Maybe it'll make your role of 'official friend walker' a little more safe." Her now-laughing, gentle eyes met his again.

His thumb caressed her hand, as well, as an amazed smile crossed his face; she had accepted his proposal, had met his desire to get to know her, to help him to discover whether he was just fooling himself. "Only if you promise not to hurt me," he teased her.

She nodded, her heart thumping in time with his. "I'll see what I can do."

Then, with that odd start to a friendship, they set a date.

*********

She hadn't felt this way in . . . Well, truthfully, she wasn't absolutely certain that she had ever felt this way before. Usually, she was calm and controlled; no one was able to truly fluster her. Now, however, there was a young bartender with long blond hair and deep blue eyes who had turned her head around completely--and Michelle was entirely uncertain of whether or not she liked it.

She took a deep breath, as she moved back across her apartment. She had just finished laying out the mats for the self-defense lesson she had promised Nik last night, partly as a pretense to see him again.

In many ways, of course, this was really just a test, as well--a challenge to see how strong his determination to be with her was, to see just what sort of person he truly might be. Part of her almost hoped, in fact, that he would turn out to be like pretty much every other man she had known and would run far and fast the second he realized that he couldn't overpower her. . . . She didn't want to think, right now, about the part of her which wished the exact opposite.

In many ways, though, she knew that it didn't entirely make sense for her to be challenging him, since she was the one who had originally gone to such lengths to begin their acquaintance, but she had never trusted easily--mostly due to experience. If Nik was worth her continuing to spend time with, she was certain that the next few hours would prove it--because she had every intention of showing him at just what a disadvantage he was, physically, in this relationship, despite all outer appearances. If he proved that he could handle that . . . well, her mind wouldn't let her go there just yet.

Michelle picked up her coffee and took a sip, as she leaned back against the bar which made up one wall of her kitchen; her face was thoughtful, as she stared rather blankly at the mats in her living room. In many ways, she had done things these last few days which she would never have expected of herself. She, after all, was a creature of routine and habit. She did her work, whatever that may entail, and she went back home to the emptiness which she accepted as her due; she had no friends or lovers, and had never truly expected to have them again--whatever offers might be thrown her way. She lived in her own mind and had for quite awhile, had learned to accept the loneliness which accompanied this path as the norm for her. She had truly believed that this was simply the road she was destined to take.

That, however, had apparently changed several days ago--the first time she had spotted Nik. The fact, though, that her . . . attraction--she supposed she would term it--to him was so sudden, so unexpected, and so undeniable worried her immensely. She was not a woman to fall in love, or in lust, easily. There had, in truth, only been one other person to ever move her heart. She closed her eyes, catching the thought before it went further, and forced her breathing into a measured pattern. . . . No, she wouldn't let her mind wander there now.

She opened her eyes once more and looked dimly into her living room, focusing once more on the present--forcing herself not to delve too deeply inwards. There were emotions beginning to stir within her now, indeed, which she had absolutely no intention of really facing. She couldn't. It had been too long, and too much pain had accompanied such feelings in the past. She was certain that, for her own sanity, she had to leave them alone again now.

She took another sip of coffee. Still, she had invited the young bartender over to her apartment today; she had, in fact, propositioned him last night. There was, then, something here which needed to be faced.

She thought back again. She didn't want to really ponder, however, how easily he had seen through to the real motives of her sensual invitation, to her desire to write him off. She had been thinking, unconsciously, that all it would take would be one night to convince herself that Nik was a man just like any other--selfish, self-serving, and potentially cruel. . . . The fact that he had seen into her mind so thoroughly, and had looked at her so compassionately--well, that probably frightened her far more than almost anything else she could imagine right now. His quality of soul, if it were real, could potentially make all the other emotions she was feeling for and about him real, as well. And that, for her, was an absolutely terrifying thought.

