He smiled ferally, however, as his eyes stroked along her body, his hands reaching the still-naked thighs, and he took in his previous, clothing-destroying work. But no, not tonight. Tonight, indeed, she was a creature who needed to be ravished, who had to be pleased with an almost unbearable desire; it was what they both wanted, after all, was what they needed--and he had every intention of giving it to her in full.

His hands slid everything off of her legs, running along the beautiful skin there, as he did so. In truth, the very fact that she wanted him this badly, that she loved to have him approach her with such artless, aching need made him want her even more. She was so incredibly beautiful in her desire, was so incredibly lovely when she moaned his name; so often, in fact, it was almost too much for him. The garments fell on the floor, leaving her half naked and open to his gaze. Yes.

He walked back around the sofa again, stopping near her eyes; his own shone a primal and undeniable sort of love to her, as his hand stroked her cheek gently. He lifted her up then, sliding all the rest of her clothes back off her body--abandoning her jacket, destroyed shirt, and bra where he tossed them onto the floor.

She was caught completely in his gaze, too, was held there by the hypnotic beauty of his body and soul; she didn't even notice the cold of the room. It wasn't just the fire which had warmed the area they were in, either; it was the heat of absolute devotion which rose from them both. No, chilliness wasn't something she needed to worry about tonight.

He held her look for another few seconds before he leaned down and gave her a deep but gentle kiss; she wasn't fooled, however. There was a hidden power to it, to the way his hand ran into her hair, holding her there. He was simply being catlike again, was marking his territory, was reminding her who she belonged to. She knew, too, that he would take no denials from her about that tonight. She shuddered pleasantly in the kiss. Good.

The soft, deep kiss continued for about another minute, therefore, before he pulled away. He took a step back from her, then, leaving her sitting on the sofa; he held her gaze all the way.

He began, too--finally, to undress. He had wanted to for sometime, of course, had wanted to feel his flesh against hers, but the timing hadn't been right before. Now was different, though. . . . Now, she was his.

His movements were not a slow striptease, but there was nothing rushed to them, either. Rather, he knew that he had her complete attention, so he just revealed himself at his own pace, smiling knowingly.

His long coat went first, landing where he tossed it, in front of the fireplace; he had plans for it later. Next, his shirt was lifted off, his taut muscles shown to full advantage, as he did so; it too landed near the fireplace.

She wasn't noticing his placement of the discards, however. Each piece of clothing revealed a treasure to her, made her heart beat faster. There was nothing quite so beautiful, after all, as watching your lover reveal himself to your gaze, as having him ask for your attention. When that lover was Michael, as well--well, what was revealed was always *very* special, indeed.

She took in the beautiful outlines of his chest, of his arms, then; she had always loved them, had been drawn to look them over even from early in their acquaintance. She had never then imagined, though, how often he would ask her, would so dearly *want* her, to touch him.

He knelt down briefly to remove his shoes and socks, and she was impressed again at his grace. Very few men, very few *people*, could make the move a seductive one, but--once again--he was different. It showed his power, let her take in the play of his solid, real muscles; nothing on him was for show.

There was again an almost catlike quality to him, too, she noticed. When he crouched down, all of the strength of his body coiled, waited to spring. . . . God, he was beautiful.

He watched her eyes, enraptured, as he stood once more. His beautiful angel was looking at him with such adoration, was looking him over as though he were some cross between her most cherished work of art and her favorite meal. His smile grew feral once more. Yes.

She looked to his eyes briefly before settling her gaze back at his waist; his hands were poised for this final revelation. His eyes, however, had only added to his catlike nature; the green of them shone with the same jungle light which had lit her blood so often. Oh, she wanted this.

He unbuttoned his pants, unzipped them slowly, while he watched her eyes. They had widened, her breathing accelerating, as she waited for her new view. His smile grew again. Good.

He slowly revealed himself, then, adoring every second of her impassioned look. It didn't matter how many times they did this; he was always lost to the need in her gaze, to her absolute desire for him. . . . God, he loved her.

He had stepped out of these last items of clothing, but she hadn't truly been watching. Not for the first time, her gaze was locked completely to the impressive length of him, to the long, proud rise of his thick cock. Her lips opened slightly, unconsciously, her breathing increasing, eyes wide. Every inch of it called to her, made her want to love him here till he ached, till he released every hot ounce of pleasure into her. She wanted his joy, always, like a drug--and she wanted it right now.

She looked up to him then, and he was a little surprised by the sudden command of her eyes. The look was an undeniable one, was one he had seen many times before; it was a look she always gave him before she focused wholly on his pleasure, on the joy she alone could give.

His heart thumped faster, as she held her hand up to him, inviting him to her. He knew he had to obey; nothing else would make her happy unless he did. Still, he was caught between an aching, fierce desire for the sweet release she was offering him and a desperate need to refuse--to save himself solely for her pleasure alone. He moaned.

She saw the vacillating look in his eyes, and her own grew a little harder, more commanding. He closed his own, still standing rooted to the spot. Her next word, however, and the true depth of need with which it was spoken, undid him. "Please."

He swayed slightly in front of her, before he opened his eyes again, and his shaft jumped at the pleading gaze which met him. He went to her, then, unable to resist, unable to turn away from anything which would give her pleasure. He did love her so.

She saw the reasons for his capitulation, but they weren't anywhere near enough for her. He was an unusual man, certainly, in that he never sought this from her; in fact, he tended to try to avoid it, regardless of the shaking, screaming joy she knew he always received. Still, she understood his motives, knew he wanted to be both the one in control and the one to give the pleasure. But, right now, that wasn't what she wanted at all.

Her eyes were sincere, as she looked up at him; her fingers ran gently down his side--to a resulting, extra throb of his length. He closed his eyes.

"I love you, Michael," her quiet, truthful voice told him. She raised herself onto her knees on the sofa in order to be able to better kiss his face, and he shook slightly, as her tongue ran under his jaw; she felt it clench beneath her touch. She nipped at a tender spot there, too--to his resulting gasp, and her heart warmed to him further; she smiled and continued to find the perfect spots on his neck. "Don't you want to feel that?"

Her hands were on his back, were massaging the muscles there, as that lovely tongue of hers, that softly suckling mouth, found out all of his secret spots once again; he was swaying slightly, his hands in her hair, holding onto her gently. "You don't have to," his passion-hoarse voice reminded her. After her last mission, especially, he needed her to know.

She found one of the most needy spots on his neck and bit it strongly; he groaned, a strong, jangling shock of desire bolting through him. She ran her teeth up along it, pulling back to meet his eyes; her own were strong. "I know."

His look, as his hand traced along the side of her face, was tender. God, he loved her so, was so amazed by the constant depths of her desire for him. He drew her into a deep, soul-caressing kiss, savoring her. Yes.

He knew, too, that she might be right. Already he was so aroused he was practically in pain from it. Maybe, then, if she gave him the release she was tempting him with here, he could then regain his stamina, could--later--give her even more pleasure in return. He hoped so.

She felt his mind finally beginning to give in to her. Still, she had yet to truly win his body or soul to this approach--and she had to have that, before she went on.

She pulled back from the kiss, therefore, her eyes loving; her fingers stroked over his cheek. "I want this, Michael," she reminded him quietly. She gave the underside of his throat a wet kiss, whispering her words there. "We both do."

His resistance to her fell away even further at her sweet, tempting words. He could never deny her, not here, not like this. She owned him absolutely; anything she wanted, he would give. It was all that mattered in his life.

