It was raining again. The third day straight in which the sun hid behind an ash colored sky. I didn't mind it too much though. The weather matched my mood; gray, bleak, dismal. The strange thing is, I like being dismal. It brings out feelings in me that are more instinctive, primal. Michael and I have great sex when I get in these moods. Unfortunately Michael's away this week. Just my luck. First rotten weather of winter and the man I love is nowhere in sight to take advantage of me.

Sighing I turned and made my way back to the bedroom to finish dressing. I have a meeting with Madeline this morning concerning a new recruit who is to be my first real material. I've taken part in training other recruits before but always as part of a team of trainers. In this instance, however, Madeline wants me to take complete charge. The whole nine yards. Me -- a mentor.

The thought is a little mind boggling. Yes I've known that the day would come when I would be asked to do this. But it doesn't make it any easier. I had a hell of a time adjusting to life in Section, and now I'm being asked to prepare someone else to accept this life? I'm not sure I can do it. Of course I accepted the assignment --not that I had much choice-- but its bothered me all night.

I wish Michael were here. Despite all the attitude I give him, he knows me better then anyone else. His quiet fortitude calms my fears. Strengthens me when I'm feeling weak. And he does it without my having to ask him for help. It’s one of the reasons I love him so much.

I hate when I get all sentimental. And nothing gets me more sentimental then when I'm missing Michael.

Scowling, I dragged myself over to the closet and looked over my wardrobe. Blacks. How depressing. That’s all my wardrobe consisted of now days; midnight, smoke, charcoal, different shades of black ... I have them all.

There was a time you could barely get me to dress in all that darkness. Even when I was out in the field. I was the only operative whose mission blacks were always embellished with a little splash of color: a neon stripe on the sleeve or collar, a snazzy pair of shades, a white tanktop. Once I even showed up dressed completely in navy blue. Each time, without fail, Michael would look me over with that unhurried gaze of his. I would wait for him --even dare him with my eyes-- to say something. But always he would end up looking away, his expression unreadable. And in that quiet voice that infuriated the hell out of me, he'd order me to get in the van without so much a whisper about my clothes. Michael. We've come such a long way since then. He still drives me insane. But now it is with love and passion rather then anger.

Rifling through my clothes I came across a black v-neck sweater that belongs to him. It’s one I borrowed after a particularly aggressive session of lovemaking at his apartment resulted in the blouse I had worn being irreparably torn. The memory of how it came to be torn is one that I'll treasure always.

My stoic man in black. Always chastising me with those silent emerald eyes of his. Keeping my temper in check with a single soothing touch. Making my knees weak with a softly whispered endearment. The only time I ever really witness Michael out of control is when we're making love. It thrills me to no end that he allows me to see that part of him. To know that he is yielding his prized self-control over to me when we are most intimate. It’s his way of saying he trusts me, and I love him all the more for doing so.

I removed the sweater from the hanger along with a long leather skirt and jacket. If I couldn't have him here with me, I reasoned, at least I could have a part of something he owns next to me.

*

My meeting with Madeline changed my mood from dismal to outright depression. She handed me a file shortly after I entered her office and told me to study it carefully. I did. What I found is what depressed me. Thomas Lael, my new material is only fifteen years old. "This can't be right," I murmured, reading off of the PDA. "He's just a kid."

"A kid guilty of murder," Madeline replied. She favored me with one of her 'don't challenge me' looks, the same one I often saw on Operations' face and, occasionally, even on Michael's. But that didn't stop me from questioning the logic behind this latest development.

"Forgive me if I have trouble accepting that as an adequate reason for recruiting children," I stated, not bothering to disguise anger in my voice. If my words phased her, which I strongly doubted they did, Madeline did an academy award winning performance of not revealing it. If anything she seemed slightly amused.

"Mr. Lael will be recruited irregardless of your personal opinion, Nikita. In fact, he's already in route."

I stood there with the PDA in my hand, staring at Madeline and wondering whether I should scream or swear. In the end I clamped my mouth shut, pivoted on my heel and got out of there in a hurry before I did something that I might later regret.

*

I spent the rest of the day sitting in a secluded alcove on level 4. It’s one of me and Michael's favorite meeting spots when we want a few minutes alone inside of Section. Today I was using it as a personal hideaway. A place where I could study Thomas Lael's file in private, without interruption, and hopefully figure out how I was going to come to terms with training a kid to become a cold op.

Madeline said that he'd been found guilty of murder. In my book, that didn't mean anything. The courts found me guilty of murder too despite the fact that I was innocent. It was possible that this was true in Thomas's case too.

His file indicated his mother had been arrested on armed robbery charges when he was only six. With no other known living relatives around to take him in, the state had placed him in foster care. Things went quickly downhill from there on out for little Thomas. There were pages and pages of reports which chronicled behavioral problems, truancy, and increased aggression. By the time he turned twelve Thomas had been moved through twenty-two foster homes.

I scrolled back up to the beginning of the file and stared at the photo of the boy I'd be training. Pale blue eyes stared back at me from beneath a tangle of dark brown hair. He was thin, scruffy looking with a splattering of freckles across his nose and on his cheeks. In fact, if you cleaned him up, I was willing to bet he'd look more like one of these boys you'd find bagging groceries at the local market rather then someone sentenced to life in prison for murder.

At length I turned off the PDA and sat there with my back against the wall and my knees drawn up to my chest. I closed my eyes and tried to clear it of all the chaotic thoughts surrounding my new assignment. I had a job to do, and as Madeline had pointed out earlier, Thomas Lael would be recruited irregardless of how I felt about it.

The sound of soft footsteps stirred me from my thoughts and I opened my eyes to a wondrous sight. I remained seated but I'm sure my eyes betrayed the rush of emotions that flooded my veins as I watched Michael approach. My skin tingled with awareness and my heart raced within. He walked right up to the edge of the bench-like seat I was sitting on and stood staring down at me. There was a look of possessiveness in his eyes that caused my pulse to skip a beat as I smiled up at him.

