Takes place after Kiss the Past Goodbye and contains major spoilers for the end of Season 4.

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

The snow was falling so fast and the flakes so thick Nikita had no idea how Michael could even see through the windshield. The last pale rays of the fading sun were hidden deeply behind the clouds and darkness only made the drive more difficult. The visibility grew even worse when Michael switched to the bright lights. It reminded Nikita of jumping to light speed in Star Wars.

"Perhaps we should pull over, Michael," she said, knowing he would resist.

"It's better if we keep going," he responded.

She glanced down at the PDA in her lap and watched as the map coordinates faded in and out. The storm somehow must have been affecting the satellite transmissions.

"Michael, I can't tell if we're heading towards Jessheim or Rorus. The satellite is down, the sun is gone, and I think we're lost."

"We're not lost," he said, reaching his arm forward, wiping the damp mist from inside the windshield with his sleeve, as if that small gesture would wipe away the thick coverage of snow.

Communication between them had been strained since her mission marriage to Helmut, and the recent re-emergence of Elena and Adam in Michael's life had done nothing to improve that situation. Other than to tell her 'It's okay,' he'd said nothing to her about seeing them again. Mix the uncertainty between them with a full-fledged blizzard and Nikita was actually frightened for them both.

"Then where are we?" she demanded wearily.

"Norway," he answered simply.

"I know that," she said, her voice containing the sound of her eyes rolling, "but we're supposed to go to the airfield in Rorus. We've been driving for three hours, and I'm sure we're lost."

Michael remained silent, his attention focused on what remained as the road. The snow was whirling and drifting, smudging all lines between lanes. The road shrank as the snow banks grew, and the tall trees that lined the highway looked as if they had been covered with a thick cream cheese frosting.

"Quinn," Nikita said, "Are you there?" She tossed her cell phone into the back of the jeep, and said, "Not working either."

"One hour, then we stop," Michael said, acknowledging the worsening conditions of the storm.

Nikita knew it wasn't worth arguing with him, but she had never driven in a storm like this before. She could feel the jeep's traction slipping here and there, and the lack of traffic made her nervous. It had been at least an hour since they had passed another vehicle.

Not expecting any small talk from Michael, she stared ahead, her mind reviewing their mission. It was a simple one compared to most. Pose as a jet-setting, danger-seeking couple looking to invest in bio-technology. "Accidentally" meet with a hotshot young scientist in Lillehammer, and the deal was set. First delivery of weapons grade anthrax would be theirs in a month. Once the scientist found himself trapped, Madeline's analysis showed he would be quite amenable to working for Section.

It had taken two days, and Michael's performance as a spoiled wealthy European was perfection. He paraded Nikita around like the trophy wife she was supposed to be and made it known any other male attention would receive his fist. But once alone he was quiet, withdrawn, and as distant as if he weren't in the room with her. They shared a bed, and except for a sweet kiss, he had left her completely alone.

Her words during the latest mission that had caused so much pain for him haunted her.

To Elena: Elena, it's okay for you to get on with your life. It's okay to be in love again. It's what Michael would want.

To Michael: ...yeah; she's in play. What did you expect? It's the same way you put down her father.

A splash of stomach acid found its way into her throat, her betrayal so blatant. Those words spoken only two weeks ago, and she heard them replayed in her head day after day. Her sarcastic tone to Michael so plainly mean and spiteful, she hardly believed it had been so easy for her to hurt him.

You know why you did it. Push him away and maybe it will hurt less once Mr. Jones decides Center is through with its investigation.

Blinking, she forced her breathing to remain calm and the tears to remain in their ducts. Michael knew her too well not to notice even the slightest change in her behavior, her smell, anything that told him she was in trouble. She held the tears at bay, but the memories still came.

She had tried and failed to push him away more times than she could remember. After Bergomi, after Madeline's bullshit Type I directive, after brainwashing, after Helmut, after everything. And the harder she pushed him away, the harder he pushed back, and she opened her arms every time.

She looked down at her watch; it had almost been an hour and the storm had continued its furious pace. "Michael, please, I think we need..." before she could finish her sentence, a large tractor trailer sped up from behind, and Michael was forced to wrench the steering wheel as far right as possible, forcing the car into a deep snow bank. Even with the evasive maneuver, the truck clipped the back of the jeep, sending it spinning further off the highway and careening down a steep ravine.

Michael instinctively reached an arm out for Nikita as the jeep smashed into a tree, trying to brace her. The jeep shuddered as the full force of the impact coursed through it.

"Ow shit!" Nikita said, removing her glove and pressing her fingers to the back of her head. Sore, but no blood. She looked at the dashboard and saw that her cell phone had whacked her in the head. Irrationally, she thought somehow Madeline had made sure her phone hit her in the head.

"Michael," she said, "We...MICHAEL!" she screamed. She unbuckled her seat belt and twisted her body around to face him. His eyes were closed, but she saw no blood on his face. "Michael," she repeated, "Can you hear me?" She unbelted him and unzipped his jacket, quickly searching his chest with her hands for any signs of injury.

A small groan passed his lips as his eyes slowly opened. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"Yes, yes!" she answered, "But you were unconscious."

"I'm fine," he said, shifting his weight forward to sit up and suddenly closing his eyes and resting back against the seat.

Nikita slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew a small flashlight. Clicking it on, she pulled open one of his eyelids and focused the light on his eye. His pupils were reactive; the injury to his head was probably not as bad as she had feared. She turned off the flashlight and put it back in her pocket.

"Michael," she said, repeating his name until he responded. Opening his eyes, he looked at her quizzically. "I think you hit your head," she said.

He raised his hand and carefully took inventory of his head and neck. "It's fine," he repeated.

Pressing one corner of her lips together in an irritated fashion, she said, "Well I'm glad, Michael. Glad you're fine. Good for you." Noticing the tiny beads of sweat along his forehead and upper lip, she wondered if he was telling her the truth. Not that he would tell her unless it suited him.