Even if, then, it were easier to be on the giving than the receiving end for him, helped out his sense of self, he would, once again, put aside this desire here. After all, the pleasure she could give him was absolutely intense. It would be amazing to feel it once again.

She felt him giving in to her, as she kissed her way down his throat. His head had fallen back by instinct, opening himself to her completely, a warm, soft moan rising from his soul. Her hands traced more sensually down his back. Oh, she loved him.

She rewarded him, too, by running her tongue up and down along the strong column of it, making him shake slightly with the tender feeling of powerlessness she gave, with his absolute trust of her. An ache moved more heavily through his blood, his shaft bobbing more even firmly. Yes.

She knew he had gotten her point. She could feel, as well, just how aroused he was, how much he needed this now. She wanted to reward him for his trust, then, for his need; she wanted, once again, to feel the beautiful release she could give him, to know that his screams of pleasure were hers alone. It was times like that when she was truly alive.

She moved down his chest, therefore, giving him little licks, tasting the slight sweat on his skin; she knew it had nothing to do with the fire roaring behind him. . . . God, she loved that.

He helped move her to the first spot which needed her, over to a small, taut nipple, giving in to the unsurpassable pleasure she offered. He loved to feel her here, adored the heat she sent straight into his blood. Dear Lord--no one else would ever be her.

He held his breath, too, as she followed his request, enclosing the small bud in her mouth, suckling him tightly. He let out a deep, loud groan, the pleasure running through his veins like thick, warm honey. . . . Oh God, yes--this was what he needed. "More," he moaned.

She closed her eyes and ran her teeth over him lightly, to his heavy groan of pleasure; his shaft jumped against her. Oh God--she adored what she could do to him, loved that he wanted her so much. He would never know how much that meant.

She couldn't go slow anymore, therefore, just couldn't wait to touch him, to taste him. It just wasn't possible anymore.

He shuddered, letting out a gasping moan, as she gave him one more lovely suck and then began to run her tongue down the length of his body. He trembled even further, too, when she reached her target. His breath caught. Oh God . . . yes.

Her hand was caressing his cock, while her mouth greeted it like an old, dearly missed, friend--reacquainted herself with him. She ran her tongue in little lines over the head before kissing down the vein on the back. Ohhh, she had missed this.

Michael trembled, his knees threatening to rebel and send him tumbling, her sweet, soft teasing almost too much. When her other hand enclosed his sac, as well, her thumb massaging over its tight balls, he clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening. God, if he had had less control, he would have come already. . . . How did she always do this?

His question, though, wasn't answered here; he was only left wondering even further over her beautiful ability to arouse him. There was just something, especially, about the way her tongue licked little lines along him, savoring him, which made him moan out loud; there was such genuine desire in her move--making it so obvious that this was what she wanted. Oh God, it felt so good.

Still, this wasn't even the beginning; she hadn't truly begun yet. . . . The best was yet to come for him.

He held his hands deep in her hair, opening himself to her, therefore--trying to steady himself--as she placed one last kiss on his base before running her tongue up his full length again, her mouth then subsuming the head. His heart thumped wildly. Oh . . . Yes.

He wasn't the only one lost here, however. Michael let out a screaming moan above her, lost to her alone, and she echoed it with a deep moan of her own. She loved this, adored everything about it; she loved to taste him, loved to explore every nuance of him, as he throbbed so heatedly in her touch. She could feel the warmth rising in him, of course, but she adored the way he tried to hold on, his valiant attempts to savor just a little more of her devotion to him. His cock was just so beautiful, after all, was made for worship. She adored knowing that she alone could bring it joy.

She understood some of his joy now, but any words which could have been used to describe his feelings would have been entirely inadequate. His moans were constant, as he swayed against her; her sweet, incredibly pleasing mouth was suckling the throbbing head of him, her tongue running over him in little licking lines, sometimes running just underneath it, under the rim. He shuddered, the heat of his length rising further, as his soul opened to her completely. Oh, he adored her.

He couldn't possibly have described how good it felt; it seemed to move through his entire body, running through his veins like sweet, honeyed light. He let out something which sounded like a whimper, lost to her.

There was no end to her talent for pleasing him, truly. Not only was her mouth heating his soul into a fireball of on-coming bliss, her hands, too, were amazing. One of them stroked a firm, steady, rhythm along him, making the warmth which he already felt rising want to beat even faster. The other, as well, was massaging the ever-tightening balls of his sac in a way which made the heat rise even more. He let out an aching groan. Oh . . . God . . . Yes.

She let out a moan of her own, loving his desire, adoring his pleasure. She wanted to give him even more of it, wanted him to come apart in his bliss.

She began to run a pattern on him, then, her mouth moving down to meet her hand, as it established a rhythm along him, encouraging the release he couldn't hold back for much longer. Every long suck made his cock bob more wildly, made his sac draw up even further. She heard his breathing escalate, his moans turning into cries, and she moaned against him once more. Yes--his treasure was almost hers again.

His eyes were closed tightly, his head back. He was trying to keep from thrusting against her too much, but it was hard. Her mouth, her hands were so tight, enclosed him in a way which left him shaking; he felt a tear run down his face, and he moaned more wildly, lost to her alone. She was his angel.

She sped up her rhythm again, knowing full well how close he was, how much he needed this. He was throbbing more strongly in her mouth, was growing slightly, far beyond the point of utter rigidity; he let out a wild, desperate moan above her, and she met it with her own. God, she loved it.

She moved her rhythm even more tightly around him, her caressing thumb stroking strongly over the vein on the back, and his moan turned into a scream, one which reverberated off of the cold walls of their haven. God, she couldn't wait to give this to him. Ohhh, she did love him.

He moved his hands to her shoulders, afraid he would unconsciously try to pull her onto him more deeply, otherwise. She just felt *so* amazing, after all, was making all of the blood in his body ache with life so dearly that he couldn't get enough anymore, was lost to her completely. God, he could only barely hold on.

She knew this, of course, knew he was there. She moved her mouth up again, then, and began to suck the head of him tightly; he quaked a little, his cock jumping, and she drew her hand up along his full length strongly, her thumb running along the vein. Her hand squeezed his sac, as well, as his breathing grew to short little gasps, and she ran her teeth up from under the rim, running them softly over the whole, far-too-sensitive head, licking briefly into the indentation at the end.

He screamed loudly then, a moment before she captured him in her mouth once more. His hands went back to her hair to pull her back, as well, as his near-convulsive thrusts played against her.

She was sucking him tightly again, as the heat rushed from him. Dear God, he had never felt quite so light with pleasure. Everything about her--the tight wet warmth of her sweet mouth, the loving caress of her hands, encouraging his release, the silken beauty of her hair against his fingers, and the sweet moan of her own pleasure which reverberated against him--all of it made him weep with love and desire. Nothing could be more perfect.

He looked down, trembling, his moan undeniable, to see her--to see the beautiful angel who brought him such delight. Her eyes were closed, as she savored him, a look of absolute devotion on her face, and he shook more strongly, the heat and light of his release going up even further, searing his blood. A few more tears ran down his face. . . . yes.

Everything in him was opened to her, was begging for her. Oh God, she was perfect, was so holy, and she wanted him like this--wanted to please *him*, as well. He felt another convulsive shock of joy beat through him, and he closed his eyes once more, another tear running down his cheek, his heart trembling in adoration. He would never be able to repay her for her love.

He shook above her for several long minutes, while she happily received his pleasure. It warmed her to know that he responded to her so deeply, that he needed her so much; nothing else could ever make her feel half so whole. Nothing.

When he had finally stopped quaking quite so steadily, however, when all of the heat of him had once more left him, he looked back down at her again with eyes which spoke to her soul. God, he needed her.