"You're back."

"Fritz didn't show. We waited 24 hours before deciding to fold."

Disappointment trickled through me. "That means you'll have to go out again?"

"Not for a while," he answered. His hand touched my upraised knee. His long fingers drawing little patterns that sent tiny shivers up my leg. Then he held out his hand to me and I placed my hand readily in his. Rising to my feet I found myself less then an inch away from him. We stared into each other's eyes, and then his hand went to the sweater I wore. He raised his brows at me in a silent question as I blushed and gave him a sheepish smile.

"I missed you," I explained, shrugging my shoulders. I was rewarded with the feel of his arms wrapping round my shoulders as Michael pulled me close and hugged me. His breath was warm against my forehead as he kissed me there, then replied softly;

"It’s about time."

*

Michael was kidding. Never mind that he kept a straight face as he uttered those words. I know he was kidding because I always tell him I miss him. If he'd have given me that response two years ago I probably would have hauled back and whacked him. That's because two years ago I didn't even know Michael had a sense of humor. As it was I merely grinned at him as I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him.

"How'd you know I was here?" I asked.

"I called your apartment and there was no answer. Walter said he saw you earlier so I took a chance on finding you here."

I smiled and tightened my hold on him. "You called me?" With my index finger I outlined his lips. "Guess that means you missed me too."

That earned me a slight quirking of his lips. "I always miss you, Nikita. You know that."

Yes I did, but it never hurts for a woman to hear the man she loves say those magical words. My smile, I know, was smug but I rewarded him with another long kiss before we separated.

We walked side by side through the maze of passageways leading to the elevator. I handed him the file on Lael, asking him to skim through it while I gave him the highlights. He didn't say much. Just an occasional question here and there. When we reached the elevators he turned and faced me. "Reserve your judgement till after you've had a chance to get to know him," he advised.

"You think he's guilty?"

"I didn't say that," he responded. Then he reached out and touched my cheek. Probably to cushion his next words. "Keep in mind, Nikita, that most Section recruits are guilty of the crimes they've been charged of."

"But not all," I countered. I knew I was being stubborn and so did Michael. He looked over my shoulder and his expression became distant, as if he were recalling another time and place. Then his gaze returned to meet mine.

"Let’s talk about this later."

I nodded knowing that he was right. This wasn't the best place to get into a full blown discussion on the matter. "Are you almost finished here?" I asked.

"I need to check in with Birkoff once more," he said. "See if there's been any further contact from Fritz." His gaze softened and I felt my heart skip several beats. "Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?" he asked.

"Only if I get to choose the menu and the place." Michael gave me a wary look. "I'll choose the menu," he bargained, "and you can choose the place."

"Not good enough."

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Alright. You choose the menu and place -- but no pizza."

"Deal," I answered, then laughed at the look of relief on his face.

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

There's no other feeling quite like that of waking up in your lover's arms. During the night the temperature outside had dropped below 50 degrees and the rain had turned to snow. But there in my bed, under a thick quilt, curled up next to Michael with his arms and legs wrapped possessively around me, I was in paradise. I felt soft, warm, very much a woman.

I laid very still. Listening to the sound of his heart beating beneath my ear. He inhaled and I heard his lungs fill with life giving air. I even imagined I could hear the rush of his blood as it flowed through his veins.

I cherish those precious early morning minutes when it’s just Michael and me. We lay there holding each other. Listening to each other breathe and, for me, I always gave a silent little prayer of gratitude that we had survived to share another day.

I love him.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to say the words to him. They get all choked up somewhere between my heart and my throat. But as I lay there in bed beside him, feeling his fingers gently caress my back, my love for him overflows and I convince myself that he can feel it without having to hear me say it.

Finally I took a deep breath; a final sigh that signaled it was time for us to wake. He smiled and tightened his hold on me as I fought back the tears that always threaten to overcome me at this point. I hugged him tightly, turned my face and kissed his chest fiercely, almost desperately. If something were to happen today to either of us, and this were to be our last morning together, then I wanted him to know in his heart that I love him -- even if I am unable to say the actual words. It will, I hoped, sustain him in his time of need, just as I knew his every kiss and loving caress will sustain me if fate were to be so cruel as to take him from me.

I continued to kiss him --hard little kisses all over the smooth skin above his heart-- as his fingers curled in my hair. His body stiffened, his legs spread, he wrapped them around the back of my knees, as he whispered my name. In reply I moved a little to the right, finding his male nipple, and I suckled him lovingly as the tension ebbed from his body.

When he had calmed I raised my head and gazed into his eyes. Such a simple act but it is one that is precious to us. Rarely do we get the opportunity during the day to gaze at each other so leisurely. Eventually his gaze lowered to my mouth, a silent request for the final step in our morning ritual.

I raised myself up as he moved his hands to my sides, then helped to slide me up his body till we were eye to eye. I gazed down and captured that memory for my heart to hold as I looked into the loving eyes of my Michael. There was no need for him to say any words, for his soul was open to me. I knew his every desire. His every secret, his flaws, his every fear. And I loved him all the more.

Playfully I leaned down and rubbed the tip of my nose against his. He laughed --so very softly-- and I was filled with joy. I treasure the happiness in his eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners. I was ecstatic in the knowledge that there, in my arms, the pains that had scarred Michael's life were lessened. Perhaps even forgotten...

He stroked my cheek and I closed my eyes and purred --much to his delight. "You're such a tease," he murmurs, his voice husky yet tinged with laughter.

"Ahh," I sighed, giving him my most sexy smile. "Only for you, Michael," I whispered, then lowered my head and gave him his morning kiss.

*

I couldn't keep from humming softly as I made my way through Section. It was early. The rigors of Section life had not yet dampened my spirits for the day.