"If we don't get out of this car," she said, the reality of their situation sinking in, "we might freeze to death." Leaning over the seat towards the back, she said, "All we have is water and our equipment. We need a place to stay."

Michael steadied himself and reached for the door. Pushing the door hard against the snow, he managed to create a thin passage for the two of them to escape through. As both were fortunately dressed in their black mission gear, they were wearing thick winter boots. Michael lifted himself out of the jeep and dropped onto the ground, steadying himself by holding on to the jeep's door. The snow was still pouring from the sky and the wind whipped furiously around Michael's head.

"My pack," he said, turning back to Nikita, nearly having to shout over the wind, "And yours."

"Got them," she yelled back.

Nikita slid over into Michael's seat and easily maneuvered out of the jeep. Michael was standing knee deep in snow and going nowhere. Placing her arm on his, she shouted through the piercing wind, "The PDA was damaged, we'll have to guess which way to go." Michael extended his arm, asking for his pack. She begrudgingly handed it to him.

Trudging a few meters ahead, Michael stopped under a tree. The large pine boughs had created a small clear area beneath. Nikita followed him and they stood under the tree attempting to make sense of where they were.

"Your cell?" She asked loudly.

Michael slipped his gloved hand into his jacket, pulled out the phone, and pressed one button. Lifting the device to his ear, he listened, dropped his hand and flicked it closed. "Nothing," he said.

"The storm is only getting worse," she said, holding her hands like a bullhorn in front of her mouth. "We need to move."

Michael slipped his pack onto the frozen ground and leaned over to open it. Nearly falling, Nikita grabbed his arm, steadying his body. He pulled out a map of Norway and handed it to her.

Holding the small flashlight in her mouth, she reviewed the map, tried to imagine and remember every turn they had taken in the road, and decided they were in fact heading north.

"This way," she yelled, pointing her finger, the sound of her voice lost in the wind.

She at first tried just pushing her body through the snow, but it was too thick. They had no choice but to lift their legs high and take enormous steps. Each step found them sinking back into the snow up to their knees or higher.

Nikita led the way, stopping to make sure Michael was behind her every half hour or so, and marched. Until they came to somewhere. Please let us find somewhere, she thought.

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

Every now and then when Nikita looked back it seemed like Michael was on the verge of stumbling, but he'd manage to recover and signal to her with a wave. It was slow going and no matter how well designed their mission clothes, they were getting increasingly cold and wet.

Marching onward it felt to Nikita that they were walking down a hillside or a slope. The thick snow continued to obscure her vision, and it wasn't until she nearly bumped into a wooden structure that she realized they had found shelter. Scanning the horizon, all she could see were the thick flakes of snow falling before her eyes. They could be in the center of Paris and not even know it.

Michael leaned against what turned out to be a stairway to a porch and Nikita said, having to yell against the wind, "I think this looks good. Come on!"

She climbed the steps, forging through the deep snow as if it were quick sand, slipped her hand in her pocket, removed a small pick, and expertly picked the lock. Swinging the door open, she grabbed Michael by his jacket, helping him up through the path she made, and pushed him forward. She slammed the door closed behind her and reached for the light switch.

"Don't," he said.

Nikita glanced around the room, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and saw it was a small kitchen. Two walls were lined with windows. She would have preferred turning on the light, but deferring to Michael's judgment she removed her flashlight from her pocket and turned it on.

"Better?" she asked. She couldn't see the expression on Michael's face, but she wouldn't be surprised if she had finally gotten on his nerves.

"Fine," he said, sitting into one of the kitchen chairs he had been leaning against. He untied the laces to his boots, slipped them from his feet and leaned back in his chair.

Sensing a problem, Nikita took off her jacket and squatted before Michael. Reaching out for his still stocking-clad feet, she could feel they were bitterly cold before she even touched them.

"These need warming," she said. She stood, and finding the sink with her small flashlight, she turned on the faucet. To her relief, the water was still connected, and after several seconds it even began to heat up.

"We need to get you in the tub or the shower," she said. Taking a quick inventory of her own body, she found she was slightly chilled, but no worse for the wear. Still, she kicked off her boots so her feet could dry and warm up.

Hearing no argument from Michael, she knew he must be frozen from head to toe. "Stay here, I'll find the bathroom," she said as she walked from the kitchen.

She quickly explored the cabin. It was small - the kitchen, a living room with fireplace (thank god), bathroom, and two small bedrooms. She stepped into the bathroom and making sure there were no windows in the room turned on the light. The bathroom had a small stall shower, toilet, and sink. Enough to get the job done. She opened the shower door and turned on the hot water as high as it would go. Starting cold, it began to heat up and the room slowly filled with steam. Adjusting the spigots so the water was lukewarm, she went back to the kitchen to fetch Michael.

Standing at the doorway, she saw Michael holding his head between his hands. She wanted to ask him if he was okay, but knew the response would be "I'm fine," and decided to save her breath.

"Come," she simply said.

He stood from his chair and wearily followed her to the bathroom. His hand instinctively reached out to turn off the light, and Nikita merely stood by. Perhaps the bright light was disturbing him. She had found an emergency candle and matches under the sink, and the burning candle bathed the room with its soft glow.

"Shower. I'll see if there are towels," she told him and left the room. She heard the shower door click open and closed and the rhythm of the water interrupted by his body. She longed to get in the shower with him, but now was not the time. Not now and not ever, she reminded herself - right, and how long would that last this time?

The narrow hallway that separated the kitchen from the bathroom and bedrooms held two closets. Not much by way of linens, but a few threadbare towels and some sheets and blankets. She ran her hand over the nearest blanket. It was scratchy like wool only thinner, but it would do.