He pulled her back from him finally, meeting her eyes in full; his own still had tears in them. "I love you," he whispered in absolute truth.

She smiled at him with teary eyes herself. It just meant so much to her to know this was real, to know that the man before her understood her completely, knew her soul, and still adored her. It made her feel real again, too, to know that she had his absolute trust--had it from a man who had been lied to and betrayed so often. All of it, truly, meant more to her than she could ever say.

He had no words to convey his love just now. All he knew was that he had to reconnect. His legs were still shaky with joy, though; he couldn't stay upright for much longer.

He came to his knees before her, then--worshiping her as the divine creature that she always would be to him; his eyes devoted his soul to her completely, as he pulled her toward himself, taking communion from her lips--tasting his own desire there. His length twitched in need again. Oh God--yes.

He pulled her more deeply into the kiss, as he groaned, his heart still thundering in love--so utterly lost to her beauty. There would never be words enough to explain it, to make her understand how precious she was; they simply didn't exist. . . . He would have to satisfy himself, then, with showing her.

She moaned against him, and he leaned her back from him, against the back of the couch. His hand caressed her face again, his eyes so loving, as he pulled from the kiss. "Thank you," he whispered.

She opened her mouth to stop him, to keep him from thanking her for something she had wanted so completely, but he stopped her by closing his mouth over hers once more--capturing her in a brief, but deep and intense, kiss, and she moaned against his lips again, understanding his point. She knew he wasn't thanking her for a favor, was instead just trying to express to her how much her devotion to him always meant, how much pleasure she gave him. She smiled.

He kissed her lips lightly once more, seeing that she understood, and then began to trail his mouth back down her again. He left a warm, wet trail on her skin, every spot he touched aching with life once more.

She moaned at his descent, moaned even more strongly at the growing beat of him she sensed near her leg, as he moved down. She closed her eyes. She loved that she had this sort of effect on him, that he wanted her so much. No other man she had ever known, after all, was even half so special.

His mouth found a hardened nipple and enclosed it, loving it into even greater, aching life, and she ran her hands into his hair, moaning loudly, arching her back at him. God, it felt good, felt so good just to be loved by him. Nothing else ever really came close.

She didn't need his devotion here, however, to want him again. No, she was already more than ready, had been for quite awhile. Being able to bring him pleasure once more had made her burn with need, truly. All she really needed now, then, was his resurrection.

One hand left his hair, therefore, and ran between them, stroking down. He gasped slightly at her nipple, letting it go, as she took hold of him; he closed his eyes. God, it felt good.

She stroked along him softly, encouraging the ever-growing beat of him again, and his heart thundered more loudly. He let out a shuddering moan, too, as all of his blood rushed back again, went back once more to the spot where it so often resided whenever she was around. Yes--he wanted her.

Her thumb ran up, stroking along the head, and he opened his eyes to look at her, smiling. Her gentle touch, after all, had brought back all of his need for her, in so many ways. Only she could make him this passionate again.

He pulled her into a deep, much more commanding, kiss, therefore, pushing her hand away, before he lay her back against the back of the couch once more; his need was growing wild again. She would learn to play with fire, then, would learn its consequences. . . . He wanted, indeed, for her to enjoy every one of them.

He pulled her hips toward him, her legs spreading to either side of his body, as his tongue traced down. God, he just wanted to taste her again. Just once tonight wasn't--never would be--enough; he wanted to feast on her, to arouse her so deeply she simply could barely survive it. It was only fair, after all, after what she had done to him.

Her hands were back in his hair, as he positioned her toward him, putting her thighs on his shoulders, her hips at the edge of the sofa. Every kiss closer he came to her need made her gasp, her heart pounding. Ohhh, yes. She wanted this.

Just the scent of her was almost too much for him now, made him almost too needy. He was fully aroused again, was more than ready for her, but he wouldn't have missed this opportunity for anything. The taste of her on his tongue--sweet and musky--was too perfect a gift to forgo. He had to have it again.

She let out a little, whimpering cry of desire, as his tongue stroked deep inside her. She pulled him further toward her, her hips rubbing against him, and moaned, her head back. "Yes."

He let out a moan of his own here, the vibration of it playing off of her; she trembled. His cock was beating strongly again now, wanted her for itself. Still, his tongue refused to give her up yet, was too wild for her pleasure to let her go. God, she was good. His heart sent another, shuddering ache of need to his heavy shaft. He just loved her so much.

She whimpered in need, as his tongue tempted further into her, her back trying to arch in the odd position he had set her in, trying to move ever closer to him. Oh, he felt so good; his tongue seemed so big, stroked so deep, the tip of his broad nose rubbing against her needy bud. She moaned again, tears rising in her eyes. "Ohhh, Mi-chael."

His heart pounded. Yes. He growled slightly against her, his own need building for her once again; she was his angel of love, after all, and he wasn't worthy to be her acolyte unless he could give her only the smallest amount of absolute bliss in return. She moaned again, and he groaned. Dear God, . . . yes.

His hands were lifting her hips toward him, his face buried in the treasures he adored. She was thrashing slightly on the sofa, her breathing highly imperiled. "Michael," she whimpered again.

He closed his eyes tightly. His cock was so hard now it ached for her; all of his feral need had risen, as well, was making him desperate for her once again. He could feel his whole body trembling slightly with it; he couldn't wait much longer.

She was only breathing in little gasps now. Oh God, it was almost too much, was too arousing. Her body felt strung out with it, her thrusts against him nearly convulsive, as her whimpers turned into higher-pitched screams.

His heart trembled. Yes, she was almost there; he could feel it. This was what he needed, was what he had to have to survive. Soon, she would bring him salvation.

He held her even closer to him, then, to another of her near screams, and began beating deep within her in a rhythm which left her no time to breathe, which let her do nothing but moan--on the edge. It felt so good, so right, she couldn't think at all, was shaking wildly. She was half a second from losing herself completely.

This, too, was absolutely what he wanted. He loved her response, her hand lost in his hair--begging for more, the other clawing desperately at his shoulder. He had to bring her to him.

His hands tightened on her soft curves, holding her to him ruthlessly, his tongue a conquering hero, bent on her utter submission. He wouldn't allow her to escape the quaking release he had in store for her. There was no way out.

Nikita, though, had absolutely no desire for one. She couldn't think at all, was totally lost to the incredible, searching strokes of his tongue--to his heart-stopping rhythm over her aroused bud. Her whole body was nearly thrashing now, was on an indefinably-thin edge. Her screams were rising.

He knew how close she was--and loved it. He pushed her over it, then, by pulling her back along his tongue slightly before stroking it deep inside her, his nose hitting her bud in a quakingly-beautiful way. She screamed out, too, and he began to flick his tongue heavily over the most tender spot inside of her, the tip of his nose grinding into her sweet bud.

Her scream in response was loud and deep. She was floating, had practically been tossed from her body by the sheer force of her bliss. The heat and light of it spiraled deep within her, made her weep with joy. . . . Ohh, it was just too good to bear.

She was convulsing against him now, her screams long, steady ones. He closed his eyes to savor it, every little shock of her body making his cock ache for her even more. God, he needed her now.

He lifted himself from her, therefore, his tongue running down a vibrating wall, and gave her a smile, which she was too lost to see. He released her, then, placing one more soft kiss on this treasured spot. Now, she was his.

She could only barely take in what was happening, as he moved her legs off his shoulders, pulling her body up to kiss her deeply, gifting her with the same present she had given him earlier--with a taste of her own desire. She whimpered, her body warm with it. Yes.