Passing by the armory I turned to look without stopping. Walter was speaking with two other operatives. He saw me looking though and his mouth curved into a welcoming smile. Dear old Walter. Michael may be the love of my life; my protector, mentor ... lover, but Walter is my rock. The wisdom of his years and experience has held me together on numerous occasions when I was ready to surrender in my struggle against Section, or give up in my quest to understand Michael. Through Walter I learned to remain true to my self, even in the most difficult of times; his guidance helped me to become the woman I am today. I raised my hand to him in a salute, giving him a wink and smile that brought a twinkle to his old eyes.

Michael's door was open as I passed and I could see him sitting at his desk, his face a study of focused concentration as he stared at the screen before him. I passed silently, deciding not to disturb him. It’s enough for me to know he is nearby.

Birkoff, like always, was busy. A genius in a boy's body. Then, remembering Abbey, I amended my thoughts. He's not a boy. He is a man, with a man's appetite.

Incredible. I ran my hand over his hair, mussing it as I passed behind him, then grinned at the angry scowl he threw my way as he quickly finger combed his short locks back.

Choosing an empty station, I sat down, logged on, and accessed my file. There was a note from Madeline flagged within. Lael has arrived and was awaiting me in holding room A3-7. Reality stirred within me. The peace that had colored my mood throughout the morning dissipated quickly under the blunt wording of Madeline's one line message. Section called and I had to respond.

I typed in another access code and waited. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. A second later the screen changed and I got my first live view of Thomas Lael. He was awake, unrestrained, and huddling in a corner. I swallowed the lump that rose up in my throat and resisted the urge to close my eyes as I felt my heart sink.

Fifteen.

He should be a sophomore in high school. Laughing, playing sports, hanging out with his buddies, chasing after girls. Not sitting here in this hell hole waiting to be turned into a professional killer.

I spent the next few minutes watching him. He hadn’t moved at all since I began my surveillance. He just sat there with his knees drawn up and his arms folded atop them. His head was bent over his arms and his long hair formed a curtain which shielded his face from view. What was he thinking, I wondered?

Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, I logged off and rose to my feet. Absently I brush my hands down the front of my black pin-striped suit. The thought that I was dressed like a funeral director entered my mind and I quickly shoved it aside. There was nothing I could do about that now.

As I turned to leave my eyes were drawn across the room and I saw Michael standing next to Birkoff. Our eyes met and, in that split second, I felt his presence reach out to me. He stared at me with his blank mask firmly in place, but I could hear his spirit speaking to me, telling me to be strong -- do the job, Ni-ki-ta.

I took a deep breath, mentally drew upon the lessons Michael himself had taught me, and steeled myself with resolve to carry out my duty. When Michael saw my own Section mask slip in place, the lines around his mouth softened and he turned back to the information Birkoff was presenting as I turned and headed off to meet my new material.

*

I found Lael just as I'd seen him through the surveillance camera, sitting on the floor, still huddled. He looked up though as the door opened and remained staring at me after the heavy metal door had shut with a loud clanging. I glanced behind me, staring thoughtfully at the door. You'd think that with all the money Section has they'd get sliding doors or something that would make less noise. But since only the doors on the white and receiving rooms actually squeak and make such a ruckus as they open and close, I assume that that there must be a psychological reasoning for it; to scare the room's occupant shitless. However, looking over at Lael, I have to say that he hardly looked scared. The expression on his face was more of an empty look, as if nothing mattered to him anymore.

He stared at me. Young blue eyes peeking out from behind straight brown hair. What thoughts churned behind those eyes, I wondered again, then walked to the middle of the room. I smiled at him and clasped my hands in front of me. "Hi."

He blinked, but said nothing.

Section protocol be damned, I muttered, as I made a decision to chuck their required little 'welcome to Section' speech. l recalled Michael's own blank-faced rendition of that speech he gave me, as I squatted down to Lael's level and looked him in the eyes. "My name's Nikita."

The blue eyes searched mine for a minute. I could see he was trying to decide whether or not to trust me. After another minute he said quietly, "I'm Tommy."

*

The smell of nutmeg, cinnamon, pumpkin, and shortbread cookie was making my stomach rumble like crazy. I was starving but Michael wouldn't let me taste anything. "It'll spoil your appetite," he said as he checked on the turkey. I leaned against the fridge, folded my arms, and pursed my lips as I studied him. The black turtleneck molded nicely against his shoulder and chest muscles. And I love the way his pants hug those firm sexy hips of his.

"Ni-ki-ta."

I looked up, then smiled at the look he cast my way. "Yes, Michael?" He must think I'm h---- as hell and, truthfully, ninety-nine percent of the time that I'm around him, I am. But I batted my lashes innocently anyway and pretended that I wasn't just staring at his gorgeous ass. He didn't say anything. Just gave me that 'behave yourself' look as he crossed over to the counter, picked up a knife, and began to cut the pumpkin dish he made into rectangular shaped bars.

I traipsed up to him, wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, and leaned my chin lightly on his shoulder. "Can I taste?"

He continued to slice through the pumpkin, pressing down hard to cut through the thick shortbread crust. I wait patiently, something I've become good at doing where Michael is concerned. Sometimes I think he has a program in his brain that weighs the probable outcome of each possible answer he can give me before he selects a response. I decided to help him along in his decision by splaying my fingers over his stomach, feeling the strong muscles underneath, and then glided my fingers upward. At the same time I turned my head and nudged my nose into the spot right behind his ear. I felt his muscles bunch ever so slightly just before and my smile widened. Yes. I know. I don't play fair. But neither does Michael when he wants something from me. I'd say we're evenly matched.

I began planting tiny little kisses down his neck then captured his earlobe gently between my teeth. I used my tongue, moaned, whispered his name. I brought out every seductive weapon in my arsenal until, with a groan and muttered French phrase, Michael dropped the knife and turned. He grabbed me to him and plunged his tongue deep into my mouth.

I wanted the pumpkin bar, but I'll take this just as well.

