"Michael," a lyrical voice behind him called sweetly. "Could I have a moment of your time, please?"

He stiffened his back, reluctantly arresting his long stride down the corridor, and turned to face the Iron Maiden.

"Of course," he answered, his tone hard and clipped, barely polite. Lately he had found it more and more difficult to be pleasant in Madeleine's presence. Her tampering with Nikita's psyche, her manipulation of his Beloved to not love him anymore, had been the last straw in a long line of reasons to hate her. Now he didn't even try to suppress that emotion for his superior in Section. He let the disgust and resentment show plainly in his eyes.

Madeleine was not bothered by the intense glare of hatred he shot her way. In fact, she seemed invigorated by it, as if she fed off this hatred, sucking this dark energy from his wounded soul, like a vulture who feeds on rotting carrion.

She smiled wider, falling into step beside him. Silently, they continued on their way down the corridor that led to his office. It was early morning, and the hallways were more or less deserted. They had complete privacy for their conversation.

"An old friend of yours is coming for a visit," Madeleine commented blithely after a minute, her heels clicking on the stone floor in exact time with his steps.

Michael stopped where he was, and turned to face her, blocking her way down the narrow passageway with his lithe body standing imposingly close to hers. He was taller, larger, stronger. He hoped his presence intimidated her, but it didn't. In fact, it was the other way around. Her presence disturbed HIM.

"Who?" he asked sharply, his voice husky with apprehension.

Madeleine tilted her head and smiled slyly. "Jeanette," she said softly. Her eyes glittered in the harsh light, full of triumph and mischief. "You do remember her, of course, Michael?" she said in a taunting tone.

Michael flinched in surprise. It had been a long time since he had heard that name. Jeanette was a profiler who had helped train him thirteen years ago, back when he had been a raw recruit. They had enjoyed a cordial, if not close, relationship, everything between them strictly professional. Jeanette had pushed him hard, but had been scrupulously fair in all her dealings with him, as was her way with all operatives she encountered.

The main thing he remembered about her was her honesty, which was a rare commodity in Section. Unlike Madeleine, who tended to strike when one's back was turned, Jeanette, if forced to do something unpleasant to one of her trainees, always gave them a warning first. She tended to be very upfront in her methods. Jeanette, also unlike Madeleine, did not seem to enjoy tormenting those people under her, the ones in her power. She, in contrast to the Iron Maiden, had shown Michael only respect, not cruelty. He had missed her when, after a year as her material, she was promoted to work for Oversight.

"Of course I remember her," he said testily, relaxing a bit. He doubted he had anything to fear from Jeanette, from whom he has parted on friendly terms.

Madeleine smiled wider, her grin taking on Cheshire cat proportions. "Good," the petite brunette gloated openly. "Because she remembers YOU," his tormentor said, her eyes glowing. She let out a tinkling laugh, while raking Michael's body up and down with her all-seeing gaze, leering at him. "She remembers you very well…" She purred, like a contented cat with a mouse.

Michael turned to look at her, saying nothing. He only tilted his head questioningly, knowing Madeleine would sooner or later, expound on this enigmatic statement.

"You made quite an impression on her, you know, Michael," Madeleine went on as he predicted she would, enjoying taunting him. "She's coming to oversee some critical missions, and while she is here, she requested your personal… assistance…." Madeleine emphasized this last word, pronouncing it with a lilt that made it sound like an illicit, four-letter sexual term.

Michael tensed. "My assistance?" he queried, suddenly feeling nervous. "With the profiling, you mean?"

Madeleine nodded, an ugly smile twisting the side of her mouth. "Yes, THAT, as well as other… needs…" the sadistic taskmistress tittered. Michael froze, stiffening in shock as she reached out to stroke her hand along his firm jaw.

"You must have … pleased her very much back then," Madeleine told him, lowering her voice to a throaty whisper. "Because she wants you back in her bed again…."

Michael tried to control his reaction, but he couldn't stop the gasp of shock that escaped from his lips, nor could he prevent the automatic widening of his eyes at this stunning news.

He and Jeanette had never been lovers. In fact, she had never touched him, or kissed him. She had never even held his hand, or flirted with him. The spark of eroticism had never been there between them. Why would she tell Madeleine that she wanted him now? And why would she, the most honest woman he knew, LIE to Madeleine about their past?

"What?" he choked out involuntarily, unable to believe what he was hearing. "What did you say?"

"You heard me, Michael," Madeleine replied sharply, making no secret of her delight that her barb had found its target. "You'll put yourself completely in her hands, as it were," she ordered curtly. His tormentor tapped her fingers lightly on his breast-bone, daintily grasping a small amount of the material of his shirt that showed just above the first button of his jacket, as if plucking at his heart.

Michael held perfectly still, a stone statue held captive by this vulture's grasp.

"She owns you," Madeleine whispered, leaning close. She released him, patting the spot over his heart patronizingly, smoothing the material over his chest possessively, as if she owned the living flesh underneath.

He closed his eyes. Maybe she did, Michael thought miserably.

"You're under orders to please her," Madeleine finished sternly, stepping back now that she had made her point. She turned to leave for her own office, confident of his compliance, knowing he had no choice but to obey.

"See that you don't disappoint her," the bitch called flippantly over her shoulder as she walked away, not bothering to look back. "Or me…."

Michael stood trembling in the corridor long after she had gone. It took him a good ten minutes of deep breathing before he had control of his emotions enough to walk slowly back to his lonely office, and even then he still quivered with anger, and a deep, growing despair…..

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

When Michael finally met up with Jeanette two days later, he didn't recognize her.

He had heard of her arrival the previous afternoon, of course. Section was abuzz with the news. He heard snatches of conversations as he passed in the halls, caught fragments of excited discussions about the "new" profiler wherever he went. He tried not to encounter her, hibernating in his office as much as possible until their meeting was unavoidable. No use, he thought, in hastening the inevitable. Stubbornly, he intended to savor his freedom from sexual slavery as long as possible.

If Jeanette wanted him, he told himself perversely, let her come to him.

Frankly, he was surprised at all the commotion. Jeanette was not the kind of woman who invoked much excitement. She had always been rather quiet, a bit shy, reserved and practical. Not at all the sort of woman who could set male hearts aflutter. He remembered her as a sturdy woman, tall and slightly chubby, with a round, friendly face and stick-straight black hair that had gone gray early. Almost exactly ten years his senior, his former trainer would be in her mid forties by now, and Michael couldn't imagine that she had become any more attractive in that time.

She had always treated him the same as she treated all the other operatives- fairly, gruffly affectionate, like a little brother. It was the way she treated all the men she worked with, as far as he could tell. Jeanette seemed incapable of coyness or flirtatious banter, like other women. She had the almost masculine trait of always speaking what was on her mind, directly, shooting from the hip. That was why he had always felt so comfortable with her. There were never any undercurrents with Jeanette. She was like a smooth, clear-surfaced lake, in which you could look down and see all the way to the bottom. He always knew exactly where he stood with her.

Til now.

Now he didn't know where he was with her. He wracked his brain, trying to think why she had singled him out for the "honor" of warming her bed. He was not vain enough, or simple enough, to believe this sudden change of personality, this urgent desire to be with him, was because of his physical beauty alone. He was very adept at picking up signals like that, and he had never felt any keen interest in him as a man emanating from his former trainer. If she had lusted for him secretly all those years ago, he was never aware of it, and his radar in that regard was very good. No, there was something else going on here.

He fretted the question, going over it worriedly in his mind. Was this some kind of revenge on her part, for some long ago wrong he might have done her? Was Jeanette's request that he submit to her erotic whims done out of spite, or hatred? He struggled to remember even one incident in which she had been displeased with him, or angry at him, or merely annoyed, but there was nothing. He came up empty.

Baffled, his head aching, Michael looked warily out of his office window and was relieved to see nothing but empty corridor. He knew Jeanette would demand his presence, and his services, sooner or later. But til then, he still had time to gather some intel. He needed to know what he was getting into.

"Birkoff," Michael ordered, slamming his palm down on the toggle of his intercom unit. "I need you in my office for a moment, please."

"On my way," came the immediate reply. The computer genius' voice sounded lighter, almost carefree, a hint of laughter bubbling in his boyish throat.

A moment later, the young man bounced in through the door, a big smile across his face. "You wanted to see me, Michael?" Birkoff asked with a giggle, unable to keep his laughter under control.

Michael stared at him morosely. He saw nothing in the situation to laugh at, unless the younger man's mirth was aimed at him, at Michael's expense. Did everyone in Section know of the humiliating situation he was in? Did they know he was being used as a middle-aged woman's plaything? Were they all laughing at him?

"What's so funny?" Michael demanded, his back stiffening. It was bad enough to suffer the indignities he must go through, but he couldn't bear to be mocked. Michael had his pride.

The young man's eyes widened behind his round glasses. "Uh, nothing, Michael," Birkoff denied, even though he couldn't keep the smirk off his face. "Nothing at all…" He snickered again.

Michael stiffened further, his eyes glaring. He knew he was over-reacting, but the recent rejection of him by Nikita had wounded him badly, and his emotions were raw and tender, and uncomfortably very near the surface, just like he never wanted them to be. He had been trained not to show what he was feeling, and he knew better than this, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

"What…Is….So….Funny?" he asked again, enunciating each spat-out word slowly, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Birkoff blinked in surprise, and then hemmed and hawed. "Uh, well, it's, um….."

"YES?" The word was a shouted command. Michael wanted an answer and he wanted it NOW.

Birkoff cleared his throat, but still could not keep the trace of a smile off his face. "What's funny is this joke that Jeanette was telling us," he explained at last. "Well, several jokes, really." His mouth twitched up at the corners as his eyes lit up with delight. "They were all pretty raunchy, but the one about the senile old lady with the young lover was the funniest….." The young man giggled again. "She must have been a riot to train with," Birkoff commented enviously. "She had all of Systems broken up this morning and rolling in the aisles…."

Michael's eyes widened. This was not the mentor he remembered. If Jeanette had known any dirty jokes when she was training him, she had kept them to herself. He rather doubted that she did, but IF she had known any, he speculated, her reaction would have been to blush, not re-tell them to an audience of males. Jeanette was not a prude, but she had been rather reserved about discussing sexual matters frankly. At least, he remembered, she had never broached the subject within his hearing.

Realizing that he had Birkoff on the topic that he wanted to discuss without having to bring it up himself, Michael forged on.

"Jeanette was my favorite trainer," he said softy, not needing to lie. He realized as soon as the words were out that they were true. She had been honest with him, and civil, and, as much as she was allowed to be in Section, quite kind. "I always liked her," he added a bit wistfully.

This confession prompted more useful intel from Birkoff. The young man leered, and then winked broadly at his colleague, man to man. "I'll bet you did!" he snickered, and then lowered his voice to a whisper, conveying confidences. "I don't know if I could have kept my concentration at all around her, though," he confessed openly, shaking his head. "Those things are just too damn… distracting!" he finished, smiling again.

Michael blinked, confused. "You lost me," he told Birkoff, shaking his head. "Things?" Michael inquired, lifting an eyebrow. "What….things?"

Birkoff 's mouth fell open in surprise, astounded that Michael did not understand him. "Why,..er.. her.. tits!" he blurted out indiscreetly. "Uh, her boobs, I mean!" He paused, noting that Michael had gone still and was giving him a blank stare, even more blank than usual. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably and stared at the floor. "They're… well, MAGNIFICENT, is the only word for them, but I guess you got used to seeing her like that and it was no big deal, right?" Birkoff elaborated quickly, trying to redeem himself.

Michael was stunned. He strained to remember something about that part of Jeanette's anatomy, but came up with only a vague impression that she had been large-breasted, yes, but in a matronly way, the top of her in proportion to wide hips. Certainly there had been nothing about her back then that had warranted such admiration in her male comrades and underlings in Section. He was beginning to wonder if he and Birkoff were even talking about the same person.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Birkoff added, interrupting Michael's confused thoughts. "Jeanette wants to see you," the young man pronounced, his words making Michael's stomach clench with a feeling of impending doom. "In her private quarters on Level B, as soon as you're free…." The computer genius amended, adding nails to Michael's coffin of despair.