He kept her in the kiss, too, as he moved her from the couch, pulling her up into his arms, as he stood. She barely had the concentration to take it in, but she knew, instinctively, to wrap her legs around his waist. That move pulled her close against his aroused cock, as well; she moaned and tightened her grip, one small thought moving through her head. Ohhh--yes.

He carried her like that, savoring every step, loving the kiss. He adored the opportunity to carry her like this, after all; the move was so tender and so passionate at once--showed, as well, her trust of him, her agreement to let him have his way in pleasing her. All of it heated his blood even further.

He knelt down in front of the fire and arranged his coat, therefore, spreading it out over a, rather dusty, antique rug, never breaking from the kiss. He grabbed hold of the shirt he had discarded earlier, too, and then began to lower her back, using the item as a makeshift pillow, as he came to rest on top of her.

She let out a whimpering moan and broke from the kiss finally. Her eyes were so tender, so loving; her hands caressed his face. "Michael," she whispered.

His eyes searched into her, stroked intimately over her soul, as his hips positioned himself. "I love you," he whispered in return, just a second before he began to enter her.

Her eyes grew wider, her back arching, as her breathing sped up again. God--she had barely come down from the heights he had just sent her to, was still reeling from them. To feel the perfect, thick head of him beginning to enter her now, then--parting her to slide inside--made her moan, her eyes watering in love and achingly rekindled need. "Michael," her lips moved, her gaze lost to him alone.

He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, a tear on his cheek. She was just too good, was too beautiful, and he simply needed her so much. For awhile earlier tonight, after all--when they had found their leader in her apartment--he had feared that he might have lost her again, that their final day had been seen. To know, too, all the torment she had been through--all the pain which was growing in her daily--which he feared constantly might force her to hide her soul away from him for good, . . . No, all of it was too tormenting, was too much.

To be with her again now, then, after all of that, to be joining with those perfect, still slightly-shuddering, walls once more, was just too intense. His eyes opened, his adoration of her naked and alive there. . . . God, he loved her.

She whimpered beneath him, adoring him in every fiber of her soul. His hips pushed more of that sweet length of his inside her, as well, and she arched her back to welcome him, moaning.

Her eyes were still wide, as she took in his lovely face. It wasn't just the incredible, loving breadth of him which overwhelmed her now, indeed. No, just the look in his eyes caught her soul, made her love for him even more overwhelming. She pulled his face close to hers, speechless in her adoration.

He closed his eyes for just a second, too overcome by the beautiful love for him in her eyes. He didn't deserve it, of course--never could--but he had vowed to himself now that he would spend the rest of his life in an attempt to earn it, in an attempt to show her nothing but devotion.

He looked back at her, the emotion in his eyes only increasing at the sight of her beautiful, angelic face, and leaned in to place a soft kiss on her lips; their eyes stayed locked through it. The fire crackled gently beside them, as well, giving them the warmth they so often needed with each other--but one which was absolutely unnecessary now. Everything between them was light.

There was just too much beauty in that shared gaze, too, to even consider breaking from it. They said nothing, then, as he pulled out slightly, giving her another rotating stroke before sinking further back in, her legs pulling him along. They both moaned.

They continued his entry in this slow fashion, as well, only pausing from time to time to share a soft, loving kiss. Their eyes never left one another's at all. Nothing could have made them turn away.

Each bit of his entry into her made them both breathe faster, though. The perfection of it was too much, meant too much. It had wiped out the pain of their lives outside of this place, allowed them to focus on nothing but each other. . . . Ohh, it was wonderful.

The feeling of each new progression of his thick shaft further into her slick, tight walls left them both more than a little breathless. By the time he had almost filled her completely, then, their hearts were beating even faster, their hands clasping one another's shoulders. Every movement, every feeling, was beautifully shared.

He was propped on his elbows above her, was watching her face with his every new thrust, as though it were the face of God. To him, after all, it was. . . . She was doing exactly the same with him.

What they saw, therefore, when he finally gave her the next to last stroke of himself, filling her deeply, was amazing. Their vision of heaven was looking back at them, was enraptured by the beauty it saw there. It was more perfect than anything either of them had ever imagined.

They both felt healed and whole now, then, in a way they hadn't in some time. They were both one.

The tension of their desire, though, was growing, was becoming too much. They needed to complete their union, needed to come closer to that now, or they would go insane.

They were both panting slightly, therefore, their shared kisses becoming more intimate; their eyes still never left each other's. Nikita, however, finally found her voice. "I love you, Michael."

He closed his eyes for a second, finally breaking the look they had held for so long; it was too much, meant too much to him--overwhelmed every sense. All he knew right now was that he had to have her, had to please her. Without that, nothing had meaning. Without that, he was lost.

He took a deep breath, then, his hand caressing her cheek. He leaned down, too, to place a tender, loving kiss on the other, at just the same moment that he pulled back and gave her one more, incredibly deep, stroke, sinking his long cock in her to the base. She shook against him, her breathing shuddering in a tender moan, one which captured his heart. "I love you, Nikita," he whispered softly.

She closed her eyes, lost to him completely. Everything was too right, was too perfect: his sweet heart beating so loudly against her chest; the weight of his wonderful body upon hers; his love, which she felt flowing so strongly through her soul; and, by no means least, the way he was buried so deep in her, the whole of that thick, beautiful cock echoing his every heartbeat far inside her body. It was too much, felt so good, made her feel so whole. She kissed his cheek, as well, taking in his scent, her arms pulling him closer. "I love you," she whispered again, against his ear.

The words, though, were too much for him, made him need her too desperately. The heat of his desire for her, after all, was never far from the surface in him, was never very deeply buried; it never had been, despite what he had once tried to tell himself. He wanted to give her a sweet, intense release, then, wanted to let her lose herself in it absolutely. . . . Right now, indeed, it was the only way he would begin to feel even vaguely human.

He turned her head, therefore, and encouraged her to lose herself in a deep, intoxicating kiss. She did, whimpering. Encouraged by her acceptance, as well, he began to run slow lines through the whole of her depths, the head of his cock touching every inch of her soft walls before sinking deeply back in.

She let out a gasp through the kiss and pulled him further into it. Yes, this was what she needed, was what she always would. Her heels pressed into his curves, asking for all of his devotion.

She held onto his shoulders, pulling him even further toward her, wanting more, and he moaned loudly. Ohh, it was too much--she was too much. Everything about her was too perfect, too good. He just had to have more.

He began to give her slightly harder strokes, then, to her muffled, pleading whimper; he wouldn't let her out of the kiss to fully voice it. Her body felt so good below his, her desire-slicked skin rubbing along his own, as he fell into the intoxicating rhythm of moving above her. Every time their aroused nipples scraped by one another's, too, she let out a whimper and pulled him further into the kiss. His heart throbbed in need. Yes.

She could feel the tears of need and love gathering in her eyes. Oh, he just felt too incredible. The way he took tender control of her in the kiss, one hand on her cheek, made her feel his love deep within; she felt like he was gently branding it on her soul. He was moving above her, as well, in a way only the most devoted of lovers could--with a rhythm which combined a soul-deep need with the most heavenly adoration, his thick cock making her walls cling to him, making them nearly cry out for more. Nothing else had ever felt so right.

God, he couldn't take it--couldn't take her beautiful desire, the way her hand on his cheek held him to the kiss, the way she begged to be loved by him alone. His need for her was rising exponentially by the second, was tumbling over itself in want. He just had to have more.