Eventually we resumed our positions. He began to lift the slices of the orange colored dessert out of the pan and arranged them on a plate as I stood with my chin once again resting on his shoulder. As the last slice was lifted out he took the knife and sliced a little piece and brought it to my mouth. I accepted his offering hungrily, even licked at his fingers.

"Well?"

I moaned and grinned at him. "It’s delicious -- like you."

He stared into my eyes for a moment, smiling slightly, before he shook his head. "I thought you said you don't like pumpkin."

"I know. I don't understand it either. Ordinarily II can't stand the stuff but for some reason I love your pumpkin bars. Maybe It’s the shortbread crust. Where'd you learn to make it?"

"From Elena."

He turned to look at me, gauging my response. I smiled and leaned in to kiss his lips. Reaffirming what he already knows. I don't mind him talking of Elena or Simone. For so long he's had to keep his pain locked away with no one to share it with. He couldn't tell Elena of his grief over losing Simone. Then when we were falling in love, he couldn't reveal to me his marriage to Elena or that he had a son ... Such a twisted life he's led, full of pain, guilt, and self-hatred. I want all that to end. I don't want there to be any more secrets between us. I wanted Michael to feel that he could share anything with me, I wanted him to know that he's no longer alone, that he has someone who knows him, really knows him, and loves him all the same.

I held him close, kissed his lips softly and whispered, "She was a good cook."

He was silent again but his hand reached up to cover one of mine. It’s his way of thanking me. I leaned in for one more kiss, this one longer and deeper, then pulled back. Before I moved away, though, he stopped me. Holding my wrist, he reached for another slice of pumpkin bar and fed it to me.

Such is the nature of our relationship. Words are nice but they are empty without the action. Michael has only once told me that he loves me --and that was when he had amnesia-- but since we've been together, and even before then, he has always shown me his love in a hundred little ways.

I went about setting the table while he finished cooking. This was our Thanksgiving celebration even though Thanksgiving was a week ago. He'd been called away on a mission and I'd been busy with training. Today was the first chance we were both available and we'd decided to make the most of it.

"How's your material?" he asked me later while we were relaxing on the couch. He was sipping wine while I layed down and put my head on his lap. My belly was full and I was feeling sleepy but I also wanted to talk to him about Tommy.

"He's guilty," I murmured, my eyes closed.

"How do you know?"

"He told me." Opening my eyes I looked up and sighed. "But he's not a killer, Michael. If anything he's a confused kid who's had a bum rap all his life."

"Ni-ki-ta..."

I sat up and turned to face him, my protective instincts quickly surfacing. "It’s true. I've studied his file inside and out. I've watched him carefully through his training, monitored his scores, and I'm telling you, Michael, he is not a killer. Not in the sense that Section wants him to be."

Michael studied me a while, a curious expression in his green eyes. Then he placed his glass down on the table beside him. I knew what he was thinking. I wasn't a killer either when I entered Section.

I went to him, took his hand in mine and looked into his eyes. "His mother was taken from him when he was just a child. Shuffled from one foster home to another, never completely understanding why his mother was no longer there, he rebelled. The social workers labeled him as violent but I'm willing to bet that somewhere in his mind Tommy was thinking that if he made enough trouble, they'd return him to his mother."

There was a pained look in Michael's eyes and I suddenly remembered Adam. He made to move away but I reached out and restrained him. "No, Michael. Look at me." He did so with some difficulty. I could see the guilt in his eyes. The worry.

I could have kicked myself for not seeing how Michael would draw a parallel between Tommy and Adam. "Is not the same situation," I said to him, reading his mind. "Adam has Elena. She's a good mother, Michael. You've told me so yourself. Elena won't allow anything to happen to your son."

He nodded but I could see in his eyes the truth that we both knew. There are no guarantees in life. And if something ever happened to Elena, where would that leave little Adam?

*

Michael was even more quiet then usual after that. His thoughts, I knew, were still on Adam. It pains me at times to think of Michael and Adam, for a myriad of reasons. When he speaks of Simone or Elena I am able to recognize, and accept, that these were women that shared a significant part of his life. The key word being 'were'. Past tense. I'm the one he is with now. I am the woman he loves and who shares his life. But with Adam it is different. Adam owns a part of Michael's heart that I secretly fear I cannot reach. I cannot heal. When Michael thinks of Adam he will forever experience a pain that I, no matter how I try or want to, will never fully comprehend because I have no child of my own.

This is the one area in Michael's life that I feel closed off from. It is his own private grief, one he tries to shield me from, but in doing so, leaves me with an ache that reaches deep into my soul. At the core of my pain is the knowledge that I can never bear him a child. I will never know with him that bond between a man and a woman that, for me, signifies the highest commitment between them, an acknowledgement of their love for each other and their desire to leave a legacy of that love behind.

My pain has nothing to do with Michael and Elena for as much as I know Michael loves Adam, I know that, were it possible, Michael would have chosen not to have a child with her. It’s not that he didn't love her. He did. I know he did. But Michael would not have wanted to bring a child into this world knowing that, at some point, he would have to walk away from him.

No.

My pain comes from the fact that I love him. I love him to the point that, if I could, I would bear him a dozen children. Each one a testament of my eternal love and commitment to him. What makes my pain even more intense is the knowledge in my heart of hearts that, if he could, Michael would want to make that same commitment with me.

Long after Michael had gone to bed I remained awake by his side. Listening to him breathing. Waiting till I was certain he was deep asleep. Then I slipped quietly out of bed, put on my robe, and escaped out to the living room. I went to the sliding door leading to the balcony and, making as little noise as possible, opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it again behind me.

The night was bitterly cold. The wind whipped at my hair and stung my cheeks and legs. But it is nothing compared to the cold emptiness I felt inside. So terrible was the pain, and I feared I would not be able to bear it any longer. I leaned back against the wall and, still fearing that Michael might hear me, I placed my hand over my mouth and finally allowed the tears to fall.