Unaware of Michael's gloomy reaction to this news, Birkoff let out an envious sigh.

The Class 5 operative shuddered, feeling suddenly afraid. Jeanette was no longer an old, familiar comrade from the past; obviously she was now a new, different, and dangerous, stranger. He rose wearily to his feet. The time of hiding was over. He had been summoned, and he must now face this nemesis, and his duty, no matter how distasteful, head on.

"Fine," he said grimly, buttoning up the front of his suit jacket as he headed toward the door. "I'll go see her now."

Birkoff stopped Michael's hurried flight by placing a hand on his arm as he went by. "Uh, Michael?" he inquired hesitantly.

"Yes?" Michael hissed through clenched teeth. "What is it?" Now that he had worked up the courage to face Jeanette, he was annoyed to have his momentum curtailed in this way. He just wanted to get this over with.

"Uh, why did you call me into your office?" the wide-eyed younger man asked diffidently. "You never told me what you wanted…."

Michael sighed, realizing that this was true. Despair flooded him, and he sighed deeply as he answered this question.

"Nothing," he replied softly, feeling like the earth under him was opening up to reveal a dark chasm of endless loss waiting to engulf him. "Absolutely nothing…."

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

A musical voice called to him to enter, when he had rapped on the door to the private quarters on Level B.

"Come in, Michael…" Jeanette invited, buzzing the door open for him. The voice, he noted with some relief, was exactly the same. Warm, practical, affectionate.

Perhaps TOO affectionate, he thought glumly. The metal entrance slid open, and Michael steeled himself, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

The room was dim, lit only by low lamplight, and at first he didn't see her. He squinted his eyes, adjusting to the dimness after the harsh glare of fluorescent light in the hallway, and peered around the room. It was opulent, by Section standards, as lush and airy as a room without windows five hundred feet underground could be. There were comfortable, deep sofas done in butter yellow leather and soft, inviting armchairs in floral printed chintz. Large houseplants and a lattice patterned wallpaper added to the feeling of being in a garden. It was a feminine room, but not cloyingly so, and he could smell a fresh perfume in the air, lilacs, he recognized.

"Jeanette?" he called out, stepping further across the plush, grass green carpet. He didn't see her anywhere.

"In here!" she called back.

Michael turned in the direction of the voice and noticed something he hadn't seen before. To his left was a curtained alcove recessed in the wall; Jeanette's voice was coming from there.

The bedroom, Michael thought grimly.

He swallowed hard, paused a moment, and then pushed the curtain aside, entering the spider's lair.

There was a woman lying on the bed, a stunning woman, arrestingly beautiful. She was on her back, fully dressed in a formal business suit consisting of a dark blue skirt that came down to her knees and a matching, fitted jacket. A pink scarf was tucked in at her throat and covered the opening of her bodice, which, unlike her attire, was anything but modest. Her breasts rose in a high swell, thrusting up under the soft material that covered them, full, firm, astoundingly generous, and, as Birkoff had described them, totally magnificent. Michael realized instinctively that the suit must have been tailor-made for her. No ordinary department store would carry ordinary clothes to fit this slim-hipped, long-legged, full-breasted Goddess. She was something completely from another realm.

With difficulty, he forced his eyes upward to search the woman's face. He noted the thick, honey-colored hair first, frosted attractively with blonde streaks in the front and cut in a short, feathery, extremely feminine style that set off her high cheek-bones and full, pouting mouth to perfection.

Who WAS she? He wondered, bewildered. Who was this stranger supposedly pretending to be the frumpy, good-hearted Jeanette? Then he met her eyes, and he knew.

The eyes were the same, even if everything else was different. Kind, sympathetic, friendly. They were clear, sky blue, guilelessly open and honest as he remembered.

"Hello, Michael…." The Goddess greeted him softly, then sat up slowly. She swung her long legs to the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, hunched over wearily, her pose not at all seductive. She rubbed her eyes with her fists, like a child, and then reluctantly slipped her stocking-clad feet back into a pair of high-heeled navy blue shoes that waited by the bed.

"Sorry," she apologized to him with a rueful grimace, stifling a small yawn. "I was really worn out and decided to have a little lie-down…." She stood up and came toward him, holding out her hand and smiling warmly.

"It's good to see you, Michael," his old trainer greeted him gently.

He took her hand automatically in his and held it, still staring dumbfounded into her face. "Jeanette?" he choked out, unable to keep the question from his voice.

She laughed louder, and nodded her head, then lifted her free hand to pat him on the cheek. It was a sister's gesture, not a lover's.

"Yes it's me, Darling," she assured him, then sighed. "Older, thinner, and wiser. A mere shadow of my former chubby self…" She winked at him. " I know you must hardly recognize what's left…" she joked at her own expense.

Michael couldn't help but let his eyes stray downward to her breasts again. "Yes, you look quite…. Different…" he admitted, blushing uncomfortably.

Jeanette was not offended by this remark, nor by his stare. She laughed merrily again, and led him forward out of the bedroom, guiding him by the hand that was still clasped in hers.

"They're quite faux, of course," she told him frankly, referring to her new accoutrements. She ran one hand down the front of her jacket, proudly, just between the twin mounds. "I paid quite a pretty penny for them last year. I'm still getting adjusted to them, actually, as are the men around me…" She stopped in her tracks in the middle of the living room carpet and looked up into his face.

"Do you like them?" she asked pointedly.

Michael felt the blood rush to his face. He tried to look anywhere but at her breasts, and failed. "Yes," he stammered out, at a loss for words. "Uh… very much…" he admitted huskily, stunned that he could be so frank in return. Her newly designed body did indeed turn him on.

She laughed again, and then heaved a satisfied sigh. "Good, I'm glad," she told him, then released his hand and sank wearily into the closest chair nearby. She rubbed her forehead again.

"Be a love, then, Michael," she requested, pointing to the opposite side of the room which housed a small, but well-stocked kitchen, "And get us something to drink, please?" Jeanette closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. "I'd play hostess for you, but I'm just too damned TIRED…."

Michael watched her for a second, wondering if her fatigue was real, or merely an act she had put on, something as fake as her new breasts.

"Of course," he agreed, not having made up his mind as yet about this last question. He stepped around the counter that divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room and gazed at the array of cupboards before him.

"What would you like?" he asked politely. He never remembered her drinking anything stronger than coffee.

"Anything," she called back. "As long as it's not alcoholic…" she added a second later.

"Fine," Michael answered. So, she didn't drink. At least that much hadn't changed. While he fussed with ice and glasses, Michael cast a few speculative glances her way over the counter. What kind of game was she playing? Was this a test? She had requested him to come to her as her lover, but yet, none of her actions had come across that way so far- Jeanette still spoke to him and treated him like she always had, like he was her little brother.

He had expected her to want him, to devour him hungrily with her eyes, and then order him to service her in bed. Instead, she had patted him fondly on the cheek, uttered platonic greetings, and ordered him into the kitchen.

He realized then that she had no intention of f*cking him.

It hit him with a jolt of shocked regret that her lack of desire for him came not as a relief but rather as a crushing disappointment. He shoved the thoughts away, not wanting to deal with the possibility at that moment that he was shallow enough to lust physically for his former mentor, now that she had a new body, and a new pair of tits.

His c*ck stirred to life then, as if mocking him. He felt his trousers tighten across his manhood, stimulated to hardness by his thoughts of lying naked on top of her in bed, his face buried between those firm, luscious breasts…

He poured their drinks with a shaky hand, and then took an ice cube from the freezer and pressed it surreptitiously to the inside of his wrists, trying to slow his erratic breathing. After a moment, he was in control again. He crossed the room to her chair where Jeanette sat with her head back, eyes still closed, and held out her drink to her.

"Here you go," Michael said in a husky voice that still shook slightly from desire. "Fresh-squeezed orange juice over ice…"

She opened her eyes and sat up, then let out a little crow of delight. "Perfect!" she beamed at him, pleased. She took the glass from his hand and gulped the fruit juice greedily. She heaved a sigh of satisfaction and then waved him into a nearby chair.

"Sit down, Hon," she told him in her sisterly way. "We have a lot to talk about."

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

Michael took a seat in the opposite chintz covered chair, eyeing her warily. He placed his glass of orange juice on the coffee table between him, untouched, and then clasped his hands nervously in his lap. Then he waited for her to speak.

Jeanette concentrated on her drink for a few minutes, ignoring him. When her thirst was quenched and her drink was about half gone, she reached in her skirt pocket and took out a small vial of pills. Before he could read the label on the prescription, she had twisted off the cap, popped a few white capsules in her mouth, and slipped the vial back in her pocket. Then she washed the pills down with the rest of her orange juice, draining the glass.

"There, that's better," she said with a contented sigh. She looked up to smile at him brightly. "I think I can go on now…"

Michael responded only with a nod. He was becoming more anxious with each passing minute. What did she WANT from him?

"Don't worry, Hon," Jeanette reassured him with a soft smile, as if she had been reading his thoughts. "Despite what Madeleine told you, I didn't bring you here to jump your bones…." She grinned at him from under her dark lashes. "Although you always were my favorite of all my pupils…." She teased merrily.

Michael flinched, and turned his head to eye her coldly. "Why DID you bring me here, then?" he asked stiffly. He was uncomfortable with being powerless like this, even at the hands of this kindly and beautiful woman. And now that he knew she didn't want him for sex, the various alternatives that occurred to him were not appealing either. That she wanted SOMETHING from him was quite clear, but what?

"I need you, Michael," Jeanette answered in a serious tone, leaning forward in her chair. "And I think you might need me."

Before he could ask her what she meant by this, his former mentor went on, completely changing the subject.

"I checked this room for bugs," she continued off-handedly, her smile returning. "It's exactly how Madeleine promised me it would be- clean and private and completely surveillance free…" She leaned forward and lifted his untouched glass of juice from the table and started to drink that. She gulped it down greedily, finishing half of it, before once more placing beside her empty one on the table. Michael marveled that she could still be thirsty. She smacked her lips daintily, leaned back in chair, and smiled at him.

"In here, we can talk freely," she added in a serious tone.

Michael raised one eyebrow, still playing it cool. He wanted to respond to her friendship and warmth, wanted to trust that she was as upfront and open as she used to be, but he couldn't yet. He continued to watch her warily.

"Talk about what?" he asked sharply.

The Goddess shrugged, and then answered casually, although Michael had a feeling she was not being completely honest with him in her reply.

"I'm a profiler," she explained slowly. "You're a mission leader. It makes sense that we have a chance to talk together, to hash out our ideas, and perhaps modify the mission parameters to our own liking, without interference from the evil Siamese twins," she said with a grin, referring to Operations and Madeleine.

She leaned forward in her chair, inadvertently displaying the lovely breasts to their best advantage. Michael longed to rip the pink gauzy scarf away to touch the delicate, firm flesh underneath. He swallowed hard, and forced himself to lift his gaze up to look into her eyes.

"We make a good team, Michael, you and I…" Jeanette said in a wistful, solemn tone. "We always have…."

She looked down to stare at her hands in her lap, and Michael realized with a jolt that she was crying. Not great heaving sobs, but silently, one hot tear running slowly down her left cheek.

"I… I trust you," the beauty whispered roughly. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, the crystal blue depths filled with tears. "I hope you'll h-help me….." she begged. "Please…."

Michael's heart melted, his resistance evaporating. Obviously she was upset about something, and had turned to him for help, arranging this elaborate ruse so that she could have access him. A surge of gratitude flooded his heart. She had no intention of using him, or toying with him. She only wanted his help. Jeanette had always been so kind to him, had watched over him as he was learning his way in Section, guiding him, protecting him, preventing him from making fatal mistakes. The least he could do now to pay her back was to protect her in return.

"Of course I'll help you," he promised her rashly, standing up to cross the room to her and then kneeling by her chair to take her hand. "What do need me to do?"

Jeanette gazed into his green eyes and smiled bravely, although she swayed wearily in her chair. "For now, just go along with the charade," she pleaded softly. "Pretend to be my lover….." She bit her lower lip nervously, and shot a glance toward the bedroom. "Let them all think we spent the afternoon in THERE," she told him, "Instead of in HERE," she finished, indicating the living room.