She closed her eyes further, breaking from the kiss finally to moan, as his hand smoothed down her back, coming to rest on her hip. That incredibly lovely cock was in her so deep, the thick head of it arousing a screaming sense of desire into her furthest, most sensitized and needy core. Every thrust left her feeling as though she had been re-formed in pure need; every one spiraled her desire a thousand times higher. Her nails dug into his shoulder, her breath shuddering. God--yes.

Oh God, he could barely take it; it was just so good. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, arching his thrusts into her incredibly deeply. She whimpered, and he let out a moan, his hands on her shoulders, his face transformed, as his cock rode her, as it throbbed far inside her wet, clinging walls. Oh, oh, yes.

He was entirely lost to her now, to the sweet rhythm the two of them alone created. She let out a crying, moaning, "Please," and his body shuddered in want. God, he had to have more of it.

His hands ran down to her hips again, and he angled her, held her as close as he could. "Michael!" she cried--and shuddered when he moaned in response. His face was buried against her neck now, his cock sunk deep within her, as he rode her in short, beautifully echoing thrusts; every one spiraled into her, sent a jangling, taut need into her soul. . . . She didn't know how much more she could take.

She was crying now, her hands having traveled down to sink her nails into his soft curves, her legs wrapped around his waist, begging for more. She had never felt so overcome with pleasure and love before, had never felt more like their journey toward bliss was being shared. Yes, he still had a sort of control here, which she had no complaints about, but he wasn't simply working her with the end of her own pleasure in sight. No, now he wanted to give that to both of them, wanted not to serve her but to share with her. She swallowed heavily, panting, and pulled him deeper in. "Yes," she whispered.

Oh God, it was too much, felt too good. He could barely hang on, felt utterly overwhelmed. The heat was rising in him, made him want to love her till she quaked, till they both did. Oh dear God. He moved his mouth up to whisper in her ear. "More."

Her heart shuddered. Oh, it was nearly too much; her desire, her oncoming pleasure, his own, sunk deep within him, merged and intertwined there. She felt all of it, too, knew she couldn't take much more.

His hands pulled her soft curves closer to him, sinking himself in incredibly deep, stretching her nearly beyond her capacity to handle him. Neither of them cared, though. All either of them wanted was this.

His deep, instinctive rhythm moved far inside her, quaking fragments of light shuddering deep within them both with every strike. Even their moans and gasps were coordinated now. Everything combined them into one.

The thick head of his throbbing cock worked her, worked them both, as they shuddered strongly; the tension within them was both ethereally delicate and earthquakingly strong at the same time. Neither of them could take it much more.

She was holding him incredibly close, her face buried against his hair. His scent met every lovely stroke; her slick body molded to his. She moaned out, barely able to breathe, only able to speak in the breathiest of whispers; the light within her core was building quickly toward implosion. "Michael."

He was so utterly lost to her. His breath was hot against her ear, his eyes closed, as he smiled against her skin, reveling in every shared beat at her core. The sound of her voice saying his name, though, was just too much, put him too close to a beautiful, perfect edge. Yes.

His mouth and tongue began to play with her ear, then, unable to break away from her beauty for even a second, unwilling to. He had never felt happier, had never felt more incredible bliss than he did at this moment, with her perfect, slick, amazingly taut, tension-filled body in his arms. She was his absolute angel, after all--and they were both about to enter heaven's gates.

His thrusts were becoming even less subtle than they had been, as he pulled her unspeakably close. She let out a little "oh" and buried her face in his neck. She didn't even feel entirely human anymore, couldn't have explained it to anyone saddled with physical form; it was as though her soul were directly mingling with Michael's. A stroke hit her in the most perfect way, and she let out a small cry. Yes.

They were both whimpering, crying out without words, as they pulled themselves together, their hands sunk into one another's curves. The head of his huge, throbbing shaft was beating against her most incredibly tender, perfect inner spot; their rhythm was simply a deep, intimate massage, was the pressing together of every need. In sync here as in all else, too, they turned their heads and lost themselves in an unspeakably perfect kiss, as they gave one another one more, loving stroke, pulling each other together into one.

The holy moment came then. They broke from the kiss, their breath ceasing, their eyes locked, as it happened. Her body wrapped tight around him, imploding around his hard shaft, as its sweet, heated love moved deep within her, warming her quaking soul. The sweet caress of her, too, made him shudder strongly, a moan of love on his lips.

They held each other tight then, as they entered the divine, their faces buried in one another's necks--both of them lost completely to the moment. They couldn't even speak, couldn't make any sound beyond their softly groaning, shuddering breaths. Nothing could even begin to encapsulate their love.

It wasn't, sadly--of course, a place where either of them would be able to stay in the future; there was still too much unresolved for that to happen. But none of that mattered to them now. Nothing mattered at all except each other.

The experience overcame them both with a nearly-unbearable light; they buried their faces in each other's hair, wreathed in their beloved's tender scent. Their tears baptized them, the fire beside them, the light of their caressing bond, reflecting off of their love-heated bodies. Nothing could ever top this. This, indeed, was paradise.

**********

It was hard to deal with on a daily basis, this emotion he lived his life with, but it was easier to name. Self-disgust would probably do it--although there were a lot of times he could almost believe the explanations he gave for his actions then; he had been young, y'know, and stuck in this stupid war in some hell hole of a country thousands of miles from home--had never *asked* to be there, either. No, no, he had had his reasons--he would tell himself, hundreds of times a day. . . . It was just too bad, then, that he couldn't quite make himself really accept any of them.

Willie Kane was engaged in his usual activities, when he was alone; he was rationalizing the past with his constant companions--the scrag end of a cigarette and his twelfth beer or so. Hell, just getting the money to keep himself supplied with both of these necessities of life was usually his main concern. . . . Until lately, that is, until Lin had come back again. He shuddered a little. No, nothing at all had gone right since then.

He took another few, short puffs off what was left of this particular cigarette, as he looked back over the past few months. Lin had screwed everything up for him majorly, once again, when he had shown back up. He didn't even know how the man had found him. Still, one day he had come back home from a run for Bonaventure to find one of the main men who still haunted his nightmares in his living room. He shuddered a little again. He had just given him that little smile, too--that same one he had first seen on the night of his original capture in Vietnam; it was a smile that said that he had all the cards, that there was no use in even fighting. And Willie, too, had had the sense never to argue with that.

He puffed at his cigarette nervously again only to realize that there was nothing of it left. He reached in his breast pocket to find the pack again, taking out the next one; they were almost gone. He sighed. At least he had had the foresight to use a little of the money his new neighbor had left him to buy a carton. He didn't make it by long without them.

He lit it and took a long, comforting drag, his mind pondering. Yeah, it was these things--he looked down at the table--and the beers which helped him through the day, which got him through his life. It wasn't *that* much to ask to have these around, was it? Wasn't that the least everyone deserved--American dream, and all? He took another puff, looking back across the room. Damn straight.

Willie's mind, of course, was bouncing from thought to thought, but that was normal for him. It wasn't just the influence of one too many cheap beers, either. No, it was also his real desire to avoid self-exploration which caused it--although he never would have been able to arrive at that conclusion himself. A psychiatrist at the V.A. had tried to suggest it to him once, but it hadn't taken. Besides, on his immediate return home, he had mostly just been warned to stay quiet about his time with Lin, to never discuss it with anyone. Not a problem for Willie, most of the time; he didn't want to think about it. Besides, when he talked, most people stopped listening, so their warnings had been meaningless, anyway.

His mind bounced back, then, to Lin and his first meeting with him. His hand shook a little more than usual. Yeah, he had told him what he wanted to know, about his unit and where they would be; he had even gone on to tell him about the next big attack of the 49th. He would have told him about the color of the President's underwear, if he had known. Anything to stay alive.