She stood outside the bathroom holding two towels and waited for Michael to emerge. She wanted nothing more than to soothe his aching body, his fragile soul, and his recently re-injured heart, but he wasn't ready. He'd let her know, somehow, if and when it was time. Slumping against the narrow hallway wall, she shook her head. How could she have fallen so deeply in love with a man who hid every part of himself from everyone? Everyone except her, and even those moments were glimpses or perhaps only shadows of what remained inside. Yet she lived for each one of those moments. When he let her in, she set up camp. Even when she hadn't planned to.

The sound of the water being shut off brought her back to the moment. Michael was injured and cold. He stepped out of the shower, the room filling with steam, and she handed him the towels. He ran his hands over his body, sluicing off the water drops, and took one of the towels from Nikita. Seemingly unconcerned about standing naked before her, he went to work on his feet, rubbing them with the towel until they were red. Wrapping that towel around his waist, he took the other from Nikita's hands and carefully wiped away the rest of the water. The last thing he did was towel dry his hair.

"Thank you," he said, handing her back the wet towel.

And what the hell am I supposed to do with this? She accepted the towel and flung it over the shower door.

"It's cold here," she said, "But there are sheets and blankets on one of the beds. You should sleep. Warm up, feel better." She was looking at his feet making sure there were no signs of frostbite when she was certain he was staring at her. Lifting her eyes she was met with his looking back at her. Shining, caring, he simply nodded.

"This way," she said.

He followed the small flashlight beam which led the way to the bedroom. Towel still wrapped around his waist, he lifted the blankets she had prepared and slid into the bed. He closed his eyes the instant his head was resting against the pillow.

"I'll be fine," he said. Nikita sat on the edge of the bed, but made no move to touch him. "Thank you," he said, his eyes still closed.

"You're welcome," she answered, and watched as he instantly fell into a deep sleep.

Yeah right, you'll be thanking me when you find out what I've been up to for the last three years. Probably with a bullet. And the way she was feeling right now that didn't sound half bad.

What did she used to dream? That after they had escaped their imprisonment by Red Cell and she was unconscious in the Medlab, he had kissed her and told her it wasn't all a lie. She was never quite sure whether it was real or a dream. And now she was haunted by a new dream. A dream that would soon be real, that would require her to tell him she had never loved him. Not now, not ever. The lie was so enormous, so egregious; she hadn't dared practicing the sentence. She knew what she had to do, and she would only be able to say it once.

She might never see him again when this was over, the lie would lingering between them, but in her heart she had never loved so hard and so deeply ever. And never would again. Listening to his steady breathing and assuring herself he was going to be fine, she left his side. Wandering through the house, she realized she was incredibly hungry. Grateful that there was still power to the house, she opened the refrigerator in anticipation. Other than some old butter, salad dressing, and smoked fish, it was utterly empty. Moving on to the freezer she almost screamed with happiness when she saw it was filled. With what, she couldn't tell. Everything was in white butcher paper. Meat? Fish? She didn't care. Only problem was the thawing. She scanned the kitchen for a microwave oven and was immediately disappointed.

How did her mother thaw meat? Smiling, she remembered one of the few wonderful nights she had had with her mother. Arriving home at the apartment, no boyfriend in tow or coming soon, she had a large plastic bag full of shrimp.

"Look honey," she said, "Tonight we live like rich folks."

"What is it?" Nikita asked, expecting the bag to be filled with gold.

"Shrimp!" her mother answered.

Frowning, the ten year old asked, "What's that?"

"Something you should always enjoy," her mother replied. Curious, Nikita had watched her as she filled the sink with water, cold she thought, and plunged the plastic bag in.

"What are you doing?" she had asked.

"Thawing the shrimp," her mother said. Removing one shrimp from the bag she handed it to Nikita to show her it was frozen. Nikita handed it back and her mother plunged it into the water. Swirling it around the sink a few times, she removed it and handed it back. "See how it's already softer?" she asked.

Nikita nodded, grinning at her mother. "Shrimp," she repeated.

Ignoring the ache in her throat brought on by the memory, Nikita turned on the sink and filled it with water. She stuck into the water bath three or four hunks of paper-wrapped foods and waited for the thaw.

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

The meat, she thought it was meat, was taking too long to thaw for her to eat something immediately, so she ransacked the cupboards and found some stale crackers. They tasted marvelous. Washing them down with a glass of extremely cold water, she stared out the window, mesmerized by the falling snow.

She wasn't sure if she had ever seen so much snow. No wonder the Norwegians did so well at the Winter Olympics. The place was a veritable snowmaking machine. Taking one last drink of water, she looked at her watch - the illuminated dial read 1:15 am. Tired, she realized she probably should have gone to sleep hours earlier. Michael had already been sleeping for three, and every time she checked on him, he seemed comfortable in sleep.

Rubbing her hands together to return some warmth to them, she decided she should rest with Michael. She wanted to be near, but more importantly she hadn't turned on the heat in the cabin, and while it was more comfortable than outside, it was still cold. Both of them would rest better if they were together.

Entering the room where Michael was sleeping, she peeled off her mission clothes leaving only her silk long underwear. She never would have believed that something as thin as silk could keep one warm, but she had been sold on it a long time ago. Belgium came to mind. Sliding into the bed and feeling the warmth of Michael's body next to her she forced herself to forget about Belgium.

Curling her long body next to Michael's, she allowed herself the luxury of resting her head next to his. She moved close to him, trying not to disturb him, and he responded by simply rolling onto his side and pulling her close. She was certain he was still asleep, but her physical nearness caused his instinctive reaction.

Push him away, don't let him. But she found herself scooting closer to his body, reveling in his warmth. God, he was warm.

She closed her eyes, waiting for Shakespeare's sweet relief of sleep. Instead, she thought about the phone call she received an hour before leaving for this mission.

"It's a go," Mr. Jones said.

"Repeat," she replied, not wanting to hear those words ever.

His Mick persona answered, "One month, it's a go lollipop. Cheerio." .