"Fine," Michael agreed, smiling back at her for the first time. "I can do that…."

He gripped her hand eagerly, and pressed to be of service. "What do you want to talk about now?" he asked urgently. "What mission has you so concerned?"

To his shock, she shook her head, and then slowly stood up, swaying a little on her feet. "Not now," she refused gruffly. "Later….. please…"

He rose from his crouch by the chair and stood beside her, holding her by the elbow to steady her. Her face had gone completely white.

"Jeanette?" he asked anxiously, watching her eyes flutter and drift closed. "Jeanette, are you all right?" he demanded in alarm.

She forced her eyes open, and with much effort, managed a smile. "I'll be fine," she lied, leaning heavily, and gratefully on his arm. "I just need a little bit of rest…."

Silently, he led her to the bedroom, and helped her to lie down. She didn't resist him when he gently removed her shoes for her and then covered her with the blanket. She turned on her side and moaned before settling in to sleep.

He looked back at her from the doorway before he left the room, a frown of concern on his face. He thought she was asleep, and she startled him by calling out to him, her voice a soft sigh.

"Thank you," the Goddess whispered sleepily. "Thank you, Lover…."

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

The next few days flew by for Michael, melting into a week, then two. They took on a pattern, every minute filled. He would rise early, head into Section, and go immediately to the briefing room, where Operations would present his team with an assignment. Since they now had Jeanette with them to help, the leaders wanted to crank out as many missions as possible in the time Oversight had allotted to them to make use of the top profiler's services.

They completed four missions in seven days, and had four more in prep. Jeanette, once she got started, was a whirlwind, cranking out mission profiles with seeming effortless grace and speed. Michael, as mission leader, supervised from Systems; Jeanette had arranged it so that he did not go out in the field. He speculated that this was not a haphazard decision on her part, but a calculated move to make sure everyone in Section knew that Jeanette "owned" him.

The news that Michael was sleeping with her was already common knowledge on the Section grapevine the very next day after his first afternoon encounter with her. Michael played along, giving Jeanette a sweet, seductive smile whenever he met her at the briefing table, and making sure he sat beside her during meetings, sometimes placing a possessive hand on her arm or around her waist. She, in turn, pretended to purr under this attention, looking back at him with a satisfied smile, not unlike a cat who had got the cream.

After the briefing and the mission prep, usually in the early afternoon, Jeanette would announce that she was tired and was going to have a little rest in her room. She would look coyly at Michael and take his hand, ordering him to come along to help her "relax". Everyone saw through this excuse, and Michael would be subjected to the titters and smiles of his fellow operatives, sometimes hearing them whisper envious comments under their breaths as he walked by, arm in arm with his "lover".

"Lucky bastard," was the comment he heard most. Michael speculated they would not think him so lucky if they knew what really happened behind the closed doors of Jeanette's quarters. Michael was not having nearly as much fun as they imagined.

Jeanette's fatigue was not a lie. She maintained a bright perkiness during the morning meetings, but by the time she invited Michael into her room, she was pale, with lines of stress on her face, and immediately collapsed into bed.

Without him.

Michael spent the afternoons in her cheerful living room, alone, feeling anything but cheerful. While Jeanette slept, he would pace restlessly, thinking of Nikita, about how she sat at the briefing table on the far end, away from him and Jeanette, focused on the mission, unconcerned by their "affair". Since her modification, Nikita was polite to him, friendly, even, in a professional way. But nothing he did, not even sleeping with another woman, seemed to bother her personally. Her indifference stung him, wounding him more deeply than he cared to admit. He missed her. Missed her voice, her touch, her company, missed her in his bed…

His frustration, not just emotionally, but sexually, was taking its toll. Having Nikita near, working with her, seeing her everyday, but just out of reach, was torment for him. And being with Jeanette was becoming the same way. She was beautiful, tempting, letting him near her, to a certain point, but no farther.

He decided he detested being teased. And Jeanette teased him in more ways than one. She still put him off when he brought up the subject of what mission she needed his help with. Her bout of tears in her brief moment of weakness did not re-occur. She was consummately professional, and self-sufficient. She hardly needed him at all. The promised consultations of the mission profiler with her mission leader did not materialize, and Michael felt ignored and rejected on an intellectual level as well as a physical one.

He did attempt to speak to her, once she awakened from her nap, but all she did was pat his cheek patronizingly and tell him to "be patient." The words infuriated him, and he shrugged off her touch with an angry look. "Being patient" was an order he was not sure he could obey.

"What are we doing here?" he hissed in annoyance, gripping Jeanette by the arm so that she was forced to stop and face him. "What is the point of this charade?"

She sighed heavily, like a teacher with a particularly dense and recalcitrant student, and looked up at him with her bright blue eyes.

"Camouflage," his mentor said gently, forcing a weary smile. "We're making one thing look like another, like a wolf in sheep's clothing…"

Michael stared at her, his mouth still mulishly tight. He did not intend to have his concerns brushed aside this time. He still kept his firm grip on her arm. "And?" he demanded roughly. "What is the camouflage for?"

The lovely blonde teacher met his angry green eyes with a calm, steady gaze. "Do you remember the first rule I taught you, Michael?" she asked gently. "The rule that would ensure your survival?"

His eyes widened a little at her question, and he hesitated a second, then automatically answered, the response ingrained in his memory, his soul.

"It's essential to appear ruthless," he recited quickly. "But if you can't be, it's essential to appear that way."

Jeanette nodded her head. "Precisely," she agreed solemnly. The profiler let out another huge sigh. "But in this case, Michael, our primary goal has changed…" She removed her arm from his grip and patted him on the cheek once more, her fingers lingering in a soft caress that was no longer patronizing, but almost erotic.

He shivered.

"It's not the appearance of ruthlessness we are after anymore, Darling," she told him sweetly, her voice breathy and soft, "But of harmlessness."

Before he could process this extraordinary statement, she shocked him again by leaning close and giving him a full, deep kiss on the mouth, brief but intense. Michael, flustered, aroused, his senses reeling, had no time to recover.

Jeanette gripped his hand and led him out into the corridor, where she kissed him again, then turned on her heel and left, leaving him standing dazed and bewildered in the hallway, for all of Section to see.

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

Madeleine leaned back in her chair at the long glass table, heaved a contented sigh, and sipped the last of her third cup of coffee. Christopher had outdone himself this time. Her breakfast feast of fresh fruit, homemade croissants, and thinly sliced ham had hit the spot.

Operations looked up from the remnants of his plate of pecan waffles and bacon, and smiled at her. "Good, wasn't it?" he commented with a twinkle in his eye.

"Quite good," Madeleine responded, with a smile of her own. Both of them were in a happy mood, and it wasn't just because their appetites had been satisfied.

Madeleine cocked her head at her companion and smiled wider. "You see," she gloated, allowing just a hint of triumph to show in her voice, "I told you so."

The handsome, silver-haired leader smiled back, not pretending to misunderstand what she was talking about. He raised his hands and spread them wide, in a gesture of mock surrender.

"Yes, you did," he agreed readily, his smiled still bright. "I never thought it possible that the bond between Michael and Nikita could be broken, but you did it." He leaned forward at the waist, and bowed to her. "That was quite a brilliant achievement, my Dear."

Madeleine allowed herself to bask in his praise for a moment. Putting Michael at Jeanette's disposal had not been her idea, but the profiler's herself. Madeleine had been at first doubtful that Michael could be distracted from his obsession with his material, Nikita, even by a woman as appealingly beautiful as his former trainer. But Madeleine had approved Jeanette's request, so she did not feel any guilt at taking a little credit for something that had turned out so much better than she had expected.

Madeleine smiled at Paul, then swiveled in her chair to face the computer monitor between them. She pushed a button on the keyboard and the screen displayed the image of the hallway just outside Jeanette's quarters as it had been the afternoon before. Michael stood forlornly in the empty corridor, looking longingly back at the profiler's closed door, like a puppy who had been left out in the cold, and wanted to get back in to the warmth of his owner's house.

Madeleine laughed. "It worked," she exulted. "He's in love with Jeanette."

Operations smiled, and nodded his gray head. "Yes. And Nikita could care less," he drawled, a tone of amazement in his voice. "The conditioning has held. She really doesn't love him anymore." He gazed at the screen, at Michael's love-sick expression.

"Michael flaunts his affair with Jeanette right under her nose, and Nikita hasn't reacted at all," he went on. He shook his head in disbelief. "It's almost too good to be true."

Madeleine's smile faded slightly, her expression sobering. She steepled her fingers together on her lap. "I think it's time to push things to a new level," she said quietly.

Paul raised one eyebrow. "A test?" he queried sharply.

The brunette beauty nodded. She had worked the plan out already; Jeanette, again, had been very useful in her suggestions, in fact, it had been Jeanette who had profiled the next scenario, but Operations didn't need to know that. Although there was no question of Jeanette being a rival with Madeleine for Operations' affections, there was no sense, Madeleine thought, in drawing attention to the buxom blonde; Paul didn't need to be given anything else to admire Jeanette about.

"A mission is being prepped as we speak," Madeleine went on smoothly. "We know that Nikita is indifferent to Michael's life," she said cryptically, referring to the mission when Operations had ordered Nikita to blow up a building, and she had pressed the button, after a slight hesitation, not knowing whether or not Michael was still inside. The Iron Maiden continued, "But it's time to prove if he is quite as indifferent to hers."

Again, Operations raised an eyebrow, then flashed her his bright, twisted smile. "Fine," he agreed, then paused to look down at the table ladened with food, scanning its contents. The idea of threatening Nikita's life had renewed his appetite.

"Pass the muffins, please," he said happily.

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

Michael was having a bad day.

It started the night before, as soon as he got into bed.

He had tossed and turned the whole night, his thoughts torn between Nikita and Jeanette. He would mourn the loss of one lover, and to relieve the pain of that, he would wrench his mind to another subject, which invariably ended up being his rejection by the other. Nikita's words, "I don't love you anymore", echoed in his mind. The pain of this was unbearable. When he finally stopped thinking of this, he fretted about what Jeanette was hiding from him, and how she had kissed him, tantalizingly, but would not let him closer. When he had made himself thoroughly miserable with this subject, he thought of Nikita again. In this way, tormenting himself, Michael spent the night, alone.

Just when he had finally fallen asleep, his alarm went off.

He was out of soap in the shower, and had to wash himself with shampoo.

He spilled his coffee on his suit, and had to change his clothes.

When he got to Section, he was in a foul mood. This state was made no better when he passed by Birkoff's station and the young man did a double take at seeing him and choked on his licorice.

"Michael!" Birkoff exclaimed, his eyes going wide with shock. "Jesus! What are you doing here?"

Michael paused, deliberately giving his colleague a piercing blank stare. "I work here," he deadpanned, the words not meant as a joke. The expression on his face shifted from one annoyance to suspicion. He leaned menacingly over Birkoff's desk.

"What are you hiding?" Michael hissed, getting straight to the point. He had no patience this morning for games, and he knew from the younger man's guilty expression that something was being kept from him. "What's going on?" he demanded sharply.

"Nothing!" Birkoff disclaimed fearfully, his soft brown eyes going wide behind his glasses. He was no good at dissembling, particularly under the scrutiny of those piercing green eyes. He licked his lips nervously. "You're j-just a little early, aren't you?" he stammered. Unconsciously, he sluiced his gaze down the hallway in the direction of Jeanette's quarters. "There's nothing going on at all!" The frightened young man declared emphatically. "Honest!"

A line from Shakespeare flitted through Michael's head. "Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

Michael straightened, and did not pursue his interrogation further. He knew all he needed to know. Birkoff's denials, as well as his nervous glance down the corridor, told him something was going on with Jeanette that Section did not want him to know about. He gave Birkoff a short nod of dismissal, then turned sharply on his heel and headed down the hallway to Jeanette's room at a fast clip, intent on finding out what was going on for himself.

Birkoff came half way up out of his chair, another protest on his lips. "Michael, no!" he gasped, then fell back into his seat. It was no good. Michael was already gone.