He didn't feel bad about it, either--he told himself; it was survival, was what they were there for--or so he had found out quickly after his arrival. If he hadn't talked, Lin would have just killed him--and none of it had been worth dying for, to him.

His puffs grew more frequent, as his agitation grew--his rationalizations fighting it out with his conscience. So, yeah, he had "ratted out" his unit. So what? Who the hell among them wouldn't have? Rogers? O'Leary? That little crap Franklin? Nah, any of them would have done what he had, would have done it in a heartbeat; Franklin would probably even have enjoyed it. Any of them would have given them all up, given half a chance. He swallowed. Except for one--Paul. His hand shook a little more. And, because of him, too--although he could only half consciously admit it--he had been feeling guilty as hell ever since.

He shook his head, as he thought back to the way Lin had treated his lieutenant during those 15 days. Shit. He stumped out his cigarette. Only Paul would have had the balls not to tell him anything after all that; he still didn't know what the hell Lin had been asking him for all those days, anyway, except that he guessed that--as a higher-ranked officer--he must have had more knowledge than an NCO like him. Goes to figure, he supposed.

He still didn't know why he had held out, though. He took a swig of beer. Still, he guessed he never would, since his lieutenant was dead. He would just be a mystery to him forever.

He sighed heavily and rubbed his nicotine-stained fingers over his face, his slightly-fuzzy mind working back again--as it did so often. He still wasn't certain, either, just how Paul had died; they had never told him that--had said it was "classified." He bounced his head from side to side ironically, as he thought it. He guessed it must have been the wounds, though; he had been hurting pretty badly even by the time help had come. He had thought then, however, that they had come in time, but he guessed he had been wrong. He shrugged. Not a hell of a lot he could do about that, was there?

He let out a sigh, as he leaned onto the table. Still, he had tried to make it all up to his lieutenant--who was the only person he felt even mildly guilty about "betraying." The rest of them had hated him anyway; they had all been ex-ROTC and gung-ho as hell, while he had just been some jerk too dumb to run when his number got called.

His look was still sour. They had never forgiven him for that fact, either, except for Paul. No, that man had actually treated him with respect, had expected that he would do what he was told but treated him okay when he did it; it was better than anything he got from any of the others. And it was, too, why he still remembered the guy and what had happened to him. . . . Shit.

It wasn't that he hadn't tried his best, though, he remembered--wasn't that he hadn't attempted to make things better. He had spent every one of those 15 days trying to give his lieutenant some hope, some reason to keep going. He knew he had had a hell of a beautiful wife waiting for him back home, and a son, too--although he had never been entirely sure about whether those two things connected. Still, he had used the two of them--along with various jokes and old stories, fantasies of the big steak dinner and the ticker-tape parade they would get on their return, and anything else he could think of--as encouragements for him. Yeah, too, he had tried to fake his own pain after his supposed interrogations, although fortunately his lieutenant had been too out of it to notice just how well off he really was. Pretty much all of his time, then, had been spent in trying to get him through; it was the least he could do, after all, seeing as how he had gotten him there in the first place.

He scrubbed his hand over his face again and let out another sigh. He hated to think of Wolfe, still, but he couldn't help it; he came into his dreams, into his nightmares. He had found him there, in fact, from the time he had come home, but he couldn't tell anyone about it, not the real reasons anyway. It had even been what had broken up things with the one girl he had found; he just couldn't tell her what was really going on with him. His look grew ironic. Besides, Miss High-and-Mighty had found herself a richer guy, one who didn't wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Last he had heard, though, the guy had dumped her for someone younger. Served her right for leaving him, anyway. Bitch.

He shook his head, his cloudy mind free-associating again. Anyway, she hadn't been anything like as beautiful as the piece who had just moved in next door. Now there was something to dream about. Still, she had a boyfriend who didn't even blink when he took out two of Bonaventure's men, so she wasn't exactly on the market. He shrugged a little. He would probably have regretted it, if she were, anyway; the beautiful ones were always a pain in the ass. At least the ugly ones were thankful for you.

Anyway, his mind went back, boyfriend--the boy scout--was kind of a mystery in himself. Why the hell was he helping him out, anyway? In a neighborhood like this, you figured that you could get whacked and no one would even notice it until the smell got bad; they sure as hell wouldn't have jumped in to help him. Why come to his rescue, then? Why him?

His mind moved on. Even more than this, too--why had boy scout suddenly decided to lay out an envelope full of dough in front of him to pay off Bonaventure? If he had that kind of money, after all, why was he living in this dump? And why wasn't girlfriend raising up a ruckus something awful about their flea-bitten apartment? He shook his head. It just didn't make any sense.

Wait a minute. Maybe it did. Something clicked in him. Maybe girlfriend was just boy scout's bit of action on the side; maybe he had gotten her off of the streets, and she was just happy enough with a roof over her head to not question the quality. He didn't know enough about them to know if the guy was there all the time, after all. Maybe some nights he went home to his wife, and just came back to blondie to get his parts serviced. He tilted his head slightly, as he thought, his eyes unfocused. If that was it, though, then he regretted not having met her when she was still on the stroll. A roll in the hay with her, he was sure, would be memorable.

His theory seemed to work part way, too, until his mind went back to the money. Sure, he could understand shacking up with blondie on the side, but why toss dough at *him*? He had said he wasn't in it, after all, so it wasn't the whole comrades-in-arms thing. He sighed. Maybe he had known someone else who had been--a brother or something? He shook his head. Yeah, maybe. Anything was possible.

Still, this didn't answer all of his questions. Just who was lover boy, though, that he didn't seem to shrug when it came to killing two made men? Was he a shooter himself? He nodded a little, his eyes unfocused. Maybe. Maybe helping him out was just a side benefit of taking out the competition. Would make sense, he supposed. Practically anything did, around here.

His mind trailed off from his last thought, however, the alcohol kicking in further. He looked down at the table, focusing blearily on the dog tags. Yeah, he had kept them, not that he needed the reminder. Forgetting had just proved impossible.

It wasn't that he hadn't tried, though. He had tried to make good, had made a stab at respectability, but it was hard when people wanted to spit on you--was even worse when you half thought they should be able to. His mind shifted, defending himself again. What, though, they thought he had *wanted* to be there, that dodging bullets and watching whole villages burn was his idea of fun? . . . Fuck 'em. They didn't understand. None of them did. And that, too, was why he had never really made it on the outside.

He sighed again. Once he had given up any attempt at respectability, as well, things had gotten easier. It was a whole lot simpler, after all, to make money if you weren't trying to stay within the law; ask a guy like Bonaventure about that. Picking up protection money, then, was easy and kept him stocked in life's little necessities. And that was all he really needed anyway.

All of this, though, had only been true, until Lin had come back. That day he had discovered the other man in the middle of his living room had changed everything, had destroyed all the comfort Willie had worked so hard for. He was pretty sure that he was never going to get it back, either.

He sighed once more, then, remembering. Lin had told him what he wanted, as well, had told him that he needed a "tribute," if Willie hoped to keep his good name. While he wasn't really sure that anyone would give a damn at this point, too, he had done it anyway; there was just something inside of him which told him that he had to. Lin knew everything about him, after all, could look into him with those beady little eyes and see his soul. He had never been able to lie to him--not then, not now. And, when his two little goons had checked his pockets and found Bonaventure's cash, he hadn't really had much way out, had he? What was he gonna do--go to the police? Yeah, right. Like they would give a damn what happened to him, anyway.