In one month she would betray everyone she ever loved in Section, especially the sleeping figure beside her. A bullet would do right about now, but instead Michael snaked his hand over her abdomen and pulled her closer. His breath warmed her neck, his embrace tight and unforgiving. If only he knew. Exhaustion winning out over castigation she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.

***********

The windows began rattling as the whipping wind kicked up with more velocity. The noise awoke Nikita from her restless sleep in time to see Michael lurching for his gun.

Grabbing his shoulder, she said, "It's just the wind." She could see his pulse throbbing in his neck, the abrupt awakening having sent a bolus of adrenaline through his system. "It's okay," she soothed.

He allowed her to press him back gently onto the mattress and pull the covers up over his chest. He lifted his hand to his face, covering his eyes like a mask, and rubbed. "Where are we?" he asked, his hand still covering his eyes.

"Norway," she said, laughing at her own joke. She checked the time to see it was still the middle of the night, but the room was filled with a subtle brightness from the reflection of the snow. "We were in an accident," she said.

Michael's arm slid over his forehead, and he rested his arm, palm up towards the ceiling, against the pillow. He stared upwards. "Have you called in?" he asked.

"None of the equipment is working," she said. "I don't know if there's a snow equivalent to a hurricane, but that's what we're having." She stood from the bed and walked over to the small window. Grinning, she turned back to Michael and said, "The snow is almost as high as the window."

She climbed back on the bed, almost afraid to touch him, and sat bowlegged next to his reclining figure. "Do you remember how we got here?"

Closing his eyes, he said, "You."

Nikita had learned long ago how to interpret most of his one and two word answers. She thought that meant he understood that she had found the cabin.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asked, expecting his stock answer. Instead, she received no answer. She studied his face, searching for an injury she might fix. But his injuries weren't on the outside.

"Water," he said after several silent minutes, "please."

Hopping off the bed, she didn't bother bringing her flashlight, as the house was palely lit by the sparkling snow. Finding a glass in the kitchen, she filled it and carried it back to him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, the towel crumpled on the floor.

"Thank you," he said, emptying the glass in one long drink.

"I think you should go back to sleep," she said.

His head was tilted down, his eyes focused on the floor, if they were focused at all, and he said, "Soon."

Not quite sure what to do, she sat down next to him, and carefully placed her hand on his shoulder.

Shrugging it off, he said, "Not now, Nikita."

Not wanting to acknowledge he had hurt her feelings, she said, "Of course, go to sleep." She moved back to her side of the bed and buried herself beneath the covers. She felt his body slide next to her - her heart skipping a beat just at the nearness of him. She rolled towards him, lying on her stomach, and placed her hand in his. He gently squeezed her hand and went back to sleep.

Nikita was soothed by the steady stream of rhythmic breathing coming from the man next to her. He never slept like this unless he was injured and she guessed he took a hell of a whack on his head to be slumbering so deeply. She allowed herself to relax against him, hoping that listening to him breath would lull her to sleep.

Drifting in and out of a light sleep, the worries of what must happen in a month bubbling to the forefront of her mind, the sound of a branch scratching against the wall woke her. Michael was still sleeping, and her watch said it was only four in the morning. Why was it when she could sleep morning arrived ten minutes after closing her eyes, and now morning seemed as far away as it had when she first got into bed?

She closed her eyes and told herself to think of anything but what would happen in a month. Never an insomniac, she didn't even know any tricks to fall asleep. Happy thoughts, right, isn't that one? The only happy thought she had was at this very moment she was alone with the man she had loved for so long, who had finally allowed himself to return her feelings, and they were completely cut off from Section. Letting out a long sigh, she slid towards him and rested her head on his sleeping chest. He curled his arm around her and she allowed herself to feel just a tiny bit of happiness.

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

She could tell immediately that Michael was awake, his grip on her loosening. Rolling over onto her back, she asked, "Are you alright?"

"I think so," he offered, nearly sending her in shock, his actually admitting that he wasn't yesterday.

She turned her head towards him and was rewarded with a tiny smile on his face.

The room was marginally brighter than the last time she had opened her eyes, and she guessed it was probably around six in the morning.

"It's still snowing," she said, "I don't think we're going anywhere for a while." Expecting Michael to tell her to contact Section, she waited for his response. "Michael, don't you have anything to say?" she asked.

"No," he replied.

Sitting up, Nikita was hit with the chilly air in the room. "I'm going to see if there's any wood and start a fire." She stood from the bed and went to the living room. She was astonished at what she saw. Snow flakes so thick she couldn't see beyond the immediate curtain of snow outside the window. But what she could see was amazing. There had to be at least sixty centimeters of snow on the ground. The wall of windows in the living room was nearly covered with snow halfway up from the ground.

"Michael!" she shouted, "you've got to come see this."

There was something so peaceful, so soothing, so innocent about the lush white cold that surrounded them. She felt a great desire to run out of the house and throw her body into it.

"Beautiful," he said, joining her in the small living room. He had wrapped the towel around his waist, and his skin was covered with goose bumps from the cold.

Nikita spun around to talk to him, but when she met his green eyes - each speckled with differing degrees of green, she found herself speechless. How many times had she lost herself in those eyes? Staring at him, she finally mustered her voice and said, "I..."

Before she could spit out the words, something idiotic about the snow, Michael lifted his hand to her face, and placed a finger on her lips, quieting her.

Giving him a quizzical look, she turned from him and the snow and saw a pile of wood next to the fireplace. "Kindling," she said to herself. She rummaged through a box that sat near the fire, and couldn't believe her luck. Newspapers. In Norwegian. She couldn't even read the date. But they were perfect. Separating the sheets from each one, she rolled them out into long strips and tied them in knots. Stuffing a layer on the grate, she added three firewood sticks, struck a match, and waited for the fire to grow.

Expecting to see a nearly naked Michael still standing behind her, she was surprised to be alone. She glanced into the kitchen and found him fully dressed and searching for something in his pack.

