In an exam room in the Medlab of a deep underground hell called Section One, Dr. Brian Whicker ran a hand through his dark, curly hair and cursed silently to himself.

*Sh&t* he thought. *I really hate this part of my job*

He folded his arms across his chest, took a deep breath, and gazed at his patient, a look of compassion in his blue eyes.

"We got your test results back this morning," Brian began gently. "And I'm afraid there is cause for concern.." He licked his lips nervously. "I have some bad news."

The man on the exam table did not flinch. He could handle this. Wasn't his life, wasn't Section, all about handling the bad news?

"How bad is it?" he demanded, coming right to the point. He glared at the doctor impatiently, letting him know he expected an answer as succinct and direct as his question.

Dr. Whicker answered in kind, relieved that the patient wanted him to be blunt.

"Very bad," Brian said, his tone still gentle. "There has been some residual organ damage from when you were shot last year. The scar tissue formed has contributed to the problem, but basically, the organ never healed from the damage, and now..." He paused, his voice even more sympathetic. "Now, the organ is failing....."

The patient grimaced, and closed his pale blue eyes. He had faced death before. Death was an old, familiar enemy. In all their previous encounters, he had always won. He fully expected to win now. Of the two of them, Death was a pansy-fighter compared to Operations.

"Are you saying I'm dying?" Operations barked in a sarcastic tone, with almost a sneer in his voice for his old opponent, Death.

Brian took in a deep breath. "I'm saying, your liver is failing and that medically there is little I can do for you to stop that process..."

The gray-haired man blinked. Th news was a kick in the gut, but he held on to one word- "little". The doctor had not said "nothing" could be done, just "little". There was still hope.

"What are my options?" he said in a demanding tone, much like as if he were at the briefing table demanding sims and scenarios from his operatives.

Brian gave a frustrated sigh. " Not many, I'm afraid. If it was cancer, there would be things I could do. There are drugs, and radiation, that the organ would respond to, because there would be a healthy part of it left..." He shook his head. "As it is, the entire liver is shutting down, dying on its own, and I have nothing to fight it with..."

He looked at the leader of Section One with sincere pity in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he concluded softly.

Operations leapt up from the table and gripped the doctor by the lapels of his white lab coat, jerking him forward until his face was inches from his own. He glared into the younger man's eyes.

"That answer is unacceptable," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Give me another option."

Brian remained calm, and met the patient's eyes. "There is one thing we can do," he said wearily, "But the odds are very slim...."

Operations released him, and sat down again on the table, his legs suddenly going weak under him as he was flooded with relief.

"Whatever it is, we'll do it," Operations said, his confidence returning. "What is it?"

The doctor sighed and leaned back against the counter behind him. "A transplant," he answered, voice still weary.

The older man smiled. "Fine," he said, happy that he had elicited a simple answer from the doctor. Medical people always wanted to complicate things. "It's settled, then," Operations went on. "Call me when you find the donor and we'll take care of it." He hopped off the table and walked to the door.

Brian stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said gently. "But there is no donor."

Operations went pale. "What do you mean, there is no donor?" he barked.

Brian looked away, his voice soft. "I've been running a check on all the data-bases and current organ lists around the world." He looked back, meeting his patient's eyes. "There's no match. Not even anyone close."

The patient responded angrily. "Dammit, man, there are billions of people in the world. You're saying that of those billions not one of them can fill the bill?"

Brian sighed. "You don't need billions of strangers," he answered quietly. "You need someone close. Someone with the same blood and tissue as you have..." Another sigh. "... a relative. A brother, a sister, a child..."

The older man blanched, swaying on his feet for a moment. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he yelled. "Are you telling me I should bring in a family member, assuming I have any, and let you butcher him so I can live?"

The image of his son Stephen came to his mind. Operations saw him as he was the last time they were together- saw Stephen as a child, a sweet little boy of five years old, not the angry, bitter twenty-seven year old man he was today. There was no way, no matter how desperate he was, no matter how much Section needed him, that he would ever harm his son.

Brian shook his head and led the shaky Operations to a chair, and helped him sit down. "No, of course I'm not saying that," he told him. He ran a hand through his hair again, and leaned up against the counter as before.

"There's been some success with close relatives donating partial organs," he explained. "Most notably a case where an infant daughter with liver failure was transplanted with a section of her mother's liver..."

"What happened?" Operations asked tensely.

Brian smiled gently. "The baby is thriving and the mother healed. The donated portion was not rejected and grew to take over all the liver function that the child needed."

"Does this process work with adults?" Operations asked warily, trying not to get his hopes up.

Brian nodded. "Yes, actually. There was not much success at first, but since it was discovered that electro-magnetic fields enhanced the growth process, and certain drugs reduced the rejection rate, there has been a much higher success rate..."

"And the donors?" Operations asked anxiously, thinking of Stephen, his mind working furiously. "What kind of risk is this procedure for them?"

Brian was happy to tell him some good news. "Not much risk at all. They've never lost a donor."

Operations leapt up from his chair. He had been feeling weak and sick for months now, but at this moment his strength, along with hope, returned. He grinned at Brian. "I want you to stand by, Doctor," he said to Brian's surprise, slapping the young surgeon on the shoulder. "I just might have the donor we're looking for."

Brian gave him a bewildered look. "But I checked your personnel records. They said you had no family..."

The gray-haired man smiled, but his eyes were sad. "I don't, Doctor," he said with an ironic grimace, his smile fading. "And if anyone asks, that's what you will tell them, understand?"

"Yessir," nodded Brian, still bewildered. "Whatever you say."

Operations clapped him on the shoulder once more. "Good lad," he said approvingly, and with that, he walked out the door, his expression firm and determined.

*Nikita* thought the dying man as he left Medlab. *I need to find Nikita.*

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

Nikita smiled in her sleep and snuggled under the covers. She was having the dream again. The good one, where Michael whisked her away in the limo, and then told the driver to take them to a five star hotel. Handsome and resplendent in his tuxedo, his green eyes blazing with passion, he leaned toward her to caress her cheek with his hand, and touch eager lips to hers....

"Awwhh," she moaned angrily, as the dream ended abruptly and she came instantly awake at the loud, insistent knocking at her door. Blearily, she looked at the clock. Ten minutes after three. A.M. There was only one person who had ever visited her at such an ungodly hour. One person who thought he had the right to bother her anytime, day or night. One person who thought he owned her.

And, unfortunately, it wasn't the man of her dreams.

The impatient knocking sounded again, and Nikita let out another groan, grabbing for her robe. She hastily slipped it around her shoulders and padded quickly to the door, where the security camera mounted on the wall confirmed her guess as to the identity of her visitor.

As she expected. Not Michael. Operations.

She unbolted the door and took the chain off the lock, swinging the door wide. "Come in," she invited in a sarcastic tone. "So nice of you to drop by."

"Good evening." The dapperly dressed silver-haired man bowed to her in acknowledgement and brushed by her to enter the apartment, taking a seat on the couch. Nikita shut the door and followed him into the living area, choosing not to sit in a chair but to slouch against the kitchen counter.

She regarded him thoughtfully as he searched his pockets for a cigarette and matches. He looked older somehow, pale and drawn, and weary. Maybe in pain.

"What do you want?" she asked gruffly, her tone not as harsh as it could be, because of her sudden rush of sympathy. He did look miserable.

He sighed wearily and took a drag of his cigarette. "I need your help to find someone," he said softly, not offended at her rudeness.

Nikita tilted her head and gave him a suspicious look. "Who?" she asked warily. "And why me? Isn't that Birkoff's job to..."

He cut her off. "No," he said sharply. “No one in Section can know about this." He glared at her. "Is that understood?"

"Whatever," Nikita answered off-handedly with a nonchalance she didn't feel. She was burning with curiosity now, as well as fear. "Just who am I looking for?" she asked tensely.

Operations leaned back on his seat, exhaled the smoke from his lungs and closed his eyes. "My son," he said softly. "Stephen."

Nikita gasped. "Stephen?" she choked out. This was the last name she expected to hear. "What do you want with Stephen?"

Operations ignored her question and looked at her speculatively. "So you know where he is?" he asked shrewdly. "You've kept track of him?"

Nikita saw no advantage to lying. Section's leader already knew the truth, anyway. "Yes, I have," she admitted reluctantly. "I know how to get in touch with him, too, if I need to," she added in a defiant tone, knowing Operations would understand.

Of course she had kept track of Stephen. She had wanted to keep her options open, wanted to be able to use the threat of telling Stephen that his father was alive, and not dead in Vietnam as he was told, to keep Operations in line. Just in case the Section leader ever threatened her, or put her in a truly impossible position.

Her, or Michael. Stephen was her ace in the hole.

"Good," said Operations with a relieved sigh. "I want you to contact him now. And then I want you to bring him to this address."

He dug in his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and held it out to her.

Nikita stared at him warily. What game was Operations playing with her now? she thought, as she accepted the paper from his hand and read it.

She looked up, startled. "A hospital in Switzerland?" she asked, bewildered. "Is Stephen sick?"

Operations gave her a death's head grin. "No," he said, eerily smiling. "I am." He took another puff of his cigarette and continued his explanation.

"I’m dying, in fact," he said gruffly. "And I want to see my son one more time before I... go." He fixed her with his intense blue-eyed gaze. "Will you help me?" he begged softly. "Please?"

"Oh, my God..." Nikita gasped, stunned. She crossed the room to him, sitting next to him on the couch. She took his hand in hers, suddenly forgetting their past history and her hatred and mistrust of him, subsumed as she was in sympathy for his plight.

Getting him to talk to and reconcile with his son Stephen was what she had encouraged him to do when she had first learned of the existence of Stephen. But Operations had refused, citing that the only way to protect Stephen, to keep him from being a terrorist target, was to let him go on thinking his father was dead. In this case, knowledge would be a death sentence.

*He must be really suffering, emotionally and physically, to risk such a meeting* Nikita thought to herself, her heart breaking for him and his lost time with his son.

She patted her boss's hand. "Of course, I'll help you," she reassured him. "I'll bring him to Switzerland as soon as possible."

Operations smiled, and stood up. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "This means everything to me."

He didn't tell her that it meant life or death. And he also didn't tell her he planned on keeping Stephen sedated and unaware of his existence before, during, and after, the whole transplant procedure. There would be no tender reunion between father and son. To let Stephen know he was alive, to let him know about Section, was a death sentence for the boy.

But he didn't need to tell Nikita about that. He had told her just enough of the truth to elicit her compassion and sympathy. That compassion and sympathy would save his life now, even though, over and over again, he had tried to crush those very qualities in her.

He was, for once, grateful that he had not succeeded.

She escorted him with a supporting hand under his elbow as he walked slowly to the door. He felt exhausted suddenly, now that his mission to procure Stephen was over.

With his hand on the door handle, he turned to Nikita to give her one more instruction. "Please don't tell him about me- don't tell him that I exist," he pleaded. "I want to be the one to explain everything to him, in my own way. You understand?"

Nikita smiled at him warmly, her eyes bright with sentimental tears. "I understand," she said gently. "Good night, Sir," she added softly, as he went through the door.

He turned and smiled back. "Good night, Nikita," he told her, and then walked away.

As he heard her apartment door close behind him, the sick old man was struck by a great irony. He, one of the most powerful men on earth, with vast resources at his command, was helpless. None of his power could help him now- not money, or political manipulations, or nuclear arsenals, or armies, or computers. It was not power or strength that would save him, but what he considered weaknesses- compassion, sympathy, humanity.

The idea made him extremely uncomfortable. He shivered, and tried to shrug off his pensive mood, telling himself not to be maudlin.

By the time he reached his car, he had succeeded in controlling his wayward thoughts, replacing his sentimentality with the idea of a new power trip. He was already gleefully planning his punishment for Nikita for being so compassionate as he drove back to Section.

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

Nikita lounged back on the bus-stop bench downtown, casually waiting for her prey. Behind a pair of dark, conveniently opaque sunglasses, she watched the building across the street as the office workers emerged from the doors in groups and droves. It was the noon hour, and the men and women in conservative business suits spilled out onto the sidewalk, all of them looking surprisingly alike.

She almost missed him, he had changed so much. Stephen wore the conservative uniform of his fellow workers- navy suit, tie in a subdued mix of colors, and a white shirt. He had grown his hair out from the fashionable, radical buzz-cut he had sported when she had last seen him, and it was now combed in a neat, almost military style above his collar, much like his father's, only without the gray.

Gone, too, were the trademark, small gold earrings he had worn, that, to Nikita's mind, had suited him. However, he still had the jaunty, confident air of before, and the compelling blue eyes. Otherwise, she would have hardly known it was him.