She took another small sip of coffee and put the mug down on the counter behind her. She didn't know how she had gotten here, then, didn't know where her emotions had come from. Somehow, though, she was suddenly finding herself rearranging her clients to the early morning hours, so that her afternoon was free to spend with this new, entirely unexpected, variable.

She was beginning to realize, too, that the comfortable walls she had built around herself, the impenetrable fortifications she had placed around her heart, weren't as unshakable as she had once believed. From the first sight of him--she suspected now, in some part of her mind--he had walked straight through them, had taken up a place within her. . . . Today, she supposed, she would have to see whether he would need to be exorcised.

Nik paced back by a park bench he had passed several times already. He was only a block away from the address Michelle had given him last night--and he was absolutely petrified.

He beat his fist unconsciously against his thigh, as he passed the bench once more but came out of his fretful state long enough to notice that he was attracting stares and decided to sit down. Better to sit nervously on the bench for awhile, not expending the agitated energy which was rushing through him, than to get arrested for loitering. That, he knew, would be hard to explain.

He decided to try to get a hold on himself, then. After rubbing his hands along his thighs for a second, he made himself sit still and close his eyes, taking long, slow, deep breaths and holding them--forcing his system to calm itself. If he showed up at Michelle's apartment in the state he had been in for at least the last half hour, she would *definitely* think him to be the adolescent boy he probably still was. He may not be certain of her age, but he was fairly sure that she was a good deal older than 22--and he was only just that.

He let out a breath slowly and opened his eyes. He couldn't help the fact that he was frightened, possibly not even in the ways he should be. He knew, after all, absolutely nothing about this woman except her name, yet he was now on his way to her apartment to have a self-defense lesson from her. Lord only knew what weird scenes he could really be on his way toward. His years on the street, truly, should have taught him that.

Still, he trusted her--at some level and in some way he couldn't possibly explain. It had nothing to do with her beauty, either; he had known many beautiful women--some trustworthy, some utterly criminal. No, there was simply some feeling he got whenever he saw her--whenever he *thought* about her--which made him trust, regardless of any outer facts.

He sighed, looking down. The feelings didn't stop there, however. Even when he felt awkward near her, indeed--which was most of the time, he had to admit--he still felt a deeper level of comfort, as well, one he couldn't even begin to put into words. He felt drawn to her, though, on some level which meant more than anything purely instinctive or physical. He felt a bond with her. . . . And it scared him half to death.

What possibly scared him even more, however, was that he could see--on some level--that she felt some part of this, as well. He could see, at times, when he looked in her eyes--if he saw past her outer sense of complete self-assurance--that she too was off-balance from the . . . well, whatever it was between them; it wasn't just him.

Still, the sensation frightened him; he wanted, almost desperately, to simply tell himself that he was living in a schoolboy's fantasy. The feelings were too intense, were a trembling he felt deep within his soul. It would have been so much easier to simply discount them, to say that he was fooling himself--but his heart knew it wasn't true. Whatever the feelings were, they were real for them both. He sighed. . . . He wondered if they frightened her as much as they did him.

He crossed his arms over himself, while he continued his conflicted musings. He knew, then, that the emotions, that the sense he had of the two of them, was real. What was he supposed to do with these feelings, though? And where the hell did they come from?

The questions continued to tremble somewhere within him, as the long-ingrained tuition of what life supposedly amounted to, according to the world's self-styled realists, ran through his mind. If he hadn't known better, indeed, he would have felt like some stupid character out of one of those romance novels his mother always read--the ones which made her always believe that she could "save" whatever bastard of the day she had hooked up with.

He shook his head, his eyes closed. God, he didn't want to end up like her--deluding himself that some nightmare of a relationship had been pre-ordained by God. He opened his eyes once more. No one deserved to live like that, not even the woman who had tossed him out on the street so long ago.

His heart ached further, as he was caught in these torturing thoughts for several more seconds. Still, he knew there was no saving her now. As saddened as that made him, then, he understood that he would be better off focusing once more on the present.