"Your clothes are still wet," she said, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Out," he said, zipping up his jacket. He opened the door to the porch, only to be met with a wall of snow. Seeming to ignore the freezing obstacle in his way, he stepped ahead, closed the door, and disappeared into the storm.

Nikita resisted chasing after him. She had learned a long time ago that was a fruitless effort.

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

Within ten minutes Michael was covered with snow from head to toe. The temperature was just below freezing, and the wind howled in his ears. He kept the cabin to his left as he began a circumnavigation of the area. He glanced down at the navigational device in his hand and while the GPS wasn't working, the old-fashioned magnetic compass worked fine.

His eyes adjusted to the wild patterns of snow whipping around him, and he saw that they were located on a large lake. At least he thought it was lake as all he could see was a broad expanse of white that was several hundred meters below the cabin. He expected that if there had been no snow, he would see many docks leading out into the water.

Pushing his body through the snow, he was acutely aware of how tired he really felt. His head ached terribly as if someone had tried to cut it open with a sword. He'd had plenty of concussions since his 'recruitment' to Section, and while this wasn't the worst - Copenhagen came to mind - it was a pretty bad one. It wasn't the pain that bothered him that much, he adapted well under that circumstance, it was the havoc it wreaked with his emotions. He struggled not to just start laughing or cry. He'd managed to never show Nikita how badly concussions affected him, but he feared given their current circumstances he might not have a choice.

Liar.

It wasn't that exactly, his brain confirmed. It was what had been nibbling away at him for at least a year. Something wasn't right. Wasn't right with Nikita. At first he had thought it was the pressure of defying Operations and Madeline. Then he thought perhaps the effects of being Gelmanized had not been completely erased. Then he worried that she had truly fallen in love with Helmut. What was it that she had said?

He was a good man. In another world, another life, he would have responded with a "That's a load of bullshit," but in their world, the best he could do was to say, Good men are hard to find.

But he hadn't survived Section for ten years by being stupid or ignoring his instincts. Which was what worried him. Whatever was wrong with her was none of the above.

None of the above and you know it.

Stopping to catch his breath and being careful not to inhale any snow, he vowed he would get some answers. Except there was only one problem - he didn't know how. Didn't know how to take her hand, look into her eyes, and say, "I love you. You can tell me anything. Tell me what's keeping you awake at night." Words he would never utter. Why? Because he had painted himself into the tiniest corner of the room with his silences. Words now were not to be believed. She finally trusted him, told him she understood the betrayals - that the betrayals were all words, that she knew he loved her because of his actions. And now, he found himself standing on point, his weight squeezed between the corners of the room because he had shown her for so long his words were meaningless.

He lifted his hand to shade his eyes and scanned the area. Nothing but snow, snow, and more snow. He felt his eyes tearing from the wind and decided to head back to the cabin, Nikita, and the secrets she held. Dragging his weary legs through the snow, he told himself he would try to find a way to reach her. A way for her to finally unburden the secret that was slowly killing her.

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

Nikita removed all of the white-wrapped packages from the sink. It didn't matter what time it was if all they had was steak, fine. She placed one package on the sink and put the rest in the refrigerator. Unwrapping the one that was left, she was pleased to discover something that looked like chicken. While canned vegetables were not her typical meal, days in places that had never heard of a fresh vegetable had taught her that canned was better than nothing.

Within twenty minutes, she had prepared some kind of chicken casserole slowly cooking on top of the stove. Not wanting to risk the oven losing power, she chose not to use it in case the power went out. She had enough matches to relight the gas burner if the power was lost. Dipping a spoon into the pan for a taste, she wrinkled her nose and sighed. Well, Escoffier might not approve, but it would be good enough for her and Michael. She had found some rice that didn't appear too ravaged and had dumped that into the pan as well. Looking down at her creation she thought she'd probably made enough for a dozen people. That should cover them for a couple of days.

One chore down, just a few more to go. She filled several large containers she had found in a closet with water. She was sure the small cabin probably had a well, and a well always had a pump. Better fill up a bunch of containers with water now then have to be melting snow if the power went out. Finished with that, she scanned the kitchen, put away the items she had washed, and called it complete. Before leaving the kitchen for a shower, she turned the heat to off beneath her casserole and left it to warm.

Heading down the hallway, she entered the bathroom and flicked on the light. It was daytime and she really didn't give a particular damn if having the light on bothered Michael. She turned on the shower and peeled off her clammy silks, thinking she ought to hang them by the fire - after her shower. Feeling the steam rising from the shower, she stepped in and was instantly gratified by the hot water. She rubbed the aching muscles of her shoulders and tried to push away Jones' nagging voice.

It's a go.

Cursing loudly at him, she turned off the water, stepped from the shower and dried herself with towel she had given Michael yesterday. She picked up her silk underwear from the floor, wrapped herself in the towel and carried the underwear out to the living room.

"Hi," Michael said.

She hadn't seen him sitting in the living room, or noticed that most of his clothes had been neatly draped over furniture next to the fire. She dared not look at him too carefully, not wanting to know what items of clothing, if any, were left on his body. She thought she had seen some kind of blanket across his body. Don't think about it. Gathering the seam of the towel in one hand, holding it in place, she smiled and placed her underwear near the fire. Carefully draping it over a chair, she swore she could feel Michael's eyes boring through her skin. And just the thought of him looking at her, examining her body as if she were a fine jewel sent shockwaves of desire through her body. Facing the fire, she tried to ignore her body's reaction to him. Damn him. I can't just fall into his arms because he's looking at me. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him.

"How is it outside?" she asked nonchalantly, her fingers numbing at the tightness with which she held the towel closed.

"Cold," Michael replied. Nikita watched as he moistened his lips with his tongue and left them parted slightly. How could a gesture so normal be so sexual, so sensual?

You need more sleep, woman.

Smiling uncomfortably, she said, "There's food to eat and I'm going to rummage through the place and see if there are any clothes we can borrow." Not giving him time to respond, she turned on her heel and quickly hurried from the room, heading for the bedroom they had not slept in.