In one smooth movement, Nikita rose gracefully from the bench and then slipped expertly into the crowd, keeping Stephen in her sight at all times as he flowed with the stream of people on the sidewalk. She caught up to him after half a block, and with an easiness she did not feel, she came up behind him and casually slipped her arm through his.

Startled, he turned to look at her. His eyes widened, but he did not pull his arm from hers; recognition was instantaneous. "Nikita?" he gasped.

"Hi, there!" she greeted him with a dazzling, if somewhat vacuous smile. "Long time no see! How ARE you?"

"I'm fine," he said automatically, somewhat dazed. "How are you?"

She beamed at him, still playing her "blonde" act for the benefit of any observers. "I'm just THRILLED to see you again, Darling, that's how I am," she gushed in a flirtatious tone. "Can I buy you lunch, maybe, or a cup of coffee?"

She lowered her voice, leaned closer, and said under her breath, "We need to talk. It's important."

Stephen regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, looking almost as if he would like to refuse her invitation. Then he nodded. "All right," he drawled in agreement. "But won't your boyfriend object?"

"Boyfriend?" she asked, puzzled.

"You remember, don't you, Darling?" he said in a sarcastic tone, using the same endearment as she. "Michael, wasn't that his name? You know, the guy who hung all over you? The guy who double-crossed the Crew? The guy who you kept me from shooting by shooting me first?"

Nikita blushed. "Oh, him..." she said in a small voice. "No, Michael won't object."

"Besides," she added, looking away from him, "He's not my boyfriend."

Stephen snorted and shook his head. "Yeah? well, you could have fooled me...."

He stopped their progress down the sidewalk and turned her in his arms to face him. "What is this about, Nikita?" he demanded querulously. In that instant, it struck Nikita how much he looked like his father- impatient, commanding, authoritative.

"You didn't look me up just to reminisce about old times, so what gives?" he went on sharply. "Why the hell are you here?"

Nikita gave him a warning look and motioned with her head for them to get off the sidewalk where they were drawing attention, blocking pedestrian traffic. "I'll tell you, but not here.." she whispered urgently. "Come..."

She led him into the next eating place they came to on the block, a small, dingy coffee shop, which was fortunately not crowded. They found seats right away in a booth in the back.

When they had settled in with coffee and sandwiches that Stephen had ordered and paid for, he turned the piercing blue eyes back in her direction.

"Well?" he asked again, his tone abrupt. "What's this about?"

Nikita looked at him, somewhat at a loss as to how to begin. She hadn't expected this hostility. They had parted cordially, as friends, each wishing the other good luck and a happy life.

"Why are you so ... suspicious, Stephen?" she asked in a hurt tone, that was only partially feigned. " I'm your friend; you act like I'm out to hurt you..."

He froze for a second, a shocked look on his face. Then he shook his head and gave her the dazzling smile and a sweet laugh. "I'm sorry," he said ruefully, letting out a sigh. "I didn't mean to be such a bastard, but, frankly, seeing you again scared me a little..." He gave another charming smile.

"Scared you?" Nikita said in shock.

"Yeah," he answered, leaning back in the booth, relaxing, and taking his first taste of coffee. He let out a sigh. "Seeing you kind of brings it all back," he told her. "The old life. The person I was. The things I've tried so hard to get away from in the past year..."

She nodded encouragingly. "I see you've changed quite a bit," she commented gently.

He looked down at his clothes and then gave her a sly grin. "Yeah, I look like a corporate drone, don't I?" he said with a self-deprecating laugh. "But at least I make my money honestly now..." His face took on a grave expression. "I'm not an out-of-control thief anymore. I'm not a criminal. I'm not someone my father would be ashamed of to have as his son...." he added in an anguished whisper.

"Your... father?" Nikita gasped. "What about your father?"

Stephen gave her a small smile. "I took your advice, Nikita, remember?" He leaned toward her and took her hand in his. "You told me that my father wouldn't have wanted me to waste my life away looking for him. You told me to go live my own life..."

He gripped her fingers, hard. "So I took a good, hard look at myself after that," he said intently. "And I realized that IF I found my father, IF he was alive, he probably wouldn't like me very much..."

He laughed ruefully again and sat back in his seat, regarding her almost shyly. "Hell, *I* didn't even like me much, when I thought about it."

He shook his head and took another sip of coffee. "So I decided to give up chasing his ghost and maybe... maybe.." he stopped abruptly, blushing furiously.

Nikita found herself totally charmed by the blush. "Maybe?" she coaxed him gently. "Maybe what? Tell me..."

He sighed, his cheeks still pink. He lowered his eyes, as if too embarrassed to look at her while he made his confession. "Maybe, it wasn’t his ghost I needed to have, but his... spirit."

"I know this sounds impossibly corny," he rushed on, still embarrassed. "But I figured the best way to have my father with me, to keep him alive, in HERE.." He tapped his chest just above his heart, "... was to be more like him- to be a decent human being, brave, honest, strong... I don't know..." He floundered for the words. "I wanted to become someone he would proud to call his son."

He looked up at her then. "Does that make any kind of sense?" he said anxiously.

Nikita smiled at him, tears welling. "It makes total, perfect sense, Stephen," she told him softly, voice choking with emotion. She felt elated, almost honored, that she would be able to fulfill the life's dream of this young man, to help him at last meet the father he had longed for and missed his whole life. It was going to be a beautiful reunion.

She restrained her wild urge to tell him that his father was still alive and that she was there to take Stephen to him. Instead, she smiled at him, stood up, and held out her hand.

"If you come with me, I can ... show you some things I found out about your father," she invited softly.

Stephen's eyes widened and he leapt up from his seat. "My father?" he almost shouted in his excitement. "What do you know about my father?"

She shook her head. "Not here," she admonished him. "Come...."

He took her hand willingly, and followed her docilely out of the coffee shop and back out into the street. She could feel his arm tremble against hers. She led him, still silent, through the streets toward her car, which she had parked in a deserted alley. She unlocked the passenger door and held it open for him.

"Get in," she invited him.

Stephen stared at her, fascinated. "Where are you taking me?" he asked in a low whisper. "Did you find him? Did you find his grave?"

Nikita shuddered involuntarily. Despite her resentment of Operations, she found herself repulsed by the image of him dead and dissolved to dust in his tomb. At least, not yet. Not until he met with this child of his and resolved the anguished longing of a life-time. Not until he explained to his son why he did what he did, why he had not contacted him, why he let Stephen think he was dead.

"Not his grave," she answered enigmatically. "Something else." She jerked her head toward the car again. "Please, just get in," she urged him.

Stephen hesitated, then made his decision. He stepped forward, about to slip into the car.

He never made it. He stiffened suddenly, his body jerking, and then pitched forward, unconscious, onto the ground.

"Stephen!" Nikita cried out in shock and then knelt beside him, relieved to see not a bullet hole, but the tail of a tranquilizer dart sticking out of his back.

She looked around frantically, to see where the dart had come from, and what she saw made her blood run cold.

A dark gray van pulled up beside her and she found herself surrounded by several heavily armed black-clad men wearing masks. One of them, despite his concealing clothing, she recognized immediately- she would have known him anywhere. He approached her and lifted off his mask to reveal the handsome face underneath.

Nikita stared up into the cold, glittering green eyes.

"Michael!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

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

"Michael, what are you doing here?"

Michael only looked at her, his face an unreadable mask. He gave her the trademark blank stare, and was pithily silent for a long moment.

When he at last did speak, it was not to her. He addressed the men on his team. "Take him to the van," he ordered, jerking his head toward the unconscious man on the sidewalk.

Nikita blanched, and clutched at Stephen's arm in a futile effort to stop the men from obeying their team leader. "Michael, no! You can't! You can't take him! Please!" she yelled.

Michael gripped her arm and in one swift movement hauled her to her feet and against his chest, holding her against him, while his team dragged Stephen's limp body to the van and placed him inside.

Nikita continued to struggle. "For the love of God, please!" she begged him. "What are you doing? Where are you taking him?"

Michael's grip did not slacken, and his voice in her ear was cold and precise. "We were given intel that a member of the Crew, thought dead, was still alive. I have orders to bring him in for questioning..."

Nikita gasped, feeling her legs go weak under her. "Orders from who?" she yelled. "Who?" His answer was barely above a whisper. "Oversight."

Nikita managed to strain her neck around to meet his eyes. "Michael, you can't do this. You can't allow him to be hurt..." She was terrified if Operations found out what was going on, and Stephen was tortured, or worse, killed, that Michael would be the object of Operations unrelenting revenge. Everything was going horribly, terrifyingly wrong. Stephen and Michael were in danger. And herself as well. Operations would kill her, too.

Frustrated and panicking, she gave one last effort to free herself from Michael's grip. She kicked at him, at the same time yelled out angrily again.

"If you kill him, I'll die!" she sobbed. "Please.."

Michael's mouth twisted into a grimace, and with an angry groan, he turned her in his arms to face him, his hands biting into the tender skin of her upper arms with an iron death-grip. He gave her a little shake, and then hissed the words at her.

"You'll die if you don't leave here and go home. NOW," he whispered harshly. "My orders were to bring in anyone associated with Stephen. If they ask, you were here as bait to lure him out. If they don't ask, which is my preference, you were never here, understand?"

"Michael.." she moaned, twisting her head to look into the van after Stephen. "You don't understand..."

Furious with her stubbornness, he shook her again. "Now, listen to me!" he hissed angrily. "I'm trying to keep you alive! Just do what I tell you!"

Nikita closed her eyes as the tears came. "But Stephen.." she whimpered. "What about Stephen?"

Michael let out a defeated sigh, and loosened his grip on her arms. In a voice that was no longer harsh, but almost sad, he told her, "Go home. I'll see what I can do to protect Stephen, I promise.."

She stared at him, stunned.

He released her and took a few steps toward the van, the set of his shoulders that of a man crushed and defeated. "I'll come to your apartment as soon as I can and let you know what's happened, all right?" he whispered gently. "Will you just go home now, please?" he begged.

She nodded numbly, and watched him go, slipping into the van and closing the door behind him. As the van pulled away, her heart sank into the depths of despair.

She wiped the tears away impatiently from her eyes, and more frightened than she had ever been in her life, got in her car and drove away.

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

Nikita waited nervously in her apartment for Michael to come. She had tried to force down the cup of tea she made herself, but the liquid just seemed to jam in her throat, which was closed up from tension.

Every muscle in her body was tight, her nerves at the breaking point. She was having trouble getting her jaw to unclench and she had the beginnings of a doozy of a migraine headache.

Pacing the floor, she didn't know what terrified her more. The idea of Michael not coming, or the idea of him coming and telling her what she didn't want to hear- that Stephen was dead.

"God, what a mess.." she groaned, rubbing her aching forehead. Her temples were pounding...

The knock on the door made her jump. It had been six hours, and the apartment had remained silent since she had arrived. No visitors, no phone calls. She steeled herself for bad news, and went to the door and opened it for Michael.

"Come in," she said tensely, stepping back for him to enter. His face gave her no clue as to what had happened. If anything, he looked even more grim than before when she had encountered him earlier that day.

She slumped into a seat on the couch, her legs suddenly wobbly underneath her. "Tell me," she begged desperately. "Is Stephen all right?"

Her question seemed to hurt Michael, and he closed his eyes as if against some great inner pain. He walked further into the apartment, pulling off his gloves, slowly, and then wringing them in his hands in distress, while he paced in front of her on the living room rug.

"He's fine," he told her tensely. "I took care of it."

Nikita let out the breath she was holding in a rush. Then the relief she felt made her laugh giddily. "God, thank you, Michael..." she breathed. "I didn't know what I would have done if something had happened to him..."

Michael did not laugh. He flinched as if she had struck him, and turned his face away from her, staring into the kitchen, but not seeing it.

His words shocked her when they came. "Do you love him that much?" he asked forlornly, his voice choked with grief.

"Love.. him?" Nikita blurted out, confused.

"Yes," Michael answered softly, still not looking at her. "You obviously had a rapport with him on the mission to get the C-5 chip. I remember how you were always so eager to be the one to stay in his apartment, to go with him on the meets..."

He turned then to look at her, his eyes liquid with sorrow. "You care for him," he stated flatly. "It was you who helped him elude death from Section at the shoot-out, wasn't it?"

"Michael..." she protested. "You don't understa..."

He interrupted her angrily. "WASN’T IT?" he shouted.

Nikita sighed. "I shot him with a tranq dart instead of a bullet," she admitted. "Then I stayed til he came to and explained to him that it would be safer for him to get out of the crime business, which he did. But..."