My body trembled with my ache. Great sobs of sorrow welled up from within my heart. I cried for the pain that Michael feels over the loss of his son; I cried for the children that he and I could never have, and I cried at the overall cruelty of our lives.

Somehow I ended up on one of the patio chairs. How long I sat there crying I'm not sure. I only remember feeling so very alone when suddenly a hand touched my shoulder and I looked up to see Michael.

His face was dark, unreadable. His lips moved, uttering something I could not hear. He pulled me up to my feet then scooped me up in his arms and carried me inside.

I wiped quickly at my half-frozen cheeks and eyes. Stifled the sobs that continued to seek release and I held very still. I could feel his anger as he deposited me on the bed. It was written in the tension of his body. In the tightness of his mouth, the hardness of his eyes as he removed the damp robe off of me and tossed it to the floor. I closed my eyes and rolled to the side, facing away from him as he pulled the blankets up around me then strode back toward the living room. I heard him closing the sliding door, locking it, and a minute later I heard his footsteps reentering the room.

He paced the length of the room once. Then twice. Unable to control his anger any longer he crossed over to the side of the bed where I was facing and he knelt down and stared into my eyes. "Why?" he asked.

I was shivering, my lips trembling with cold. I curled up into a fetal position, folding my arms over my chest, and rocked slowly back and forth. With an oath Michael stood and pulled the covers back. He stripped out of the robe he wore, climbed into bed and sat with his back against the headboard. Then he reached for me, tugging me up and moving me till I sat curled up in his lap. He pulled the covers up, wrapped them securely around us, and then he held on to me tightly.

I couldn't explain to him. I couldn't. He had enough pain in his life. I didn't want to bother him with my silly emotional outbursts. But for the life of me I couldn't stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks either.

He held me for a long time. Letting me cry. The anger melted from his body and I felt his lips begin to kiss the top of my head as his fingers stroked my hair. With great tenderness he rocked me there in his arms.

Finally, when my tears had stopped, he took the corner of the sheet and wiped my face with it. Then he placed his hand under my chin and tilted my face up. "Nikita," he said, his voice soft as he caressed my cheek gently. "Our lives are not perfect, but we have each other."

The floodgates opened anew and I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder. "Shhh, Nikita," he whispered huskily. That was when I felt a warm drop of moisture fall onto my shoulder and trickle down my back. "Michael," I cried. My emotions were such that I couldn't say anything else. But I held him, and he held me. And, together, we sought comfort from each other for those things we desired most but could not have in our lives.

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

Michael had to leave for the Middle East the following day. One of Section's substations in that region had been compromised a few weeks back resulting in key missions being sabotaged and several operatives killed. An internal probe indicated a high probability of a mole within the sub-station. Michael's job was to go in, find who was leaking information and eliminate the source.

I drove Michael to the train station. From there he would follow a pre-approved travel route that would take him to his destination. I kissed him goodbye in the car, told him to be careful, and then waited till he had entered the terminal before driving away.

I didn't feel very much like returning to the apartment so I headed towards Section. As I drove, my thoughts turned to Tommy and his latest round of test scores. They weren't very promising.

As I had mentioned to Michael, Tommy wasn't Section material. He has a lot of anger and frustration. He'd been living on the streets for the past year, had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd, and ended up stoned out of his brains and waving a loaded gun at the cashier of a small mart.

I'm not making excuses for him, but, I know what It’s like to live out on the streets. I've experienced the loneliness that comes from knowing you have nowhere to turn. I've felt the merciless pangs of hunger that claw at the pit of your stomach until, so desperate for food, you submit to the humiliation of digging through trash cans for anything that will relieve the growling in your belly.

I can recall vividly the expressions of the normal people as they passed me on the street. Some looked at me with disgust, others with looks that made my skin crawl, but most just ignored me. I could be lying there starving and begging with my last breath for food and they would simply turn their faces the other way and pretend they never saw me.

It’s easy to become invisible on the streets. To think that you live in a separate world from the normal one around you. Promises of food and a warm place to sleep seem like gold, but it’s the offer of human contact that almost always reels the unwary in. Hunger is a harsh master, to appease it you find yourself doing almost anything. But loneliness, the want for human warmth --a smile, a compassionate touch-- is a thousand times more powerful and just as cruel.

You can't know that unless you've lived out on the streets with nowhere to turn. Until you've experienced having hunger gnaw at your belly as you sit huddled in a corner watching others eating through a restaurant window. Or experience the disdainful stares cast your way, making you shamefully aware of every speck of dirt and grime stuck to your body. Or spend the long hours of night moving from one brightly lit storefront to another in order to keep safe from the dangers you know lurk in the shadows.

Your legs are weak from the lack of food and you long to lay down and sleep. But fear of the dark, and what lies beyond the safety of the bright lights, keep you moving and praying for the speedy return of the sun. Living on the streets changes your perspective on the world, of people ... of yourself.

I understood all this and I knew Tommy did too. The only difference between the two of us is that I wasn't as naive as Tommy had been when he hit the streets. In terms of survival instincts, that made all the difference in the world.

I knew enough to be wary of the offers of food given by innocent nice-looking men. I readily submitted myself to the dehumanizing practice of rifling through discarded trash for food rather then accept their gilded offers. And I'd learn long before I even hit the streets not to trust a pretty face.

Tommy hadn't learned that lesson. He was so mixed up and starved for human affection, he quickly became prey to the wrong influences. He believed the promises made to him; accepted the tainted offers made; sold his body, his soul -- anything to please his new friends.

I sighed and steered my car into the parking lot of a supermarket. Thinking of Tommy and my experiences on the street was rehashing a lot of my memories from my own recruitment days in Section. In particular it brought to mind my strained relationship with Michael in those days and the difficulty we've had through the years to establish our present one.