He drew his mind back to his own problems, therefore. The feelings within him weren't going away, he knew, no matter how much he tried to ignore them; he had attempted to will them off already, but they couldn't be subdued. He only had one path left.

He sighed and finally rose, then, looking down the street toward her apartment building. Oh well, if he were fooling himself, he might as well go find out; he didn't feel physically capable of just walking away now, no matter how sensible it might be for him. Whatever his fate was, he was going to face it. . . . He just hoped it wouldn't prove him to be an utter fool.

Nik finally knocked on her door about 5 minutes after the time he had agreed to be there; part of her had almost hoped that he simply wouldn't come at all. The rest of her, though . . .

She took a deep breath and went toward the door, then, before her mind remembered a previously-overlooked detail; she closed her eyes and cursed silently. If she only hadn't told the doorman to let him come up without announcement, she wouldn't have had to leave him standing there, while she handled it.

She faced the inevitable, though, by running to her bedroom softly, finding the picture she had meant to hide; she was caught in its image for a long heartbeat, stroking a finger tenderly down the face captured there. Of course, it was possible that Nik would never even enter her bedroom today, but she couldn't take the chance. There were simply some things she didn't feel like explaining yet--maybe ever.

She took one last look at the picture, therefore, before tucking it into the drawer of her bedside table and closing it in. Then, she finally made her way back to her front door.

Nik was just on the point of wondering whether he had made a mistake--had remembered the wrong apartment, the wrong hour, the wrong day. Maybe the doorman had made a mistake, too--maybe he had even just imagined the whole of last night? Then, however, Michelle opened the door.

A full 30 seconds passed, as they simply stared at each other; neither was entirely conscious that they were. Still, there was just something hidden deep in the other's eyes they couldn't quite make out--something they knew, something they recognized and had missed, . . . but the seconds passed, and they pulled themselves together once more, returning to the appearance of being normal individuals.

He gave a nervous smile, as she once more schooled her features to their usual, more placid, arrangement. He couldn't even tell that she had just been running; she was in far too good shape for any small exertion to be obvious. She looked calm and patrician.

She smiled a second later, however, and stepped back. "Come in," she said quietly. She noticed the slightly awkward way he moved once more and smiled further behind his back, as he entered; there was just something she found inexplicably endearing about his naturalness. Still, she remembered, there was a purpose to this encounter; she decided to begin it. "You're five minutes late," she stated calmly.

"Um," he turned to her, even more unsettled by her tone; she sounded like an instructor--like he was simply a student. He half-felt like he should apologize. "Sorry," he shrugged. "I lost track of time." As excuses went, he supposed, it wasn't exactly brilliant, but it would have to do. It was certainly better than just telling her about his little nerve-wracked interlude in the park.

She gave a slightly ironic smile. He was holding his own, even though he seemed a little terrified. She liked his courage--however unwilling she was to feel that way; the smile faded. "Let's begin."

He nodded, still nervous, and began to take off his coat and scarf. It was only late September, but the weather had its own mind.

He half took her in, as well, as she stood in a casually correct stance, waiting for him. Her wavy auburn hair was only minimally tamed, which he suspected was the best she could achieve with it, and was pulled back into a pony tail. She was wearing black sweatpants and tank top, as well--which did absolutely nothing to hide her beautiful figure. She was not primped or in any way artificial, yet she managed to give the impression of elegance, nonetheless.

She was beautiful, then; he had trouble not staring. Still, it did bring a question to his mind, as he thought back. "Don't you ever wear any other color?"

Michelle blinked, once; he didn't know her well enough yet to understand just how much the action meant, how much response he had gained from her, when she had intended to give him none. The half-smile returned to her lips. The question had been honest--and, in truth, was one she had never stopped to think about for very long; for many years, after all, that one color had simply reflected her mood too well for her to contemplate choosing another. "No," she answered simply.