"So you helped him," Michael said, jaw clenched. "And you've been seeing him. And you...love him..."

"Michael!" she protested again. "It's..." she began, then stammered to a halt. She couldn't tell him the truth. Operations had forbidden her to tell anyone in Section the real relationship between her and Stephen, and between Stephen and Operations.

She sighed wearily. "Please," she begged. "Just tell me where he is now." There may still be time to get Stephen to Switzerland without Operations knowing there had been a glitch in her plans.

"I have him in a safe place," Michael reassured her softly. "My orders were to take him to some hospital in Switzerland so that Oversight could interrogate him there..."

Nikita almost choked. "Switzerland?" she gasped.

Michael nodded. "Yes. There's a Section facility in Geneva. It's where Operations went to recover after he was shot last year."

"Did they say why they wanted Stephen there?" she asked, her mind working furiously. Had Oversight found out about Stephen being Operation's son, and wanted to bring him to his father for one last reunion? It seemed unlikely. There must be some other motivation than family sentiment behind Stephen's kidnapping. What the hell were they up to?

"Michael," she said slowly and deliberately, trying to calm her wild thoughts. "Just tell me exactly what you did with Stephen."

Michael sighed. "Before they could transport him to Geneva, I set off a pseudo alarm in Section. During the confusion, I got Stephen out of his cell and slipped out with him. Section thinks he escaped on his own.."

Nikita gasped. "And you're in big trouble, aren't you?"

The sad, green-eyed man shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said forlornly, looking at her with intense longing. "What matters is, the man you love is safe and I can help you escape, too, to be with him, if..." he paused, his voice choking with emotion. "If that's what you want..."

Nikita blinked. Michael had saved Stephen, and was offering her a chance to leave Section, because he thought, misguidedly, that she was in love with the young man. Nikita laughed again, almost hysterically, and decided to set him straight.

"Michael, you Stupid Fool, you..." she laughed, rising form the couch to come toward him. "I don't want to be with Stephen..." she told him.

It was Michael's turn to blink. "You... don't?" he gasped.

"No," she said, shaking her head and slipping her arms under his, inside his coat. She tilted her head up til her lips were inched from his.

Michael took in an audible breath, his eyes wide with hope.

"I want to be with you.. " Nikita told him with a laugh, and then kissed him.

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

Michael froze in Nikita's embrace, his lips still and stiff under hers. Then the meaning of her words impacted him, their import warming his coldness, melting his fear. With a soft groan, his lips parted, mouth hungrily tasting her inner sweetness.

He twined his arms around her and pulled her close, crushing her to his chest with such force that Nikita thought she couldn't breathe. His lips released hers for a moment, and she gasped in a shaky gulp of air. The next moment he stole her breath again as he captured her mouth in another deep kiss, this one even more fervent than the last.

Nikita moaned in response, her hands coming up to tangle in his thick, silky hair. They stayed like that for several long, timeless minutes, savoring each other, each reveling in the taste and feel of the other's lips, each drawing strength from the other's embrace.

When at last they broke apart, it was Michael who was breathless. "You .. want me?" he asked wonderingly, still perplexed. "Me? Not Stephen?"

Nikita lowered her eyes and nodded, blushing. "Yes, Michael," she whispered. "You."

Michael was still puzzled. "Then why did you say you'd die if anything happened to him?"

This statement, above all the others, had been the impetus for him to slip Stephen out of Section and hide him, for Nikita's sake. They were also the words that had hurt him the most deeply.

Her answer surprised him. "Because Operations would kill me if I lost Stephen," she said with a sigh. She looked up into his shocked green eyes. "Operations ordered me to take Stephen to Switzerland."

The green eyes widened further, and one eyebrow went up. "Switzerland?" he choked out. "The same as Oversight?"

"Yes." Nikita frowned and stepped away from him. She knew she had to be careful how much she told him.

"Why?" Michael demanded.

She swallowed hard. "I can't tell you that."

Michael frowned, his mind working furiously. "It doesn't matter," he said softly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Whatever reason he gave you, it might not be the real one, anyway."

He sighed. "Operations ordered me to take Stephen to Switzerland as well, supposedly to be interrogated by Oversight." Michael shook his head, bewildered. "Why would he order both of us to do the same thing, and keep us in the dark about the other's movements?"

Nikita scowled. "I don't know, Michael," she answered, becoming angry that Operations was obviously playing games with them. Maybe his story about dying and needing to see his son was all a lie.

She looked up at him, the light of battle in her eye. "I think maybe one of us should go to Switzerland and find out what the hell is going on..."

"Agreed," said Michael quickly. He stepped closer, and put his hand on her shoulder. "But I have a better idea..."

She looked up at him, breathless again, now that he so near, now that he was touching her....

"What's that?" she inquired softly, staring mesmerized at his mouth.

He leaned closer. "I think we should BOTH go to Switzerland," he breathed. "Together."

"Okay.." Nikita agreed eagerly, her breath catching in her lungs. "Sounds like a good idea to me..."

And then she kissed him again.

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

Stephen Wolfe tested the strength of the handcuffs that restrained him in the chair for perhaps the fortieth time. *Yep,* he thought, wincing at the pain his efforts caused to his raw, scraped wrists. *Still secure.*

He sighed and leaned back in the chair, looking around him. The room was windowless and bare, except for a few boxes scattered here and there on the concrete floor. Most likely a basement of a large house, he guessed, God knows where.

He still had no idea where he was. He had no idea what was going on. And he was very, very angry.

First Nikita had tricked him, with her lies and promises about giving him information about his father. Obviously, she had remembered this emotional weak point of his and had used his weakness against him to lure him into the trap. Then her boyfriend and partner in crime, Michael, had drugged him and kidnapped him off the street in broad daylight.

Stephen swallowed hard, and shuddered, remembering the cold, white room he had woken up in. Being there gave him the willies. Along with a doozy of a headache, his insides had protested in fear, his guts sending him all sorts of strident signals that he was in danger and to get the hell out of there, quick.

But he was trapped. There was no escape. Until, that is, Michael had walked quietly into the horrid white room and inexplicably sprung him from his cage. Stephen had not protested, but had followed Michael obediently through the back halls of the spacious, but still claustrophobic, cavern. Stephen had a million questions, but they could wait until they had reached the outside, up in the light and air, out of the underground hell.

But he never got a chance to ask those questions. Once they reached Michael's car, the stony-faced operative had turned to him and said simply, "I'm sorry," in a funereal tone, and then pressed something sharp against his neck.

Some time later, for how long he was out, he didn't know- Stephen had woken up here, in this basement, alone. His head still hurt, and despite his efforts not to be, he was still very scared. And he still had no idea what was going on.

So it was with a little hope, but mostly apprehension, that he heard the footsteps cross the ceiling upstairs, and heard the door to the basement open. He tensed, and strained around in his chair to see who had arrived to interrupt his solitude.

He didn't know whether to be glad or angry when he saw the tall blonde and her boyfriend beside her, come to stand before him.

Her anxious blue eyes showed no remorse or guilt, only concern. "Stephen?" Nikita said in a worried tone, kneeling beside his chair. "Are you all right?"

Stephen's trade-mark sarcasm took over, overcoming even his fatigue and his fear. "I'm just peachy, thank you," he told her in a biting tone, glaring at her.

Nikita resisted the urge to laugh, so much did the irate Stephen resemble his father at that moment. "I see that," she said with a smile. "Don't worry, we're going to get you out of here."

She turned to Michael, who had been silently watching them from the background shadows. He stepped forward now at her wordless request, and produced a small key from his pocket. Stephen tensed again as Michael knelt behind him and removed his handcuffs.

"Ahh, that's better..." Stephen sighed, slumping forward and rubbing his aching wrists with his newly freed hands. He rose a little unsteadily from the chair, and turned to face his captors, eyeing them warily.

"Either one of you care to enlighten me as to what the hell is going on?" he demanded.

Michael gave him the blank stare. He offered no explanation for the simple reason that he had none himself. Michael was almost as baffled by the situation as Stephen was. But he didn't tell Stephen that.

"No," Michael answered succinctly. "There's no time."

He jerked his head toward the stairs. "Let's go," he ordered curtly.

The prisoner was disinclined to leave. Stephen watched them warily, then fixed his gaze on Michael. "Listen, man. I've gone straight. I'm out of my old businesses," the prisoner insisted earnestly. "I don't have any intel your organization would be interested in. I'm not involved in any scams, I swear.."

Stephen licked his lips nervously, sighed, and went on. "You can take me back to that white room and interrogate me all you want, but I don't know anything.." he said, voice rising in fear.

"We're not taking you back there," Michael assured him quietly.

"It's okay, Stephen," Nikita chimed in, giving him a warm smile. "It'll be all right, I promise," she soothed. "Just come with us.."

Stephen shook his head and gave her a look which said just how much trust he put in her promises. He backed away from his captors and his gaze flickered upwards toward the basement stairs, gaging the possibility of making a run for it.

"Don't" said Michael, reading his thoughts. "You won't get far." He strode forward and gripped Stephen firmly by the arm, and began marching him toward the stairs. Nikita followed close behind.

"Just do what I tell you," Michael intoned solemnly, fixing the prisoner with his intense green-eyed glance, "... or I might have to drug you again...."

Stephen rolled his eyes. "Promises, promises..." he drawled sarcastically.

Despite himself, Michael smiled, his lips just barely turning up at the corners. He appreciated Stephen's dry wit, and found himself liking the young man, especially now that Nikita had made it very clear that she had no romantic interest in him.

"Where are we going?" Stephen blurted out, when they reached the top of the stairs. "Can you at least tell me that?" he pleaded, looking past Michael to meet Nikita's eyes.

"Geneva, Switzerland," she told him gravely.

Stephen blinked, and then turned back to Michael. "Why?" he gasped, bewildered.

Michael sighed. "I wish I knew," he said softly. "I wish I knew."

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

A few hours later, Stephen found himself on a very plush, private plane being whisked off to Geneva. No one had asked him for his passport, or looked askance at him and his companions because they lacked luggage or proper id's.

He had heard Michael make a few cryptic phone calls in the car to the airport, and made the proper assumptions that with friends/connections in the right places, and enough money, it was possible to circumvent the regulations that applied to ordinary travelers.

One look from Michael in cold, intimidator-mode was probably also enough to scare any airport personnel into instant compliance, Stephen surmised shrewdly. He, for one, did not want to bring down Michael's ire on himself; Stephen was on his best behavior, obeying orders, keeping quiet, and doing what he was told.

However, he noted that the other man seemed much more benevolent toward him than before, even warm and .... sympathetic. Sympathetic for Michael, at any rate.

His captor had allowed him to roam freely on the plane, once they were in the air. Stephen took advantage of this by heading straight for the bathroom to wash up. He emerged some time later, face scrubbed, hair combed, feeling somewhat more human.

He sat back down in his seat across from Michael and Nikita, rolling down his shirt sleeves. His coat and tie had been left behind in Section when he was first taken prisoner.

From across the aisle, Michael eyed Stephen's wrists, marked in angry red circles from the chafing handcuffs, the skin scraped and raw.

"Nikita," Michael ordered, turning to glance at her. "Get the first aid kit and bandage those injuries...."

Nikita stood up immediately, pleased at Michael's thoughtfulness, and a little surprised by it as well. "Right," she agreed, giving him a sweet, grateful smile.

Stephen stopped her, waving her away. He, too, was shocked by Michael's concern, but didn't say so.

"Never mind," he told them with a shake of the head. "I'd prefer to go with wrists unbandaged, thank you very much." There was a gleam of mischief in his eye.

Nikita crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a saucy look. She could feel a joke coming, just like she did when Walter was about to let loose with one of his ribald remarks.

"And why is that?" she asked with a tilt of her head, taking the bait.

"Because," Stephen drawled, holding out his hands, palms upwards, displaying the injuries, "like this, I'm a man of mystery, someone who lives dangerously.."

He put his hands in his lap and smirked. "...But if I'm sitting here with white gauze on my wrists, the stewardesses will think I'm a suicidal nut case and you are my keepers from the insane asylum..." Stephen blinked innocently. "Very off-putting to the chicks. Makes a bad impression, don't ya know?" He winked at her.

Nikita laughed, and even Michael cracked a smile, albeit a small one.

Nikita took her seat again, next to Michael, and Stephen lay back in his, settling in with his head nestled on the small white pillow. "You care if I crash for a while?" he asked, his eyes already closing. "I'm beat."

"Go ahead," Michael told him. He turned to give a stern look to Nikita. "You should rest, too," he admonished her. "We've got a long way to go."