The young computer genius put his buzzed head in his hands and groaned. "Jesus…" he moaned again. Now the feces was going to hit the fan. Birkoff cringed, and turned back to his monitor. He wished he could crawl under his desk and hide from the fireworks soon to come…..

As he rounded the last corner before the corridor that led to Jeanette's quarters, Michael could hear voices. A soft, musical contralto, low and seductive, and all too familiar, and then a deeper voice, rich-timbered, that was also familiar, but too low for him to put a name to. The first voice he recognized instantly. It was Jeanette's, and she was not alone. She was talking to someone.

A man.

He shrank back instinctively around a corner several feet away from his mentor's door, and then peered out from this hiding place, heart pounding against his ribs, to watch and listen.

He could see them silhouetted in the light from Jeanette's open doorway. The lovely blonde was wearing a pale pink nightgown and matching bathrobe, both long to the floor and buttoned to the neck- conservative attire, but intimate night wear, all the same. She was smiling up at her companion, who was leaning halfway inside the doorjamb, so that only his arm and the glimpse of one shoulder was visible to Michael's surveillance.

"Thank you for staying," she was saying in a grateful tone, her eyes glowing with admiration. The man, whoever he was, was tall. Jeanette had to lean her head back to look up at him. Her voice was soft with tenderness, and Michael noticed with shock that there were tears in her eyes.

"I ….really ….needed you last night," She confessed, somewhat shyly.

Michael swayed on his feet, the obvious hitting him.

Jeanette had another lover. This man had spent the night with her. She cared for him as she did not care for Michael.

No wonder she hadn't wanted him in her bed, Michael thought bitterly. That place was already taken. The hurt and loneliness that assailed him then was overwhelming, this rejection stinging him to the core. He thought he was already hurt by her, but having Jeanette's obvious preference for someone else literally in his face like this wounded him, scraped his soul raw.

It also made him angry.

Jealousy flaring, Michael shrank back into the shadows, tensed his body, and balled his hands into fists. He waited for the man to leave. Throwing caution to the winds, blind with a primitive rage, Michael was determined to have it out with this rival.

The man murmured something soothing, his tone warm and affectionate. Michael could hardly make out the words because of the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears drowned it out. Adrenaline surging, spoiling for a fight, his vision was clouded with a red haze. But he could still see that the man was bending now over Jeanette, and holding out his arms….

She stepped into those arms, and the lovers embraced, Jeanette's smaller form almost swallowed up by the male's broad shoulders. Michael's eyes bored into his rival's wide back, sending stabbing glances; he wished his glares were bullets. The hug went on a long time, it seemed to Michael, his rage building. Jeanette seemed content to rest in her lover's arms, letting him hold her. At last she broke free, pushing the tall male gently away.

"I'll be all right," she said softly, giving her visitor a brave smile, though her eyes were filled with tears. Michael could see the blue depths wet and glistening in the harsh hallway light.

"Call me if you need me," the man replied tenderly. "Promise?"

Jeanette nodded, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I will," she assured him with another tremulous smile, her emotions close to the surface.

This openness of his mentor with her lover stung Michael anew. The contrast of her manner with this rival and how she was with Michael hit home. She is closed down with me, Michael thought grimly. She doesn't share anything with me- not her thoughts, her feelings, or her bed. But for HIM, she talks, she cries, she loves, she opens everything…..

Michael's upper mind shut down, his feelings raw and primal.

He was hurt, and he wanted to hurt in return.

The man kissed her back, a light peck on the cheek, but even witnessing Jeanette’s acceptance of this small caress was too much. Michael closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw tight, turning his head away from what was to him another scene of betrayal. He wanted to kill, but he knew he couldn't-SHOULDN'T do it. He had to stop himself.

He heard Jeanette close her door, then heard the man turn on his heel and start walking away. Toward him. The footsteps came nearer, slowed, then stopped when they reached the bend in the corridor where Michael stood, eyes closed, straining under the effort to control his wild rage.

"Michael?" the man's familiar voice said right beside him. "What are you doing here?" the hated rival asked in a concerned, friendly tone. "Are you all right?"

Michael blinked, and let out a sharp gasp of shock. He stared at the rival in disbelief, not trusting his eyes or ears. The man's face, his voice, the friendliness, were all recognizable, but unbelievable, all the same. It just couldn't be….

"Brian?" Michael choked out, his senses reeling. "Brian, is that YOU?"

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

"Brian?" Michael choked out, his senses reeling. "Brian, is that YOU?"

The young Dr. Whicker looked back at him with a fond, if sad smile, completely unconscious of the danger he was in. He had interpreted Michael's harshly exclaimed greeting as a symptom of alarm, not rage.

"Hello, Michael," his old friend greeted him softly. He put his hand on Michael's arm and took a step closer, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. Michael stiffened at this effrontery, holding rigidly still, fighting for control.

"She's all right," the doctor assured him gently. "Just an episode of panic and depression, brought about by the progress of the disease," Brian explained slowly, his tone sympathetic. "She was experiencing some breakthrough pain, so I adjusted her meds so that she was more comfortable, but she was still pretty shaky, so I decided to spend the night…"

Michael blinked at him; he heard the words, but their meaning did not register with him. He felt completely numb.

Brian patted Michael's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Relax, Michael," he advised him softly, noting his friend's frozen stance and blank look. "She's okay, really. The crisis is over…." The doctor sighed deeply, and smiled into his friend's green eyes.

"I don't suppose you could get her to slow down her work schedule, could you?" Brian asked in a forlorn tone, as if he knew this task was hopeless. "She's pushing herself way too hard, for someone in her condition…" the physician added disapprovingly.

Suddenly, the meaning of Brian's words coalesced for Michael, the reality of this harsh truth sledge-hammering his senses. He jerked involuntarily, feeling as if someone had just slipped a knife under his ribs, all his breath escaping his lungs in one shocked gasp.

"Jeanette.." he choked out, swaying forward so that Brian was forced to take the weight of him in his arms, the surgeon's hands catching him and gripping him under his elbows. Michael raised pain-filled green eyes to Brian's steady blue. "She's sick?" he gasped, still not believing it.

The handsome young doctor closed his eyes. "Sh*t," Brian cursed forcefully. "You didn't know?" he asked, bewildered.

Michael took in a shuddering breath. Brian could feel the operative's body trembling. "No, I didn't know…." He choked out brokenly. He gasped in another breath, and then seemed to steady himself. He took a step back, disentangling his arms from Brian's support, standing stiffly on his own.

"How bad is it?" Michael demanded, raising his chin and glaring up into Brian's face, determined to confront this horrid news head-on. "What's wrong with her?"

Brian stared back in silence for a long moment, his blue eyes infinitely sad. He sighed deeply, then ran his hand through his tousled black curls, disarranging them further. "I can't tell you that," he said regretfully. "I've already told you too much already…."

Michael let out a grunt of frustration, lunged forward to grip Brian by his upper arms, and shook him. Emotionally, he had had all that he could take. His jealous rage had turned into something even more acidly compelling- a bottomless, cold fear.

"Tell me, dammit!" Michael shouted in Brian's face. "Tell me!"

Brian only stared at him calmly, making no effort to struggle to free himself. He stood acquiescent to Michael' rage and fear, wearily accepting them, as if he had seen this all before, too many times.

"I CAN'T tell you, Michael," Brian repeated slowly, his tone gentle. "I want to, but it's not my place…." He shook his head, and sighed deeply once more. "There is such a thing as doctor-client privilege…" He paused, meeting Michael's eyes, waiting. Michael slumped in defeat, letting him go, his arms falling helplessly to his sides. The look on his face was one of utter despair.

Brian, ever kind, moved to comfort him, even as he rubbed his arms where he knew bruises would be the next day, inflicted by Michael's painful grip. "You can ask her yourself about it," the sweet young doctor advised gently. "But I can't tell you any more, okay?"

Michael closed his eyes, crushed and defeated. "Okay," he repeated flatly, his tone numb. He struggled to get his mind around the concept that he lost Nikita, and now Jeanette, both in different ways. Some things were making sense now- why Jeanette seemed so weary, why she needed to spend so much time in bed, why wouldn't make love to him…..

He looked up suddenly, gazing down the corridor toward his mentor's closed door. He needed to see her. He hurt for her, for her pain, and he hurt for himself. Why hadn't she told him? Why had she gone through this alone? Why hadn't she trusted him? What else was she hiding? A thousand questions burst in his mind, each with its own swelling urgency. He had to know the answers, and he had to know them right then.

He spun away, heading abruptly down the hallway to his trainer's quarters.

Michael hardly registered Brian's parting words, the same ones he had used to Jeanette. "Call me if you need me, all right?" The doctor called to him.

Michael gave his friend a sharp nod in acknowledgement, but he didn't turn around. He was on a mission, focused completely on getting to Jeanette's door. Brian did not try to stop him, only sighed once more, and walked away.

Before Michael got to his goal, Jeanette opened it for him, standing quietly in the light from her garden room, leaning on the door- jamb. She smiled sweetly at him, then stepped back to let him in.

"Come in, Michael," she invited softly, her accepting tone disarming his rage and confusion, making him afraid once more. "We have a lot to talk about."

He stared at her solemnly, then stepped inside.

His bad day was about to turn worse.

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

Michael stepped in to Jeanette's quarters, walking slowly, as if going to a funeral. He turned and looked back at her as she closed the apartment door behind them.

"Are you all right?" he choked out hoarsely, his voice quivering. He was obviously distressed, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Jeanette sighed heavily, and gave him a weary smile, meant to reassure him. Her appearance did not, however. Now that he could see her closer, he realized that the only color in her face was from the reflection of the pink gown- there was no glow to her face at all. She was completely white. Lines of strain showed clearly around the sides of her mouth, and her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, as if she had been crying all night.

Crying from pain. Michael flinched at the idea. As much as he was angry with her for her deception, his pity overwhelmed any resentment he felt for her at that moment.

This emotion must have shown in his eyes, because she walked past him to sit down on the couch, then said impatiently, "I'm fine." A pause, then more curtly, "Don't look at me like that."

Michael stiffened, saying nothing. He looked away.

He heard her sigh deeply again. "Sorry," she apologized gruffly. "I didn't mean to snap at you." She raised her hand to pat nervously at her short blonde hair. "Be a Love and get us some drinks, will you?" Jeanette ordered, trying to get her voice back to a normal tone. "Then come and sit down here beside me. I'll fill you in."

Michael nodded. "Of course," he agreed, and then turned to walk into the kitchen. He was familiar with the place by now, and unerringly found the glasses and took the orange juice and ice from the refrigerator, knowing it was what she always preferred to drink. He fixed a glass for himself, realizing his mouth was completely dry. He did everything carefully, unhurriedly, as if drawing out this task to delay the inevitable. It was as if part of him did not want to hear the harsh truths he knew were coming.

Slowly, he carried the glasses back to the living area, along with some napkins for them. He handed Jeanette her drink, then settled beside her on the sofa, cradling his own drink in his hand. He met her eyes and waited.

Jeanette avoided his searching look by tilting back her drink and taking several thirsty swallows. She set her glass on the low table in front of her and then she avoided answering his questions by asking one of her own.

"What did Brian tell you about me?" she said quietly, her eyes lowered to stare down at her hands held twisted together in her lap.

"Just that you were ill, and that you had a bad night," Michael answered tensely. He placed his juice on the coffee table and then leaned forward, tentatively resting his hand just at the end of her gown-covered knee. "Jeanette, how bad is it?" he asked with urgent tenderness. "What's wrong?"

Jeanette seemed to relax at this response, as if relieved by his ignorance. She let out all the breath she was holding and slumped back against the sofa cushions. "It's bad enough," she quipped, flashing him a sudden, flippant smile, her tone brittle and light. "It's something I've been fighting for a long time, so I'm used to it…" She shrugged her shoulders, as if dismissing years of pain and disease as if they were nothing. She patted the hand that he had rested on her knee.

"I'm fine, Michael," she assured him again. "It's nothing for you to worry about." She flashed him another bright, phony smile. "Really."

Michael stiffened, offended that she would patronize him this way, that she had essentially avoided answering his questions. He snatched his hand back from hers, and then crossed his arms across his chest, as if he needed them as a shield to protect his wounded heart.