That, then, was where he was stuck; there was no way out. He knew that Bonaventure would be back for him, and he had no way to explain what had happened without revealing himself to be the stinking little coward that he was.

He lit another cigarette and took a drag, trying to comfort himself. Even that, though, wasn't all of his problems of late. Lin, too, always wanted more. At least the boy scout's money would help him to stave off his old enemy for a little while, but Lin would be back for more soon. He had more chance of dodging napalm than he had of being left alone.

All that was left, then, was who would get him first--Bonaventure or Lin, 'cause he knew he couldn't expect that lover boy would be undistracted enough to save his butt again the next time. Hell, he wouldn't be, with a piece like that waiting for him. All that was left, therefore, was the wait and the hope that--when the past finally did catch up with him--he wouldn't go too painfully. That, right now, was his version of hope.

He had discovered, more and more, as he had grown older, something he hadn't realized when he was young. . . . Life was good. He had money, power, and now even his favorite pet was back to play with. Yes, things were quite going quite well, indeed.

Lin smiled slightly, as he leaned back in the chair in his office, his hands clasped lightly in front of him, his mind continuing on. What made his life even better, too, was the irony of things. Nearly 50 years ago now, he had been born in a country which had been claimed by others as their own. First it had been the French and their old-style colonial ideas. By the time he was in his teens, however, it had been the Americans, coming to take what the French hadn't already found, plundering for oil. None of it, really, had been any different.

He had lived through all of this, too, had been formed by it, in fact. By the time he was in his late teens, he had been fighting, had been idealistic; he would free his country from these oppressors, would see his people live to rule themselves. He smiled at his own foolishness. It was only as he had grown older that he had realized how short-sighted he had been. Nothing in life was so black and white. Everything, always, was shades of, very dark, gray.

Yes, then, the irony of this was that--given his early, unshakable hatred for the American invaders, and all things which represented them, he was now enjoying the fruits of his labor in America itself. Land of the free, home of the very easily fleeced. If Willie were any example, indeed--and he was, they were all as spineless and self-centered as he had always guessed as a youth.

Now, however, he welcomed this trait, enjoyed their weaknesses. This overindulgence in the, always unreachable, American dream, after all, was what made his services so necessary here. So many just wanted to forget, to be able to blot out the sense of failure they felt if they weren't millionaires by the time they were in their early adulthood. And, since--as he had seen over and over again in this country--there was almost no way to achieve such a thing legitimately, there was a great need for the mind-numbing products he so happily supplied.

His mind turned a little again. All of this, though, had taken him a little while to learn. In his early years, indeed, he had seen things in a far more clearly-defined sense. There was no mingling of good and bad to him in those days; evil and justice were precisely defined. It wasn't hard to do, truly, when you had watched your entire village destroyed, every member of your family slaughtered before your eyes, just because your sister, and the other women of the village, had not been "welcoming" enough to the new soldiers; they had actually spared him, of course, forcing him to watch, only so that he could take a message to the other villages, could tell them of what would happen if they were even suspected of having sympathies against the Americans.

He shook his head. The Americans, of course, had been fools, though; they hadn't seen that such "lessons" only encouraged hatred, only made his countrymen want to fight. They had even been so foolish, as well, to think that--just because they led agrarian lives--they would be easily conquered; they had completely overlooked whose country it really was, who knew it--knew where to hide and where to attack. He smiled. They always looked so shocked when you rose among them and slaughtered them; their faces kept that same, stupid look even after death. It was quite rewarding, really--but their enemy had never realized any of this at all.

He sighed, his smile fading a little. In the beginning, therefore, he had been fueled by hatred, by a need for revenge and justice. He would have killed any of them--all of them--without remorse, given even half a chance. It was, after all, no different from what the Americans wanted themselves.

He shook his head, still a little dismayed with his youthful ignorance. But no, that feeling hadn't lasted. After a certain amount of blood, it had been blotted out slightly, had been sated. Still, by that time he had been a leader, had been in control. And he had discovered, as well, that he enjoyed this. Even when his immediate fervor had left him, then, his cause had continued on; there had been no use, truly, in giving up what power he had gained.

His reminiscences continued, a slight smile on his face. It had been around this time, as well, when he had met the man who would truly change his life, even if he had never known his name. He had gone by the codename One, however, and he had been the first American he had ever truly had a conversation with. It had led, too, to a very . . . enlightening relationship.

His first meeting with One, though, hadn't been on purpose; indeed, he had been captured by the man's soldiers and taken to a bunker somewhere he hadn't recognized. There, One had explained a few things; he had, in fact, seemed to know a great deal about him and his career, had seemed rather impressed by it. He should have been.

What he had told him, too, had been quite intriguing. He had made him an offer, not a threat--as Lin had expected. No, he had offered him relevant information on certain troop movements in return for favors--the elimination of certain people within his own ranks or on the Americans' side, scheduled attacks to wipe out specified American divisions, or their scarcity when the Americans attacked certain villages.

The relationship hadn't started out perfectly, though. He hadn't trusted the man at first, of course; he wasn't a fool. Still, One had given him a piece of information for free--to prove his sincerity: the date and time of an upcoming American attack. Then, he had let Lin go with a time and place for another meeting between them arranged. He had said that he expected his answer then.

After that, as well, One had provided the younger man with a plausible explanation for his escape--gifting him with a human ear, from one of the older man's own soldiers--for Lin to show to his own men back at base, in order to back up his story of escape. The keeping of small trophies, after all, was a habit they had picked up from the Americans.

Lin's smile grew, as he remembered. He had "escaped," therefore, and had been reintegrated into the group without danger. For only the first time soon after, too, One's information had proved entirely accurate. It had only been with it, as well, that he had prevented almost his entire group's elimination. Had One not intervened, there would have been none of them left to fight.

Of course, he had taken One's offer, too; he had proven his word. After that, as well, they had made many such deals, such trades of information or aid. And Lin had never regretted it since.

One particular such trade off had proven especially helpful to him through the years, however--and was proving to be so again now. One had come to him and told him the precise coordinates of an upcoming assault, in exchange for a rather odd favor. He had asked him to capture a group of men and to torture one in particular, had told him to ask him for the information One had already provided. He said that they would come to rescue the man, as well, after 15 days and that he would want a full report on how the man had held up one day before this. He hadn't answered questions on why the man was so important to them or why they wanted to test him so, but the 49th's movements were helpful to him, so he had agreed. . . . He had never looked back since.

The other helpful side effect of this trade-off was just paying off again now, as well. It had been then--or rather, right before this--after all, when he had found Willie Kane. He had been put on to him by One, first, and he had been the perfect choice for a patsy. The man would have given up anything for another day of life. He had had no shame at all.

Lin, then, had "gained" the 49th's information from this man again as a way of controlling Willie; the man had never even known the real reasons for his capture or his lieutenant's torture, but he had never really cared. All that had mattered to him were his excuses to himself about why he had done it. And they had made him very flexible, indeed.

The whole event had gone very well, then. Lin had chosen the men who were close to him very carefully, so only one or two actually had any idea of the real meaning behind the charade. Wolfe, as well, had proven to be remarkably resistant under torture, which had pleased One considerably, while Willie had been the sniveling coward he had expected him to be. Everything, indeed, had been perfect.

He leaned further back in his chair, his expression contented. Yes, all of this had been long ago, but it had taught him many things. First among these was the fact that idealism was overrated; money and power were far preferable. Second, too, was the truth that there were no real sides in a war--or in the world; that was a show put on for the paying audience. So long as the aggressors got something of what they had come for, the rest was just a body count.