He shrugged. "Fair enough." Still, he could imagine that there were other colors that she would be lovely in--but she would be lovely in anything, he was sure. There was just a magnificence to the perfection of her skin, the captivating flow of her curves, the entrancing highlights of her hair, and--more than anything--the intoxicating, ever-changing color of her deep eyes, which made her soul-compelling in any situation. He couldn't imagine a time when she wouldn't be beautiful.

He realized he was staring and shook his head just slightly, pulling his mind back into line, back into reality. "Should I take off my shoes?"

She nodded, but she was really still taking in his clothes, as well. His sweatpants were a bright red, one which managed to clash fiercely with the rather toxic shade of orange of his long-sleeved t-shirt. "Maybe you could try wearing *more* black," she said dryly.

He looked down at himself, once his shoes were off, and shrugged once more. "I like it. It's colorful." He refocused on her with a slightly cocky smile.

She looked down, as another smile played around her lips. She was finding more and more that Nik was a very hard man to be dour around.

She moved back on the mat and motioned him toward it. "Let's begin."

"Okay." He moved onto the mat and looked at her, totally lost on how to proceed. She gave him a smile which he could almost term "wicked"; he swallowed slightly. "Where do we start?"

She looked him up and down; she hated to admit to herself just how amazing he looked in such atrocious clothes. He was muscular but not overly-muscled; she was certain that he had no delicacy about putting his strength to good use, as well--when needed. She imagined him helping to move crates around at the bar, and she felt a tug of longing. Despite herself, she could imagine the feel of those same strong arms around her, the seduction of being able to run her fingers down the contours of his lovely chest which his shirt did nothing to hide. The thoughts, indeed, did things to her she had no ability to admit--but she wasn't sure at all she wanted them to stop.

The longing showed in her eyes, as well, as they ran up his strong thighs once more; her look brushed over a respectable bulge, as she continued back up again. Nice.

She ran her perusal further up and then over his long, bright hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail once more. She hated to admit how much she would have liked to run her fingers through those locks.

Her look rested once more on his features, though, and she repressed the sigh she felt. Of all of the very enticing parts of him, indeed, it was his eyes which most captivated her; they held every entrancing emotion there was in life. Tenderness, passion, honesty, love--all of them were there. . . . If only he knew what he was doing to her poor heart.

Still, she pulled herself back into the moment, this was her chance to test him--and, probably, to scare him away for good; her look became more serious, as she started her instruction. She tried to ignore that her voice had become deeper, and more accented, with her desire. "One thing is most important in any sort of self-defense." Nik looked lost. "First, close your eyes and relax your body completely." He did. "Are you ready?"

He was totally unsure of what was happening. "I guess."

"Good."

It was about two seconds later when Nik realized that he was on his back, with Michelle above him--straddled over him; his hands were trapped above his head. He opened his eyes in shock, as he tried to get his breath back.

"You have to know how to take a fall," she said softly. She gave him a few moments to realize that he couldn't break out of her grasp, if she didn't want him to, and then let his hands go, settling her own on her thighs, as she sat above him.

A little of the immediate panic had begun to wear off, as Nik realized that she seemed to have no bad plans for him. He did *not* like to be held down.

He looked up into her face then and saw eyes which were evaluating his every thought; he tried to hide the panic, not wanting her to interpret his fear too deeply, and began breathing again. Once he got his voice back, as well, he finally spoke; his tone was gently ironic. "Can I expect more of this sort of thing today?"

The smile returned to Michelle's face; she could see that she had triggered something in him with her attack, but it wasn't any of the things she had expected or feared. She hated it, but she was warming to him all over again.

A few seconds passed, therefore, as she continued to look into his gaze; despite the strangeness of the situation, both of them seemed lost there. He lit something within her, indeed--a warmth which she had so long thought dead; she wasn't sure she wanted to be without it ever again.

She felt herself drawn to him further, then, and--without conscious thought--began to trace the backs of two of her fingers down his face, as her eyes were lost in his for another long second. "Probably."