"All right," she agreed, settling in beside him. She crossed her arms across her chest and nestled deeper into her seat. Her eyes closed and a moment later, her head lolling to the side, she rested her cheek as if by instinct against Michael's broad shoulder.

He made an involuntary sound, a soft groan, at the feel of her leaning trustingly against him. He was shocked by how good it felt to be near her, to have her close.

His groan aroused her, and she stirred, lifting her head up to meet the green eyes. "Sorry," she apologized, sitting up straight. "I didn't mean to bother you..."

"You weren't bothering me," he assured her. The eyes that roamed her face were soft with tenderness. "Please," he invited, "Feel free."

Nikita blushed, and gave him another happy smile. Boldly, she nestled her head on his shoulder again, her blond hair spilling down his chest.

He put his arm around her and pulled her closer, and she closed her eyes and sighed, reveling in his warmth. She could feel his heart beating steadily inside the hard chest under her cheek. Without thinking about it, her fingers found his on his lap, and she slipped her hand in his.

They basked in the glow of the sweet moment, enjoying each other's nearness. After a few minutes, the magic mood was broken by the sound of snoring from the seat across the aisle.

Nikita giggled, and sat up, but still retained her grip on Michael's hand. "Well, so much for sleeping," she said with a rueful grin. She cast an affectionate glance at Stephen. "Wonder how upset he'll be when he finds out the stewardesses heard him doing something as uncool as snoring.."

Michael turned his head to look at her, and she felt him tense beside her. "You like him, don't you?" he whispered tightly.

Nikita sighed. "Yeah, I do," she admitted, tilting her head to meet his eyes. "You want to know why?" she challenged, not unkindly.

"Yes," Michael answered after a moment, still tense. "Tell me."

The fingers twined with his gripped him harder. "On the mission, when you had gone to get the C-5 chip, and I was left at the safehouse with the Crew," she began, "the younger one...."

"Dean?" Michael asked tautly.

"Yes, Dean," she answered with another sigh. "He.. uh.. hit on me. Stephen told him to back off, that a deal was a deal..." Nikita hadn't thought of it that way at the time, but she guessed part of Stephen's appeal was his sense of fairness, not unlike hers.

"And did he.... back off?" Michael asked hoarsely, suddenly afraid of the answer.

Nikita squeezed his hand, and laughed. "Yeah, after I kicked him where it counted," she said gleefully. "After Stephen told me to go ahead and handle it how I wanted to...." she added thoughtfully.

"Stephen played fair, Michael," she told him, looking up into his face. "At ten minutes to midnight, when you hadn't got back yet, the others wanted to kill me..." She shook her head. "But Stephen stopped them. He said that they had agreed to midnight, and it wasn't midnight yet..."

"I see," said Michael, a little grimly. He looked back at her, his eyes focused and intense on hers. "But that's not all of it, is it?" he asked quietly. Michael glanced quickly across the aisle, making sure the subject they were talking about was still sleeping soundly.

"You knew he was a target," Michael continued. "You knew he was a thief and a terrorist. Collateral." He paused, still pondering the mystery. "Yet you went to great lengths to protect him. Why?" he asked in a bewildered tone. "I've never seen you defend criminals like that, so determinedly, so fiercely. You only react like that to innocents, or children...."

"But he is!" Nikita blurted out, then cursed herself, immediately wishing she could call the words back.

Michael's eyes widened. "Is what?" he demanded. He grabbed her by the wrist and glared at her. "Answer me! Is WHAT?"

"A child," she gasped out. "He's someone's child....."

Michael froze. The answer was right there before him, and he kicked himself for not having seen it sooner. How could he have missed it? The same pale blue eyes, the same lean, slender frame, the same quick, shrewd, intelligence... Now that he had this piece of the puzzle, the mystery was now abundantly clear, the resemblance unmistakable.

"Operations," he said, a statement, not a question. He released his grasp on her wrist, and leaned back wearily in his seat. "He ordered you to protect him...." He turned to her, face grim.

"He ordered you to protect his son," Michael whispered.

Nikita lowered her eyes and nodded. "Yes..." she answered.

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

*God,* thought Nikita in despair. *Now I've done it. I've told him.*

But then, her next reaction startled her. She was nervous, yes, that this big secret she had been carrying for months was out, but it was also a relief that Michael knew. She felt lighter, somehow, less burdened. The truth was out, and it was one less deception between them, one more step toward understanding.

One more chance to... trust.

"Michael," she said, turning to him with pleading eyes. "I'm sorry I kept that from you...."

Michael shook his head, dismissing her apology. "You have no need to feel sorry for that," he replied. He, of all people, knew the value of keeping secrets. He was almost strangely proud of her that she had hidden something so monumental from him all this time. "I would have done the same in your place."

He looked at her speculatively. "Operations threatened you, I suppose," he said softly.

Nikita closed her eyes, and let out a long sigh. "Actually, he promised me something I wanted more than anything in the world, and then he crushed me by reneging on our bargain." Her mouth set in a grim line. "And he laughed at my stupidity for believing he would keep his word."

Michael watched her face intensely, noting the tear that had just started from the corner of one gleaming blue eye. Tenderly, he touched his finger to the tear drop and brushed it away, his touch a sweet, reverent caress.

"What did he promise you?" Michael whispered, voice low and intense.

Nikita bit her lip and swallowed hard, tasting bitter tears. "My freedom," she whispered back.

Michael nodded in comprehension, exhaling a long sigh. "I see," he said softly. After a pause of commiserating silence, Michael asked another question.

"And this time?" he said. "Why did you help Operations this time with Stephen?"

Nikita looked at him, debating how much to tell him. Then she decided that either it was all a secret, or it was all out in the open. There could be no middle ground. Besides, now that he knew the biggest part of the puzzle, hiding the rest of what she knew from him made no sense. She would trust him with all of it.

And maybe together, she thought, they could sort through the lies and figure out what the hell was really going on.

"We didn't make any bargains this time, Michael," she answered. "Operations just.. came to me for my help, and I gave it."

Michael blinked. "Why?" he gasped out. "Why would you help him? Why would you even believe him, after last time?"

Nikita crossed her arms across her chest and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't know, Michael," she said with a shake of her head. "I guess I was just gullible and sentimental enough to believe the sob-story he told me..."

She looked up at him again, confusion in the soft blue eyes. "But he seemed so convincing..."

"What did he tell you?" Michael asked quietly.

Nikita took a deep breath. "He said that he was dying," she told him in a rush. "And that he wanted a chance to see his son for one last time before it was too late."

Michael paled, and was silent for so long that Nikita began to worry that he didn't hear her, or didn't understand. Then she realized that he was just taking time to absorb the shock of what she had just told him.

For all their animosity and competitiveness, Operations was a man that Michael respected. He was also the man whose shoes he would fill someday, and if what Nikita said was true, that day was closer than he had anticipated.

And he wasn't ready, he realized with a jolt. He didn't want the responsibility of Section on his shoulders just yet. And he didn't want his leader to die. He didn't want his... not friend, not trainer, not guide.... none of those words was right. It struck him what word was... Father.

He didn't want his father to die, Michael realized with stunning clarity. For that's what Operations had become in his life. His father.

"Do you think he was lying?" Michael choked out, after a minute, his head whirling. "Do you think he was lying about being so ill?"

Nikita pondered the question. "I don't know, Michael," she said with a sigh. "It seemed true at the time. He was tired, and pale, and I had to help him to the door, he was so weak..."

"Besides," she argued, looking up into his face, "Why else would he want to see Stephen now, after he went to such pains to hide the fact that he was still alive from his son?"

Michael nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. It did seem to make sense. Why else would Operations endanger his child by letting him know of his existence, and hence, the existence of Section? Such knowledge would put Stephen in danger, make him a target. Why would Operations risk such an untenable scenario if there weren't dire circumstances that warranted it?

But why endanger Nikita's mission to bring Stephen to him by ordering Michael to do the same? No, he thought, a little angrily, something else was going on. Nothing that Section did, nothing that Operations did, would ever be straightforward and simple. There was always a convoluted wrinkle, an unexpected twist, somewhere.

"That my be part of the truth," Michael said at last, "but not all of it. I think we're still in the dark about a lot of things, and the only way to find out the whole truth is to do what we are doing now..." He nodded his head. "...Go to Geneva and see him for ourselves."

Nikita gripped his hand again. " Okay," she agreed. "We confront Operations, we find out what's going on, and if it's some kind of trick, we.. protect Stephen." She met his eyes, daring him to tell her that his priorities were different from hers on this mission.

To her great relief, Michael nodded his head. "Agreed," he said with alacrity. "That is exactly what we will do."

Nikita sighed, relieved that he had understood her, relieved that they were communicating so well, relieved that she could at last share her burdens with this man.

A sudden warmth and affection for him welled in her breast, and a sweet gratitude, and along with it, a swift, keen desire.

Michael, thank you," she said breathlessly, and then, impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Michael groaned, enjoying the thrill of sweetness that shot through him as her lips plundered his. He drew her into his arms, and in a moment, he had pulled her out of her seat and onto his lap.

The sweet madness continued, the kiss deepening, the embrace becoming more fierce, and at the same time, more tender. They caressed each other's hair, and then, moving as one, their hands flowed in unison down backs, then hips, then legs, then inbetween.....

A startled laugh behind them interrupted them before their hands could find their way inside their impeding clothes. Michael and Nikita jumped apart, the kiss, and the magic spell between them broken- Stephen was awake, and grinning at them sleepily.

"Excuse me," their prisoner quipped, "But how is a person supposed to get some shut-eye around here with all this commotion going on?" Stephen demanded in a teasing tone, his eyes twinkling.

Michael stiffened with apprehension. "How much did you hear?" he demanded tensely, jaw clenching.

"Oh, no," moaned Nikita, aghast, as was Michael, with the fear that Stephen had overheard them discussing his father, Operations.

His next words reassured them. "Hey, relax!" Stephen told them, eyes wide and full of mischief and amusement. "If you two love-birds want to join the mile-high club, it's okay with me..."

He grinned at them. "Just try to keep all the moaning and groaning down, okay?" He winked. "SOME of us are trying to sleep..." he teased.

Michael let out a long sigh, and then gave Stephen his best blank stare.

"Stephen?" he said softly, with deadly calm.

The younger man looked up at him, still grinning. "Yeah?" he answered, chuckling. "What is it?"

"Shut up." Succinct. Terse. Serious.

Stephen sobered immediately at his tone, and shrank back into his seat, trying to make himself invisible. "Right," he squeaked out. "I don't hear anything, I don't see anything. I'm going back to sleep now, okay?" Stephen promised meekly, no longer teasing.

"You do that," answered Michael with a glare.

He stood up and took Nikita by the hand, then stalked to the back of the plane, leading her behind him. He opened one of the overhead storage compartments and took out blankets and pillows, tossing them on the farthest seat from Stephen. Then he dimmed the lights in their section of the plane and settled on the seat, after pushing up the arm-rests that separated the seats, giving them more room.

Nikita watched him, breathless and mesmerized, as he arranged the blankets and pillows, creating for them a cozy, if narrow, bed.

"Michael?" she gasped, feeling her mouth go dry with excitement. "What are you doing?"

His green eyes glittered with warm passion in the dim light. He took her in his arms and kissed her, then sat down on the make-shift bed, pulling her onto his lap once more.

"Shhh," he told her huskily. "Where were we?"

In spite of herself, Nikita couldn't help letting out a groan of satisfaction as she eagerly placed her hands back on him, showing him exactly where they had left off.

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

In an exclusive medical facility in Geneva, Switzerland, Operations lay back on the hospital bed in his private room and cursed to himself under his breath.

"Damn," he swore. "Damn, damn, damn..."

Beside him, the doctor finished taking his pulse and shook his head.

"Sir," said Brian, trying to keep his tone light, "You have to calm down. At this rate, you won't need a transplant, because you'll have a heart attack first..." he said, only half-teasing. The patient's pulse was racing and his blood pressure was sky high.

Dr. Brian Whicker wasn't on the surgical team, but Operations had brought him to Geneva because he like the idea of having his own people around him, people he liked.

But he didn't like Brian right at this moment. "Damn it, you idiot," he yelled at the doctor. "There won't be any transplant without a donor!"

"No rush," Brian soothed. "You've got plenty of time. I'm sure your donor has just been a little delayed and will be here as soon as possible...."

Operations sighed, and resisted the urge to blurt out to the doctor that the donor had escaped from Section and was now in parts unknown, and most likely not headed for Switzerland.

The reality of the situation was beginning to hit home. He was dying. There was no way out. He was dying. Dying. DYING....

The monitors on the bed all sounded an alarm at once, beeping stridently.

"What's that?" Operations yelled, panicking further. "What's going on?" He began to hyperventilate.