Both of these truths had made him who he was, as well; both of them had taught him something essential about life. His emigration to America, then, was just the last step in a long process of adaptation to these new ideals, as was his current business. . . . He had much to thank One for.

There was one other bit of luck he had had recently, though, which stemmed back to these days, and that was finding Willie again. He had seen him first by accident, as he had gone about his rounds on the street; it hadn't taken too long, either, to find out who he was working for. He smiled. It had been one of the better days of his life.

Willie, too, therefore, was his in-road, was his way of figuring out more about how his competitor thought. Bonaventure, after all, had been established in this neighborhood for far longer than he himself had been, but he wasn't invincible. Willie, then, once he ran out of his boss's money with which to pay him, would tell him anything he wanted to know about the man in exchange for a job and an offer of protection. All he had to do was wait.

He sighed, only slightly sadly. Of course, Willie's pockets were proving to be a bit deeper than he had expected originally. He had thought, once he had made his initial visit, that it would only take a week or so before the small coward of a man ran short on money to steal--and ran out of chances with his boss. But Willie, once again, had proven resourceful, in some bumbling way; it was, really, his major asset. . . . The wait, then, was still on.

This didn't matter, however. He was still a very patient man, and, someday soon, Willie's resources would run out. Soon, then, he would use this husk of a man in order to find the information he needed to leverage his way up in the control of this neighborhood. And then Bonaventure would answer to him.

**********

It had been an . . . odd week, a week's worth of babysitting a drunken, broken-down old man, as he rationalized every mistake of his life. Even weirder for them, though, had been the fact that he wasn't even aware he was being watched by them; most of the people they protected, after all, had at least some clue. But Willie--no, Willie had very little clue about anything anymore. That had left him a very long time ago, indeed.

Nikita sighed, as she waited for Michael to return. He was finishing up his nightly rounds with Willie, was following him through all sorts of sordid places. He had told her, when she asked, where the man had gone, even if he hadn't really discussed his feelings on any of his activities there. Still, with the constant rounds of watching the older man as he picked up protection money, paid off Lin--for God-only-knew what, and went to a few seedy bars and porn movies, Michael's mood was pretty easy for her to read, and it mirrored her own; he was confused, saddened, and not just a little disgusted. Neither of them, truly, could answer one, very important question: Why on earth were they even here?

She shook her head, lost for answers; nothing could even begin to make sense of it all. This whole, completely off-profile, assignment, in fact, just seemed a little meaningless. Yes, she supposed she saw why Operations felt such a devotion to the man, but he seemed incapable of seeing what he had really become. No--he was too lost in the past for that.

She sighed. It wasn't that she normally would have blamed someone for ending up in such a sad little life, either, but Willie just seemed to run toward it every chance he got. Why, indeed, was he paying off Lin--and with Bonaventure's money, too--when he knew that his boss wanted to kill him? Why had he gotten himself into this situation and then spent his time sitting around his apartment, trying to drink his problems away? Why wouldn't he just admit what was going on to someone like Michael, who was pretty obviously on his side--and, even more obviously, wasn't law enforcement? . . . Just what was going on here, anyway?

She leaned back against the sofa further, her look saddened. It was all of these questions which bothered her, at the moment; she just couldn't seem to find answers for any of them. Operations, too, seemed to be so determined to just ignore that there even *were* questions here, seemed to want so much just to pretend that the answers would be simple ones. She just couldn't see why he wouldn't admit that there was something weird going on in all this, something far beyond Willie's usual rounds of drugs and alcohol. She sighed again. It just didn't make sense.

She didn't want to feel this utterly confounded, of course; she tried, therefore, to force herself to focus in on her leader's emotions, as unpleasant a task as that usually was. She could see, as well, part of the answer for this, even if she wasn't sure how to react to it. Operations saw Willie in the same way he had seen him during those 15 days of their imprisonment; he still saw him as the noble young man who had gotten him through hell. She shook her head. If only that were the case.

She stared down at the floor, her mind still working. She understood his desire to do this, however, but she wasn't entirely sure that it was a healthy one now. After all, Willie was obviously hiding something, even if she wasn't at all sure of what it was. Maybe, then--whatever his secret--Operations would be better off backing away, leaving his old friend as a memory, instead of sticking around to find out the truth. She had a feeling, after all, that it wasn't going to be a pleasant one.

She shook her head once more, as she sat up a little, resting her elbows on her knees. This wasn't all of her confusion here, either; there was one other thing about all this which plagued her, as well. Just what, truly, was Walter's interest in it? How did he even know what was going on--and why would he tell them to back out of it, if he did? Her mind turned. Yes, she suspected that there was something up with Willie, but how would Walter know that? Her eyes focused more deeply on her thoughts. And just how was it, too, that he *had* survived for so long, anyway? She sighed again. No, it just did not make any sense at all.

She leaned back on the sofa and put her head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Of course, there wasn't really much which *did* make sense to her anymore; that was probably too much to ask, of late. Michael, of course, had been trying to use this time alone together to let her heal, had been taking on the bulk of the work with Willie not just because it was easier for a man to go unnoticed on the streets at night but also as a way to give her the down time she had needed for awhile, to give her an opportunity to sort out her life. She sighed. She loved him for this, too. She sat back up again, looking ahead once more, her mind turning. Why then did she still feel so empty?

She closed her eyes for a second, blinking back a few tears. She hated this, hated her emotions of late, but she had had no way to exorcise them. Since they had been here, there hadn't really been much opportunity to talk about her feelings or to be close; Willie and the problems with him had just taken up too much time. She smiled slightly. Yes, they had lain in bed together a couple of nights now; he had been able to hold her on those few occasions when neither of them had been doing subtle surveillance of their new neighbor. The smile faded. Still, there hadn't been much opportunity for anything beyond that yet at all.

She sighed once more, her heart aching a little. What really bothered her about this, however, wasn't their lack of intimacy. No. What really plagued her was that she was beginning to think that their separation was actually for the best; the pain in her throbbed more loudly. And that, in itself, was a thought which was almost too much for her to bear.

She was broken from her thoughts, from her contemplation of her torment, by Michael's arrival. Her heart was in her eyes, as she saw him, but her look was still incredibly sad; his own heart pulled. God, he hated this. He had hoped, of course, that the time away from Section would give her an opportunity to regather herself, to regain her equilibrium; still, that didn't appear to have happened yet. He sighed. He needed, then, to try to give it back to her himself.

He took off his coat, after he shut the door, and placed it on a table, before coming to her. She tried to put on a smile for him. "Fun evening?" she joked--but her prevailing sadness undermined it greatly.

He gave her a slight smile, appreciating her effort, but knowing it wasn't heartfelt. "You don't want to know." He sat on the sofa next to her, propping himself there, and began to stroke over her cheek lightly with his fingers; he so wanted to connect. He could feel that something was about to break in her, but he wasn't entirely sure yet how he could help. The only thing he could think of to do for her, therefore, was to give her his tenderness--to invite her to lose herself as she had the other night at the cabin; it was certainly what he needed right now. He hoped it would help her, as well.

She smiled and closed her eyes, losing herself in his touch. She remembered the cabin, too, of course. Even with the dust, it had been better kept and more romantic than this place. Still, she wanted to take part in what he was offering, wanted to lose herself there, to give up on thought, as her most dear partner made love to her. He would worship her body, given even half a chance to do so. Maybe, really, that was what she needed now.

He was losing himself to her, as well, was so lost just to the beautiful features of her face. He loved her so much, after all, his whole soul resting on her alone. To have been out in the night for so long, away from her, was too much; he just needed to love her now in order to feel whole.