Section knew of my background when they reeled me in. They played on my vulnerabilities, presented me with a substitute mother and hoped I would latch onto the training in order to please her. Unfortunately for them, but good for me, Madeline is a shitty excuse of a mother -- even a surrogate one at that. It didn't take me long to see through her guise; to recognize that there was no human warmth under that honey-eyed gaze and madonna smile. But there was one particular person with whom I did connect. Someone who oftentimes stared at me with cold emotionless eyes but beneath his blank mask I sensed a tiny spark of kinship. In him I felt the presence of a soul that knew what it was like to be lonely. A soul who was familiar with pain, both physical and mental, and who felt just as disassociated with the world at large as I did. This person, of course, was Michael. As I sat there thinking of Michael and how Section early on recognized my attraction to him, my cell phone rang. I pulled it out, placed it next to my ear. 'Yep?" It was Birkoff, and he was whispering.

"You'd better come in."

Fear gripped me upon hearing Birkoff's tone. Was it Michael? No, it couldn't be, I just dropped him off not more then thirty minutes ago. Was it Walter? Had something happened to him? I knew he wasn't feeling well lately but I thought it was just the flu that was going around. I should have gone to see him. Should have made him go to medlab... My mind was spinning with all sorts of horrible scenarios, but, none of them prepared me for the impact of Birkoff's next words:

"Tommy's dead, Nikita. He committed suicide."

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

I felt numb for the next two days. There were so many conflicting emotions within me concerning Tommy's death that, I didn't know what to feel. I was angry at Section for recruiting him, angry at myself for having failed to save Tommy, angry at his mother for having been such a lousy mother, and I was angry at Tommy for having given up.

Apart from the anger, though, I was also tremendously saddened by Tommy's death. I hadn't known him long enough to feel the deep, soul-shattering pain I know I would have experienced had it been Walter, or Birkoff, or --God forbid-- Michael, who'd died, but Tommy's death still affected me deeply. It pierced a part of me wherein my hope for those of us in Section resides.

Somehow I had come to associate Tommy's struggle for survival with mine and that of every other operative in Section. His despair had come to epitomize the utter despair with life which sometimes crept up on me when I least expected it too. It is the ache that wrings tears from my eyes when I am feeling alone in the middle of the night. The fear that churns my stomach when a profile goes bad. The ache in my heart when another colleague and friend dies in the field. The sorrow that paints this gray world I live in.

I wanted Tommy to live not only for his sake but for mine too. His survival would have been proof, for me at least, that hope still existed, and that it would continue to prevail no matter how awful and unfair this world I lived in was.

*

Madeline made me take an extra day off to deal with my grief. It wasn't an act of compassion on her part. Madeline doesn't do compassion. She doesn't do emotions, period. But I do, and being the shrewd-minded analyst that she is, Madeline knew I would need the extra time to find my bearings before I could perform at optimum level again.

I spent the extra day of down-time at home, sitting on the floor in front of the sliding doors, looking out at the sky and pondering upon the meaning of life. In general, I wanted to know why some people were more blessed then others in this life? What had I, or Michael, Birkoff, or Walter --and Tommy-- what had we done to deserve such crappy lives?

Why couldn't I have been born in one of those families with a father and a mother who loved each other and lived in a fancy mansion on a hill? I'd have a brother and a sister, lots of money and nice clothes. I'd attend one of those private schools with all those snobby high-class kids. And Michael would be my snobby, Mr. Perfect boyfriend.

I sighed, my thoughts turning wistful; my grief gradually waning.

The seconds ticked into minutes and before I knew it a whole afternoon had passed while I sat there. The air had turned chilly with the onset of evening. My bones began to complain of being confined to a single pose for so long, and my stomach rumbled with hunger.

I don't remember what else I had thought of during that afternoon or if I had found any answers to the questions that had filled my mind. I only knew that the sky outside had been a lovely shade of blue, that Tommy was finally at peace ... and that I really wanted Michael to come home.

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

I reported back to work the next day, grateful that I had somewhere to go, something to keep me busy. I still ached when I thought of Tommy --which was often-- but I'd reached that point of grieving where it was no longer a comfort to me to be alone. I needed to be among the living so that I could start piecing my life together again. It was the same way when Chuck had died. And Jurgen, Terry, Angela, Ken, Davis. The list keeps getting longer...

I stopped off at Walter's and found him working on a new triggering device. I sidled up to him and touched his shoulder lightly. He startled and I smiled. "How are you doing, Walter?"

He put down his tools and took off the magnifying specs he wore before taking my arm and pulling me toward him in a hug. "I'm sorry about Tommy, Sugar. I had no idea he was going to --"

I stopped him from rehashing the details of Tommy's death by placing two of my fingers gently over his lips. "It’s okay, Walter. There was nothing you could have done. Tommy was determined to die and you and I both know that if a person really wants to die there's nothing no one can do to stop him."

Guilt still lingered in the old man's eyes. "Yeah, but maybe if I'd have paid a little more attention that day. He was doing fine... hitting the targets alright and then the next thing I knew, bang!, he turned the gun on himself."

I shut my eyes, picturing again the scene that had ended Tommy's life. "I know, Walter," I said quietly. "I know." I opened my eyes and reached up to squeeze his arm lightly. "I'm glad you weren't hurt. I could never forgive myself if that happened."

"And why is that?" Walter asked. "It’s not like it would have been your fault."

"He was my material. I should have been more aware of his state of mind. I should have seen this coming."

"Uh-uh, Sugar, that ain't how it works and you know it. Being his mentor doesn't give you any more insight into what the kid was thinking then anyone else around here."

I shook my head, still unconvinced. "It was such a waste of life, Walter. He was so young."

"I know," he said, nodding. "But I guess he'd seen enough of this life to decide he didn't want anymore of it."

"I guess so. Being recruited sure didn't help improve his outlook any. Still, I wish he'd hung on, you know? I think if he could have just gotten over the training period he would have realized that this place isn't all that bad."