Brian still remained calm, his voice soothing. "You're fine," he assured him, playing with the dials on the monitors. The cacophonous, nerve-jangling noise blessedly stopped.

"You set off the alarms because your vitals went off the scale," Brian explained sternly. "Your blood pressure went up to the stroke-level."

Grimly, Brian opened a vial of pills on the night-stand and shook one out in his hand. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher nearby and held out both the glass and pill to his patient.

"Take this," he commanded. "It'll help you relax." His tone was polite, but also was clearly that of a man who would brook no argument.

Operations, for once, obeyed. He swallowed the pill, handed Brian back the glass, and then leaned wearily back against the pillows.

The sedative began to take effect, and the man on the bed relaxed, but not into peaceful sleep. The medication made him let down his guard, and his mood changed from one of panic to that of resigned despair, his regrets surfacing and demanding expression.

"It's all my fault," he said, his tone bitter with self-flagellation. "I might as well have just shot myself in the head and got it over with." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "The results will be the same, anyway."

Brian looked at him, puzzled, knowing that the drug was too mild to have produced such rantings. He moved closer to the bed and put his hand on his patient's arm. "Sir?" he inquired softly. "What do you mean?"

Operations turned his head and looked into the doctor's concerned blue eyes. "You're wasting your time here, Doctor," he told him in a maudlin tone. "I'll be dead soon. There won't be any surgery...."

Brian shook his head and leaned closer, trying to reassure him. "You won't die if I can help it," he said bracingly. "I told you, your chances are very good if the donor turns out to be a close match..."

The patient laughed again, but mirthlessly, with a note of hysteria. "You don't understand," Operations told him, turning his head away on the pillow. "The donor's not coming..." He swallowed hard and a single tear escaped from under one eyelid. "I screwed everything up. My son should be here, right now, to save me, but he's.... gone..."

Brian blinked in confusion, stunned. "Not.. coming?" he repeated numbly, trying to understand. "Are you saying he refused to consent to the surgery?" The doctor licked his suddenly dry lips, beginning to feel his own panic rising. He hated the idea of losing a patient.

"Did you have an argument with your son?" Brian probed gently. "Would you like me to speak to him?"

Inexplicably, Operations laughed again. "I haven't spoken to my son since he was seven years old," he confessed wearily. "Stephen thinks I died in Vietnam..." He turned his head back and met Brian's eyes. "My son doesn't know I exist. And more importantly, he doesn't know that Section exists."

The patient sighed and stared grimly up at the ceiling. "It's the only way to keep him safe.."

Brian felt dizzy, slammed as he was by this new revelation. He sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly needing the support. "Y-You're saying, you haven't contacted him?" the doctor gasped. "Or you're saying you couldn't find him?"

Operations shook his head, and gave a huge sigh. "No, it's more absurd than that," he said bitterly. "I knew where to find him. I sent Nikita to retrieve him, to bring him here..." He pursed his lips together and gave another rueful laugh. "I told her that the reason I wanted to see my son was to hold him one more time before I died.."

Brian stiffened and scowled. "So you manipulated Nikita emotionally," he said tightly. "And you had no intention of reconciling with your son, did you?" he said accusingly. "You were just going to use him for body parts and then send him on his way. You were never going to even speak to him...."

Brian shook his head in disgust, and went to stand up. Before he could rise from the bed, Operations snaked out a hand and grabbed him by the wrist, holding him still. He glared into the younger man's eyes.

"I told you, it's a death sentence for him if he finds out about me," Operations hissed. "I have no intention of risking my son's life. Not now. Not ever."

Exhausted, he released the doctor's arm and fell back against the pillows. "I would give anything to be able to talk to him, to hold him." He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. "But that can never happen..."

Brian regarded his patient thoughtfully, and remained sitting on the side of the bed, his questions still unanswered. "Is Stephen with Nikita now?" he asked, bewildered. "What did you mean, he was.. gone?"

"Stephen WAS with Nikita," Operations answered in a voice full of self-loathing. "My ruse worked; she bought my story and was on her way here with Stephen, but then..." He stopped, his voice choked with pain.

"Then.. what?" demanded Brian, alarmed. He was worried about his friend, Nikita, now, as well as Operations' son. "What happened?"

Operations tossed his head, tormented, on the pillow. "Everything was fine. They were on their way here. But I couldn't leave well enough alone..." he let out a shaky sigh. "I had to make one last power play, had to be in control one more time, had to jerk Michael's chain once more in case I.... " he said with a sob, " In case I died, and never got the chance to do it again...."

He wiped at his eyes roughly. "For power, I did it for power. And now it's all ruined.."

Brian found himself very frightened by these words, and intensely, overwhelmingly angry. He resisted the urge to grab his patient by the shoulders and shake him violently until he told him the rest. Instead, Brian balled his hands into fists, fighting for control.

"What did you do to them?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "What did you do to Michael and Nikita?"

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

"What did you do to Michael and Nikita?" Brian demanded, a feeling of dread going through him.

He knew from personal experience just how callous Section could be toward its operatives in the interest of completing a mission. But this sounded worse than that- it seemed that Operations had tormented the pair for no reason other than he felt like it- he had wielded his power against them just because he could.

The patient turned his head away, jaw clenched. "It was stupid.... petty.." he began, remorse hitting him, now that it was too late. "Nikita was so .. naive, so trusting. She wanted to help me, wanted to help me find my son..."

Brian stomach knotted, and he felt himself go cold. "You punished her for helping you?" he said, aghast. "Because she was kind?"

The doctor stared at him, appalled. "What kind of monster are you?" he choked out. "What did you do to her?"

Operations took a deep breath, gulping back tears. "I ordered Michael to bring in Stephen, too," he explained forlornly. "I told him Oversight wanted him alive for questioning here in Geneva."

Brian shook his head, bewildered. "Why?" he asked, totally lost. "What good would that do?"

Operations grimaced. "No good at all, that was the point," he said acerbically, his bitterness directed inward. "Michael would snatch Stephen from Nikita and spoil her romantic fantasy of bringing father and son together in some sentimental reunion..."

"And then," the patient concluded, closing his eyes, "To Nikita, Michael would appear to be even more of a stone-cold, heartless bastard and Section drone than he already does."

"You did that, you risked your son getting here, just to cause a rift between those two?" Brian asked in disgust.

"There was no risk," Operations said wearily. "Or at least, I thought there wasn't, at the time. I figured between the two of them, they was no way Stephen wouldn't be brought in."

"And was he?" Brian asked quietly, still struggling to understand.

The older man nodded. "Yes, by Michael." He pressed his lips in a grim line. "But somehow, Stephen managed to escape shortly after he was brought in to Section. And now, he's missing, and so are Michael and Nikita..."

Brian blinked. "Mandatory refusal?" he guessed. "Is that what happened? They won't come back until the mission is complete, and they bring Stephen here?"

Operations laughed sarcastically. "That would be an ideal scenario, but we have no way of knowing if that is indeed the case," he explained. "Michael and Nikita have not reported in, and Stephen has not been found. We have no way of knowing whether they are together, or hunting Stephen separately, or.... " He blanched, and swallowed hard. "Or even if Stephen is still alive..."

Brian's eyes widened, and he shook his head wonderingly. "Jesus," he swore, "What a mess..."

He stood up from the bed and began pacing, running a hand through his hair in agitation. Pacing always helped him think, and he needed to think now. He had to figure out if there was any way to salvage the tangle that his patient had put himself in.

He glanced at the sick old man, who was now, exhausted and emotionally spent, drowsing on the bed. Something had to be done, and soon.

Operations was running out of time.

The answer came with blinding simplicity. "Of course," Brian gasped, stopping dead in his tracks in mid-stride. "Jesus, how could I be so stupid..."

He flung out of the room, running down the hall at a frantic pace until he reached his quarters that he had been assigned for the duration of the mission. He went immediately to the small cot against the far wall and pulled out the suitcase he had stored under it. Inside the luggage, in a zippered pocket, he found what he was looking for.

A tattered matchbook, with a small, discreet set of numbers penciled inside it.

Hands shaking, he fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. It was the number he had been given to use in case of emergencies- in case anything went seriously wrong.

And Brian deemed that things were very wrong, indeed. He held his breath while the phone rang on the other end, once, twice, three times, four. At last, a voice picked up.

"Yes?" came the curt answer.

Brian let out his breath in a huge sigh. "Thank God..." he gasped in relief. "Thank God you’re there, Michael..."

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

The cell phone had chimed just as Michael, Nikita and Stephen had entered the hotel room that Michael had checked them into in Geneva. He had decided that they needed a base of operations to work from, before they tried approaching the medical facility head on. Michael also hoped to find out from his sources if what Nikita had told him was true- that Operations was dying.

Conveniently, he had just been about to call Brian and ask him if he knew anything about the Section leader's health when the doctor had called him.

That is, Michael thought, he would ask his question, as soon as he could get Brian to calm down.

"Michael! Thank God..."

"Brian?" Michael said in surprise, then moved into a corner of the room and lowered his voice, trying to stay out of earshot of Stephen, who was listening intently to his every word.

"Where are you?" Michael whispered into the phone, catching Nikita's eye and giving a pointed look at Stephen.

Nikita picked up on his wordless message, and took their prisoner by the arm and led him to the far side of the room, where she engaged him in a what she hoped was a distracting conversation.

"I'm in a hospital in Switzerland," Brian hissed excitedly in the phone. "Geneva." The voice paused, then resumed with deep concern. "Michael, Nikita is missing..."

"No, she's not," Michael answered, quick to relieve his friend's obvious anxiety. "She's with me."

He heard Brian sigh sharply with relief. "Thank God..." the doctor said again. "Are you both all right?"

"We're fine," came the typical reply. Michael paused, then glanced again at Stephen, making sure he was occupied. He turned his back to the couple, and hissed into the phone, his voice barely audible.

"Brian, is Operations there with you?" he asked tensely.

"Yes," came the immediate reply. Brian was obviously eager to unburden himself on Michael, trusting that the Class Five operative would know a way out of this mess.

"Michael, he's very ill," Brian told him. "He's dying, in fact. We don't have much time. We need to find his son right away...."the doctor rushed on. "The son's name is Stephen Wolfe. He escaped from Section and they don't know where he is..."

Michael almost smiled at the doctor's distress, which he was happy to alleviate with his next words. "Brian, it's all right," he assured him. "Stephen is here, with us..."

Brian almost collapsed with relief. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension drain out of his body, cramped muscles unknotting as Michael's words registered.

"Christ, that's the best news I've had all day," the doctor said with a shaky laugh. "Where are you, Michael?" Brian asked, anxious again. "And how soon can you get here with Stephen?"

Michael hesitated, wondering how to phrase his next question. He trusted Brian, but his friend was trained as a doctor, not a cold op. He wondered if Brian's analysis of the situation was accurate. He needed to know if the doctor's judgement that Stephen needed to be brought to Operations was indeed the correct call.

"Brian," Michael asked warily, noting to his dismay that Stephen's attention was no longer diverted by Nikita and that the object of the conversation was listening raptly to him as he spoke into the phone. "In your opinion, is that the wisest course?" Michael whispered softly. "Do you recommend any other alternatives?"

Brian, being quick and bright, picked up on Michael's unspoken question, and answered him in no uncertain terms. "Listen, my brother, you've got to come..." Brian declared emphatically. "Get that kid here fast, whatever you do," he urged him. "Before it's too late..."

He swallowed hard, sensing Michael's hesitation and caution through the phone. Brian trembled, stricken at the image of what would happen if he couldn't persuade Michael to come, and to bring with him the only hope of Section's salvation.

"Michael," Brian whispered intently, "Trust me," he begged. "Please...."

The frantic doctor closed his eyes and shuddered with relief at Michael's next words.

"We're already in Geneva, Brian," Michael told him. "And we're on our way."

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

Michael flipped the cell phone closed and then looked at his two companions, his face unreadable. He didn't like being in the dark like this, but he trusted Brian to know what he was doing, and he saw no other alternative than to do what his friend had urged him.

He walked toward Nikita and Stephen, who were both staring into his face, searching vainly for clues as to what was going on. Both were anxious; Stephen, understandably, even more tense than Nikita. They both knew the phone call had been a turning point in their adventure.

"What's going on?" asked Nikita, taking an eager step toward Michael, her face upturned and expectant.

"We're leaving," Michael said tersely. "Now."

He let his eyes flicker over Nikita, then fixed his gaze on Stephen, who, seeing something in the intense green eyes, shrank back from him, alarmed.

"Where are you taking me?" their prisoner demanded, tensing with fear. "Who was that on the phone?"