"Don't give me that!" he snapped, his green eyes flashing with anger and hurt. "You should know me well enough by now to know that I can keep a confidence!" His bit his lower lip, and then hissed out a sigh. "Don't you trust me?" he asked in a softer tone, angry that his voice betrayed him by its wistfulness.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she answered him briskly. "Of course, I trust you, Michael," she told him in a bracing tone. "That's not the question…."

He stared at her, not understanding. "What IS the question, then?" he demanded, shaking his head.

She sighed heavily, then met his eyes. "The question is, whether you can still trust me…." She went on quickly, before he could answer. This time she was the one who leaned forward to place her hand on his leg. "I NEED you to trust me, Michael," she whispered urgently. "I need you to go on with this charade…." She paused to lick her lips, then stared pleadingly into his eyes. "I need you to keep pretending that we're lovers…" The hand on his knee gripped him harder. "For YOUR sake…."

Michael stared at her for a long moment. He was disappointed that she had not confided in him, hurt that she had put him off. And he was angry that she had turned the question around to make this about some imagined problem of his, and not hers. He suspected he was being toyed with, and he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

Abruptly, he stood up and walked to other side of the room, wanting to put some distance between them while he sorted out his confused emotions. An abrupt conviction of the truth came to him- it was all suddenly clear. He thought he knew now why she had arranged it all as she had.

Camouflage, she had called it. Making one thing look like another. She had hidden her sickness from Section, and from him. For a reason. HER reason. She had hidden her real agenda as well. She had seen her chance, and she had taken it, concocting this elaborate, farcical illusion to assuage a driving need of her own. Maybe she thought it was her last chance, before her illness stole more of her beauty….

"This charade isn't for my sake," he said tightly, his back to her. "It's for yours." He spun around to glare at her. "Are you enjoying it so far?" he spat out.

Jeanette shrank back on the couch, her hand going to her throat. "Enjoying… it…?" She repeated numbly, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know what I did to hurt you back then," Michael rushed on, the words tumbling out in flurry of confused emotions. "But I must have done something…" He shook his head and looked down. "Maybe you wanted me to come on to you, maybe you wanted us to be more than friends, more than mentor and material, and I just didn't pick up on your signals…."

He looked up at her, but his gaze was unfocused, as if seeing something in the past. "I always cared for you. Admired you. But I suppose it wasn't enough. But whatever it was that I did, or neglected to do, it hurt you. It festered in you, and you wanted revenge…" He took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Well, you have it now…." He confessed in a sharp whisper. He closed his eyes to hide his pain from her.

"I'm in love with you," he told her forlornly. "Everyday I see you, so beautiful, so desirable, and you let me near, but then no farther…."

He opened his eyes and stared at her. "You make me pretend that I'm in your confidence, in your arms, in your bed…." He gasped for breath and went on. "You make me pretend to a happiness that I'm not experiencing, to a joy that you deny me…."

"Michael…." Jeanette gasped, her eyes wide with shock. "Oh, God… Michael…"

He rushed on, wanting to finish. "You torment me. You make me suffer…." He stopped, his voice catching on a sob. "Your plan worked beautifully…." He lowered his hands to his sides, his whole body slumping defeatedly. He hung his head. The voice that emitted form his throat was soft with anguish. "You win…." He conceded, giving up. He sighed again, a shuddering sob, his breath coming out in almost a whimper. "Can we please stop this charade now?" he begged hoarsely. "Please…"

He buried his face in his hands, giving way to tears. "Please, Jeanette, please…"

There was along silence, then Jeanette spoke in a harsh voice from the sofa. It was not the words he wanted to hear.

"No, Michael," his commander ordered in an imperious tone. "You can't love me. And we can't stop."

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

"You can't," Jeanette ordered harshly. "You can't love me. And we can't stop."

Michael's head snapped up, his eyes bright with tears. He stared at her in disbelief. He had surrendered, as abjectly as it was possible. He had groveled in front of her, in total humiliation. What more did she want from him?

She rose awkwardly from the couch, holding her side stiffly, wincing a little from pain as she stood up. Still, she moved as quickly as she was able, and crossed the room to him, her eyes riveted on his. He flinched back when she reached out to take his chin in her hand, turning his face to look at her.

Obviously, he realized with a sinking heart, there was more she wanted from him.

"Now listen to me," she commanded impatiently, no longer playing the role of friend or lover, but of owner to material. "There's a briefing in one hour on the very mission I came here to help you with…."

A harsh denial flared in his eyes, and she gripped his chin harder, forcing him to keep staring at her. "I know you might not believe me," she went on, correctly interpreting his contemptuous look. " That's fine. I don't care if you want to think I'm jerking you around for my own amusement, or that I'm playing head-games with you, whatever…."She shook her head. "Think what you want. Just continue to play along…."

She paused, swaying slightly on her feet, as if the effort of explaining things to him exhausted her. Her tone changed, no longer harsh, but gentle. "Believe it or not, Michael, I AM trying to help you…." She pleaded softly. She sighed, and released him, stepping back a few feet to look up at him beseechingly, her eyes bright with tears, her lower lip trembling.

Michael stood stiffly, his jaw unyieldingly firm, his shoulders tense. She looked beautiful, and along with her pallor and weakness, she looked vulnerable, too. He fought to not give in, to not soften his heart to her pleas. He stared at her, stubbornly defiant.

"I don't …want… your…. kind… of… help…" he spat out slowly, enunciating every word so as to emphasize his rejection of her offer. He forced his green eyes to go cold. "Just let me out of this…."

To his shock, Jeanette responded to this answer by slapping him sharply across the face. She had done it hard, her palm stinging him, his head snapping back with the force of the blow.

He turned his head to glare at her angrily, his hands knotted into fists at his sides. He opened his mouth to protest. "Jeanette!" he began angrily. "I won't…."

"SHUT UP!" she shouted harshly, taking a commanding stance in front of him, hands on hips. Her blue eyes flashed dangerously. "It doesn't matter what you want, or how you feel, or what you believe…." She panted sharply, her perfect breasts rising and falling rapidly in agitation under her demure gown. "It only matters that you obey me…"

She stepped closer, glaring into his face, her eyes dry now, and boring into his. "You are my material," she stated flatly. "I OWN you." She paused to catch her breath, her stare hardening. "You will do as I say. You will go to the briefing still posing as my lover. Is that CLEAR?" she demanded harshly.

Michael met her stare, his eyes even colder than her own. After a long pause, he flashed her a contemptuous look, and then turned on his heel, heading for the door, more angry than he had ever been in his life.

With his back to her, he answered her question, throwing his words over his shoulder, not bothering to look at her.

"Yes, MA'AM," he replied acidly, knowing bitterly that his tone did nothing to disguise his confusion and hurt. "Quite clear."

He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Jeanette stared after him for a moment, then staggered back to collapse weakly into a chair. Her façade of command crumpled then, her reserves of strength and courage all gone in the face of the combined blows of Michael's, and her own, pain.

Bereft, hopeless, she buried her face in her hands, and wept.

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

Michael was the last to show up at the briefing table, having spent the last hour skulking in his office until the time for the meeting arrived. He took the only vacant seat available, between Birkoff and Jeanette. Nikita sat at the far end of the table, as usual, smiling straight ahead, not looking at him.

The young computer genius cringed back from him shyly, slumping in his chair as if he would have liked to sink completely under the table from embarrassment. By now, everyone in Section knew that Birkoff had spilled the beans to Michael that his best friend, Brian, had spent the night with Michael's mentor and lover, Jeanette. The Section grapevine being what it was, there were already bets placed as to which one of her handsome lovers would warm her bed that night, as well as rampant speculation about whether Michael would avenge himself on Birkoff or Brian first. Michael's ire was known to be deadly.

Birkoff trembled and went pale as Michael pulled back his chair, trying to make himself invisible.

Jeanette, on the other hand, did not ignore him. The beautiful profiler smiled up at him as he reluctantly seated himself, laying a possessive hand on his arm. She looked lovely, as always, dressed impeccably this morning in a light blue linen suit, a floral scarf at her neck. Her cheeks were rosy with fresh make-up, and her eyes glowed brightly, as if she hadn't been crying most of the night.

"Good morning Darling," she greeted him throatily, batting her lashes at him and stroking his sleeve with caressing fingers. "I slept well," she lied, leaning close to almost purr in his ear. She paused, waiting for her meaning to sink in. "Did you?" she teased.

Michael froze. The question was a deliberate taunt, and an order. Jeanette was wasting no time to see if he would obey her, or continue his defiance.

Michael swallowed hard, and closed his eyes. If she wanted to keep on humiliating him, he had no choice in the matter. She was Oversight. There was no end to her power, no limit to what she could do.

She could hurt anyone he cared about- Nikita, Brian, his sister, or even his son. Although she had not openly said so, the implied threat was there. She could order him cancelled if she chose, and no one could stop her.

Jeanette was right. She owned him.

Michael stuffed down his pride and choked out an answer. "Fine,…er.. Darling…" he lied back, playing the game, his tone miserable. He stared straight ahead, unable to bring himself to look at her. He almost gagged on the words. "Just… fine."

He heard Jeanette's tinkling laugh. "Good," she said happily, her tone triumphant. In just those few phrases, the ground rules had been set. Michael knew that within hours, maybe less, everyone in Section would know that he had capitulated to Jeanette's whims. They would assume that he was so infatuated with his mentor's charms that he would allow her to invite anyone she wanted into her bed, even Brian, without protest, as long as he was not entirely displaced there.

>From his other side, Michael could feel Birkoff's astonished stare. The young man could not believe that Michael- MICHAEL!- the proudest, toughest, coldest operative- would humble himself this way, practically lying down and groveling in front of this woman that abused him, screwed around on him, and then taunted him with her infidelity. It was amazing. Jeanette had him completely wrapped around her little finger.

She had him by the ba**s.

If he hadn't just witnessed it for himself, Birkoff would have never dreamed it possible.

"He's totally pu**y-whipped," the computer genius thought to himself in shock, even though he was also relieved as hell that the Class Five operative was not intent on vengeance. "MICHAEL. Jesus…."

"Let's get started…." A sharp male voice commanded, interrupting the game.

To crown his humiliation, Michael looked up to see Operations arriving at the briefing table, just in time to witness his figurative castration at Jeanette's hands. The older man's blue eyes twinkled with amusement, a gloating smile spreading across his face.

He KNEW.

Michael's face flared with shame, his skin going cold. He longed to jerk his arm away from Jeanette's possessive touch, but he didn't dare. He would have to submit to this degradation as long as she wanted him to. He had no choice.

On the far end of the table, Nikita went on smiling, staring straight ahead, oblivious to his pain.

The briefing began.

Michael did not know it yet, but his bad day was about to become worse.

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

Operations cleared his throat and clicked on the holographic screen. An image of the smoldering remnants of a five-story building suddenly floated above the briefing table.

"This is what's left of the French embassy in Helsinki," Operations announced tartly. "The Ambassador was killed, along with most of his staff, as well as several local Finnish officials who had the misfortune to be there at the time…." He smiled grimly, then added, "A Finnish nationalist group claimed responsibility…."

Michael leaned toward the screen his attention riveted. He raised his gaze to Operations, the green eyes wide with shock. "But how is that possible?" he gasped. "There's never been any history of animosity between those two countries…"

Operations nodded. "For now, the blast is being blamed on a faulty gas line, until we can investigate further." He sighed wearily. "And you're right, Michael. Finnish-French animosity is non-existent…."

He clicked the remote again. The screen showed another building, slightly smaller than the first, in exactly the same state of destruction.

"This is the Italian consulate building in Geneva…" he announced with a sigh. "Same story…." His mouth twisted in a harsh grimace. "The real cause was hushed up. Locals claimed responsibility…"

Nikita did a double-take, speaking up for the first time. "This is ludicrous!" she exclaimed, meeting the eyes of everyone at the table. "Switzerland is a neutral country! One fourth of their population speaks Italian! You can't mean that there is a group of Swiss terrorists loose that are going around blowing up their own neighbors and countrymen…."