Walter's brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Oh you know what I mean, Walter. Remember my first two years here and how I hated this place? All I could think about was getting free. I still think about that sometimes," I said, shrugging, "but, if I'd never have come here I wouldn't know you or Birkoff ---"

"--- or that gorgeous guy who's office is right over there," Walter added, grinning as he pointed with his head in the direction of Michael's office.

"Walter!"

He winked and I found myself laughing. "Thanks Walter," I said, and leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek. He always did know how to cheer me up.

*

Four days and one mission later I was back at my apartment trying to unwind. I'd had dinner, then wandered around aimlessly. I put on a CD, lit some candles and was about to settle down to do some reading when there came a knock at the door. I crossed the room and pressed the button on the security screen. My spirits lifted immediately at the sight of Michael standing there. I let him in, closed and relocked the door, then turned and stepped into his waiting arms.

The strain of the past few days ebbed as Michael held me. He felt warm and solid and I was thinking I could stay locked in his embrace forever. I slipped my hands inside of his coat and circled his waist. I splayed my fingers over his back as I pulled him closer. "Welcome back." The corners of his lips lifted slightly and he moved his hand to touch my cheek. "Have you reported in?"" I asked, backing off a little as he began to remove his overcoat.

"Yes."

He sounded tired and I could tell by that certain distant look in his eyes something had effected him on this last mission. I waited till he finished hanging his coat in the closet and then extended my hand to him. He took hold of it and I led him over to the couch. "Sit," I ordered, pushing him gently down. He obeyed, sighing as he did so. "Have you eaten? I made some soup."

"Did you?"

I nodded. "There's lots left, it'll only take a minute to heat."

He smiled and pressed my fingers to his lips. "If you don't mind, please."

"Of course I don't mind, Michael." I told him, then let him relax as I went to the kitchen and prepared his food. I stole several glances his way as I worked and saw he had his eyes closed. Maybe he was just tired, but I had a feeling it was something more.

When his food was ready I set it upon a tray and took it over to him along with a glass of wine. I dallied while he ate; played some music softly in the background, puttered around in the kitchen, lit a few more candles. Finally Michael called me and tapped the cushion next to him, indicating I should sit down.

He was nearly finished so I sat quietly facing him. I slipped my toes under his thigh to keep them warm and placed my chin atop my knees. He must have felt self conscious with me staring at him, for he turned and began to share the rest of his meal with me. Afterwards he stood and took the tray to the kitchen. I sat watching him as he washed his dishes and put them away.

It was odd how his presence could change the whole atmosphere of a room. An hour ago I had sat in the same spot thinking how empty the apartment felt. And now, just by his being here, the place seemed warmer ... cozier.

He stood, looking at me as he dried his hands on a tea towel. Silently I held my arms out to him, beckoning him to come back to me. He did so in that lazy graceful manner of his. Stopping in front of me, he reached down and clasped my fingers in his then pulled me up flush against him.

"Oomph." I grunted as I came into contact with his hard body. He apologized with a quietly uttered 'sorry', then slid his hands around my waist till they rested upon the curve of my hips. Then he began to sway slowly, keeping time with the music in the background. It felt so natural to be there in his arms. I found myself melting against him and laying my head on his shoulder. I wanted to tell him about the awful week I'd had and about Tommy's suicide but the timing wasn't right. Something was bothering him and I wanted to know what it was.

"I missed you."

He sighed at my words and rubbed his cheek tenderly against mine. "Nikita," he whispered, then tightened his hold on me.

We danced a little longer, neither of us saying anything. Then, when I felt he was ready, I pulled back slightly, looked up at him and began to gently question him. "What happened?"

He didn't try to avoid my question but I could see he was having trouble opening up. So I probed a little deeper.

"Did you find the mole?"

"Yes," he answered, as his gaze shifted to the side. I waited and after a minute he quietly added, "It was someone I knew."

Enlightenment dawned.

I didn't probe any further as I leaned in and held him. In time he would reveal to me who this acquaintance had been. For now, all I needed to know was that Michael needed me.

Three years ago I would have reacted differently to Michael's subtle confession of having cancelled a friend. But three years ago I was a lot more naive about the realities of the world we lived in -- and a whole lot more self-righteous. Now I didn't bother trying to decide if I approved or disapproved of Michael's actions. He did what he had to. It was as simple as that.

A part of me still cringes that I can be so accepting of the things we are required to do in the name of the greater good, but, I reasoned, this is an amoral world we live in. A world where there is no distinct line between right and wrong. 'Shades of gray' was how Madeline once described it to me, and I'm sorry to say that she was right.

I closed my eyes and buried my face deeper into the curve of Michael's neck. I didn't want to think any more. I just wanted to feel. To be reminded that, despite Section's attempts to have us believe otherwise, Michael and I are still human and very much alive.

I vaguely remember being lifted up and carried to the bedroom. I didn't care where he carried me, or if he took me right there on the floor ... I wanted him so badly.

The room was dark except for the flickering light from the candles in the living room. It was more then enough as we quickly stripped and returned into each other's arms. Our union was slow yet tinged with desperateness, especially on Michael's part. I could feel the pain in his soul as he clung to me in our lovemaking. "Shhh," I whispered, even though he hadn't uttered a sound. I bathed him in kisses, held his face in my hands as our bodies became one,, and willed him to see my love for him in my eyes.

Afterwards Michael fell asleep as I held him. And as he slept I reflected upon our relationship.

I don't know what exactly brought Michael and I together. Or what it was that convinced him I was even worth the effort of saving during my early days. After all, I wasn't exactly the ideal student. I was brazenly rebellious; purposely disobeying orders, questioning his decisions. I gave him more then enough reasons to have me placed in abeyance. And yet, not once, did he threaten to do so.