"A friend," answered Michael, ignoring the first question. "Let's go."

He jerked his head toward the door, and took Stephen by the arm, pulling him toward the exit.

Stephen lost it. "NO!" he shouted in panic, struggling to pull free from Michael's grip. "Let go of me!" He made a desperate attempt to reach the door, but Michael deftly turned him, and in one quick movement, had Stephen up against the wall, his arm twisted high up behind his back.

Nikita flanked him on the other side, pulling out her tranquilizer gun and pressing it into his neck.

"Take it easy, Stephen..." she said in a warning tone, recognizing the depth of the young man's fear and desperation.

Stephen still struggled. "Dammit, please!" he begged. "Don't take me there! Don't let them interrogate me, please..."

"No one's going to hurt you...." Nikita promised, unsure if what she said was true or not.

Stephen was not comforted, ignoring her hesitant reassurances. He leaned his forehead against the wall, trembling, his struggles subsiding. "Please," he panted, "I told you, I'm clean now. I don't have any information to give you, I swear.."

He choked out a sob. "I'm begging you..." he pleaded. "Please, can't you just let me go?"

He was still, standing quiet and acquiescent in Michael's grasp. Defeated and in despair, he was not surprised when Michael's soft reply came. He had known what the answer would be.

"I'm sorry," his captor whispered.

Michael pulled open the door with is free hand and then pulled Stephen toward the exit. Gray-blue eyes met green for a moment, and then with a shaky sigh, Operations’ son squared his shoulders, held his head high, and with a dignified step, let his captors lead him out into the night.

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

The three were tensely silent as Michael drove their rental car out of the hotel parking lot and out into the traffic. Nikita sat in the back seat with an apprehensive Stephen, watching him nervously, her tranq gun still at the ready in her hand.

None of them spoke on the long drive to the hospital, each absorbed in their own dark thoughts. Stephen slumped against the door, staring blindly out the window, wondering if this would be his last day on earth, his last ride to anywhere.

He bit his lip hard, and tried to control his trembling. They were going to torture him, he knew that. And then kill him. His panic took him then, rising inside his stomach like a small wisp of curling smoke that suddenly became a raging inferno, engulfing him in its fury, burning out of control...

Control. Stephen shut his eyes, and he felt a cooling peacefulness bubble up inside him, along with the fire, like a trickle at first, then a fountain, extinguishing his fear.

His father had been a prisoner, came the still thoughts. His father had been tortured by the VC. Hung in a cage. Beaten. Starved. Brutalized. But he had never given up. His father was a hero who had remained strong, an example of bravery to his men.

Stephen felt that inherent bravery now, like a gift from his dead father. An inexplicable peace came over him, and he knew in his bones that whatever was done to him, no matter how horrible, that he would have the strength to endure it.

Beside him, Nikita watched carefully as Stephen first trembled with fear, and then relaxed into acceptance and resignation to his fate. She wished she could tell him that he wasn't being taken to the hospital to be interrogated, but rather to meet his father.

It struck her that this meeting might be more traumatic than any torture would have been. Stephen worshipped his father; revered his memory, and now, after hard soul-searching this last year, had based his life on what he thought his father stood for- decency, honesty, hard work, sacrifice.

What would Stephen do when he found out that it was all a lie? That his father had been alive all this time, and had not even tried to see him, to contact his son? How would Stephen react when he learned that Operations had lied to him, and had spent the last twenty years not with his family, but with a secret government organization known as Section One?

He would be shattered, she realized suddenly. Stephen's world would fall apart.

Nikita sighed, her romantic fantasies of a warm fuzzy family re-union going out of her head. Maybe Stephen and Operations meeting wasn't such a good idea after all, she thought, in spite of what Brian must have insisted to Michael on the phone. She crossed her arms across her chest and settled back uneasily in her seat, dreading the ride and its outcome almost as much as Stephen did.

Michael was as distressed by this trip as the others in the back seat. He tried to concentrate exclusively on his driving, but the traffic did not prove enough distraction to keep his worried thoughts out.

Operations was dying, Brian had said. Dying. Michael pursed his lips in a grim line, realizing just what that meant. His reaction was not a professional one, but profoundly emotional. He didn't ponder what that death would mean to Section, but rather what that loss would mean to him, personally.

For it would be a loss, Michael realized that. With keen sharpness, his grief cut through him like a knife. Operations, despite having been incredibly demanding, and at times cruel, had still been to Michael much more than just a boss over the past years.

He had been a leader. A mentor. A... father. Even, Michael realized, a savior. Michael remembered how he had been when he had first been recruited into Section- torn with guilt for the people he had unwittingly killed in the bombing, wild with grief, remorse, and adrift in despair without his beloved Rene to guide him, enraged at his captivity, terrified of Section.

Michael had been one big tangle of passionate emotions, about to self-destruct. Operations had taken that fiery potential, that wild youth, and molded him into a disciplined, controlled, rational soldier. Operations had given all that uncontrolled rage a direction, and a purpose. Operations had taught Michael how to survive, how to fight, how to endure, for the sake of the innocents. For the greater good.

No matter how harsh that molding, that hard training had been, Michael was still grateful for its results. He had a reason for living now. His life, no matter how difficult, had purpose. If not for Section, and Operations, Michael would have spent the rest of his life, useless, despairing, rotting in prison.

And he would have never have met Nikita. the true light in his life.

Michael was conflicted about his feelings for Operations, admiring him, perhaps loving him, and hating and resenting him at the same time. But he knew he would always be profoundly grateful for what his mentor had taught him. And he knew for certain one thing- He didn't want Operations to die.

With a start, Michael realized that they had reached their destination. He turned the wheel and swung the car into the hospital parking lot, pulling up to the front doors of the huge, modern building.

Almost at once, the sliding glass doors opened and a medical team rushed out, coming toward them. Two men pushing a stretcher, led by a doctor in green scrubs and white lab coat, coat-tails flying out behind him.

"Brian?" Michael gasped, opening his door and emerging from the car.

Dr. Brian Whicker gave him a keen, but brief glance, his attention riveted on the passenger in the back seat of the car. He flung open the car door and peered inside at Nikita and Stephen.

"Hurry, please," Brian urged them. "There's no time...."

Stephen unfolded his lanky frame from the car and stood in the driveway, followed by Nikita who clambered out behind him.

"Brian, what's going on?" Nikita asked him, alarmed.

The doctor glanced at her, but his focus was entirely on Stephen when he spoke. "Thank God you're here," Brian told the bewildered young man. "There's still time..."

He gripped Stephen by the arm and led him to the stretcher. "He went into a coma a few minutes ago," Brian explained breathlessly, "But if we get you into surgery now, there's still a chance to save him..."

Brian looked into Stephen's shocked face with pleading blue eyes. "Please," he begged with earnest sincerity. "Please help us."

Stephen froze, then relief flooded him. They didn't want to torture him after all. They needed him for some kind of medical procedure, probably to save the life of some government big wig. That would explain all the cloak and dagger secrecy.

Stephen glanced at Nikita and Michael, who were staring at him with pleading, stricken eyes, waiting tensely for his answer as well. He felt a sudden sympathy for their desperation, and, he figured, since they weren't going to kill him, he could afford to be magnanimous.

"Sure," he said jauntily, breaking into a wry smile. "Why not?" He took a few steps toward the men with the gurney, walking past Brian, and hopped cheerfully onto the stretcher.

"Let's go," he acquiesced with a grin. "Anything to serve my country, right?"

Brian let out an audible sigh, and then went instantly into action. Coat tails flying, He followed the stretcher with its precious cargo, as the men wheeled Stephen through the double doors inside the building and down the hospital corridor at a break-neck pace, racing against time.

Nikita blinked, stunned, and then turned to look into Michael's ravaged face. She went to him, crossing to the other side of the car, and held out her arms, and without a word, enfolded him in the comfort of her embrace.

He held her tightly for a time, drawing strength from her nearness. Then he lifted his head and, with his arm still around her, the two walked into the hospital to await word of Operations' fate.

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

Michael felt like he had been in the waiting room for hours, but it had only been forty minutes. He paced up and down, tension in every line of his body. Nikita watched him from her chair where she sat slouched disconsolately, wishing there was something she could do to comfort him.

But there was nothing. All they could do was wait.

When Brian came walking toward them down the hall a few minutes later, it was all Michael could do not to grab the doctor by the lapels and shake him for answers.

Instead, he controlled himself, and waited tensely for Brian's report.

The doctor patted Michael on the shoulder and smiled. "Good news," he said in a cautious, but happy tone. "The tests have been run, and the tissue cultures and blood groups are a perfect match..."

"Match?" asked Nikita, still in the dark.

"Yeah," Brian nodded. "They should be starting the surgery soon. This procedure is a little risky, but without it, Operations has no chance at all..."

"What procedure are you talking about, exactly?" Michael asked tensely. "What's wrong with Operations?"

Brian blinked in surprise at his two friends. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said with a shake of his head. "I thought you knew..."

"Knew WHAT?" Michael demanded, clutching Brian's shoulder in a hard grip. "What are you talking about?"

Brian was unoffended by this treatment. He only paused to take a deep breath, and then he explained succinctly, but in detail, the transplant procedure, how a part of Stephen's liver would be put in his father's body, and how, if all went well, that piece would grow and take over the function of the diseased and failing organ.

"Oh my God..." gasped Nikita. "What about Stephen?"

Brian was quick to reassure her. "He'll be fine," he told her gently. "He'll have the pain and discomfort of the surgery, of course, but in this type of procedure, the donor's liver function is not impaired."

He nodded at them both, voice calm. "Stephen is young, and healthy. He should recover completely and go on to lead a normal life." Brian's smile faded. "I just hope his father will do the same," he added somewhat grimly.

Michael loosened his death grip on Brian's shoulder and dropped his hand to his side. Then he turned and walked a few steps away from them, his back toward the other two, to hide his tears of distress. In a voice quavering with emotion, he asked Brian another tense question.

"Does he know?" Michael whispered hoarsely. "Does Stephen know that the man whose life he is saving is his father?"

Brian's answer flooded him with relief. "No," said the young doctor. "Stephen thinks he was brought here because he was the random tissue match for someone in a sensitive position high-up in the government..."

The doctor sighed and ran his hand through the dark curls, disarraying them further. "I didn't bother to disabuse him of that notion," Brian admitted a little guiltily. "We had his consent for the surgery, and there'll be time to work out all the family relationships later, if Operations survives...."

Michael glared at him. "WHEN he survives..." he amended forcefully, as if by sheer will he could keep the Section leader from dying.

Brian smiled gently. "You're right. WHEN he survives," the doctor agreed.

Just then, a nurse interrupted them by rushing into the waiting room. She looked past Michael and Nikita, casting an anxious glance at Brian.

"They're starting the surgery now, Doctor," she admonished him.

Brian nodded. "Thank you. I'll be right there." He turned to his friends, whose tension level at the nurse's words had again gone through the roof.

"I'll come back and keep you informed as soon as I know anything, all right?" Brian promised.

He only waited for Michael's slight nod of acknowledgement, and then he was gone, rushing after the nurse down the hallway toward the OR.

Michael collapsed on the small couch in the corner of the room, head in hands, preparing to wait. Nikita crossed to him, and sat down beside him, one arm slipping around his back for comfort.

He turned to her gratefully, and took his hand in hers. Idly, he played with her fingers for a few minutes, then brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. With a huge sigh, he looked at her, his eyes anguished, but warm with passion as well.

"I'm glad you're here, Nikita..." he whispered.

"I'm glad I'm here, too, Michael," she answered softly, and then put her arm around him, pulled his head down on her shoulder, and settled back to wait.

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

An hour went by. Two hours. Three. Then four. Nikita had gone for a walk during the torturous wait, traveling the brightly lit corridors until she found a break room. She returned to the waiting room with sandwiches and coffee for them, but Michael was unable to eat. He found he couldn't even get the coffee down; his throat was closed up with tension, his stomach in knots.

It seemed nothing in his body was under his control anymore. His hands shook, his insides felt cold, and even his face, which he had trained so well into blankness, could no longer hide his distress. Nikita read his fear, and his conflict, clearly on that proud visage. Her heart was torn for him.

She prayed it would be over soon. One way or the other. Even finding out that Operations was dead would be preferable, she thought, to this limbo they were suspended in. Not knowing was torment.

"Nikita," Michael said in a low voice, near the end of the third hour of their vigil. "I have a favor to ask."

She looked up at him, startled. He hadn't said a word for hours. "What is it, Michael?" she asked eagerly. "Do you want me to get you something else to eat? More coffee?" She said hopefully, thinking at last that he had relaxed enough to take in some nourishment. She was worried about him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No coffee...." He reached out his hand for her, taking her fingers once more in his. She scooted closer to him on the couch and squeezed his hand.