Nik took in his breath, but not for any of his previous reasons now. He was definitely hoping that she would move off of him soon; he had no particular desire to have his own body embarrass him.

Still, the stroke of her fingers, as they traced over his chin, made him close his eyes momentarily. It was almost as though he had felt her touch long before--had known the sensation of warmth and need it gave him now. The half-memory of it shuddered in him, made him want to hold her *very* close, made a sense of desperate longing ring throughout his soul. He didn't feel as though he could ever move beyond it.

He opened his eyes once more a few seconds later, however, when her hand finally receded; he took in a steadying breath and nodded, his light humor returning to him again. "It's going to be an interesting afternoon, then."

She laughed slightly and moved off of him, offering her arm to help him up. "Yes, it is," she agreed softly. . . . Lord help her defenses, but he had just passed her first test.

*********

She didn't like it. Nope, she just did not like it at all. The two of them had been seeing each other pretty much every afternoon--and most evenings, as far as she could tell--for several weeks now. And what did he really know about her? Not one damn thing.

Julie Worth was sulking quietly in a corner of her office in her eponymous bar, her feet propped up on a nearby box--allowing the world a sight of her black hose. The world, though, didn't much seem to be caring.

She was watching Nik closely, as he tried to teach the computer expert she had hired about how she tended to file things on disk; it was an on-going process, admittedly--various afternoons for four weeks so far. They had grown into a routine with it, really. . . . She just wished, then, that this all felt as normal by now as it should.

She sighed. She was certain that Nik knew she was watching him--and that he knew what she was thinking, as well; this wasn't the first time they had had the particular conversation he was trying to avoid with her now. In fact, he had been dodging the subject she was so interested in since the time that he and "Mee-chelle"--her mind pronounced the name disgustedly--had first gone out. She didn't like it at all.

She shook her head, thinking back. If only she had been in the bar that first night, she might have headed this one off at the pass. She thought into it further, pondering the relationship's present status. She didn't really believe that they were intimate, but there was sure as hell something pretty serious happening between them, even if it didn't involve sex--yet.

She bit back her disgust. The one time she had decided to take the night off had been the night the two had finally gone out. She had noticed the older woman eyeing Nik before then, of course, but a *hell* of a lot of women came in to eye him. No big thing, right? . . . *Wrong*.

Her mind ran back through what she knew of her old friend's dating history now, which was a lot of it, as she pondered his current alliance further. He hadn't really ever gone out all that much. There had been some random dates here and there, yeah, but not much that was serious.

About the closest he had come, in fact, had been with Gray, she supposed. The older, oddly-named, widow, though, had been bad news, in her opinion, however. She herself had been convinced that the woman had just been out to find herself a new husband--a new breadwinner for her young daughter. Not exactly a prize for a young bartender, to her mind.

Gray, though, hadn't been the real issue. She guessed, in fact--in retrospect, that it had probably been more Casey, Gray's young daughter, which had really appealed to Nik, to his parental instincts. He had always loved kids.

Her heart tugged slightly, but she shook her head, purposely turning her mind away from this path, not wanting to go too much further there. Nik had given up Gray eventually anyway, had finally decided that he just wasn't ready for marriage--despite his real fondness for Casey. . . . One more annoyance out the door, Julie summed up.

Her mind continued on. The only other really serious relationship she had seen him in, then, had been with Sarah. The shy young woman, once again a few years his senior, had been pulled out of her shell by her new boyfriend. For poor Nik, though--she smiled, remembering--it had backfired. After a few months of his encouragement to be herself, the no-longer quiet woman had taken to wearing lots of leather and referring to herself by her middle name--Jan. Finally, too, she had taken off on a motorcycle with the leader of some wannabe gang. Weird. Anyway, Nik still got cards from her from strange places. He figured that it would be a long time before she settled down.