Operations nodded wearily. "Of course there aren't," he agreed in a tired tone. He glanced quickly at the beautiful blonde profiler at Michael's side. "Jeanette has been working on the problem for us, she's come up with the person really responsible for both incidents…"

The gray-haired leader took the remote from the table and clicked it once more. The image changed from smoky ruins to a picture of a large blonde man in his forties with a healthy tanned complexion, his wide smile displaying even rows of perfect white teeth. He looked like an ad for toothpaste. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, giving him a fresh-faced look, as if he were an outdoorsman or sports figure- someone friendly, affable, cordial, a person who lived in the sunshine. In reality, he was instead a force for darkness, one of the most vicious killers in the known, civilized world.

Birkoff gasped in recognition. "Victor LeBrun!" he choked out. "Christ Almighty…." The young genius shook his head. "I thought he was dormant…."

Jeanette leaned forward and looked past Michael to meet Birkoff's startled gaze. "No, he's never stopped," she announced tightly, her tone all business. "He just went further underground. And now his motivations, such as they are, as you can see, have become even more twisted…" Her soft mouth firmed grimly. "There is no point, political, personal, or otherwise, for the bombings. He does what he does for the sheer pleasure of killing. We think he's completely insane…."

Michael frowned, and shot Jeanette an anxious look, his personal feelings of anger forgotten for the moment as he absorbed himself in their mutual professional problem.

"How do we get to him?" he demanded, rubbing his hand across his chin worriedly. "LeBrun is cunning, elusive, and unpredictable. We've never even had a location on him…"

Jeanette flashed a bright smile at her lover. "We do now…."

She nodded at Operations, who obediently clicked the remote for her to change the image from LeBrun's smiling face to that of the schematic of a harsh concrete fortress.

"This is LeBrun's safehouse," Jeanette went on, "300 feet underground in the German Black Forest." Her mouth twisted up at one corner in distaste. "We think he's hiding here while he plans an attack on the Austrian capital…."

Nikita shook her head in disgust. "He wants to make it look like the South Germans would attack their neighbors in Vienna…" she said in amazement. "Incredible…"

Jeanette shrugged. "I told you he was insane…."

Michael broke in with another question. "How did you obtain this intel?" he asked gruffly. "Do you have a source inside his organization?"

The blonde profiler nodded. "We do. We intercepted one of his servants going out for… er… supplies…" She sighed again. "The man was low level, but he told us what we needed to know…" She looked away suddenly, as if no longer able to meet Michael's gaze. "LeBrun has a weakness we can exploit…."

Something in the way Jeanette said this made Michael wince in apprehension. He knew there was more to this. Much more.

"What kind of supplies, exactly?" he asked, feeling his stomach knot painfully in dread.

Jeanette's answer chilled him when it came, although Michael was already shuddering with cold before she even had the words out.

She sighed sadly and told him.

"He likes prostitutes," she stated baldly. "Tall blondes, to be exact."

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

"He likes tall blondes," Jeanette said levelly.

Michael flinched, and, unable to help himself, he jerked his head to the right to stare at Nikita. She was no longer smiling, but did not seem worried, either. She was just as Operations and Madeleine had conditioned her to be- the perfect operative.

"Am I going in?" he heard her ask quietly.

Michael tensed, then felt Jeanette's hand on his arm. He looked at her, and she gave him a small, but definite warning shake of her head. Michael heeded her request, reluctantly, and bit back the protest that had formed on his lips.

"Yes," Operations answered Nikita's question succinctly. "You're on closed quarters standby until we go out."

Michael raised his eyes to meet Operations' steady gaze, and managed to ask a gruff question, his mind too numb to think. "How much time?"

How much time for Nikita to live? He wondered miserably. LeBrun was violent, unpredictable. He would show no mercy. How much time before the woman he loved was sent to her Death?

"A few hours, perhaps," Operations responded, interrupting Michael's swirling, chaotic thoughts. The silver-haired leader gestured at Michael and Jeanette. "That's all the time I can give you. You two work on the final mission profile, iron out the details," he ordered curtly. "We don't know how long LeBrun will be at this location, so we have to move fast."

He waved his hand again, this time encompassing the entire team, then dropped the remote on the table with a clatter, signaling the end of the meeting. "Dismissed," he barked sharply, then walked off.

Nikita slipped calmly out of her chair and was gone, not bothering to say goodbye to the others. Birkoff did the same, slinking off without a word, hoping not to be noticed.

Alone at the table with Jeanette, Michael at last dared to speak his mind.

"LeBrun will kill her," he hissed in a sharp whisper, his voice desperate with despair. He was not above begging for his lover's life, and he knew Jeanette, as profiler, had that life in her hands.

"Please," he pleaded in a low urgent tone, gazing into Jeanette's blue eyes, searching for mercy there. "Please don't do this…."

She shook her head at him, and hissed a warning back. "Shhh!" she quieted him sharply. "We'll discuss this in my quarters- NOT here…."

She stood up abruptly from the table, and Michael had no choice but to follow her, walking at her heels like a puppy, as she made her way down the corridor again. It was only when they were half way to her rooms that Michael realized why she had chosen her quarters and not his office for this confrontation-

Her quarters had no bugs. They could speak openly there.

A small curl of hope took life in his belly, refusing to die. He remembered how she had protected him in the old days, how she had shielded him, standing between him and Operations as a buffer against punishment and pain. He prayed that somewhere inside this beautiful woman, that the old Jeanette, the kind, honest one- was still alive, still present somehow, behind her transformed exterior.

They reached her room in silence. Jeanette unlocked the door and walked in, leaving it open for Michael to enter behind her. He shut the door quickly, and then turned to beg for Nikita's life again. "Jeanette, please…." He began urgently. "You can't…."

She cut him off with a wave of her hand as she sank wearily onto her couch in the living area. "Don't fret, Michael," she chided him, flashing him a tired smile. "Nikita's not going anywhere near LeBrun." The smile widened. "In fact, she's not even going on this mission."

Michael blinked, not sure he had heard her right. "What?" he choked out, wondering for a moment if he had imagined this good news. "What did you say?"

She smiled wider, and patted the place beside her on the couch. "Sit down before you fall down from shock, Darling," she invited, eyeing him tenderly. Her voice softened. "This is the mission I told you about," she went on gently. "The one where we help each other."

Michael stared at her, stunned, and then recovered himself after a moment and quickly crossed the room to settle on the couch beside her. He leaned toward her eagerly, his face alight with hope.

"Explain," he ordered curtly.

Jeanette gave a short laugh. "That's my Boy, always direct," she praised him, pleased. "That was one thing you learned from me…."

"The mission," Michael reminded her impatiently. "We haven't much time…"

She frowned, and nodded her head. "You're right," she agreed, her tone almost wistful. "Not much time at all….."

She paused, and then seemed to gather herself. She sighed deeply, and then gave him a brisk smile. "Well, the gist of it is, Darling, is that those two are testing you…."

Michael's eyes widened. "Operations and Madeleine?" he gasped.

Jeanette nodded. "It seems after Nikita's conditioning procedure, they were pretty much pleased with her, secure that she was no longer attached to you emotionally…." She explained softly. His old teacher turned to face him and gently stroked her hand down his cheek. "But they weren't too sure of you, My darling…."

Michael blinked, and then caught her hand in his, drawing it into his lap, unconsciously squeezing her fingers hard. "Tell me…" he urged her, almost trembling in agitation. "You knew what they did to her?"

Jeanette nodded. "I followed what was going on," she admitted guardedly. "I knew they would test you…" She paused before confessing the rest. "That's why I came. To help you, To control the results…"

She went on quickly before he could comment on these remarks, as if embarrassed that she had revealed too much. "The first test you passed already…"

Michael looked confused. "First test?" he repeated, bewildered. "What test was that?"

The blonde beauty flushed, and looked down at the floor. "You… slept with me," she said in a breathless rush. "Or, at least, they think you did." She raised her eyes to look at him bravely. "It proved to them that you were getting over Nikita. That you could be attracted to another woman…."

Michael tensed, his mind reeling as if from a blow. It all made sense now. This was why she had created this charade, the illusion of their pretend-affair. It was to shield him from Operations and Madeleine, to protect him….

He stared at her, stunned. "I… uh…. Thank you…." He stammered out, hardly knowing what else to say. He cringed thinking about all the horrible things he had accused her of, when her only motive had been to help him.

He gripped her hand tighter and looked into her eyes, his own soft with guilt. "Jeanette, I'm sorry. I…."

She stopped his apology by placing her free hand over his lips.

"Shhh," she admonished him, shaking her head. "Don't say that. I'm the one who's sorry…." She patted his cheek again gently. "I didn't mean for it to be so hard for you," she choked out, the words coming with difficulty. "I never expected that you would see the charade as… teasing, or that you would be hurt by it…" she confessed in a tight voice. "I hope you can forgive me…."

"Of course," he agreed instantly. "Of course, I forgive you…" He turned his head and placed a kiss on her upturned palm.

Jeanette shivered, and was relieved when he went back to their original topic.

"And the LeBrun mission?" he asked eagerly. "That was the second test?"

She nodded, taking a deep breath. "That's right," she told him. "Operations and Madeleine wanted to see how you would react if Nikita's life were in danger, now that you and she were no longer lovers…" She stared down at the floor, a frown on her face. "They wanted to make sure you regarded her life as of no more value than that of any other operative…."

She flickered her gaze up to meet his eyes, staring at him solemnly. "It's critical that you act completely indifferent now to the issue of Nikita's survival," she warned him. "Operations and Madeleine have scheduled her to be de-programmed from the conditioning in a few weeks, but that won't happen if they still believe there is any attachment between you, other than that of two colleagues…"

Michael let out a harsh cry, the meaning of her words registering. "They'll de-program her?" he gasped sharply, his heart turning over at these words. "She'll be herself? She'll love me again?" he choked out, his eyes alight with hope.

"Yes," Jeanette answered, her voice growing sharp with warning. "But only if you get through the LeBrun mission without faltering…." She reached out to take his chin in her hand, and turned him to look at her, hoping to stop his sudden euphoria. "It won't be easy, Michael," she warned. "And you'll have to do exactly what I say…"

"Of course," he agreed again, unable to stifle the happiness that bubbled up inside him like a warm spring. If Nikita could only love him again, all in his world would be right once more. His joy at this prospect could not be quelled. He wanted to dance, he wanted to shout and sing. He wanted to kiss someone- Jeanette….

He leaned forward to do just that, impulsively, from sheer gratitude. His arm slipped behind her waist and he pulled her forward, then pressed his mouth against hers. Their clasped hands that still rested between them were crushed against the underside of Jeanette's left breast, his knuckles just brushing the soft curves with gentle pressure…..

He felt her flinch violently, and jerk in his arms. Her mouth under his opened, and she let out a sharp cry.

"Don't!" she screamed at him, struggling to push him away. "Don't touch me!"

He released her immediately and backed off, his eyes wide with shock. She had scooted back as far into the corner of the sofa as she could go, cowering there, panting, her arms crossed across her chest in a protective gesture, as if shielding herself from further violation. Her face was contorted with an expression of sheer terror.

Michael could not believe that his inadvertent caress of her breast would offend her so, that this blatantly frank and sexually open woman would be so shocked by this accidental touch, cringing back from him like a shy virgin. He had not groped her, merely brushed the back of his hand against her…..

"Jeanette?" he asked in alarm, when her wild panting did not stop. Her face had gone completely white, her breathing labored. "Are you all right?" He realized then her reaction was not one of shock, but of…

Pain.

"Oh, God, I hurt you!" he cried in alarm. He sprang from the couch, looking around the room frantically. "Where are your pills?" he demanded, scanning the apartment's furniture, trying to quell his panic. "Should I call Brian?" he gasped, beginning to breathe hard himself.

By this time, Jeanette was recovering a little, some color returning to her face. She shook her head and held out her hand to him. "No, I'm all right," she said in a raspy voice, still not quite in control yet of her breathing. She forced a brave smile that almost broke his heart. "Just give me a minute….."

She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths. Gradually, she relaxed, the pain easing as her muscles lost their tension from reaction. Michael stayed where he was, standing just beside the couch, looking down at her. As he watched her, a cacophony of emotions played over his soul like discordant music.