Entering the room, she surveyed its contents noting a bed, a dresser, and a closet. She stood before the dresser and opened the drawers to find several more blankets and pillows. Too bad you can't sew. You could make a fine dress out of this. Trying not to laugh, she thought maybe she was the one with the concussion. What ridiculous thoughts she kept having.

"Better that than destroying everyone you love," she muttered to herself.

"What is?" Michael asked.

Nikita's mouth went dry. The bastard had crept up behind her and she hadn't even heard him. God, she wished he wouldn't do that.

"What?" she asked innocently, desperately hoping her large smile would distract him from his question.

"Destroying what you love," he said, nearly quoting her. He leaned against the doorway, and Nikita felt herself being turned inside out by his eyes. He was searching her for answers. To why she had been so withdrawn. Why she had refused his invitation to live with him. Why she'd turned him away from her bed so many times. So many times.

How the hell am I going to answer that?

"You're cold," she finally answered, her eyes acknowledging his nakedness.

"Yes," he replied playfully, the corners of his mouth turned up in a tiny smile.

Nikita held her breath as she took in the man before her. She wanted nothing more to make love to him that very moment, soothe away any pain he had left, but she knew if she did that the outcome would only be more pain for both of them. But if she refused him, pushed him away as she had, he might want an explanation, she might want to give one and everything she had worked for would be ruined. But tell him about Center was the one thing she couldn't do. Jones would have him killed and his freedom - the carrot that Jones had used for so long - would have been for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Love him now and he won't ask. Frowning, she added to her thought, Love him now and you're no better than any valentine op who uses sex to get what you want.

Instead of answering, she walked over to the closet and opened the door. It was just a bit smaller than the bathroom and it had hangar bars running along the length of the deep walls. And much to Nikita's delight, clothes hung from both sides. Ignoring the rapid heartbeat caused by the proximity of the man she loved, she began searching through its contents.

"Clothes," she said cheerfully, "lots of them." She slid a hangar an inch or two, examined the hanging item, and repeated the movement several times. "Some of these things might even fit," she announced. As she reached for the next hangar in line she felt Michael's hand interrupt her reach and take hold of her. Turning her head, she smiled at him nervously.

"I'm cold, don't know about you," she rambled, incapable of preventing her eyes from roaming over Michael's naked figure, "So let's see what we have here..."

And before she could finish her sentence, she felt his lips pressing carefully against hers. Warm and supple, his lips pulled at her, then his teeth tugged at them, pulling her in for a kiss. The masculine softness of his lips and the roughness of his tongue sent a quicksilver shiver down her spine. Damn him! She found herself kissing him in return, her tongue searching for his, for the taste of him, the taste that she had denied herself, punished herself for wanting. He placed a hand behind her head, and pulled her even closer. So close, so tight to him that she could feel her lips bruising from his passion.

Slipping a hand between them, she pushed him away, breaking the kiss. Lifting her eyes to his, she saw a mixture of desire and disappointment. "Michael," she said, ignoring the pulse in her ears and the ache in her groin, "I don't think..."

"Then don't," he said in a low tone, taking a step forward, pushing her back against the closet wall. "Enough thinking," he said as he released the towel from her body, both now naked, and began placing open kisses along the side of her throat. Trailing his tongue from behind her ear and down the center of her throat, Nikita's body waged a battle and won over the discourse in her mind. She had wanted him for so long, had held back, and now that she was allowing herself this pleasure, she was almost afraid to let go.

How ironic. You'll make love to him in a closet. So like where you've been hiding for three years.

Pressing her weight back against the wall, she inhaled the scent of him as his breath lingered before her. As he changed from kisses to small bites alongside her neck, his fingers traced ever so lightly beneath the curves of her breasts. Each touch was excruciating for her, the battle not completely won. As she felt Michael bringing her body to life, the roughness of his fingers against the softest spots on her skin, the cool warm sensation of his breath, his lips, she also felt a blinding flash of truth. She was going to let him fuck her - yes, that's what it was - and not utter a word. How obvious it all was. That she had been a fool since the very beginning. How could she believe that two people who had no control over their own lives could fall in love and be together?

Let him at least believe.

Michael moved from her throat, slowly rubbing her neck, her chin, her cheek with the rough stubble of his unshaven face. His lips found hers again, and he kissed her as though he hadn't kissed her in months. His weight against hers, he covered every inch of her skin with his own as his mouth still covered hers, his tongue searching all the soft tissue of her mouth. Taking her arms, he lifted them, bending them so her hands were at shoulder height and pinned them beside her, his palms pressed against hers. Finishing his kiss with a long pull on her lips with his teeth, he brought his eyes to hers.

"Why?" he asked, his voice low, angry, worried. He held her still, against the wall, his body pressed against hers, his arousal obvious between them.

"Why?" he repeated.

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

Although physically naked, Nikita felt suddenly more naked than she had ever been before. Did he know? Had he known all along?

Her voice heavy with emotion, she swallowed and said, "Why what?" Returning his stare, her eyes wet with unshed tears, she was met with suspicion, she knew it.

"Us," he said. His hands still pressing against hers, he moved his right leg between her legs and pushed against her with his thigh. "Why?" he asked again, moving his face within a hair's breadth of her own.

Feeling desperately afraid that he both knew everything and nothing, she hated how his sudden challenge made her body react. She was frightened - that he knew, that he didn't, that he was angry - but her body ached even more for him. You're sick. The hard muscle of his thigh rubbed between her legs, forcing them open, the wetness of her desire slick along his thigh betraying any attempt of hers to turn him away.

"I," she began, her voice husky with excitement and fear, and tinged with self-disgust for her response, "I love you."

I mean it Michael, I do. More than ever, more than anything. I just can't tell you the rest.

She pushed her hips harder against his leg, unsure of whether they were going to make love or fight. Fearing what other words might spill from her mouth, she shifted her eyes away from him and drifted to the contents on the shelf above the rod to her left. Several boxes. She wondered what might be in there. What secrets other people kept.