She sighed again, her mind turning once more. This newest interest of Nik's was different than all the rest, though--even if she couldn't put her finger on why. It just seemed more . . . serious. Blecch. She guessed that it was probably too late to start a "no dating the customers" policy, wasn't it? . . . Damn.

She twisted another of her long, vaguely magenta, locks around her fingers; red might have been her natural color, but she wasn't above adding to nature. "Her mother's maiden name?" she called out to him.

It wasn't her first question, despite her few minutes of silence. Nik had opted, after a long line of them, on being politely monosyllabic with her. "Nope."

She gave a disgusted little frown. "Where she was born?"

"Marseilles." He wasn't looking back at her.

She gave a half-snort, as she muttered--in a stage whisper, "I bet she didn't tell you what *year*."

Nik's eyes rolled heavenward. There were limits. Besides, poor Birkoff, as their computer savior insisted on being called--they had yet to learn his first name, had been squirming at the tension between them for the last half hour; Nik looked at him. "Why don't you go see if Gail can get you some lunch? I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

The younger man's eyes got big, understanding his acquaintance's more subtle message; he had had a crush on the petite little redhead since he had first walked into the bar. "You mean it? I mean," he tried to seem more calm, "uh, yeah, lunch sounds good." He looked back at the glaring Julie. "If you don't mind."

She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. "Whatever."

Birkoff took that as his cue to exit and dashed out of the room as politely as he could. Nik watched him go and then sighed before going over to close the door; he leaned against it--his arms crossed, as he focused on his, currently rather petulant, best friend. "Okay, let's have it."

She was still staring at the ceiling, her fingers continuing to worry a long curl. "I don't know what you mean," she claimed, unconvincingly.

He sighed once more and looked down at the floor. He loved Julie, had for a long time, but only as a friend. He had a feeling, though, that if he told her that again, she might kill him.

He waited, then. She wasn't patient enough to last long in silence.

The empty space between them seemed to make her even more unhappy. "You don't even know her," she said, a little sullenly.

"I know enough," he answered quietly.

Her tone turned even more sour; she wasn't feeling kind. "Yeah, you know that she's got an ass that won't quit." She still wasn't looking at him.

He closed his eyes; the words hurt, as she had intended. It took him a second to be able to answer. "Was that directed at me or her?"

She closed her eyes, as well, for a second; she really hadn't meant to go that far. She stopped tormenting her hair and leaned forward to rest her arms on her knees, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. She looked down at her hands, her mood even more somber, her tone more quiet, as she repeated her earlier words. "You don't even know her."

He opened his eyes sadly. He hated this. "You mean I don't know her like I know you?"

She looked up at him briefly, before refocusing on her hands. They both knew it was true.

He sat back down at her computer, his gaze on the floor; his voice was very quiet. Their hurt lay heavily between them. "I don't know what you want me to say."

She put her hands up in front of her face, trying to stop his words. "God, just not the 'I only like you as a friend' thing again." She lowered her hands, shaking her head--her gaze focused nowhere, her voice softer. "Just not that."

He bit his lip slightly, a habit out of his childhood. Their gazes met for one long second, before they both looked away again.

She sighed quietly. "I know it was a mistake. Please don't say it again."

He shook his head. "I never said it before."

She looked up at him. "But you've thought it."

He shook his head once more, his eyes tender. "No." He shrugged, as his gaze wandered--as he searched for words. "It just wasn't . . ."

"Good?" she tried to provide, self-accusingly.

He closed his eyes tightly, hurt. "No." He took another breath. "Forever," he finally ended. His eyes met hers again.

She swallowed heavily and looked at the floor. She had known that, of course--deep down, had known it was a mistake, even as she had begged him to stay that night. Still, some part of her had hoped that he would change his mind about the two of them being together after that--as though that had ever happened in the history of the sexes. "It was three years ago. I should just get over it, right?"

He shook his head a little. "How do you get over what you've almost never let us talk about?"