Instead Michael used everything in his power to run interference between Section and me. He took the blame when my stubbornness caused a mission to go bad. He warned me in his subtle, indirect manner, when I was being tested. He used his charm to persuade me into complying with Section directives. He's lied to me. Manipulated me. Yes. Our relationship has run a full gamut of emotions. Everything from hate to anger to betrayal, pain, forgiveness, and then --finally-- love.

My breathing grew heavier and I could feel sleep quickly enveloping me. Tomorrow I'll tell Michael about Tommy. Tonight, though, I'll let him rest in my arms as I take comfort in the knowledge that he and I are both alive and together.

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

I woke early the next morning and found myself alone in bed. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted in the air, a subtle invitation from Michael me to wake and join him.

I smiled. Stretched and slid my arm out across the sheets till I found his pillow. I pulled it toward me, buried my face in it and inhaled deeply. Warm memories beckoned me; Michael's lips on mine, his hands and mine entwined, his eyes claiming me forever.

"Having a nice dream?"

I opened my eyes and saw Michael standing in the doorway with a small smile in his eyes. "Yes," I answered, stretching once more before sitting up and letting the blanket fall down to my waist. "But I think reality is much nicer."

"Definitely," he agreed, walking toward me. I made room for him as he sat down. He was much more relaxed then when he'd returned last night. He looked rested -- calm. I brushed my fingers through his hair, then moved in and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked.

"What? My dream?"

"No," he said quietly. "About Tommy."

I peered up at him. "You know?"

He nodded and tucked a stand of my hair behind my ear. "I logged on this morning to check which missions are on pad. I thought maybe we could spend some time together today so I checked your schedule too. It was clear of all training sessions. I knew then that something was wrong."

I sighed and closed my eyes. Now that Tommy was dead my schedule had reverted back to its pre-mentor status. I was on stand-by for the next three days. Other then that, though, there wasn't much that would require my presence in Section. No mentoring or training sessions.

"What happened?"

"He shot himself. Walter was with him at the shooting range when it happened. He died before I got there."

Michael pulled me back against him. He held me for several minutes without saying anything and I realized he was waiting for me to go on. Just as I had waited for him to tell me what was wrong the night before. Our roles now were reversed; he was the comforter and I was the one being administered to.

"I'm alright," I told him. "I'm over the worst of it. It still pains me though that I couldn't help him more."

"You tried, Nikita."

"I know," I sighed and pulled back so that I could look into his eyes. "Do you remember the Tyler mission?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "That's the mission where you were ordered to kill an innocent that was being held by the Freedom League."

"Yes. I couldn't do it."

Michael's lashes lowered as he recalled, I'm sure, the resulting consequences of my inability to carry out my duty on that mission. His fingers found mine and he squeezed them gently. I reached up with my other hand and tilted his head back up so that I could see into his eyes once more.

"I never told you, but, after that mission, I went to Madeline and I asked her if I would ever be free of Section. She told me, quite truthfully, 'no'. That was the one time I seriously considered taking my own life. I thought that by doing so I'd be taking control of my destiny again. I think that’s what must have been going through Tommy's mind too."

Michael didn't say anything. We sat there with me leaning against him as he ran his hand slowly up and down my back. "I'm glad you didn't end your life back then, Nikita," he said, finally after several minutes.

"Me too. But you know that it was you who gave me the will to live Michael. That day you came here and allowed me to see that you cared for me, that was the day hope was restored back in me."

"And then you were sent out on that suicide mission."

"And you set me free."

His arms tightened around me and I knew he was reliving those months of not knowing whether I had escaped or died in the explosion meant to end my life. I looked up at him, then leaned up and kissed him softly. "Is there anything you wouldn't do to save me, Michael?" I asked.

His eyes bore into mine and I saw a fierce determination spark behind those beautiful green eyes of his. "Nothing," he answered with quiet conviction.

His answer frightened me a little and I pulled further back and studied him closely. "What would you do if Operations gave you another order to have me cancelled?" I asked.

He stared at me, then said quietly. "I'd do everything in my power to stop him."

"And if you couldn't?"

"I'd kill him," came his response.

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

How do I begin to explain the love I feel for this man? It is more then desire, more then romance, more then beauty.

I love him because he is everything that I am not. When I am mean, he is patient. When I am abusive, he is kind. When I am cruel, he is tender. He holds me when I am in pain. Protects me when I am afraid. Loves me when I am hateful. For all of these reasons, and much much more, I love him and I would give my life to protect his.

"What would he do," I asked, "if Operations ordered my cancellation?" His answer, I knew, came from his heart.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I reached out and held him. I do not approve of the answer he has given me, but, in my heart I understand it, for it is the same answer I would give him if he were to ask me.

*

Michael and I have traveled a long and difficult road marked by the ache of loneliness, the tears of betrayal, and the hurt of lies. There have been times along our journey when I have broken down and wept with weariness, times when I felt that I could not go one step further. It was then that Michael was there for me; wiping my tears, holding my hand, even carrying me until I regained my strength.

In the beginning I hated his strength, hated that he seemed so impenetrable, so in control, so distant. But then a storm rose up and Michael --my guide and protector-- lay injured. For once I saw the pain that lay behind his mask, I heard the ache that enveloped his heart, I felt the loneliness that riddled his soul. He needed me and I wept again, but this time in joy.

We are two different people from the individuals we were when we first started this journey. He no longer tries to be the all encompassing protector and comforter, and I no longer aim to hurt him with my words or actions. He has learned to yield and I have learned to give.

Our journey is far from being over, and we are well aware that there are many more storms we will have to weather in the days ahead, but we will face those storms together -- side by side, hand in hand. When I am weak, I will lean on him and let him guide me. And when he is tired, I will hold him in my arms and watch over him while he rests.

One day, I know, a storm will come bearing the dark angel of death upon its wings. And when it does, I shall turn to Michael and take his hand in mine, and I shall whisper to him the greatest lesson I've learned from this life we have journeyed together. I shall tell him as I gaze into those beautiful eyes of his one last time that love, is a three letter word' -- it is 'you'.

The End

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