Michael stayed still except for moving one hand to her face. Carefully tracing her eyebrow with his thumb, his eyes dark with emotion, he asked again, "Why?"

Closing her eyes, afraid to speak, she waited. Waited to see what he would do next, waited to see if she had the strength to betray him and the strength to set him free. She had told him she loved him and it was true. Why wasn't that enough?

Because its Section.

She felt him move closer, his lips against her ear, the whisper, the question, "Why?"

She wanted so much to tell him, the words rested in the back of her throat. As she opened her eyes, she knew she couldn't tell him. "I'm sorry," she finally said as she moved her lips to his. Finding him resistant, she nipped at his lips, tugging at them to open, and he finally complied with a small sigh of pain. Seizing the opportunity she slipped her tongue in his mouth, trying to bring him back to her.

Erase the questions.

It was going to end badly, but she had to have him, she had to let him know she loved him. So she took a page from his book and showed him.

Michael returned her kiss, warming her mouth, sending waves through the pit of her stomach. She lifted one of her legs and wrapped it around him. He leaned against her, lifting her slightly so he could join her, fill her. Gasping against him, she squeezed her muscles against his erection as he rocked his hips, creating more tension, more pressure between them. Pressing his weight against her, leaving little space between them, each stroke was short, small, agonizing. She squirmed against him, silently pleading for more, for less, for it to end, to never end. Her heart yelled for him, her mind railed against him. Biting down along his shoulder, Nikita prayed the power of his touch would release her from her emotional torment.

While stroking her, thrusting in small movements, he slipped one hand between them, his thumb pressing against where she was most sensitive. That simple touch made her cry out, cry out his name into his ear, and she suddenly pushed against him, forcing him backwards, breaking the complete contact between them.

Nikita stood and stared at him. He looked beautiful, was beautiful. His chest lifted and fell with each breath, the muscles in his stomach were taught, his erection glistening with her desire. Falling to her knees, she grabbed his hips, and pulled him into her mouth. Tasting the musty mixture of herself mixed with him, she pulled on him hard, drawing more fluid from him. She felt his fingers twisting in her hair as he jerked himself against her, pushing into her as much length as possible and then rapidly withdrew, repeating the motions as a low groan slipped from his mouth. Tightening her grip on his hips, she held herself steady, encouraging him with her warm breath.

As if Michael sensed her deepening desire, he withdrew from her mouth, and pulled her to her feet. Pushing her back against the wall again, he crushed his mouth against hers, his tongue rough and hard against her, and slipped his hand between her legs, entering her with two fingers while his thumb rubbed against her hard arousal. Her hips responded swiftly, pushing against him, her need for his touch overwhelming. With each stroke of his fingers, her body became more alive, more sensual, more needy for him. And with each caress, her body sparked to life while her heart broke. He was kissing her, lightly scratching her breast with his other hand, while the other continued to make love to her. She thought she would explode. Explode with an erotic release, with a scream of pain, with a destroyed heart. She had to stop this.

Grabbing his hand, Nikita tore him away from her. Tears coursed down her face as she tried to find the words. Any words that would make this better.

"Tell me," he pleaded softly.

Nikita peered into her soul and was devastated by what she found. Nothing. The lies had piled so high, there was no way out except the one way she had promised Jones. Her mind filled with pain, her body filled with desire, she gave in. For just a brief time she would love him and he would feel loved, he would be loved, and maybe he could live another day.

"It's nothing," she said, as she moved slightly forward and placed the most tender of kisses on his lips. Searching his eyes for some acceptance of her answer, she moved her lips to his ear and whispered her love. Feeling his arms coming around her, she plied him with several kisses, and raised her hands to his shoulders. Pushing him slowly downwards, she slid down the length of the wall, bringing him with her until she was sitting, and he was kneeling before her. Breaking the kiss once they came to a sat, she drew her tongue across her lower lip, and moved forward, placing her palms against Michael's chest. She pushed him back slowly until he was on his back and sat on him so her wet folds were pressing against his erection.

Slowly, she began moving back and forth along the length of him, feeling him trying to penetrate her as she neared him. Denying him, she quickly slid forward, rubbing against him. Each time she slid back, she felt his hips buck against her, again trying to enter her, and each time she slid forward, pressing herself against him. Repeating this, at first slowly, and then more quickly, she pressed against him harder, stirring her senses, softening her heart, losing her mind and finding nothing but love for him. And as she jerked her hips more rapidly against the edge of his erection, she allowed herself the pleasure of letting him in.

Now joined together, the feeling in the pit of her stomach startled her. Such ferocious desire he caused in her, such desire giving her power. She sat straight up and stared into his eyes.

Please know that I love you.

He lifted his hands and pressed them against her breasts, his palms gently rubbing against her nipples. His eyes never left hers, waiting for her, for what she might say, might do.

I never meant to hurt you.

Clenching her muscles against him, but not yet moving with him, she opened her mouth to speak. "I..." but she didn't finish her sentence. He was staring at her with such love, such passion, that if she said the words, she thought she might die. Instead, she closed her eyes, and slowly began lifting her entire body from his. Not just a rocking motion, not just a small withdrawal, but completely lifted herself up so that he nearly fell from her body. As soon as she felt him about to fall, she slowly sat back down, the entire weight of her body pushing against him. With each near complete withdrawal, Michael exhaled a slow quiet moan, almost an aching sound, that squeezed Nikita's heart.

Are you sure that's not betrayal you're feeling?