"What is it that you need, Michael?" she asked gently.

The tortured green eyes looked pleadingly into hers. "I need you to promise me that Stephen will never know that Operations is his father," he whispered urgently. "If it becomes known who he is, he'll be the target of every terrorist on the planet..."

Michael's jaw clenched. "We won't be able to protect him anymore...."

Nikita, to his shock, did not protest, or even argue. Instead, she smiled sweetly at him, and simply said, "Of course, Michael. I promise." She squeezed his hand again. "He won't hear of it from me."

Michael blinked, his eyes widening in surprise. "You... promise?" he gasped. "But .. I thought you wanted him to know the truth...."

She smiled again, and then sighed, leaning back in her seat. "I DID want him to know the truth," she answered with a shake of her head. "But that was before I thought it through."

She paused, and then went on in a self-deprecating tone. "I thought that Stephen deserved to know that his father was alive, and I thought Operations should confess to him that he abandoned his family to work for Section One all these years...."

"But then," she went on, "I realized that Stephen didn't deserve that harsh a truth. I realized the kinder thing to do would be to leave him with his memories, and his hero worship..."

She rubbed a weary hand over her eyes and sighed again. "Stephen has built his whole life around his father- loving him, searching for him, building a legend, creating a mythic hero -a god, almost- and then trying to emulate him..." She shook her head. "If he finds out now that it was all a lie, his whole life would be shattered..."

She looked into Michael's eyes. "I say, let him believe in heroes for as long as can, hmm?" Her tone was sad, like she had left behind her illusions of heroes and story-book legends long ago.

They both knew Operations, though heroic on the surface, had feet, and perhaps a heart, of clay. And that it would be more merciful if Stephen never knew that.

"Thank you," Michael whispered hoarsely, grateful for her understanding. "Thank you for trusting me."

She smiled at him and gently stroked back a lock of hair from his forehead. "I do trust you, Michael," she told him softly. "With Stephen's life, with my own, and..." She took his hand and placed it on the top of her left breast, holding it there with her own.

"And with my heart.." she whispered. Michael's eyes glittered with unspoken desire, his heart in his eyes. Then, with a soft groan, Michael pulled her close, and kissed her.

The kiss was desperate with need, yet gentle. It was not only passion that Michael drew from her, but strength, and comfort, and support. The kiss was as much a seal between friends as it was a bond between lovers. Nikita held him fiercely, returning the kiss, feeling the love flow between them, feeling their souls intertwining.

Wonderingly, it occurred to her that in this twilight zone, this limbo of gray, waiting between life and death, that they had both chosen life- life for Operations, life for Stephen, life for themselves.

She never knew if their hope, their love, their prayers had made any difference, if their concern had tipped the balance in Operations' favor. She only knew that she was humbly grateful if it had.

In the next moment, they broke apart as they heard Brian's footsteps in the hall. Both Michael and Nikita jumped to their feet and rushed out into the corridor to meet him.

Nikita felt the tears of relief on her cheeks even before the young doctor spoke. She could see it plainly in his face, always so expressive, the good news that he took no trouble to hide.

"He's out of danger," Brian beamed. "It's over..."

The doctor smiled again as he saw Michael's face register the news, and then Brian's smile bubbled into a laugh as he watched Michael sweep Nikita into his arms for another kiss.

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

It was over, Brian had told Michael and Nikita, but for the doctor it had just begun.

He persuaded the two operatives to go back to Section, telling them that even though Operations was out of danger and the prognosis looked good, it would still be months before he made a full recovery and could leave Geneva for home. And meanwhile, his two friends might as well go back to work, and, although he didn't phrase it quite that bluntly, get out of his hair.

Brian sighed, relieved when at last, after much persuasion, the pair agreed to go. It wasn't that he didn't like them, and enjoy their company. It was just that he had a lot of lies to juggle, and the absence of their keen, well trained eyes on him made that task easier.

He didn't like lying to them. In fact, he didn't think he was very good at it. But in order to keep the rather delicately precarious situation between all the players in this drama from blowing up in his face, lying had become a necessity.

The first lie was to Madeleine. Operations had left orders that she was under no circumstances to be told about the surgery, or the existence of Operations' son.

But she had to be given some kind of explanation as to the Section leader's absence.

So Brian had called her after the surgery, explaining that Operations was suffering from severe anemia and complete exhaustion, and that the only option was for him to stay in Geneva for eight more weeks and rest.

Surprisingly, Madeleine took it well. "Good," she had said approvingly. "See that he follows your orders and takes it easy, hmmm?"

"Of course," Brian had said over the phone, rolling his eyes at her words. *Yeah, RIGHT* he thought, almost bitterly. *That'll be a piece of cake.* Brian had no illusions as to just how obedient a patient a man like Operations would be.

The next lie was to Michael and Nikita. They had nagged Brian about what he knew about the mission. Did he know, they asked, why Operations had ordered first Nikita, and then Michael, to bring Stephen in, giving each of them a different reason for doing so?

Of course he knew why. But it would not have been in anyone's best interests for Brian to tell them the truth- that Operations had done it to drive a wedge between the lovers, to make sure Michael appeared dastardly in Nikita's eyes, and that she would have no reason to trust him.

It took a while, but Brian had at last come up with a story. "It's this way," he had told them, wondering if they could see his nose growing like Pinocchio’s before them. "Some of the drugs Operations has been on for the liver failure have some nasty side-effects," the doctor fabricated.

He looked at Michael and Nikita, trying to keep his expression innocent. "Memory loss is common under this kind of treatment, along with an.. Alzheimer-like confusion..."

Brian hoped fervently that Operations never found out about this whopper. He went on. "He probably just forgot that he had ordered Nikita to bring in Stephen," he explained nervously. "Then he told Michael to do it."

Amazingly, they, like Madeleine, bought it hook, line and sinker. "Of course," Michael said with a relieved sigh. "That would explain it." It was shortly after that that Michael decided that Brian was right, and that he and Nikita should go.

*Great* thought Brian to himself, as he watched the duo leave the hospital. *Now all I have to do is lie to Operations' son*

Brian grimaced, rubbed his nose, noting that it was still mercifully the same size as before, and got in the elevator that would take him to the fourth floor, and Stephen's room.

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

*God, it hurts* thought Stephen to himself, not for the first time. The last surgery he had had, having his tonsils taken out when he was four, had been but a dim memory when he had agreed to the persuasive Doctor Whicker's pleas to undergo an operation to save a man's life. It had seemed such an easy thing to do--- in theory.

Now, as he lay in his hospital bed with his side throbbing from the inside, feeling like some piece of hell-fire itself had lodged in his abdomen, Stephen almost regretted his decision.

*But, no* he thought, catching himself up. *You saved a life. You saved another human being.*

*Yeah* countered the other voice, arguing in his head. *But what kind of human being did you save?*

Stephen groaned, and all thoughts of morality, right and wrong, and human value disappeared from his mind. It took every ounce of concentration to maneuver the small kidney shaped dish from the bedside stand to just under his chin; it took all his strength to brace himself against the pain as he heaved the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

Gasping he lay back on the pillows, recovering. After a moment, despite his pain, his dry sense of humor reasserted itself.

"Maybe I should get a medal for this," he mused out-loud. "Wounded in the service of my country..."

"Maybe you should," said an equally droll voice from the doorway.

Slowly, with great care, so as not to jar himself, Stephen turned his head to see who had made the wry comment. He recognized the tall frame, blue eyes, and wild, mussed hair of the young doctor who had stayed with him before the surgery- it was Dr. Whicker.

"Hi, Doc," Stephen greeted Brian feebly, feeling wearier than he ever had before. He was glad to see him, because Brian had been kindly before and was easy to talk to. But he felt too tired to keep up his end of the conversation.

Gratefully, he found that Brian didn't expect him to talk. Instead, the doctor moved forward into the room, and wordlessly began tending to him. He adjusted his iv drip, allowing more pain-medication to seep into Stephen's veins, then untangled the snake-like plastic tubing, arranging it out of the way on the bed.

Next, Stephen felt Brian lift the full dish from his hand, and then replace it with another, this one empty and clean. Most blessed of all, Brian patiently held a cup of water to Stephen's dry lips and let him drink, sipping slowly until his thirst was gone and some of the bitter taste in his mouth was washed away.

Then the doctor settled in the chair next to the bed, and continued the conversation Stephen had been having with himself. Even the topic had not changed.

"It was a noble thing you did," Brian began. "A heroic thing. You DO deserve a medal.."

Stephen frowned, and turned thoughtful eyes to the doctor. "Naw," he said drowsily. "My father- now there was a hero. He saved the lives of his men in Vietnam...."

Stephen sighed and then tried to laugh, then thought better of it, as the effort made his side hurt worse. "I just saved some lousy, self-important bozo of a politician, most likely..." He grimaced, and gazed thoughtfully at Brian. "I did save him didn't I?" he asked anxiously. "He's not..."

Brian smiled, glad to be able to tell the truth for once. "No, he's not dead. He's doing very well, thanks to you. And," he added carefully, "I can assure you, the man whose life you saved was indeed worth the trouble. What he does is vitally important to the stability and security of the free world..."

Stephen blinked, arousing from his state of drowsiness. "Sh&t!" he exclaimed, riveting his gaze on Brian. "Military?" he queried sharply. "CIA?"

Brian smiled enigmatically. "Yes, and no," he answered vaguely.

"What do you mean, yes and no?" demanded Stephen, trying to sit up. His pain had been forgotten as he lost himself in this intriguing conversation. "Which is it?"

Brian sighed. "Well, it's sort of both, actually," he told his patient. "Let's just say, it's covert enough that you won't find this organization listed under "Spys 'R' Us" in the yellow pages." Brian grinned.

Stephen managed to grin back, his eyes alight with eager curiosity. He was no stranger to conspiracy theories, and the idea of secrets kept by the government. He had tried to dig past the layers of red-tape and obfuscation that had clouded his father's record, and those of other MIA's. He had always suspected that there was another whole universe beneath the surface story he had been given.

Suddenly, he felt not half dead, but alive again. He had hope. The world was full of magical possibilities.

"Can I meet this spook?" Stephen asked intently. "Can I ask him if he knows anything about my father?"

He held his breath, waiting for Brian's answer. This could be his chance- the chance to break the decades long mystery, the chance to find out how, and where, and when, his father had died---

Or even if his father had died at all.

To his great relief, Brian nodded. "Possibly," he admitted warily. "But you'd have to be careful what questions you asked..." Brian tilted his head, and gave him a thoughtful look. "If you get too curious, you may end up knowing too much, and then you'd never get out of here," Brian warned.

Stephen shook his head. "I wouldn't do that," he promised. "I'd just ask about my father, I swear." He gazed at Brian, his expression one of desperate eagerness. "Can I meet him?" Stephen begged breathlessly. "Please?"

Brian stood up, and crossed to the door, one corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. "You are both convalescing in the same hospital," he hinted broadly. "Anything's possible...."

Stephen returned the grin, getting his message. "Thanks, Doc," he said with a sigh.

Brian nodded, satisfied that this part of his mission was complete. *Now on to Part Two* he thought to himself.

"Get some rest," he told Stephen softly, and then left the room, heading down the hall to see Operations.

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

Brian took a deep breath, pushed open the door to Operations' hospital room and went inside.

The man on the bed looked considerably perkier than his son did down the hall. Unlike Stephen, who looked worse than before the surgery, Operations looked much better.

His color was returning; a pink tone replacing the greyish-yellow of before. His eyes were brighter, and he looked... alive, not half- dead, like before. Operations was no longer a weary, dying man. Thanks to his son, and the life-saving surgery, he was now alert, lively, and as sharp as before.

He was also in his usual demanding mood.

Before Brian could even greet him, Operations was testily barking orders. "There you are, Doctor!" the patient fussed at him. "Where the hell have you been? Have you checked on my son yet?"

"I was just there," Brian answered patiently. "He's fine." Brian gave Stephen's father a small smile. "Stephen would tell you different, I suppose. He's used to feeling well, and the first day after surgery is no picnic..."

Operations' eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?" he asked, alarmed and suspicious. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Brian sighed. "No, of course not. I'm just saying he's in some pain and he's not keeping anything down, which is perfectly normal, by the way. He'll keep improving, and in a week, maybe less, he'll be able to go home..."

The man on the bed frowned. "A week is a very short time..." he said pensively. He sighed deeply, then turned to Brian, and barked another order.

"I'd like to see my son," he said tersely. "But we can't risk him seeing me. So here's what you will do..."