Guilt-he had not meant to hurt her, and the fact that he had, filled him with shame. And pity. She was so beautiful, so kind, and she didn't deserve to suffer like this. He squirmed in discomfort. He was used to witnessing sudden death- a gun, a bomb, a blow to the head- these methods were fast and quick, and while evidently painful, and messy, they were over soon. The agony did not last long. He was not sure how to handle the concept, or the experience of someone enduring prolonged suffering.

He felt helpless. Unlike the terrorists and criminals who he battled and conquered with satisfying regularity, here was something he couldn't fight. There was nothing he could do to defeat this enemy, this elusive, insidious disease. Only Jeanette could do that; it was a private battle, and she would have to do it alone.

All he could do was stand by her side and watch.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Michael choked out quietly. He felt shaken and unsettled inside, as if he needed comforting from pain and shock even more than Jeanette did.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him once more. A sweet smile, calm and serene. "I'm not dead yet," she quipped brightly, managing a small laugh.

Surprisingly, her joke eased the tension between them, as if her bold mention of the taboo word of death had the power to stave it off, like a magic chant that would protect them both from disaster. Michael smiled back.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said softly, with a catch in his voice, caught between laughter and tears.

She sighed, and started to rise from the couch, struggling up slowly. Michael stifled his impulse to help her and stayed where he was, afraid to touch her again after what had happened. She straightened carefully, and then gave him a sharp nod.

"Let's go," she ordered, back to her old self again. "We've got a mission to prep." The profiler took a few steps toward the door.

Michael stood his ground, not moving. "But what about the profile?" he asked, bewildered. "What about Nikita?"

Her smile twisted into a wry grimace. She came toward him and reached up to pat his cheek. "Both taken care of," she assured him. Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "Just remember, let me handle everything…." She stroked his face gently, as if trying to memorize his features with her fingers. "Don't react, no matter what you hear or see…." She ordered softly.

She dropped her hand suddenly, and lowered her eyes. A soft blush crept up under her pale cheeks. "And you have to go on pretending that you.. love me…." She breathed out shyly.

This time, Michael was not afraid to touch her. He leaned down and lightly, but deliberately, kissed her cheek.

"I do," he whispered. "I do…"

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

An angry, incensed Operations was waiting for them when they arrived in Systems. He was smoking his cigarette and tapping his foot, his face drawn into a scowl of impatience.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed, his blue-gray eyes flashing steel. Their leader was fuming. His eyes raked the two lovers, not liking what he saw. Jeanette had her arm linked with Michael's, leaning on him, standing close, sending quick adoring glances up at him, and blushing like a schoolgirl. Michael, in turn, had placed his hand protectively over hers, and was looking back at her with a tender, besotted look.

"I appreciate the fact that you two needed to work things out after this morning's.. er.. misunderstanding," The silver-haired leaded drawled waspishly, referring to Jeanette's discovered fling with Brian, and Michael's subsequent jealousy. "But to walk off in the middle of a mission prep to go to your quarters for a reconciliatory roll in hay is too much!" He glared at them, and then began pacing. "While you two were screwing your brains out, LeBrun could be getting away…." He fretted, gesturing in the air with his cigarette. His angry glare focused on Jeanette.

"I don't care if you're Oversight or not," he spat out furiously, "I can still report you for incompetence!" He wagged his finger at her, continuing his threat. " If we lose LeBrun because you can't keep your hands off the material…."

Jeanette gave him a piercing look, one that could wither stone, and held up her hand. "Get a grip, Paul," she admonished him dryly. "Everything's under control…."

She cocked one hip and dug in her skirt pocket, coming up with a small silver disk. She held the CD out to him between two fingers. "Here's your mission profile," she drawled laconically. "No need to get your panties in a twist…"

She smiled at him tauntingly, daring him to threaten her further. Michael, at her side, smiled to himself, stifling a cheer of admiration.

The other two continued to glare at each other, their eyes locked in a staring match, blue challenging blue. After a second, Operations blinked first, and snatched the disk from her hand. He spun away from the couple quickly and pounced the few steps to the nearest computer station.

"Let's just see what we have here," he spat out, his tone still threatening. Roughly, he jammed the small disk in the drive and loaded up the mission profile to the screen, and began to read.

His face changed the more he read. The sneer faded to be replaced by an expression of profound respect. The head of Section One looked up to meet the profiler's blue eyes.

"Brilliant," he praised her, nodding his head in acknowledgement of her gift. "Simple, but brilliant."

Jeanette bowed her head slightly, accepting his praise. "Thank you," she said with quiet dignity. Abruptly, she turned to flash a smile up at Michael, putting her arm coquettishly around his waist. Her eyes twinkled impishly.

"Michael's performance this morning was quite… inspirational….." she confessed breathlessly.

The Class Five Operative blushed, and bit his lip, suppressing the giggle that came to his throat when he saw his leader's stunned expression.

Operations reddened, and cleared his throat. "Yes-er.. well, however you stoke your Muse, it worked, I suppose…" His words were the closest he would come to an apology.

Jeanette was in a flippant mood, and couldn't stop herself, unable to resist the opening Paul had unwittingly given her. She widened her eyes, and gave Michael an innocent look.

"Stoke… the… Muse?" she repeated, her voice lifting in a question. She batted her lashes. "How… interesting.." Her mouth quivered at the corners as her eyes lit with delight, a naughty gleam in the blue depths. "I've never heard it called THAT before…" she said guilelessly.

This time Operations flashed her a grin. He was unable to resist Jeanette's charm, even if the joke was at his expense. He puffed on his cigarette and then turned to leave. "Prepare your teams," he ordered over his shoulder. Michael noticed that the older man's shoulders were shaking with suppressed chuckles as he walked off.

Jeanette sobered as soon as Operations was out of sight. She slipped her hand out of Michael's arm and gestured at the profile displayed on the screen. "He's right," she said gruffly. "We don't have time to screw around. Let's get to work…"

Michael nodded, and stepped forward, settling himself in the chair in front of the computer screen, and began to scan the design there with eager curiosity.

Unlike Operations, Michael was not thrilled with what he read there. Jeanette's profile inspired in him no joy or admiration.

It frightened him.

He shoved back in his chair when he was finished and stood up, almost knocking the keyboard off the desk in his haste. "What are you trying to do?" he demanded, staring at her, appalled. His trust was rapidly evaporating as the exact parameters of what she had written sank in.

"How can you have a profile with no egress?" he challenged her, growing distinctly alarmed. "It's suicide…"

Jeanette met his look with a weary sigh, and then perched her hip on the edge of the desk, as if too tired to stand up any longer. "It's the only option, Michael," she explained patiently. "We can get an operative inside LeBrun's encampment through our contact with the procurer. Once inside, when she's alone with LeBrun, the operative can take him out." She shrugged, and rubbed her forehead. "Simple."

"But it gets messy after that," Jeanette went on, a frown shadowing her beautiful face. "Extracting the operative would take too much time, and would expose our teams to too much danger…" She looked up to meet his frightened green eyes, hers accepting and weary. "After LeBrun's dead, we have to be able to immediately send the secondary teams in, to clean up the bunker. We can't do that if we're fretting about getting our agent out…."

She sighed, and shot him a look, pleading for understanding. "There's no other alternative, Michael," she stated sadly. "To keep it clean, we're going to have to sacrifice whoever goes in."

Michael shuddered, and swayed on his feet. A sparkle of dull gold lights flashed before his eyes as the light of his world faded out.

"Nikita…." He sobbed, trembling where he stood, fighting not to pass out. "You're going to murder Nikita…." He managed to raise his eyes high enough to glare at her with hatred.

"You… Bitch…." He cursed her, reeling from the shock of this betrayal.

He felt her hand then on his arm, supporting him. He had to restrain himself from striking her, shoving her away, the touch of this Judas defiling him. She was not his friend after all, not an angel, or a savior-she the Destroyer, she was the angel of Death….

"Shhh, Michael," the traitor cooed soothingly. Her eyes filled suddenly with compassionate tears. "Nikita is safe," Jeanette assured him gently. "It's all arranged. I told you, she won't be going on this mission…"

Michael's head snapped up, and he let out a harsh breath. His mouth firmed in a grim line as he tensed for the next blow. "Who, then?" he demanded, eyeing her suspiciously, the tricks and deceptions of this woman knowing no bounds. "What poor woman are you sending to her Death?" he thundered, enraged.

Jeanette paused for a long moment, freezing in time. Then she broke into a sudden, brightly serene smile, even as hot tears welled in her eyes and broke free, spilling over her cheeks. She released his arm and stepped back, as if setting him, and herself, free. She gave him a look of infinite tenderness, her eyes caressing him good-bye.

"Me," she answered, smiling her inexplicable smile. "Me."

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

The next few hours went by in a blur for Michael. Though he wanted, more than anything, to just make time stop, to hold Jeanette, to take her into his arms and cocoon her in their own little world, he could not. There was a bigger world that prevented that. He was swept up in the inexorable routine of Death that always preceded the mission. It was the same every time- Section's will flowed on, and the fact that his heart was breaking made no difference to the inevitable, uncaring passage of Time.

He went about his tasks- preparing his teams, assembling his weapons- like a zombie, stone-faced and grim. No one spoke to him, sensing his tension. They all assumed he was worried about Nikita, who was on point for the mission. No one knew of his secret sorrow for Jeanette….

Jeanette herself seemed calm and controlled. Besides the one bout of brief tears, she showed no emotion other than her inexplicable serenity. It was as if she had said her good-byes and had already withdrawn emotionally from the land of the living. Now she was just going through the motions.

Michael, even though still reeling from the sting of his impending loss, eventually adopted some of her numbness. It was the only way to survive, to stay sane. He shut down that part of himself that cared and felt and cried, and put himself on automatic pilot. He had so entranced himself in this numbness that it wasn't until the teams were assembling at van access and he checked his panel one last time, that he realized that Nikita's name was still on the mission profile as the one who would seduce and kill LeBrun.

He sought out Jeanette, who was easy to find among all the black mission gear, standing out in the crowd like a peacock among crows, in her pale blue plumage and golden hair. Michael took her aside in the crowded hallway just outside van access and demanded to know the truth.

"You said Nikita wasn't going on this mission," he said tensely, his voice lowered to a whisper. He tapped his panel and glared at her, at the same time his eyes were conflicted and pleading. "What's going on?"

Jeanette only smiled. "Relax, Darling," she told him casually. "It's all taken care of. Just act surprised when it happens, hmmm?"

Her words did not reassure him, but made him feel even more unsettled. "When WHAT happens?" he demanded.

She placed her hand gently on his arm and smiled grimly up at him. "You'll see," she whispered softly. "I can't tell you anymore, or your reaction won't be natural, but just remember, it's all under control. Nikita will be fine."

This enigmatic answer did nothing to reassure Michael, whose nerves were now at the razor's edge.

Before he could react, or demand to know more, Jeanette slipped away from him, still smiling her eerily serene smile. Michael absorbed himself in his tasks again, having no choice but to carry on with the mission prep. Twenty minutes later, he was stationed at the van access door, watching his teams file past him into the mission van. There was no time left. Where was Nikita? What would happen to her?

A commotion in the hallway just beyond him startled him out of his morose thoughts. He heard the sound of shouts and looked up to see a throng of operatives huddled around someone on the floor at the end of the hall.

Nikita?

He raced to them, his long legs covering the short distance in seconds. He did not have to push through the crowd; they parted for him. Through the bevy of black-clad bodies Michael saw her. Nikita was lying on the floor, ghostly pale, curled up in a fetal position, holding her stomach and writhing in pain. Her eyes were closed, and little mewling sounds were coming from her throat.

Michael's breath stopped in his lungs. In an instant, he was on her knees beside her, holding her hand. "Kita?" he demanded softly, then shouted the plea louder. "KITA? Can you hear me?"

The beautiful blonde did not respond to his call, other than to continue moaning. Michael brushed the tangled hair from her forehead, and was appalled at the heat of that pale, pale skin- she was burning up with fever.

He looked up and glared at the subdued faces of his teammates around him. "Get Medical, dammit!" he shouted, his voice just on the edge of hysteria. "NOW!"