She looked away at the room's sole window--high up on the wall. She knew he was right; she had opted on being teasing, and dismissive--and, on the few occasions he had gone out with someone else, sometimes catty--but she just hadn't wanted to talk about it at length.

She was quiet for several long seconds. When the silence had finally gone on too long, however, she told him, in a whisper, what she was thinking. "It hurts."

He closed his eyes. "I know."

He looked back up at her, as she sat in silence for several minutes, her gaze still focused on the window. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, and his best friend--but he had never been *in* love with her; he had half-cursed himself for his stupidity for not being more than once--but that, not surprisingly, hadn't altered his emotions.

He had never been certain exactly what it was that he was waiting for before, however--what it was he had been searching for--but he had discovered it the first night he had seen Michelle. He still couldn't explain it.

He looked back down at his hands, as he thought about all he and Julie had been through together again. They had rediscovered each other once Walter had brought him to America. They had been good friends when they were little, despite the usual conflicts brought on by gender and a year's age difference; still, Julie had been a tomboy and had befriended the younger boy--and she had done it again just a few years ago.

He sighed. She knew his secrets, too--knew his past, understood a lot of things about him he hadn't yet found the courage to share with Michelle. He had provided her with friendship at a crucial time, too--when her father, her only close relative, had died and left her with very little except a bar she wasn't yet old enough to legally enter. He had stood by her, as well, when she had discovered just what a dive Mick Schtoppel, the man she had hired to run it, had turned the bar her father had named in her honor into; he had encouraged her, too, when she had reclaimed it and made it her own.

They had been bonded for a long time, then, but--except for that one night, just after her father's death--they hadn't been lovers. They were friends, companions, and co-conspirators in a healthy amount of post-adolescent frivolity, but they weren't a couple. Except for once.

He closed his eyes again, as he lowered his head further. He still blamed himself for that night, even though he knew that she had been the one to initiate and argue for it. He should have known, though, that it was the wrong path to take--was the wrong way for them to go. He, after all, was the one who hadn't been suffering from intense grief; he had been more sensible, more himself. . . . But she had needed him so much--and, to his shame, he hadn't been entirely insensible to her beauty, either.

Still, he knew that he should have turned back, should have stopped it. Although they had still been best friends after it, nothing had quite been the same; there had always been this unspoken hurt between them--and they had never quite gotten past it.

She sighed quietly again. She knew what he was thinking; he blamed himself for that night--even though she had practically dragged and guilted him into bed. . . . Okay, so maybe he hadn't been entirely unwilling, but the initiative had definitely been hers. She hated that he blamed himself.

There was one thing more than any other, though, which still worried her about it; she finally spoke softly. "Did you just do it out of pity, Nik?" She shook her head, as she met his eyes slowly once more--her words not quite coming out how she meant. "I mean, did you feel anything for me at all?"

He closed his eyes. "I felt a lot for you." He sighed. "It's just . . ."

"Don't." She held up her hand. "Please don't tell me the friend thing again."

He shook his head. "That wasn't what I was going to say." Their eyes met once more, and he took a deep breath before he continued, bracing himself. "I thought about it, y'know--thought about us as a couple, after that night." Her eyes warned him not to lie to her, as he went on. He shook his head; that wasn't a problem here.

His tone became more light for a second, however, as he tried to disabuse her of one of her incorrect notions. "You still don't give yourself enough credit," he smiled; his eyes were tender. "The man who gets you will probably need the energy of a team of long-distance runners on serious uppers."

She laughed softly, understanding his humor, and looked back down; he was lightening her mood somewhat. "But . . ." her voice encouraged him to go on.

His focus was vague again, in the distance. "It's just that . . . I feel like I've been waiting for something--for someone, some one person--all my life. Not solely a friend, or a lover. Someone . . ."

He shook his head, as he looked back at her; he found it difficult to discuss. "I can't really explain it, but I've always known that she existed--that she was out there." He looked back at the floor, as his voice grew very small. "Three weeks ago, I think I found her."