He struggled to sit up higher in the bed, and turned his intense blue gaze on the young doctor. "I want you to sedate him- make sure he's completely out. Then I could be with him..." he swallowed hard, choking back sudden sentimental tears, "I could... look at him, and touch him..."

It was Brian's turn to frown. "No," he said simply.

Operations blinked. Then grew angry. He wasn't used to being thwarted in his demands. "What do you mean, "NO"?" he bellowed.

Brian crossed his arms across his broad chest, pressed his mouth in a grim line, and answered. "I mean," he said calmly, "NO, I won't drug your son for you. And NO, you will not see him while he's sleeping. You'll see him when he's awake. And NO, he will not be kept in the dark about you any longer...."

The patient blanched, and fell back gasping on the pillows. "Jesus Christ!" He swore, aghast. "What have you done? Did you tell him about me?" he screamed irately.

Brian nodded grimly. "I told him enough," he said dryly.

Operations paled in shock, his breath catching in his lungs. How dare this lowly medical attendant put his son in danger? He glared at Brian, completely, intensely furious. "I'll have you cancelled for this.." he spluttered.

Brian was not fazed by this outburst. He stepped nearer to the bed and leaned close, literally getting into Operations' face.

"Just shut up and listen," Brian told him, equally furious. "I'm not an idiot. I didn't do anything to put your son in jeopardy. I just set a few things in motion, so that you can do what you should have done a long time ago.."

"And what exactly is that?" Operations demanded grimly, staring at him, rigidly enraged.

Brian sighed, and straightened from the bed. "Your son has spent his whole life trying to find out what happened to you in Vietnam. He's tearing himself up, wondering if you're dead, or if you're alive- maybe still in some VC camp, still being tortured, or maybe somewhere else, being used by your own government..."

Operations clenched his jaw, and turned his head away.

"Stephen saved your life," Brian continued softly. " You OWE him. You've owed him for YEARS. The least you can do for him is to give him some peace of mind about you, some kind of closure..."

The patient gave an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Damn it, Doctor," he spat out, "You are just as sickeningly sentimental as Nikita. Worse, even. You want some tender father-son reunion..."

Brian cut him off. "Don't you?" he asked tersely.

Operations went silent, and then closed his eyes. The words, when they came, were torn from the deepest part of him. "Yes," he choked out, anguished. "I do. God help me, I do.."

He recovered after a moment, his anger returning. "But a meeting isn't possible...." He said morosely. "I can't see him..."

Brian had on his stubborn look. "It IS, and you WILL..." he said mulishly.

The man on the bed just stared at him, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Brian went on, his tone just a bit more gentle. "I told Stephen that the recipient was a man high up in government, privy to lots of secrets," he explained quietly. "Stephen wanted to see him, to press him about information about you, about his father...."

"So here's your chance," Brian went on in soft tones. "You have a week. Tell your son all the stories you've been wanting to tell him all these years. Tell him you knew his father, that you were in 'Nam together. Tell him about Paul Wolfe, the hero, the soldier who saved his men, fought for his country, and died in Ling Sai..."

Operations sighed, his eyes suspiciously bright. "You almost persuade me, Doctor, that your crazy idea could work," he drawled, trying not give away how much he desired Brian's scenario to succeed. "But what happens if Stephen recognizes me?"

"I've thought of that," answered Brian softly. " If he does suspect you, you could tell him you were so disfigured by the beatings you received by your VC captors, that you had to have plastic surgery...."

The patient stared at him a moment, then shook his head and laughed. "Damn, Doctor," he said, chuckling. "I never suspected you were that devious..." He gave Brian a speculative look. "You may belong in Section after all...."

Brian scowled, unsettled by this remark. "No, I don't think so.." he said pensively.

Operations let out a sigh, then struggled to sit up in bed. "Christ, why am I wasting my time talking about YOUR problems, when I could be visiting my son..." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and pointed at the wheelchair in the corner of the room.

"Dammit, man, help me get out of here...." he demanded impatiently.

Brian stepped in front of him again, his expression more stubborn than before. "You'll get out of here when I say so," he said testily.

The patient's eyes widened. "Really?" he said dryly, not intimidated by Brian's implied threat. "Just what is the problem?"

"The problem," said Brian tensely, stepping a little closer, "Is how you treat the other child you have..." He paused, and glared at Operations. "Your other son."

Operations blinked. "Other... son?" he asked, bewildered. "What other son? What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded querulously.

Brian grimaced and looked straight into Operations' eyes.

"Michael," Brian stated quietly. "I'm talking about Michael."

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

"Michael?" Operations gasped. "What does Michael have to do with anything? And why did you say he was my "other" son?"

Brian tilted his head and eyed Operations askance. "Think about it," he drawled challengingly. "He's your heir apparent. You groomed him to follow in your footsteps. He'll take over when you're gone. You molded him; you trained him, shaped him into the creation you wanted..."

The patient blinked, than shook his head. "That's nonsense. Michael isn't my SON," he denied vehemently. "He's an employee. The relationship is strictly business. We're not... family..."

Brian laughed mirthlessly. "Could have fooled me..."

He turned his back to the patient, and stepped a few paces away, as if he needed the space between himself and Operations to keep his anger under control.

"You didn't see him when he brought Stephen here," Brian began in a low voice. "You didn't see his face when I told him you were dying..."

Brian whirled to face the man on the bed, his eyes blazing. "You didn't see him in the waiting room. You didn't see him almost collapse in relief when I told him you had made it through surgery..."

Operations blinked. "Michael did that?" This was somewhat of a revelation to the Section leader. He wasn't used to thinking of Michael, or any other operative, for that matter, as human beings. They were material. Things to be used, resources to be utilized...

Not children. He never thought of them like that.

"Yes, Michael did that," Brian continued acerbically. "He's loyal to you. He ..respects you. He cares about you..." The doctor ran a hand through his hair and sighed wearily. "Hell, Michael loves you, although he would probably never put it like that..."

"And?" quipped Operations impatiently. "Your point is?"

Brian's temper flared at this contemptuous tone. He stepped closer to the bed, looming over the patient, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes blazing fire.

Intimidated in spite of himself, Operations cringed back away from him.

"My point is, you heartless bastard," Brian said between clenched teeth, "That if Michael hadn't busted his ass getting your donor here, you'd be dead by now. And..."

He leaned forward, hissing into Operation's face. "And you seem indifferent to his loyalty, and his love. You went out of your way to screw with him, even risked getting Stephen here, for Christ's sake, just so you could play some petty mind game with Michael..."

Brian's voice became louder, his rage spiraling higher. "Isn't it enough for you, all the sh*t he has to go through just to get through the missions?" Brian spat out angrily. "Why do you have to pull these stupid power trips on him?"

Brian gave him a disgusted look. "You make me sick...."

Operations stared at him a moment, then suddenly laughed. "You're the one who's sick," he chortled. "Love-sick. Mooning over Michael...."

Brian exhaled a sigh of rage, and gripped the patient by his shoulders. Operations stared up in his face, alarmed.

"Now get this, old man," Brian hissed, his fingers biting into the other man's flesh. "This is not a request. You WILL do what I tell you. You WILL quit the extraneous mind games and stop f*cking with Michael and Nikita. DO YOU HEAR ME?" he shouted.

Operations eyed him speculatively, one eyebrow raised. "My, my," he said in an amused tone. "I under-estimated you, Doctor. Your profile says you are a sweet-natured little pansy, but it seems you've grown a pair of ba%%s after all.." Operations smiled at him.

Brian gave him a mock smile in return and released his grip on his shoulders. "I've got news for you. I've always had them," he said dryly, stepping back from the bed.

Brian had a steely glint in his eye as he said the next words. "And if you know what's good for you, you won't piss me off."

"Oh?" Operations asked still amused. He gave Brian an almost affectionate glance. The fiery young man reminded him somewhat of himself at that age. He also reminded him of the young, impudent recruit that Michael had been fourteen years ago.

"And just what will you do if I piss you off?" Operations asked with a grin.

Brian glared at him, still angry, but softened somewhat by the charm of that smile. He stared pointedly at the bandaged spot on Operation's abdomen.

"I'll slit you open and have your liver for lunch," Brian growled. Then he grinned suddenly, his eyes dancing. "With onions, of course," he added with a laugh.

Operations laughed, too. "Well now, we can't have that, can we?" he chortled.

He waved for Brian to bring the wheel chair to him. "Hell, let's get on with it," he said impatiently. "Take me to my son, already.."

Brian wheeled the chair toward him, and held it steady as Operations lowered himself into it, carefully. "What about Michael?" Brian asked tensely.

Operation locked gazes with the young doctor, then nodded with a sigh. "I'll try to take better care of him, and the other... children," he said solemnly, "When I get back to Section. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," agreed Brian with a grin, and then took hold of the wheelchair and pushed the patient through the door and into the corridor, taking him to visit the child down the hall.

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

The one week that Operations thought he would have with his son stretched into four. From the moment Operations and Stephen saw each other, there was an instant rapport.

Something clicked, and the two would spend hours talking and visiting. Brian had to be firm with his patients, making them rest, even when all they wanted to do was talk more.

It was understandable, Brian thought. The pent-up needs and questions of a life-time, of twenty-plus years of separation, needed to be vented and expressed. He watched Operations blossom, and Stephen as well, both happier, lighter, and calmer than before- as if their souls were healing along with their bodies.

To Operations, it was the re-union with his son that had done the healing. To Stephen, it was the chance to get answers that he needed about his father from his new "friend" who had access to all the records and information in the government, and who had, miraculously, known his father personally, and had been with him those lost years in Vietnam.

Stephen had asked that he be able to stay, until his new friend, whom he only knew as "the Major", was well enough to leave the hospital. Operations did not argue with this, and even promised to fix things with Stephen's employers for him when he returned to work.

That business settled, the two were now inseparable. At first, they sat side by side in their wheelchairs and talked in the solarium, or visited in each other's rooms. At the end of the week, both patients were stronger, and they took to walking together through the halls, hanging onto each other for support. And, of course, as they walked, they talked.

Not all the talk was of Vietnam, or of the past. Stephen shared some of his current hopes and dreams with his friend, and Operations allowed himself to tell a few sanitized versions of his adventures in Section, and the pressures of his life there.

Stephen found the Major's stories fascinating, listening raptly to every word. Operations found it cathartic to be able to speak, almost freely like this of his life that had been so secret. And most of all, he was overjoyed to be able to get to know his son after all these years.

Operations felt no urge to tell Stephen what their relationship really was. He could see how at peace, if not exactly happy, Stephen was with the version of truth that Operations had told him- that his father's life had ended over twenty years ago in a VC prison, and that no doubt his soul now rested in peace.

The live-version of his father was at peace as well. Operations recovery progressed at a quick rate, and he was not surprised when Brian declared him fit to leave the hospital and return to Section after only one month of convalescence, not two.

This news dismayed and depressed him, until Stephen had suggested that they keep in touch after each left the hospital.

"It's funny," Operations' son had commented to his friend "the Major". "But you're more than a friend to me. I feel like we're almost... family..."

His father had had to hold back the tears then, his son's words invoking in him a deep sense of rightness and sweet completion, like a missing piece of his soul had been returned to him. Stephen's words had completed the weeks of healing, and now all the wounds, physical and emotional, were gone. All that was left were some faint scars, that Operations knew he would have no problem living with.

At the goodbye on the hospital steps, father and son embraced for the first time since Stephen was seven, and had hugged his Daddy before he went off to war. Operations held him fiercely, not wanting to let him go. Both men had shiny eyes when they at last broke apart.

"We'll keep in touch, right?" asked Stephen, stepping into the taxi. "You'll come see me?" His voice was anxious, the answer was important to him.

"I'll come see you," Operations reassured him with a tremulous smile. "I promise."

Stephen grinned broadly, then waved, got in the taxi, and was gone.

His father turned to the young doctor at his side. "Call Madeleine," he ordered wearily. "It's time we went home."

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

Their return to Section went smoothly. Operations went back to his duties, and Brian to his. The business of Section proceeded as usual. Everything was the same as before, except for a few small, but significant, differences.

Operations did not lose his temper as often with his operatives; he did not berate them as much at briefings. He smiled more, smoked less; he was decidedly mellow. So mellow, in fact, that he even made a sympathetic comment to Nikita once in Systems, which shocked everyone.

But the change in the way he treated Michael was truly startling. Very seldom these days did Operations order Michael to his office to harangue him about what had gone wrong on missions, or to nag him to crush Nikita's spirit. Yelling at Michael had been an almost constant pass-time of Operations, almost a hobby, really. And now that had stopped.