One of the younger ones, a back-up field operative, nodded, and then scrambled to obey, leaving the circle of warrior observers. The men lingered; they were all concerned, all were comrades of Nikita. She was one of their own.

Snow, a Level Three operative who had been recruited shortly before Nikita was brought into Section and who had trained with her, spoke up.

"We don't know what happened, Sir," Snow reported before Michael could ask the question. "She just came around the corner, headed for van access, swaying a little. You know, weaving, like she couldn't walk straight…" He blushed, and then looked nervous. "I thought maybe she was drunk or something. But then she just collapsed…." Her colleague frowned, then bit his lip apprehensively. Nikita was his friend; he would hate it if anything happened to her. And seeing her like this had upset him; it was hard to watch her endure that much pain.

He shook his head, and squatted down on the other side of Nikita from Michael. "It's got to be some kind of fast-acting virus or something…."

"She seemed fine just a while ago," one of the younger ops piped up, a blonde weapons tech named Jones with a baby face that made him look even younger than his twenty-two years. "I was helping Walter give her her gear, and she was okay then…." He volunteered helpfully.

But Michael wasn't listening. He was numb, entranced in sorrow. He had settled himself on the floor and had drawn Nikita into his lap, placing his arms protectively around her. He held her firmly, but she would not stay still. She shuddered and writhed against him, tossing her head back and forth against his shoulder. For a moment, Michael gave in to despair, and he closed his eyes, resting his cheek against his Beloved's hot forehead. He didn't know if he could handle this. He didn't know what he would do if he lost her. He wondered if this would be the last time he would hold her….

His fearful thoughts were interrupted by a new commotion behind them in the corridor. The Medical team had arrived, consisting of Dr. Brian Whicker along with two med-techs pushing a stretcher. At the same time, Operations stormed on the scene, followed closely by a placid-faced Jeanette, coming up behind him.

"What the HELL is going on?" Operations raged, looking a little disconcerted to see his prize operative sprawled on the floor with his blonde lover draped across his lap. "Michael!" he screamed in an accusatory tone, putting the blame for every disaster squarely where he thought it belonged. "Dammit, what have you done?"

"He didn't do anything, Sir!" the baby-faced Jones piped up, defending his mission-leader against what he took to be Operations blatant unfairness. "Nikita just passed out," he told them. "She's got the flu…."

While this interchange was going on. Brian had had time to squat down beside his patient, put a hand on her forehead, and take her pulse. He leaned back and then looked up to squarely meet Operations eyes.

"He's right," the doctor announced flatly. "It's the flu. I'm not positive til I do tests, but this looks like the same bug they had in Mozambique a few months ago…" He nodded, a solemn expression on his handsome face. "The symptoms are all the same…."

Brian turned to Michael, their eyes meeting across Nikita's shivering body. "She'll be okay," he assured his distraught friend. "Nobody died from the Mozambique virus. It only lasts for a few days, although it's pretty bad while it lasts. Stomach pain, headache, high fever. Then she'll feel listless for another week or so, but after that she'll be a good as new…."

He stood, and gestured to his med-techs to place the patient on the gurney. "Let's get her to Medlab, guys…"

Michael let out a groan of relief, and then scowled at the approaching men. The med-techs backed off, and Michael rose, lifting Nikita in his arms, and he gently placed her on the stretcher himself. Then he stood looking down at her, his hand unconsciously caressing her hair again. Brian patted Michael's shoulder, and then gently disengaged his friend's grip on the gurney.

"It's okay," he assured Michael again. "She'll be all right. Let me take care of her…."

Michael, somewhat dazed, at last registered these words, and stepped back, allowing Brian and the med-techs to wheel Nikita away, pushing her down the hallway. Michael stood looking after a her, a stunned expression on his face.

"Christ," Operations cursed loudly, unmoved by this sentimental scene. "We're screwed…." He heaved a heavy sigh, not in the least relieved, as the others were, by the doctor's diagnosis. "How the hell are we going to get LeBrun now?" He glared at Michael, his steely blue eyes sharp and angry. "LeBrun likes tall blondes. Unless you want to dress up one of your other team members in drag," The Section leader spat out scathingly, flicking a quick, contemptuous glance at the blond, baby-faced Jones, "We're going to have to abort…."

Michael glared back, disgusted by Operations' callous ruthlessness. He didn't care whether Nikita died or not, only that she was unable to complete the mission. Michael knew that was what the Section leader SHOULD care about- the success of their goal to save the world from terrorists- but at the moment, his commander's indifference to Nikita's life and well-being rubbed him raw. He opened his mouth to blast Operations with his ire, to vent his feelings, but was interrupted by a soft voice behind him.

"Nothing has to be aborted, Paul," Jeanette said quietly. "The mission goes on as planned."

All eyes turned to look at her- the operatives, Michael, and Operations himself. "And how are we supposed to do that," the silver-haired leader demanded scathingly, "Without a female as bait?"

Jeanette just smiled, and stepped closer, moving sinuously toward Paul, her hips swaying. When she had gotten within a foot of him, she patted her blond hair and thrust out her breasts at him in a deliberately provocative gesture, the top of her blue suit just brushing his chest. "You should go back to school for some remedial Biology, Paul," Jeanette drawled breathily, leaning close to press a soft kiss on his startled lips. "Don't I look sufficiently…female for you?" she asked, batting her lashes.

The men snickered, but then fell into a deep silence, realizing just what this meant. "Jesus…" Snow exclaimed, expelling all his breath in a rush. "You're going on the mission…." His tone was that of awe.

Jeanette nodded at him, then turned her gaze to look back at Paul. "Yes, I am," she answered sternly, her flirtatious act gone- she was all business. "I gather you have no objections?" she demanded, staring into Operations' eyes squarely.

The Section Leader smiled, relaxing now that his problem had been solved, albeit in an unusual manner. Profilers rarely went out in the field, and profilers from Oversight never. The fact that Jeanette was willing to make this sacrifice for the Cause sobered him, and gained his respect. There was nothing he admired more than this mark of true leadership- the willingness to unflinchingly do the dirty work yourself, not just order others to do it for you. Jeanette had designed the plan, and she was now proving that she could carry it out. She had earned his highest regard.

"None," he answered quietly, growing somber. He took Jeanette's hand in both of his, and then bowed low over it, giving her knuckles a brief, respectful kiss. "Thank you…" he acknowledged softly.

Jeanette smiled back, still serene. She took a deep breath, a breath that could be heard in the hushed silence that fell after this announcement.

"Good," she said briskly, as if going to her Death was an idea that pleased her immensely. She met Michael's eyes, green eyes, brimmed with tears.

She had done it, Michael realized. She had done what she had promised she would do. Jeanette had arranged for Nikita to be off the mission, and for herself to take her place.

My God, he wondered grimly. Was her pain so great, her agony from her disease so deep, that she WANTED to die?

"Give me ten minutes to get ready," Jeanette said softly, looking back dry-eyed. "Then I want all teams in van access ready to go." She smiled at him one last time, and turned on her heel and left.

Before Michael, too stunned with grief, could say anything to stop her, she was gone.

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

It was exactly ten minutes later, as promised, that Jeanette returned. She came walking down the corridor to van access, a lonely figure, her head held high in dignity. She was already dressed in her own special black mission gear- not fatigues or bullet proof vest, but a gown meant to entice the target LeBrun to his death.

It was a simple long-sleeved sheath, with a high neck, and a hemline to the floor. But in spite of the fact that not even an inch of skin was showing, nothing about Jeanette's figure was left to the male imagination. The dress, subtly shining black silk, clung to every curve, outlining the dramatically jutting breasts perfectly, as well as her small waist, and long legs. She wore high-heeled strapped shoes on her elegantly slender feet, and carried a tiny purse in her hand, not big enough to conceal a gun. Her only arsenal was her femininity, and with that, she was well-armed.

The large gathering of men in the hallway did not make a sound; they were speechless with awe.

A smile curved on Jeanette's pink-lip-sticked mouth at this reception. She sauntered up to Michael, waiting by the van access doors, and greeted him, her eyes twinkling merrily.

"Will I do?" she asked lightly, with a teasing tone, tilting her blonde head to glance up at him from under her long lashes.

Michael frowned. His heart turned over. She was happy, flirting with him, instead of soberly facing her death. Why was she …enjoying this? He wondered, bewildered. He met her eyes. "You never looked more beautiful," he told her truthfully, his voice husky with emotion.

She let out a small gasp of surprise at this response; tears welled suddenly in the smiling eyes. "Get everyone in the vans," she ordered gruffly, fighting to stay in control. "Then stay here a minute. I want to talk to you…." She told him, the last few words coming out tremulously. She bit her lower lip to stop its trembling.

Michael nodded in acknowledgement and obeyed. He did not speak, only waved his hand, and the men filed past through the doors, instantly responsive to this signal. They were unaware that no egress was planned for Jeanette; they did not know that the beautiful woman who smiled at each of them encouragingly as they went by would not be coming back. They only knew that she was brave, and lovely, and they envied Michael his moment of privacy with her.

When at last all the teams had entered the vans, some dazed and starry-eyed with her loveliness, and the corridor around them was empty, Jeanette spoke.

"Don't try to change the profile on this mission, Michael," she ordered, coming right to the point. Her eyes met his squarely. "It goes down exactly as planned, is that understood?"

His mouth firmed stubbornly, his chin jutting out with defiance. A rebellious look gleamed in his emerald eyes. "Jeanette, I'm not leaving you there!" he hissed back, angry. "I…." he began.

"No," she said sharply, cutting off his argument before he could start it. "There will be no rescue attempt. No heroics…." She shook her head emphatically to make her point.

She reached out and gently stroked his cheek, her fingers caressing the stubble-roughened male skin. She sighed. "I don't want you to get hurt attempting to save a lost cause," she whispered, her voice trembling again. Her chin quivered, and she pressed her lips firmly together to stop this tell-tale sign. Her blue eyes caressed him adoringly.

"You have to live," she ordered hoarsely. "You have to come back and be with Nikita, remember?" Jeanette went on, her voice choked with emotion. "You have to be happy…." She sighed once more, and looked away, a faraway expression in her eyes. "You deserve that." She paused, her face crumpling into a deep frown. "It's what I owe you…." She commented tensely.

Michael blinked, and stepped a little closer. He took her by the arm. "Owe…. Me?" he asked, startled. "What could you possibly owe me?"

She turned back to face him again, and patted his cheek once more. "My beautiful Michael," she breathed tenderly. "I owe you so much, a huge debt that this mission could not even begin to repay," she said softly. Jeanette dropped her hand and regarded him somberly.

"Don't even think about feeling guilty, or sorry, or the least little bit remorseful when this is all over," she told him sternly, the words coming out as a command. "I don't want you to waste even a moment on regret. I have none. This is how I want it…."

Michael let out a harsh breath, and shook his head. "You can't mean that…" he blurted out, not wanting to believe that she was intent on killing herself, clinging to this denial. He looked down, turning his head away. "This can't be how it ends…"

Her eyes snapped at him, and she shot out her arm to grip his chin firmly in her hand, forcing him to look at her.

"Don't tell me what I MEAN" she hissed, suddenly angry. "Or what I should want. I've thought about this for months, planned it down to the last detail…" Her fingers softened their grip on his face, and she patted his cheek, then forced a quavering smile. "Don't go spoiling everything by getting sentimental on me, okay?" she quipped, in a tone that was meant to be light and teasing, but failed to be either.

Michael closed his eyes in order to stop the hot tears behind his eyelids from falling. "Jeanette…." He begged hoarsely. "Please…"

"No, Michael," she refused him sternly. "It has to be this way…" She stepped closer, dropping her hand to his shoulder. "Promise me you won't interfere…"

His head shot up and his emerald eyes flashed fire. "I won't promise that," he countered, as angry as she. "Don't ask me …"

"I'm not asking you," she responded, her words stern, but her tone tender, her voice breaking. "I'm ordering you…"

"No…." he moaned, then leaned forward and kissed her. It was firm, and passionate, and yet reverently sweet, a plea more communicative than words. With his mouth, he begged her to stay.