She forced away the thought, shifting her weight back down off of her hands, trying to bury herself in him even as he was lost in her. He filled her, he completed her, he made her ache, made her want to be torn in two, made her body pulse for him, move for him, betray for him. The last thought crushed her and she suddenly stopped her movements. Closing her eyes, she wanted, she needed to feel his love, needed for him to believe she loved him. Needed to be free of Jones for JUST ONE MOMENT. She felt Michael's legs bend beneath her, his thighs pressing against her behind, sliding into her. Finding the freedom she craved, she began to meet each of his thrusts with one of her own creating a rhythm that allowed her mind to cease and her body to live. Not sure where he ended and she began, she could feel an ache inside, an ache he filled, he created - warming, burning, and an ache outside, at the pit of her stomach, where she ached for release, ached to be forgiven, for the passion to protect her from her lies.

Hearing herself cry out his name, a sound filled with passion and begging for forgiveness, she fell forward against him, the burn at last spreading across her lower body, the orgasm flooding her body with relief, with a moment of happiness. Her chest heaving against him, she felt him thrust into her, how many times she didn't know, until his fingers dug into her hips, his nails cutting into her skin as his own release spilled into her body. She pressed against him, her head against his chest, her belly against his, their bodies still joined.

Hearing his heart pound rapidly in her ear, she knew the sound of love, and this was it. He loved her. Had since the first day he protected her from the madness of Section One. And what was his reward? In one month's time, she would sell everyone out. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt no longer joined with him, the happiness she had slipped away and was replaced with emptiness.

"Are you OK?" Michael asked.

Lying on top of him, in a dark closet, not dissimilar to the one that was her life, she simply said, "I'm fine."

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

Michael held her against him as her words rang through his head. "I'm fine." Two words he hated almost more than anything. Two words that said nothing and said everything. Two words that had been his mantra for more years than he cared to remember.

While making love to her had been wonderful, pleasurable, passionate, the joy quickly passed and was replaced with a headache and fear. For the first time since he accepted his feelings for her, he was truly afraid that their destiny did not lie together. Impossible, he would see them together, he had promised her. He would make it happen.

The edges of cold finally sinking in, he gently shook Nikita's shoulder.

"I'm awake," she said, rolling off of him, and getting up into a stand. "Now where was I?" she asked casually.

Michael watched her as she examined the clothing and select several items. Was there a nervous edge to her perusal of the clothing? Was she hiding something still? Bringing himself to a stand, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

She turned to look at him, smiled, and said, "I'm fine, really." Placing a quick kiss on his cheek, she handed him a pair of slacks and a shirt. "These might fit." Staring at her, he slipped on the pants, and pulled the shirt over his head. "Perfect," she said with a grin. "I bet that fire I started is out now. Will you restart it for me?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied. Walking slowly from the closet, through the room, down the hall, he found himself in front of the fire. Indeed it had gone out. Had her feelings for him done the same?

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

Closing the door the closet, Nikita buried her face in her hands and sobbed. How could she let this happen? How could she have allowed him to make love to her? It only made the near future more impossible.

Stop it!

She hadn't worked this hard for this long to lose it over Michael. Her heart might not heal when this was over, but Section would be a better place - more human, more kind, and more effective, and Michael would have his freedom. That was the deal. And she had just come perilously close to ruining everything.

Leaving the small room, she slipped into the bathroom and took another shower. As the water beat down against her, she steeled her will, and prepared for the inevitable.

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

The fire filled the living room with warmth. Having restarted the fire and moved his things into the living room, he sat, staring out into the storm. He thought he had detected a lessening in the precipitation but wasn't sure. For some reason, he was suddenly anxious to get back to Section. He reached for his pack and lifted his cell phone from it. Flipping it open he dialed the number and hoped for a response.

To his relief he reached his contact and quietly left their location coordinates. Davenport's team would arrive in six hours for extraction. Michael slipped the phone back into his pack, and for a moment wondered if he had done the right thing in contacting Section so soon. Settling into his chair, he believed the opportunity for the truth, whatever it was, had passed. They had a job to do and they needed to return.

Coward.

But the truth was he had asked, and she had refused to answer and had offered her body in return. Of that he was certain.

Davenport's team couldn't reach them soon enough.

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

"Thank you," Michael said after tasting several bites of food.

Nikita grinned, "You haven't eaten in so long you'd probably enjoy anything," she said. They sat near the fire, each with a plate resting on their laps.

Holding her gaze, he nodded slightly and replied, "As you wish," and continued eating.

Rolling her eyes but still smiling, she scooped a forkful of rice and, she said, "I'm glad you like it." Looking past his shoulders and through the window she saw that the snow seemed to be falling with less intensity. "Looks like we'll be out of here in a couple of hours," she said turning to face him. He caught her eye but remained silent. She felt his gaze as though a million inquisitors were demanding answers from her. Answers she was not prepared to give.

They finished their food in silence and Nikita brought their plates to the kitchen. She quickly washed and dried them, and decided instead of throwing away the rest of the food, she would freeze it.

They have been so nice to us, we'll be nice back.

She wrapped the food in butcher paper she had found in the cupboard and wrote a note. She doubted the owners of the cabin could read English, but what the heck. This food had helped save their lives and they deserved to be thanked. Even if they couldn't read it.

Feeling slightly less guilty And how long has it been since you stopped beating your wife she finished cleaning the kitchen. Standing at the edge of the room, she smiled, it looked better than it had when they arrived. At least that was one thing she had done right.

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

The two weary operatives sat in the hollow cave of the transport plane, each on a separate bench, each lost in their own thoughts.

"We thought you guys were dead," Davenport ventured.

"In Operation's dreams," Nikita muttered, vaguely wishing it were true. Or at least that they'd made a run for it. Leaning back against the cold metal of the wall, she closed her eyes. She wouldn't run, wouldn't jeopardize the mission and she hated herself for it. She began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Davenport asked.

Opening her eyes, she stared into his dark features. She liked him despite the fact he'd tried to kill her and Michael a couple of times. No matter. He was just a drone doing his job, trying to stay alive. And wasn't that what she was trying to change? To give these operatives something to hold on to besides avoiding cancellation? She smiled, shrugged, and said, "Private joke."

He narrowed his eyes, dropped his voice, and said, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied.

End