She bit her lip slightly, as she nodded her head. "Michelle," she filled in.

He nodded once more and looked up at her. "I don't know how to explain it to you, Julie, don't know how I can." He sighed. "What I feel when I'm with her is more than just love, or comfort, or friendship, or passion; it's nothing that simple. It's like I've known her forever, like I've found some part of myself I hadn't entirely realized that I'd lost." He shrugged; his voice was very soft. "It's more than anything I've ever known before."

She smiled slightly. "You sound like you've been into your mother's Harlequins again."

He let out a small, snorting laugh. "I know." His eyes grew distant once more.

She swallowed slightly, seeing the depth of his emotions. Nik was a lot more vocal about them than most men she had known, certainly--but this was really new, even for him; she didn't quite know how to handle it.

She decided, then, to joke with him a bit. "And this applies to me, how?"

He laughed a little more for a second and refocused on her, before his face grew more serious. He shrugged. "If I hadn't known she was out there," he looked at her deeply, "things might've been different for us." His smile grew slightly wicked. "I haven't met many women, after all, with a fondness for leather undergarments."

She lifted her finger up warningly. "Aaa!" Her eyes glowed, though, even as she lowered her hand. She didn't like that he was so stuck on someone else, of course, but she saw that his feelings were way too intense to be shifted.

She surrendered, then--sadly, but playfully; an almost joyful smile crossed her face, as she teased him, in fact. "I could murder her--would that help my chances?"

He laughed, both amused and relieved that she had accepted what he had told her as best she could. "No." He stood up to go to the door, intending to see whether Birkoff might be ready to attack the files once more.

"Oh, c'mon--just a little arsenic in her milk? I'd do it quietly," she pleaded.

He laughed louder. "No!" He was still smiling, as he reached the door.

"Nik," she stopped him. He turned back to her; her face was more serious. "Do I get a chance to really meet her?"

He nodded. "If you'd like."

She rolled her eyes, giving into the inevitable. "I'd like."

He nodded again, agreeing; he noticed the look in her eyes. "Friends?" He opened his arms.

She went into them, enjoying his warmth whatever way she could have it. They held each other for a few long seconds, as well, before she backed away to look at him. "Better believe it, bucko." She slapped his butt and then moved around him to the door.

"Hey!" he cried out at her move. He turned to her. "Are you ever going to stop hitting me?"

"Not in your lifetime, babe," she announced, as she sauntered off.

He looked down at the floor happily, arms crossed. He felt better for having finally talked things out a bit with Julie. . . . Now, if he could just get up the courage to open his heart as thoroughly to Michelle, his life might be great.

*********

There had been several weeks of an almost-routine between them now--if you could call their meetings "routine." Sometimes, indeed, there were lessons, which usually ended up meaning that Nik sported a few new bruises when he left; Michelle still hadn't convinced him to actually hit her back. She had finally set him up opposite her punching bag, indeed--however little she liked it, didactically. Sometimes, too, they went to a museum or park. Several times, they had met for lunch, as well--on top of the fact that she usually came into the bar at the end of the evening, and they would have a late night snack.

Even if their days were not always pre-set, though, their routine was fairly constant time-wise. They spent almost every afternoon together and a majority of late evenings/ early mornings--but there was still nothing sexual between them, unless one counted several of the holds which Michelle seemed to get him into on the practice mat.

This latter fact wasn't, however, the result of a lack of attraction between them. More than once, indeed, they had quietly called the lessons to a halt when the simple frisson between them had been becoming too great. It had seemed the safest thing to do.

This was not the end of their longing, though--obviously; for both of them, too, there were dreams--intense, erotic, and all-pervading. They came to them both, in sleep and in consciousness. Many times, as well, they had discovered themselves simply staring at one another with a desire so great it seemed to tremble between them. Frequently, in fact --when they broke the looks, both of them found that they were panting slightly. . . . It would take more than a few seconds for them to get hold of themselves again.